The Merchant of Vengeance

Chapter 5

True to the wherry-man’s word, it had started to rain within moments after they had found the body. The gray sky had darkened, and the clouds had opened up to disgorge a hard and pelting rain that had forced the cancellation of that day’s performance. All the other players in the company had gathered at the Toad and Badger by late afternoon, but Smythe and Shakespeare did not return till after nightfall, because it had been necessary CO report the murder and bring the sheriff’s men to the scene, and then remain to answer all of their questions. At the tavern, the rest of the company were waiting for their fellows anxiously, demand-ing to know why they had missed rehearsal.

They explained about discovering the murder, and how they had narrowly avoided being arrested themselves, which would have made a very convenient solution for the sheriff’s men.

“Bloody laggards,” Shakespeare exclaimed with disgust as he described the incident to his fascinated audience in the tavern. “They cared not who had actually done the foul deed so much as they were anxious to have it disposed of neatly and with a minimum of effort. Had we not told them that we could produce witnesses who could account for where we had been all day, then ‘tis certain that Tuck and I would both have been thrown into the Clink upon the spot.”

Smythe felt his stomach knotting at the thought. The Clink. was notorious for being one of the worst prisons in London, and from all that he had heard and read, none of London’s prisons could boast conditions that were anything less than nightmarish.

“Who do you suppose killed the poor fellow?” asked John Hemings, as he cut off a thick slice of the hearty Banbury cheese they were all enjoying, tore off a large chunk of barley bread, took a big bite out of each, and then washed it all down with beer, a relatively new beverage that had recently become available in London. It was not quite as rich tasting or as hearty as ale, but it had the virtue of being considerably cheaper. Between the wheel of cheese upon the table, loaves of rye and barley bread baked with beans and oats mixed in, and several large clay pitchers full of beer, the players were having themselves a filling and satisfying supper, spiced now by news of the murder.

“I have not the foggiest notion who murdered the poor lad,” Shakespeare replied after taking a long drink. “I am just grateful that we were able to convince the sheriff’s men not to blame the devilish deed on us!”

“Do you suppose the girl’s father may have had it done?” asked

Augustine Phillips. “To prevent the elopement, I mean.”

“‘Twould not have been much of an elopement had the girl’s father known about it in advance, now, would it, Gus?” Will Kemp observed sarcastically.

“Well… he could have found out about it, somehow.”

Phillips replied defensively.

“Oh, really? How?” asked Kemp. “As Shakespeare tells the tale, there was not even any plan of an elopement until sometime late this morning, when Smythe here put the foolish notion into the unfortunate boy’s head.”

‘Thank you so much for the thoughtful reminder, Kemp,“ said Smythe with a sour grimace. ”It makes me feel ever so much better about how everything turned out.“

“Well, it serves you right for poking your nose into other people’s business,” Kemp replied testily. “Instead of coming to rehearsal, as you were supposed to have done, you chose to spend the day in profitless and pointless gallivanting about town, dragging our book holder to some low-class alehouse only to have him be insulted by some drunken lout of a poet, and then convincing some poor lad you did not even know that he should run off with some wench you also did not know, only to have this boy turn out to be the son of a man who could easily have both of you sewn up into sacks weighted down with stones and then thrown into the river… which he might very well do when he discovers his beloved son was murdered. Does that about sum it up, you think?”

Smythe pressed his lips together and nodded glumly. “Aye, ‘twould about sum it up, indeed.”

“Well done, Kemp,” Shakespeare said dryly. “Now if you could only manage to remember your lines as well as you recalled every last detail of our story, then we would all be infinitely better off.”

“Perhaps if you wrote lines that were more memorable, I

might find that I remembered them more easily,“ riposted Kemp.

“‘Strewth, I do not know if I would be capable of writing anything that you would find easy to remember,” Shakespeare said. “Perhaps if I were to rhyme it with some sound that is cherished by thine ear. Speed, old fellow, pray tell, what rhymes with fart?”

“Art,” Bobby Speed replied at once, and belched profoundly. “Hark, methinks we have here the makings of some truly memorable poetry for Kemp,” said Shakespeare. “Indeed, ‘tis a veritable epic. Now then, what rhymes with belch?”

