After a moment he said, “You’re good company for your age, Miss Ward.”
“Not all that younger than you,” I said, wishing he would call me Aerlene, though he never did; I was always Miss Ward and he would always be Scarfe in the days ahead, and after a while I didn’t mind. These were the roles we had cast for ourselves.
We parted that day by Crosby Hall, but before leaving he said he had been making inquiries of stationers and booksellers. “I was told Shakespeare lives over the river in Bankside near the new playhouse. They say he’s a shareholder in Burbage’s company, so he is doing well enough for himself, and you can see it in the cut of his clothes. That cloak of his would cost a barrister’s fee and no mistake. You told me yesterday you wanted to see Finsbury and the playhouses. Well, you’ve seen the former, so now for the latter. I’ll take you over the river next Wednesday afternoon if you can get free. Meet me by St. Magnus at one o’clock. Do you know it?”
“Yes, my uncle and I have walked to St. Magnus Corner.”
The wine was wearing off, and I sensed that Scarfe was again growing sullen.
“I’m grateful to you for the day,” I said.
“I enjoyed it myself,” he muttered as he hurried away down Bishopsgate Street.
“I’ll see you Wednesday, then,” I called after him, but he didn’t look back, only lifted an arm to acknowledge me.
When I returned to Threadneedle Street, it was mid-afternoon and I worried that my absence would be remarked upon with a flood of questions to follow. But it had not been noticed at all because there was drama enough in the family parlour with a quarrel involving mother, father and daughter. Jenny was listening at the door but when she saw me went quickly upstairs. At once I took her place, grateful for this timely distraction. Aunt Eliza’s voice was raised in anger and I heard sobbing from Marion. The argument concerned a suitor who, it seemed, was not a boy in accord with Marion’s age, but a man some eight years older—her dancing master, in fact, a Frenchman named Couric. For Aunt Eliza, the arrangement was unsuitable and must stop. Poor Marion pleaded on behalf of her heart.
“But I love him. Can’t you understand?”
It was pitiful to hear, in a way.
From time to time I heard Boyer’s voice, quieter and more reasonable, though he too was not in favour of his daughter’s alliance with the dancing master. Good businessman that he was, his reason was more practical. Couric, he said, was known around town as a flagrant debtor.
“He owes money in half the shops at the Exchange,” said Boyer, a hint of impatience in his voice. “You are only sixteen, Marion. You cannot align yourself to a man with such debts. I intend to speak to Couric.”
Another burst of weeping from Marion.
I crept upstairs away from it all, wondering how her business with the dancing master had been discovered and whether Marion had already offered herself to him. What a nice predicament if she found herself with child! How would her sanctimonious mother deal with that? But it was an ill-bred thought and I chastened myself for its malice. Lying down, I began to count the hours until one o’clock on Wednesday, hoping that Scarfe would keep his word.
That Wednesday, I was early at St. Magnus Corner and stood watching the people as they crossed the bridge towards Southwark, some going, I guessed, to the playhouses or bear pits, others perhaps leaving London altogether, returning to towns and villages to start again, for a goodly number of them bore sacks or pushed small carts. I thought of Mam standing at that very corner waiting for Mary Pinder. I seemed to be following in her footsteps.
Scarfe was late by two quarter chimes of the St. Magnus bell, but appeared in a new doublet and hose, smelling of drink. I wondered if he had filched more books and resold them.
“And here is Miss Ward, waiting as I knew she would,” he said. “And I am late again. I can only plead that I had business to attend. My apologies.”
“Think nothing of it, Scarfe,” I said. “I’m growing accustomed to your ways.”
He took my arm. “We’ll get away from this press and go by Old Swan stairs and get a wherry. It’s only a few minutes.”
