grocer’s – “it will be set in China and will…involve a battle between the King of Siam… and the people of the underworld.”
The assembled company had stony expressions on their faces. No one appeared overly zealous about the playwright’s concept.
Mr. Wilton did not stand up to speak. “That’s all very well,” he said. “Is there any other business relating –”
“My wife,” said Mr. Simpson, his voice dead as fish in Petticoat Lane, “has run off with Mr. Bancroft.” He did not seem to be addressing anyone in particular; his eyes were glued firmly to the wall opposite.
A hush fell over the hall. Mr. Wilton rose hesitantly to his feet. “Beg pardon?”
Mr. Simpson did not look at him, did not look anywhere, but I could see that his eyes were almost jaundiced with unhappiness. “Mr. Bancroft has filched the heart of my wife.”
“Of Suzy?” There was an incredulous pause. “But who is going to play Fatima on Friday?”
“Dunno,” said Mr. Simpson flatly. “I wasn’t consulted.”
Colin Tyrone, who had been sitting like a sullen puppy in the corner, suddenly became animate. “Do ya mean to say she was cockin’ a leg for the comedy man?” He seemed beside himself with joy at the news. Even Mr. Wilton darted him an unhappy glance.
There was a deep and embarrassing silence, and then the hall erupted in outpourings of affection for poor Mr. Simpson, outcries of derision against the two errant lovers, vows on Mr. Wilton’s part that Bancroft would never be welcome again in his theatre. “The blackguard,” Mr. Wilton kept saying. “The scoundrel. To have seduced poor Suzy like that straight out of her husband’s arms.”
“Dunno what will become of little Emma now,” Mr. Simpson said, “with her mother eloped.”
Mrs. Wilton rose to her feet now, and her jowls were shaking with softer emotions. “There,” she said, “don’t you worry about Emma, Mr. Simpson. As long as I live, she’ll be a part of our family, here in the theatre. Our little theatrical family.”
There were general shouts of huzzah! for Mrs. Wilton, and when the hubbub had died down Mr. Sharpe stepped forward. His hands seemed too large for his arms, and he attempted to encase them in his trouser pockets as he spoke. “I’d just like to apologize to Mrs. Wilton for not being there to catch her when she came through the trap last Saturday night. Me and the boys is all as sorry as can be.”
Thrilled by this apology, Mrs. Wilton strode across the hall to Mr. Sharpe amidst much applause and gave him her hand. Mr. Sharpe kissed the stubby fingers awkwardly, and there was more applause.
Again, Mr. Wilton spoke up, looking at no one in particular. “Are there any other apologies forthcoming?” he said in a low voice.
As if cued by the word “apologies,” Mr. Farquhar Pratt shifted in his chair and then got himself unsteadily to his feet. “I will apologize too, by gawd, for what I said about Mrs. Wilton yesterday.” He stopped to think for a moment and evidently could not remember what he had said about Mrs. Wilton. He shook his head. “It doesn’t bear repeating.”
Mrs. Wilton sailed across the floor to Mr. Farquhar Pratt, offering her hand, which he kissed with an old-fashioned bow that almost toppled him to the floor.
“Very good,” said Mr. Wilton. His face was ashen, and his broad-backed bearing had momentarily given way to an almost imperceptible slumping of the shoulders. “The meeting is adjourned.”
Friday, 11 October 1850
I had promised Sophie that we would use the morning to inspect Mr. Paxton’s grand conception in Hyde Park. Leaving the younger children in care of Hortense, Sophie and I traveled by means of hansom cab from our apartments in Cloudsey Road through the bustle of Oxford Street, finally turning into the treed splendor of Kensington. The grass in the park had browned considerably since Sophie and I were last there, and many of the trees had begun to shed their leaves,
The assembled company had stony expressions on their faces. No one appeared overly zealous about the playwright’s concept.
Mr. Wilton did not stand up to speak. “That’s all very well,” he said. “Is there any other business relating –”
“My wife,” said Mr. Simpson, his voice dead as fish in Petticoat Lane, “has run off with Mr. Bancroft.” He did not seem to be addressing anyone in particular; his eyes were glued firmly to the wall opposite.
A hush fell over the hall. Mr. Wilton rose hesitantly to his feet. “Beg pardon?”
Mr. Simpson did not look at him, did not look anywhere, but I could see that his eyes were almost jaundiced with unhappiness. “Mr. Bancroft has filched the heart of my wife.”
“Of Suzy?” There was an incredulous pause. “But who is going to play Fatima on Friday?”
“Dunno,” said Mr. Simpson flatly. “I wasn’t consulted.”
Colin Tyrone, who had been sitting like a sullen puppy in the corner, suddenly became animate. “Do ya mean to say she was cockin’ a leg for the comedy man?” He seemed beside himself with joy at the news. Even Mr. Wilton darted him an unhappy glance.
There was a deep and embarrassing silence, and then the hall erupted in outpourings of affection for poor Mr. Simpson, outcries of derision against the two errant lovers, vows on Mr. Wilton’s part that Bancroft would never be welcome again in his theatre. “The blackguard,” Mr. Wilton kept saying. “The scoundrel. To have seduced poor Suzy like that straight out of her husband’s arms.”
“Dunno what will become of little Emma now,” Mr. Simpson said, “with her mother eloped.”
Mrs. Wilton rose to her feet now, and her jowls were shaking with softer emotions. “There,” she said, “don’t you worry about Emma, Mr. Simpson. As long as I live, she’ll be a part of our family, here in the theatre. Our little theatrical family.”
There were general shouts of huzzah! for Mrs. Wilton, and when the hubbub had died down Mr. Sharpe stepped forward. His hands seemed too large for his arms, and he attempted to encase them in his trouser pockets as he spoke. “I’d just like to apologize to Mrs. Wilton for not being there to catch her when she came through the trap last Saturday night. Me and the boys is all as sorry as can be.”
Thrilled by this apology, Mrs. Wilton strode across the hall to Mr. Sharpe amidst much applause and gave him her hand. Mr. Sharpe kissed the stubby fingers awkwardly, and there was more applause.
Again, Mr. Wilton spoke up, looking at no one in particular. “Are there any other apologies forthcoming?” he said in a low voice.
As if cued by the word “apologies,” Mr. Farquhar Pratt shifted in his chair and then got himself unsteadily to his feet. “I will apologize too, by gawd, for what I said about Mrs. Wilton yesterday.” He stopped to think for a moment and evidently could not remember what he had said about Mrs. Wilton. He shook his head. “It doesn’t bear repeating.”
Mrs. Wilton sailed across the floor to Mr. Farquhar Pratt, offering her hand, which he kissed with an old-fashioned bow that almost toppled him to the floor.
“Very good,” said Mr. Wilton. His face was ashen, and his broad-backed bearing had momentarily given way to an almost imperceptible slumping of the shoulders. “The meeting is adjourned.”
Friday, 11 October 1850
I had promised Sophie that we would use the morning to inspect Mr. Paxton’s grand conception in Hyde Park. Leaving the younger children in care of Hortense, Sophie and I traveled by means of hansom cab from our apartments in Cloudsey Road through the bustle of Oxford Street, finally turning into the treed splendor of Kensington. The grass in the park had browned considerably since Sophie and I were last there, and many of the trees had begun to shed their leaves,
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