Don Gutteridge - Vital Secrets

Some of the news was as alarming as it was tantalizingly vague. Organized gatherings of political resistance were undoubtedly being held, though, thank God, Beth had kept a close watch on the malcontents in her own household. Moreover, the situation in Lower Canada was deteriorating rapidly. Nonetheless, the wedding date had been set, as planned, for Sunday, October 22, now just thirteen days away. Aunt Catherine, who had expanded the millinery shop to include dressmaking, had had one of her new seamstresses make a bridal gown, which had been duly shipped to Cobourg, tried on, and declared perfect. Marc, Hilliard, Jenkin, and three other officers, including Colonel Margison, were planning to ride in state, as it were, to Cobourg two days before the ceremony, where they would provide colour, pomp, and revelry before, and most likely well after, the service at Beth’s father’s former church. And Aaron would be standing tall beside the other guests, his contribution to the reviving fortunes of the farm well appreciated.

“I’d be honoured to join you and Major Jenkin this afternoon,” Marc said. “Maybe I’ll get the itch myself.”

Normally when they went to town, officers and soldiers made the thirty-minute trek on foot. Just as often, after a hectic round of taverns and less savoury attractions, the more affluent would hire a trap or buggy to drive them back to the fort in comfort. But today Quartermaster Jenkin had arranged for horses to be provided, and he, Marc, and Hilliard rode in leisurely fashion eastward along Front Street in the cool sunshine of an early October day. They arrived at Frank’s Hotel, on the corner of West Market and Colborne, just after two o’clock.

The Regency Theatre, constructed the previous June by Ogden Frank, was merely an unprepossessing extension of the hotel itself. From the south wall of the original two-storey inn, which faced east onto West Market Street, he had erected an unadorned brick rectangle so that it fronted onto Colborne Street, where a false balcony and a sign in Gothic letters provided the only visual enticement to would-be playgoers. The theatre itself was located in the lower storey of the new structure, and entered via two wide, oaken doors. On the floor above the theatre, and separate from the main hotel rooms, were situated several spacious chambers that served as additional space for hotel patrons or, when visiting troupes arrived, as comfortable quarters for the players. Frank and his wife, Madge, lived in four rooms attached to the rear of the tavern but otherwise discrete and private.

“We’re here by special invitation this afternoon,” Rick reminded them when they had delivered the horses to the ostler and were about to enter the theatre through the main entrance. He did not need to reiterate who in the company had inter-ceded on their behalf. “They haven’t done their ‘Selections from the Bard’ show since last winter, so we’re going to be privy to a truly professional rehearsal.”

Marc endeavoured to look impressed.

“Well, it’ll all be new to me,” Jenkin said affably. “I did a bit of song-and-dance stuff in my salad days, but nobody dared call it thee-ay-ter. ”

The oak doors swung open at the first touch, briefly flooding the dark, cavernous room inside with sudden light.

“Get the hell out and shut the bloody door!”

The voice came from a raised platform about forty feet away at the far end of the cavern, where the flickering glow from a dozen candles and a single, overhead chandelier exposed five or six individuals. All had apparently been fixated on a tall male figure, downstage centre, but had decided that the novelty of an open door and sunshine was more worthy of their attention.

A very blond wisp of a girl padded quickly over to the imposing male and whispered something up into his ear. He appeared to smile as he turned towards the intruders and said in a stentorian but not unfriendly tone: “Welcome, good sirs. I mistook you for those ragamuffins who’ve been harassing us all morning. Please, take a seat in one of the far boxes. And be kind enough to keep your lips buttoned. We are engaged here in a serious undertaking.”

“You shan’t see or hear us, Mr. Merriwether,” Rick called out to him, and then nudged his companions towards a set of crude steps at the top of which was perched a plain wooden box with the front open, like a sort of elevated kiosk.

“Ah,” Jenkin whispered, “seats for the mighty.”

They ascended, carefully, found three hard-backed chairs in the semi-dark, propped their elbows on the railing in front of them, and prepared to observe the serious proceedings on the stage, now a foot or two below them and about twenty-five feet away. When their eyes adjusted to the interior light, they found that they could see and hear everything before them.

The stage itself was rudimentary: two wooden pilasters and a faded velvet curtain that might have once been crimson composed the proscenium arch, in front of which the playing area extended another five or six feet. Canvas “wings” of a mucus-green hue were set back in receding fashion at each side to effect a sense of perspective. Two small chandeliers on long cables could now be seen beside the large one that was presently lit, and arrayed along the curved edge of the thrust-stage were half a dozen Argand lamps, which, when fired up, would provide ample foot-lighting. Along the side walls, that were about fifteen feet high, iron candelabra were inset in the brick to illuminate the pit below, the six boxes, and the gallery teetering across the back wall. A single door, locked and barred, along the wall to the left opened onto the alley outside and a nearby pair of privies. Two small windows, high up, offered the only natural light and ventilation. No wonder theatres burnt down at regular intervals, Marc thought as he turned his attention to the action onstage.

“We’ll start with the death of Lear. I’d like the scene to run right through. I want everybody watching-you’re the critical audience, remember. But when we’ve finished the scene, I don’t want to hear a peep from the cheap seats, understood? If I wish to avail myself of your comments-after I’ve made my own-I’ll ask for them.”

“Jason Merriwether, the director,” Rick whispered.

Merriwether appeared to be very tall, almost Marc’s height at six feet, and perhaps in his mid-forties if the graying sideburns were not the result of makeup. But there was no middle-aged paunch or slackening of the skin around the mouth or under the jutting chin. His bearing was imperial, a man of parts who commanded any stage he chose to grace with his presence. His hair was a tawny shade, his chin and upper lip bare, and his nose of ordinary length, but the eyes were coal-black and penetrating, even at a distance of twenty-five feet.

“Annemarie, ma chère, would you please give the king your shawl. It may help Mr. Armstrong get in role.” The latter half of this remark was spoken with spitting sarcasm and directed at a bent, gnarled man who hobbled forward at the mention of his name. While he could not have been sixty-the dark swatch of unkempt hair was merely speckled with gray-he looked Lear’s age without need of makeup or costume. For he had once been a big man, perhaps five foot seven, large-boned and full-fleshed, but the skin on his face, neck, and wrists now drooped as if the flesh had been sucked out from under it without warning. The eyes were murky dots in smudged sockets, and the lips hung loosely in what seemed to be either a permanent sneer or a perpetual whimper. He looked to Marc like a man who wished to hide from himself.

“I don’t need your advice to tackle a scene I’ve played on two continents,” he muttered at Merriwether, but did not look his way.

“I think the shawl may help, Dawson,” said a tall woman who stepped under the candlelight and gently laid her knitted shawl over the hunched actor.