“Well, then I cannot imagine why the young fool would have killed him.”
“ ‘Twould seem that there was some sort of accusation concerning the young lady’s virtue,” Shakespeare said. “When he came to the theatre, looking for Ben Dickens, Corwin had informed me that he was going to Master Leonardo’s house to break off the engagement.”
“Odd’s blood!” said Darcie. “I had heard none of this at all! I had not even known that there was a formal engagement, much less any question concerning Hera’s virtue!”
“Had she said nothing to you about the matter?” Smythe asked, frowning.
“I should say not!” Darcie said. “S’trewth, the girl scarcely speaks at all. She speaks only to Elizabeth and keeps her eyes so downcast, ‘tis a wonder she can see where she is going. Not that I can fault her for her modesty. ‘Tis a manner most demure and most becoming in a woman. I would not find it amiss if some of it should rub off on Elizabeth. Why, the very thought of such a girl having her virtue brought into question…” He snorted with derision. “ ‘Tis an absurdity! I simply cannot credit it.”
“Yet ‘twould seem that Corwin could,” said Shakespeare.
“If so, then his love for her was fickle,” Darcie said.
“Perhaps. Or else so overwhelming that it overcame his reason,” Smythe said.
“Aye, friendship is constant in all other things save in the office and affairs of love,” mused Shakespeare.
“Yet one more argument in favor of marriages being arranged, as by tradition,” Darcie said with a sniff, as he led the way up the stairs, past portraits of the queen and her most celebrated courtiers. The portraits all looked fairly new, and among them were no relatives, thought Smythe. The mark of the new man was that he had no illustrious antecedents with which to grace his walls. “This peculiar notion of allowing young people to make their own choices in marriage, as if they were no better than working class,” continued Darcie, “is arrant nonsense, if you ask me. Such foolish, bardic sentiments are best left to romantic balladeers and poets. Marriage is much too serious a matter to be cluttered up with feelings.”
“I do not know that I could argue with you there,” said Shakespeare, wryly. Smythe gave him a look.
“And how is poor Hera bearing up under this woeful tragedy?” asked Smythe. Thus far, Darcie had said nothing whatever of her state.
“As well as could be expected, one supposes,” Darcie replied, with a shrug. “She is a quiet girl, and does not seem given to any loud displays of lamentations. Her comportment has been the very model of decorum and restraint. Elizabeth seems more upset about it all than she does.”
“How very strange,” said Shakespeare. “I should think that if my own father were killed, I would be a very torrent of emotions… grief, rage, melancholy, the desire for vengeance, each feeling battling with the other for supremacy.”
“Not all children have so strong an attachment to their parents,” Smythe replied. “And not all parents engender such affection.”
They reached the third floor and proceeded down a short corridor to an open sitting room where they found Elizabeth keeping company with Hera. Both women sat quietly near the windows. Elizabeth was doing some embroidery, while Hera simply sat staring out the window.
“ Elizabeth, we have visitors,” her father said, as she looked up when they entered. To Smythe and Shakespeare, he added in a low tone, “Mark you, do not over-tax the girl with questions, especially concerning the conduct of her father’s business. Make the appropriate expressions of sympathy and so forth, offer condolences and whatever help she may require. Alow her to know that the company shall stand behind her in her hour of need, so that she will know that her fortune is tied to yours and yours to hers. But do not overstate the case. She will need some time, no doubt, to recover from her grief, and then she shall remember who her friends were when she had need of them. I’ll leave you now. Elizabeth can show you out when you are done.”
Smythe and Shakespeare exchanged glances of disbelief at Darcie’s callousness, but there was no opportunity to discuss it, as Elizabeth was already approaching them.
“Will! Tuck! So good of you to come!” she said, holding out her hands to them both. Her eyes widened at the sight of the bandage on Smythe’s head. “Goodness, Tuck! Were you injured? What happened?”
“Nothing truly worth discussing,” he replied, dismissively, “certainly not in comparison with what happened yesterday.”
“What a dreadful thing,” Elizabeth replied. “And just when things had looked so promising for everyone!”
“You know they have arrested Corwin?” Smythe said.
She nodded. “Aye, like an ill wind, bad news travels quickly,” she replied. “They were crying the news out in the streets before, and thus Hera heard it, whilst sitting at the window and dwelling upon her father’s tragic fate.” She glanced toward the dark-haired girl, who still sat looking out the window. She had not even glanced around when they came in.
“How long has she been thus?” asked Smythe, glancing from Hera to Elizabeth.
Elizabeth shook her head sadly. “Ever since this morning,” she replied. “She simply sits there, saying naught and doing naught in her melancholy humor. I have tried to draw her out, but now she will not even speak to me. ‘Tis as if a veil has been drawn betwixt her and the world. I cannot even tell if she knows that we are here.”
“Has the poor girl lost her reason?” Shakespeare asked with concern.
Elizabeth bit her lower lip. “I pray not,” she replied. “I fear for her. Father says that ‘tis a melancholy that will pass. I wanted to send for Granny Meg, but he does not wish to hear of it. He says there is no need for witches, and that God shall heal her in time.” She sighed and gazed at Hera anxiously. “I do so want to believe that, but I cannot help feeling afraid for her.”
“How did she come here?” Smythe asked.
“She came last night, on foot,” Elizabeth replied.
“On foot?” said Smythe. “At night? Alone?”
“One of the servants came after her,” Elizabeth said. “ ‘Twas not that he came with her to escort her so much as he followed her, out of concern for her safety. After she had found her father, she cried out and then went running from the house, he said. She came straight here.” Elizabeth sighed. “Indeed, where else would she go? I am her only friend in London.”
“She had been with you earlier that day?” asked Smythe.
Elizabeth nodded. “And what a happy time we had.” She smiled at the memory. “We spoke of English weddings. She wanted to know all about our marriage customs. She was so full of happy expectation… Such a marked contrast to her present, mournful humor.”
“She was happy about the engagement, then?” said Smythe. “Her father had approved?”
Elizabeth nodded. “ ‘Twas all settled save for the setting of the date and the arrangements for the wedding,” she said.
“Were they not Catholic?” Shakespeare asked. “Would that not have posed some impediment to the marriage?”
“I had thought the same,” Elizabeth replied, “but it seems not to have presented any difficulty. Hera had told me that her father said to her, ‘We are in England now, and we shall do things as the English do.’ He was, I believe, content to provide the dowry and leave all the arrangements for the wedding to Corwin and Master Peters.”
“I see,” said Smythe, gazing at the Genoan girl. “But your father seemed to think that Master Leonardo may not have approved of Corwin.”
Elizabeth glanced at Smythe with surprise. “Whatever gave him that idea?”