Edward Marston - The Wanton Angel

‘No, my sweet.’

‘Then why will you not linger?’

‘Truly, I may not. I have another assignation.’

She bristled. ‘You cast me aside for another?’

‘Only during the day. I will return again tonight.’

‘Not if you have been cavorting with a rival,’ she said tartly. ‘My door will be closed to you, Sylvester. I will not share you with anyone.’

‘Not even with the Queen of England?’

‘Her Majesty?’ she said, blinking in wonderment.

‘Yes,’ he explained with a grin. ‘I will pay homage to her Grace when I pass beneath her portrait on the inn sign. There is my assignation. At the Queen’s Head with the other players. Be ruled by me,’ he said, giving her another peck. ‘You have no flesh and blood rival. Only a painted monarch who swings to and fro in the wind in Gracechurch Street.’

‘I wronged you,’ she admitted.

‘Only because I misled you. But I must away.’

Pryde took a last, long, searching kiss before slipping out through the door. To avoid the prying eyes of neighbours, he left discreetly by the rear exit and came out into a narrow lane. Striding purposefully along into a stiff breeze, he reflected on his nocturnal pleasures and wondered how long he would sustain this particular romance. The lady was a willing but very inexperienced lover and he was not sure whether her husband’s occasional departures from London would give him enough time to teach her all the refinements she needed to master in order to hold his interest.

When he swung into Gracechurch Street, he dismissed her from his mind and turned his attention to Westfield’s Men, recalling their embarrassing departure from the Queen’s Head and speculating on the possibility that they might henceforth be banished from their place of work. This eventuality was far more worrying than the fumbling caresses and lunging urgency of his latest conquest. Being a privileged member of such an illustrious troupe as Westfield’s Men gave Sylvester Pryde immense satisfaction. On the stage in the inn yard, he enjoyed a sense of fulfilment such as he had never known before and the notion that it might be taken away from him by a volatile landlord produced a severe jolt.

The crowd was thick but he threaded his way through it with ease until he reached the Queen’s Head. His worst fears were confirmed by the sight of Nicholas Bracewell, standing outside the inn, presumably to turn the players away. He closed quickly on the book holder.

‘Good morrow, Nick!’

‘I have been waiting for you,’ said Nicholas. ‘When I called at your lodging, they told me you had spent the night elsewhere.’

‘That is so. I was called away.’

‘It must have been a pressing summons if you left in the middle of our celebrations at the Cross Keys Inn. But that is your business and does not concern me here.’ He was having difficulty being heard above the noise. ‘This street is too busy. Let us seek a quieter place to talk.’

Taking Pryde by the arm, he guided him down the first turning then swung into an alleyway which gave them a modicum of privacy and a respite from the continual din.

‘Are we barred from the Queen’s Head?’ said Pryde.

‘The company is not but one member of it may be.’

‘One member?’

‘Let me explain, Sylvester,’ said Nicholas, taking care to adopt a neutral tone. ‘Thus it stands. The landlord’s daughter is with child. Suspecting one of us to be the father, he rails against the whole company and would have cast us out into the wilderness had we not just signed a contract with him.’

‘Suspecting one of us?’ echoed Pryde. ‘Does he have no proof? Has the girl not volunteered his name?’

Nicholas shook his head. ‘No. Whether out of loyalty or folly, I cannot say, but Rose will not part with it. This argues much for her strength of feeling about the man. Her parents have been stern interrogators but they failed to prise a name out of her. All that she will concede is that he was an actor. And she offered the briefest description of him.’

‘Rose Marwood is a pretty piece of flesh,’ said Pryde with a smile. ‘He was a fortunate man, whoever he might be.’

‘His good fortune has been our misfortune.’

‘Alas, yes.’

‘And it has left the girl in a parlous state.’

‘The price of pleasure can sometimes be very high.’

‘Let us talk about that price,’ said Nicholas discreetly. ‘This is a question I have had to put to each and every member of the company, Sylvester, so do not be offended when I direct it at you. The description which Rose gave could fit two or three of our players. Chief among them is you.’

‘Me?’ said Pryde indignantly.

‘Were you the girl’s lover?’

‘No, Nick. I was not nor would I be. Heavens, man, when I said she was a pretty piece of flesh, it was not because I had designs on her. I am not involved in any way here.’

‘Is that the truth, Sylvester?’

‘On my honour!’

‘I need to know.’

‘You have just been told, Nick. Ask the same question of yourself and you will understand how I feel. Are you the father of this child?’

Nicholas almost blushed. ‘Of course not.’

‘Do you find Rose Marwood repulsive?’

‘Not at all. She is a most pleasant girl.’

‘Why, then, did you not bed her?’

‘Because my affections are placed elsewhere, Sylvester, as well you know. And that is only one of many reasons.’

‘I can offer even more why I would not even dream of embracing Rose Marwood or her kind. Suffice it to say, that I, too, have placed my affections elsewhere.’ He gave a lazy smile. ‘Those affections may shift from time to time but they would never alight on the daughter of an innkeeper. We talk of quality here, Nick. With a lady such as Anne in your life, you would not stoop to a dalliance with a serving wench. It would be beneath you.’

‘That is true.’

‘It is so with me.’

‘Yet Rose Marwood was so entranced by you.’

‘That does not make me her lover.’

‘No,’ agreed Nicholas, ‘and the vehemence of your denial makes me believe you. I am sorry to have to examine you on the subject but it is in all our interests to discover who the father of this child really is.’

‘One of our fellows deceived you.’

‘I find that hard to accept.’

‘Haply, the father does not even remember the coupling,’ said Pryde. ‘If it happened in a drunken moment, it might have no purchase on his mind.’

‘Rose Marwood would not give herself to a drunkard.’

‘Stranger things have happened.’

Nicholas’s mind was racing. Having decided that Sylvester Pryde was the most likely father, he was perplexed to learn that the latter was innocent of the charge. Had one of the others deliberately lied to him? Owen Elias? James Ingram? Edmund Hoode? Lucius Kindell? Could it even have been — his blood congealed at the thought — Lawrence Firethorn himself? Gifted actor though he may be, he was also, when he could escape the vigilance of his wife, a compulsive lecher who would not scruple to show an interest in any attractive woman. If the actor-manager were the culprit, then the fate of Westfield’s Men really did hang in the balance.

Sylvester Pryde came to his aid.

‘Ask the girl,’ he suggested.

‘Who?’

‘Rose Marwood. She knows the name. Elicit it from her.’

‘How?’ said Nicholas. ‘I would not be allowed anywhere near her. The landlord and his wife have used every means at their disposal to force the name out of her. Why would she tell me what she would never divulge to her parents?’

‘Because you would be gentle with her.’

Rupert Kitely was a theatrical phenomenon. Short, slight and pleasantly ugly, he somehow transformed himself on stage into a tall, muscular individual with a dashing handsomeness that earned him a huge female following. The illusion was achieved by a subtle combination of a clarion voice, piercing eyes which reached every part of the theatre, graceful movement, vivid gesture and an inner dynamism which seemed visibly to increase his height and bulk. Kitely was the leading player with Havelock’s Men and the prime cause of its continued success. He made every role he played his own, stamping it with his authority and his trademark brilliance, taking it beyond the reach of lesser mortals in the company.