‘He will throw himself at your feet, my love,’ he said.
‘I will expect no less.’
‘This is our greatest triumph, Ellen.’
‘Then let it begin.’
They sallied forth and made the short journey to the Jolly Sailor. An assignation had already been set up that afternoon. During the performance of Love and Fortune, she had established such a rapport with Lawrence Firethorn from her carefully chosen seat that it needed only a note to fix the time and place. Though they possessed no coach, her coachman nevertheless conducted her into a private room at the Jolly Sailor then bowed his way out. Firethorn was enraptured. For several seconds, he could do nothing more than gaze in wonderment at her and inhale the bewitching fragrance. He wore doublet and breeches of black velvet. Both were embroidered and slashed to show a blood-red satin lining. He removed his hat and gave a low bow then held her hand to bestow the softest kiss on it.
Ellen felt an exhilaration that fuelled her daring.
‘You were majestic this afternoon,’ she complimented.
‘I dedicated my performance to you.’
‘It earned my deepest appreciation.’
‘My sole aim was to please such a beautiful woman.’ He beamed at her. ‘Lawrence Firethorn is at your service. May I know the name of the angel who has deigned to visit me?’
‘Penelope, sir.’
‘Penelope,’ he said, caressing the name with his voice. ‘Penelope, Penelope, Penelope! It is engraved on my heart hereafter. Sweet Penelope of the Jolly Sailor.’
‘This is no fit place for me, sir,’ she said with crisp disapproval. ‘I agreed to meet but not to sup with you. Westfield’s Men are below in the taproom. I would not stay alone with you up here while they joke and snigger. I demand privacy, Master Firethorn. I require discretion.’ She gave him a slow smile. ‘I am married.’
‘Put your trust in me.’
‘Consider my reputation, sir.’
‘I will.’
She crossed to him and issued her orders in a whisper that stroked his ear with such delicacy that it brought a beatific smile to his face. Ellen savoured each moment.
‘Come to the Black Swan in Wine Street an hour from now,’ she instructed. ‘My husband will not return until late. Use the rear entrance of the inn so that you will not be seen. Wait for my coachman. He will bring you to me.’
‘Life can afford no higher state of joy.’
‘An hour, Master Firethorn.’
‘Lawrence,’ he corrected.
‘Lawrence,’ she repeated dreamily. Then she permitted a light kiss on the cheek and withdrew. ‘Farewell, kind sir.’
‘The Black Swan.’
‘I will be there.’
She opened the door and flitted away like a ghost.
Nicholas Bracewell was shattered by her rejection of him and he could find no explanation of this behaviour that would soothe his hurt feelings. Mary Whetcombe was in serious trouble of some kind and she had sent a message to Nicholas as a last resort. He had responded. Throughout a long and hazardous journey, he was sustained by the idea that she desperately needed him and he put his life at risk to get to Barnstaple. He had assumed from the start that Susan Deakin, as he now knew her to be, was a servant in Mary’s household, and the short voyage from Bristol had both reinforced this assumption and given him a valuable insight into her domestic circumstances. If Mary gave a cry for help, why did she refuse to see the man who answered it at such great personal cost? Since she sent Susan Deakin to London, why was she so uninterested in the girl’s fate?
The visit to Crock Street had produced one result. Lucy Whetcombe seemed to know him. During a momentary encounter at the house, he felt a bond being forged without quite daring to believe what it might be. Was Lucy part of the reason that her mother refused to admit him? Whose were the other faces at the window? What had the girl been holding when she waved to him? Why did her hair and complexion remind him of someone else? Who was she?
There was a possible way to unravel that mystery. Nicholas left his room at the Dolphin Inn and came out into Joy Street. Turning down the first lane, he went through to the open land on which St Peter’s Church stood. It had altered since he had last seen it but it still had the same power to wound him. He let himself into the churchyard and went first to his mother’s grave, running an affectionate finger over the name that was carved in the moss-covered stone. There was no doubt about the date and cause of his mother’s death. His hatred of his father momentarily stirred, but he put the death from his mind. It was a marriage and a birth that had brought him there.
