Simon Hawke - The Merchant of Vengeance

“For Heaven’s sake, Winifred!” Mayhew replied. “This is a gentleman of quality! Do you suppose that he would even for one moment consider a match with a girl who has already been betrothed, much less to one who…” He shook his head, as if he could not bear even to complete the thought.

“Nay, I suppose not,” Winifred said quietly. “Not if he were a proper gentleman. You did not tell him, then.”

“Perish the thought! If word of that were to get around, then I should be saddled with a spinster for a daughter! Or else be forced to have her married to some lowly ostler who stank of horse manure or, worse yet, a player! Nay, Winifred, we have our own lives and our reputations to consider.”

“And if Portia were married to a gentleman, a proper gentleman, of course, that would considerably enhance our lives and reputations,” she replied.

“Just so, Winifred, just so! Why, it may be possible for me to become a gentleman myself! I should think that after a lifetime of hard work, now that I have the means at last, obtaining an escutcheon would be a fitting reward, indeed. Can you not see yourself married to a gentleman, Winifred, a proper gentleman with his own coat of arms emblazoned on his mantelpiece and painted on his coach?”

“And embroidered on his handkerchiefs, no doubt, with gold and silver thread,” she murmured softly.

“Eh? ”What was that you said?“ he asked.

“Eh? ‘twas nothing, Henry,” she replied. “I was merely counting my stitches to myself.”

“Ah. I see,” he said. “Well, count away, then. Do not let me distract you. ‘Tis only our future I am speaking of.”

“I have finished, Henry. And I am all attention. So tell me, who is this gentleman of whom you speak?”

“His name is Symington Smythe II, Esquire,” Mayhew replied, as if savouring the sound. “And what is more, Winifred, ‘tis my understanding, although he most humbly and modestly requested that I refrain from speaking of it, that he is presently a candidate for knighthood! Think of it, Winifred, my daughter, Portia, married to a knight! Can you imagine what that could mean for us? ’Tis most fortuitous, most fortuitous, indeed! One disaster narrowly averted, and now this great good fortune falls into our laps! Just wait until Portia hears of this! I imagine that then you shall see gratitude, indeed!”

“I can imagine just how grateful she will be,” Winifred replied with a slight furrow in her brow.

“Aye, Winifred, things are looking up!” said Mayhew. “Things are looking up, indeed!”

The discovery of Thomas Locke’s body briefly displaced Smythe’s concern about Elizabeth’s involvement with Portia Mayhew, but it had been simmering away at the back of his mind ever since they had left Master Leffingwell’s tailor shop. Then he began to think about it once again as soon as his father left the tavern.

Just the thought of his father getting married while still being married to his errant second wife was disconcerting enough all by itself, but it only served to remind him once more of Thomas Locke’s plan to elope with Portia Mayhew, a plan that Thomas might never even have considered had he not suggested it to him in the first place. And now it seemed to have resulted in his death. Ben Dickens had been right, Smythe thought; he should have kept his mouth shut and his mind on his own business.

He wondered how Elizabeth was involved with Portia Mayhew, whom he knew only by name. Presumably, they had known each other all along. Perhaps that should not have been surprising. after all, Elizabeth’s father and Portia’s father were both successful and wealthy merchants who most likely travelled in the same social circles and probably did business with one another. And it was not as if Elizabeth were in the habit of introducing him to all her friends. He understood that. He was under no illusions that he was a suitable companion for someone of her class. He could hardly expect her co acknowledge their relationship to everyone she knew.

He had never met or even known about Antonia, for example, until she had happened upon them together by chance in Paul’s Walk one day. As he recalled, Elizabeth had clearly felt a little awkward introducing them. It had been the most cursory sort of introduction. Elizabeth had introduced her merely as “my friend Antonia.” He did not even know her last name. Later, when they had once again chanced upon each other at the bookstalls in Paul’s Walk, this time without Elizabeth being present, Antonia had greeted him in a warm and friendly manner, doubtless only being polite, of course, and it had seemed, under the circumstances, a bit presumptuous CO ask her full name. Not that he had given it much thought at the time. Their conversation had quickly turned to their tastes in reading matter, for they were both there to browse the bookstalls. But at the same time, he had felt that Antonia had been very curious about him and the nature of his relationship with Elizabeth. She was, however, much too well bred to question him about it, and they had soon gone their separate ways.

Then he found out that both she and Elizabeth had been at Leffingwell’s tailor shop with Portia, looking for Thomas only a short while before he had arrived there with Will on the same errand. He had known better than CO tell the sheriff’s men about that, and fortunately Will had refrained from mentioning it, as well. However, the sheriff’s men would almost surely question Master Leffingwell and probably find out about it then. And that, in turn, meant that they would doubtless pay a call on Henry Darcie soon thereafter. His relationship with Elizabeth’s father was already somewhat strained. This would certainly not serve to improve matters between them.

The entire matter had somehow turned into a hopeless, tangled, tragic muddle, with him in the centre of it all. The headache that began with his father’s arrival at the tavern had continued to build in intensity until he had started drinking with his friends, and then for a time it went away. Now, with the advent of the morning, it had returned full force, much worse than it had been the previous night.

“Here,” said Shakespeare, bending over to help him sit up, “have some of this.” He held a tankard up to his lips.

Smythe wrinkled his nose at the smell. “Good Lord, not more beer!” he said, groaning at the sound of his own voice. “Odd’s blood, Will, I should think that I have had enough,” he added miserably.

Shakespeare chuckled. “More than enough, I would say. Yet drink this just the same. ‘Tis the hair of the dog that bit you. ’Twill make you feel somewhat better.”

Smythe sipped and groaned again. “‘Strewth!” he said. “If this is what comes of getting drunk, then I swear that I shall never drink again!”

“I have heard that a time or two, methinks,” said Shakespeare. “In your case, however, I may well be inclined to believe it. You never did much care for spirits, and I have never seen you drink but sparingly afore last night. I had cautioned you to have a care, but you seemed disinclined to listen.”

“I do not remember,” Smythe replied.

“Well, that does not surprise me,” Shakespeare said with a smile. “Here, have a little more.”

Smythe took another sip and moaned. “I feel sick to my stomach,” he said. “God! Does this happen every time one has too much to drink?”

“To varying degrees,” Shakespeare replied, nodding. “Men who are not used to drink should not drink more than they are used to.”

Smythe had seen Shakespeare in similar straits a number of times before, but until now he had never fully appreciated how it felt. “How in Heaven’s name can people stand it? Lord, the way Speed drinks, I should think ‘twould be an utter agony!”