Mr. Shakespeare's Bastard (28 page)

“It makes no never mind, Giddy darling,” said Scarfe. “You are home safe and sound now, so partake.”

Parrot nibbled at a piece of cheese and sulkily drank his wine. “There were people today looking for you,” he said to Scarfe. “Old Sharples was not happy to have such fellows on the premises.”

Scarfe smiled. “It is to be hoped, Giddy, that you didn’t lead them to our door.”

“I’m not such a fool as that,” he said. “Anyway that was this morning. They left hours ago.”

“But perhaps,” said Scarfe with a hint of mischief in his voice, “you didn’t notice the one who may have lurked unseen, waiting for you to lead him here.”

“So what was I to do, Robin? Tell me that. Look behind me every minute? There are plenty enough on the streets around here who could do me in.”

“True enough, old son,” said Scarfe. “Have another cup of wine and don’t give those fellows a thought. I’ll deal with them in good time.”

“You’ll deal with them,” Parrot sneered. “That I would have to see.”

“Now, now, it’s my birth date, so be of good cheer. Try one of these little pies. They’re tasty, and no mistake. Then we’ll have a song and perhaps a reading or recitation. Pa likes to hear such things, don’t you, Pa?”

“I do, Robin,” said old Scarfe. “What did Gideon say about the bookshop?”

“Nothing of import, Pa. Now, let us be merry. Will no one wish me well?”

To which Parrot said, “How could anyone be wished well in such a hovel as this?”

To my surprise and without thinking I replied, “I expect it’s the best he could do in his circumstances. We’re out of the weather, at least.”

“Well said, Miss Ward,” Scarfe cried. “You speak the truth.”

“The girl from the countryside, is it?” said Parrot with a smirk. “I didn’t see you there crouched by the fire with your sausages.”

“Now, now, no soreness of heart on this, my night. Full cups all around,” said Scarfe, and he went about the room filling our cups, though I had scarcely touched mine. As he bent down by the fire, he kissed the top of my head. “Thank you for your thoughts on my behalf, Miss Ward.”

The afternoon had got away from me and now it was evening, and I knew I was not going back to my aunt and uncle’s until morning; there was nothing I could do but wait until then, and it came to me that I should take what I could from this singular experience. Old Scarfe recited a passage from
Dr. Faustus
and Scarfe himself some lines from
Tamburlaine,
and I, heartened perhaps by a few sips of wine, declaimed Prince Harry’s lecture to Falstaff, the foretelling of the likable old rogue’s downfall. Even Parrot was impressed and all three applauded. Gideon Parrot then sang a love song and I was surprised at how moved I was by the sweetness of his voice.

The wine finished, Scarfe’s father went to bed in one of the two small rooms at the back. The two boys sat talking together for a time and then Parrot went to the
other room. Scarfe had drunk a great deal of wine, but he was steady enough and helped me arrange a blanket before the fire, where I would sleep wrapped in my cloak. It didn’t bother me not to have a bed, though he apologized, sitting on the floor beside me and saying that he was sorry too he had not returned me to my uncle’s by the Angelus bell.

“First thing in the morning,” he promised, “and no mistake.” Then he said, “I should tell you that I have made inquiries about your father and now know where he is lodged.”

Startled by his use of the word? I surely was. Startled and apprehensive.

“What do you mean, my ‘father’?” I asked. We were talking in low whispers.

Scarfe grinned. “I know he is your father, Miss Ward. I can see him in you. Don’t fret. I have told no one and never will. Why should I? It’s your business alone. You will find him in Silver Street. In St. Giles Cripplegate in the house of a Frenchman named Mountjoy, who has a shop on the premises. His trade is in women’s headdress. Perhaps your uncle knows him. Another Frenchy.”

“My uncle knows nothing of this,” I whispered angrily. “No one does, except you.”

“And you worry that if others know you will be ridiculed?”

“There is that, yes,” I said, “but there is also my father to think on. I do not want it known in the city that he sired a bastard. I don’t want that report made of him, Scarfe.”

“Nor shall it be. Your secret is safe, Miss Ward.”

I asked him when he had first suspected it.

