Adjusting his attire and straightening his hat, he left the Queen’s Head and strolled along Gracechurch Street with dignity. He was no love-lorn rustic, rushing to answer the call of a capricious mistress. He was a conqueror about to enjoy the spoils of war. That illusion carried him all the way to the Unicorn and in through its main door. It was shattered the moment he was confronted by a smiling young woman with a fawnlike grace and beauty. His jaw dropped.
She gave him a curtsey, then indicated the stairs.
‘My mistress awaits you, sir. Follow me.’
With uncertain steps, Edmund Hoode climbed towards Elysium.
Chapter Eight
When he reached the landing, he made an effort to compose his features and to straighten his back. It was as a man of the theatre that his admirer had first seen Edmund Hoode. She would lose all respect for him if he were to slink apologetically into her company and behave like a callow youth in a fumbling courtship. A dramatic entrance was called for and he did his best to supply it.
The maidservant tapped on a door, opened it in answer to a summons from within and then stepped back to admit the visitor. Pretending that he was about to face an audience in the innyard, Hoode went into the chamber with a confident stride and doffed his hat to bow low. The door closed soundlessly behind him. When he raised his eyes to take a first long look at the mysterious lady in his life, he was quite bedazzled.
She was beautiful. Fair-skinned and neat-boned, she had an alabaster neck which supported an oval face of quiet loveliness. She wore a dark blue velvet dress but no jewellery of any kind. Well-groomed blond hair was brushed back under a blue cap. Gloved hands were folded in her lap as she sat on a chair, framed by the window.
Hoode was struck by her poise and elegance. Her voice was low and accompanied by a sweet smile of welcome.
‘It is a pleasure to see you, Master Hoode,’ she said.
‘Thank you,’ he replied politely, ‘but I fear that you have the advantage over me.’
‘My name is Cecily Gilbourne.’
A second bow. ‘At your service, Mistress Gilbourne.’
‘Pray take a seat, sir.’
She motioned him to a chair opposite her and he lowered himself gingerly onto it, his gaze never leaving her. Cecily Gilbourne was a trifle older than he had expected-in her late twenties, perhaps even thirty-but her maturity was to him a form of supreme ripeness. He would not have changed her age by a year or her appearance by the tiniest emendation. It was reassuring to learn that she was no impressionable child, no giggling girl, no shallow creature infatuated with the theatre, but a woman of experience with an intelligence that positively shone out of her.
‘The Merchant of Calais,’ she announced.
‘A workmanlike piece,’ he said modestly.
‘I thought it brilliant. It was the first of your plays that I saw and it made me yearn to meet the author.’
‘Indeed?’
‘Such an understanding of the true price of love.’
‘Your praise overwhelms me.’
‘Not as much as your work overwhelms me,’ she said with a sigh of admiration. ‘You are a true poet of the soul. The Corrupt Bargain.’
‘Another apple plucked from the orchard of my brain.’
‘Delicious in the mouth. Love’s Sacrifice. We have all made that in our time, alas. Your play on that theme was so profound.’
‘Drawn from life.’
‘That is what I guessed. Only those who have suffered the pangs of a broken heart can understand the nature of that suffering. Love’s Sacrifice gave me untold pleasure and helped me to keep sorrow at bay during a most troubling time in my life. Your plays, Master Hoode-may I call you Edmund?’
‘Please, please!’ he encouraged.
‘Your plays, Edmund, are a source of joy to me.’
‘For that compliment alone, they were worth writing.’
‘Double Deceit.’
‘Juvenilia. When I was young and green.’
‘Its humour bubbled like a mountain stream.’
‘Pompey the Great. That is Edmund Hoode at his finest.’
‘I regret that I have never seen it played.’
‘You must, you must, Mistress Gilbourne.’
‘Call me Cecily…if we are to be friends.’
‘Thank you, Cecily,’ he gushed. ‘And we will.’
‘Be friends?’
‘I earnestly hope so.’
‘No more than that?’
She gave him an enigmatic smile. Hoode was not sure if she was enticing him or merely appraising him. It did not matter. He was ready to surrender unconditionally to her will. A rose. A promise. A tryst. Cecily Gilbourne was a kindred spirit, a true romantic, someone removed from the sordid lusts of the world, a woman of perception who loved the way that he wrote about love.
‘Well?’ she said. ‘Do I surprise you?’
‘Surprise me and delight me, Cecily.’
‘Am I as you imagined I might be?’
‘Oh, no.’
‘You are disappointed?’
‘Overjoyed. The reality far exceeds my imaginings.’
She laughed softly. ‘I knew that I had chosen well.’
‘Did you?’
‘Yes, Edmund. Your plays let me look into your heart.’
‘What did you find there?’
The enigmatic smile played around her lips again.
‘I found you.’
The words caressed his ears and he almost swooned. He could not believe that it was happening to him. Years of rejection by the fairer sex had sapped his self-esteem. Romantic disaster was his natural habitat. Women like Cecily Gilbourne did not exist in his life except as phantoms. There had been no chase, no agonising period of courtship, no sequence of sonnets to express his desire in honeyed phrases. She had come to him. It was the most natural and painless relationship he had ever enjoyed with a beautiful woman, intensified as it was by an element of mystery, and given a deeper resonance by the fact that she adored his work as much as his person.
‘Will you come to me again, Edmund?’ she whispered.
‘Whenever you call.’
‘It will be very soon.’
‘I will be waiting.’
‘Thank you.’
She offered her hand and he placed the lightest of kisses upon it, his lips burning with pleasure as they touched her glove.
‘Farewell, my prince,’ she said.
Cecily turned to stare out of the window, allowing him to see her in profile and to admire the marmoreal perfection of her neck and chin. Caught in the light, her skin was so white and silky that Hoode had to resist the urge to reach out and stroke it with the tips of his fingers. Instead, he gave her the lowest bow yet, mumbled his farewell and backed towards the door with his mouth still agape.
Their first meeting was over. He was ensnared.
***
When they reached the precinct of Blackfriars, they explored the surrounding streets and the church before going into the theatre itself. Geoffrey, the old porter, gave them a subdued welcome and told them that Raphael Parsons was still in the building. Nicholas Bracewell went briskly up the staircase with James Ingram at his side.
What met them in the theatre itself was a far less gruesome sight than the one which had greeted them on their earlier visit. Raphael Parsons was talking to a group of young actors, who were sitting on the edge of the stage in costume. Behind them was the setting for the final scene of Mariana’s Revels. His voice was loud but unthreatening. None of the Chapel Children evinced any fear of the man.
Hearing their approach, Parsons swung round to face them.
‘You trespass on private property,’ he said crisply.
‘The theatre is open to the public,’ reminded Nicholas. ‘You performed here this very afternoon, it seems. Mariana’s Revels. Not that we come as spectators, Master Parsons. We would speak with you.’