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4

THE TIGHTROPE SHE WALKS

Angelica had never been more pleased to see Mr Brunner’s large figure waiting for her and Mary around the back of the theatre, ready to take them home. She was still feeling cold and exhaustion had begun to steal up on her. The curricle clattered over the cobbles through the busy night traffic of horses, carriages and carts and deposited the two young women at the front steps of Mr Breville’s house in Berkeley Square. Martin opened the door looking slightly the worse for wear. His wig had been abandoned and his short grey hair was ruffled as if he had been asleep. ‘My dears!’ he greeted them cheerily with a blast of alcohol on his breath. ‘Come in quickly. It’s cold and late.’ He whisked off their cloaks and after bidding them goodnight disappeared into the kitchen offices at the back.

After a perfunctory wash, Angelica tumbled into her feather bed and fell into a deep sleep. The morning dawned dull and misty. The light barely penetrated the heavy curtains at the window and Angelica lay wondering why she felt strangely leaden and fatigued. In moments of physical weakness her natural lightness of spirit drifted away and she was left with the memory of fear and insecurity that marked her childhood. Before her mother had met Mr Breville they had lived a precarious existence, never certain whether the roof over their heads was safe or they could afford their next meal. Amabel Leigh was forced to earn what money she could beyond the pittance paid by the goldsmith for whom she worked. This meant trading on her beauty and charm to keep herself and her daughter alive. Luckily, she could rely on the attentions of the rich men who came to the shop and did not have to recourse to the street, but even so, she and her young daughter were open to unexpected dangers that scared the young child.

In the warmth of her bed, Angelica curled into a foetal position. The sound of the birds carolling in the trees outside her window lifted her spirits a little by reminding her of the wider world in which she now had a place and of her good fortune to be living under the aegis of Mr Breville, with some opportunities to direct her own life. The heaviness in her chest would improve, she told herself, once she rose and had eaten a little breakfast.

With an effort, she climbed out of bed and walked to pull back the curtains and gaze out on the gardens in the Square. She consciously breathed in the cold air. Immediately it made her cough, hurting her chest. The light was beginning to gild the new pale leaves on the plane trees as the sun burned through the mist. She could just see specks of colour where drifts of daffodils were coming into bloom and her heart began to beat optimistically once more.

She met her mother and Edward Breville at the breakfast table. Amabel Leigh looked up, her face flushed with excitement. ‘Dearest, I’m glad to see you. As you know, we’re leaving for Paris in two days’ time. You say you’re happy in the house with just the servants?’

‘Of course, Mama. The production of Hamlet closes at the end of the week and I can concentrate on learning my part in The Child of Nature. You’re back in three weeks. I’ll manage very well.’

Mrs Leigh then peered into her daughter’s face. ‘You look very pale, are you ill?’

‘No, Mama, just tired. The play is quite gruelling.’

Edward Breville had sat down with The Sporting Magazine and a second cup of coffee. He worked so hard Angelica seldom saw him at breakfast and it was amusing to hear him chuckling over various racing reports and other titbits of news. He caught Angelica’s eye. ‘You know that Irish beauty, Lady Cahir? She’s been causing trouble in the Odéon Théâtre in Paris.’ Both women looked at him, curious to hear more. He continued to read, ‘Apparently ladies and their cavaliers in neighbouring boxes complained at her continual talk through the production. Her ladyship brooked no rebuke and an officer was called to enforce her silence.’ He looked at his mistress with a twinkle. ‘She then addressed the audience from her box, “I come from a land of liberty to a country I supposed to be free! This treatment is worse than if the Bastille still existed!” The crowd erupted with cheers and she sat down triumphant, now privileged to talk as much as she pleases.’ He slapped his thigh and emitted a hearty laugh. ‘I like a spirited beauty!’

‘I didn’t know Lady Cahir was famous for more than her appearance. She came to see our production but was no noisier than the rest,’ Angelica said with a smile.

Mr Breville put his hand on her mother’s arm and said indulgently, ‘My experience has taught me that for a woman, beauty is the trump card in life, and Irish beauty is double trumps.’

Amabel Leigh had risen to her feet and shook her head, then with a pout looked back at Mr Breville as she turned for the door. ‘I must check with Cook what she needs to order to keep you fed, my dear,’ she said over her shoulder.

Angelica realised she had Mr Breville to herself for a rare moment and decided to exercise her own charm and beauty on him. ‘Sir, do you still play at Hazard?’

He looked at her with amusement. ‘No, my dear. I have better things to do with my time. Why do you ask?’

‘Do you know Lord Fulsham?’

‘I have come across him at The Daffy. He likes spending time with the Fancy, trading boxing cant in the tap room.’

‘Have you played him at dice?’ Angelica was reluctant to abandon her increasingly implausible idea for the salvation of Isobel Fitzjames’s future.

‘I have. But my dear, I don’t play any more now I have my business to run.’

She took his arm and smiled. ‘As you are one of the best calculators of odds, I thought you would be the only person to beat Lord Fulsham at Hazard and win back my friend’s family estates.’

His good-natured face looked surprised. ‘This sounds somewhat of a fancy, Angelica. Which friend is this?’

‘Isobel Fitzjames. I’m sure you’ve heard the scandal.’

‘I have indeed. But I consider her father to be as much at fault as Lord Fulsham, ye know.’ Edward Breville folded the paper, uncrossed his legs and stood up. He put a hand on her shoulder. ‘It’s an admirable mission of yours, Angelica, but it’s buffle-headed to expect someone to risk all to win all. Particularly so, to ask anyone to do that for a stranger.’

Angelica hung her head, aware of the truth of his words: there was no answer to the injustice. ‘I know, sir. I just feel for my friend and fear the destruction of her hopes.’

As someone who had created success from less than nothing, Edward Breville was more robust about unexpected reversals of fortune, especially through weakness or stupidity. He had his own life as a guide to how spectacularly the phoenix could rise. But as a man he did not appreciate how much more difficult it was for a woman to break free from the constraints of her circumstances. Angelica remained seated and as tiredness overcame her she found her eyes inexorably closing and with her head on her hand she fell asleep.

She awoke with a start. She was expecting Isobel Fitzjames at three for a stroll in Green Park before she had to prepare to leave for the theatre again that evening. Angelica had not the energy to change into her walking dress but slowly climbed the stairs to select the warmest pelisse to wear over the top of her morning gown of blue checked cambric muslin. Angelica was feeling the cold and wanted to be properly wrapped up. She slipped the garment on and was disappointed at how pale she appeared. A bracing walk would soon bring colour back to her cheeks, she reasoned, as she descended the stairs to greet her friend.

Isobel Fitzjames and her maid were let into the hall by a smiling Martin, who had taken quite a shine to this young, hesitant woman. He saw everyone in theatrical terms and so had cast her as more truly an Ophelia figure, ill-used by fate. Miss Angelica, he considered far too spirited and courageous for tragic Ophelia, and much more a Beatrice, from his favourite play, Much Ado About Nothing.

Angelica put out her hand in welcome. The young woman before her seemed low spirited but her clothes sparkled with distinction. Her pelisse of purple broadcloth was dramatically embellished with braided scallops and bows edging the collar and down the front opening. On her head was a matching bonnet decorated with braid and bows with silk flowers at the crown, the brim lined in pale lilac silk, setting off her colouring and features to great advantage.

‘Good afternoon, Miss Isobel. Shall we step out or would you prefer a dish of tea first?’