The Merchant of Vengeance

Chapter 7

Built to house the company of players known as the Lord Admiral’s Men, the Rose Theatre was the crown jewel of Philip Henslowe’s various enterprises, among which were also a pawnshop and a number of thriving Southwark brothels situated conveniently nearby. Originally hexagonal in shape, the playhouse was three stories high and timber framed, with thatch-roofed galleries and an open yard. At considerable expense, the Rose had recently been renovated and enlarged by pushing back the walls behind the stage, along with the stage itself and the tiring room behind it, then lengthening the sides of the building. This expansion increased the available area for the groundlings, those members of the audience who paid the cheapest admission price of one penny and stood in the open yard, the surface of which had been mortared and sloped upward, so that those who stood toward the rear could enjoy an unobstructed view. This sloping of the yard also facilitated drainage, so that rainwater and other natural fluids could run down to the wooden box drain that ran from just behind the stage to a ditch beyond the playhouse walls. This made cleanup after the performances easier and, with the regular changing of the rushes, helped keep down the smell. Now shaped like an asymmetrical polygon, the playhouse was currently home to both the Lord Admiral’s Men and Lord Strange’s Men, the company to which Smythe and Shakespeare now belonged.

They had left their first company, the Queen’s Men, though not without some regret, for they had thought of the Theatre as their home ever since they came to London. Dick Burbage, the son of the owner, James Burbage, was a fellow player and had become a good friend to them both. However, despite the Theatre’s legacy of lending its name to other stages — all playhouses in London were now increasingly being called “theatres” — the Queen’s Men had fallen upon hard times. The company had been in decline ever since the death of Dick Tarleton, their celebrated comic player, followed by the defection of their star, the celebrated Edward Alleyn, who had joined the Lord Admiral’s Men. Ned had subsequently married Henslowe’s daughter, thereby cementing his relationship to the entrepreneur and assuring his own future. To make matters worse, the Queen’s Men had then lost both of their juvenile apprentice players when one had died of the plague and the other, perhaps fearing the same fate, ran off.

After that, the company’s bad luck only continued to grow worse.

Will Kemp, for all his efforts, had never quite been able to fill Dick Tarleton’s shoes, and before long he, too, had left the company, following Alleyn to the Lord Admiral’s Men. The lengthy forced closure of the playhouses due to plague and a dismal touring season for the company had already strained the finances of the Queen’s Men to the limit. Most of the players were broke, and a number of the hired men had quit and gone in search of other work. And in a time when work in London was becoming increasingly difficult to come by, this bespoke a degree of desperation that was telling. When the playhouses had at last reopened, the powerful combination of Ned Alleyn’s bombastic acting and Kit Marlowe’s luridly dramatic writing drew most of the Queen’s Men’s audience to the Rose. The wind was whistling through the empty galleries of the Theatre, and even the ever optimistic Dick Burbage had seen the ominous writing on the wall.

“Go,” he had told them, when Will received an invitation to join Lord Strange’s Men. “Go on and join them. Never fear for me. ‘Tis true that things do not look very promising at present. The company is but a shadow of what it once had been; our audiences have deserted us, and our greedy landlord keeps threatening not to renew our lease upon the property in the hope that he may seize the playhouse for himself. But though the carrion kites may circle overhead, my friends, my father and I are far from finished. For a time, Henslowe and the Lord Admiral’s Men have us at a decided disadvantage, to be sure, but remember that fortunes ever change. We are already planning a new Theatre, much improved over the present one, and although the time is not yet ripe, our plan…ill soon come to fruition. But in the meantime, you must eat, my friends, and you must pay your rent, and though your loyalty is the very nectar of sweet nourishment to me, I fear ’tis but poor provender for you. So please, I beg you, go with my blessings, both of you. There shall yet be another time for us to play together.”

And so, with a bittersweet mixture of sadness and anticipation, they had joined Lord Strange’s Men, who in turn had combined forces with the Lord Admiral’s Men shortly thereafter due to a poor season and hard times for all the companies in London. Over the next few months, players came and went; companies fanned, disbanded, and reformed. And sadly, the Queen’s Men, once the nation’s most illustrious company of players, did not survive the various upheavals.

