Edward Marston - The Wanton Angel

‘You have always hated players.’

‘I hate beer but I have no qualms about selling it.’

‘You are perverse, Alexander.’

‘I have to look to the future,’ he said. ‘As you have so often pointed out to me, a theatre company brings custom here in abundance. To lose that source of money would be ruinous.’

‘What do you intend to do about it?’

‘Register my complaint in the strongest language.’

‘To whom?’

‘The Privy Council.’

‘Ha! What notice would they take of a mere innkeeper?’

‘I am wounded by this decision, Sybil.’

‘We both are, sir,’ she said sharply, ‘but not so deep a wound as the one inflicted on us by our own daughter. That is what vexes me night and day.’

‘And me. And me.’

‘Then why have you not found the name of the father?’

‘I might ask the same of you.’

‘Rose is headstrong. She will not tell me.’

‘Press her more closely.’

‘Do you dare to instruct me?’ she said warningly.

He backed off at once. ‘No, no, Sybil. You know best how to handle the girl. You always have. But it is a wonder to me that you have not prised the name out of her.’

‘It is protected by a lover’s vow.’

‘This lover’s vow is more like a leper’s handshake.’

‘Rose is young and vulnerable,’ said his wife with a grim nostalgia, ‘as I once was. Vows exchanged in the heat of passion can bind for life. I found that out to my cost.’

Marwood did not dare to probe her meaning. When he thought of his daughter, he remembered that the last time his wife had given him the delights due to a husband was on the night when Rose was conceived. The girl was a living symbol of his years of deprivation. The fact that she herself, unmarried and not even betrothed, had savoured the pleasures of carnal love came as a huge shock to him. His lip curled vengefully.

‘We must find the villain!’

‘That was your office, Alexander.’

‘I taxed Master Firethorn by the hour.’

‘What has he done?’

‘Asked his book holder to look into the matter.’

‘Did Nicholas Bracewell not track down the villain?’ she said in surprise. ‘Then the man is more cunning than we thought. If he can elude someone as sharp-eyed as Master Bracewell, what hope do we have of finding him?’

‘Rose.’

‘Her lips will not speak his name.’

‘Nor will those of the players,’ said Marwood, ‘though some of them must surely know who the rogue is. Such men always boast of their conquests. Half the company have probably heard the story of how he seduced Rose Marwood.’ He came to a sudden halt and stamped both feet in turn. ‘This is unbearable. I am in Hell itself!’

‘Keep your voice down, Alexander.’

‘I will expire from a broken heart.’

‘You will do nothing of the kind, sir. You will stay on the trail of this man until you run him down. It is only a question of time. Rose admitted that he was an actor so we know that he is a member of Westfield’s Men.’

‘Or was, Sybil.’

‘Was?’

‘That was Nicholas Bracewell’s thought. Haply, the man is no longer with them. The company changes all the time. In the course of a season, they take on and release a number of hired men. Rose’s lover could have been one of them.’ He plucked recklessly at his few remaining tufts of hair. ‘He may not even be in London any more. He may be sowing his vile seed a hundred miles away.’

She became indignant. ‘Spare me such foul language, sir.’

‘I am sorry. Despair got the better of me, Sybil.’

‘Then take your despair elsewhere if it makes your tongue run with such filth. I expect purity in my bedchamber.’

Marwood did not have the courage to mention his own blighted expectations with regard to the marital couch. They had withered on the vine many years ago. When he looked at Sybil now, a lump of human granite in billowing white linen, he marvelled at the fact that they had somehow, somewhere, in the distant recesses of time and by a grotesque error, actually had a semblance of affection for each other which had enabled them to produce a child. Marwood gurgled. Every second of illusory pleasure which he experienced that night had cost him hour upon hour of excruciating pain.

Sybil had closed her eyes and fallen so eerily silent that he supposed her to be asleep. After another frantic stroll up and down the room, he went to the bed and climbed carefully in beside her. His wife let out a deep murmur.

‘Master Pryde!’

‘Who?’

‘Sylvester Pryde,’ she said firmly. ‘I have come to believe that he was Rose’s downfall.’

‘Which one is he, Sybil?’

‘The handsome man with airs and graces. He wears fine apparel and has a quality most of his fellows lack. His beard is always well-trimmed. He is more liberal with his purse than the others, more courteous, too. Rose noticed him.’

Envy stirred. ‘It seems that she was not the only one!’

‘I was only displaying a mother’s vigilance.’

‘I know, I know,’ said Marwood with a mollifying touch on her arm. ‘What astounds me is how he managed to evade your vigilance. It has kept Rose safe from harm for so long. The man we seek is clearly Deception itself.’

‘Sylvester Pryde may fit that description.’

‘But he was questioned along with the others and found innocent of the charge. Nicholas Bracewell would have put serious questions to him.’

‘I would like to do that myself,’ said Sybil darkly. ‘This Sylvester Pryde is altogether too plausible. I have a strong sense that he is involved here. When I mentioned his name to Rose, she blushed crimson.’

‘Let me at him!’ said her husband, flaring into life again. ‘I’ll take a pair of shears and geld the knave.’ He made such a violent gesture with his hands that the bedside candle was blown out by the displaced air. ‘I’ll insist that Master Firethorn expels the miscreant at once.’

‘We have first to be certain of his guilt, Alexander. And that can only be done by wresting a confession from Rose. I’ll work more craftily on her.’

‘Do so, Sybil. Practice on her. Wear her down. You are well-versed in that black art.’

‘What black art?’ she asked.

‘I spoke in jest,’ he said, regretting his momentary lapse into honesty about his wife. ‘What I was praising was your gifts of persuasion.’

‘I hope so, sir. I am in no mood for censure.’

‘I have complete confidence in you,’ he assured her — then an image of his daughter came suddenly into his mind. He gave an involuntary shiver. ‘When is the unbidden child due?’

‘Forget the child.’

‘How can I forget it when she carries it before her?’

‘We may soon rid ourselves of that burden.’

‘How? That devilish grandchild will be around our necks for the rest of our days. With the whole parish pointing their fingers and laughing at us. We will have to feed, clothe and bring up a bastard child, Sybil.’

‘I’ll not endure that.’

‘You will have to, my love. There is no cure.’

She turned to face him and opened a bulging eye.

‘There is.’

Nicholas Bracewell returned to Bankside that night at a far later hour than he had intended. Having nobly waited up for him, Anne Hendrik, tired and slightly tetchy, was about to scold him for breaking his promise to get back earlier when she saw the deep concern etched in his face. Tiredness fled, tetchiness disappeared and a surge of sympathy ensued. After giving him a welcoming kiss, she led him to the parlour and sat beside him.

‘Something terrible has happened,’ she guessed.

‘It may happen, Anne.’

‘What may?’

‘Extinction.’