Nicholas went into the church and other memories flew around him like carrion crows. They pecked so greedily at his mind that he lifted an arm to brush them away. A young curate came over with pop-eyed curiosity and welcomed him. Nicholas asked a favour and the curate was happy to oblige. The visitor was soon poring over a ledger that was kept at the rear of the building. The leather-bound volume had its counterpart in every church in England. Henry VIII, father of the present Queen, had decreed that all births, marriages and deaths in a parish had to be scrupulously recorded. Nicholas flicked over the pages with gathering emotion.
He found the date of the wedding first. Mary Parr had married Matthew Whetcombe on a Saturday in June. Nicholas was shocked that it seemed so soon after his flight from the town. He could not blame Mary for marrying someone else when he was gone, but she might have waited a decent interval and she could certainly have chosen someone more worthy of her than Matthew Whetcombe. The merchant was an industrious man with a flair for trade but he was otherwise a highly unattractive character. Mary had sworn she would never wed a man like that, and it bruised Nicholas to see how easily and how soon that vow had been broken.
Nicholas turned to the front of the parish register and read the sonorous words that chimed out like a great bell.
Here followeth all the names of such as have been christened within the parish of Bar’ from the xth day of October in the year of our Lord God a thousand five hundred xxxviii until the Annunciation of our lady next following according to the king’s graces injunction and his viceregent the lord Thomas Cromwell lord privy seal and Knight of the Garter.
The commandment was dated 1538. Nicholas spared a fleeting thought for Thomas Cromwell whose name enforced the edict. Two years later, he had fallen from favour and was executed with barbarous inefficiency. Somewhere in England was a parish register in which his own death was recorded. But it was the start of a life that fascinated Nicholas Bracewell now and he turned the pages with a trembling hand until he found the correct one. His finger went down the list until he saw her name. Lucy Whetcombe. The girl had been christened barely ten months after the wedding. Matthew Whetcombe was named as the father but her date of birth suggested a startling possibility. Nicholas thought of Lucy’s hair and complexion. He thought of those eyes. He recalled the stab of recognition he felt when he first caught sight of her. He remembered something that Mary had been trying to tell him on their last night together. It had all happened so long ago that he could not be certain of dates and times, but an idea now began to gnaw at him. The girl might have just cause to respond to him. Though he was flying in the face of recorded fact, he asked himself if there was a special bond between them.
Could Lucy Whetcombe actually be his daughter?
Gideon Livermore’s anger was all violence and bluster but Barnard Sweete did not submit to it this time. He replied with an acid sarcasm that stung the merchant hard.
‘Nicholas Bracewell is dead,’ mocked the lawyer. ‘And even if he lives, there is no way that he will get within ten miles of the town.’
‘He will never leave it alive, I know that!’
‘Where are your men, Gideon? Still waiting under some tree to jump out on him? Still chasing every shadow?’
‘Leave off, Barnard.’
‘You stop him by road so he comes by sea.’
‘Leave off, I say!’
‘La
mparde will kill him. What happened to Lamparde?’
‘He failed.’
‘There is nothing else but failure here, Gideon!’
They were in the lawyer’s chambers and he was not mincing his words. Barnard Sweete had been rocked when the name of Nicholas Bracewell had been brought into the hall. At the very time he was securing Mary Whetcombe’s approval of the will, the one man who might repudiate it had come knocking on the door. Partnership with Gideon Livermore was highly productive but it rested on a division of labour. Sweete handled the legal side of things and he left the more disagreeable work to the merchant. The latter had clearly not fulfilled his side of the bargain.
Gideon Livermore tried to reassert his authority.
‘My men will take care of him at the Dolphin.’
