For a moment Mayhew looked shocked, perhaps not so much at what she said as at the fact that she had said it. However, he recovered quickly. “‘Tis hardly the same thing, Winifred,” he said, somewhat huffily. “’Tis nigh on a year now since your husband died, and there has been quite sufficient allowance for the customary period of mourning.” He grunted and nodded and patted his ample stomach with both hands, as if to reassure himself. “Aye, more than sufficient time to satisfy propriety. And as for your presence in my home, dear Winifred, ‘tis perfectly proper, perfectly proper, indeed! We are betrothed, and our betrothal has been formally announced. What is more, on the occasions when you visit here and spend the night, you are duly attended in your own room by a maidservant, so there can be no question of propriety at all, nay, none at all.”
“Nevertheless, that does not mean that people will not talk, you know,” said Winifred with a slight smile.
“Well, people can say what they will,” said Mayhew with a grimace. “The fact remains that propriety has been observed in all respects, in all respects, indeed. What is more, you are a mature woman, Winifred, not a young girl like Portia.”
“Why, thank you, Henry. ‘Tis always a comfort for a woman to be reminded of her advancing age,” she replied.
“Oh, for Heaven’s sake! You know what I mean! Odd’s blood!
Where the devil is that girl?“
“I would venture to say that she has gone to the home of one of her friends,” Winifred replied calmly, “where she will doubtless remain for as long as she can, the better to cause you concern. Rest assured, Henry, that she is not out wandering the streets, and even if she were, the watch would surely stop her, question her to find out why she was abroad alone at this time of night, and then escort her home.”
“And supposing they thought she was a whore out plying her trade?” asked Mayhew.
“Oh, Henry, I should hardly think so,” Winifred replied. “No one in his right mind would mistake Portia for a strumpet. She is much too innocent a girl.”
“Well, perhaps you are right, but there are still evil men abroad who would not hesitate to despoil an innocent young girl,” said Mayhew.
“All the more reason she would not be out wandering the streets,” Winifred replied. “She has been protected, yet not quite sheltered, and Portia knows full well the dangers of the city streets at night and what parts of the city to stay out of in the daytime and what sort of people to avoid. She may be headstrong, Henry, but Portia is not foolish.”
‘Well, ’tis true, I suppose,“ he said, somewhat mollified. ”She is my daughter, after all. The apple does not fall very far from the tree.“
“Indeed,” replied Winifred, nodding over her needlework and thinking that, all things considered, Portia must have fallen much closer to her mother’s tree than to her father’s. “I am quite certain that there is no cause for concern. She will return in due time, when she is ready, when she has had some time to have her cry and think things over.”
Mayhew grunted. “Bloody lot of nonsense, if you ask me. I do not know what she has to cry over. The very idea! All I did was save her from marrying a heathen Jew.”
“Now, Henry…”
“One would think the world were coming to an end from the way she carried on!”
“To her, perhaps, it was,” Winifred replied. ‘To Portia, Thomas Locke is not a ’heathen Jew,‘ as you say, but the Young man with whom she fell in love and whom she had planned to marry. She was so looking forward to it. ’Tis an important event in a young woman’s life, the most important event of all. She stood upon the threshold of becoming a woman, Henry, a wife and soon, no doubt, a mother. Now all that has changed, and changed quite suddenly. She has had no time to prepare for it. Her feelings are surely in a turmoil. Oh, Henry, can you not remember being young yourself?“
“Hmpfh! When I was young, Winifred, I had no time for such nonsense. I was much too busy working. My family was poor. We had no time for ‘feelings.’ We could not afford them.”
“Well, I should think. you could afford them now, Henry,” Winifred replied, her voice as steady and methodical as her needlework. “And if you find that you cannot, then perhaps I should go out and buy a plentiful supply for you, so that you could afford to spare some for your daughter.”
“Most amusing, Winifred,” Mayhew replied with a grimace. “Most amusing, indeed. I suppose you think that I am being much too hard on the girl.”
