Edward Marston - The Wanton Angel

When Rose awoke next morning, she had visibly improved.

‘How do you feel now?’ asked Sybil solicitously.

‘The pain has gone, mother.’

‘Thank heaven!’

‘I feel hungry.’

‘That is a good sign.’

‘I have been dreaming of food.’

‘You shall have whatever you want.’

Rose felt a cool breeze stroking her cheek. ‘The window is open,’ she said in surprise. ‘I thought you had it bolted.’

‘It will stay open now to let in fresh air.’

‘Thank you, mother.’

Sybil felt her daughter’s brow then took both of her hands between her own. Apology never came easily to her and it cost her a tremendous effort of will.

‘We were unkind to you, Rose,’ she admitted.

‘You frightened me.’

‘Only because we were frightened ourselves. But I was wrong to take you to Clerkenwell. That was sinful. I see that now. I cannot find it in my heart to welcome this child but I should not have tried to get rid of it in that cruel way.’

‘It is his, mother,’ murmured the girl.

‘Whose?’

‘His.’

Sybil pulled herself back from further questioning. During her long hours of recrimination, she had come to see that she could never bludgeon the name out of her daughter. Only by winning back the girl’s love and confidence would she have any hope of being told who the child’s father was. Nursing Rose through her illness had been an important first step but there were several others to take.

‘What food will I fetch you?’ she offered.

‘Anything,’ said Rose. ‘I am so famished.’

‘Leave it to me.’

‘Thank you, mother.’

‘What else will I bring?’

‘Something to drink, please. And mother?’

‘Yes?’

‘Could you open the window a little wider?’ said Rose softly. ‘The sun will shine onto the bed.’

Sybil was only too happy to oblige, opening the window as wide as she could then going back to the bed to place on kiss on Rose’s forehead. When she went out, she left the door slightly ajar to signal that the prison regime was at an end. Rose struggled to sit up and look around her bedchamber. She was still weak but the fever and the continual ache had faded away. For the first time since she had taken to her bed, she felt a degree of hope. That was a medicine in itself.

A scraping noise took her eyes to the window. Expecting to find a bird perched there, she was astonished to see something quite different. Lying just inside the window, as if placed there from outside, was a tiny red flower. Rose was overjoyed. Struggling to get out of bed, she supported herself with a hand on the wall as she made her way to the window to collect the flower. It was more eloquent than any message and she was certain that it came from him. He knew. He wanted to help. He was offering his love and support.

There was nobody outside the window but her disappointment was allayed by the flower. She inhaled its fragrance before making her way back to the bed, clambering into it with relief and holding the flower against her cheek. It was only when she heard her mother returning that she put the red rose hastily under the pillow. Sybil entered with a tray of food.

‘You look so much better, Rose,’ she said with a sigh of gratitude. ‘You’ve got some colour back in your cheeks.’

The second performance of The Insatiate Duke had nothing like the success of the first. The acting was good, the effects startling and the stage management as smooth as ever but a key element was missing. Edmund Hoode no longer believed in the piece. Where he had been a moving Cardinal Boccherini on the first outing, he was now a rather sinister figure and it upset the whole balance of the drama. The audience was very appreciative but Westfield’s Men knew that they were being given short measure at the Queen’s Head that afternoon.

Nobody was more disappointed than Lucius Kindell, the estranged co-author of the tragedy. Too embarrassed to make himself known to the company, he sneaked into the yard and found a seat in the upper gallery. Given his involvement with a rival company, he had anticipated that his play would be dropped by way of retaliation but Westfield’s Men were honouring their pledge to stage it again and that served to deepen his guilt. They were showing much more faith in his work than he had in theirs. The performance made him squirm in his seat, partly because it lacked any genuine passion and suffering, but chiefly because he could see what an ordeal it was for Hoode. A play on which the two of them had worked so hard for so long had turned sour for his co-author.

Lawrence Firethorn left the stage in a mild fury.

‘We were abysmal, sirs!’ he roared.

‘Speak for yourself, Lawrence,’ said Barnaby Gill. ‘I will not hear a word against my performance. You saw those laughing faces. You heard that applause.’

‘ The Insatiate Duke was a shadow of itself.’

‘Blame that on the insatiate duke.’

‘We are all to blame,’ insisted Firethorn.

‘It is true,’ agreed Hoode. ‘This play is not for us. Give it to Nicholas to lock away in his box. It may stay there in perpetuity for all that I am concerned.’

They understood his rancour. Since his partnership with Lucius Kindell had been ruptured, he had become disenchanted with both the plays they had written together. Owen Elias sought to extract a jest from the situation.

‘You are a changed man, Edmund,’ he teased. ‘We are used to seeing you moping over a woman who will not requite your love. Now you are weeping over the loss of a young boy. Take care you do not turn into a second Barnaby.’

‘I resent that,’ said Gill over the laughter.

‘Why?’ mocked Elias. ‘Did Lucius reject you as well?’

‘Yes,’ said Firethorn, joining in the fun at Gill’s expense, ‘he sold his buttocks to Rupert Kitely instead. Barnaby will have to run off to Havelock’s Men if he wishes have an assignation with our deserter.’

Gill fell silent and looked away guiltily. Firethorn and Elias continued to bait him but for once he did not rise to the taunts. Nicholas Bracewell noted his lack of response and was concerned. It accorded with Gill’s reaction to the news that the loan to Westfield’s Men would be paid in spite of the death of their intermediary. While the rest of the company had been thrilled by the reassurance which Nicholas was able to give them, Gill had sulked in a corner. It was almost as if he did not want Westfield’s Men to have their own playhouse.

The company broke up to go their separate ways. A fresh detachment of volunteers went off to work at the site of The Angel for a few hours, relieving those who had laboured there to good effect on the previous day. When his chores were complete, Nicholas had intended to join the work party himself but Firethorn summoned him to a meeting with their patron.

They found Lord Westfield in his accustomed room, sipping a glass of wine and talking with some of his entourage. He dismissed the others so that he could be alone with the two newcomers. Anxiety flooded his face.

‘What is this I hear about a murder in our ranks?’

‘All too true, my lord,’ said Firethorn sadly. ‘Sylvester Pryde was crushed to death beneath some timbers on the site of our new playhouse.’

‘Poor soul!’

‘Nicholas was there when they found the body.’

Picking up his cue, Nicholas gave a concise account of what had happened. Their patron was deeply sympathetic. He needed no evidence to name the culprit.

‘One of Banbury’s Men,’ he decided.

‘We do not know that,’ cautioned Nicholas.

‘We know they envy us and we know that they will stop at nothing to disable us. Especially now that the Master of the Revels has spoken.’