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‘He seemed very keen to see you but would not wait. He asked me where you lodged and of course I couldn’t tell him. I did mention, though, you lived under your mother’s roof in Mayfair, so he knew you were a woman of good reputation.’

Angelica was curious, despite her misgivings about men who vexed her with odd fancies about her own person or the characters she played. ‘What did this gentleman look like?’

David Dunbar realised Angelica was even more in the dark about this stranger than he; with no juicy gossip to be had, he was impatient to go. In an off-hand way he said, ‘Oh, more years than me. Hair with white streaks, once good face, now that of a rakehell. Irish I think but dressed as a Frenchified coxcomb, rings on his fingers and red heels on his shoes!’ he said with some disdain.

The idea of this elderly fop amused her. ‘Well, I thank you, Mr Dunbar. I have never met such a man before in my life. Perhaps he’s just flying a kite?’ A sudden coughing fit seized her and Mr Dunbar beat a hasty retreat. At this moment, Mary returned from Mistress Pastow’s with the bowl of steaming chocolate and milk. ‘Thank you, this will revive me.’ She warmed her hands on the bowl, sat back in her chair and closed her eyes.

Angelica could hear the hubbub of the audience even in her small dressing room. She walked to the wings. The noise only lessened for a while when the clanking ghost appeared. The appearance of Mr Kean, however, never failed to silence them with his sheer force of personality and the power and beauty of his voice, although Prince Hamlet, the character he played with such energy and pathos, was one who invited a running commentary from the unmannerly wits in the drunken pit.

Angelica steeled herself for her entry onto the stage. Again, the sight of her hushed the general chatter but the plight of Ophelia always incited cries of advice and admonition, especially from the women. She summoned her energy; it was hard to keep the dramatic focus and convey the emotional heart of her character when there were so many distractions off-stage. Hamlet cursing Ophelia with the dismissive, ‘Get thee to a nunnery, go!’ riled up an already volatile crowd who knew the bawdy meaning of ‘nunnery’. Ophelia’s confused and heart-broken response, ‘O, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown!’ was lost in the jeers.

Angelica felt she was swimming through a storm that cast wave after tumultuous wave against her. The energy she had always relied on to pull her through and command the stage was failing. Even Mr Kean’s compelling presence and sonorous voice did not quite quell the restive audience. Angelica returned to her dressing room to change for her final scene, already aware she was subsiding into some sickness beyond her will to resist. Her cheeks, now free of white powder, flamed with fever. Although she was relieved to relinquish the weight of the eighteenth-century gown, she could hardly bear the chill of wearing just her chemise with the ordeal of immersion to come. She gritted her teeth as she walked back to the wings, wrapped in a woollen cloak for warmth.

Her distracted appearance on stage, distraught and singing in a plaintive voice, silenced the audience at last. There was always the shock in seeing a young woman so undone and Ophelia, embodied by Angelica, had enjoyed the greatest popular sympathy of any of Shakespeare’s characters in this play. The audience was hushed and as she slipped shivering into the tank of water, a great shout went up from the pit and an intoxicated young man sprang across the shoulders of the musicians in the orchestra and clambered onto the stage.

The pit erupted in catcalls and exhortations as he attempted to get to Angelica and save her from her watery death. There was consternation too from the boxes where Lord Latimer, unbeknownst to Angelica, vaulted over the front of his and rapidly made his way to the stage, intent on a heroic defence of his beloved. The attendants who were in the process of retrieving Ophelia from the stream to carry her away were distracted and let Angelica slip once more into the chilly water. They attempted to chase the interloper away with the broken papier mâché limb of the willow, while Lord Latimer’s chivalric defence was blocked as he was brusquely ushered back onto the other side of the stage.

For what seemed like an age, Angelica lay submerged except for her face, close to losing consciousness. The chill had entered her bones and it was almost impossible to stop her teeth chattering. She felt she should just stand up and quietly slip away but was paralysed into inaction. Eventually the stage hands had bundled the intoxicated man out into the street and returned to their task. But the audience was too excited now to settle and the attendants carried Angelica’s dripping, seemingly lifeless, body off with little sense of tragic ceremony.

Concerned for her mistress, Mary was waiting with another bowl of hot chocolate laced with brandy to warm her. Mr Dunbar had demanded that for the last night everyone should take a bow at the very end, so Angelica was not allowed to go home early to bed. Mary helped her into the heavy dress again. Her wet hair was coiled up under the wig, the damp intensifying the musky smell, and her skin, no longer hectically flushed, had turned almost blue. Rouge was quickly slathered on to make her seem closer to life than death and Angelica dragged herself back to the wings of the stage to await their final curtain call.

