‘I long to watch it myself at the Queen’s Head.’
‘Edmund has written a small masterpiece.’
‘Will you rehearse it there tomorrow?’ she said.
‘No, Anne.’
‘But if it is to be staged that afternoon …’
‘Westfield’s Men may rehearse it — but not I.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it is time they learnt to manage without me,’ he said, airily. ‘I have given my lifeblood to the theatre for too many years. Today, I resigned from the company. Let them find a new book holder.’
She was amazed. ‘You have fallen out with them, Nick?’
‘No,’ he said, placing a soft kiss on her cheek. ‘I have fallen in with you. Westfield’s Men took me away from here. They will not do so again.’
‘What are you telling me?’
‘You asked me to make a choice. I make it.’
‘But the choice was between staying and leaving.’
‘That is all done now,’ he said, briskly. ‘I’ll never visit Devon again. I have no further cause. That part of my life is closed for good. I want you, Anne.’
He slipped an arm around her but she broke away and regarded him with a more critical eye. The euphoria of seeing him again was wearing off and serious doubts were starting to emerge. Barnstaple was not just a town that he could wipe from the map of his personal experience. It held enough significance for him to put it before his commitment to her and she wanted to know exactly why.
‘Tell me all, Nick,’ she said, ‘or I’ll none of you.’
‘Anne …’
‘I want an honest man under this roof, not one who harbours secrets. Who was that girl and why did you go?’
‘To deal with some unfinished business.’
‘Of what nature?’
‘It pains me even to think of it.’
‘No matter for that,’ she said, tartly. ‘What sort of pain do you think I have suffered here? It was beyond measure. You disappeared into a void. The only information I gleaned about the company was from Margery Firethorn, who showed me her husband’s letters. Why did you not write to me?’
‘I was not sure how my letters would be received.’
‘Better than your silence!’
‘It was … too complicated to set down on paper.’
‘Then explain it to me now.’
‘Some things are perhaps best left-’
‘Now!’ she insisted. ‘I have waited long enough.’
Anne Hendrik sat on an upright chair with folded arms. Nicholas admired her spirit but he had hoped for less of an interrogation. Information that he had planned to release in small doses was now being demanded in full. He scratched his head and paced the room, not knowing where to begin his tale. Anne prompted him.
‘Who was that girl who brought the message here?’
‘The servant of a house in Barnstaple.’
‘There is more to it than that.’
‘Her name was Susan Deakin.’
‘You are hiding something from me, Nick.’
‘Look, can we not discuss this at a later date?’
‘Who was she?’
‘My daughter.’
Anne took a few moments to absorb the shock before she waved him on. Her expression showed that she feared there was worse to come. Having started, Nicholas plunged on with his story. He told it in a plain and unvarnished way and held nothing back from her. He even recounted the offer that Mary Whetcombe had made to him to share his life with her. Anne Hendrik listened to every word without interruption. Her emotions were deeply stirred and her hands played restlessly. Nicholas was uncertain how she was responding to his confession but he did not spare himself. He talked honestly about the mistakes of the past and how he had done his best to rectify them. When he told her about his visit to the grave where she had left the flowers, Anne was moved. She rose to her feet and allowed him to take her hands. Tears began to course down her cheeks.
Nicholas tried to kiss them away for her.
‘We may start a fresh life now, Anne. The two of us.’
‘Wait one moment,’ she said, drying her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘It is not as simple as you imagine.’
‘I have had weeks to think of it and I know my mind.’
‘Then it is time you knew mine.’
‘You were right in your strictures,’ he said, quietly. ‘I took you for granted. When I lodged here and worked for Westfield’s Men, you were a wonderful facet of my life and you enriched it greatly. But I did not pay you the respect you deserved. I did not take you seriously enough.’
‘You have realised that too late, Nick.’
‘I saw you as a friend who could comfort me in times of need,’ he admitted. ‘That is all done.’ He tried to enfold her in his arms. ‘What I want now is a wife who will share my whole life with me.’
She pushed him off. ‘Then I hope you find one, sir.’
‘Anne, I am offering you my hand!’
‘I thank you for that but I have to reject it.’
‘But I love you.’
‘In your own way, I believe that you do.’
‘I love you — I want you.’
‘There is too much between us now,’ she said. ‘You may be able to forget what happened in Barnstaple but I may not. The sight of that dead girl in my bedchamber will stay with me for ever. The fact that she was your daughter makes the memory even harder to erase.’ Anne shook her head. ‘I am sorry, Nick. While you were away, I thought a great deal about you and longed for your return but my feelings towards you have changed. After what you have told me, you can never be what you once were.’
‘You asked for the truth, Anne.’
‘And you gave it fairly. I respect that.’ She kissed him lightly. ‘We will always be friends and I will come often to the Queen’s Head but that is the extent of our friendship from now on.’
‘But why?’ he asked in dismay.
‘I have my past and you have yours. I will always be Jacob Hendrik’s widow and you will always be the father of Mary Parr’s child. There is no altering that, Nick. I will never be the wife that you wanted her to be.’
‘I am choosing you on your own merits,’ he argued.
‘No,’ she said, tilting her chin proudly. ‘You spurned me when I called to you. London or Barnstaple. That was your choice. You wanted both. It has made me wish for neither.’
Nicholas was wounded. He had told her everything in the hope that it would explain his behaviour but his honesty had been fatal. When he had kept her in ignorance of certain aspects of his life, she had been happy to share a bed with him. Now that he had confided in her — and made the ultimate commitment of a marriage proposal — she was rejecting him. On the long journey home, he had thought the whole matter through and convinced himself that the only way to close a disagreeable chapter in his life was to wed Anne Hendrik. What he had failed to do was to take her feelings properly into account. It was ironic. When he stood in the hall of the house in Crock Street, Mary had begged him to stay. At that point in time, Nicholas felt that he had to choose which of two women he should marry. In opting for Anne, he had now lost both.
‘It would not have worked, Nick,’ she said, turning to practicalities. ‘How would you have looked after your wife?’
‘I would have found employment.’
‘As a hatmaker? I have workmen enough.’
‘Do not mock me, Anne.’
‘I merely point to the realities.’
‘I would have supported you,’ promised Nicholas. ‘I can turn my hand to many things. I have talents.’
‘Indeed, you do,’ she said with admiration. ‘And they are seen at their best in the theatre.’
‘I was ready to quit that life for you.’
‘I believe you, Nick. But how long would it have been before you pined for it again? You ask for too much from me. I could never answer all your needs.’ She put her arms around his waist and looked up at him. ‘Go back to Westfield’s Men. There lies your true family.’
Nicholas gave her a long farewell kiss then left.
Raucous patrons filled the yard at the Queen’s Head. The company was back in London with a new play and the crowds thronged to Gracechurch Street. Lord Westfield had offered to underwrite the performance and bestow ten pounds on his company. That made it possible for all the admission money to be given to Alexander Marwood as a first payment towards his fund for fire damage. The innkeeper would never be happy but his trenchant unhappiness was at least partly reduced by the prospect of money. Lord Westfield was there himself with his entourage, seated in his accustomed position and savouring once more the kudos of being the patron of so sterling a troupe of players.