“But not Richmond?”
“He’d always dreamed of replacing Quesney’s. Even had Henry Latrobe draw up plans. Do you know who he is?”
Jack shrugs.
“It doesn’t matter,” says West, who seems to realize he’s steered the conversation off course. “He could never manage to justify the cost. Until, of course, Quesney’s caught fire and there was no other choice.”
“Was that first fire anything like this one?”
“Not nearly so dramatic as all this,” says West, waving a hand in the direction of the theater green. “Caught fire at the end of the season, with no one inside. But back then, nobody had insurance. Not for fire, anyway. So, after my father died and my mother took over the business, it took her years to put away enough money to rebuild.”
“But she finally did it?”
“She did,” says West, and Jack can hear the pride in his voice. “At first, she put up something cheap. Just a simple wooden structure—not much bigger than a milking shed. But she could barely pay the actors’ wages with what she was making. So, that’s when she gets the idea to get a bunch ofinvestors to finance the construction of a fine building. Not nearly as fancy as Latrobe’s design, but something that would accommodate a crowd. She goes to a dozen of the wealthiest men in town—including William Marshall—and sells them on the idea, which is that she’ll retain the deed to the land, but they’ll put up the money for the new building. Each year they get a share of the profits, plus box seats and some other perks—namely, the right to invite themselves to our parties and diddle the actresses.”
Jack nearly falls out of his chair.
“I was kidding about that last part,” says West. “Sort of.”
In two and a half months of working for Placide & Green, no one—not even Anderson—has ever spoken to Jack this honestly.
“So, I have a question,” he says to West. “What’s the city going to do with the land? If you agree to sell?”
West sighs. “Hand it over to the burial committee.”
Jack is confused. “What do they want with it?”
West gives him a look, like he’s wondering if he’s really got to spell this out for him. Obviously, he does. “They want to bury everyone there, Jack.”
“What?” Jack says. “On the theater green?”
“In the ruins.”
“But if they turn the site into a burial ground, we’ll never be able to rebuild.”
“An added benefit, as far as the committee is concerned.”
Jack is dumbfounded. “Surely, they can’t make you sell?”
“Technically, no. Not yet, anyway. My mother put down the land as collateral when she borrowed the money for the building. The deal was that, if she failed to perform the conditions of the agreement for a period of one year, she’d forfeit her rights to the property.”
“And now that she’s gone?”
“All the same rules apply to me.”
“But you haven’t failed to perform anything. There was that big subscribers’ meeting just last month. Everyone got their money.”
“Right,” says West. “But what they’re saying is they know we’ll come to next year’s meeting empty-handed.”
“That’s not true, necessarily.”
“Isn’t it?”
“We can rebuild.”
“But the question is, why would we?”
GILBERT
