The Wanton Angel (7 page)

‘I cannot guarantee that.’

‘You think he will disown the girl?’

‘Let us find the man first,’ said Nicholas cautiously. ‘I am distressed at our failure to do so. It can only mean that we have someone among us who adds lies to lechery.’

‘There is one sure way to expose him, Nick.’

‘Is there?’

‘Yes,’ said Firethorn cheerily. ‘Wait until the child is born. If it speaks in Welsh, then Owen Elias is our man. If it has aristocratic poise, Sylvester Pryde is unmasked. And if it has a face like a full moon and sighs like a furnace, then it is Edmund Hoode who has been a-leaping.’

‘I think you will find it is none of them.’

‘Whoever he is, he cannot hide for ever. I rely on you, Nick.’ He punched Nicholas playfully on the arm. ‘You will root him out in the end.’

‘Someone may do that office for me.’

‘Who is that?’

‘Our landlord’s wife,’ said Nicholas. ‘She will hound her daughter until she gets the name out of her. Rose Marwood is in desperate straits. Prisoners at the Tower endure a milder interrogation than the one the girl must weather.’

‘God’s lid!’ exclaimed Firethorn putting both hands to his face and shivering with horror. ‘I have just had a gruesome thought.’

‘What is it?’

‘Suppose that the child bears a resemblance to either of the girl’s parents? Suppose it has the same unsightly features as Marwood and his wife? It was better to drown the monster at birth in the Thames. No child should be forced to go through life with such a cruel handicap. Have you ever seen two such hideous human beings in one marriage?’

‘They are not well-favoured,’ said Nicholas tactfully.

‘Yet they are very well-matched. Duplicate ghouls.’ He gave a shudder. ‘You are right, Nick. Rose’s predicament is dire. How can she hold out against them? Her parents only have to leer at the girl and they will fright the name of her lover out of her.’

Sybil Marwood hovered over her daughter like a giant eagle, pecking away at her with painful questions and constant reproach.

‘For the last time, Rose,’ she said, ‘who is he?’

‘I cannot tell you, mother.’

‘Stop protecting the knave!’

‘I gave him my word,’ bleated the girl piteously. ‘I have to honour my promise.’

‘Honour!’ shouted Sybil. ‘You dare to talk of honour! Have you so soon forgot your Ten Commandments? Honour thy father and mother. The Bible enjoins us so. Yet you have dishonoured us in the most dreadful way. And now you make our suffering all the worse by lying to us.’

‘I have not lied, mother.’

‘Then what else have you done?’

‘Told you the truth.’

‘Half of it,’ said her mother angrily, ‘and the worse half at that. The half we do not know concerns the father. Now cease this prevarication and surrender his name.’

‘It is a secret that must remain locked away.’

‘Rose!’

‘I am sorry, mother.’

‘Stop torturing me like this.’

‘It is you who is torturing me.’

‘I have been sainted,’ blustered the other.

‘You and father have done nothing but revile and condemn me,’ whined the girl. ‘This was not intended to happen. It was a terrible accident. I am frightened to death by it. I hoped for some comfort from my mother, at least, but you have been a greater scourge than father. I can take no more of it. Leave me be.
Please
. Leave me be!’

Rose Marwood flung herself on the bed in a flood of tears. She was utterly distraught. They were in her bedchamber, an attic room with only meagre light permitted through the small window. Rose was still in her night attire, forbidden
even to stir outside the door, lest her shame be seen and voiced abroad and lest her example somehow corrupted the maidservants. A girl who had been a dutiful and obedient daughter until now had brought scandal and disgrace to the Queen’s Head.

The initial shock had sent her mother into a frenzy of recrimination but that shock was slowly wearing off. As she saw the pathetic figure before her, sobbing convulsively, on the edge of despair, even Sybil’s flinty heart began to crack a little. Maternal instinct, which had hitherto produced nothing more than a long list of rules to govern her daughter’s conduct and safeguard her chastity, now prompted a softer and more caring approach. Sitting on the edge of the mattress, Sybil put a clumsy arm around Rose’s shoulder.

