Ester wasn’t brave enough for that, but she’d applaud him. He had to know someone heard and was moved. She put her hands together and clapped loud.
A few men stopped their groaning and stared in her direction.
The danger meant nothing. Ester didn’t care and clapped harder, cupping the stalk of lilac to not bruise it.
What harm could come from proclaiming her love of the great actor with applause? Her days of freedom would be over soon. The Jordans weren’t theater-goers. This might be the last time she’d see Bex perform.
Ester had nothing left to lose, and clapped again and again, basking in Bex’s voice.
Chapter Two
A Rousing Response
Arthur Bex was used to tough crowds. He’d worked up from bit lines to the lead in farces and dramas over the course of three years. But those were other men’s words he recited, not the ones he said today in the basement of White Horse Cellar. These were Arthur’s, and they burned in his heart. It was time to show London that the time to fight for abolition was now.
A young negress stood on the steps, clapping. In that moment, he let the rhythm of her slapping palms command his full attention, away from the naysayers and those just looking for a reason for fisticuffs or, like Phineas, following him around to find a scandal. He nodded to her before stepping down.
The reporterwith a hawkish nose,Hildebrand Phineas, who sat close, swilling beer, hissed at him. “Is that all you have,Gunpowder?”
Gunpowder burns up, consumed by its own power, and destroys everything it touches. That couldn’t happen to Arthur. He had too much to do, too many wrongs to right. He glared at Phineas. “I’ve said my piece for now. Come to the rally at the month’s end and hear more.”
“He wants a Peterloo here in London,” the reporter said as he sneered. “You want blood to run in our streets, Gunpowder.”
“No massacre will happen in our fair city.” Arthur made his voice louder than the Peterloo chants. Some did want blood in the streets, but not him. He’d seen enough death in his youth. He advocated for freedom. “We must stop the institutional massacre of our brothers by slavery.”
Turning away from the annoying Phineas, he stared back to the rowdy crowd and the negress who still stood at the stairs. The young woman was too smartly dressed to be an errant server who had wandered down to an all men’s meeting. No, she had to be there for a reason, for the lass wasn’t disturbed at being the only female in the cellar, and the only Blackamoor at that. A bold woman.
Maybe she heard his call for abolition and believed his words.
Heartened, he rent his coat open and refused to stop pressing for the rally. “Abolition is the cause of the day, gentlemen and dear lady. If we do not hear the cry of the oppressed—our brothers in chains just beyond our shores—what good are we? I tell you, we must press Parliament, shake the seats of the House of Lords, do everything that is within our grasp to end the practice in our colonies that we have ended here in England. The barbarous slave trade needs to stop, with nary a slave ship in our docks, and none creeping into our ports. We must deprive our pockets to refill our conscience with goodness. How can we say we value freedom when coins take the freedom of others?”
Fists raised, almost daring someone to disagree, Arthur received nothing but applause. The young woman clapped again.
Blood pumping, he went back to his table and sampled the air, rank with swill and perspiration. He felt good. Someone was moved today from ambivalence to awareness of the plight of the enslaved. He sensed it. Maybe someone here would stand up for the fight.
Yet, no man in the cellar was called to fight abolition more than him. The passion had rooted in him early, for the sins of his bloodline must be righted.
One fellow got up and staggered first toward Arthur but then headed straight for the woman. The drunk grabbed her arm and dragged her close to the chair on which Arthur had just stood. “Get on up there, and we can practice selling her so Bex can save her.”
“Let… Let me go.” She struggled, but the drunk held fast to her wrist.
Arthur stood. “Let her be. Have you heard nothing?”
The fool blew him a kiss as he held her hand high. “So, this is what you fight for, Mr. Actor. A race scorched by the sun. A folk as dim as they are dark—”
Arthur had him by the throat before the drunk could say more hateful words and yanked him by the cravat away from the young woman. “Get some coffee and sober up. Miss, this is a men’s meeting. It’s not for females.”
Her eyes were wide, like he’d said something profound.
“What gives, Bex?” The drunk broke free and snatched her elbow. “We have a prime example of womanhood here. Let’s put her on the chair and sell the little thing for coming to the cellar. You said it yourself. This territory is for men alone.”
“That hurts,” she said. “Let me go you…you, Iago.”
The drunk and Arthur stopped at the same time to stare at her, but Arthur was probably the only one to discern that she offered an insult—an Iago being the horrid villain from Shakespeare’sOthello.
He almost smiled, but instead, he pushed the Iago drunk away, flinging him into a chair. “Do you not hear her cry for freedom, Iago fiend?”
The girl, who’d now ducked behind Arthur, pressed her lean fingers into his side. That protective feeling that filled him when playing a hero on the stage welled in his chest. “Let’s go, miss. I fear you’ll need a personal escort before another Iago decides to test you. Yes, a personal escort, indeed.”