I had been looking forward to crossing the bridge, but Scarfe was resolute and so we walked along Thames Street and followed others down an alley to the stairs. An overcast day, but mild; autumn was still lingering. A queue of sorts at the jetty with people waving for boats—playgoers fearful of being late, I imagined. The boatmen seemed to favour the well-dressed, and though Scarfe was in new clothes there was about him—I had to admit it myself—an unfinished look; despite the clothes he still had an air of the saucy apprentice, and his waving arm was overlooked until others had boarded. Finally a boat edged its way to the dock and we climbed in. Scarfe was clearly angered by the slighting he’d suffered, and as we were rowed across, he looked sulkily upriver muttering about the manners of watermen. I wished he would leave off, since I was enjoying the boatride.
The wherryman was amused by Scarfe’s grumbling and said, “What’s that you say, young master? Have you a complaint to lodge against our trade?”
Scarfe turned to look at the grinning man as he pulled on his oars. “Yes, I have,” he said. “When trade is good, you fellows don’t mind choosing your favourites. It’s a matter of the gratuity, I suppose.”
“It could well be, young master,” said the wherryman.
Looking westward again Scarfe muttered, “It’s not right. People shouldn’t be kept waiting over their dress.”
“What’s that, young master?” said the man. “I didn’t catch the words. I hope you’re not being uncivil to my fellow watermen.”
The man was used to all sorts of trade—that was clear enough—and he knew how to mock if the occasion demanded it. His even-tempered but insolent manner had put Scarfe off balance. After we docked on Bankside, the man was elaborate in his praise of the two pennies Scarfe gave him.
“Thank you, young master. We’ll dine well tonight, me and the missus and all nine whelps.”
Scarfe muttered, “Bastard,” as we joined the crowd headed for the bear pits and playhouses. The word always rankled, but I was too busy looking at everything to care, watching the ladies on the arms of their gallants, apprentices taking the afternoon off, apple and hazelnut sellers—it was all there in front of me.
It was said that my father lived somewhere in this neighbourhood, and I was both surprised and disappointed; if he was now successful, why would he choose a place so crowded and noisome? When I said as much to Scarfe, he only shrugged.
“Close to his work, I suppose, or perhaps he likes the bawds. There’s enough of them about. I need a drop of wine, and no mistake. That wherryman put me out of spirit.”
In a tavern called the Antelope, he ordered wine, but I wanted nothing but a clear head. The wine soon improved Scarfe’s outlook, however, and he said, “The performance will be on now at the new playhouse, so it will be quiet by the door. Let’s see if anyone knows where your Mr. Shakespeare lives.”
He was right. The performance had started at the Globe and we could hear laughter now and then. A handbill on a post announced the play, but since it was not by my father, I took no account of the author or title. A man in mouse-coloured livery stood by the entrance cleaning his nails with a penknife.
“A good day to you, sir,” said Scarfe. The doorman nodded and went back to his nail cleaning. “I wonder,” said Scarfe, “if you would be good enough to tell us where we might find Mr. Shakespeare?”
The man looked at us in an unfriendly manner. “Why would you want to find Mr. Shakespeare?” he asked.
“As it happens,” said Scarfe, “this young lady is his cousin from Warwickshire. Just arrived in the city and staying with her aunt and uncle on Threadneedle Street at the sign of the yellow hat. Very fine premises indeed. She’d like to pass on good wishes to her cousin.”
Scarfe’s lie made me nervous, and the doorman’s close examination of me didn’t help. But perhaps he surmised that I was newly arrived and therefore ill
at ease.
“Haven’t seen him about lately,” he said. “But he has lodgings at the Elephant on Clink Street by Horseshoe Alley. Down that way,” he said, “where you came from.”
“The Elephant, you say,” said Scarfe. “I think I saw its board. Thank you, sir.”
And off we went. “There now,” he said to me, “we’re on our way to finding the man. I wouldn’t mind a word with him myself.”
I couldn’t believe how easily Scarfe had lied. And it worked, though I wasn’t easy with the deception.
“I’ll tell him how much I enjoyed his Hamlet,” said Scarfe. “A very fine piece of work. Poets enjoy such praise.”
At the bar in the nearly empty tavern, he told the same story to the tap man. I was Shakespeare’s young cousin from the country, eager to make his acquaintance. The tap man didn’t even bother to look at me, but spoke directly to Scarfe.
