season.”
“I’ll have to learn to read then,” he answered with a tight smile. “Do you think you could teach this lumpkin his ABCs by autumn?”
“Aye, Hunter Robertson, I could indeed,” she replied happily.
No sooner had she said the words than a legion of admirers—most of them women, and not a few actresses employed at the playhouse itself—burst into the Greenroom, all talking at once. Sophie slipped out of the chamber quickly to avoid a possible encounter with the unnerving Lord Lemore.
***
Hunter’s concerts were the talk of Edinburgh—including a sermon by the chief minister at St. Giles, who denounced the “blasphemies sung by rogues and vagabonds in the playhouse where Satan’s seat is and from whence He sends out Detachments of the Wicked to further his Campaign of Sin!”
“Goodness, did he say all that?” Sophie asked of Boswell, who had been required to attend the kirk session by his father, Lord Auckinleck, now returned to Edinburgh from his temporary duties as a circuit judge.
“Aye, that and more,” Boswell replied, thumbing through a copy of the Edinburgh Courant to see if several verses he’d written had been granted publication. The young law student had stopped by the book shop to persuade Hunter to accompany him to the Netherbow Coffeehouse to while away the rest of the afternoon sipping the bitter Turkish brew for a penny or two in front of a fire. There they could read the latest pamphlet or London newspaper and enjoy the company of any number of intriguing companions. Fops, justices, lawyers, pickpockets, actors, nonconformist clergy—all sorts of people frequented these smoky dens where, Sophie realized, the only women present tended to be barmaids, actresses, and prostitutes. But at least Hunter now had the funds to pay for such outings. With the tidy sum his performances had garnered, the Robertsons had even been able to take lodgings in White Horse Close, the first real home they had shared since Hunter’s childhood.
When Boswell appeared at the book shop’s door, Hunter had quickly hidden the reading primer he’d been studying. Three or four times a week he would sit cross-legged on the floor beside Sophie’s stool near the window and attempt to make sense of the letters on the page in front of him. Sophie desperately tried to remember how she had learned to read and gradually developed a method of linking each letter in the alphabet to the first word in a song Hunter knew.
“The letter I,” she had demanded of Hunter before Boswell’s interruption.
“ I … I,” Hunter repeated, his brow furrowing. The cleft in his chin flattened as he grimaced, searching his memory for the song title that would help him identify the letter. “‘ I’m a Rover! ’” he exclaimed triumphantly. “I is for ‘I’m a Rover’!”
“Yes!” Sophie had said enthusiastically, writing the song title on a little chalk board. “See… here’s the I in ‘I’m a Rover.’ Now, what about W? First make the sound of the letter W .”
“Blast!” Hunter replied in frustration. “How did I know you’d ask me that one?” His eyes lit up. “Wha… wha… wha… W is for ‘One Merry Day’!”
Sophie shook her head and smiled encouragingly. “ One sounds like a W sounds… but, no, W is for ‘Wee Cooper O’ Fife,’ or ‘Will Ye No Come Back Again?’”
“Or ‘Will This Sapskull Ever Learn His Alphabet’?” he said, disgusted. “Here you are, not even eighteen, and you’ve mastered every tome on these shelves. As for me, I’m near witless with my letters. ’Tis sheer folly for me to try to make them into words.”
Sophie put her hand on his arm and said sympathetically, “You’re making good progress, Hunter. But it takes time to make up for all those years when you were memorizing the songs by heart and learning your skill at juggling. You’ll be reading like a professor before the year is out, I promise.”
Hunter gazed at her for a long moment and
“I’ll have to learn to read then,” he answered with a tight smile. “Do you think you could teach this lumpkin his ABCs by autumn?”
“Aye, Hunter Robertson, I could indeed,” she replied happily.
No sooner had she said the words than a legion of admirers—most of them women, and not a few actresses employed at the playhouse itself—burst into the Greenroom, all talking at once. Sophie slipped out of the chamber quickly to avoid a possible encounter with the unnerving Lord Lemore.
***
Hunter’s concerts were the talk of Edinburgh—including a sermon by the chief minister at St. Giles, who denounced the “blasphemies sung by rogues and vagabonds in the playhouse where Satan’s seat is and from whence He sends out Detachments of the Wicked to further his Campaign of Sin!”
“Goodness, did he say all that?” Sophie asked of Boswell, who had been required to attend the kirk session by his father, Lord Auckinleck, now returned to Edinburgh from his temporary duties as a circuit judge.
“Aye, that and more,” Boswell replied, thumbing through a copy of the Edinburgh Courant to see if several verses he’d written had been granted publication. The young law student had stopped by the book shop to persuade Hunter to accompany him to the Netherbow Coffeehouse to while away the rest of the afternoon sipping the bitter Turkish brew for a penny or two in front of a fire. There they could read the latest pamphlet or London newspaper and enjoy the company of any number of intriguing companions. Fops, justices, lawyers, pickpockets, actors, nonconformist clergy—all sorts of people frequented these smoky dens where, Sophie realized, the only women present tended to be barmaids, actresses, and prostitutes. But at least Hunter now had the funds to pay for such outings. With the tidy sum his performances had garnered, the Robertsons had even been able to take lodgings in White Horse Close, the first real home they had shared since Hunter’s childhood.
When Boswell appeared at the book shop’s door, Hunter had quickly hidden the reading primer he’d been studying. Three or four times a week he would sit cross-legged on the floor beside Sophie’s stool near the window and attempt to make sense of the letters on the page in front of him. Sophie desperately tried to remember how she had learned to read and gradually developed a method of linking each letter in the alphabet to the first word in a song Hunter knew.
“The letter I,” she had demanded of Hunter before Boswell’s interruption.
“ I … I,” Hunter repeated, his brow furrowing. The cleft in his chin flattened as he grimaced, searching his memory for the song title that would help him identify the letter. “‘ I’m a Rover! ’” he exclaimed triumphantly. “I is for ‘I’m a Rover’!”
“Yes!” Sophie had said enthusiastically, writing the song title on a little chalk board. “See… here’s the I in ‘I’m a Rover.’ Now, what about W? First make the sound of the letter W .”
“Blast!” Hunter replied in frustration. “How did I know you’d ask me that one?” His eyes lit up. “Wha… wha… wha… W is for ‘One Merry Day’!”
Sophie shook her head and smiled encouragingly. “ One sounds like a W sounds… but, no, W is for ‘Wee Cooper O’ Fife,’ or ‘Will Ye No Come Back Again?’”
“Or ‘Will This Sapskull Ever Learn His Alphabet’?” he said, disgusted. “Here you are, not even eighteen, and you’ve mastered every tome on these shelves. As for me, I’m near witless with my letters. ’Tis sheer folly for me to try to make them into words.”
Sophie put her hand on his arm and said sympathetically, “You’re making good progress, Hunter. But it takes time to make up for all those years when you were memorizing the songs by heart and learning your skill at juggling. You’ll be reading like a professor before the year is out, I promise.”
Hunter gazed at her for a long moment and
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