“Smelch,” said Thomas Pope, with his mouth full.

“Smelch? Smelch?” Shakespeare frowned. “Preposterous! There is no such word.”

“Is so.”

“Is not!” said Shakespeare. “You are being quite ridiculous, Pope. Go on and use it in a sentence, then, you knave.”

“Kemp farted and the smelch was terrible,” said Pope.

“Odd’s blood! You know, I do believe I rather like the sound of that,” said Shakespeare. “Pity there is no such word. Perhaps there ought to be.”

Go on and use it, then,“ said Pope. ”Put it into one of your plays.“

“Indeed! The very thought of it! And by what right would you have me take such license with our language?”

“The right of every bard and poet to coin whatever words or phrases please him,” Pope replied.

Shakespeare raised his eyebrows. “The devil you say! And what do you call this marvellous right of linguistic libertinage?”

“Urm I call it.. poetic license,” Pope mumbled around a mouthful of bread and cheese.

Shakespeare simply stared at him.

“What, no clever rejoinder” Kemp asked archly. Shakespeare shook his head. “Nay, Kemp, I have none. He leaves me quite speechless.”

“Good,” said Pope, his mouth still full. “Now pass the beer.”

“About this poor lad’s murder,” Gus Phillips said once more, getting back to the subject at hand, “you do not suppose that this Shy Locke will hold the two of you to blame I mean, with what Kemp said and all… you do not suppose he will?”

“I most certainly hope that he shall not,” Shakespeare said uneasily. “Truly, I do not see how he can. after all, we did not have anything at all to do with poor Thomas’s murder!”

‘That may not be how he shall see it,“ Kemp replied.

“Well, I doubt very much that he shall even remember our names,” said Shakespeare.

“Only You did tell him that we were players with Lord Strange’s Men,” said Smythe.

Shakespeare frowned. “I did?”

“You did.”

“Bollocks. Well, perhaps he shall not remember it. In any event, we were able to convince the sheriff’s men that we had nothing to do with it, so I am sure we shall be able to convince him likewise, if need be.”

“You had best hope so,” Kemp replied. “Else we may be in need of a new book holder, as well as a new…” he waved his hand dismissively, “whatever ‘tis you are, Smythe.”

“‘Hired man,’ I believe, is the proper term for my position with the company,” replied Smythe tartly.

“‘Strewth! Do you mean to say that we actually pay you?”

Kemp replied with mock astonishment.

“‘Why not?” asked Pope, masticating furiously as he shoved a wedge of cheese into his mouth, immediately followed by a large chunk of barley bread. “He remembers his lines at least as well as you do.”

“Methinks he has you there, Kemp,” said Shakespeare.

“You are both impertinent,” Kemp said with a disdainful sniff.

“Oh, good Lord,” said Smythe, staring toward the tavern entrance with dismay. “As if this day has not brought ill tidings enough.”

Shakespeare followed his gaze, looking at the man who had just walked in and now stood just inside the doorway, glancing around the tavern. “I say, Tuck, ‘tis your father, is it not?” he said.

“Tuck’s father?” Hemings said with surprise. He turned around on the bench, looking over his shoulder. “Truly?”

At once, everyone else turned toward the door. Smythe sighed wearily and brought his hand up to his forehead, which had suddenly begun to ache fiercely. “Oh, this can bode no good,” he said. “No good at all.”

Symington Smythe H swept the tavern with an aristocratic gaze, then spotted his son, tossed his dark brown cloak back, and started toward them with a regal air.

“Tuck, you never mentioned having any family in London.” Hemings said, turning back toward him. “Did you not tell us that you came from a small village in the country?”

“Aye, I did,” Smythe replied. “Unfortunately, my father chose to follow me to London.”

“Ah, Symington, my boy, there you are!” his father said in a tone that sounded so jovial, Tuck knew that it was forced.

“‘Allo, Father,” Smythe said, rising to his feet politely. “Allow me to introduce my father, everyone… Symington Smyrhe II, Esquire. Father, permit me to present the company of Lord Strange’s Men.” They rose and he quickly introduced them all, noting as he did so that his bluff and hearty, hail-and-well-met manner notwithstanding, his father did not really have the slightest interest in meeting any of them. “And, of course, Father,” he added at the end, “you remember my good friend Will Shakespeare.”