“You missed him by a few days,” he said. “Saturday last, maybe Sunday, he left for lodgings in the city. Somewhere in Cripplegate, I was told. Too bad. A gentleman, Mr. Shakespeare, and a good customer.”
Scarfe was pleased with the results of his inquiries. “I have missed my calling, Miss Ward,” he said as we left the Elephant. “I might have done excellent service as a bailiff. I’ve tracked our man now to Cripplegate and I know that neighbourhood well. Why, Scriveners’ Hall is on Noble Street, and when I was a boy, Pa used to take me to the Christmas revels there. I’ll ask around.”
I was grateful for Scarfe’s help, but he made me nervous with his forward behaviour. I wondered what my father would make of him, and something within told me not much. But then, if it came to that, what would he make of me?
We had a quarrel that afternoon—Scarfe and I—by the Bankside dock. “Why don’t we return along the bridge?” I asked. “You don’t like wherrymen, and walking the bridge will cost nothing.”
“We’ll go by water,” he said.
“But I’d like to go by the bridge and look at the shops. I’m told it’s something to see. Even Uncle Philip says no city in Europe has a bridge to match London’s.”
Scarfe, however, looked grim and determined and repeated only that we would return by water. It put us both into a sulk, but by water we went, arriving again at Old Swan stairs.
When we parted at the corner of Gracechurch and Lombard streets, he told me to come by the bookstalls on Saturday afternoon. He might know more then and we could arrange for a visit to Cripplegate. We each felt ill used by the other as we parted, and it wasn’t until later that it came to me—his telling of how his mother had leaped to her death from London Bridge. That would account for his shifting humours that afternoon, and I was sorry I hadn’t remembered earlier. He had probably vowed never to place a foot on London Bridge, and who could blame him? Even crossing the river in a wherry might have proved an ordeal.
CHAPTER 21
CHARLOTTE UNWELL THESE TWO days past and she took to her bed finally this afternoon with a mild quinsy. This damp weather has provoked coughs and fevers in many, but this evening the doctor came by and told Charlotte that her throat would soon improve and she was not to fret about her wedding, now two weeks off. Emily has been attending her with cold cloths to her brow and a soothing syrup for her throat. Mr. Thwaites looked in too and sat with her for a quarter hour, a calming presence to the poor girl, who can easily get into a state over something as uncomplicated as flowers in the church.
I too have not been well of late and fear the stone may be blocked, for this week past I have been making only a little water each day, and that with some difficulty. It is a true measure of my selfishness that with Charlotte now laid up I worried about finishing my story. Then, quite remarkably, as Mr. Thwaites was leaving, he asked if he might take down my words while Charlotte was recovering.
“She feels you may be worrying about your memoir, Miss Ward,” he said, “so I told her that with your permission I would be only too happy to assist you for an hour or two each afternoon until Charlotte is well again.”
When I asked if he was not occupied with his duties and his forthcoming marriage, he laughed and said that weddings were for women to fuss over. “I merely have to turn up at the church, Miss Ward.”
I knew this was exaggerating; he has many accomplished friends in the university and ecclesiastical communities who are coming to his wedding, and Charlotte told me that he was arranging a dinner for them at the rectory the evening before the wedding day. Still, he is a man who remains unflustered by uncertainties; he will be an excellent husband for Charlotte.
I accepted his offer with thanks, though now it feels odd to imagine him taking down my words. Yet why not? Charlotte has read what’s already there to him, and he has always expressed a keen interest in my father and his work.
CHAPTER 22
THE DAY FOLLOWING MY Bankside visit with Scarfe, Marion came to my room, a surprise because she had virtually ignored my presence in the house until then. But that day she sat upon my bed, where I lay reading, and spoke of her unhappiness. There had been yet another quarrel with her mother, and Marion’s eyes were red from weeping. Of course she didn’t know that I was aware of her situation, so she began to tell me all about Alphonse Couric and what a good man he was, how they had fallen in love and how she didn’t care that he was eight years older. It wasn’t his age that bothered her parents; it was the fact that he was not a merchant’s son. He was not good enough for the family.
