The Silent Woman

Epilogue

Margery Firethorn was now a frequent caller at the Queen’s Head. The gentle pressure which she had at first applied had slowly given way to a more concerted shove. Alexander Marwood’s resistance had finally been broken by the joint force of Anne Hendrik, Lord Westfield and that most valuable ally of all, Sybil Marwood, the landlord’s wife. Margery had marshalled her troops like a veteran siege-master, and the flint-hard walls of Marwood’s resolve had at last been breached. The theatre company would be allowed to return to his inn yard. Westfield’s Men had a home once more.

‘When will they be here?’ asked a rubicund Leonard.

‘At any hour,’ said Margery.

‘It seems as if they have hardly been away.’

‘A full month, Leonard. And sorely missed.’

‘Indeed. But they come back in triumph.’

‘Yes,’ said Margery. ‘They had difficulties on tour at first but they prospered in the end. My husband’s letters speak of many glories along the way. They have even written a ballad in his honour. He will no doubt sing it to me.’ She gazed around the refurbished yard. ‘Is all ready here?’

‘The Queen’s Head is in fine condition.’

‘All the carpentry finished, all the thatching done?’

‘We have a new inn, Mistress Firethorn.’

‘And a new play to grace it.’

Leonard took her on a brief tour of the yard to point out each improvement. Repairs had been costly, but the workmen had toiled with spirit and finished well ahead of their projected date. Even Marwood was pleased with the results. A decaying part of his property had been destroyed by fire but it had been replaced by sturdier wood, fashioned by excellent craftsmanship. Westfield’s Men would be thrilled with their renovated theatre and so would their regular patrons. A month without their favourite troupe had left the playgoing public feeling starved and mutinous.

‘Will you be here tomorrow?’ asked Leonard.

‘Nothing would prevent me.’

‘I will take my place among the standees.’

‘You have earned it, Leonard. You have done your share towards persuading that idiot of a landlord to see sense. Westfield’s Men will tread the boards again tomorrow. They left the city as outcasts but they return as conquerors.’ A smile flitted across her face. ‘I will give my husband the welcome that is due to a victorious general.’

Nicholas Bracewell soon found the spot to which he was directed in the churchyard. A little mound marked the place where his daughter had been buried. In time, when the earth had settled, it would be possible to put a gravestone there to mark the place. He now had a name to carve upon it. A bunch of flowers had been set upon the mound, and he knew that they could only have come from Anne Hendrik. He was profoundly touched. Susan’s resting place would not lack flowers from now on. Her father would be there to pay his respects whenever he could. From inside his jerkin, he took out the little doll that Lucy had given him. He scooped a shallow hole in the earth and lay the doll down with the young girl whom it represented. After one last look, he gently covered it up.

Kneeling beside the grave, he offered up a prayer then got to his feet. The rest of the company had gone straight to the Queen’s Head, but he had broken away to hasten to Southwark. Having visited his daughter, he now hurried off to call on Anne Hendrik. Thoughts of her had brightened the journey home. Barnstaple was behind him and she could help to expunge it completely from his mind. When he reached the house, he knocked politely, not sure what sort of a welcome he would get, at once hoping that it would be warm and fearing that it might be frosty.

Anne herself answered the door and smiled in surprise.

‘Nick!’

‘Good day to you!’

‘I heard that the company would return today.’

‘We have something to come back to,’ he said, searching her eyes. ‘At least, that is what we believe.’

‘Come on in.’

Nicholas did not get the kiss that he half-expected but at least he was allowed back into the house. Anne walked around him in excitement and asked him a dozen questions that he had no chance to answer. When she gave him a hug, he felt all of the tensions between them ease slightly.

‘Margery tells me that you have a new play.’

‘The Merchant of Calais. First performed in Bath at the home of Sir Roger Hordley. Lord Westfield is very jealous that his brother saw it before he himself.’

‘I long to watch it myself at the Queen’s Head.’

‘Edmund has written a small masterpiece.’

‘Will you rehearse it there tomorrow?’ she said.

‘No, Anne.’