Bobby Speed came with them to Lord Strange’s Men, as did John Hemings soon thereafter. The departure of a second shareholder in the company signalled the end to all the others. Hemings was in due course followed by Tom Pope, George Bryan, and Gus Phillips. Will Kemp had joined their new company, as well. He had not gotten on well in the Lord Admiral’s Men, having managed to quickly raise the ire of both Ned Alleyn, their star player, and their resident poet, the young and irrepressible Kit Marlowe. Unfortunately for Kemp, when the two companies joined forces, he was once more thrown in with both of them.

Alleyn had little patience with Kemp’s ever increasing reluctance, or perhaps growing inability, to learn his lines, something he had previously covered with improvised songs and caperings. However, the conventions of the stage were changing, and Marlowe’s sensational and gory dramas had no place for such buffoonish antics. Thus, when Kemp forgot his lines and resorted to his usual comic bag of tricks, Marlowe flew into hysterical rages, screaming and throwing things at him, at one point actually drawing steel and chasing him around the playhouse with his sword, threatening at the top of his lungs to disembowel him. Had it been anyone else but Marlowe, Kemp might well have taken it for nothing more than a grandiose display of temper and dramatics, something not at all uncommon in the world of players and poets. However, this was not just any player or poet, but Kit Marlowe, whose flamboyant excesses and mad, Dionysian behaviour were legendary throughout all of London. Kemp took fright and ran to his old friends for protection.

So the old crowd, for the most part, was back together once again. But although the Rose was home now to both companies, and they often played together, sharing members back and forth depending on the needs of their productions, there was still a feeling of competitiveness and rivalry between them-and, in a few cases, even animosity. It was not the most harmonious of marriages.

Ned Alleyn’s ego,vas as expansive as his gestures on the stage and, having been the star of two companies in succession, he had a natural tendency to lord it over everyone. Being widely acclaimed throughout the country as the greatest actor of the age had certainly done nothing to restrain him. Where he had once tolerated Kemp when they had played together in the Queen’s Men, he now openly detested him and, knowing that Marlowe absolutely loathed Kemp, often tried co pit the one against the other. And Will Kemp was an all-too-easy victim. He simply could not restrain his wicked sarcasm, which was his natural defence, and Marlowe did not know the meaning of restraint to begin with, all of which meant that their rehearsals often became boisterous and tumultuous affairs that nearly degenerated into riots. On a number of occasions, Smythe had CO separate the two of them, able to do so only because his size and strength made him an effective barrier between them and because Marlowe, having once fought alongside him in a barroom brawl, was well disposed toward him.

Fortunately, for all his passionate and violent nature, Marlowe was, at heart, neither evil nor mean-spirited, and his rages would usually dissipate as quickly as they would erupt. Nevertheless, Kemp had become so terrified of him that he had developed a nervous twitch that manifested itself whenever Marlowe was around, and this only served to irritate the flamboyant poet further.

“And so I rose,” boomed Alleyn from the stage, sweeping out his right arm in a grandiose gesture of encompassment, “and looking from a turret, did behold young infants swimming in their parents’ blood…”

Now Alleyn paused dramatically and posed, sweeping both arms out wide, right arm to the side and bent slightly at the elbow, left arm to the other side and raised, with elbow sharply bent, fingers splayed, eyes wide and staring, as if at a lurid vision of unimaginable horror. His voice rose and fell dramatically as he continued with the speech. … scores of headless carcasses piled up in heaps, and half-dead virgins, dragged by their golden hair and flung upon a ring of pikes…

“And with main force flung on a ring of pikes‘!” shouted Marlowe from the second-tier gallery, springing to his feet and pounding his fist on the railing. “And the line is ’headless carcasses piled up in heaps,‘ not ’scores of headless carcasses‘! God blind me, Ned, must you always change the lines?”