‘There, there!’ she soothed. ‘Do not cry so.’

‘I am terrified, mother.’

‘We are here to help you.’

‘But you have treated me so harshly.’

‘That was wrong of us,’ admitted Sybil, stifling the urge to remind Rose of the gravity of her offence. ‘These are grim tidings, to be sure, but you are still our daughter and you should be able to turn to us for some kindness.’

Rose lifted her head to look up with tentative gratitude, only half-believing what she had just heard. Her mother so rarely touched her that she felt like a stranger. Sybil took one more step towards true maternalism by enfolding her in a warm embrace and rocking her gently. Because it was such a novel situation for both of them, neither knew quite
what to say but some of the damage in their relationship was gradually repaired during the long silence.

When she sensed it, Sybil tried to take advantage of it.

‘You were such a beautiful baby,’ she recalled fondly.

‘Was I?’

‘Yes, Rose. You were adorable. Your father and I did our best for you and brought you up to lead a Christian life. You were a credit to us.’ She heaved a sigh. ‘Until now.’

‘I’m sorry, mother. I’m so sorry. I would not hurt you or father for the world.’

‘I know, I know.’

‘It has been an ordeal,’ she continued. ‘A horrid nightmare that has kept me awake night after night. I had no idea what was happening to me. I thought I was sick or even dying. I feared that it was a punishment for my sins. It was only when I went to see the physician that he told me the truth. Do you know what I did, mother?’

‘What?’

‘Fell to the ground in a faint. He had to recover me.’

‘Poor child!’

‘I felt so
alone
. So completely alone.’

‘Not any more.’ Sybil held her more tightly and felt some of her daughter’s resistance fading. It was time to exploit the unusual moment of closeness. ‘We are here for you, Rose. Your father and I will always be here. You were so right to tell us when you did.’ She stroked Rose’s hair. ‘Does he know about the child yet?’

‘He?’

‘The father.’

‘No.’

‘Why not? He has responsibilities.’

‘He is not able to discharge them, mother.’

‘Nevertheless, he has a right to know.’

‘That is true,’ murmured Rose.

‘Is he so heartless that he would cast you off?’

‘No, no, he is the kindest man in the universe.’

‘Then why is he not here to help you through your time of trial?’ asked Sybil. ‘I see no hint of kindness in him.’

‘That is because you do not know him.’

‘Tell me his name and I will.’

‘No.’

‘I am your mother, Rose. Would you deny me this?’

‘I must.’

Sybil squeezed her even tighter. ‘You have never hidden anything from me before. Do not betray me now, child.’ She deposited a token kiss on Rose’s head. ‘I love you.’

The declaration fell so awkwardly and unconvincingly from her lips that it put Rose immediately on the defensive. She gritted her teeth and shrunk back slightly from the embrace. Abandoning the gentler strategy, Sybil reverted to a direct assault, taking her by the shoulders to shake her hard.

‘I’ll beat the name out of you!’ she threatened.

‘You’re hurting me!’

‘This is only the start, you ungrateful girl!’

‘I will never tell you who he is.’

‘Why?’ challenged her mother, releasing her. ‘Are you so afraid to admit his name. Are you so ashamed of him that you pretend to forget all about him?’

A curious serenity seemed to fall on Rose. She smiled.

‘I will never forget him,’ she vowed dreamily, ‘and I am certainly not ashamed of him. This baby was unlooked for, mother, I swear it, but I will tell you this. It was conceived in love with a man I worship. I will be proud to bear his child.’

‘Not if I have anything to do with it!’

Rose was checked. ‘What do you mean?’

‘This child has no business making its way into the world. I was not able to prevent it from being conceived,’ she said with asperity, ‘but there may be a way to stop it from being born!’

