Edward Marston - The Wanton Angel

Nicholas was gratified to see such a large congregation coming to the funeral of a man who had no family members to mourn him. It was a tribute to Pryde’s capacity for making friends. Nicholas finally saw her when the burial service was over and people were beginning to disperse. Wearing a dark cloak with a hood pulled up to cover her face, she stood on the fringe with a young gallant in attendance on her. Before she left, she walked to the grave and tossed a valedictory flower into it. Nicholas guessed at once who she must be and he caught a whiff of her fragrance as she swept past on her way out. Alone of Westfield’s Men, he knew that their benefactor had come to bid a sad farewell to a lover.

Lawrence Firethorn came across to him with his wife.

‘Will you dine with us, Nick?’ he invited.

‘He must,’ insisted Marjory. ‘We can raise a glass to the memory of dear Sylvester. I invited Anne to join us but she has to get back to Bankside.’

‘That is so, alas,’ said Nicholas. ‘Anne has a business to run but she wanted to pay her last respects to Sylvester. She was very fond of him.’

‘Every woman was fond of him, Nick,’ said Marjory with a wan smile. ‘And the pity of it is that many of those whose favours he enjoyed will not even know that he is dead. When they find out the awful truth, there will be a lot of damp pillows in London. I wept a torrent myself.’

‘Do not remind me!’ sighed Firethorn. ‘But will you join us, Nick? There is much to discuss. We have yet to choose the play we offer at Court and I would value your opinion in private before I argue with the others. Come to Shoreditch.’

‘He will not dare to refuse,’ said Marjory with a mock warning in her voice. ‘Will you, Nick?’

‘No,’ he said with a smile. ‘It is a kind invitation and I accept it with pleasure.’

She kissed him on the cheek and led the way out of the cemetery. Marjory was mother to the whole company and it grieved her to lose one of her children, however recent an addition to the shifting family that was Westfield’s Men. They were the last to leave and threw a final, sad glance over their shoulders. Firethorn was indignant.

‘I would have thought he might be here,’ he complained.

‘Who?’ said Nicholas.

‘Our benefactor. Sylvester died on the site of The Angel theatre. I am grateful that his friend advanced us the loan to build it but I think it a poor reflection on the name of friendship that he could not even turn up to see Sylvester laid to rest. Is our benefactor so heartless?’

‘No,’ said Nicholas, ‘that is not the case at all.’

Doubt was a restless bedfellow. It kept Rose Marwood awake for most of the night as she thought of vows which were made and ambitions which were discussed with her beloved. Morning found her still twisting and turning on her bed. As the hours went painfully by, she could find scant relief for her anxieties. Had he forsaken her? When he was unaware of her condition, she could not blame him for keeping his distance as they agreed. But being apart was only a prelude to the closeness of marriage. Their union was blessed with a child and lacked only the sanction of the church. She would not be the first bride who went to the altar with child. He promised to come back and he promised to make her his. Where was he?

He knew. Rose could no longer make any excuses for him. He knew yet he neither came nor sent a message. She was desolate until she remembered once again the solitary flower. That was his message. That was a seal of his love. When he heard that he had fathered a child, he did not run in panic or turn away in disgust. He reached out to her. He found a way to leave the rose on her window sill at a time when she was so weak that she could hardly walk across the bedchamber to retrieve it. He knew, he loved, he sent a token. He was hers. Rose chided herself for losing faith in him and reached under the pillow once more to take out the rose and fondle it gently.

She was still entranced by it when there was a tap on the door. Rose sat up and hastily hid the flower away again. She tried to brush away the tears. There was a second tap on the door before it opened slightly.

‘Are you there, Rose?’ said a woman’s voice.

‘Yes, Nan.’

‘May I come in?’

She did so without invitation and closed the door behind her. Nan was a scrawny old woman who worked in the kitchen at the inn and whose arched eyebrows gave her gaunt face a permanent look of surprise. Carrying a bowl of cherries, she bared her few remaining teeth and nodded excitedly.

‘I brought these for you, Rose,’ she said.

‘Thank you, Nan.’

‘I picked them myself. I was afraid to bring them before but your mother has gone to market and your father went to the funeral.’ She gave an almost girlish giggle. ‘So I came.’

‘That was very kind of you.’

‘Take them,’ said the visitor, thrusting the bowl at Rose. ‘You must keep your strength up. You’re eating for two now.’

Rose blushed but consented to take the cherries from her. Peering more closely, Nan clicked her tongue in sympathy.

‘Have you been crying?’

‘No, no,’ lied Rose.

‘I know you must be worried. I was myself. I had my first child when I was about your age. A little girl. Nobody told me what to expect. It was a shock.’ A nostalgic smile touched the haggard features. ‘But my daughter soon made me forget the pain. She was my little jewel, Rose. The most precious thing in my life. Until she died.’

‘How old was she?’

‘Barely two. None of my children lived beyond five. But they were all a great joy to me while they were alive.’

Rose felt more unsettled than ever. Nan was a friend and she had gone to some trouble to get the cherries for her but the last thing that Rose wanted to hear about were the pangs of childbirth and the woes of motherhood.

‘You had better go, Nan. Mother may come back.’

‘Yes, I don’t want her to catch me here. But Leonard told me that you were allowed out now.’

‘From time to time.’

‘He was so pleased when you thanked him.’

‘I had to, Nan. Leonard helped me.’

‘Well, I hope that bowl of cherries is a help as well. You deserve them.’ She giggled again and hunched her shoulders to pass on her gossip. ‘Have you heard about Leonard?’

‘Heard what?’

‘We think that he is in love.’

Rose was astonished. ‘Leonard?’

‘It is absurd, I know. A man that size. A man as witless as poor Leonard. But I saw it in his face when he asked me.’

‘Saw what?’

‘That look,’ said Nan.

‘What was it that he asked you?’

‘To pick one for him from the garden.’

‘Pick one?’

‘A flower,’ said Nan, letting her eyebrows soar even higher. ‘Those hands of his are far too big to snap a stem without damaging the flower itself and he was afraid he would be seen in the garden and mocked. But that’s what he asked me to do for him.’

‘To pick him a flower?’

‘A red rose.’

‘A rose,’ gulped the other.

‘Yes! Would you believe it? Leonard!’

Still giggling, she scurried out of the room and left Rose to absorb the shock. She was in great distress. Her cheeks were on fire and her breath was coming in short gasps. She felt as if she were about to choke with despair. The flower beneath her pillow was not a token from her beloved at all. He had failed her. She had drawn false succour from the rose. Leaping up, she backed frantically against the wall and stared in horror at her bed as if it had been defiled.

Marjory Firethorn knew when to leave them alone. She had always been exceptionally fond of Nicholas Bracewell, admiring his personal qualities as much as his invaluable service to her husband’s company. It was a delight to her whenever he visited her home because he was invariably courteous to her and wholly free from the melancholy which plagued Hoode and the tantrums which Barnaby Gill often displayed. She cooked them a delicious meal and all three of them washed it down with a cup of wine. Having cooed over Nicholas’s injuries once more, she then called the servant to clear the table and withdrew with her into the kitchen. Theatre was men’s work.