The Queen's Head

He gestured his bafflement then went up to his bedchamber, lapping on the door before going in. The young woman leapt up from a chair and went over to him.

'Nicholas Bracewell?'

'Yes.'

'Thank heaven I've found you!'

She clasped his hands tightly and tears formed in blue eyes that looked as if they had cried their fill. The woman was short, neat, pleasantly attractive, no more than twenty and wearing a plain dress beneath a simple gown. Nicholas caught a whiff of the country. One glance told him why his landlady had been so offhand with him. The girl was clearly pregnant. Anne Hendrik had seen a distressed young woman in search of Nicholas and assumed that he was the father of the child.

He ushered her gently to a chair and knelt in front of her. The room was small but well-furnished and impeccably clean. She looked out of place in such comfortable surroundings.

'Who are you?' he asked.

'Susan Fowler.'

'Fowler?...Surely you are not his daughter?'

'No,' she replied in hurt tones. 'Will was my husband.'

Fresh tears trickled down her flushed cheeks and he took her in his arms to comfort her, letting her cry her fill before she spoke again. His head shook apologetically.

'I'm sorry. I had no idea that he was married.'

'It was almost two years ago.'

'Why did he say nothing?'

'He wanted it that way,' she whispered. 'Will said the theatre was a world of its own. He wanted somewhere to go to when he had to get away from it.'

Nicholas could sympathize with that desire but he still could not fit this attractive young housewife alongside the blunt and outspoken Will Fowler. There was a naive willingness about her that seemed unlikely to ensnare an actor, who, just like his fellows, had always taken his pleasures along the way with much more worldly creatures.

'Where do you live?' he asked.

'In St Albans. With my parents.'

'Two years ago, you say?'

'All but, sir.'

It began to make sense. Two years earlier, the company had toured in Hertfordshire and given a couple of performances at Lord Westfield's country house in St Albans. The relationship had somehow started there and, unaccountably, led to marriage. What now assailed Nicholas was a shaming guilt. They had laid Will Fowler in his grave without a thought for this helpless woman. How did you find out? he wondered.

'I knew something had happened. He always sent word.'

'When did you come to London?'

'Today. Will had spoken about The Queen's Head.'

'You went there?'

She nodded. 'The landlord told me.'

Nicholas was mortified. Of all the people to report a husband's death to a vulnerable young wife, Alexander Marwood was the worst. He could make good news sound depressing. With a genuine tragedy to retail, he would be in his macabre element. Pain and embarrassment made Nicholas enfold Susan Fowler more tightly in his arms. He took the blame upon himself. Sensing this, she squeezed his arms gently.

'You weren't to know.'

'We thought he had no next of kin.'

'There'll be two of us come September.'

He released his grip and knelt back again. Susan Fowler had been told that he was the best person to explain the horrid circumstances of her husband's death. Nicholas was as discreet as he could be, playing down certain aspects of the tale and emphasizing that Will Fowler had been an unwitting victim of a violent and dangerous man. She listened with remarkable calm until it was all over, then she fainted into his arms.

He lifted her on to the bed and made her comfortable, releasing her gown from her neck and undoing her collar. Pouring a cup of water from the jug on his table, he dipped a finger in it to bathe her forehead. When she began to stir, he helped her to sip some of the liquid. She began to rally.

'I'm sorry, sir.'

'There's no need. It's a trying time for you.'

'I miss Will so much.'

'Of course.'

'That man...at the tavern...'

'He'll be caught,' promised Nicholas.

Susan Fowler soon felt well enough to sit up with a pillow at her back. Now that her secret was out, she wanted to talk about it and did so compulsively. Nicholas was honoured that she felt able to entrust him with her confidences. It was a touching story. The unlikely romance between an ageing actor and a country girl had started with a chance meeting at St Albans and developed from there.

The picture that emerged of Will Fowler was very much at variance with the man Nicholas had known. His widow spoke of him as kind, gentle and tender. There was no mention of his abrasive temper which had led him into so much trouble and which had finally contributed to his death. Susan Fowler had been married to a paragon. Though the time they spent together was limited, it had been a blissful union.

Another surprise lay in store for Nicholas.

'We married in the village church.'

'Did you?'

'Will called it an act of faith.'

'All marriages are that,' he suggested.

'You don't understand,' she continued. 'Will had vowed that he'd never enter a Protestant church. He was a Catholic'

Nicholas reeled as if from a blow. A man whom he thought he had known quite well was turning out to have a whole new side to his character. Religion was something with which the actor had always seemed cheerfully unconcerned. It did not accord too well with the freebooting life of a hired man.

'He gave it up,' she said with pride. 'For me.'

'Are you quite certain of all this?'

'Oh, yes.'

'Will, of the old religion?'

'He was very devout.'

'You talked about it?'

'All the time. He showed me his Bible and his crucifix.'

'Did he say how long he'd followed Rome?'

'For years.'

Astonishment gave way to speculation. Nicholas began to wonder if the actor's ebullient manner was a kind of disguise, a wall behind which he hid himself so that nobody could get too close. If he could conceal his religion and his marriage so effectively, it was possible that he had other secrets.

Susan Fowler was now patently exhausted. The shock of it all was draining her strength and her eyelids were drooping. He told her to stay exactly where she was and went quickly downstairs. Anne Hendrik was waiting for him, schooling herself to be calm yet evidently upset by the situation. She continued to ply her needle and avert her eyes from him.

'An apology is due,' he began.

'Do not bother, sir,' she answered.

'The girl will have to pass the night in my chamber.'

'Oh, no!' said Anne, looking up at him. 'I make objection to that, Nicholas. This is not a tavern with rooms to let for any doxy who happens to pass by'

'Susan Fowler is no doxy.'

'Take her out of my house, if you please!'

'You hear what I say?'

'I care not what her name is.'

'Susan Fowler,' he repeated.

'She will not pass the night under my roof, sir.'

'The girl is Will Fowler's widow.'

Realization dawned on her and her jaw dropped. It was the last thing she had expected and filled her instantly with remorse. She looked upwards then put her sewing aside and rose from her chair. Her natural compassion flowed freely.

'Oh, the poor lass! Of course, she must stay--for as long as she wishes. i he girl should not be travelling alone in that condition.' She turned to Nicholas. 'Why did you not tell me that Will Fowler was married?'

'Because I only found out about it myself just now.' He flashed her a warm grin. 'Does this alter the case?'

A brief smile lit up her face and she leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek. Duties intruded.

'If she is to sleep in that chamber, I must take up some clean bedding. And she may need help undressing.' Her hand went up to her mouth. 'Oh dear! What must she think of me, giving her such a frosty welcome when she came to my door?'