“Methinks that ‘scores of headless carcasses’ sounds ever so much more dramatic, Kit,” Alleyn replied in his stentorian tones, gazing up him.

“Well, if they are piled up in bloody fucking heaps, methinks ‘tis likely that we may assume that there are bloody fucking scores of them!” shouted Marlowe, throwing up his hands in exasperation. “Why can you not read the lines the way I wrote them? And why is that man shaking?” he added, his voice rising to a screech as he leaned over the gallery rail and pointed an accusatory finger toward the stage, straight at Kemp.

“Must be all those infants swimming in their parents’ blood,” Shakespeare murmured quietly to Smythe as they stood together near the back of the stage, holding spears up by their sides.

Smythe snorted as he barely repressed a guffaw.

“Kemp? Is that you again?” shouted Marlowe.

In vain, the trembling Kemp tried to conceal himself behind

John Hemings, who was far too thin to help conceal much of anything.

“I can still see you, Kemp, you horrible man!” shouted Marlowe. “Why the devil are you twitching about so?”

“Doubtless he is attempting to upstage me,” Alleyn said petulantly. “Kemp is forever attempting to upstage me.”

“Liar! I. I was not!” protested Kemp, clutching at Hemings for protection. “John, tell them I was not!”

“He was not trying to upstage you, Ned,” said Hemings placatingly.

“Well, Lord Strange’s Company all stick together, to be sure,” said Alleyn with a grimace. “No doubt, they all think that they are much too good to be stuck carrying spears at the back of the stage.”

“I have got a place to stick this spear,” said Shakespeare wryly,

“and ‘tis not at the back of the stage.”

“What was that?” said Alleyn, spinning round.

“‘Twas nothing, Ned,” said Smythe, giving Shakespeare an elbow in the ribs to stave off his reply.

“I distinctly heard somebody say something,” Alleyn said, narrowing his eyes.

“I said-ooof!”

Smythe elbowed him again and took hold of him as he doubled over. “Will said he was feeling poorly, Ned,” he said. “Look, see how he suffers? It must be something that he ate.”

“Well, take him off the bloody stage, then!” Marlowe shouted from the gallery. “We have a play to perform tonight, people! And you, Kemp, you can go with them, until you can learn to stop twitching as if you had St. Vitus’s bloody dance!”

“Ohhh, how I despise that man,” said Kemp through gritted teeth as they went through the doorway at the back of the stage and came into the tiring room, where the players changed their costumes and waited for their entrances.

“Well, I shall grant you that he is not, perhaps, the most amenable of men,” said Smythe, still supporting Shakespeare, who was just getting his wind back, “but he is a decent sort at heart, Will.”

“Decent?” Kemp replied, with disbelief. “Marlowe? Are you mad? There is naught that is decent about him. The man is a wanton libertine of the first order!”

“Hola, pot! You are black, the kettle sayeth,” Shakespeare said, finally getting back his breath.

“And you can bloody well shut up.” Kemp said, forgetting his usual cleverly acerbic banter in his frustration. “Poets.” he added with contempt, throwing on his cloak with a flourish. “You are all mad as March hares, the lot of you! I say a pox upon all poets!”

“Hmmpf! He wished a pox upon me, did you hear?” said Shakespeare, watching Kemp depart in a huff. “‘Twasn’t very nice of him, now, was it? Speaking of which, you might have broken my ribs with that elbow, you great, lumbering ox.”

“And Alleyn might have broken your jawbone with his fist had I not stopped you just then,” Smythe replied. “To say naught of what Marlowe might have done had he heard you mocking him.”

“Ned frightens me about as much as the wind that makes up the greater part of him,” said Shakespeare. “And as for Marlowe, well, you must admit, he truly begs for mockery. I mean, come on! Impaled golden virgins and infants swimming in their parents’ blood? Lord save us, not even Sophocles would pen such an exaggerated, foolish line.”

“You must admit that it conjures up quite the lurid vision.”

Smythe replied.

