The Playmaker (12 page)

“What is?”

“Your tale. Like something out of Robin Hood.”

I laughed, though grimly. “Robin Hood never soaked his breeches, I warrant, while the sheriff's men held a knife to his throat.”

“Did you do that?”

“Very near. Now you must tell—”

“This law clerk, who sent you to the wine merchants—what of him?”

“Him? He was kind to me. He gave me a shilling.”

“Did he? Why?” “He liked me, or pitied me. Of course, the shilling was stolen, too. But I have kept my end of the bargain; now you must keep yours.”

“Well. I told you that I would recognize those men again, but to speak truth, I would know only one. You came to us on a Wednesday. The day after, I was on the docks as always, at the fish market, and noticed a man leaning against the wall of Coverdale's warehouse. Old Roger Coverdale himself laid into him. I've seen this before; he hates idlers. He's such a little rooster.” Here Starling
darted her head forward and back, so like the gentleman in question I had to laugh, a little. “The stranger left, with Master Coverdale railing at him all the way down the wharf. I noticed his bearing. He was dressed like a common laborer but walked like a man of quality. Somehow you could see that he despised Master Coverdale.”

“And you think he was one of the two who followed me?”

“I am sure of it. Before, he wore that leather hood that shaded most of his face. But he could not disguise his walk, or attitude. He was there to make certain you were well and truly gone.”

“Perhaps. But this is speculation.”

“Then let us go back to what we know.” With a start, I saw that she had taken over my case. “We know that your aunt was not telling you all.”

“She was not telling me anything. 'Tis certain that image of the medallion meant something to her but I can't go back and ask her.”

“True, but she's never met me.”

“What's your meaning, pray?”

Squirming with suppressed excitement, Starling proposed that she pay a visit to the lady and see what might be seen. My objection to this was swift and firm—but unfounded, as she quickly proved to me by a series of logical arguments that would have done credit to Aristotle. I most truly did not want her taking a hand in my affairs, but the longer she talked, the more sense she made, and I could not deny a desire to know more about Anne Billings.
Starling proposed to present herself as a poor wronged maid who had left her infant child on a church step and now, conscience-stricken, was searching all the foundling hospitals for a dear little boy, six months of age, with thick black hair and a green ribbon tied around his right wrist. She tried this out on me, with such tears and pleadings I had to wonder if she harbored a thwarted ambition for the stage. But I saw how it might put my aunt off-guard, and Star's sharp eyes might discover something. Neither of us had a clear idea of what there was to be discovered, but action seemed better than speculation.

I insisted upon going with her as far as the hospital, to see that she did what she pledged and no more. We wrangled over this for some time, her objections being, first, that I could trust her, and second, that I might be recognized. Then she hit upon a solution: I could go in disguise as—what else?—a young lady, in clothes borrowed from the mistresses Condell. That almost killed the expedition. She said it would be good practice for me, but I knew enough about the theater to recognize that stage deportment is nothing like real life, and it is only in plays by Will Shakespeare and the like that one sex is easily taken for the other. But somehow within an hour I was in the garden shed, corseting myself in one of Alice Condell's day dresses. Since we had no wig, I brushed my hair back under a French hood, which was a little out of fashion even though older ladies still wore them.

By then I most heartily regretted letting Star into my confidence, and could not fathom how she had talked me into this. But
there comes a point in any dubious venture when turning back makes less sense than going forward, so I straightened my back, lowered my eyes, and went forward, in the short, rolling step Robin had taught me.

Of our journey to east Southwark, my long wait outside the foundling hospital, and an unpleasant encounter with two Italian sailors who mistook my character, there is little to tell. When Starling finally emerged, after at least half an hour, her face looked thoughtful.

“Well?” I demanded, almost wild with the effects of an anxious wait.

“Not here. Let us walk a ways.” We walked all the way to Southwark Street and turned north for the Bridge before she spoke a word.

“She's a close-mouthed woman. All I could get out of her was that she's operated the hospital for twenty-one years.”

“Could you have asked too many questions, and made her suspicious?”

“All my questions were reasonable. I don't think she suspected me, or my story; it's just her way with all. And I can guess why.”

“Why?” I asked, so exasperated I forgot to soften my voice, and two passing gentlemen gave me a very startled look.

“She's a Catholic. Perhaps even a nun.”

“You know this?”

“Almost certain. Those beads around her neck—rosary beads. 'Twas hard to tell in such dim light, but I know they are.”

I considered this in silence. It could explain much: why my aunt had never married, why she was called “Holy Nan,” why she and my mother disliked each other so. Her faith meant nothing to me, so long as she practiced it in secret. But suppose my father turned out to be a Catholic, too? That would be a bitter dose to swallow, and I began to wish we had never come. “There's something else,” Starling went on. “She is supposed to be running a home for foundlings, yet there are no children about.”