‘Are you insane?’ said the other. ‘Nicholas Bracewell is no stray poacher you catch on your land and whom you kill to save the law the trouble of prosecuting him. This man is known in the town. He has a family here. He has been seen on the quay, at the house, at the church and at the inn. This is not work for another of your Lampardes. We’d have the whole of Barnstaple about our ears. Call off your dogs. It must be handled another way.’
‘Teach me how.’
‘I’ll speak with him.’
‘We buy him off?’
‘No, Gideon,’ said Sweete with exasperation. ‘Money will not tempt this man. We first find out how much Bracewell knows. Then I will reason with him.’
‘What if he speaks with Mary?’
‘She turned him away and will do so again.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘I saw her quail when his name was announced.’
‘Yet the woman sent for him to come.’
‘No,’ said the lawyer. ‘We were wrong about that. Susan Deakin was not sent. She went to London of her own accord.’
‘But why?’
‘That is what Bracewell has come to find out.’
‘Stop him, man. Tie him up in legal knots.’
‘I’ll do that well enough. But we have another problem which vexes us here. We must keep him away from his father.’
‘That is no great matter. He hates Robert Bracewell.’
‘We must feed that hate.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it is to our advantage.’
‘Bringing them together might serve us even better,’ said Livermore. ‘Robert is a testy fellow when roused. If father and son come to blows, it will send Nicholas on his way the sooner and all our cares are gone.’
‘You forget something, Gideon.’
‘What?’
‘Matthew Whetcombe’s will.’
‘Forget it!’ Livermore chuckled. ‘Why, man, I damn near invented the thing. You and the others were witnesses. We heard a nuncupative will from a man too ill to speak. You wrote down the terms as I dictated them.’
‘I talk of his earlier will.’
‘You said you destroyed it.’
‘Matthew kept a copy.’
The merchant bristled. ‘Where is it?’
‘Nobody knows,’ said Sweete. ‘But if it is found, it could yet bring us down.’
Gideon Livermore now had an excuse to rail once more at Barnard Sweete. It was the latter’s job to take care of the legalities and to leave no loopholes. A copy of the earlier will could cause as much damage as the unwanted visitor from London. Both needed to be instantly nullified. Purple with rage, Livermore banged the desk and cursed royally. It was only when his temper finally abated that he thought of a question he had forgotten to ask.
‘How is the father involved here?’ he said. ‘What does he have to do with a will made by Matthew Whetcombe?’
‘Robert Bracewell was one of the witnesses.’
Lawrence Firethorn was always punctual for an assignation. He arrived at the rear door of the Black Swan at the time set and found the coachman waiting for him. Firethorn still wore the suit of black velvet that he had on earlier, but he had now added a grey velvet cloak fringed with gold braid. Wrapped around him, it gave him a conspiratorial air that helped to heighten his anticipation. Forbidden joys were the sweetest. The betrayal of a husband spiced the occasion. He and Penelope were confederates in sin.
He followed the coachman up the winding backstairs and along a passageway. The man knocked, received a command then opened the door. He held it ajar so that Firethorn could enter then he closed it after the visitor and departed. Penelope was waiting for him. She sat in a high-backed chair beside a table that was laden with wine and fruit. He could see why she had preferred to entertain him there rather than in the more mundane surroundings of the Jolly Sailor. The chamber was large and luxurious with rich hangings on the walls and at the windows. It was divided by a curtain, which she had drawn back at the edge to reveal the four-poster that waited for them. Feather-bedded delight was at hand. They would drink and sup and fall into each other’s arms.
‘Take off your cloak, sir,’ she purred.
‘I will so.’
He removed it with a flourish, tossed it onto a chair then gave her the sort of bow he used at the end of a performance on stage. Her hand came forward and he kissed it with gentle ardour. The gloves that she had earlier worn had now been discarded. She felt the firmness of his lips and the heat of his breath. She liked the tickle of his beard against her skin.
