‘Westfield’s Men have a reputation for helping each other.’
‘Not when someone commits such a crime,’ said Gill.
‘Frank’s only crime is to be the son of Gerard Quilter.’
‘That is enough, more than enough.’
‘No,’ replied Nicholas, looking to Firethorn once more. ‘Do you set yourselves up as judge and jury, yet give Frank no chance to defend himself?’
‘We’ll hear him out, naturally,’ said Firethorn.
Elias gave a nod. ‘It’s the least that we could do.’
‘Of course,’ said Gill with exaggerated sweetness. ‘We’ll give him a fair hearing first, then we’ll kick him out of the company for good.’
‘What of his contract?’ asked Nicholas.
‘This afternoon’s events revoke it completely.’
‘I do not agree with you there, Barnaby,’ said Firethorn ruefully. ‘Broken contracts are meat and drink to lawyers. The last thing we must do is to invite litigation. Much as I hate to say this, Nick,’ he went on, turning to the book holder, ‘the best way forward may be to persuade Frank to withdraw from the troupe of his own free will. Would you undertake that task?’
‘No,’ said Nicholas firmly.
‘We demand it of you!’ cried Gill.
‘My answer remains the same.’
‘Nick knows that he would be wasting his time,’ reasoned Elias. ‘Frank Quilter has his pride. He’ll not slink away from the company with his tail between his legs. The only way to get rid of him is to dismiss him summarily.’
‘Then that is what we must do,’ said Gill. ‘Do you not see that, Lawrence?’
Firethorn shifted his feet. Circumstances had conspired to put him in the most awkward position. It was ironic. Westfield’s Men had been enjoying an unprecedented success. Fine weather had brought in large audiences on a daily basis. Their repertoire was wide and received with acclaim. The advent of Frank Quilter had both strengthened them and weakened their hated rivals. Edmund Hoode was on the verge of delivering what he believed to be his finest drama. Topping it all was the news that Alexander Marwood, the melancholy landlord, was confined to his bed. Westfield’s Men had never known such good fortune. Yet, at the very moment of triumph, their equilibrium was threatened. The actions of someone outside the company had shaken them to the core. As long as one particular actor remained, Firethorn’s beloved troupe was at risk. Nicholas Bracewell was a dear and respected friend of his but Firethorn had to disappoint him for once. He took a deep breath.
‘I see no future for Frank Quilter in the company,’ he announced.
Gill beamed. ‘Common sense wins the day at last!’
‘I’d be sorry to part with Frank on this account,’ said Elias.
‘So would I,’ declared Nicholas, ‘but the decision lies not with me. On one issue, however, I do have a deciding voice and that is with regard to my own future. Dispatch Frank Quilter, if you must,’ he said, straightening his shoulders, ‘but bear this in mind. If he goes, you will need to replace me as well.’
She was there. Edmund Hoode sensed it the moment that he stepped out onstage. The anonymous lady who had written to him in praise of his work was somewhere up in the galleries. Whenever he could, he let his gaze scan the faces above him, trying to find that special countenance that looked down on him with such favour. It was not only Hoode’s plays that had been hailed by his correspondent. She had lauded his performances as an actor as well. When he read between the beautifully written lines of her letter, he saw that she was really enamoured of him. Without even meeting the lady, Hoode had made a conquest. Satisfying to any man, it was especially exciting for him because he so rarely aroused such uncompromising love in a woman. The moon-faced dramatist with receding hair was a veteran of doomed romances. Desire on his part was always urgent yet seldom fulfilled. Unrequited love was his usual suit. It was almost as if he sought out unattainable ladies in order to be punished by their rejection. Now, at last, against all the odds, through no effort of his own, someone had picked him out. The elegance of her hand and the scented aroma of her missive spoke highly of the sender. Clearly, she was a person of discernment.
Inspired by the thought that she was watching him, Hoode excelled himself. He entered with sprightly step, delivered his lines with brimming confidence and brought out every aspect of his character. His performance was all the more striking because of the dross that surrounded it. Mirth and Madness was a standard play from their repertoire, a lively comedy that was shot through with moments of high farce. Since the action took place in midsummer, it seemed an ideal choice for a hot afternoon in August, replete, as it was, with songs and dances, and blissfully free from the technical problems associated with Hannibal. As a piece of theatre, it had never failed them. This time it was different. Word of their unfortunate link with a public execution had upset the company deeply but the news about Nicholas Bracewell was even more distressing. He was one of the mainstays of Westfield’s Men. His resourcefulness had saved them from disaster — even extinction — on more than one occasion. The thought that he might desert the troupe caused fear and panic to spread.
Even the acknowledged star of the company wavered. Lawrence Firethorn took the leading role with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. His mind was patently not on the play. Where he could usually reap a whole harvest of laughter, he now barely managed to arouse more than an occasional giggle. Owen Elias, too, was a shadow of himself, booming away half-heartedly as if he had no real faith in the part that he was taking. Most of the actors were similarly dispirited, moving through the play like sleepwalkers, unable to shake off their apprehension about their revered book holder. Barnaby Gill, by contrast, was superb. Untroubled by the impending loss of Nicholas Bracewell, he filled the gaps left by the others and seized every opportunity to dazzle. His three comic songs and four hilarious jigs allowed him to monopolise the laughter. Along with Hoode, he injected some zest into the play and the spectators were duly appreciative. To Firethorn’s disgust, it was Gill and Hoode who received most applause when they took their bow.
The clapping was sustained, the cheers loud. Edmund Hoode heard none of it. His eyes were roving the galleries in search of his mystery correspondent. He was certain that she was there because he could feel her gaze upon him like rays of sunlight. His gaze went swiftly along the rows of smiling faces. Handsome gallants and pretty ladies were there in profusion but he could not pick her out on the crowded benches. The important thing, he told himself, was that she could see him and she had watched him perform on a day when he was head and shoulders above most of his fellows. For the first time in his life, he had even outshone Lawrence Firethorn. Somewhere up there was the lady who made it all possible, the spur to his talent, the beat of his heart. His face glowed with happiness. The impossible had happened. He had fallen in love with someone whom he had never even seen.
As the applause weakened, the actors began to quit the stage. Hoode could not linger. He was about to give up his search and leave when she finally revealed herself. She was seated in the middle of the upper gallery, directly in front of him and with a perfect view of the stage. Rising to her feet, she raised a gloved hand to give him a little wave of congratulation. Hoode trembled involuntarily. She was rather older than he had imagined, and more matronly in appearance, but that did not matter. His admirer was a gorgeous lady with dark hair curling out from beneath her hat and a smile that ignited her whole face. Wearing a dress in the Spanish fashion, she seemed to him the epitome of all that was good in womanhood. He had known younger, daintier, more vivacious ladies in his time but this one had a quality that they had all lacked. She was his.
When he backed his way offstage, Hoode was still in a dream. His mind was filled to bursting with the vision of loveliness he had just seen. It was only when he collided with George Dart that he realised he was in the tiring house.