‘Rose does not have my what?’ she demanded.
He wanted to say ‘authority’ but the word was stillborn on the sawdust of his tongue. After experimenting with a dozen other words which might have assuaged her, he finally found one which consented to be spoken aloud.
‘Beauty,’ he croaked.
It was the most ridiculous and inappropriate word to use of the gargoyle which confronted him and Marwood realised it at once, letting out a death rattle of a laugh at the sheer absurdity of such a description. What he had once ruinously mistaken for beauty in his wife had, on closer acquaintance, revealed itself to be no more than a deceptive willingness to please masking a hard-edged and unlovely countenance.
‘Do you mock me, sir?’ she snarled.
‘No, my love. Of course not, my angel.’
‘My beauty?’
‘Yes,’ he gabbled. ‘Your beauty, your beauty.’
‘Rose does not have my beauty?’
‘True, Sybil. So true, so true!’
‘So false, you wretch! she scolded. ‘Are you blind? Are you insane? Beauty is the one thing that Rose has inherited from me. Everyone has remarked upon it. Everyone but you, that is. Rose may lack my grace but she is as beautiful as her mother.’
‘Yes, yes!’ He was ready to agree to any illusion.
‘A moment ago, you denied it.’
‘I was wrong, Sybil.’
‘As always.’
‘As always,’ he echoed gloomily.
Marwood had learnt to take the line of least resistance against his wife. It was the only way to make life under the same roof as her at all tolerable. Since he could never hope for any pleasure in bed with her, he devoted his energies to reducing the pain which she routinely afflicted on him. How was it, he often asked himself, that motherhood seemed to soften most women yet had had the opposite effect on Sybil, turning her instead into a flinty harridan? It was unjust.
‘Have you spoken with Master Firethorn yet?’ she asked.
‘I am on my way to do so even now.’
‘Keep him to the terms of the contract.’
‘Left to me, there would be no contract,’ he grumbled. ‘We do not need that band of lecherous actors, prancing about on a stage in our yard, performing lewd, ungodly plays and bringing all the dregs of London into our premises.’
‘No,’ she said with heavy sarcasm, ‘and we do not need money to buy food, drink and shelter for ourselves and our daughter. Westfield’s Men make the Queen’s Head one the most popular inns in the city — as you can well see, Alexander. Look around you, man! These people are not here for the dubious thrill of meeting you. The players brought them in, which is why we must renew the contract with Westfield’s Men.’
‘On the terms we stipulate.’
‘That goes without saying.’
‘I will certainly say it to Master Firethorn,’ vowed her husband. ‘And to Nicholas Bracewell. He will be party to the discussion.’
‘Dear Nicholas!’ cooed his wife with an almost girlish giggle. ‘Such a gentleman in every way! How can you rail at the company when they have someone like Nicholas Bracewell in their ranks. I tell you this, sir. If I could have the choosing of a husband for Rose, I would look no further than him. It would be a joy to have him in the family.’
‘Joy?’ he repeated dully. ‘What is that?’
At that moment, Sybil caught a glimpse of her missing daughter through the window and the frost returned at once to her face and voice. She brushed her husband roughly aside.
‘Out of my way, sir. I want to speak to Rose.’
‘Keep her out of this bear pit,’ he said, gazing in dismay around the taproom. ‘Her virtue would be in danger.’
After congratulating the company on its success, and after heaping especial praise upon Edmund Hoode and Lucius Kindell, the joint authors of The Insatiate Duke, Lawrence Firethorn fortified himself with a glass of Canary wine in the tiring-house before leading a small deputation to the private room where they had agreed to meet the landlord. Barnaby Gill and Edmund Hoode went off with the actor-manager because they were principal sharers in the company and had a major stake in its future. At Firethorn’s insistence, Nicholas Bracewell was also part of the group because his counsel was always wise and because he was the only member of Westfield’s Men who could mollify and deal effectively with Marwood. There was the inevitable complaint from Gill that the book holder was merely a hired man and not a sharer but his petulant objections were quashed by Hoode and overridden by Firethorn.
When they reached the room, it was Ezekiel Stonnard who let them in. A big, round, corpulent, unctuous man in his fifties with a permanent smirk, Stonnard was Alexander Marwood’s lawyer and an old adversary of Westfield’s Men. He became proprietary and waved a flabby hand of welcome.
‘Come in, come in, sirs,’ he said. ‘My client will be here in a moment. Pray, do take a seat.’
‘We will stand,’ replied Firethorn. ‘This business will not take long and we have a triumph to celebrate.’
‘What triumph might that be?’ asked the lawyer.
‘My performance,’ said Gill, involuntarily.
‘Were you in the play, Barnaby?’ teased Firethorn. ‘You made such little impression, I quite forgot you were there.’
‘My jigs earned an ovation, Lawrence.’
‘The audience was so pleased when they ended.’
‘Both of you gave superb performances,’ said the ever-generous Hoode, intervening in the ritual bickering between the two outstanding talents in the troupe. ‘Lucius and I were thrilled that our play provided you both with such ideal roles in which to strut and dazzle.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Firethorn. ‘Barnaby strutted, I dazzled.’
‘Did you not see the play, Master Stonnard?’ said Nicholas, politely. ‘Since you came here to discuss our continued lease on the Queen’s Head, I wonder that you did not take the opportunity to watch Westfield’s Men at work.’
‘I am not fond of such entertainment,’ said the lawyer, superciliously. ‘Theatre is an unnecessary diversion in my view but my view is irrelevant here. All that concerns me is your agreement to the terms of the new contract.’ The door opened. ‘Ah, here is our genial host! Good day, sir.’
Anyone less genial than Alexander Marwood was difficult to imagine. He came through the door with a frown which changed into a scowl when he saw the four visitors ranged against him.
‘Why did you not bring the whole company?’ he taunted.
‘We are the company,’ said Firethorn. ‘In essence.’
‘And excluding our hired man,’ said Gill with a dismissive flick of the hand in the direction of Nicholas.
Hoode leapt to his friend’s defence. ‘Nick is a vital member of this troupe,’ he said, ‘and he has proved it time and again. We could well survive without Barnaby Gill but without Nicholas Bracewell, we would be utterly lost.’
‘I share those sentiments!’ affirmed Firethorn.
‘Perhaps you would care to share some interest in this,’ said Stonnard, producing some documents from inside a leather satchel he was holding. ‘I take it that you have now had time to study the contract in detail?’
‘We have,’ said Firethorne. ‘So has our lawyer.’
‘What is his opinion?’
‘He found little to cavil at, Master Stonnard.’
‘Then let us get it signed and over with,’ urged Marwood. ‘You know my view of this unfortunate arrangement. I wish I had never encountered Westfield’s Men. But other imperatives are involved here,’ he continued, thinking of his wife. ‘If the contract must be signed, let us do it with all due speed then I can get back to the taproom before it is torn asunder by that rabble.’
‘But there has been no negotiation,’ argued Firethorn.
‘Negotiation?’ said Marwood.
‘Yes. There are several clauses I wish to amend.’
‘Take care, sir,’ said Stonnard, stepping smartly forward and sending his double chin into a wobble. ‘I will not permit any legal quibbles. My client and I spent many hours drafting this contract. It may not be rewritten to satisfy your whims.’