The Wanton Angel (16 page)

‘Thank you,’ she said when he finished.

‘That is all I can tell you, my lady.’

‘It is enough for now, Nicholas.’ Her jaw tightened. ‘The only other thing I would like to hear is that his killer has been apprehended.’

‘He will be,’ promised Nicholas.

‘You are a good friend to him.’

‘He was our fellow.’

‘You spoke with such affection of him. Sylvester was a rare man. He knew how to win everyone’s good opinion. He made people love him.’ She suppressed a sigh. ‘What will happen now, Nicholas?’

‘Happen, my lady?’

‘To your playhouse?’

‘We will continue to build it,’ he affirmed. ‘That is what Sylvester would have wanted us to do. Members of the company worked on site this very day and I will take my turn there when time permits. No, my lady,’ he said, ‘as long as our loan is forthcoming, we will press on.’

‘What if it were withdrawn?’

‘We have written promise, my lady.’

‘A promise may be revoked.’

‘True.’

‘Sylvester was your intermediary, was he not?’

‘Yes, my lady.’

‘Without his persuasion, your benefactor would not have parted with a single penny. What reason does that benefactor have to pay the loan now that Sylvester is no longer involved with Westfield’s Men?’

‘But he is, my lady,’ said Nicholas with sudden passion. ‘He is part of our history. We will always revere his memory The Angel theatre will keep that memory alive in the most visible way. He died in its service. It must be built.’

‘You are almost as persuasive as he was.’

‘We need that loan, my lady.’

‘And if it vanishes?’

‘We would have to find the money elsewhere.’

‘That will not be easy,’ she pointed out. ‘People are superstitious. They would take a foul murder on the very site of the playhouse as a bad omen.’

‘We prefer to see it as a sign to carry on.’

‘I admire your courage.’

‘It will be needed in the weeks ahead, my lady.’

She sat back pensively in her chair and subjected him to a careful scrutiny. Nicholas was discomfited. She seemed to know a great deal about him and the company while yielding up little about herself. Sensing his uneasiness, she waved him to an oak bench against the opposite wall.

‘You have been standing too long, Nicholas.’

‘Thank you, my lady,’ he said, sitting down.

‘But I was not quite sure if you would be staying,’ she explained. ‘I had to test you first. I think that you can be trusted. You were honest with me.’

‘I tried to be, my lady.’

‘Sylvester held you in high esteem.’

‘I am flattered.’

‘How well did you know him?’

‘As well as anyone else in the company,’ he said, ‘but that is no large claim to make, my lady. The truth is that none us really knew Sylvester. We saw him as a friend and as a valuable member of the company but we had no notion where he came from or what career he had pursued until he joined Westfield’s Men. He talked little about himself, nor did we press him on the subject. It is not unusual, my lady.’

‘Unusual?’

‘Actors are strange creatures. It is not only vanity which makes them strut upon a stage. Many other motives impel them. Sylvester Pryde was not alone in using the theatre as a kind of refuge, a place where he could hide his true self and be someone else for an afternoon.’

‘And what was that true self, Nicholas?’

‘I am not sure.’

‘Hazard a guess,’ she encouraged. ‘You have been here long enough to make observations and to pass a judgement What have you decided?’ She smiled at his obvious reluctance. ‘Do not be afraid to speak your mind. I will not be offended.’

‘Very well, my lady,’ he said, plunging in. ‘I believe that Sylvester secured that loan from a member of his family. We have long felt that he came of aristocratic stock and noted a prosperity about him which could not be bought with his share of our takings. In short, I think that the money for our playhouse came from someone in this room.’ He turned to indicate the largest portrait. ‘From his father.’

The Countess of Dartford fought hard to contain her mirth. She rose from her seat and walked away from him so that he could not see the smile on her face. When she recovered her poise, she came back to rest a hand on the back of her chair.

‘That is not his father, Nicholas, I do assure you.’

‘Then I am mistaken.’