“It conjures up what I ate for breakfast,” Shakespeare said with a grimace. “‘Tis all a lot of knavish nonsense.”

“Perhaps, but ‘tis what the audiences love about his work,” said

Smythe. He pointed a finger at Shakespeare’s chest. “And ‘tis why you are trying to emulate him.”

“I am not trying to emulate him, I am trying to better him,” said Shakespeare irritably. ‘There is a difference, you know.“

“Fine, I shall grant you that,” said Smythe. “Nevertheless, the fact remains that audiences eat up Marlowe’s ‘knavish nonsense,’ as you put it, and you know that as well as anyone. ‘Tis why you are so determined to outdo him. His Jew of Malta and his Doctor Faustus and this new one about the queen of Carthage are all much more exciting than your own Henry the Sixth.”

“Bah! You compare oranges with apples,” Shakespeare said.

“They are very different works.”

“Mayhap so, but the audiences seem to enjoy Marlowe’s oranges much more than your apples.”

“Now look, we have staged Henry the Sixth but once,” Shakespeare said defensively, “and ‘twas despite my protests that the play was not yet ready.”

“Then why submit it for production?”

“Because… well, because Marlowe keeps on writing new ones, and everyone keeps asking when they shall see mine and why I cannot write so quickly and why all I have managed to produce is books of sonnets!”

“Ah, so you allowed yourself to be rushed into submitting it before you were fully satisfied with the result,” said Smythe.

“Aye, damn it,” Shakespeare said. “I admit it freely, ‘twas a stupid thing to do. But even you keep chiding me for not yet having finished anything!”

“Aye, ‘tis true,” admitted Smythe, “but ’(Was nothing more than a means to have a bit of fun with you. If it truly troubles you, Will, than I shall refrain from doing it, I promise.”

“Nay, it does not trouble me,” said Shakespeare. “Well, perhaps a little, but in truth, it does help to spur my efforts. Yet I have learned something from all this, methinks.”

“And what is that, pray tell?”

“I have discovered that waiting till I have written something to my final satisfaction is but a means to keep from ever finishing a thing,” he said. “For in truth, there is no final satisfaction. At least, not for me. A much better way to work, ‘(Would seem to me, would be to treat a play as if it were a gemstone and I a patient and painstaking jeweller who makes my cuts, thus faceting the stone, and then submits the cut gem to the company so that we may all then proceed to polish it together, just as we did when I rewrote some of the Queen’s Men’s repertoire, do you recall?”

“Aye, but then you did it thus because you had no other choice,” said Smythe. “You had to write and then rewrite as flaws were made manifest in the production, because there was no time to do it any other way.”

“Quite so,” said Shakespeare, “and as a result, ‘twas needful to put on the finishing touches in rehearsal, and then revise again after one performance, and once again after the next, and so forth and so forth… just as you said to Greene back in the tavern, when you spoke about a play being a crucible in which the intent of the poet and the interpretation of the player comingle with the perception of the audience. ’Twas most excellent, most excellent, indeed! I recall being very taken with that line, even as that vile souse upbraided me, and thinking that I must remember it. ‘Twas a memorable turn of phrase, indeed. And much more than that, Tuck, ’twas a rare insight into the alchemy of the crafting of a play!”

“Well, I was but repeating something that you said once.”

Smythe replied.

“What! I said that?” asked Shakespeare, raising his eyebrows with surprise.

“Or else something very like it,” Smythe replied.

“The devil you say! ”When did I say that?“

“I do not remember when just now,” said Smythe. “But I do seem to recall that you were rather deeply in your cups when you said it.”

“Zounds! I shall have to ask you to start setting down these things I say so that I may remember them,” said Shakespeare.

The crashing sound of thunder interrupted them, booming so loudly that it seemed to shake the rafters up above them. The first crash was almost immediately followed by the next, and then a third hot on its heels.

“Oh, dear,” said Smythe. “That sounds like a rather nasty storm is brewing.”

The next clap of thunder was deafening, and lightning seemed to split the sky as they stepped out of the tiring room. The wind had picked up suddenly, and moments later a torrential rain began pelting down, bringing an immediate end to the rehearsal.

