My father continued to look grave.
‘Simon is an actor with James Burbage’s company,’ I explained, a little dismayed by his expression, ‘appearing at the Theatre, at Bishopsgate Without.’
‘He is young for an actor.’ My father addressed me as though Simon was not in the room. I was becoming embarrassed by what seemed almost to be open hostility to Simon.
‘I am young for a doctor,’ I said. ‘He is the same age as I am.’
‘I play the women’s parts, sir.’ Simon addressed my father directly and if he was hurt by my father’s demeanour, he concealed it. But then, he was well trained. ‘It is a very respectable company and Master Burbage has the same care of the boys in the company as any good master for his apprentices.’
My father inclined his head as though he accepted this statement, but reserved judgement about actors in general. I had not thought he was prejudiced against those who earned their living in the playhouse, but it is true that many people regard actors as little more than vagabonds, even those belonging to decent licensed companies in London. Burbage’s company was under the patronage of the Earl of Leicester, and was second in rank to none but the Queen’s Men.
‘I came only to learn whether there was word of you,’ Simon said, turning towards the door. ‘Now that you are home, I won’t trouble you further.’
I could see that my father would be glad to see him go and, truth to tell, I was so tired that I ached in every bone, but I did not want to see him go like this, dismissed, as it were, by my father’s discourtesy.
‘I have a holiday from Walsingham’s work tomorrow,’ I said, ‘and the hospital will not expect me back until next week at least.’
My father made a sudden movement at that, but said nothing.
‘Have you a play tomorrow?’ I said. ‘I could come to see you.’
Simon smiled at me, his whole face full of delight. ‘I have no part tomorrow, but if you came early I could introduce you to the rest of the company and show you something of my world. If you would like that?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes, I should like that.’
‘Good!’ He thumped me on the shoulder. ‘Come about midday. And take care you do not let Master Burbage recruit you this time!’
He made a deep actor’s bow to us both, then he was gone.
The door had barely closed when my father said, ‘That is not a suitable friend for you, Kit. An actor! They are mountebanks, not to be trusted. And do I understand that you have already met this Burbage fellow?’
I felt a surge of resentment towards my father, something I had never experienced before.
‘Simon Hetherington is a decent young man,’ I said stiffly. ‘He was educated at St Paul’s School and could have gone to Oxford, but did not choose the academic life. He has appeared before the Queen herself. And I merely ran into Master Burbage by chance.’
‘Nevertheless, I do not think he is a suitable friend for you. You must remember how dangerous your situation is.’
Of course I knew what he meant. I must always be on my guard against forming close friendships, lest my secret be discovered. Yet now, for the first time in my life, I found my heart rising in rebellion against my father. Why should I not make friends of my own age, if I was careful? I worked hard. Indeed, since my recruitment into Sir Francis’s service, I worked doubly hard, as both physician and code-breaker. Rarely did I have any moment to myself. That evening making music with Harriot was the first time I had known any leisure for months. And now I had just returned from a frightening mission for Sir Francis, masquerading in a Catholic household which might be engaged in dangerous treason. I had braved Sir Damian’s study to search for traitors’ letters, escaped from the house and ridden through the night, all on my own. I did not think my father understood the risks I had taken.
To my shame, tears began to fill my eyes.
‘I just enjoy his company, Father. He is, truly, a decent, well brought-up young man. Not a mountebank at all. You should come to the play one day. The theatre is changing. It’s no longer crude entertainment for the rougher element of London streets. There are men like Thomas Kyd who are writing wonderful plays, plays written in beautiful poetry, serious plays.’
He looked unconvinced, but he must have seen my tears, for his voice softened.
‘Very well, Kit. You may occasionally meet this Simon Hetherington, but you must be careful. If he should ever suspect . . . you do understand just how serious it would be? You would be in his power. If he reported you to the authorities, you could be burned for heresy.’
‘I understand,’ I said. I did not say that one man, a treacherous and possibly treasonous man, already knew that I was a girl and would betray me whenever it suited him. And in my heart I knew that for the first time in my life I would disobey my father. I would see Simon whenever I chose.
I slept late the next morning, exhausted from lack of sleep and the fears of the previous day, so that when I woke at last my father had gone to the hospital and Joan to the market. The weather had turned warm and spring-like again after the storm. Bright sunlight flooded in through my window when I threw back the shutters. A sparrow flew past, its beak loaded with nesting materials, while from the direction of the river there was a sudden clamour of gulls which heralded the dumping of waste overboard from one of the ships in the docks.
My heart lifted in sudden happiness. Here I was with a whole day to myself! I could use it how I chose, a luxury that was almost unknown to me. I dressed slowly in clean clothes and a pair of respectable shoes, and took time to comb my hair which curled tightly now that I wore it cut short like a boy’s. It was tangled and it took me time to tug the comb through the knots. The sounds of London going about its daily business floated up from the street – the lowing of a herd of cattle being driven to Smithfield, the clatter of carts bumping over the ruts in the lane, hawkers shouting their wares. When I heard the milkmaid calling, I ran downstairs for the jug and out into the street.
‘Morning, Master Kit,’ she said, filling my jug from the barrel carried on the back of her donkey.’
‘Morning, Jess. Isn’t it a lovely day?’ I sounded as obsessed with weather as the English.
‘It is that. Not working at the hospital today?’
‘I have a holiday.’ I smiled, feeling that same quivering lift to my heart as I gave her the farthing for the milk.
She grinned back. ‘You’re lucky, then. No holiday for me.’
‘Well, it’s rare for me. I shall make the most of it.’
‘You do that.’ She chirruped to the donkey and went on her way, singing out her cry of ‘Milk! Sweet milk! Come and buy your sweet milk!’
I went back inside and decided I would cook myself porridge and serve it with milk while it was still fresh. Even on the stone shelf in the pantry it would soon go sour in the heat of the day. It was fresh now, that was why we always bought from Jess, whose father’s farm was just north of Lincoln’s Inn Fields. She rose to milk just after dawn and brought the milk into the city straight afterwards, And she carried it in a covered barrel, unlike some of the sluttish milkmaids who used open pails that were always crawling with flies.
The porridge was good, almost as good as the Barn Elms porridge. It was one of the few things I knew how to cook. The milk was sweet and creamy. I filled up with bread and hard cheese. It was yesterday’s bread, a little stale, but Joan had clearly not been to the baker yet today. She did not bake her own bread, for we had no bread oven. When the fireplace had been added to the house many years ago, replacing the central hearth and smoke hole, it seemed the hospital authorities had not thought it worthwhile going to the expenses of building a bread oven, when just round the corner there was a row of pie shops, which also baked bread for the parish.