Owen Elias was in the middle of a long monologue but his companion was not listening to a word of it. With his round, clean-shaven moon face aglow, Edmund Hoode stared ahead of him at some invisible object of wonder. When the book holder sat opposite them, the fiery Welshman switched his attack to the newcomer.
‘I was telling Edmund here even now,’ he said with eyes ablaze. ‘I would be Ramon to the life.’
‘Ramon?’
‘Yes, Nick. The Governor of Cyprus.’
‘Ah. You talk of Black Antonio.’
‘We play it on Monday next. I should be Ramon.’
‘The part is already cast.’
‘I have the better claim to it.’
‘That may well be so,’ agreed Nicholas reasonably, ‘but it is a major role and must of necessity be played by one of the sharers.’
‘Even though I have superior talent?’
‘Theatre is not always just, Owen.’
‘Support me in this. Take up cudgels on my behalf.’
‘I have urged your case a dozen times to Master Firethorn. He is a keen judge of acting and recognises your mettle. But there are other needs to satisfy first.’
‘His lice-ridden sharers!’
‘It will not help if you abuse your fellows.’
‘I am sorry, Nick,’ said Elias, lapsing into maudlin vein. ‘But it makes my blood boil to see the way that I am held back. In temper and skill, I am the equal of any in the company save Lawrence Firethorn himself yet I languish in the shallows. Take but Double Deceit, man. I was partnered with that dolt of a stagekeeper.’
‘George Dart does not pretend to be an actor.’
‘Others do and get away with murder!’
‘Some fall short of greatness, I admit.’
‘Help me, Nick,’ said the other seriously. ‘You are my only hope in this company. Find me the chance to show my genius and they will beg me to become a sharer.’
Nicholas doubted it. Owen Elias had many sterling qualities but his relentless self-assertion was a severe handicap. He upset many of his colleagues with his grumbling discontent and would never be accepted by the other sharers, especially as he would show some of them up completely if he were given a sizeable role. Unknown to the Welshman, Nicholas had already saved him from summary dismissal on more than one occasion by pleading on his behalf. The book holder had found an unlikely ally. He had been supported by Barnaby Gill who was highly aware of the potential talent of Owen Elias and who relished the fact that it was akin to that of Lawrence Firethorn. The hired man was no threat at all to Gill but he might steal some of the actor-manager’s thunder if he were given the opportunity.
‘I grow weary of this damnable life!’ said Elias.
‘Your hour will come, Owen.’
‘Too late, too late. I may not be here to enjoy it.’
He emptied his tankard, hauled himself out of his chair and rolled off towards the exit. His story was typical of so many hired men who toiled in the smaller parts while less able actors scooped the cream. It was one of the many bitter facts of life that had to be accepted by those in the lower ranks of the profession.
Nicholas now turned his attention to Edmund Hoode.
‘I am pleased to see you in good spirits.’
‘What’s that?’ Hoode came out of his daydream.
‘You have shed your melancholy.’
‘No, Nick. It was snatched away from me.’
‘By whom?’
‘The fairest creature that I ever beheld.’
‘That phrase has been on your lips before,’ teased the book holder gently.
‘This time it finds its mark directly. She has no equal of her sex. I have witnessed perfection.’
‘Where did this happen, Edmund?’
‘Where else but at The Theatre?’
‘During the performance?’
‘She condescended to smile down on me.’
‘As did the whole assembly. You played your part with great verve and humour.’
‘It was dedicated to her,’ said Hoode impulsively. ‘I noticed her when I had my soliloquy in Act Three. She leant forward in the middle gallery to hear it all the better. Oh, Nick, I all but swooned! She is celestial!’
It was another phrase which he had sometimes used before and not always with discrimination. During an earlier period of frustration in his life, his romantic urge had focused itself wildly and inappropriately on Rose Marwood, the landlord’s daughter, an attractive wench with the good fortune to resemble neither of her parents. Like so many of Hoode’s attachments, it was wholly unwise and brought him only further grief. Deeply fond of his colleague, Nicholas hoped that another disappointment was not in the offing for him.
Edmund Hoode was back in the playhouse again.
‘She sat beside an ill-favoured gallant in black and silver,’ he recalled. ‘Her own apparel was green, so many hues and each so beautifully blended with the others that she drew my eyes to it. As for her face, it makes all others seem foul and ugly. I will not rest until I have wooed her and won her. Nick, sweet friend, I am in love!’
The poet rhapsodised at length and the book holder’s discomfort grew steadily. In every detail, the description tallied with the one given to him by another member of the company and that could only set up the possibility of horrendous complications. Edmund Hoode was unquestionably talking about Matilda Stanford. He was intent on pursuing a young woman who had already been targeted by Lawrence Firethorn. The implications were frightening.
‘Help me to find out who she is, Nick!’
‘How may I do that?’
‘Wait until she visits us again.’
‘But the lady may never do that.’
‘She will,’ said Hoode confidently. ‘She will.’
The prospect made Nicholas grit his teeth.
The interior of Stanford Place was even more impressive than its façade. Its capacious rooms were elegantly furnished and given over to an ostentatious display of wealth. Large oak cupboards with intricate carvings all over them were loaded to capacity with gold plate that was kept gleaming. Rich tapestries covered walls and hand-worked carpets of exquisite design softened the clatter of the floors. Gilt-framed oil paintings added colour and dignity. Tables, chairs, benches and cushions abounded and there were no less than three backgammon tables. Huge oak chests bore further quantities of gold plate. Four-branched candelabra were everywhere. The sense of prosperity was overwhelming.
Matilda Stanford saw none of it as she ran through the house in her excitement. Her husband was still in his counting-house and she raced to knock on its door but a firm voice stopped her just in time.
‘The master would not be disturbed.’
‘But I have such news for him,’ she said.
‘He left precise instructions.’
‘Do they apply to his wife?’
‘I fear they do,’ said Simon Pendleton with smug deference. ‘The late Mistress Stanford knew better than to interrupt him during the working day.’
‘Am I to be denied access to my own husband?’
‘I do but offer advice.’
Matilda was quite abashed. The steward’s manner was so full of polite reproach that it smothered all her vivacity beneath it. When she gave a resigned shrug and began to move away, Pendleton felt that he had won a trial of strength and that was important to him. He was about to congratulate himself when the door opened and Walter Stanford came out. His face beamed indulgently.
‘Come to me, my darling,’ he said expansively.
‘I am not being a nuisance, sir?’
‘What an absurd thought!’ He glanced at the steward. ‘You do not have to protect me from my own wife, Simon.’
‘I did what I considered right and proper, sir.’
‘For once, your judgement was at fault.’