“Well, so much for that,” said Shakespeare, watching as the other players scrambled for their hats and cloaks. “We have been rained out nearly every night this week.”

“This bodes ill for the companies’ already meagre purses,” Smythe replied, as he buckled on his sword belt. He had of late been trying to cultivate the habit of wearing his rapier everywhere he went, although he still found it rather cumbersome and had an unfortunate tendency to keep catching it on things. His uncle had taught him how to fence, but until he came to London, he had never even owned a sword. He always carried the dagger that his uncle made for him, but wearing a sword had simply seemed like too much trouble, despite the fact that it was much the fashion and, given the steady increase in crime, also seemed very practical.

“Well, this does not appear as if ‘twill soon blow over,” Shakespeare said, gazing up glumly at the dark sky. “I fear that we shall have no play today.”

“Much like the day that we set out in search of Thomas to deliver him his father’s message,” Smythe replied.

“That troubles you still, I see,” said Shakespeare.

“Would that it did not,” said Smythe, “but I keep thinking on it.”

“‘Twas not really your fault, you know, the way that things turned out,” said Shakespeare. “You must not blame yourself.”

“Do you suppose they have arrested Mayhew?”

Shakespeare snorted. “Not bloody likely, I should say, unless they caught him standing over the poor lad’s corpse with a bare bodkin in his hand. Rich men do not often get themselves arrested, you know. ‘Tis bad for the economy.”

“Well, quite likely, you are right,” said Smythe, “else we should have heard something by now.”

“Now, if you are asking me if I think that Mayhew was responsible,” said Shakespeare, “then I would have to say that on the surface, the odds seem much in favour of it… that is, from what we know. Remember, we do not know for a certainty that Thomas was killed because of his relationship with Portia. His murder could have been completely unrelated to that. For all we know, he had some enemy who wished him dead. More than one, perhaps. Or else it could have been a thief who had been trying to rob his room when he walked in, thus setting off a confrontation that ended in his death.” He shrugged. “We simply do not know, Tuck. And chances are that we shall never know.”

“So what are you saying, then? That because we do not know, we should not care?”

“Nay, I did not say we should not care,” said Shakespeare, “for that would make us callous and hard-hearted, and I should not like to think that we were that. But people die in London every day, of many causes and for many reasons. We cannot seek justice for them all, however much we may wish that justice could be served. We did not really know young Thomas Locke. Our paths happened to cross but once, during which time you gave him some advice. Whether ‘twas wise advice or not does not make any difference in the end, for ’twas his choice whether or not to take it. In any event, before he could act upon it, he was killed. And there’s an end to it.”

“He could have been your Jew, you know,” said Smythe. “Or else, as it appears that he was raised a Christian, perhaps his mother could have served your purpose and acquainted you with their ways and their beliefs.”

“Perhaps,” said Shakespeare. “But ‘(Would be crass of me indeed to ask her now. And I rather doubt we would find welcome at her husband’s house.”

“Aye, to be sure. Well, ‘twould seem the others have all repaired to Cholmley’s,” he said, referring to the small, one-story, thatch-roofed building attached to the theatre and operated by John Cholmley, Henslowe’s partner, as a tavern and victualing house for the patrons of the Rose. “Shall we go and join them?”

Shakespeare sighed. “Cholmley overcharges scandalously, quite aside from which, I have about had my fill of Ned and Kit for one day. But we can go and join the others, if you wish.”

“Or else we could make our way back home to the Toad and Badger and see Dick Burbage,” Smythe said. “And then you could go upstairs and write, which would give you an excuse to avoid Cholmley’s.”

“An excellent idea, I must say!” Shakespeare responded, clapping him upon the shoulder. “I would much rather spend some time with Dick, sweet Molly, and that old bear Stackpole at the Toad than overpay at Cholmley’s and listen to Ned and Kit attempt to outbark each another like a pair of hounds and lay the blame for every flaw in the production on Lord Strange’s Men. Forsooth, I have had enough of that rot. To the Toad, then!”