The performance of
Mirth and Madness
that afternoon bordered on disaster. While not sinking to the depths they plumbed during the rehearsal, Westfield’s Men waged a losing battle against fatigue, indifference and lack of concentration. A hilarious comedy produced scant hilarity. What mirth there was arose largely from the errors with which the performance was littered. Nobody entirely avoided them. Actors collided, cues were missed, lines were forgotten, weapons were mislaid, tankards were dropped and the wrong music was played at the wrong time on three glaringly obvious occasions. Even Barnaby Gill disappointed, stubbing his toe during one of his celebrated comic jigs and hopping off the stage on one foot to blame everyone in sight for his mishap.

Madness, too, was in short supply. The audience saw almost none that was called for in the play. It was reserved for the tiring-house where Lawrence Firethorn, guilty at
his own merely adequate performance and frothing at his company’s untypical incompetence, ran mad and scolded his colleagues in the most florid language. Nicholas Bracewell did his best to restore an element of calm but his was a lone voice.
Mirth and Madness
was a doomed ship which sailed on to certain calamity with its crew clinging to its bulwarks with an air of resignation.

It was left to George Dart to provoke the most mirth. The smallest and least talented member of the company, he was its natural scapegoat. He was a willing assistant stagekeeper who could work well behind the scenes under supervision but, as soon as he stepped out onto a stage, Dart was always prone to misadventure. His duties in Act Four were relatively simple. Dressed as a forester, he had to carry on the five miniature trees which Nathan Curtis, the carpenter, had made and painted to indicate a woodland setting. The trees were crude but vital properties since they allowed characters to hide behind them and eavesdrop in what was felt to be the funniest scene in the play. George Dart rewrote it in his own unique way.

When he placed the last tree in position, his coat became entwined in its branches and he sought to disentangle it, only managing to get himself more caught up than ever. In an effort to get free, he pulled so hard that he sent the tree hurtling into its neighbour which, in turn, buffeted its own neighbour and so on. All five trees went crashing to the ground like a set of skittles, exposing the young lovers who had been hiding behind them to instant ridicule. In a blind panic, Dart tried to flee but his coat was still snared
and it was torn noisily in two by the urgent movement. In the space of a few seconds, he had felled the entire wood, deprived the lovers of their hiding place, ruined his coat and utterly destroyed the scene. When Dart came charging in terror into the tiring-house, Firethorn had to be held back from trying to strangle him.

Yet, oddly, it had a beneficial effect. The woodland scene was their nadir and sheer embarrassment made the company wish to atone for it. Though the last act was still strewn with mistakes, it was a vast improvement on what went before it and partially helped to redeem Westfield’s Men. Firethorn led the revival and George Dart was banned from setting any further foot on the stage. Tepid applause greeted them when they came out to take their undeserved bow. Their poor performance severely disappointed their devotees and won them no new admirers. It was an afternoon of sustained blunders.

A grim silence fell on the tiring-house. Players were usually exhilarated by a performance, tumbling off the stage in a mood of excitement which carried them all the way to the taproom. Regret and remorse now prevailed. They were all to blame and they knew it. Lawrence Firethorn, the first to upbraid them for any falling off from their high standards, was too depressed to even address the company. When most of them had changed out of their costumes and drifted away, he confided in Nicholas Bracewell.

‘That was atrocious, Nick!’

‘I have seen better performances of the play.’

‘A worse one is hardly conceivable. We left the piece
in absolute tatters. Everyone – and I include myself – was quite disgraceful. Why? What came over us?’

‘We do not feel secure,’ said Nicholas. ‘Yesterday, on the verge of signing a new contract, the company was at its best. Today, with the threat of eviction hanging over us, our fellows lost heart and walked through a play that demanded a fast pace and concerted action.’

‘Yes!’ moaned Firethorn. ‘The only concerted action the audience saw was when that pea-brained George Dart knocked down five trees simultaneously. Had a rope been to hand, I’d have hanged the idiot from the upper gallery.’

‘Do not single George out. All were at fault.’

‘Too true, Nick.’

‘We must put this afternoon behind us.’

‘If we can,’ said Firethorn. ‘I begin to wonder if the landlord has put a curse on us. Nothing went right.’

‘Lack of spirit was to blame. It is a trusty old play but their hearts were not in it. Tomorrow, it will be different.’

‘Will it?’

