“A genius?” says West. “That might be taking things a bit far.”
“What do you know about him?” Anderson asks Jack.
Jack considers the question for a moment. “I know he’s a trained dancer. And an acrobat.”
“What else?”
“He grew up in France, worked in Paris, then Haiti. New York, too. Eventually, he established a dance company in Charleston, which merged with West’s father’s acting troupe.”
“All true,” says Anderson. “And yet, it doesn’t come close to describing this man’s talent. Placide wasn’t just ‘working in Paris,’ he was dancing in the court of Louis XVI. In Haiti, he shared the stage with Suzanne Vaillande. Then they go and debutThe Bird Catcherin New York, and it’s—quite literally—the first ballet production our young country has ever seen.”
“Did you see it?” Twaits asks Anderson.
“Did I see it?” he croons. “I was in the front row.”
“No…”
“Yes.”
Twaits rests his chin in his hand. “That had to have been something.”
“I can still picture Placide’s grand jeté perfectly.”
“Now he’s just boasting,” West tells the rest of them.
“The man’s brilliant,” says Anderson. “So, when you ask me why I’m confident the plan will work, it’s because nothing Placide’s tried has ever failed.”
“Well, there was that spectacle commemorating the Battle of Fort Moultrie,” says West. “It wasn’t very good.”
“That was one performance!”
West throws his hands up. “I’m not saying he’s not brilliant!” He turns to Jack. “I don’t know what gave him the idea that the local militia could act.”
“I once heard Louis Duport say he owes the man everything,” says Anderson. “LouisbloodyDuport.”
Jack is too embarrassed to admit he doesn’t know who Louis Duport is, so he just says, “Impressive.”
“There isn’t an actor, a dancer, or a director alive today who doesn’t know who Alexander Placide is. And people will still be talking about him long after the lot of us are dead.”
“Here, here!” says Twaits. Some of the men raise their glasses to Placide. Everyone begins to talk at once, and by the time a barmaid clears their plates, they’re taking guesses on when the troupe will be allowed to return to Charleston.
“They haven’t even established an inquest committee yet,” says West, pushing up from the table. “So, you’re a bunch of fools if you’re even thinking about what comes next.”
They all watch as West exits the taproom. “What’s stuck up his ass?” Twaits asks, and there is general agreement that, indeed, West must have something large impacting his bunghole.
GILBERT
Gilbert walks back to thesmithy from the Price place in a fog. All he can think about is Cecily, and how if he had known she was at the theater, he might have focused on saving her life, instead of that of Louisa or a dozen women he doesn’t even know.
Behind him, a woman calls his name. “Mr. Hunt! Oh, Mr. Hunt!”
He turns to find Phyllis Johnston hurrying down Locust Alley, waving a reticule over her head in greeting, and all he wants to do is run in the other direction. But then he remembers Dr. McCaw and the fact that he asked her to bring him word of his condition, and he forces himself to wait for her.
“I’m so relieved to have found you,” she says as she picks her way around several large piles of horse manure. She is wearing a gown that looks like it was ordered for a woman of far narrower proportions, and when she arrives in front of Gilbert, she is quite out of breath.
It’s cruel that he should be forced to converse with anybody right now. He searches for something to say and finally manages, “You look improved since last night.”
“Thank you,” she says, apparently glad for the compliment. “I’ve never felt more relieved to have a bath in my life.”
