Bruce Alexander - The Color of Death

I climbed the stairway to our kitchen, aware that it was late enough that I must stoke the fire for Lady Katherine. She, of course, had taken Annie’s place as cook until such time as another could be found. The idea of replacing Annie gave me a heavy heart indeed. How could she be replaced? She had become as one of the family — and a more important member than either Clarissa or I, for she fulfilled a far more fundamental function. What could Lady Kate’s secretary or Sir John’s assistant do that could match cooking, baking, and filling bellies with good things to eat? A well-fed family is a happy one.

As I came to the top of the stairs, I heard voices, women’s voices, from beyond the door. Thinking them to be Clarissa’s and Lady Kate’s, I saw no need to knock. I threw open the door and walked right in. What I saw made me believe for an instant that I had somehow stepped back a day, a week, or even a year in time, for there at the kitchen table, laughing and chattering as sisters will, sat Clarissa and Annie. They turned to me.

“Annie,” I shouted. “You’ve come back!” She jumped from her chair and embraced me, and even went so far as to plant a kiss upon my cheek.

“Yes,” said she, “but only for just this one evening.”

“Oh Jeremy,” sang Clarissa, now also upon her feet, “you’ve no idea what wonderful news she has. Tell him, Annie, tell him!”

“Yes,” said I, “by all means, do tell me. You must!”

“Well, you, of all people, will remember what sent me to school to learn to read.”

“Of course, it was that performance of Othello at the Drury Lane. I remember well how we all trooped down afterward to congratulate Mr. Garrick.”

“Then I,” said she, “made bold to tell him that he would one day welcome me in his company.” She paused — for dramatic effect, I suppose — then did she sing out most gleefully: “And that is what he has done!”

It took me a moment to grasp fully what she had said. “Oh, Annie, can you mean it? Is it true?”

And then, with help from Clarissa in the form of interruptions, reminders, and comments, Annie began her story. She had taken herself in hand the evening of the dinner at which Mr. Johnson and Mr. Burnham were present. She lay awake that night lecturing herself regarding Mr. Burnham. Had he led her on? No, he had held himself within the limits proper to a teacher and his student. Had she then deceived herself? Yes, indeed she had, just as she had done early on with Tom Durham, Lady Katherine’s son. She was embarrassed, ashamed, and humiliated even to think upon the circumstances which had brought her to this state.

But then did she take heart, remembering the joy of her first night at the theater — and the promise she had made to herself and to David Garrick. She had given it all up for some daft child’s dream of eternal love with Mr. Burnham. Why, you would think that she had been inspired in it by one of Clarissa’s romances! Annie cursed herself for having put aside her ambition so cheaply. But then did she recall that Mr. Burnham had called to her attention a notice upon the door of the Drury Lane Theatre to the effect that Mr. Garrick would audition candidates for the Drury Lane apprenticeships by appointment during this month. And below this a warning: “Many are called, but few are chosen.” Mr. Burnham assured her that she was ready and would be chosen. By that time, she was indifferent to all but him, and promptly put thoughts of Drury Lane and David Garrick out of her mind. But now they were back.

Next morning, she went off to the theater to ask for an appointment and was promptly brought into the presence of Mr. Garrick himself. He had looked her up and down and said, “There is no time like the present.” And with that, he brought her up to the empty stage of the deserted theater.

“Have you prepared something?” he asked her.

She nodded, and he retired to a chair placed in the wings. He gave her a wave, signaling she might begin.

Annie knew a good deal of Shakespeare by heart, and there was no question in her mind but that Ophelia’s soliloquy from Act Three of Hamlet (which begins, “O, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown!”) was the one that was best for her. She did not recite it, she acted it with gestures and a bit of movement, ignoring Mr. Garrick and playing to the empty, darkened theater.

When she had done, she turned and found him close by, staring at her quite intently. He asked if she knew the song in Act Four. When she said that she did, he told her to sing it. That she did, putting it to a tune she had adapted from “Lord Randall,” to which it fitted quite well. Once through it, he asked her to sing it again, which she did to his satisfaction. He then asked her to walk across the stage and return to him, which she did, pleasing him less. He told her that she needed to work on movement, but then he went on to inform her of the terms of the apprenticeship, which were made to sound quite harsh, though they did not seem so to Annie. He asked her for her full name and told her that papers would be drawn up immediately and she was to come in next day to sign them.

“Does that mean …?”

“That means that you will be a lowly apprentice, nothing more — but nevertheless, a member of our company.”

The story that Annie told set Clarissa and I burbling once again with excitement. It seemed near impossible that she had triumphed so signally over circumstance and chance, and over herself — but she had. And there were none more happy for her than we two, unless it be Sir John and Lady Katherine, who joined us in little more than an hour. They found a grand celebratory meal prepared for them by Annie and Clarissa. Sir John called for a bottle of claret, and toasts were drunk that Annie might prosper in her new career. (And as you may know, reader, she did.) It was a most happy occasion, yet at the same time a sad one, for it was the last time we five gathered together there at Number 4 Bow Street, and I believe that we all had some presentiment of that.

It was a number of days before I was able to make more than fleeting contact with Constable Will Patley. Mr. Bailey had taken him under his charge and was teaching him all that could be known about being a Bow Street Runner. Patley was well-liked by Mr. Bailey and the other constables. The only area in which his performance was in any way disappointing continued to be his written reports. And at last, I was called in, as I knew I would be eventually, to help him with those. He learned quickly enough, but he had little knowledge of English orthography and usage to build upon. As for orthography, I secured enough from Mr. Marsden from our ready-cash fund to purchase Samuel Johnson’s dictionary and for usage, a copy of Robinson Crusoe, both well-worn but readable. These I presented to him with a bit of pomp and ceremony, telling him that I had never heard of the man who could read through Defoe’s greatest work and remain indifferent to it. It was a grand story, said I, and it was also written so well that if he read it through, it could not but improve his manner of writing. And the dictionary would provide meaning and the correct spelling of every word of Defoe’s that gave him the slightest bit of trouble. He took all this with equanimity, saying little of anything that could be interpreted as a promise that he would read the one and use the other to help him to do it.

Therefore was I somewhat surprised when, after a week or so had passed by, he engaged me in a conversation which, if not about the book directly, was at least more or less inspired by it.

“You know,” said he, “I been readin’ that book you gave me, and I will say it ain’t dull. But it put me in mind of my time on the island.”

“What island?” I asked, having heard nothing of this before. “Were you shipwrecked, as he was?”