She turned to the two clowns who waited with her, distressed by the continuing hubbub of the crowd, and said in anguish, ‘How can they so dishonour this? The poetry of Mr Kean’s performance brings tears to my eyes. It is so tragic it wrings my heart.’

At the front of the stage, Hamlet’s dying words were spoken in a voice of awful majesty, ‘O, I die, Horatio. The potent poison quite o’er-crows my spirit.’ The chatter in the pit and upper boxes continued.

The taller clown, the elderly actor, Ned Perkins, gave her a painted smile. ‘Don’t go worrying yourself, Miss Angelly, they are but fools and knaves who fill the benches. They have not the soul for this.’

Then with an unspoken recognition that something momentous was happening on stage, the auditorium grew quiet as Hamlet collapsed in his death throes to gasp out his last words, ‘The rest is silence.’ After the sound of a gunshot marking the end of the play, Angelica trooped on stage with the other characters and all the actors were met by good-humoured applause and cheering. Flowers thrown from the boxes scattered onto the stage at Angelica’s feet. The stamping started and the chanting for Mr Kean and Miss Leigh brought the two together to walk to the front and bow low, in recognition of the audience’s appreciation. Angelica could see Lord Latimer standing, clapping vigorously and noticed that the Royal Box was empty.

She did not know how she managed to get back to her dressing room. Mary had just whisked the damp wig off her head and removed the dress and wrapped her in her cloak when there was a soft rap at the door. ‘Don’t let anyone in, Mary.’ Angelica was gasping for breath.

‘It’s Lord Latimer and Mr Locke, Miss Leigh,’ the young woman turned and whispered to her mistress. With a weary hand Angelica indicated they could enter. She stood up to greet her well-wishers and fainted in Lord Latimer’s arms.

His lordship immediately took charge. Still supporting Angelica, he ordered Mary to get Brunner and the chaise pulled up outside as quickly as possible. As Angelica regained consciousness she demurred at finding herself cradled against his coat, ‘My lord, do let me sit a while.’ Her voice was weak and she could barely speak but Dante Locke pulled the chair up and his friend lowered her with care.

Other admirers were queueing at the door and Lord Latimer went into the corridor to explain that Miss Leigh was indisposed, a statement that elicited some jealous muttering and sceptical looks as the disappointed sloped away. The two young men, with Brunner’s help, half-carried Angelica into the chaise and climbed in opposite her and Mary. Lord Latimer’s face was stricken as he watched her rest her head against the squab cushion, struggling to breathe.

When they arrived back at Berkeley Square, all three men carried her into the house where Martin greeted them with a squawk, ‘What has become of Miss Angelica? She looks as sick as a horse.’ Angelica was overcome with a paroxysm of coughing that brought tears to her eyes. Thrown into a panic, Martin gabbled, ‘Lawks, a-mercy! That’s a churchyard cough if ever I heard one.’

‘Martin, don’t be so melodramatic.’ Angelica managed the firmest voice she could. ‘I just need some sleep and I’ll be fine.’

All eyes were on her pale, strained face then Lord Latimer walked forward and said authoritatively, ‘Mary, please make sure Miss Leigh sleeps propped upright on a bank of pillows to help her breathe.’

Angelica took his hand for reassurance, and managed a wan smile. ‘You seem very knowledgeable about such things?’ She gazed up into his worried face.

‘I am. My aunt Emma had inflamed lungs and it was the only way she could rest.’

‘Was your aunt Emma Mrs Asprey?’ When Charles Latimer nodded, Angelica for the first time felt fear about the seriousness of her condition. ‘But, my lord, was that the cause of her death?’

He did not answer or look at her but, taking his friend’s arm, saluted Angelica and turned smartly on his heel. Over his shoulder he said, ‘Mary, look after Miss Leigh. I’ll be back early tomorrow.’ The two young bucks left the house and Mary and Martin helped Angelica up the stairs to her bedchamber.

5

BETWEEN DEATH AND LIFE

Angelica spent the night in a hallucinatory state pursued by half-waking dreams of suffocation and loss, running through wet sand in search of something, someone, somewhere. She was aware of Mary looming over her, urging her to sip some liquid, chafing her hands, banking up the fire, the flames throwing eerie shadows on the wall, creatures stalking the room beside her. She lay in a diffuse state of panic; it was difficult to breathe, her back and ribs hurt from the coughing that racked her body. The closer she was to upright the easier it was to catch her breath but her feverish restlessness was laced with fear. A deep fatigue rooted her to the bed.

Night blurred into morning and as Mary drew the curtains the light hurt her eyes. ‘What’s wrong with me, Mary?’ Angelica called weakly from the bed.