‘What happened to Margaret Hurrell?’ he asked.
‘Her husband divorced her.’
‘So she was cast out into the wilderness as well.’
‘In a sense, Nick.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She married your father. They lived together.’
Nicholas was stunned. The old woman at the cottage had not been a servant at all. She had been the wife of a successful merchant and had enjoyed all the trappings of that success. But she had also risked them to be with the man for whom she really cared. Margaret Hurrell had loved Robert Bracewell so much that she was even prepared to share his disgrace and his straitened circumstances. Nicholas now realised why his father had been so hurt by the reference to his mean cottage and his old servant. It was an insult.
Mary Whetcombe became philosophical.
‘We have all been punished,’ she said.
‘Punished?’
‘For illicit love. You and I came together outside marriage and we paid the price for it. What we did was wrong, Nick. We were betrothed to other people.’
‘Only in name.’
‘God punished us in the same way that he punished your father and Margaret Hurrell.’
‘There is no comparison,’ he said, hotly.
‘But there is, Nick. Their case is not so very different from our own. They loved where they had no right to love. Yes, you may call it lust but it must have been more than that. Lust would have burnt itself out long ago. What they have has bonded them together for life.’
It was a chastening thought. The stern father who had tried to bully Nicholas into a marriage for commercial reasons had himself taken a second bride solely in the name of love. It was a crowning paradox. Robert Bracewell had betrayed the values of the mercantile community in which he had made his name. Notwithstanding the enormous cost, he was now ending his days with a woman he had loved for so many years.
Here was a salutary lesson for Nicholas. He had to choose a wife by following his heart and not by seeking any pecuniary advantage. Marriage to Mary Whetcombe would open up a whole new world for him, but it was not one that he had earned. Nor could they ever recapture the infatuation of their youth. He was delighted that they were reconciled and moved by her plea but he could not make a commitment to her.
‘Stay with us, Nick,’ she said. ‘We need you.’
‘I have to leave tomorrow.’
‘But we can make a fresh start together. You, me, and Lucy.’ He lowered his head in apology and she understood. ‘There is someone else.’
‘Yes, Mary.’
‘Is she waiting for you?’
‘I hope so.’
There was no more to be said. Nicholas felt that it would be unwise to spend another night in a house that echoed with so many cruel whispers from the past. He would stay at the Dolphin Inn and sail at dawn on the morrow. Mary Whetcombe threw herself impulsively into his arms and he hugged his farewell. Lucy joined in the embrace and they both kissed her warmly. The girl then broke away and rolled back the piece of material in which she kept her dolls. She sensed that she would never see Nicholas again and she wanted him to have an important souvenir. After stroking one of her dolls with great reverence, she handed it over to him.
Nicholas looked down at the flimsy object on his palm.
It was Susan Deakin. His daughter.
Epilogue
Margery Firethorn was now a frequent caller at the Queen’s Head. The gentle pressure which she had at first applied had slowly given way to a more concerted shove. Alexander Marwood’s resistance had finally been broken by the joint force of Anne Hendrik, Lord Westfield and that most valuable ally of all, Sybil Marwood, the landlord’s wife. Margery had marshalled her troops like a veteran siege-master, and the flint-hard walls of Marwood’s resolve had at last been breached. The theatre company would be allowed to return to his inn yard. Westfield’s Men had a home once more.
‘When will they be here?’ asked a rubicund Leonard.
‘At any hour,’ said Margery.
‘It seems as if they have hardly been away.’
‘A full month, Leonard. And sorely missed.’
‘Indeed. But they come back in triumph.’
‘Yes,’ said Margery. ‘They had difficulties on tour at first but they prospered in the end. My husband’s letters speak of many glories along the way. They have even written a ballad in his honour. He will no doubt sing it to me.’ She gazed around the refurbished yard. ‘Is all ready here?’
‘The Queen’s Head is in fine condition.’
‘All the carpentry finished, all the thatching done?’
‘We have a new inn, Mistress Firethorn.’
‘And a new play to grace it.’
Leonard took her on a brief tour of the yard to point out each improvement. Repairs had been costly, but the workmen had toiled with spirit and finished well ahead of their projected date. Even Marwood was pleased with the results. A decaying part of his property had been destroyed by fire but it had been replaced by sturdier wood, fashioned by excellent craftsmanship. Westfield’s Men would be thrilled with their renovated theatre and so would their regular patrons. A month without their favourite troupe had left the playgoing public feeling starved and mutinous.
‘Will you be here tomorrow?’ asked Leonard.
‘Nothing would prevent me.’
‘I will take my place among the standees.’
‘You have earned it, Leonard. You have done your share towards persuading that idiot of a landlord to see sense. Westfield’s Men will tread the boards again tomorrow. They left the city as outcasts but they return as conquerors.’ A smile flitted across her face. ‘I will give my husband the welcome that is due to a victorious general.’
Nicholas Bracewell soon found the spot to which he was directed in the churchyard. A little mound marked the place where his daughter had been buried. In time, when the earth had settled, it would be possible to put a gravestone there to mark the place. He now had a name to carve upon it. A bunch of flowers had been set upon the mound, and he knew that they could only have come from Anne Hendrik. He was profoundly touched. Susan’s resting place would not lack flowers from now on. Her father would be there to pay his respects whenever he could. From inside his jerkin, he took out the little doll that Lucy had given him. He scooped a shallow hole in the earth and lay the doll down with the young girl whom it represented. After one last look, he gently covered it up.
Kneeling beside the grave, he offered up a prayer then got to his feet. The rest of the company had gone straight to the Queen’s Head, but he had broken away to hasten to Southwark. Having visited his daughter, he now hurried off to call on Anne Hendrik. Thoughts of her had brightened the journey home. Barnstaple was behind him and she could help to expunge it completely from his mind. When he reached the house, he knocked politely, not sure what sort of a welcome he would get, at once hoping that it would be warm and fearing that it might be frosty.
Anne herself answered the door and smiled in surprise.
‘Nick!’
‘Good day to you!’
‘I heard that the company would return today.’
‘We have something to come back to,’ he said, searching her eyes. ‘At least, that is what we believe.’
‘Come on in.’
Nicholas did not get the kiss that he half-expected but at least he was allowed back into the house. Anne walked around him in excitement and asked him a dozen questions that he had no chance to answer. When she gave him a hug, he felt all of the tensions between them ease slightly.
‘Margery tells me that you have a new play.’
‘The Merchant of Calais. First performed in Bath at the home of Sir Roger Hordley. Lord Westfield is very jealous that his brother saw it before he himself.’