Marion told me she had not slept for a week and I could believe it, for her beautiful hair was lank and uncombed, her pale face swollen. I had dismissed her merely as a spoiled and headstrong girl. Yet now I could see that she was capable of genuine distress and therefore pitiable. She loved this Couric, who might well have been worthless; Boyer was probably right about the dancing master with his good looks and charm, his considerable debts. Couric was not the right man for his daughter. But Marion loved him. She said they had talked of going to France, but where? They had no money and her father was intent only on hindering their happiness. She was wretched with grief.
She spoke as I imagined adults might speak of love, yet she was not much more than two years older than I was, and listening to her made me think my feelings for Scarfe were childish. I was taken with his youth and swagger, his careless good looks. Would I weep so at his loss? Could I ever feel so despondent over losing someone? Marion and Couric were like Romeo and Juliet, whereas I was more like Mercutio, who would never love another so ardently that he might risk heartbreak. Marion spoke that afternoon of loving another completely, and listening, I saw how I had misjudged her. To this day I regret my misjudgment, because Marion with her reddish golden hair, her long perfect feet and fingers, her slender neck would be in her grave within a year, as would Aunt Eliza and Jenny, and Prew and Corbet, all perishing in the plague that ravaged London the following summer.
We learned all this a year later from a letter sent by Boyer to my aunt and uncle in Worsley. Reading it then, I recalled how during one of our walks he told me of once being in Antwerp to buy lace goods, and there becoming infected with the pestilence. But the infection was mild and he survived, and somehow that saved him during later outbreaks, including the dire plague of 1603. I expect that he married again, but after that letter we never heard from him. He lived to the great age of eighty years, as I discovered in a letter from a London solicitor in 1633 informing me that I had been left five pounds in Philip Boyer’s will. The bequest helped me to purchase the Folio that summer.
Yet all that lay in the future. As much as I listened with sympathy to Marion’s plight that day, my mind was ever drifting to Scarfe and whether he could lead me to my father. The Saturday following, I went to St. Paul’s yard, but Scarfe was not to be seen and I did not want to ask the red-headed boy, who clearly didn’t like me. I kept well out of his sight and loitered about the stalls most of the afternoon, but Scarfe never appeared. Nor did I see him again over the next fortnight, though I went each day, once summoning the nerve to ap
proach Parrot and his surly manner.
When I asked of Scarfe’s whereabouts, he said only, “Robin doesn’t work here now.”
“And does he work elsewhere, then?” I asked.
He smirked. “Here, there, everywhere, that’s our Robin.” At the time, I guessed he had been caught stealing and was dismissed, and perhaps was even in prison. So it was a great surprise one December afternoon, a day of fog with drizzle and the smell of coal smoke in the air, when Jenny came to my room and said there was a boy to see me. My aunt had turned him away from the shop entrance and told him to use the alleyway door. When I went below stairs, there was Scarfe standing inside by the door shaking the rain from his cap and grinning. I could see Prew and Corbet sneaking glances at him while they worked at their benches. Corbet seemed especially irritated by Scarfe’s presence, and Jenny stood apart, frowning with her arms crossed. Scarfe had been drinking. I could smell it on him. He swept the cap before him as he bowed.
“Your humble servant, Miss Ward.”
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at his unkempt look, his lopsided grin.
“Are you free?” he whispered loudly so all could hear. “Can I take you away awhile from all these bonnets and feathers?”
Grasping his arm, I quietly said, “They can hear you, Scarfe. And you’re drunk.”
“And why should I care if they listen?” he said. “Those two at their benches are rogues and want hanging from the look of them.”
Corbet’s face was reddening. “You hold your tongue, boy, or you’ll find trouble.”
“What’s that?” asked Scarfe, settling the cap on his head. “Trouble? I’ll give you trouble, bonnet maker, if you step out into the alleyway with me. I’ll thrash you to within an inch of your life. Yes, and you can bring the runt with you.”
Little Prew kept his eyes on the box of feathers before him.
I took Scarfe by the arm again. “What are you about? You’ll have my aunt back here before long. You shouldn’t have come here during work hours.”
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