‘Nothing would have kept me away, dear lady.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Apart from sudden death.’
‘No wife, no mistress, perhaps?’ she probed. ‘No family obligations?’
‘I live quite alone.’
‘Then what sustains you?’
‘My work,’ he said. ‘But even that is put aside for you, dear lady.’
‘Good.’
She indicated a chair and he lowered himself onto it, putting his hat on the table.
‘I feel at a disadvantage,’ he said nervously. ‘While you know much about me, I have precious little information about you beyond the fact that you hold a pen with the most graceful hand, and write words that could charm a bird out of a tree.’
She laughed. ‘Are birds able to read, then?’
‘This one is,’ he said, a hand on his breast. ‘When your first letter came, I dashed off a reply before I realised that I knew neither your name nor your address.’ He glanced around the room. ‘One of those omissions has now been repaired.’
‘Not exactly, sir. I only keep this house in the city for those few occasions when I visit London. My principal dwelling is in Hertfordshire, near St Albans.’
‘You own two houses, then?’
‘Both inherited from my late husband.’
‘I see.’
Hoode’s guess had been confirmed. As soon as he came into the room, he sensed that she was a widow. She was far too attractive not to have married, yet was so patently full of Christian goodness that adultery would never even have been a remote option, let alone a temptation. Also, when he scrutinised her face, he saw traces of sadness around the eyes and mouth. Evidently, she was a woman who had known grief.
‘I am sorry to learn of his death,’ he said softly.
‘It was a bitter blow. He was the kindest man in the world, Master Hoode, but none of us can choose the time when we are called. I mourned him for two years,’ she confided. ‘Now it is time to live my own life again.’
‘I would be honoured to be part of it, dear lady.’
‘Then first, know my name.’
‘The letter “A” must stand for “angel”, must it not?’
‘You flatter me, Master Hoode.’
‘Not as much as you flatter me, I assure you.’
‘My name is Avice Radley, so another mystery is solved.’
‘That leaves only the greatest mystery of all, Mistress Radley,’ he said. ‘Why should someone like you take an interest in a humble author like myself?’
‘There is nothing humble about your work, sir, I assure you. It is the glory of the stage. And so were you this afternoon,’ she went on. ‘You made the other actors look like buffoons beside you. When we quit the inn yard, it was your name that was on the lips of the audience. I was thrilled that I might chance to meet you.’
‘It was so with me.’
‘You are a magician with words, Master Hoode.’
‘Then we are two of a kind,’ he said with a disarming smile, ‘for your letters entranced me. I have never met anyone who could conjure up such sweet phrases and delightful conceits.’
‘It is good to hear that we have something in common already.’
‘And much else besides, I venture to hope.’
‘I share that wish, Master Hoode.’
‘Be so bold as to call me “Edmund”, for I feel that we have stepped over the barrier that separates acquaintance from friendship.’
‘Very well, Edmund. That contents me.’
He waited for a similar concession on her side but it did not come. Avice Radley was too conventional to allow ready access to her Christian name so early in a friendship. He admired her for that. It was a right that he would have to earn. Hoode sat there and luxuriated in her presence. The opulence of the house and the quality of her apparel suggested a considerable degree of wealth. Her voice was an indication of her character. Soft and melodious, it spoke of intelligence, tolerance and decency. Avice Radley was obviously not one of the many rich, widowed, promiscuous women who haunted the playhouses regularly in search of random lovers. She was highly selective and her choice had fallen on him. Her poise faltered for a second.
‘I am in uncharted territory, Edmund,’ she confessed.
‘How so?’
‘I have never done anything like this before.’
‘I suspected as much.’
‘Was my invitation too impulsive and unseemly?’
‘Far from it, Mistress Radley,’ he said, raising a palm. ‘I too am somewhat adrift here. This is a situation in which I do not find myself every day.’
‘Merely once a week, then?’ she teased.
He became impassioned. ‘No, dear lady. Someone like you will only come along once in a lifetime!’ He checked himself and offered an apologetic smile. ‘Forgive me. I am a trifle overwhelmed at my good fortune.’
‘But you hardly know me, Edmund.’
‘I know enough to see that you are an answer to a prayer.’
She was touched by his rejoinder. It restored her aplomb. She studied him for a long time, remembering the pleasure he had given her in various ways on the stage at the Queen’s Head. What surprised her most was his remarkable modesty. He had none of the vanity and ostentation that went hand-in-glove with his chosen profession. Edmund Hoode was a man entirely without airs and graces.
‘You carry your talent so lightly, Edmund.’
‘It is not a heavy burden.’
‘Burden?’ she repeated. ‘Do you see it as a load that you must bear?’
‘Sometimes, Mistress Radley.’
‘Yet you said earlier that you live for your work.’
‘Only because I have to honour my contract.’
‘Do you not enjoy writing plays?’
‘It is too vexing a business to permit enjoyment,’ he said. ‘Sweat and suffering are my constant companions when I sit at my table. Scenes have to be beaten out of my brain like horseshoes upon an anvil. Uncertainty ever sits on my shoulder. The only play I have worked on with any semblance of pleasure is the latest one.’
‘And what is that called?’
He needed a moment to remember the title. ‘The Duke of Verona.’
‘Does it bring you a sense of fulfilment?’ she asked.
‘I thought it did, Mistress Radley. Now I have my doubts.’
‘What of your work as a player?’
‘That is always secondary. There is a certain satisfaction in the applause that we receive but I am conscious that the spectators are rarely acclaiming me. I can never rival the magnificence of a Lawrence Firethorn, or the inspired clowning of Barnaby Gill, or even the skills of lesser mortal like Owen Elias.’
‘You outshone all three of them in Mirth and Madness.’
‘That was due to their weakness on the day rather than to any superior strength on my part. Besides,’ he acknowledged, ‘I did not eclipse Barnaby. He was in fine form this afternoon and reminded the audience that we were playing a comedy.’
‘I saw nobody onstage but you, Edmund.’
‘Then I am glad I was worthy of your indulgence.’
She looked at him quizzically. ‘Writing plays can be onerous, then?’
‘Onerous and unrewarding.’
‘And you do not take yourself too seriously as an actor?’
‘It would be dishonest to do so.’
‘Wherein, then, does the pleasure lie?’
‘In the fellowship of Westfield’s Men.’
‘Is it enough to make you forget the pain of composition?’
‘Most of the time, Mistress Radley.’
‘And on other occasions?’ she pressed.
‘I am close to despair,’ he said, pursing his lips. ‘When a play of mine does not work onstage, or when a performance I give carries no conviction, I wonder what I am doing in the company. I feel as if I am a species of trickster.’
‘That is not what I see, Edmund. You are the soul of honesty.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Are you not happy with Westfield’s Men?’
‘Life in the theatre is never without its torments.’
‘Does that mean that you would consider renouncing it?’
He shrugged. ‘How, then, would I feed and clothe myself?’