‘I’ll be with you anon,’ said Nicholas.
He crossed to the door and tapped lightly on it.
‘Enter!’ boomed the actor.
Husband and wife were seated at a table when he went in. Both rose to their feet instantly, Margery coming across to embrace the visitor and Firethorn seeing an opportunity to elude her matrimonial vigilance for a few minutes.
‘Is that insolent braggart still here, Nick?’
‘Jonas Applegarth has gone back home.’
‘He is like to stay there if he rail against me. I was Vincentio to the life this afternoon. Was I not, my dove?’
‘Beyond compare,’ cooed Margery.
‘Yet that wrangling malcontent denied my genius. I’ll fetch him such a box on the ears, he’ll not wake until Doomsday! Let me see that he has quit the premises or I’ll not rest.’
Firethorn slipped out of the room and closed the door behind him. Margery was clearly delighted to be left alone with Nicholas. Taking him by the hand, she led him across to a small bench and they sat down together. She spoke in a conspiratorial whisper.
‘Thank heaven that you came to me, Nick.’
‘Why?’
‘You’d else have missed the glad tidings.’
‘Tidings?’
‘She was here.’
‘Who?’
‘Who else, man?’
‘Anne? Here at the performance?’
‘Sitting as close to me as you are now. She loved the play as much as I did and wept almost as many tears. Anne sent a private message to you.’
‘Did she?’
‘I am to give you her warmest regards,’ said Margery. ‘What she really meant me to convey was her undying love but she could not put that into words.’
Nicholas was pleased that Anne had made contact through an intermediary, though disappointed that she had not delivered her message in person.
‘Did Anne come to the Queen’s Head alone?’ he said.
‘No,’ replied Margery with a teasing grin. ‘She was on the arm of the most striking young man I have seen for a long time. Were I not a contented wife, I would have fought her tooth and nail for the privilege of being escorted by so dashing a partner. An exquisite fellow.’
‘What was his name?’
‘Preben van Loew.’
Nicholas laughed with relief. There was no point in trying to hide his love for Anne Hendrik from her. Margery had seen them together in earlier days and never ceased to tax him over their parting. Unwilling and unable to talk about Anne with anyone else, he was now with the one person who had some insight into the relationship.
‘Go to her, Nick,’ she advised.
‘It is not the answer, I fear.’
‘She wastes away without you.’
‘That is not my impression.’
‘I can tell when a woman is grieving.’
‘It is not for me,’ he said with a sigh. ‘When I called on her yesterday, I only managed to upset her. We have lost the way of speaking to each other.’
‘Use deeds instead of words. Embrace her with love.’
He shook his head. ‘My suit is unwelcome.’
‘Press it with more diligence.’
‘I am too late. There is another man in her life.’
‘Ambrose Robinson.’
He blinked in astonishment. ‘She spoke of him?’
‘Not a word.’
‘Then how did you learn of his existence?’
‘From her handsome escort.’
‘Preben van Loew?’
‘Yes,’ she said airily. ‘Anne would not talk of her personal affairs and so I bided my time until I could speak with the Dutchman alone. For some reason, the poor fellow is afraid of me. I cannot think why. I am Mildness itself. Is any woman in London less frightening than me?’
‘I think not,’ said Nicholas tactfully.
‘As we were leaving the gallery, Anne met a neighbour and exchanged a few words with her. I seized my opportunity. Preben was most forthcoming.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He does not like this Ambrose Robinson, I know that.’
‘No more do I.’
‘Anne does, it seems. And with some reason.’
‘What might it be?’
‘Money,’ she said. ‘The Dutchman was too loyal to betray the full details, but he gave me hints and nudges enough for me to piece together the story. Earlier in the year, her business was in grave difficulty.’
‘Anne told me that it was faring well.’
‘Only because of the butcher. Thieves broke into the shop three times. Hats were destroyed, patterns stolen. They were unable to meet their orders and lost business. To make matters worse, the shop was damaged by fire and much of their material went up in smoke.’
‘Why did not Anne turn to me?’ Nick asked anxiously.
‘Because you had drifted out of her life. What she needed was money to rebuild and restock her premises. That is when Ambrose Robinson came on the scene.’
‘Now I understand her sense of obligation.’
‘Understand something else, Nick. She came to see you.’
‘But I was hidden from sight.’
‘You were here, that was enough. Anne wanted to be close.’
‘Is that what she told you?’
‘She did not need to.’
Nicholas was touched. Margery had been active on his behalf, and for all her outspokenness, he knew that she could be discreet. What she had found out explained much that had been puzzling him. Though she did not feel able to speak with him directly, Anne Hendrik had taken a definite step towards him. It was something on which to build.
***
Edmund Hoode waited for well over an hour before disillusion set in. Standing alone in the empty innyard, he began to feel decidedly conspicuous. He had been like a mettlesome horse at first, prancing on his toes and quivering with pent-up energy. His high expectation slowly trickled away and he was now as forlorn and motionless as a parish pump in a rainstorm.
Her message had been explicit. Tomorrow. Surely that was a firm promise? He was at the same spot, in the same yard at more or less the same time. Why did she not send word? A sleepless night in a fever of hope had been followed by a morning rehearsal. Knowing that she would be watching, he dedicated his performance in Vincentio’s Revenge to her and invested it with every ounce of skill and commitment.
After changing out of his costume in the tiring-house and waiting for the yard to clear of spectators, he began his vigil with a light heart. It was now a huge boulder which weighed him down and which threatened to burst out of the inadequate lodging of his chest. Could any woman be capable of such wanton cruelty? A rose. A promise. Betrayal. Hoode was devastated.
There was no hint of Rose Marwood this time, no sign of a well-groomed servant with a secret missive. All he could see were a couple of ostlers, sniggering at him from the shadow of the stables and wondering why a man in his best doublet and hose should be standing in the middle of a filthy innyard. Hoode gave up. With weary footsteps, he trudged towards the archway which led to Gracechurch Street.
When the horse and rider trotted into the yard, he stood swiftly to one side to let them pass, never suspecting that they had come in search of him. The young man in the saddle brought his mount in a tight circle and its flank brushed Hoode as it went past. About to protest, the playwright suddenly realised that he was holding something in his hand. Another missive had been delivered.
Spirits soaring once more, he tore the seal off and unrolled the sheet. Hoping for a letter, he was at first dumbfounded to find no words at all on the page. In their place was what appeared to be the head of a horse with a spike protruding from between its eyes. Was it a message or a piece of mockery? It was only when his brain cleared that he was able to read its import.
‘The Unicorn!’
A rose. A promise. A tryst. Love was, after all, moving in ascending steps. She was waiting for him at the Unicorn. It was an inn no more than a hundred yards away. His first impulse was to run there as fast as his trembling legs could carry him, but a more sensible course of action recommended itself. Since she had kept him on tenterhooks, he would make her wait as well. It would only serve to heighten the pleasure of their encounter.