“Yes, I wondered about that. But can you be sure?”

“Think of the Condell house. Is it ever wholly quiet, except in the dead of night? And around the room I saw no little stools or books or toys or birch rods. I searched every corner of it while sobbing my eyes out.” Directly we came to Cheapside and turned west before she spoke again. “One thing more, Richard.”

I kept silent, knowing she would come to it.

“‘Twas all I could do to keep her as long as I did. I kept asking and begging to see the infants in her care—which she never denied—and going into long teary spells, until finally I tried her patience past its limit. She stood up with her shoulders back and took a deep breath and ordered me from the house. But in that breath I saw it. 'Twas just under her bodice, and her chest rising pushed it out to make a shape upon the gown. I saw it only an instant, but I am sure it was the outline of a medal just over the breastbone.”

I commenced nibbling on my thumbnail until she told me it wasn't ladylike. “What size?” I asked.

“About an inch and a half across, just as you told me.”

“It could have been any sort of medal. Catholics hang all kinds of charms and talismans around themselves.”

“That's true,” she said, smooth as cream, and I could tell she did not believe for a moment that it was “any sort” of medal.

We progressed up Cheapside with little conversation, pondering these things until after another couple of turns we had reached St. Mary's Parish. There I intended to slip down the alley behind Aldermanbury Street and come upon the Condell house by the back gate, then hide myself in the garden shed before anyone spotted me in my outrageous garb.

But we had reckoned without Mistress Condell's custom of taking Sunday-afternoon walks. Halfway down Cattle Street we raised our eyes to behold her, flanked by Alice and Mary and chatting with a neighbor beside one of the hawthorn trees that lined the avenue. I froze in terror at the very moment Mistress Condell glanced my way. The girls were still engaged in their conversation. I might have so forgot myself as to pick up my skirts and make an ungraceful dash in the opposite direction, but Starling seized my elbow.

“Get behind the trees,” she hissed, “and on down the alley. I'll distract them.”

I took a last look at Mistress Condell before following these instructions and knew that one lady, at least, was not about to be distracted. 100

A F
OOTHOLD

fter supper and prayers, Mistress Condell called to me: “Richard, do stay awhile below stairs. I need your help with winding some yarn.” This caused everyone in hearing to turn and stare, and at my side Robin murmured, “Set apart for yarn duty, then? What have you done?” I was soon to learn that when a member of the household required a dressing-down, the Lady Elizabeth was apt to sit him in a corner of the great room, drape his hands with a hank of wool taken off the spinning wheel, and dispense the lecture while winding yarn from the skein onto a bobbin. Thus tied to the mistress, the victim has no choice but to listen.

“I will not ask you to explain what you were about this afternoon, Richard,” she began when we were settled in our corner. “I spoke to Starling, and
she told me it was a personal matter which only you could divulge.” She paused then, while four lengths of yarn wrapped round the bobbin. I might have divulged my whole life story, had I been able, but my throat was so tight I could scarcely have given her the time of day. After a long moment she continued. “But I feel called upon to warn you of a certain danger. 'Tis a temptation peculiar to actors, and as subtle as any devil might devise.” I gazed intently at the bobbin while feeling her eyes on me. “You strike me as a gently reared lad, and you know the Scripture, yes?”

I cleared my throat. “I do, lady.”

“Then you know how your soul and body were knit together in the secret place by God Himself, and all your being is owed to Him?”

“Of course, lady.”

“You say ‘Of course,' as if the thought hardly needed minding, but ofttimes the greatest thoughts are soonest overlooked.” Two more lengths of yarn went onto the bobbin. “Acting is a gift, and has its uses. It can lift a plowman's eyes from the ground and give him a vision of the greater world. It can offer food for thought to a dull brain. At his best, an actor can stir the flagging spirit with noble words, or model courage for the fainthearted, or teach a lesson in virtue. Even at his least, he can beguile an hour or two from the laborer's weary life and make him laugh. This is worthy. But—”

The bobbin halted abruptly, and my gaze jumped to her face, looking grave at the moment, with delicate smile lines chiseled
about the firm mouth. “Here is where you must be careful, and learn this now while you are young. Acting has its place, but that place is in the theater. A player who is good at what he does may be tempted to take the characters he portrays upon the stage out into his own life, that life that God has given him to live as himself. And soon, his friends lose sight of who he is. What is worse, the player may lose himself. Do you follow what I say?”

“Yes, lady,” said I, thinking her words would have had more salt if I were any good at acting.

“This is what you must guard against. When you take off your costume, you must take off the character you played, and put on yourself. Acting is a worthy profession, but a dangerous one for this reason: the better you are at it, the more perilous it may be to your soul.”