Ellen was now quivering inwardly with excitement and struggling not to lose control. Fear of discovery had made her precautions thorough. She had placed the candles with judicious precision to throw light away from her. When Firethorn sat opposite her at the table, he could see her through a golden glow that set off her auburn hair while subduing the contours of her face. What she could see was a man in a thousand, an actor whose commanding presence onstage could have an even greater effect in private, a handsome gallant who smiled at her through the gloom. Ellen was safe from discovery but not from herself.
‘Will you take wine, sir?’ she offered.
‘Thank you,’ he whispered, picking up the bottle to fill the two goblets. ‘To you, my jewel!’
‘To us!’
‘Amen!’
They clinked their goblets and sipped at the wine. He peered through the gap in the curtains and let out a soft laugh that was as eloquent as his finest soliloquy. Lawrence Firethorn was no slow and ponderous wooer. A glass of wine was all that he needed to smooth his path to the headier intoxication of the bed. Ellen was in a quandary. Schooled simply to divert the actor, she was being pulled towards him. The envy she had felt while watching Richard Honeydew now surfaced again and her daring eased her on to play the kind of love scene that no boy could even imagine. She would never have such an opportunity again. Twenty minutes in the arms of Lawrence Firethorn was a whole career on the stage.
‘Wait for me, sir,’ she said, rising to her feet.
He was distressed. ‘You are leaving me?’
‘Only for a few seconds. Be patient.’
Firethorn understood and raised his goblet to her in acknowledgement. She was going to undress behind the curtain and prepare herself for him. His beauteous Penelope blew him a kiss then withdrew into the other part of the room, tugging the curtain after her to close off the gap. He could hear her picking at the fastenings of her attire.
Ellen was removing her lawn ruff when apprehension came to smother her lust. She was taking too great a risk. If she took him to bed, she surrendered the initiative and removed her disguise. A fiery lover might disturb her wig. Even in the dark, he would recognise her. And if he did not, there was always the danger that her husband would return and catch them there. The loss of a moment of fleeting madness in the arms of Lawrence Firethorn was preferable to the end of her partnership with Israel Gunby. Sanity returned and she put the original plan into action. Gathering up her bag, she stole toward the other door. She would be out of the inn before he even knew that she was gone.
But Lawrence Firethorn had waited long enough. With an impatient hand, he dr
ew back the curtain with a loud swish and stood before her. Ellen spun round in terror. His laugh of triumph filled the room. He drew his sword and advanced.
Israel Gunby walked quickly to the Jolly Sailor, parted with a few coins to learn the whereabouts of Firethorn’s chamber then went straight upstairs. There was nobody about in the dark passageway. Standing outside Firethorn’s door, he pulled out a small knife but was given no time to pick the lock with it. An ancient chamberlain came trudging downstairs from the upper storey. The light from his candle illumined the bald head and the wisps of white hair. His beard was salted with white and he wore a patch over one eye. The man’s whole body had sagged in. Gunby caught the smell of cheese and backed away slightly.
The chamberlain had a Gloucestershire burr.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ he asked.
‘I am coachman to the Lord Mayor,’ said Gunby with pride. ‘Master Firethorn comes to supper with my master and I am to drive him there. But the gentleman has left a box in his chamber and sent me to fetch it for him.’
‘Did he not give you a key?’
‘It does not seem to fit.’
‘Then let me try this one, sir.’
The chamberlain shuffled to the door and lifted the rings of keys that hung from his belt. After trying a couple in the lock, he found one that fitted.
‘Go on in, sir,’ he invited, opening the door. ‘Call to me when you leave and I will lock it against thieves once more. We cannot be too careful.’
‘Indeed not.’
Israel Gunby went into the room and shut the door behind him. He went straight to the bed and bent down to put a hand beneath it. The heavy capcase came out and he began to undo the straps. Seconds later a heavy purse sat in his palm and he weighed its value with satisfaction. Pushing the capcase away again, he turned to leave but the door was now open again and the doddery chamberlain seemed to have grown in size. A rapier was held menacingly in his hand.
The Silent Woman Page 25