Edward Marston - The Wanton Angel

‘Many women have, Anne.’

‘I am sure. He is extremely affable and has a vitality about him which is very attractive.’

‘Do you find it attractive?’

‘I did,’ she confessed, ‘until I got to know him better. But he poses no threat to me, if that is what you are asking.’ She smiled warmly. ‘I am already spoken for, Nick.’

He met her gaze and returned her smile. Anne was the English widow of a Dutch hatmaker. When her husband died, she took over his business and ran it with a flair and efficiency that nobody realised she possessed. With its bear-baiting arenas and its brothels, its mean tenements and its populous low-life, Bankside was not the safest part of London in which to live and Anne soon felt the need of a man in the house to lend a sense of security. Nicholas Bracewell turned out to be the ideal lodger and they were gradually drawn into a close friendship. While not letting it dictate their lives, it was something on which both set great value.

‘Who is the father of Rose’s child?’ she asked.

‘It has yet to be confirmed, Anne.’

‘But you have a strong suspicion.’

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘and it was strengthened even more when I returned to the Cross Keys last night and questioned every man in the company in turn.’

She was surprised. ‘Every man?’

‘With the exception of George Dart and Barnaby Gill. The one is too shy even to look at a woman and the other spurns the entire sex. No,’ continued Nicholas, ‘I heard what I expected to hear from all of them. Stout denial.’

‘Who, then, is left?’

‘Sylvester Pryde.’

‘Surely not!’

‘He is the only person unaccounted for, Anne. When I got back to the others, Sylvester had left.’

‘When you were celebrating a triumph?’ she said in astonishment. ‘His place was surely with his fellows. What could possibly have lured him away at such a time?’

‘The latest Rose Marwood, perhaps?’

‘No, Nick. I refuse to believe it.’

‘Sylvester is the most handsome man in the company,’ he argued, ‘and well-used to reaping the fruits of his good looks. Rose would not have been his first conquest.’

‘I still think him an unlikely culprit.’

‘Why?’

‘Sylvester Pryde has moved in high circles, Nick. He has consorted with lords and ladies. My guess is that it is among those same ladies that his conquests have been made, not in the taverns of London.’ She pursed her lips as she pondered. ‘I mean no disrespect to Rose Marwood. She is a comely enough girl but could she really attract such a worldly individual as Sylvester Pryde?’

‘It is not impossible.’

‘But is it likely?’

‘I fear that it is,’ said Nicholas. ‘Almost as soon as Sylvester joined the company, Rose was smitten with him. I lost count of the number of times I caught her watching us at rehearsal when Sylvester was on the stage. When she was in the taproom, he was always the first to be served.’

‘That does not make them lovers, Nick.’

‘No. But it singles the name of Sylvester Pryde out.’

‘What will you do?’

‘Tax him with the charge,’ he said. ‘That is why I rose so early this morning. So that I could reach his lodging before he left. It is a conversation I would rather have in private. If Sylvester is the father of this child, there will be severe consequences. It would be unseemly to let him rehearse with us at the Queen’s Head as if nothing had happened.’

‘At least, you can rehearse there again.’

‘Yes, Anne. I wrenched that concession from our landlord.’

‘You have a contractual right to play at the inn.’

‘The only contract which Alexander Marwood can talk about is a contract of marriage. Lacking that, his daughter has been locked away and treated as if she were a criminal.’

‘My heart goes out to her.’

‘And mine.’

They finished their breakfast in thoughtful silence. He put his plate aside and rested his arms on the table, reaching out to take her hands between his.

‘Thank you, Anne.’

‘It was a simple enough meal.’

‘I am grateful for the breakfast as well,’ he said, ‘but I was really thanking you for hearing me out. I am sorry to burden you with the problems of Westfield’s Men when you have plenty of your own.’

‘That is certainly true, Nick!’

‘Share them with me.’

‘Another time,’ she said. ‘I will not hold you up.’

‘But you have not told me what you did yesterday.’

‘I am not sure that I should.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it might provoke jealousy.’

‘Jealousy?’

‘I went on impulse,’ she said, defensively. ‘It was not planned at all. But I was delivering a hat to Mistress Payne and she suggested that we go together. She would not dare to go on her own and was so pleased with the hat that she was eager to wear it. In a moment of weakness, I agreed.’

‘To what?’

‘An afternoon at The Rose.’

‘Anne!’ he said with mock outrage.

‘It was a disappointing play but well-acted for all that and Mistress Payne was delighted that we went. My hat won her several compliments.’

‘You went to The Rose theatre?’ he teased.

‘Only to oblige an important customer.’

‘Supporting the work of a rival company?’

‘They pale in comparison with Westfield’s Men,’ she said, loyally. ‘There is only one player among them who is fit to have his name mentioned alongside that of Lawrence Firethorn.’

‘Rupert Kitely.’

‘Yes, Nick. He towered above the others.’

‘That does not surprise me,’ he said. ‘Rupert Kitely is the mainstay of Havelock’s Men. They have a number of talented actors — including one or two deserters from our company — but it is Kitely who is their principal asset. Such a man would be most welcome in our own ranks.’

‘What hope is there of his joining you?’

‘None whatsoever. He is a sharer with Havelock’s Men and tied by contract to the Viscount’s service. Besides,’ said Nicholas, rising from the table. ‘I am not sure that there is a stage big enough to accommodate both Lawrence Firethorn and Rupert Kitely. Each needs his own arena.’

‘Do you forgive me?’ she asked.

‘For what?’

‘Spending time and money on your rivals?’

‘You are entitled to go to The Rose theatre,’ he said, helping her up from her seat. ‘It is almost on your doorstep. And it is good to have a pair of eyes on Havelock’s Men so that we keep our rivals under surveillance. When I return this evening, I would like to hear more about the performance.’

‘Not if you come back at the same hour as yesternight.’

‘My apologies for that, Anne. You were already abed.’

‘Fast asleep.’

‘I know. I peeped into your bedchamber.’

‘Then why did you not join me?’ she scolded softly.

‘I was afraid that I might wake you.’

Anne stood on tiptoe to kiss him gently on the lips.

‘I was afraid that you would not.’

A night of passion which would have exhausted most men only served to invigorate Sylvester Pryde. When he dressed next morning, he felt a fresh energy pulsing through him and giving his whole body an agreeable tingle. His lover had fared less well. Hair tousled and limbs pleasantly fatigued, she lay amid the scattered bed linen and fought to open her eyes.

‘Must you leave so soon?’ she said drowsily.

‘Yes, my love.’

‘Stay another hour.’

‘Nothing would delight me more,’ said Pryde, crossing to bestow a kiss on her forehead. ‘But I am expected elsewhere.’

‘By whom, sir?’

‘A very special lady.’

‘You swore last night that I was a very special lady,’ she complained, sitting up and pouting. ‘Was that a wicked lie?’