“Why, from that first day at the bookstall. Had you been merely passing, I might not have taken note of the resemblance. But when you stopped and were so intent on seeking his work, I studied your features. At first I thought you might well be a niece or cousin. I still believed as much on our day at Finsbury. But on our visit to Bankside, when I told the doorman at the playhouse that you were Shakespeare’s cousin, I saw you flinch at the word, and I could tell you didn’t like it, and I said to myself, ‘Robin, old son, this girl is not his cousin; she’s his daughter.’”

For several moments we sat gazing into the fire, as people will in conversation when some point has been arrived at and a truth revealed. At length I said, “What will you do, Scarfe? What will become of you?”

“Become of me?” He laughed softly. “Why, who knows what will become of anyone? We are all at the behest of Fortune, the wicked old bitch!”

“But you make matters worse by putting yourself in harm’s way with your thieving and borrowing.”

Scarfe kissed me lightly on the cheek and whispered, “All shall be well, Miss Ward. And as I’ve said, your secret
will be safe with me. Now we must sleep and early tomorrow I will get you back where you belong.”

That night I slept but fitfully, once hearing a drunken tenant from a floor below singing, and later the cries and sighs of lovemaking from Scarfe’s room. I wasn’t particularly surprised, for I could see behind Scarfe’s banter and Gideon Parrot’s scoffing the affection between them. Maybe I loved Scarfe too, in my own way. I loved his generous heart and spirit, perhaps the legacy of his young mother, and his subtle intelligence and fondness for poetry, the gifts of his gentle old father.

Scarfe awakened me at daybreak. It had stopped raining and under a pale, cold sky we hurried through the mostly empty streets as far as Leadenhall Market, where the vendors were opening their stalls. I told Scarfe I could make my way from there, and we wished each other well and parted. I didn’t look back, and I doubted I would ever see him again, though the thought saddened me as I hurried westward along Cornhill. Yet now I knew where my father lived, and I remember saying the sentence aloud because I liked the sound of it.
He lives in a house on Silver Street.
I would make myself known to him and then I would leave the city; London was not for me, and over those weeks of late autumn, I had begun to long for Worsley. I missed Uncle Jack and even my stern and rigid aunt. I wanted to walk again in the meadows and woods near the village, even
in winter. I was of age and would have to find employment in service, but I was now prepared to do that.

Jenny admitted me that morning and Boyer, always an early riser, was already at his breakfast. I was glad, at least, that Aunt Eliza was still asleep. Boyer was composed as he listened to my story, amended to suit my purpose, though not straying altogether from truth: I laid emphasis on the friendship I had formed with the young apprentice bookseller and the celebration of his birthday, his father’s blindness and frailty, the presence of Scarfe’s red-headed friend who also worked in the book trade; I omitted Scarfe’s drunkenness and dishonesty, the squalid condition of his quarters and any mention of my father. I said I was sorry that I had overstayed my time and caused concern for him and Aunt Eliza, but the streets were too perilous to walk by dark and so I had accepted shelter for the night.

Boyer listened while at his bidding Jenny served me a slice of bread and a cup of chocolate. When I finished, Boyer remarked on what he had heard from the apprentices about Scarfe’s behaviour, and I replied lamely that he was easily provoked, but certainly no ruffian. Boyer told me that Aunt Eliza intended to write my uncle that very day to report my truancy and request that he take me back, as she no longer wanted the responsibility.

“You must understand, Aerlene,” he said, “that we already have enough to concern us in the household. We
cannot take on more, and so I have agreed with your aunt that you must leave. We will await your uncle’s reply, and then I will see about transport for you.”

I told him I understood and would do as he and my aunt wished, but I wanted to make clear that I had done nothing improper on my night away. He said he believed me and would report as much to Aunt Eliza when she arose. He said I looked tired and should go to bed. I was grateful to him for understanding and happy enough that it was not the ordeal I had imagined.

In my room, I lay on the bed whispering the sentence, enjoying its graceful sibilance,
He lives in a house on Silver Street.

Y
ESTERDAY
C
HARLOTTE
and Mr. Thwaites were married in St. Cuthbert’s, the service conducted by an old university friend of the groom. Mr. Thwaites’s parents are long dead and Charlotte told me some time ago that he was raised by his mother’s sister and her husband in Bath. His widowed aunt attended the service. Mr. Walter gave Charlotte to the bridegroom at the altar and Charlotte’s friend Annabelle was her maid of honour. The church was filled with friends, mostly from Oxford, though a few had made the journey from London.