“I think, Henry, that you did what you thought was right,” she replied. “You have prevented her from marrying someone that you found unsuitable. Now give her some time. Once she has given the matter due consideration, no doubt she will come to understand.”
“I should certainly hope so,” Mayhew replied. “Can you imagine? My daughter married to a Jew! God shield us! What would people say? ‘Twould be the ruin of us, the absolute ruin, I tell you!”
“Well, you have stopped it, Henry.”
“Aye, indeed, I have! Indeed, I have! There shall be no chance of that now, I can tell you that! No chance at all!”
“Calm yourself, Henry,” Winifred said quietly. “You are becoming all red in the face. And when Portia returns home, pray do not go on about it. Leave her be. She will be like a wilful steed now; let her have her head and she shall come around, you will see.”
“Hmpfh. What makes you so certain?”
“A woman knows these things,” she replied reassuringly. “Indeed? Well, a man knows a thing or two, as well. And I have taken steps to ensure that this does not happen again!”
Winifred looked up at him and frowned. “What do you mean? What sort of steps?”
“I have already begun making arrangements to ensure that she shall marry someone much more suitable. Much more suitable, indeed,” he replied.
Winifred looked startled. “Have you? So soon?”
“Aye, I have, indeed. And what is more, I intend to waste no time about the matter. I shall have Portia married off well and properly before she can get herself into any more trouble, you may rest assured of that!”
“To be quite fair, Henry, you cannot blame Portia for something she could not have known,” Winifred replied. “Nor did you know it, for that matter. Do not forget that you gave your approval to the match, at first.”
“W’ell, ‘twas because I was misled,” Mayhew replied testily.
“The young man seemed entirely suitable and presented himself as such. A journeyman tailor, well spoken and well settled and employed in a good shop, with excellent prospects all around… ”
He grunted and scowled. “Zounds, what is this country coming to when such people are permitted to mingle with their betters? Why, to think of that. that. spawn of that detestable tribe of usurers with his hands upon my daughter… ”
“Henry! You are growing all red in the face again! I fear that you shall become sanguine in your humour, and then we shall have to summon a physician to bleed you!”
“Never you mind my humours, Madame,” Mayhew replied irritably. “There is no distemper in my disposition, I assure you. As I have told you, I have taken steps to set things right. In due time, this entire matter will be settled, and there shall be an end to it.”
“What are these steps that you have taken, Henry?” Winifred asked with a slight frown. “I must confess that I am much surprised at how quickly you have acted. What, exactly, is the nature of these arrangements you have made?”
“Ah, well, there, madame, you may see the mettle of the man that you shall marry,” Mayhew said with a self-satisfied air. “As it happens, fortuitous circumstance led to my making the acquaintance earlier today of a certain gentleman lately arrived in London from his country estate. A proper gentleman, mind you, to the manner born, one who dresses in the height of fashion, with his escutcheon embroidered on his handkerchiefs in gold and silver thread! He carries himself most excellently, most excellently, indeed. And, as we engaged in conversation, I discovered, by pure chance, that he was looking for a wife!�
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“Happy chance,” said Winifred.
“Oh, I should say so, Winifred! I should say so, indeed! He was most interested when I mentioned that I had a marriageable young daughter—a very comely marriageable young daughter—for whose hand, of course, there had been more than a few suitors, although none quite suitable had as yet been found.”
“And I presume you did not tell him that she had but lately been betrothed to Thomas Locke,” said Winifred.
“For Heaven’s sake, Winifred!” Mayhew replied. “This is a gentleman of quality! Do you suppose that he would even for one moment consider a match with a girl who has already been betrothed, much less to one who…” He shook his head, as if he could not bear even to complete the thought.
“Nay, I suppose not,” Winifred said quietly. “Not if he were a proper gentleman. You did not tell him, then.”
“Perish the thought! If word of that were to get around, then I should be saddled with a spinster for a daughter! Or else be forced to have her married to some lowly ostler who stank of horse manure or, worse yet, a player! Nay, Winifred, we have our own lives and our reputations to consider.”