‘But if it is to be staged that afternoon …’

‘Westfield’s Men may rehearse it — but not I.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because it is time they learnt to manage without me,’ he said, airily. ‘I have given my lifeblood to the theatre for too many years. Today, I resigned from the company. Let them find a new book holder.’

She was amazed. ‘You have fallen out with them, Nick?’

‘No,’ he said, placing a soft kiss on her cheek. ‘I have fallen in with you. Westfield’s Men took me away from here. They will not do so again.’

‘What are you telling me?’

‘You asked me to make a choice. I make it.’

‘But the choice was between staying and leaving.’

‘That is all done now,’ he said, briskly. ‘I’ll never visit Devon again. I have no further cause. That part of my life is closed for good. I want you, Anne.’

He slipped an arm around her but she broke away and regarded him with a more critical eye. The euphoria of seeing him again was wearing off and serious doubts were starting to emerge. Barnstaple was not just a town that he could wipe from the map of his personal experience. It held enough significance for him to put it before his commitment to her and she wanted to know exactly why.

‘Tell me all, Nick,’ she said, ‘or I’ll none of you.’

‘Anne …’

‘I want an honest man under this roof, not one who harbours secrets. Who was that girl and why did you go?’

‘To deal with some unfinished business.’

‘Of what nature?’

‘It pains me even to think of it.’

‘No matter for that,’ she said, tartly. ‘What sort of pain do you think I have suffered here? It was beyond measure. You disappeared into a void. The only information I gleaned about the company was from Margery Firethorn, who showed me her husband’s letters. Why did you not write to me?’

‘I was not sure how my letters would be received.’

‘Better than your silence!’

‘It was … too complicated to set down on paper.’

‘Then explain it to me now.’

‘Some things are perhaps best left-’

‘Now!’ she insisted. ‘I have waited long enough.’

Anne Hendrik sat on an upright chair with folded arms. Nicholas admired her spirit but he had hoped for less of an interrogation. Information that he had planned to release in small doses was now being demanded in full. He scratched his head and paced the room, not knowing where to begin his tale. Anne prompted him.

‘Who was that girl who brought the message here?’

‘The servant of a house in Barnstaple.’

‘There is more to it than that.’

‘Her name was Susan Deakin.’

‘You are hiding something from me, Nick.’

‘Look, can we not discuss this at a later date?’

‘Who was she?’

‘My daughter.’

Anne took a few moments to absorb the shock before she waved him on. Her expression showed that she feared there was worse to come. Having started, Nicholas plunged on with his story. He told it in a plain and unvarnished way and held nothing back from her. He even recounted the offer that Mary Whetcombe had made to him to share his life with her. Anne Hendrik listened to every word without interruption. Her emotions were deeply stirred and her hands played restlessly. Nicholas was uncertain how she was responding to his confession but he did not spare himself. He talked honestly about the mistakes of the past and how he had done his best to rectify them. When he told her about his visit to the grave where she had left the flowers, Anne was moved. She rose to her feet and allowed him to take her hands. Tears began to course down her cheeks.

Nicholas tried to kiss them away for her.

‘We may start a fresh life now, Anne. The two of us.’

‘Wait one moment,’ she said, drying her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘It is not as simple as you imagine.’

‘I have had weeks to think of it and I know my mind.’

‘Then it is time you knew mine.’

‘You were right in your strictures,’ he said, quietly. ‘I took you for granted. When I lodged here and worked for Westfield’s Men, you were a wonderful facet of my life and you enriched it greatly. But I did not pay you the respect you deserved. I did not take you seriously enough.’

‘You have realised that too late, Nick.’

‘I saw you as a friend who could comfort me in times of need,’ he admitted. ‘That is all done.’ He tried to enfold her in his arms. ‘What I want now is a wife who will share my whole life with me.’

She pushed him off. ‘Then I hope you find one, sir.’

‘Anne, I am offering you my hand!’

‘I thank you for that but I have to reject it.’

‘But I love you.’

‘In your own way, I believe that you do.’

‘I love you — I want you.’