“To the Toad it is,” said Smythe. “What say you, shall we chance it with a wherry in this infernal downpour, or shall we go the long way, by the bridge?”

“In this wind, there should be quite a chop,” said Shakespeare, somewhat dubiously. “And many of the boats will have pulled in, though a good wherry-man would not be frightened by the weather. Just the same, methinks I would prefer to take the bridge. Either way, we shall get soaked.”

“‘Well, let us walk, then,” Smythe replied. “I have always enjoyed a good walk in the rain.”

They wrapped their cloaks around themselves, pulled down their hats, and went out into the wind and rain, through the theatre gates. The rain was coming down in sheets as they started walking toward the river, but they were in good spirits. For the moment, at least, the uncertainties and troubles of the world were all forgotten. The Thames was frothed with whitecaps, and the bracing smell of the sea was strong in the air.

As they made their way toward London Bridge, Shakespeare began to sing a ribald tune, and Smythe laughed, linked arms with him, and joined in. They sang lustily and loudly, looking forward to an evening in front of a warm fire with old friends.

Neither of them noticed that they were being followed.

Elizabeth was growing increasingly concerned about her friend. Already despondent over her father’s cancellation of her marriage plans, Portia was plunged into absolute despair when she learned that Thomas had been murdered. When the sheriff’s men had come to question them, Portia ran out of the room in tears and fled upstairs to the guest bedroom that she had occupied since leaving home. Now she would not even leave that room. She had taken to her bed and would not get up, not even to eat.

Not knowing what else to do, Elizabeth had sent a servant to Antonia with a message begging her to come at once. But as the day drew on and she did not arrive, Elizabeth grew more and more anxious. It was growing late when Antonia arrived in her carriage at last.

“I wanted to come as soon as I received your message,” Antonia explained apologetically, as one of the servants helped her with her cloak, “but my husband was entertaining guests and my presence was required at home. Alas, I could not leave till they had all departed.”

“I understand, of course,” Elizabeth replied as they made their way together to the drawing room. “And I am much relieved that you have come at last. I am simply driven to distraction. Poor, poor Portia! I just do not know what to do. I cannot think how to help her!”

“You are already helping her, my dear,” Antonia replied solicitously. “You have given her safe haven, and a caring heart to see her through this tragic time. And in the end, ‘tis said that time itself must heal such wounds.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “In this case, Antonia, I am not so certain. Doubtless time could heal grief suffered over an untimely loss, but this was the foul murder of the man she loved, and I do believe she holds her father to account for it, which can only serve to multiply her torment.”

“Do you suppose he could have done it?” Antonia asked as the servant poured their wine.

Elizabeth sighed and shook her head once more. “I cannot say. ‘Tis not so long ago I would have said that Henry Mayhew certainly did not strike me as a man who would be capable of murder, but I have since discovered that one simply cannot tell such things from appearances and that people one might never think capable of doing such terrible things are, indeed, capable of them and more.”

“So then he may have done it,” said Antonia. “Or else he may have paid to have it done. Is that what she believes?”

“I am afraid so,” said Elizabeth. “What does one tell a girl who thinks her father killed the man she loved?”

“I do not know,” Antonia replied. “‘What has her father said to this?”

“Thus far, he has said nothing,” said Elizabeth.

Antonia frowned. “Does he even know that she is herd”

Elizabeth nodded. “He knows. I sent a servant to him with a letter, so that he would know that she was safe with me. It seemed the proper thing to do. Had I a daughter who ran off somewhere, and I did not know where she was, I would be frantic with concern.”

Antonia nodded. “You did the right thing. And how did he respond?”

“See for yourself,” Elizabeth replied, picking up a letter and passing it to her. “This came but a few hours ago.”