“A pleasure, sir,” said Shakespeare with a slight bow.

“Indeed,” replied the senior Smythe, barely even glancing at him. “Son, I wonder if I might have a word with you in private for a moment?”

“Of course,” said Tuck, somewhat awkwardly. He excused himself and allowed his father to lead him away to an empty table in the corner. He sighed as they took their seats. “‘Twas rather rude of you to treat them so curtly, Father, if I may say so. These are my friends. The very least you could have done was to exchange a pleasantry or two, instead of treating them all as if they were nothing but dirt underneath your feet.”

“They arc nothing but dirt underneath my feet,” his father replied with a disdainful grimace. “Bounders, louts, and scallywags, every last man jack of them. Gypsies, moon-men, vagabonds.” He snorted. “A fine lot you have taken up with, I can see that.”

“They are my friends, Father.”

“Indeed. You know that one may judge a man by the company he keeps.”

“Well then, if I be judged now, I must surely stand condemned,” said Tuck dryly.

“Do not be insolent with me, young man.”

“Or else what?” said Smythe wearily. “You shall disown me?

That old and tired hound simply shall not hunt, Father. You have naught left of which you can disown me, not that it would make the slightest bit of difference to me if you did, one way or the other. Do as you please.“

“Oh, how very bravely said, now that you know I have suffered some reverses,” his father said wryly.

“Reverses, is it?” Smythe replied. “‘Strewth, sir, you have lost everything you had, including that saucy young tart who had the presumption to call herself my stepmother when she was scarcely older than myself. You shamefully cheated Uncle Thomas out of his share of the inheritance, foolishly squandered it all, and then fastened on to him like a leech until even he could no longer tolerate your abuses and gave you the boot. Now, at long last, you come to me, your unloved and long-neglected son who had disgraced you by joining a company of players. So, then. what is it you wish of me? More money to spend on clothes and carriages? How much this time?”

“My word, how very high and mighty we seem to have become,” his father said scornfully. “Such a lofty, noble, moral tone for a mountebank in motley! I see now what comes of having sent you to be raised by my good brother. You have become as insufferable a prig as Thomas ever was. On you, however, the mantle of morality does not sit quite as well, considering the company you keep.”

“Did you come here merely to trade barbs with me, or was there something that you wanted?” Tuck said curtly.

His father glared at him for a moment, looked as if he were about to launch into a sharp rejoinder, and then abruptly changed his tack. He smiled and said, “I was going to ask if you would consider acting as the best man at my wedding.”

Tuck simply stared at him, speechless with astonishment.

“Of course, if ‘twould be asking too much, then I suppose that I could find someone else to stand beside me when the time comes, although I have no idea who in London I would know well enough to ask,” his father said.

Tuck finally found his voice. “You are getting married? But how? When?” He shook his head in confusion.

“As to when, I am not yet quite certain. There are yet some small details that need to be worked out. As to how, well, ‘tis quite a simple matter, really. One stands before a minister in church and speaks some nonsense and ’tis done.”

“But.. but you are already married!”

His father shrugged. “The ungrateful wench ran off.”

“God’s wounds! You think that makes a difference?” Smythe replied, astonished at his father’s arrogant presumption. “You cannot simply marry once again! ‘Strewth, not that I have any fondness for that miserable, smug, and grasping woman you had the poor judgement to marry after Mother died, but ’tis not as if she were a horse that bolted and ran off and you simply went and bought yourself another! For God’s sake, ‘twould be bigamy if you married someone else! ’Twould be a sin!”

“A minor matter,” said his father dryly, with a dismissive wave. “‘Tis of no consequence. However, if ’twould make you feel any better, I suppose I could arrange to have the first marriage annulled.”

“Annulled? Upon what grounds?” asked Smythe with disbelief. His father shrugged. “‘What difference does it make? Doubtless, a suitable justification can be found. She never bore me any children. I suppose I could claim that the marriage was never consummated. And ’tis not as if precedent did not exist. After all, King Henry had it done, you know.”