‘There is too much between us now,’ she said. ‘You may be able to forget what happened in Barnstaple but I may not. The sight of that dead girl in my bedchamber will stay with me for ever. The fact that she was your daughter makes the memory even harder to erase.’ Anne shook her head. ‘I am sorry, Nick. While you were away, I thought a great deal about you and longed for your return but my feelings towards you have changed. After what you have told me, you can never be what you once were.’

‘You asked for the truth, Anne.’

‘And you gave it fairly. I respect that.’ She kissed him lightly. ‘We will always be friends and I will come often to the Queen’s Head but that is the extent of our friendship from now on.’

‘But why?’ he asked in dismay.

‘I have my past and you have yours. I will always be Jacob Hendrik’s widow and you will always be the father of Mary Parr’s child. There is no altering that, Nick. I will never be the wife that you wanted her to be.’

‘I am choosing you on your own merits,’ he argued.

‘No,’ she said, tilting her chin proudly. ‘You spurned me when I called to you. London or Barnstaple. That was your choice. You wanted both. It has made me wish for neither.’

Nicholas was wounded. He had told her everything in the hope that it would explain his behaviour but his honesty had been fatal. When he had kept her in ignorance of certain aspects of his life, she had been happy to share a bed with him. Now that he had confided in her — and made the ultimate commitment of a marriage proposal — she was rejecting him. On the long journey home, he had thought the whole matter through and convinced himself that the only way to close a disagreeable chapter in his life was to wed Anne Hendrik. What he had failed to do was to take her feelings properly into account. It was ironic. When he stood in the hall of the house in Crock Street, Mary had begged him to stay. At that point in time, Nicholas felt that he had to choose which of two women he should marry. In opting for Anne, he had now lost both.

‘It would not have worked, Nick,’ she said, turning to practicalities. ‘How would you have looked after your wife?’

‘I would have found employment.’

‘As a hatmaker? I have workmen enough.’

‘Do not mock me, Anne.’

‘I merely point to the realities.’

‘I would have supported you,’ promised Nicholas. ‘I can turn my hand to many things. I have talents.’

‘Indeed, you do,’ she said with admiration. ‘And they are seen at their best in the theatre.’

‘I was ready to quit that life for you.’

‘I believe you, Nick. But how long would it have been before you pined for it again? You ask for too much from me. I could never answer all your needs.’ She put her arms around his waist and looked up at him. ‘Go back to Westfield’s Men. There lies your true family.’

Nicholas gave her a long farewell kiss then left.

Raucous patrons filled the yard at the Queen’s Head. The company was back in London with a new play and the crowds thronged to Gracechurch Street. Lord Westfield had offered to underwrite the performance and bestow ten pounds on his company. That made it possible for all the admission money to be given to Alexander Marwood as a first payment towards his fund for fire damage. The innkeeper would never be happy but his trenchant unhappiness was at least partly reduced by the prospect of money. Lord Westfield was there himself with his entourage, seated in his accustomed position and savouring once more the kudos of being the patron of so sterling a troupe of players.

The Merchant of Calais was a new play on old themes. It dealt with love and marriage as financial transactions. A lone English merchant was pitted against the encroaching French might in Calais. The piece questioned the importance of wealth and celebrated the ideal of self-sacrifice. At the end, the merchant of Calais gave up everything to be with the woman he loved even though it entailed huge personal losses. A forbidden love achieved a happiness that was impossible in the arranged marriages of the mercantile class.

A sprightly comedy shot through with darker tones, it was played with attack by the company. Lawrence Firethorn boomed as the merchant, Barnaby Gill danced and Owen Elias sang. Edmund Hoode turned in a wry cameo performance as an old French shepherd with an Oxfordshire accent. Richard Honeydew was a winsome heroine. George Dart made four bungled appearances as a foolish constable and was thought by an indulgent audience to be a natural comedian. The afternoon was an unadulterated triumph.

Nicholas Bracewell watched from behind the scenes. The play had a relevance for him that went far beyond its intrinsic worth as a drama. Elements of his own experience were up there on the stage and they caused him to ponder. Lawrence Firethorn might not look like Robert Bracewell but he sounded uncannily like him at times. In the final speech, the merchant renounced wealth and position with fierce sincerity.

