Simon Hawke: The Merchant of Vengeance

“We shall, indeed,” said Smythe. “Now all we need to do is find a Jew in a country where there are none.”

You do not look well, Elizabeth,“ said her friend Antonia, as they sat upon a bench, embroidering together in the garden. ”Does my presence weary you?“

Elizabeth Darcie shook her head, brushing back a stray blond tress that had fallen loose from underneath her linen coif. “Nay, ‘tis not so, my good, dear friend. I am neither weary nor yet unwell, thanks be to God. I am but feeling a bit sad today.”

“I had hoped to cheer you with my company,” Antonia said, putting down her needlework on the stone bench. “Yet I perceive that I have failed.”

“Nay, I am grateful for your company, Antonia, truly,” Elizabeth replied. “If my mood is pensive this day, the blame lies not with you. I was merely thinking of our friend Portia’s impending marriage.”

“And this makes you sad?” Antonia cocked an eyebrow at her friend. “Is it for her that you feel sad or for yourself?”

“Nay, not for her,” Elizabeth replied, putting down her own embroidery with a sigh. “I am happy for Portia, truly. Thomas Locke is a most excellent young man. He has fine prospects. He is now nearly done with his apprenticeship and shall soon become a journeyman tailor. Already, his work is becoming known in fashionable circles. He shall do well. There is no doubt that he shall make something of himself.”

“Despite his rather humble origins, you mean,” Antonia said.

“Well, though some may hold it so, in my estimation, what his father does should be no reflection upon him,” Elizabeth replied. “Thomas is making his own way in life. And ‘tis not at all uncommon these days for a successful merchant or a guildsman to become a gentleman. Prosperity can do much to improve one’s social standing.”

“I am quite sure that Portia’s father had considered that when he consented to the match,” Antonia said dryly. “After all, ‘tis one thing to allow one’s only daughter to wed a tavern-keeper’s son, and a tavern in the Liberties, no less. ’Tis quite another to let her wed a journeyman tailor who shall doubtless have his own shop before long and may one day become a gentleman.”

“Aye,” said Elizabeth. “Some things are more easily overlooked when the prospects of success and social betterment are in the offing.”

“Unlike the prospects for a poor player who is not even a shareholder in his company?” Antonia said.

Elizabeth glanced at her with surprise, momentarily taken aback, then smiled wanly. “Am I so easily compassed, then?”

“Aye, by one who loves you well and knows your heart,” Antonia replied, taking her hand. “Tuck Smythe is also an excellent young man. However, unlike Portia’s young man, Thomas, he does not seem to have favourable prospects. He is also making his own way in life, as best he can, but as a poor player, I fear he can offer your father no reason to overlook his lack of social standing.”

Elizabeth sighed. “Did you know that his father is a gentleman?” Antonia’s eyes grew wide. “Tuck’s father? A gentleman? But you have never told me this!”

“‘Tis true,” Elizabeth said, nodding. “He told me so himself once. But he does not like to speak of it.”

“But why?”

“It seems that his father had squandered all of his money.”

Elizabeth explained. “‘Twas my understanding that he had barely avoided debtors’ prison and was living on his younger brother’s charity. ’Tis why Tuck is both poor and a player. He told me that he had always wanted to join up with a company of players, ever since he was a boy and saw a travelling troupe come through his town, but his father would not hear of it and threatened to disown him if he did. And so Tuck was sent to live and apprentice with his uncle, who was a smith and farrier. He lived with him until he learned that his father had gone bankrupt. With his inheritance gone, his father’s threat was rendered moot and Tuck had nothing to prevent him from setting out to follow his hearts desire. Thus, he came to London and became a player. He does not like to speak about his father. ‘Twas the only time he had ever even mentioned him, and then he never spoke of him to me again.”

“Poor Tuck,” Antonia said, shaking her head. “And yet… his father, for all that he may now be destitute, is nevertheless still a proper gentleman, is he not? That is to say, the heralds had granted him a coat of arms?”

Elizabeth clucked her tongue. “Aye, they did, but I know what you are thinking, and ‘twould never do,” she said.

“Why not?” Antonia asked “Your father wants nothing more than to make a good marriage for you. He has tried again and yet again to arrange a suitable match.”

“Aye, much to our mutual regret,” Elizabeth replied. “I have told you of the disaster that was so narrowly prevented not so long ago, thanks to Tuck and his friend Will. I shudder to think now that I could easily have been killed by that impostor posing as a nobleman. As a result, it seems my father has learned his lesson and has at long last stopped trying to arrange a marriage for me.

Besides, I told him that I would sooner die a spinster than wed a man I did not love.“

“But if you were to tell him that Tuck’s father is a gentleman, then surely he would be more amiably disposed toward him,” Antonia said.

“Just so long as I conveniently neglected to tell him that Tuck’s father is also destitute, you mean,” Elizabeth replied. She shook her head. “‘Nay, I could never do that to him. I could not mislead my father so, nor would Tuck stand for it even if I could. He is proud and honest to a fault. And for all of his insufferable pomposity, Father tolerates Tuck now, in part because he is indebted to him and in part because he knows now that Tuck is honourable and would never do anything against his wishes. Father trusts Tuck, as he trusts me. In truth, I do believe he trusts him more than he trusts me. ’Tis the only reason he allows our friendship, albeit he does not entirely approve.”

“But you would like it to be much more than just a friendship.” said Antonia.

Elizabeth sighed. “I do not know. In truth, I am not certain what I want.”

‘Well, do you love him?“

“At times, I think I do. And yet, at other times, he vexes and exasperates me so, I think that if I were a man, I could take a club to him and beat him senseless!”

Antonia laughed. “That sounds very much like love to me.”

“Oh, and you know so much about it!”

“‘You might be surprised at what I know,” Antonia said slyly.

“You may be older, Elizabeth, but do not forget, I am the one who is married.”

“Everyone is married,” Elizabeth replied dismissively. “Marriage merely teaches a woman what it means to be a wife. I have not observed that marriage has much to teach a woman about love.”

“Once married, a woman can learn to love her husband, even if she does not love him from the start,” Antonia said with a shrug.

“I suppose that one can also learn to love a tonic of tart vinegar and scurvy-grass if one must drink it daily,” Elizabeth replied dryly. “However, that still does not make it a pleasant-tasting brew.”

“You shall make a fine spinster, methinks,” Antonia replied.

“You already have the tongue for it. Here I am trying to help you with my best advice, and you abuse me for it.”

“Forgive me, Antonia,” Elizabeth said. “‘Twas unkind of me, I know. I am simply in a dreadful humour. Perhaps ’tis my lot in life to be a spinster.”

“Oh, what arrant nonsense,” said Antonia. “You have had more than your share of suitors. And if you had not frightened all of them off with your shrewish tongue. and wilful manner, then you would have an army of them still. Why, you could have a husband at any time you chose, if only you would behave more amiably toward those who came to court you. The trouble with you is not a lack. of suitors. What you seem to want, Elizabeth, is what you cannot have.”