“And if Portia were married to a gentleman, a proper gentleman, of course, that would considerably enhance our lives and reputations,” she replied.
“Just so, Winifred, just so! Why, it may be possible for me to become a gentleman myself! I should think that after a lifetime of hard work, now that I have the means at last, obtaining an escutcheon would be a fitting reward, indeed. Can you not see yourself married to a gentleman, Winifred, a proper gentleman with his own coat of arms emblazoned on his mantelpiece and painted on his coach?”
“And embroidered on his handkerchiefs, no doubt, with gold and silver thread,” she murmured softly.
“Eh? ”What was that you said?“ he asked.
“Eh? ‘twas nothing, Henry,” she replied. “I was merely counting my stitches to myself.”
“Ah. I see,” he said. “Well, count away, then. Do not let me distract you. ‘Tis only our future I am speaking of.”
“I have finished, Henry. And I am all attention. So tell me, who is this gentleman of whom you speak?”
“His name is Symington Smythe II, Esquire,” Mayhew replied, as if savouring the sound. “And what is more, Winifred, ‘tis my understanding, although he most humbly and modestly requested that I refrain from speaking of it, that he is presently a candidate for knighthood! Think of it, Winifred, my daughter, Portia, married to a knight! Can you imagine what that could mean for us? ’Tis most fortuitous, most fortuitous, indeed! One disaster narrowly averted, and now this great good fortune falls into our laps! Just wait until Portia hears of this! I imagine that then you shall see gratitude, indeed!”
“I can imagine just how grateful she will be,” Winifred replied with a slight furrow in her brow.
“Aye, Winifred, things are looking up!” said Mayhew. “Things are looking up, indeed!”
Chapter 6
The discovery of Thomas Locke’s body briefly displaced Smythe’s concern about Elizabeth’s involvement with Portia Mayhew, but it had been simmering away at the back of his mind ever since they had left Master Leffingwell’s tailor shop. Then he began to think about it once again as soon as his father left the tavern.
Just the thought of his father getting married while still being married to his errant second wife was disconcerting enough all by itself, but it only served to remind him once more of Thomas Locke’s plan to elope with Portia Mayhew, a plan that Thomas might never even have considered had he not suggested it to him in the first place. And now it seemed to have resulted in his death. Ben Dickens had been right, Smythe thought; he should have kept his mouth shut and his mind on his own business.
He wondered how Elizabeth was involved with Portia Mayhew, whom he knew only by name. Presumably, they had known each other all along. Perhaps that should not have been surprising. after all, Elizabeth’s father and Portia’s father were both successful and wealthy merchants who most likely travelled in the same social circles and probably did business with one another. And it was not as if Elizabeth were in the habit of introducing him to all her friends. He understood that. He was under no illusions that he was a suitable companion for someone of her class. He could hardly expect her co acknowledge their relationship to everyone she knew.
He had never met or even known about Antonia, for example, until she had happened upon them together by chance in Paul’s Walk one day. As he recalled, Elizabeth had clearly felt a little awkward introducing them. It had been the most cursory sort of introduction. Elizabeth had introduced her merely as “my friend Antonia.” He did not even know her last name. Later, when they had once again chanced upon each other at the bookstalls in Paul’s Walk, this time without Elizabeth being present, Antonia had greeted him in a warm and friendly manner, doubtless only being polite, of course, and it had seemed, under the circumstances, a bit presumptuous CO ask her full name. Not that he had given it much thought at the time. Their conversation had quickly turned to their tastes in reading matter, for they were both there to browse the bookstalls. But at the same time, he had felt that Antonia had been very curious about him and the nature of his relationship with Elizabeth. She was, however, much too well bred to question him about it, and they had soon gone their separate ways.
