Nicholas was deeply disappointed. In times of adversity, Westfield’s Men could be usually be counted on to pull together but it had not happened that afternoon. What had worked so well in rehearsal that morning had faltered during the actual performance. Even experienced actors like Gill, Ingram, Carr and Frank Quilter had signally failed to do themselves justice. Something positive had been achieved. In defiance of the attempt to prevent them from playing at all, they had actually staged the comedy in front of a full audience. Money had been earned and spectators went away happy. But it was not enough to satisfy Nicholas. He was forced to accept the fact that, without Firethorn, the company was not in a fit state to defend their high reputation. Their patron, an assiduous theatregoer, would have been shocked to see how disorganised they had become. He would certainly not allow his company to perform at the castle in front of Lord Cobham.
Suppressing his own anxieties, Nicholas did his best to give encouragement to the others but it was in vain. They were sad and jaded. The performance had exposed their limitations and reminded them just how much they depended on Firethorn. All that they wanted to do — apart from Elias, that is — was to creep back to the Lion and reach for the consolation of strong ale. Gill crooked a finger to call Nicholas over to him.
‘That was an abomination,’ said the clown.
‘It was lacking in some respects,’ admitted Nicholas.
‘Thank heaven that Lord Westfield was not here to witness it.’
‘I, too, am grateful for that small mercy.’
‘Spare us from further disgrace, Nicholas.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Inform our patron that we are unable to perform at the castle. I’ll not be humiliated like that again. Until we find Lawrence, we are but pale shadows of what we should be. Look around you,’ said Gill. ‘There’s hardly a man among us who would dare to take to the boards again. Explain the situation to Lord Westfield. Tell him that we’ve given our last performance in Dover.’
It took a long time for the crowd to disperse from the Guildhall. Several of the spectators remained in order to add their personal congratulations to the actors as they came out from the tiring-house. Owen Elias was the first to appear, surrounded immediately by adoring young women who quickly discovered that he was nothing like the timid and unworldly Lackwit that he had played. Barnaby Gill was wheeled out by George Dart to a smattering of applause and there was great interest as well in Richard Honeydew, whose portrayal of the heroine had been so convincing that some refused to believe that he was really a young boy. Under the supervision of Nicholas, the hired men began to dismantle the stage. Sebastian Frant and Thomasina came across to the book holder.
‘Do you have a moment to spare, Nick?’ asked Frant.
‘I always have time for your and your daughter,’ replied Nicholas, leaving the others to get on with their work. ‘It is good to see you both again. I wish that we could have offered you something better than was on display this afternoon.’
‘But we enjoyed the play,’ said Thomasina with obvious sincerity. ‘It was a more cunning and amusing tale than Cupid’s Folly. Master Gill was a delight and you proved yourself a very able actor.’
‘Yes,’ said Frant. ‘I’ve never seen you on stage before.’
Nicholas gave a tired smile. ‘Nor will you do so again, Sebastian. I was there merely to move the wheelbarrow. I’m not proud of my performance.’
‘You should be, Nick.’
‘I agree with Father,’ said Thomasina. ‘You were another clown. But where was Master Firethorn? I thought that you told me he was certain to appear today?’
‘He was indisposed, I fear,’ said Nicholas.
Her eyes filled with concern. ‘I hope that he is not ill.’
‘His condition is not serious and we expect him to return soon. Fortunately,’ he went on, pointing to Elias, ‘we had an able deputy in Owen. He was a true hero on that stage this afternoon.’
‘Oh, I know. Pray excuse me while I tell him so.’
Seeing that Elias was breaking away from a group of admirers, Thomasina went over to speak to him. The Welshman was soon lapping up her congratulations. It gave Nicholas the opportunity of a word alone with someone who knew much more about the theatre than his impressionable young daughter.
‘Be honest, Sebastian,’ said Nicholas. ‘What did you really think of us?’
Frant was tactful. ‘You’ve given me more entertaining performances.’
‘I asked for an honest opinion.’
‘Then I have to confess that I was disappointed. Thomasina might not have seen the faults but I lost count of them. Barnaby was curiously weak and Edmund was simply walking through his part. Owen Elias,’ he said, nodding towards the Welshman, ‘was the only person to bring true worth out of his role. You missed Lawrence sorely.’
‘We were all aware of that.’
‘Will he be back in time for your appearance at the castle?’
‘It seems unlikely,’ said Nicholas. ‘That being the case, we will have to forego the pleasure of playing here again. Barnaby refuses to countenance the idea and most of our fellows will be of the same mind. Owen apart, they would like to quit Dover at the earliest opportunity.’
‘Are they so upset by their performance?’
‘They are mortified, Sebastian, and so am I. You’ve seen us at the Queen’s Head. You know what Westfield’s Men can do at their best.’
‘No rival can even challenge them.’
‘We did not feel quite so invincible today.’
Frant was sympathetic. ‘Take heart from the fact that you had more spectators here like Thomasina. They loved what they saw and gave you the tribute of their palms.’ His daughter rejoined him. ‘We must away, my dear. And we must let Nick get on with his work.’ He shook hands with Nicholas. ‘Give my warmest regards to Lawrence. I hope that he is soon able to take his place on stage again.’
‘Yes,’ said Thomasina. ‘I long to see him once more.’
‘It may not be in Dover,’ said Nicholas. ‘Farewell.’
As he watched Frant and his daughter leaving the hall, Nicholas had his worst fears confirmed. Their former scrivener had been candid. By their normal standards, the performance was extremely poor. Nicholas felt that they had cheated the audience and yearned for the chance to make amends. That chance would not come in Dover unless Firethorn was found and restored to his pre-eminence in the company. It was a sobering reminder. His main task was to continue the search. After instructing the others to load everything into the waiting wagons, Nicholas slipped out of the Guildhall. He did not walk far before someone stepped out to block his way. It was John Strood.
‘I was hoping to see you, Nick,’ he said, pumping his friend’s hand. ‘You told me that you were the book holder. I did not realise that you were an actor as well.’
‘Only by necessity, John.’
‘It was the wittiest play I’ve ever seen.’
‘I’m glad that you enjoyed it.’
‘It was such a clever idea to use a wheelbarrow as you did.’
‘That, too, was forced upon us,’ said Nicholas. ‘But it was good of you to come.’
‘It was the only time that I could.’
‘Why? Are you setting sail?’
‘Later this evening.’
‘How long will you be away?’