Her thoughts turned fondly to her brother-in-law.
‘I would dearly like to see Lawrence again,’ she said.
‘Then you must come to London and take your place in his audience.’ Margery feigned irritation. ‘My husband is so famous these days that even I have to pay a penny to catch sight of him and twopence to converse with his eminence.’
‘Is he a good father to your children?’
‘I hope he is not a good father to anyone else’s.’
‘Do not twist my words so, Margery.’
‘Lawrence does what his profession allows him. Which means, alas, that he sees little enough of the children and subjects them to what outbursts of fatherhood he can muster when they do meet.’ She set her jaw. ‘They have me as their mother and that gives them two parents in one.’
Agnes Jarrold turned her head on the pillow to look across at the crib where her son slept. The tightly bound linen strips allowed her to see only a portion of his face but it had the peace of true innocence upon it.
‘You have been mother, father and aunt to dear Richard,’ she said. ‘As well as wife and friend to poor Jonathan.’
‘Do not wed me to a bookseller!’ protested Margery. ‘And do not befriend me to a lover of Greek and Latin. I will tolerate the oaf for your sake, Agnes, but I could never lie beside his yapping scholarship.’
‘But he adores you, sister.’
‘Then must he be a devil-worshipper.’
They chuckled in unison. Living in Cambridge had given Margery an insight into a more conventional marriage and it made her long for her own more eccentric variation of holy matrimony. Lawrence Firethorn was vain, irascible, devious and inclined to wander but he was never dull. She might have to suffer his woes but she also enjoyed his triumphs and these brought the kind of sustained exhilaration that was unknown in a quiet bookshop in a university town. When she went to see a play with Jonathan Jarrold, she snored beside him. When she visited a theatre with Lawrence Firethorn, he thrilled her to the core of her being from the centre of the stage. After all their years together, her husband could still make her feel like his leading lady.
‘I am quite recovered today,’ said Agnes bravely.
‘You still need much rest, sister.’
‘But I hate to impose upon you.’
‘Do not worry on my account.’
‘You have a house and family of your own, Margery.’
‘They’ll not melt away in my absence.’
‘They will miss you painfully.’
‘It will serve them right!’
‘How long do you intend to stay in Cambridge?’
‘As long as I deem it necessary.’
‘We would hate to detain you if-’
‘Stop it, Agnes!’ scolded the other. ‘I’ll not be packed off before I am ready to go. That child needs my care, that nurse needs my guidance, those servants need my orders and that dreaming husband of yours needs a box on the ears.’ She leant over the bed to kiss Agnes on the cheek. ‘If all goes well, I may leave at the end of the week.’
‘Lawrence will be surprised at your early return.’
‘That is my hope.’
‘Will you write to him, Margery?’
‘I would rather take him unawares.’
‘So you may depart at the end of the week?’
‘On Saturday.’
‘On Saturday! This is the basest treachery, man! Saturday!’
‘Calm down, Barnaby.’
‘Then do not put me to choler.’
‘It is but one performance that I miss.’
‘One is far too many, Lawrence.’
‘Even the strongest of us must rest.’
‘Yes,’ said Barnaby Gill tetchily. ‘And we all know where you will be resting, sir. Between the legs of some dark-haired lady with a fond smile.’
‘You impugn my honour!’
‘I did not know you had any left to impugn.’
Edmund Hoode stepped in smartly to prevent the argument from degenerating into an exchange of wild abuse. He, Barnaby Gill and Nicholas Bracewell were in Shoreditch at the actor-manager’s house. The noise of debate was already so loud and the vituperation already so liberal that the other occupants of the dwelling thought that Margery must have returned from Cambridge. Gill was livid with outrage. The three visitors had come to discuss one crisis and Firethorn had immediately precipitated another by informing them that he would not be appearing with Westfield’s Men on the following Saturday. It was an extraordinary decision for him to make, all the more so in the wake of the battering which his reputation had taken. Love’s Sacrifice might have wooed its audience and won its leading actor a voyage down the Thames but the real interest among playgoers was centred on The Spanish Jew.
The brilliant impersonation by Owen Elias of his former master had caught the public imagination. Those who had seen it trumpeted its wicked accuracy and those who had not clamoured for it to be repeated. In his two performances to date, a discarded Welsh actor had done more harm to the professional renown of Lawrence Firethorn than Banbury’s Men had contrived in two years. The full horror had made itself known to Westfield’s Men. Through the person of their prime talent, they were being viciously ridiculed.
‘We must strike back at once, Lawrence,’ said Hoode.
‘I will do just that,’ promised the other grimly. ‘I’ll meet Owen Elias in a duel, cut his ungrateful Welsh head from his shoulders and send it back to Randolph with an apple in the mouth. That is the way to serve roast pig, sirs!’
‘The Spanish Jew is a powerful weapon.’
‘We have mightier artillery, Edmund.’
‘Then let us fire it from the stage.’
‘On Saturday!’ insisted Gill. ‘Saturday afternoon!’
‘No, sir!’ replied Firethorn with sudden vehemence. ‘On Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday but not this forthcoming Saturday.’
‘Give us a reason,’ said Hoode patiently.
Gill pouted. ‘Ask the question of his codpiece.’
‘I am engaged elsewhere on Saturday,’ said Firethorn.
‘But our schedule has The Loyal Subject listed for performance,’ reminded its troubled author. ‘We must trespass on your own loyalty here, Lawrence. Stand by your fellows.’
Firethorn posed. ‘Have I ever let the company down?’
‘Many times,’ said Gill.
‘That is still a deal less than you, sir!’
‘My art is above reproach.’
‘Would that the same could be said for your acting!’
‘Barnaby Gill is Westfield’s Men!’
‘Then are we all digging our own graves.’
Hoode again jumped in to keep them apart then he turned a supplicatory face towards Nicholas Bracewell. The book holder had been listening in silence as he weighed up the situation. He had a potential solution to offer.
‘Owen Elias is our hope of salvation here,’ he said.
‘Only if we kill him instantly!’ hissed Firethorn.
‘He is more use to us alive than dead, sir. And of far more value as one of us than as a member of Banbury’s Men.’ Nicholas spoke with quiet reason. ‘If we can coax him back into the fold, we take the sting out of our rivals. If we can employ him at his true worth, we have a fine actor who will be a credit to us all. And if we move swiftly, we may still stage The Loyal Subject on Saturday, though Master Firethorn may have business elsewhere.’
‘Yes!’ agreed Hoode. ‘Owen will take over his part.’
‘And play it far better,’ added Gill maliciously.
‘No!’ howled Firethorn. ‘Never, never, never! I’ll not yield one syllable to Owen Elias, let alone a whole part. I’d sooner hand the play to Giles Randolph so that he could fill my place. Are you mad, Nick? Do not even mention the name of that leek-eating rogue in my presence. He is gone for ever!’