“I shall remember that,” his father said stiffly, “on the day you come to me with hat in hand, as I know one day you shall.”
“If you knew me at all, Father, then you would know that I do not wear hats,” said Smythe.
With a contemptuous sniff, his father turned on his heel and stalked out of the tavern without another word or backward glance. As Smythe turned to watch him go, he saw the other players all looking at him, their expressions ranging from curious to puzzled to, on at least one face, concern. The furrow was still present on Shakespeare’s brow as Tuck returned to their table.
“It did not go well?” he asked.
“Aye, Will, it did not go well,” said Smythe as he sat back down. “Thomas, pass that pitcher, will you? I have a mind to get good and drunk this night.”
“Suits me,” said Pope, passing him the pitcher.
“And me,” echoed Bobby Speed. “Stackpole, you old reprobate, more beer!”
And for a time, as other spirits flowed, Smythe’s sunken spirits were somewhat uplifted. For a time.
Henry Mayhew was very much displeased with his daughter. He had done her-and himself, he felt-a very great service by saving her from a marriage that would have brought disgrace upon her-and himself, of course- and in return, she was not only ungrateful, she was angry. It simply passed all understanding. Instead of thanking him profusely for preventing what would have been a truly horrible mistake, she had cried and sobbed and carried on and blamed him for ruining her happiness and then had fled the house, against his wishes. Now here it was, growing quite late, and Portia still had not come home. He was torn between feeling angry and concerned.
“I tell you, Winifred, I simply do not know what has become of young people these days,” he complained to his intended, the widow of a prosperous ironmonger who had left her quite well off when he had obligingly dropped dead the previous year. “Apprentices roaming the streets in unruly gangs and rioting, young women gallivanting about town unescorted and having assignations in Paul’s Walk… I tell you, Winifred, that sort of thing simply did not happen in my day!”
“I am certain it did not,” Winifred Fitzwalter replied, glancing up at him calmly from her embroidery, “as I am equally certain that grieving widows did not go unescorted to the homes of widowers at night and sleep under the same roof with them.”
For a moment Mayhew looked shocked, perhaps not so much at what she said as at the fact that she had said it. However, he recovered quickly. “‘Tis hardly the same thing, Winifred,” he said, somewhat huffily. “’Tis nigh on a year now since your husband died, and there has been quite sufficient allowance for the customary period of mourning.” He grunted and nodded and patted his ample stomach with both hands, as if to reassure himself. “Aye, more than sufficient time to satisfy propriety. And as for your presence in my home, dear Winifred, ‘tis perfectly proper, perfectly proper, indeed! We are betrothed, and our betrothal has been formally announced. What is more, on the occasions when you visit here and spend the night, you are duly attended in your own room by a maidservant, so there can be no question of propriety at all, nay, none at all.”
“Nevertheless, that does not mean that people will not talk, you know,” said Winifred with a slight smile.
“Well, people can say what they will,” said Mayhew with a grimace. “The fact remains that propriety has been observed in all respects, in all respects, indeed. What is more, you are a mature woman, Winifred, not a young girl like Portia.”
“Why, thank you, Henry. ‘Tis always a comfort for a woman to be reminded of her advancing age,” she replied.
“Oh, for Heaven’s sake! You know what I mean! Odd’s blood!
Where the devil is that girl?“
“I would venture to say that she has gone to the home of one of her friends,” Winifred replied calmly, “where she will doubtless remain for as long as she can, the better to cause you concern. Rest assured, Henry, that she is not out wandering the streets, and even if she were, the watch would surely stop her, question her to find out why she was abroad alone at this time of night, and then escort her home.”
“And supposing they thought she was a whore out plying her trade?” asked Mayhew.
“Oh, Henry, I should hardly think so,” Winifred replied. “No one in his right mind would mistake Portia for a strumpet. She is much too innocent a girl.”
“Well, perhaps you are right, but there are still evil men abroad who would not hesitate to despoil an innocent young girl,” said Mayhew.
“All the more reason she would not be out wandering the streets,” Winifred replied. “She has been protected, yet not quite sheltered, and Portia knows full well the dangers of the city streets at night and what parts of the city to stay out of in the daytime and what sort of people to avoid. She may be headstrong, Henry, but Portia is not foolish.”
‘Well, ’tis true, I suppose,“ he said, somewhat mollified. ”She is my daughter, after all. The apple does not fall very far from the tree.“
“Indeed,” replied Winifred, nodding over her needlework and thinking that, all things considered, Portia must have fallen much closer to her mother’s tree than to her father’s. “I am quite certain that there is no cause for concern. She will return in due time, when she is ready, when she has had some time to have her cry and think things over.”
Mayhew grunted. “Bloody lot of nonsense, if you ask me. I do not know what she has to cry over. The very idea! All I did was save her from marrying a heathen Jew.”
“Now, Henry…”
“One would think the world were coming to an end from the way she carried on!”
“To her, perhaps, it was,” Winifred replied. ‘To Portia, Thomas Locke is not a ’heathen Jew,‘ as you say, but the Young man with whom she fell in love and whom she had planned to marry. She was so looking forward to it. ’Tis an important event in a young woman’s life, the most important event of all. She stood upon the threshold of becoming a woman, Henry, a wife and soon, no doubt, a mother. Now all that has changed, and changed quite suddenly. She has had no time to prepare for it. Her feelings are surely in a turmoil. Oh, Henry, can you not remember being young yourself?“
“Hmpfh! When I was young, Winifred, I had no time for such nonsense. I was much too busy working. My family was poor. We had no time for ‘feelings.’ We could not afford them.”
“Well, I should think. you could afford them now, Henry,” Winifred replied, her voice as steady and methodical as her needlework. “And if you find that you cannot, then perhaps I should go out and buy a plentiful supply for you, so that you could afford to spare some for your daughter.”
“Most amusing, Winifred,” Mayhew replied with a grimace. “Most amusing, indeed. I suppose you think that I am being much too hard on the girl.”
“I think, Henry, that you did what you thought was right,” she replied. “You have prevented her from marrying someone that you found unsuitable. Now give her some time. Once she has given the matter due consideration, no doubt she will come to understand.”
“I should certainly hope so,” Mayhew replied. “Can you imagine? My daughter married to a Jew! God shield us! What would people say? ‘Twould be the ruin of us, the absolute ruin, I tell you!”
“Well, you have stopped it, Henry.”
“Aye, indeed, I have! Indeed, I have! There shall be no chance of that now, I can tell you that! No chance at all!”
“Calm yourself, Henry,” Winifred said quietly. “You are becoming all red in the face. And when Portia returns home, pray do not go on about it. Leave her be. She will be like a wilful steed now; let her have her head and she shall come around, you will see.”
“Hmpfh. What makes you so certain?”