With a look of interest, Antonia took the letter, unfolded it, and read:

My dear Elizabeth,

I have received your letter and was gratified to learn that Portia had decided to spend some time upon a visit with you. Doubtless, your pleasant company shall be of benefit to her and help assuage her distress over recent unfortunate events. The sheriff's men had paid me a visit, as they did you, it seems, and I informed them that there was little more that I could add to what they apparently already knew, but that I would remain at their service if they should require anything further of me in their inquiries. They thanked me respectfully and took their leave.

amp; to my daughter’s future, the present uncertainty of which has likely been the cause of her distress, you may inform her that she is ever in my thoughts, and that I have already taken certain steps that will assure her welfare and grant her even greater prospects than she may have earlier expected. With warmest wishes of regard and good will toward your family, I remain, as ever, yours sincerely,

Henry Mayhew

“Well, upon my word,” said Antonia, as she finished reading the missive, “he does not seem much concerned. What do you suppose he means when he writes that he has ‘taken certain steps that will assure her welfare’?”

“I can only take that to mean that he has already found another suitor for his daughter,” Elizabeth replied.

“So soon?”

“Aye, he did not waste any time,” Elizabeth said. “I cannot imagine how I shall tell Portia.”

“You mean to say she has not seen this letter?” Antonia asked, holding it up.

“I have been afraid to show it to her. There is no telling how she may respond.”

“Well, you cannot keep it from her,” said Antonia. “She shall find out eventually, from her father if not from you. And the sooner she knows, the better, I should think. ‘Tis time that she learned to accept things as they are.”

“That was rather an unfeeling sentiment,” Elizabeth replied, a bit taken aback. “She is still grieving for the man she loved.”

“Then let her don her mourning black, thus giving death its due, and go on about her life,” Antonia said.

“Antonia! How can you be so harsh?”

“Oh, truly, Elizabeth, ‘tis not my intent to sound hard-hearted.” she replied, “but Portia simply must accept that Thomas is dead and there is naught that she can do to bring him back. And if she believes that he died by her father’s hand or else by his will, then even so, what can she do about it? Is there proof she may present? And if, by some chance, she has such proof, would she present it, accusing her own father? And even if she could, what good would come of it? Who would convict a father for seeking to protect his daughter from disgrace? Who would even fault him for it?” She held up the letter once again. “He writes here in this very letter that the sheriff’s men had come to see rum. From the sound of it, they spoke to him respectfully and he answered them in kind; thus they were satisfied and took their leave. And there it shall end, Elizabeth. There it shall end. Regardless of what we may suspect, officially the murderer shall remain unknown. Thomas was a young journeyman of much promise but of little means, and a Jew, at that. Henry Mayhew is a prominent and wealthy merchant and a Christian. What more is there to say?”

“There is something more to say for Portia, surely,” said Elizabeth.

“Very well, then let us say it,” Antonia replied. “She is her father’s daughter and must do her duty, as must we all. My father never sought my counsel or consent when he arranged for me to marry. Nor do most fathers do so. And for all of your poetic and romantic notions about love, Elizabeth, the day will come when your father, too, shall decide upon a husband for you, before you become too old for him to marry off and he is settled with a spinster. You and I have talked of this before. Marrying for love is fine for the more common sort of people, but we must be more serious and practical. And the sooner Portia comes to understand that and accept it, the better off she shall be. That is my advice to you, Elizabeth. Do with it what you will, but know this: Neither Portia’s father nor yours shall remain patient forever.”

“And why, pray tell, should it be a matter of their patience?” replied Elizabeth, her temper flaring up. “Why is it a daughter’s place to do her duty by her father and not a father’s place to do his duty by his daughter? ‘Tis a parent who brings a child into the world, and I should think ’tis a parent’s duty to ensure that child is nurtured and protected. Why must a daughter grow up to be little better than a slave, destined to marry a man she did not choose, and to spend the remainder of her life at his beck and call, while a man may do whatever he desires?”

