Simon Hawke - The Merchant of Vengeance

“‘Well, let us walk, then,” Smythe replied. “I have always enjoyed a good walk in the rain.”

They wrapped their cloaks around themselves, pulled down their hats, and went out into the wind and rain, through the theatre gates. The rain was coming down in sheets as they started walking toward the river, but they were in good spirits. For the moment, at least, the uncertainties and troubles of the world were all forgotten. The Thames was frothed with whitecaps, and the bracing smell of the sea was strong in the air.

As they made their way toward London Bridge, Shakespeare began to sing a ribald tune, and Smythe laughed, linked arms with him, and joined in. They sang lustily and loudly, looking forward to an evening in front of a warm fire with old friends.

Neither of them noticed that they were being followed.

Elizabeth was growing increasingly concerned about her friend. Already despondent over her father’s cancellation of her marriage plans, Portia was plunged into absolute despair when she learned that Thomas had been murdered. When the sheriff’s men had come to question them, Portia ran out of the room in tears and fled upstairs to the guest bedroom that she had occupied since leaving home. Now she would not even leave that room. She had taken to her bed and would not get up, not even to eat.

Not knowing what else to do, Elizabeth had sent a servant to Antonia with a message begging her to come at once. But as the day drew on and she did not arrive, Elizabeth grew more and more anxious. It was growing late when Antonia arrived in her carriage at last.

“I wanted to come as soon as I received your message,” Antonia explained apologetically, as one of the servants helped her with her cloak, “but my husband was entertaining guests and my presence was required at home. Alas, I could not leave till they had all departed.”

“I understand, of course,” Elizabeth replied as they made their way together to the drawing room. “And I am much relieved that you have come at last. I am simply driven to distraction. Poor, poor Portia! I just do not know what to do. I cannot think how to help her!”

“You are already helping her, my dear,” Antonia replied solicitously. “You have given her safe haven, and a caring heart to see her through this tragic time. And in the end, ‘tis said that time itself must heal such wounds.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “In this case, Antonia, I am not so certain. Doubtless time could heal grief suffered over an untimely loss, but this was the foul murder of the man she loved, and I do believe she holds her father to account for it, which can only serve to multiply her torment.”

“Do you suppose he could have done it?” Antonia asked as the servant poured their wine.

Elizabeth sighed and shook her head once more. “I cannot say. ‘Tis not so long ago I would have said that Henry Mayhew certainly did not strike me as a man who would be capable of murder, but I have since discovered that one simply cannot tell such things from appearances and that people one might never think capable of doing such terrible things are, indeed, capable of them and more.”

“So then he may have done it,” said Antonia. “Or else he may have paid to have it done. Is that what she believes?”

“I am afraid so,” said Elizabeth. “What does one tell a girl who thinks her father killed the man she loved?”

“I do not know,” Antonia replied. “‘What has her father said to this?”

“Thus far, he has said nothing,” said Elizabeth.

Antonia frowned. “Does he even know that she is herd”

Elizabeth nodded. “He knows. I sent a servant to him with a letter, so that he would know that she was safe with me. It seemed the proper thing to do. Had I a daughter who ran off somewhere, and I did not know where she was, I would be frantic with concern.”

Antonia nodded. “You did the right thing. And how did he respond?”

“See for yourself,” Elizabeth replied, picking up a letter and passing it to her. “This came but a few hours ago.”

With a look of interest, Antonia took the letter, unfolded it, and read:

My dear Elizabeth,

I have received your letter and was gratified to learn that Portia had decided to spend some time upon a visit with you. Doubtless, your pleasant company shall be of benefit to her and help assuage her distress over recent unfortunate events. The sheriff's men had paid me a visit, as they did you, it seems, and I informed them that there was little more that I could add to what they apparently already knew, but that I would remain at their service if they should require anything further of me in their inquiries. They thanked me respectfully and took their leave.

amp; to my daughter’s future, the present uncertainty of which has likely been the cause of her distress, you may inform her that she is ever in my thoughts, and that I have already taken certain steps that will assure her welfare and grant her even greater prospects than she may have earlier expected. With warmest wishes of regard and good will toward your family, I remain, as ever, yours sincerely,

Henry Mayhew

“Well, upon my word,” said Antonia, as she finished reading the missive, “he does not seem much concerned. What do you suppose he means when he writes that he has ‘taken certain steps that will assure her welfare’?”

“I can only take that to mean that he has already found another suitor for his daughter,” Elizabeth replied.

“So soon?”

“Aye, he did not waste any time,” Elizabeth said. “I cannot imagine how I shall tell Portia.”

“You mean to say she has not seen this letter?” Antonia asked, holding it up.

“I have been afraid to show it to her. There is no telling how she may respond.”

“Well, you cannot keep it from her,” said Antonia. “She shall find out eventually, from her father if not from you. And the sooner she knows, the better, I should think. ‘Tis time that she learned to accept things as they are.”

“That was rather an unfeeling sentiment,” Elizabeth replied, a bit taken aback. “She is still grieving for the man she loved.”

“Then let her don her mourning black, thus giving death its due, and go on about her life,” Antonia said.

“Antonia! How can you be so harsh?”

“Oh, truly, Elizabeth, ‘tis not my intent to sound hard-hearted.” she replied, “but Portia simply must accept that Thomas is dead and there is naught that she can do to bring him back. And if she believes that he died by her father’s hand or else by his will, then even so, what can she do about it? Is there proof she may present? And if, by some chance, she has such proof, would she present it, accusing her own father? And even if she could, what good would come of it? Who would convict a father for seeking to protect his daughter from disgrace? Who would even fault him for it?” She held up the letter once again. “He writes here in this very letter that the sheriff’s men had come to see rum. From the sound of it, they spoke to him respectfully and he answered them in kind; thus they were satisfied and took their leave. And there it shall end, Elizabeth. There it shall end. Regardless of what we may suspect, officially the murderer shall remain unknown. Thomas was a young journeyman of much promise but of little means, and a Jew, at that. Henry Mayhew is a prominent and wealthy merchant and a Christian. What more is there to say?”

“There is something more to say for Portia, surely,” said Elizabeth.

“Very well, then let us say it,” Antonia replied. “She is her father’s daughter and must do her duty, as must we all. My father never sought my counsel or consent when he arranged for me to marry. Nor do most fathers do so. And for all of your poetic and romantic notions about love, Elizabeth, the day will come when your father, too, shall decide upon a husband for you, before you become too old for him to marry off and he is settled with a spinster. You and I have talked of this before. Marrying for love is fine for the more common sort of people, but we must be more serious and practical. And the sooner Portia comes to understand that and accept it, the better off she shall be. That is my advice to you, Elizabeth. Do with it what you will, but know this: Neither Portia’s father nor yours shall remain patient forever.”