‘Westfield’s Men will be on their mettle.’

‘I hope so, Nick,’ said the other gloomily. ‘Or we are done for. Marwood will not need to drive us out. We will lose our audience and be deprived of an occupation.’

‘There is no chance of that,’ said Nicholas confidently. ‘We have suffered far more serious reverses than this and always come through them. Today was a minor blemish on our reputation. It will soon be erased and Westfield’s Men will resume its position as the leading troupe of the day.’

Firethorn was reassured. ‘Yes,’ he said, gritting his teeth
and thrusting out his jaw. ‘We will fight back hard and win through to glory once more. What is one bad performance in a long catalogue of triumph? We are invincible. That is what we must always remember. Nothing can halt the majestic progress of Westfield’s Men.’

At that moment, a stranger came into the tiring-house. They recognised his distinctive livery at once. The servant came over to them and gave a slight bow.

‘Master Lawrence Firethorn?’ he enquired politely.

‘I am he,’ confirmed Firethorn.

‘I was asked to deliver this to you, sir.’

Firethorn took the letter from him and quailed inwardly.

While one theatre company suffered, another was at the height of its powers. Banbury’s Men were the resident company at The Curtain. It was one of the two playhouses built in Shoreditch outside City jurisdiction and therefore free from the petty legislation which hampered work at the inn yard theatres such as the Queen’s Head. The Curtain also provided its actors with a far more imposing stage than the makeshift arrangement on barrels which was used by Westfield’s Men and enabled them to use a whole range of technical effects denied their inn yard competitors. Giles Randolph was the acknowledged star of Banbury’s Men, a tall, slim and slightly sinister individual who shone in roles which allowed him to hatch evil plots and to ooze villainy.
The Spanish Contract
was tailored perfectly to his skills and he led his company superbly that afternoon, earning such a thunderous ovation that it was five minutes
before he was allowed to quit the stage at the end of the performance. Randolph bowed long and low, tossing out smiles of gratitude and drinking in the applause.

He was particularly pleased to notice his patron in attendance, giving only a token clap from his position in the upper gallery but evidently delighted with the reception accorded his company. The Earl of Banbury was not a regular playgoer, preferring to lend the company his noble name instead of gracing it with his presence, but
The Spanish Contract
had enticed him to The Curtain and he could not have chosen a more auspicious time to come. Giles Randolph made sure that the lowest and most obsequious bow was directed at their patron. The Earl’s vanity had to be propitiated.

Having congratulated his actors and reminded them of the time of rehearsal on the morrow, Randolph dismissed them and shed the regal attire of a Spanish king for his own apparel. He was soon climbing the stairs to a private room at the rear of the upper gallery. The Earl of Banbury was alone with a couple of court beauties whom he had brought along as his guests, flirting outrageously with them and ignoring the huge gap which existed between his age and theirs. When Randolph joined them, their giggles turned to sighs of awe as they were introduced to the actor and whimpers of delight followed as he kissed their hands in greeting.

The niceties were soon concluded. A servant was summoned to conduct the ladies to the earl’s waiting carriage while he himself stayed behind to speak with Randolph.

‘You were superlative, Giles,’ said the Earl.

‘Thank you, my lord.’

‘My guests were overwhelmed by your performance.’

‘That is very gratifying.’

‘You carried the whole play on your shoulders.’

‘The role was expressly written for me.’

‘That was clear,’ said the Earl. ‘Praise was unstinting. Some dolts choose to argue about who is the finest actor in London – Lawrence Firethorn or Rupert Kitely. Had they been at The Curtain, they would have seen that neither of those actors can hold a candle to you. Giles Randolph is incomparable.’

‘You are too kind, my lord.’

‘Where is the kindness in honesty? I speak but truth.’

‘I endeavour to live up to your high expectations.’

‘You do, Giles.’ The Earl gave a cackle of pleasure and beckoned him closer with a crook of his finger. ‘But I have brought some interesting tidings for you.’

‘I long to hear them.’

‘Mere rumours at this stage but ones with substance.’

