Ever since she had realised she was unhappy, it had been more and more of an effort to pretend otherwise and she was almost glad of the crisis about her husband’s missing nephew, Michael, because it relieved her of the need to be so wifely and vivacious. In sharing the general concern, she could conceal her own feelings of loss and disappointment. In worrying about Lieutenant Michael Delahaye, she was expressing a deeper anxiety about someone else who had gone astray. Matilda Stanford was also missing and the search for her was fruitless.
There were moments of joy but they lay in the fond contemplation of one who was for ever beyond her reach. Lawrence Firethorn was unattainable. Though he had sent her a playbill and signalled his admiration during the performance of Double Deceit, that was as far as the relationship could realistically go. She was a married woman with no freedom of movement and he was a roving actor. There was no way that she could return the interest he had shown in her even though the desire to do so grew stronger by the hour. Michael’s disappearance was a mortal blow to her fleeting hopes. A man who might have accompanied her to the Queen’s Head was making sure that she had no means of going there. It was William Stanford who was leading the hunt and thereby depriving his stepmother of her means of attending a play.
As she looked ahead, her spirits sank even more. Her husband was a wonderful man in so many ways but he did not give her anything of the stimulation she received from a ranting actor upon a makeshift stage. When Walter Stanford became Lord Mayor of London, her situation could only get far worse as she was dragged along behind him into an endless round of social events. She would see even less of him and experience more inner torment. A marriage which had brought her such pleasure was now turning into a comfortable ordeal. She was stifled.
The lifeline was brought by Simon Pendleton.
‘Hold there, mistress.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Another missive has arrived for you.’
‘Who delivered it?’
‘That same miserable creature as before,’ said the steward, wrinkling his nose with polite contempt. ‘I have brought it to your hand.’
‘Thank you, Simon.’
‘Will there be anything else, mistress?’
‘Not at this time.’
He bowed and glided off into the undergrowth with practised ease. Though Matilda could not bring herself to like the man, she was profoundly grateful to him at the moment because he had fetched the thing she most desired. It was a playbill, rolled up as before and tied with a pink ribbon. As her nervous fingers released it, the scroll unwound and a sealed letter dropped to the ground. Matilda snatched it up immediately. A glance at the playbill told her that Westfield’s Men were due to stage Love and Fortune at the Queen’s Head on the following day but it was the letter that produced the real elation.
As she tore it open, she found herself reading a sonnet in praise of her beauty that itemised her charms with such playful delicacy that she almost swooned. It was unsigned but the sender — presumably the poet — was no less a person than Lawrence Firethorn himself. All her doubts were cast aside. Hers was no wild infatuation for a man beyond her grasp. It was a shared passion that drew them ineluctably together. A second message lay in the choice of play. Love and Fortune could be no accidental selection. It reinforced the sentiments of the sonnet and was an invitation to romance.
She read the poem again, weighing each word on the scales of her mind to extract maximum pleasure from it. That she could have inspired such a mellifluous flight of language was dizzying enough on its own. For it to have come from the hand of the man on whom she doted made the whole thing quite intoxicating. Walter Stanford could not be faulted as a loyal husband who treated his wife with respect. But he had no pretty rhymes in his soul.
Tears of joy formed. During her dark night of disenchantment, she had come to see that she was not happy in her marriage. During her walk in the afternoon sun, she made a discovery of equal import and adjusted her own view of herself yet again. In a garden in London, standing beneath a juniper tree, seeing the colour clearly, inhaling the sweet odours, hearing the melodious birdsong, Matilda Stanford had another revelation. Her heart was no longer bound by the vows made on her wedding day because it had not truly been engaged in the ceremony. Fourteen lines of poetry and a cheap playbill taught her something that sent a thrill through her entire being.
She was in love for the first time in her life.
The charnel house had a new keeper. Nicholas Bracewell’s formal complaint to the Coroner’s Court had led to the dismissal of the man who treated the dead bodies in his charge with such grotesque lack of respect. His hollow-cheeked successor was no more companionable but he had a greater sense of decency and decorum. Conducting the small party to the slab in the corner, he took hold of the tattered shroud and looked up for a signal from the watchman. The latter deferred to the two visitors he had brought into the grim vault. Walter Stanford exchanged a glance with his son and both braced themselves. A nod was then given to the keeper who drew back the shroud with clumsy reverence, unveiling only the head and trunk of the corpse so that the repulsive injuries to the leg remained hidden away.
‘Lord help us!’ exclaimed Stanford.
‘God rest his soul!’ said his son.
Both were thunderstruck by what they saw and fought to control their stomachs. Neither of them needed to view a crippled leg to confirm the identity of the battered body. Walter Stanford was looking at the nephew who was due to renounce a hedonistic existence and commit himself to a more responsible life. His son was staring at a beloved cousin whose merriment was its own justification. Grief dazed them both completely. The watchman gestured to the keeper and the shroud was pulled back over the corpse to check the hostile smell of death. There was a long, bruised silence as the visitors were given time to compose themselves. The watchman then spoke.
‘Well, sirs?’ he said.
‘That is him,’ whispered Stanford.
‘You have no doubt?’
‘None at all,’ added William.
‘Would you like to view him again?’
Walter Stanford winced and held up a large palm.
‘We have seen enough,’ he said. ‘My son and I know our own kin. That is Michael Delahaye.’
It was Anne Hendrik’s idea. After what she felt was the relative success of taking Hans Kippel to church, she believed he might now be ready for a more important outing, especially if it could be presented to the boy as something else. Nicholas Bracewell agreed to her plan. Since Westfield’s Men were not playing that Tuesday, he managed to find an hour in the middle of the afternoon when he could slip back home to Bankside to join in the expedition. The intention was to help the apprentice to confront his fear of the Bridge. This could not be done by simply taking him there and forcing him to cross it. Anne told him that all three of them were going to visit the market in Cheapside. With two adults at his side, he felt as if he were part of a family setting out on a small adventure. Apprehensions did not surface.
After prior discussion, Nicholas and Anne tried to keep his mind engaged by feeding him with snippets of information about some of the buildings and churches that they passed on the way. Their casual tone did not alter when the Bridge came in sight and the gatehouse loomed up ahead of them. Hans Kippel gulped when he saw the heads of executed traitors crudely exhibited on poles but he did not check his stride. The barbarous custom had always upset and fascinated the boy.