“A minor matter,” said his father dryly, with a dismissive wave. “‘Tis of no consequence. However, if ’twould make you feel any better, I suppose I could arrange to have the first marriage annulled.”
“Annulled? Upon what grounds?” asked Smythe with disbelief. His father shrugged. “‘What difference does it make? Doubtless, a suitable justification can be found. She never bore me any children. I suppose I could claim that the marriage was never consummated. And ’tis not as if precedent did not exist. After all, King Henry had it done, you know.”
Smythe was absolutely speechless. His mouth worked, but no words would come out. However, his father continued speaking blithely, as if completely unaware of how casually and lightly he had placed himself on the same level as the monarch who had placed himself above the Church of Rome and presided over the Dissolution.
“In any event, ‘twould be seemly for someone of my family to be present at the wedding; after all, one must consider appearances, and since my good, dear, sanctimonious brother Thomas has seen fit to wash his hands of me, well, I suppose that leaves only you.”
“How kind of you to think of me,” said Tuck dryly.
And, apparently unaware of how he had just slighted his own son, the senior Smythe continued by adding insult to injury. “Of course, ‘twould never do for anyone to know you were a lowly player, so I have ”Said you are a joumeyman armourer. After all, between hammering shoes onto plowhorses and what all, Thomas did teach you to make knives and such, so ’tis not entirely a falsehood, is it? Come to think on it, perhaps you could see your way clear to forging up some trinket as a gift for the father of the bride. You could do it at the shop of that blacksmith friend of yours, what was his name? Well, no matter. ‘Twould be a nice gesture, I should think. An ornamental sword or some such thing. How soon do you suppose you could have it ready?“
Smythe stared at the man sitting across from him, the man who he knew beyond a doubt was his father and yet, in almost every other respect save that accident of birth, was nearly a complete stranger to him. He had often felt that in his childhood, but never more so than at that very moment. They shared the same name, but otherwise he could not imagine what the two of them could possibly have in common. He did not even wish to speculate upon the matter. How in God’s name, he thought, could I possibly be related to this man?
“Father,” he began, somehow managing to find the words, “I fear that I could not possibly comply with your request.”
“Well, ‘twould not have to be something as fancy as an ornamental sword,” his father said. “If that would be too difficult, then I suppose a dagger would do nicely, mayhap with some engraving on the blade-”
Smythe felt the throbbing in his temples building to a point that seemed unbearable. “Father, I do not think you understand,” he interjected. “I cannot, and shall not, be a party to any of this duplicitous coney-catching.”
“Coney-catching!” said his father. “Now, see here-”
“Nay, sir, you see here,” Smythe interrupted him with a fierce intensity. It was only through great force of will that he was able to refrain from shouting. “I shall not do it. Can you understand that, sir? ‘Tis important to me that I make my meaning very clear to you. I shall not have anything to do with this at all. What you plan to do is wrong, sir. ’Tis immoral and outrageous, unlawful in the eyes of God and man, and I cannot believe that you would think, even for one moment, that I could ever go along with it. ‘Tis a vile scheme that you propose, and knowing what I know of you, I can only think that there is but one purpose to it. You seek to enrich yourself through this marriage so that you might regain all the money you have squandered, and, in the process of so doing, you shall ruin and bring shame upon some poor and blameless woman and her family who have never done aught to you save given you their trust. I am appalled, sir, that you would even consider such a shameful course, much less come to me with this request.”
“Do you mean to say that you would refuse your own father?”
Smythe stood up so quickly and so forcefully that the bench he sat upon went crashing to the floor. “My God, sir, have you heard nothing that I said?”
An irritated and rather put-upon expression came over his father’s face. He gave one of his characteristic disdainful sniffs, a gesture that he presumed made him appear aristocratic. “Well, I see that you are determined to be quite unreasonable about this,” he replied, as if what he was asking were a perfectly reasonable thing. “I would have thought that a son would see it as his duty to support his father in seeking some solace and companionship in his old age and embarking upon a new course in life, but ‘twould seem that you do not care about such things. So be it, then. I shall trouble you no longer.”
“Would that I could have that surety in writing,” Smythe replied.
His father stood and drew himself up stiffly, throwing one side of his cloak back over his shoulder in a cavalier manner. “I will have you know tint this marriage should set me up quite well, quite well, indeed. You might do well to consider that, Symington. You might do well to consider that, indeed. I am still a gentleman, whatever you may think of me, and despite having suffered some misfortune of late, a knighthood is not yet beyond my grasp.”
“Oh, Father, you are dreaming,” Smythe replied, shaking his head. “You could have been satisfied with what you had. Methinks most men would have gladly traded places with you. You had a small yet very comfortable estate, a goodly amount of money, a young and pretty wife- who married you for that money, although you did not seem to mind that very much-and you had finally managed to obtain your precious escutcheon and become a proper gentleman.”
He paused for a moment, thinking he could also have added that he had a son who had once wanted very much to love him, but whose love was never deemed important. However, he decided not to say that, because he knew that it would serve no purpose.
Instead, he said, “One would think. that all these things would have been enough to satisfy most any man. But not you. And in truth, Father, I have never understood why not. Uncle Thomas had ever so much less than you, and yet he always thought he had a great deal more. In time, I came to understand that he did have a great deal more, indeed, because he knew how to be grateful for all the things he had, rather than lust for all the things he lacked.” He shook his head. “Nay, I will not help you in this, Father. You were wise… or perhaps ‘crafty’ would be more appropriate, methinks to be careful not to tell me the name of this unfortunate woman upon whose estate you have designs, for if I knew her name, then rest assured that I would seek her out and warn her about you. And I would entreat her family most urgently to bar their doors against you, for you are a scoundrel, sir, and I am ashamed to call myself your son.”
His father gazed at him with scorn, his lips compressed into a tight and angry grimace. For a moment, they simply stared at one another, and then Smythe had to look away, for he could not bear to face that smug, superior, and unrepentant gaze. It was too painful. Finally, his father spoke.
“I see how matters stand between us, then,” he said in a tone of affronted dignity. “Apparently, it does not shame you to associate with scalawags and strumpets, but it shames you to be my son. Very well, then, I shall free you of that noisome burden.” He lifted his chin and uttered his next words as a pronouncement of the utmost gravity. “You may consider yourself disowned.”
Smythe sighed wearily. “You have already disowned me once before, Father, when I left home for London. Yet you conveniently managed to forget that when you came to me last time to ask for money and I gave you all I had. And I suppose, when all is said and done, that compasses it all between us. I gave you all I had, and I have naught else left.”