‘Tell me more, my lord.’

‘First answer this. Who are our most dangerous rivals?’

‘Westfield’s Men, no question of that.’

‘Not Havelock’s Men?’

‘No, my lord,’ said Randolph firmly. ‘They have a fine actor in Rupert Kitely and a tolerable stock of plays but they offer no serious threat to us. Lawrence Firethorn does. His company has strength in abundance and far too many playwrights first take their new work to Westfield’s Men.’ A supercilious note crept in. ‘Firethorn has a meagre talent which is, alas, mistaken for something of grander
proportion but he lacks true character, he is wanting in those qualities which make for greatness.’

‘In short, he is no Giles Randolph.’

‘By his own account, he is far superior.’

‘Lord Westfield never stops boasting about him,’ said the other with a sigh. ‘He worships Lawrence Firethorn.’

‘Then he worships a false god.’

The Earl of Banbury enjoyed the tart comment so much that he gave a brittle laugh and treasured the remark for use against Lord Westfield himself. He plucked at his goatee beard and peered at Randolph through narrowed lids.

‘Do you hate them enough, Giles?’ he wondered.

‘Hate them?’

‘Westfield’s Men.’

‘I utterly despise them, my lord.’

‘What of Lawrence Firethorn?’

‘A contemptible man, not fit to lead a company.’

‘Then you would like to see him humbled, I think?’

‘Humbled and humiliated.’

‘Both may be possible,’ said the other with a snigger. ‘But much depends on you, Giles. It is time to harness your hatred and strike at Westfield’s Men. You have many old scores to settle with them, I know, and many slights to avenge. Now then, sir,’ he hissed. ‘How far would you go?’

‘All the way, my lord.’

‘No holding back?’

‘Not an inch.’

‘And the company would support you?’

‘To a man.’

‘Then hear the news that I bear,’ said the Earl, clapping his palms gleefully together. ‘If my informers are to be believed – and they have never failed me before – fortune has smiled on us at last. It is time to take decisive action but it must be carefully considered beforehand. Once embarked upon, there is no turning back. You understand me?’

‘Very well, my lord.’

‘Good. I knew that I could rely on your loyalty, Giles.’ He licked his lips. ‘Serve me faithfully and Westfield’s Men may not only be humbled and humiliated. They will be destroyed!’

Lord Westfield drank the first glass of wine in a single desperate gulp and filled his cup again from the jug. He was in a private room at the Queen’s Head, so often a place for a discreet assignation before a performance or for joyous celebration after it, but now a cold and cheerless chamber which served to intensify his dejection. He sat at the little table and buried his head in both hands. Lord Westfield was not mourning the untimely demise of
Mirth and Madness
in front of its audience that afternoon. The performance had scarcely impinged upon his consciousness. Deeper matters agitated him.

He was on his third glass of wine when there was a tap on the door. The servant entered, bowed, then stood aside to admit Lawrence Firethorn and Nicholas Bracewell before bowing once more and withdrawing from the room. The newcomers inclined their heads politely and got a nod of acknowledgement in return. Their patron did not rise from his chair.

‘Your letter summoned me, my lord,’ said Firethorn.

‘It did.’

‘I took the liberty of inviting Nicholas Bracewell along. If this concerns the company, there is nobody more well-versed in its inner workings.’

‘Then he is welcome,’ said their patron. ‘I know what a valuable member of Westfield’s Men he has become.’ He waved a hand. ‘Pray take a seat, gentlemen. This news is too heavy to bear standing up.’

Nicholas and Firethorn lowered themselves onto the bench on the opposite side of the room. Fearing criticism, the actor-manager elected to defend himself before the attack came.

‘A thousand apologies, my lord,’ he said effusively. ‘I know that the company fell far short of their best this afternoon but there are reasons for it. The problem will be addressed and solved, I give you my word. At our performance tomorrow, we will be worthy of your name once again.’

Lord Westfield was baffled. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘
Mirth and Madness
.’

‘I have never heard of it.’

‘Did you not watch it being played today?’

‘I watched something but my mind was far away.’