‘Gravely,’ she said, turning to the portrait. ‘That gentleman has no children nor is he likely to produce any. He is well over sixty years of age and in extremely poor health. You are looking at Charles Bartram, Earl of Dartford,’ she said levelly. ‘He is my husband.’

‘I do apologise, my lady.’

‘Charles would be flattered by the compliment.’

‘I spoke in ignorance.’

‘Only because I urged you on, Nicholas. Let it pass.’ She resumed her seat and became earnest. ‘I will tell you about Sylvester Pryde,’ she volunteered, ‘but I must first extract a promise from you. Whatever I tell you must remain a secret between us. Is that understood?’

‘Yes, my lady.’

‘I will have to trust to your discretion.’

‘You will not find it wanting,’ he asseverated.

‘I know.’ She collected her thoughts before continuing. ‘Sylvester hailed from Lincolnshire. His father, Sir Reginald Pryde, had his estate there and hoped that his only son would take it over after him. It was not to be. Sylvester was too free a spirit to spend the rest of his life in Lincolnshire. He and his father fell out. Sir Reginald settled a sum of money on him but left the estate itself to a nephew.’ She gave a wan smile. ‘You can imagine what Sylvester did with his inheritance.’

‘He enjoyed spending it, my lady.’

‘On others as much as on himself,’ she stressed. ‘He was the most generous person I have ever met and not only with money. Sylvester was a beautiful man. It was a joy to know him. As to what he did before he joined your company, I am not entirely certain myself. He dallied with the law. He even toyed with the notion of becoming a Member of Parliament. And there were doubtless other professions that held his attention for a short time. Only the theatre satisfied him,’ she said. ‘He found his true home with Westfield’s Men.’

‘We felt that, my lady.’

‘Though he was never destined for real glory there.’

‘He was a competent actor,’ said Nicholas loyally. ‘Short of the genius which makes a Lawrence Firethorn but an asset to any company. He worked at his trade.’

‘That was a revelation to him,’ she said. ‘It was the only thing he ever dedicated himself to and it gave him rewards of the heart he had never imagined. That was why he was
so eager to transact a loan for Westfield’s Men. It was partly a repayment for all the pleasure and excitement you gave him.’

‘He gave us pleasure and excitement in return.’

‘Then you will not forget him?’

‘Never!’ vowed Nicholas.

She was content. She rose from her chair in a manner which indicated that the interview was over. Nicholas stood up and moved towards the door with her. In close proximity, he found her perfume even more alluring. She paused at the door.

‘The loan will be paid.’

‘Thank you, my lady.’

‘Tell Master Firethorn that The Angel can be built.’

‘I will.’

‘But that is all you tell him, Nicholas. There is no need for anyone else but you to know that I provided that money. I have many reasons for maintaining my secrecy.’

‘They are no business of ours, my lady,’ he said, glad that their benefactor had finally been identified. ‘Your kindness is appreciated and your wishes will be respected. But there is one thing I would like to ask before I leave.’

‘What is it?’

‘How did you know that Sylvester had been killed?’

‘One of my servants made enquiries of the coroner.’

‘But what made you send him to the coroner?’

The Countess of Dartford looked him full in the face.

‘Instinct,’ she said simply. ‘Sylvester did not come back here last night. Only death could have kept him away.’

This time she could not hold back the tears.

Rose Marwood’s fever broke in the night. A combination of the doctor’s potion, her mother’s nursing and the anguished prayers of her father eventually worked. Sybil sat beside the bed all night to tend her, trying desperately to atone for the pain and disease she believed she had inflicted on Rose by taking her to Clerkenwell. The doctor’s reproaches had shattered her faith in Mary Hogg and she berated herself for her folly in trusting such a dangerous woman. Alexander Marwood had been given the task of destroying the Roman Catholic Prayer Book and he burnt it on the fire, wishing, as he stared into the yellow flames, that he could consign his daughter’s lover to the same fate.

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.’