The ovation was thunderous as the company came out to take its bow. Lawrence Firethorn was at his most flamboyant and drank in the applause as if it were the finest wine. He had just declared his love to Richard Honeydew for the twentieth time in a month but the real and lasting object of his passion was clapping her hands in the upper gallery. Margery Firethorn had laboured hard and shrewdly to bring the travellers home, and she was learning the joys of mending a long absence. Seated beside her was Anne Hendrik, lifted as always by a performance from Westfield’s Men and finding deeper meanings in the play than other spectators. She knew how much of Barnstaple had been transposed to Calais. The company’s own St Nicholas was indeed the patron saint of merchants.

Nicholas Bracewell himself had seen his hometown set poignantly upon the stage, but he had viewed it from behind. To the audience, it was fresh, immediate and directly in front of them: to him, it was old, detached and receding into the past. He could hear his father without real pain. He could watch events from his own life without undue discomfort. The visit to Barnstaple had helped him to understand and to grow through many of the problems he encountered there.

When he peeped around the edge of the curtain, he saw Anne Hendrik among the sea of faces. She was wearing a distinctive hat that had been made by one of her employees. He felt no bitterness over their parting. Anne had turned down his proposal but her decision had to be respected. He was coming to see that it held advantages for both of them. She regained the independence on which she set such value, and he was joyously reunited with Westfield’s Men. Their separate worlds might touch — as they were doing now — but they could never fully coalesce. In marrying Anne Hendrik, he would have been committing bigamy. Nicholas was already wedded to his profession.

As the pandemonium faded, Firethorn brought his company gambolling offstage and the tiring-house became a mass of excited bodies. The players changed quickly out of their costumes and adjourned to the taproom. Good-natured banter enlivened the air for hours and Marwood’s ale was consumed in vast quantities. Edmund Hoode was among the last to leave the inn. As he walked away from the Queen’s Head, he looped an arm around the shoulders of Nicholas Bracewell.

‘We are safely back in port now, Nick.’

‘And glad to be so.’

‘Those whom we left behind are now back in the company. Westfield’s Men are whole again. London has been left in no doubt about that.’

Hoode waited until they were well clear of the inn then he nudged his friend. He wanted a mystery to be at last unravelled.

‘What was it really that took you away from us?’

‘It is too long and twisting a tale, Edmund.’

‘I have all night to listen.’ He gave a quiet chuckle. ‘Come, Nick, you can tell me. We have no secrets from each other. You talked of your father and he sounded a merchant to his toes. But he was not the reason that you went to Barnstaple, was he?’

‘No, he was not. You read the signs aright.’

‘I smell romance here.’

‘It cannot be denied.’

‘You had a silent woman down in Devon.’

‘I blush to own it but you speak the truth.’

‘Who was she, man? Tell me but her name.’

Nicholas Bracewell smiled wryly. There had been a number of silent women involved. Susan Deakin had been a mute messenger who set him off on his journey. Lucy Whetcombe was speechless by nature. Mary Whetcombe was a silent woman who spoke out of his past, as did Margaret Hurrell. While he was away from her, Anne Hendrik had been a silent woman as well, and he had foolishly taken her silence to be a form of consent. Silence of another kind had helped to still the deafening ambition of Gideon Livermore, who had drowned himself in the River Taw, a name that meant ‘silent one’. Nicholas Bracewell had been surrounded by silence.

There was one more soundless female to add to the list.

‘Well, Nick,’ said Hoode. ‘Give me her name.’

‘Mary.’

‘A pretty name. Where did the lady reside?’

‘Upon the river.’

Hoode was puzzled. ‘You have a floating mistress?’

‘She lies at anchor.’

‘Did you board her then?’

‘Only to break another long-kept silence.’

‘What strange lady is this Mary?’

‘A ship,’ said Nicholas. ‘She was the real cause of my visit to Barnstaple. A merchant vessel of a hundred tons. I tell you, Edmund, she could drive a man insane with lust. My duty was to protect her honour. The Mary was my silent woman.’