“Oh, Elizabeth, there are ways for a woman to do what she desires also, if she does so with careful judgement and discretion,” said Antonia. “Look around you at this handsome home. Is this truly what you call living like a slave? You have servants, for God’s sake. You have never raised a hand to do anything much more demanding than embroidery! Methinks you see too much of your-self in Portia’s plight, if we may truly call it plight. Indeed, how different has her life been thus far? Her father is one of London’s richest merchants, and from what he writes in his letter, ‘twould seem that he has made arrangements for a marriage for her that would improve her prospects even further. She shall marry a rich man of good standing and live a pleasant life of indolence, waited on by servants hand and foot, in return for which, in all likelihood, she shall be required to do nothing more than help entertain his friends and give birth upon occasion. This is a desperate plight? Good Lord! However shall we save her?”

Elizabeth stared at her friend, her mouth set in a right grimace. “I perceive that I have made a mistake,” she said after a moment. “I called upon you because I believed that you would care enough to help, but I see now that you do not care at all. Forgive me, Antonia. I did not mean to waste your time.”

Antonia raised her eyebrows. “Well, I see I have offended you, though such was not my intent. Should I take that as a dismissal, then?”

“Take it any way you please,” Elizabeth said curtly, turning away from her.

Antonia gazed at her for a moment, her head cocked thoughtfully, then she sniffed, stood, and made her way outside, back to her carriage, without saying another word.

Elizabeth heard the door shut behind her and bit her lower lip. She felt tom. She felt angry with herself for having become angry, and at the same time she felt justified in feeling so. She had known Antonia for a long time. Though she was a few years older, they had grown up together and she had always considered Antonia one of her closest friends. And even though she had not seen Antonia as often since her marriage, she certainly knew her much better than she did Portia. Yet it was to Portia that her heart went out, while Antonia had shown her a side of her character that seemed harsh and insensitive, even a little cruel. And that both surprised and disappointed her.

Yet at the same time, she had to admit that Antonia was not entirely in the wrong. Elizabeth had to acknowledge that she lived a life of privilege, as did Portia. Yet she was still dissatisfied with her lot in life. So did that make her ungrateful? Or was there, in fact, more to life than simply being well taken care of? Had every need truly been supplied?

If a woman were provided with a home, however comfortable that home might be, and if she were well fed and clothed and granted every material comfort that she might desire, then did that mean that she should not wish for anything more-or, if she did desire something further, pursue such desires quietly. “with careful judgement and discretion”?

Elizabeth looked inside herself… looked hard… and found that she could not accept that. It just did not seem right. “Gild a cage howsoever you may choose,” she murmured to herself, “and yet still ‘twill be a cage. Forge chains from gold or silver, and yet still they will be chains.” At the same time, she reminded herself that her own chains, such as they were, were certainly of silver, if not gold, and she wore them fairly lightly. There were many women whose lives were far more difficult than hers. She truly had very little about which to complain.

And yet… there was that cage. Let a woman try to step outside, she thought, and the world would gently usher her back in, or else revile her for a shrew and chastise her accordingly. If only I were born a man, she thought… and then realised that even if, by some strange and supernatural twist of fate, she could somehow have been given such a choice, it was not what she would have chosen. She would no more wish to be a man than she would wish to be a horse. No, what she wanted was the freedom that went with being a man. She wondered if the day would ever come when women could enjoy such freedom. Most likely, it would not, she thought. Men would never allow it. And women like Antonia would continue having to resort to “careful judgement and discretion.” Perhaps, as Antonia had advised, that was what she should do, as well.

Her thoughts were interrupted when one of the servants entered and announced, “Mistress, there is a Master Symington Smythe to see Miss Portia.”

She turned. ‘To see Miss Portia?“

“Aye, mistress, that was what he said.”

She frowned. Why would Tuck come to see Portia and not ask to see her first? “Show him in, Albert,” she replied.

“Aye, mistress.”

A moment later, Albert announced the visitor once more.

“Master Symington Smythe,” he said.

But instead of Tuck, to her surprise, a man that she had never seen before came in.

“How do you do, Madame?” he said, with a slight bow. “Symington Smythe II, Esquire, at your service. Have I the honour and the pleasure of addressing Mistress Portia Mayhew?”