Smythe was absolutely speechless. His mouth worked, but no words would come out. However, his father continued speaking blithely, as if completely unaware of how casually and lightly he had placed himself on the same level as the monarch who had placed himself above the Church of Rome and presided over the Dissolution.

“In any event, ‘twould be seemly for someone of my family to be present at the wedding; after all, one must consider appearances, and since my good, dear, sanctimonious brother Thomas has seen fit to wash his hands of me, well, I suppose that leaves only you.”

“How kind of you to think of me,” said Tuck dryly.

And, apparently unaware of how he had just slighted his own son, the senior Smythe continued by adding insult to injury. “Of course, ‘twould never do for anyone to know you were a lowly player, so I have ”Said you are a joumeyman armourer. After all, between hammering shoes onto plowhorses and what all, Thomas did teach you to make knives and such, so ’tis not entirely a falsehood, is it? Come to think on it, perhaps you could see your way clear to forging up some trinket as a gift for the father of the bride. You could do it at the shop of that blacksmith friend of yours, what was his name? Well, no matter. ‘Twould be a nice gesture, I should think. An ornamental sword or some such thing. How soon do you suppose you could have it ready?“

Smythe stared at the man sitting across from him, the man who he knew beyond a doubt was his father and yet, in almost every other respect save that accident of birth, was nearly a complete stranger to him. He had often felt that in his childhood, but never more so than at that very moment. They shared the same name, but otherwise he could not imagine what the two of them could possibly have in common. He did not even wish to speculate upon the matter. How in God’s name, he thought, could I possibly be related to this man?

“Father,” he began, somehow managing to find the words, “I fear that I could not possibly comply with your request.”

“Well, ‘twould not have to be something as fancy as an ornamental sword,” his father said. “If that would be too difficult, then I suppose a dagger would do nicely, mayhap with some engraving on the blade-”

Smythe felt the throbbing in his temples building to a point that seemed unbearable. “Father, I do not think you understand,” he interjected. “I cannot, and shall not, be a party to any of this duplicitous coney-catching.”

“Coney-catching!” said his father. “Now, see here-”

“Nay, sir, you see here,” Smythe interrupted him with a fierce intensity. It was only through great force of will that he was able to refrain from shouting. “I shall not do it. Can you understand that, sir? ‘Tis important to me that I make my meaning very clear to you. I shall not have anything to do with this at all. What you plan to do is wrong, sir. ’Tis immoral and outrageous, unlawful in the eyes of God and man, and I cannot believe that you would think, even for one moment, that I could ever go along with it. ‘Tis a vile scheme that you propose, and knowing what I know of you, I can only think that there is but one purpose to it. You seek to enrich yourself through this marriage so that you might regain all the money you have squandered, and, in the process of so doing, you shall ruin and bring shame upon some poor and blameless woman and her family who have never done aught to you save given you their trust. I am appalled, sir, that you would even consider such a shameful course, much less come to me with this request.”

“Do you mean to say that you would refuse your own father?”

Smythe stood up so quickly and so forcefully that the bench he sat upon went crashing to the floor. “My God, sir, have you heard nothing that I said?”

An irritated and rather put-upon expression came over his father’s face. He gave one of his characteristic disdainful sniffs, a gesture that he presumed made him appear aristocratic. “Well, I see that you are determined to be quite unreasonable about this,” he replied, as if what he was asking were a perfectly reasonable thing. “I would have thought that a son would see it as his duty to support his father in seeking some solace and companionship in his old age and embarking upon a new course in life, but ‘twould seem that you do not care about such things. So be it, then. I shall trouble you no longer.”

“Would that I could have that surety in writing,” Smythe replied.

His father stood and drew himself up stiffly, throwing one side of his cloak back over his shoulder in a cavalier manner. “I will have you know tint this marriage should set me up quite well, quite well, indeed. You might do well to consider that, Symington. You might do well to consider that, indeed. I am still a gentleman, whatever you may think of me, and despite having suffered some misfortune of late, a knighthood is not yet beyond my grasp.”

