customary position next to him as Rory pulled his stringed instrument to his arthritic shoulder and prepared to begin the performance.
Without so much as a nod to his mother, Hunter took Sophie by the hand and crossed to the curtained flies, stage left. She was relieved to see that he seemed full of confidence, almost as if he couldn’t wait to greet the potentially hostile audience.
“Can you believe all these people paid good shillings for what they could have heard a week ago on the street for a farthing!” he said jovially.
“’Tis a lot bigger space here in the Canongate than performing on cobblestones,” she warned. “Mind that you sing loudly, so the top galleries get their money’s worth and don’t hiss at you!”
“Always the till keeper, eh lass?” Hunter laughed, looking down at her fondly. “Dinna worry… I plan to sing my lungs out tonight.”
“’Tis better you should sing than speak,” she said anxiously. Some Lowlanders felt prejudiced against the Highland burr that was a hallmark of speech in the predominantly Catholic regions in northern Scotland.
“Aye,” Hunter agreed, suddenly looking pensive. “I’ll take your suggestion to heart, pet.”
And before she could wish him good luck, he bent down and kissed the top of her head like an affectionate brother. Then he nodded to David Beatt who gave the signal to the small orchestra he had hired for the occasion, at Hunter’s expense, to commence playing the medley of Scottish melodies that served to preview the evening’s entertainment.
At the sound of the music, the audience quieted. Through the peephole Sophie could see that their faces were turned attentively toward the stage.
Oh, please let him be good, she cried silently. Please let them like him!
Hunter stepped on stage and flashed his captivating smile. His rich, resonant baritone carried throughout the hall, dazzling even the patrons in the top gallery, who were delighted to be able to enjoy the words as well as the melody.
There was a wee cooper who lived in Fife
Nick-e-ty, nack-e-ty, noo, noo, noo
And he has gotten a gentle wife
Hey wil-ly wal-lack-y, noo, John Dougal!
She wadna bake, nor she wadna brew
For the spoiling of her comely hue!
By the last verse of this musical jest, the audience was smiling and clapping, the upper galleries boisterously joining in on the chorus of “Nickety, nackety, noo, noo, noo!”
Sophie glanced over at David Beatt whose bald crown was fashionably covered by a bagwig in honor of the evening’s festivities. Sensing Sophie’s gaze, Beatt turned to look at her and vigorously bobbed his head in relief that everything was going well.
Sophie, the theater manager, and the audience had barely caught their collective breath when Hunter broke into the traditional “I’m a Rover,” emphasizing the teasing lyrics with his own special brand of rakish charm.
I’m a rover and seldom sober
I’m a rover o’ high degree
It’s when I’m drinking,
I’m always thinking
How to gain my love’s company!
Sophie returned to the peephole once again and stared at the women in the audience, who gazed with languorous eyes as Hunter swaggered back and forth across the stage. He seemed to display an astounding talent for making each woman—young or old—believe that he sang only to her. Even Lord Lemore, sitting in a choice box seat in the second tier, was no longer surveying the crowd with his characteristic reptilian gaze and, instead, was giving Hunter his complete attention.
Song after song—some solemn, some sprightly—issued from the Clan Robertson Singers, as Sophie had dubbed them, and the audience was enthralled with the sounds of a bygone era.
Finally, as the candles burned low throughout the auditorium, the little orchestra eased into a quiet, melancholy refrain, and Hunter’s demeanor changed dramatically from that of a lovable rogue with an eye for the ladies to a heart-sore lad whose musical lament told of tragedy and loss.
Flow
Without so much as a nod to his mother, Hunter took Sophie by the hand and crossed to the curtained flies, stage left. She was relieved to see that he seemed full of confidence, almost as if he couldn’t wait to greet the potentially hostile audience.
“Can you believe all these people paid good shillings for what they could have heard a week ago on the street for a farthing!” he said jovially.
“’Tis a lot bigger space here in the Canongate than performing on cobblestones,” she warned. “Mind that you sing loudly, so the top galleries get their money’s worth and don’t hiss at you!”
“Always the till keeper, eh lass?” Hunter laughed, looking down at her fondly. “Dinna worry… I plan to sing my lungs out tonight.”
“’Tis better you should sing than speak,” she said anxiously. Some Lowlanders felt prejudiced against the Highland burr that was a hallmark of speech in the predominantly Catholic regions in northern Scotland.
“Aye,” Hunter agreed, suddenly looking pensive. “I’ll take your suggestion to heart, pet.”
And before she could wish him good luck, he bent down and kissed the top of her head like an affectionate brother. Then he nodded to David Beatt who gave the signal to the small orchestra he had hired for the occasion, at Hunter’s expense, to commence playing the medley of Scottish melodies that served to preview the evening’s entertainment.
At the sound of the music, the audience quieted. Through the peephole Sophie could see that their faces were turned attentively toward the stage.
Oh, please let him be good, she cried silently. Please let them like him!
Hunter stepped on stage and flashed his captivating smile. His rich, resonant baritone carried throughout the hall, dazzling even the patrons in the top gallery, who were delighted to be able to enjoy the words as well as the melody.
There was a wee cooper who lived in Fife
Nick-e-ty, nack-e-ty, noo, noo, noo
And he has gotten a gentle wife
Hey wil-ly wal-lack-y, noo, John Dougal!
She wadna bake, nor she wadna brew
For the spoiling of her comely hue!
By the last verse of this musical jest, the audience was smiling and clapping, the upper galleries boisterously joining in on the chorus of “Nickety, nackety, noo, noo, noo!”
Sophie glanced over at David Beatt whose bald crown was fashionably covered by a bagwig in honor of the evening’s festivities. Sensing Sophie’s gaze, Beatt turned to look at her and vigorously bobbed his head in relief that everything was going well.
Sophie, the theater manager, and the audience had barely caught their collective breath when Hunter broke into the traditional “I’m a Rover,” emphasizing the teasing lyrics with his own special brand of rakish charm.
I’m a rover and seldom sober
I’m a rover o’ high degree
It’s when I’m drinking,
I’m always thinking
How to gain my love’s company!
Sophie returned to the peephole once again and stared at the women in the audience, who gazed with languorous eyes as Hunter swaggered back and forth across the stage. He seemed to display an astounding talent for making each woman—young or old—believe that he sang only to her. Even Lord Lemore, sitting in a choice box seat in the second tier, was no longer surveying the crowd with his characteristic reptilian gaze and, instead, was giving Hunter his complete attention.
Song after song—some solemn, some sprightly—issued from the Clan Robertson Singers, as Sophie had dubbed them, and the audience was enthralled with the sounds of a bygone era.
Finally, as the candles burned low throughout the auditorium, the little orchestra eased into a quiet, melancholy refrain, and Hunter’s demeanor changed dramatically from that of a lovable rogue with an eye for the ladies to a heart-sore lad whose musical lament told of tragedy and loss.
Flow
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