Free Fates and Traitors by Jennifer Chiaverini

a matter of days he had booked a two-week engagement in Richmond, where a grand new theatre, the Marshall, had recently been completed. From the deck of the steamer that carried them up the James River to the state capital,Mary Ann was much relieved to see grand public buildings and elegant residences rising on the steep hills along the shore. “Civilization at last,” she murmured, patting Peacock’s flank as they disembarked. It was not London, with its libraries and cathedrals and bustling public squares, but it was a far cry from the wild frontier.
    Within days, Junius’s successful American debut reassured her that they had not made a dreadful mistake in immigrating to the young nation.
    Junius selected
Richard III
for opening night, enthralling the novelty-hungry citizens of Richmond and earning rapturous praise from the local press. As word of the celebrated English tragedian’s arrival spread beyond the city, invitations from theatre managers in New York, Baltimore, Philadelphia, Boston, and New Orleans filled the postbox at their hotel, each expressing the most anxious desire to book Junius for lengthy engagements, each offering enticingly generous terms. As he mulled over their proposals, Junius earned more than twelve hundred dollars playing theatres in Richmond and nearby Petersburg.
    In early October, Junius and Mary Ann traveled by steamer to New York City, a bold but necessary choice for his next engagement. His longtime rival Edmund Kean had triumphed there only a few months before, packing the stylish new Park Theatre every night and winning rapturous acclaim from the critics. If Junius hoped to establish himself well in America, he would have to surpass Kean in the eyes of the most discerning theatergoers in the most important city in the nation.
    â€œThe house will be half empty,” Junius growled, stalking in his dressing room on opening night as an icy downpour raged outside. Broadway was flooded, one of the supernumeraries had reported, and traffic was in a wretched snarl throughout the city. “I’ll be lucky if it isn’t
more
than half empty.”
    â€œJunius, calm yourself,” Mary Ann cajoled. On tour, Junius could be cheerful and enthusiastic one night and bleakly melancholic the next, swearing that he would not perform, that he despised acting and would never again take the stage. On such occasions it fell to her to quietly reassure panicky managers that the show would go on, and then to soothe and charm Junius until he reluctantly agreed to perform. Sometimes a glass of brandy was necessary to fortify him to face audiences he had inexplicably decided could not possibly comprehend hisinterpretation of classical works. Junius was always loving and kind at heart, but he could be mercurial, as she supposed most great artists were. Byron’s tempests were legendary.
    â€œI was mad to leave London,” Junius grated, pausing to glare balefully out the single tiny window. “I’m beloved in London.”
    â€œYou are also beloved here, by me,” she told him, ignoring the sting of his words, “and you will soon be beloved by the people of New York—but only if you take the stage and give them the performance they expect and have paid for.”
    â€œI’ll return every cent if they’ll just go away.”
    â€œThe management will never agree to that.” Mary Ann approached him from behind, wrapped her arms around his waist, and rested her cheek upon his back between his shoulder blades. “Please, my dearest. You know everything depends upon tonight.”
    He knew it, and eventually he agreed to emerge from his dressing room. The murmur of the crowd struck them as soon as they stepped into the hall, and the usual backstage odors of dust and paint were overpowered by those of damp leather and steaming wool. Junius halted, thunderstruck. “Mary Ann, darling—”
    She knew what he wanted. Nodding, she hurried