“Oh, Father, you are dreaming,” Smythe replied, shaking his head. “You could have been satisfied with what you had. Methinks most men would have gladly traded places with you. You had a small yet very comfortable estate, a goodly amount of money, a young and pretty wife- who married you for that money, although you did not seem to mind that very much-and you had finally managed to obtain your precious escutcheon and become a proper gentleman.”

He paused for a moment, thinking he could also have added that he had a son who had once wanted very much to love him, but whose love was never deemed important. However, he decided not to say that, because he knew that it would serve no purpose.

Instead, he said, “One would think. that all these things would have been enough to satisfy most any man. But not you. And in truth, Father, I have never understood why not. Uncle Thomas had ever so much less than you, and yet he always thought he had a great deal more. In time, I came to understand that he did have a great deal more, indeed, because he knew how to be grateful for all the things he had, rather than lust for all the things he lacked.” He shook his head. “Nay, I will not help you in this, Father. You were wise… or perhaps ‘crafty’ would be more appropriate, methinks to be careful not to tell me the name of this unfortunate woman upon whose estate you have designs, for if I knew her name, then rest assured that I would seek her out and warn her about you. And I would entreat her family most urgently to bar their doors against you, for you are a scoundrel, sir, and I am ashamed to call myself your son.”

His father gazed at him with scorn, his lips compressed into a tight and angry grimace. For a moment, they simply stared at one another, and then Smythe had to look away, for he could not bear to face that smug, superior, and unrepentant gaze. It was too painful. Finally, his father spoke.

“I see how matters stand between us, then,” he said in a tone of affronted dignity. “Apparently, it does not shame you to associate with scalawags and strumpets, but it shames you to be my son. Very well, then, I shall free you of that noisome burden.” He lifted his chin and uttered his next words as a pronouncement of the utmost gravity. “You may consider yourself disowned.”

Smythe sighed wearily. “You have already disowned me once before, Father, when I left home for London. Yet you conveniently managed to forget that when you came to me last time to ask for money and I gave you all I had. And I suppose, when all is said and done, that compasses it all between us. I gave you all I had, and I have naught else left.”

“I shall remember that,” his father said stiffly, “on the day you come to me with hat in hand, as I know one day you shall.”

“If you knew me at all, Father, then you would know that I do not wear hats,” said Smythe.

With a contemptuous sniff, his father turned on his heel and stalked out of the tavern without another word or backward glance. As Smythe turned to watch him go, he saw the other players all looking at him, their expressions ranging from curious to puzzled to, on at least one face, concern. The furrow was still present on Shakespeare’s brow as Tuck returned to their table.

“It did not go well?” he asked.

“Aye, Will, it did not go well,” said Smythe as he sat back down. “Thomas, pass that pitcher, will you? I have a mind to get good and drunk this night.”

“Suits me,” said Pope, passing him the pitcher.

“And me,” echoed Bobby Speed. “Stackpole, you old reprobate, more beer!”

And for a time, as other spirits flowed, Smythe’s sunken spirits were somewhat uplifted. For a time.

Henry Mayhew was very much displeased with his daughter. He had done her-and himself, he felt-a very great service by saving her from a marriage that would have brought disgrace upon her-and himself, of course- and in return, she was not only ungrateful, she was angry. It simply passed all understanding. Instead of thanking him profusely for preventing what would have been a truly horrible mistake, she had cried and sobbed and carried on and blamed him for ruining her happiness and then had fled the house, against his wishes. Now here it was, growing quite late, and Portia still had not come home. He was torn between feeling angry and concerned.

“I tell you, Winifred, I simply do not know what has become of young people these days,” he complained to his intended, the widow of a prosperous ironmonger who had left her quite well off when he had obligingly dropped dead the previous year. “Apprentices roaming the streets in unruly gangs and rioting, young women gallivanting about town unescorted and having assignations in Paul’s Walk… I tell you, Winifred, that sort of thing simply did not happen in my day!”

“I am certain it did not,” Winifred Fitzwalter replied, glancing up at him calmly from her embroidery, “as I am equally certain that grieving widows did not go unescorted to the homes of widowers at night and sleep under the same roof with them.”

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!”

“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!”