We had a wedding dinner for twenty-five at Easton House, and Mrs. Sproule and Emily were assisted by three servants on loan from a neighbouring manor. Charlotte’s wedding day was overcast but dry. When she came down the aisle with her husband, she looked quite lovely as she smiled at me. Mr. Thwaites too looked kindly upon me and
I was happy beyond measure for both of them, glad that I had made the effort to attend, as I have been far from well of late, this damnable stone tormenting me day and night. Last Friday, Mr. Thwaites asked me if I would consent to being seen by a lithotomist in Oxford, a man of notable regard. I said I had no memory of acquainting him with my ailment and he replied, “But I can see you are in some discomfort this morning, Miss Ward. Charlotte has told me of your difficult time. Pray don’t be angry with me. We have only your well-being in mind.”

“Charlotte,” I said, “is very free with information about my personal problems, Mr. Thwaites, and though I’m grateful for your concern, I want no fussing over my difficulties. And I certainly have no wish to see your man from Oxford. Nature will take her course, for good or ill.”

“Sometimes,” he said quietly, “science can lend a hand to nature, Miss Ward—”

I interrupted him by asking where I had left off. He looked rueful, weary perhaps of trying to cheer an irritable old woman. “You were describing your feelings towards the boy Scarfe, who I must say is a complicated youth.”

“What are the last words on your page, Mr. Thwaites?” I asked.

He looked down at the book and read, “’ … his subtle intelligence and fondness for poetry, the gifts of his gentle old father.’”

When Mr. Thwaites left that morning, I looked through my glass at his writing. He has an excellent hand, but the letters are smaller and closer together than Charlotte’s, so I can scarcely read them. It makes no matter; the words are on the page and my story will soon be finished. I shall have to wait, however, because the bride and groom left for Oxford today, to return on Wednesday. They had originally planned a fortnight’s holiday visiting friends in Bristol and Bath, but Charlotte was not at ease with the thought of being away so long from Easton House, citing my poor health. I tried to dissuade her from changing their plans, but to no avail, and perhaps my entreaties struck Charlotte—who knows me better than I had thought—as only half-hearted, for indeed I fear they were. It is selfish of me, but I am glad that they have gone not too far, nor for too long.

A
UNT
E
LIZA TOLD ME
that I was not to leave the house for longer than two hours on Saturday and Sunday afternoons; during the week I was to assist the apprentices in the workshop and, if there were no tasks to perform, return to my room. She had written to Uncle Jack and Aunt Sarah. Marion was both curious and fascinated by my adventure and confessed that she had never considered me the sort to attract a boy. Overlooking her pejorative observation, I hastened to say that in my case the particular boy was of no consequence; it had been a mere dalliance between two childish hearts and certainly nothing as serious-minded and profound as what was taking place between her and Monsieur Couric. Poor Marion may have been capable of genuine love, but she was still a vain girl, and easily flattered. But it did win me an ally in the household. Over the years, I have sometimes regretted my tendency to tell people what I think they want to
hear, though it has proved useful in managing those who live and work together under the same roof.

My concern was to find my father before the arrival of Uncle Jack’s reply to my aunt’s letter. I knew that despite what happened, my uncle would take me back, and as soon as this was confirmed, the Boyers would have me on my way. It was important therefore to use my Saturday and Sunday afternoons to good purpose, since I could not be certain how many I would have left.

In the workshop, Jenny and the apprentices were reticent in speech and manner, but I didn’t care; I did what I was told and kept to myself. I was waiting for the carters, and when one arrived, I stepped into the laneway to greet him. He said he missed my banter—and where had I been? I told him I’d been ill, then asked him where Silver Street might be.

“Cripplegate,” he said. “Not far, Missy. Not above half a mile from here. Just take Poultry to Cheapside and go as far as Wood Street and turn right. Go up Wood and just beyond the Bell Inn on your left is Silver Street.”

On Saturday afternoon, I set out despite a cold drizzle, walking up Wood Street past the great carrier inns with their travellers and bustle and the smell of stabled horses. I saw the Castle Inn, where Philip Boyer had put Mam up the night before she left in the company of the Tuttle family with all their belongings in two wagons drawn by oxen.
That was fifteen years ago and I was then in her womb. Beyond the Bell, I turned at Silver Street, where I asked a man if he knew the Mountjoy house. “The tiremaker, you mean?” He pointed down the street. “Across from the church at the corner.”