Then he found out that both she and Elizabeth had been at Leffingwell’s tailor shop with Portia, looking for Thomas only a short while before he had arrived there with Will on the same errand. He had known better than CO tell the sheriff’s men about that, and fortunately Will had refrained from mentioning it, as well. However, the sheriff’s men would almost surely question Master Leffingwell and probably find out about it then. And that, in turn, meant that they would doubtless pay a call on Henry Darcie soon thereafter. His relationship with Elizabeth’s father was already somewhat strained. This would certainly not serve to improve matters between them.
The entire matter had somehow turned into a hopeless, tangled, tragic muddle, with him in the centre of it all. The headache that began with his father’s arrival at the tavern had continued to build in intensity until he had started drinking with his friends, and then for a time it went away. Now, with the advent of the morning, it had returned full force, much worse than it had been the previous night.
“Here,” said Shakespeare, bending over to help him sit up, “have some of this.” He held a tankard up to his lips.
Smythe wrinkled his nose at the smell. “Good Lord, not more beer!” he said, groaning at the sound of his own voice. “Odd’s blood, Will, I should think that I have had enough,” he added miserably.
Shakespeare chuckled. “More than enough, I would say. Yet drink this just the same. ‘Tis the hair of the dog that bit you. ’Twill make you feel somewhat better.”
Smythe sipped and groaned again. “‘Strewth!” he said. “If this is what comes of getting drunk, then I swear that I shall never drink again!”
“I have heard that a time or two, methinks,” said Shakespeare. “In your case, however, I may well be inclined to believe it. You never did much care for spirits, and I have never seen you drink but sparingly afore last night. I had cautioned you to have a care, but you seemed disinclined to listen.”
“I do not remember,” Smythe replied.
“Well, that does not surprise me,” Shakespeare said with a smile. “Here, have a little more.”
Smythe took another sip and moaned. “I feel sick to my stomach,” he said. “God! Does this happen every time one has too much to drink?”
“To varying degrees,” Shakespeare replied, nodding. “Men who are not used to drink should not drink more than they are used to.”
Smythe had seen Shakespeare in similar straits a number of times before, but until now he had never fully appreciated how it felt. “How in Heaven’s name can people stand it? Lord, the way Speed drinks, I should think ‘twould be an utter agony!”
“Well, if Speed ever sobers up, no doub
t his head shall burst,” Shakespeare replied. “But he seems to maintain an even strain upon his constitution, having apparently learned the fine art of balancing his inebriation through long experience. If he were an alchemist with such precision, then he would have long since turned lead into gold, though doubtless he would have drunk up all the profits from it. Are you feeling any better yet?”
“Not really,” Smythe replied.
“Here, have a little more. If you feel the need to spew or pluck a rose, then I shall bring the chamberpot.”
“Nay, there is no need,” said Smythe, shaking his head, and then instantly realizing his mistake as the room began to move. He shut his eyes and brought his hands up to his head. “Oh, Lord. ‘Tis a right worthy penance I receive now for a night of folly.”
“‘Twill get a little worse, I fear,” said Shakespeare, handing him a note. “This came for you by messenger a little while ago. ’Tis from Elizabeth.”
“Have you read it?”
“I did take that liberty, considering your indisposition, since I thought that it might have some bearing upon recent events.”
“And?” said Smythe, still holding the message with its broken seal of red wax. He almost didn’t want to read it.
“And it did, indeed,” said Shakespeare. “‘Twould seem the sheriff’s men came by her house early this morning.”
Smythe groaned and put his hand over his eyes. “Oh, I am fortune’s fool. What said her father?”
“She did not say,” Shakespeare replied. “You may read it for yourself, but she writes little more than that. She wishes to meet you at Paul’s Walk this morning.”
“This morning?” Smythe quickly opened the note and read it.
“‘What is’t o’clock?” he asked.
“Nearly ten 0‘ the clock,’” said Shakespeare.
“Zounds! I shall be late!”
“Not if you run,” said Shakespeare.
“You villain. I believe you are enjoying this,” Smythe accused him.
“Rather a great deal,” Shakespeare said with a smile. “For a change, the shoe is on the other foot. Next time, perhaps you may have more sympathy for a man in this condition.”
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