It was George Dart.
Being a member of a celebrated theatre company was not an unqualified honour. George Dart found that he had to earn his keep and suffer for his art. Even on days when there was no performance, the hard work did not cease and his status as the youngest and smallest of the stagekeepers meant that all the most menial and demanding tasks were assigned to him. It was manifestly unjust and, though that injustice was often reduced by the kindly intercession of Nicholas Bracewell, it could still rankle. George Dart was the company workhorse, the shambling beast of burden onto whom anything and everything could be loaded by uncaring colleagues. In rare moments of introspection, when he could pause to review his lot, he generated such a lather of self-pity that he toyed with the idea of leaving the theatre altogether, a bold move that always evaporated before his eyes when he considered how impossible it would be for him to find employment elsewhere. With all its disadvantages and its insecurities, working with Westfield’s Men was the only life he had ever known.
Morning found him attending to one of the jobs that he liked least. He had been sent out early to put up the playbills advertising the performance of Double Deceit at the Theatre on the morrow. His first problem was to get the playbills from the printer without having the money to pay for them, assuring the man that Firethorn himself would be around to settle the debt that very day, hoping that the trusting soul was not aware of all the other printers still awaiting payment by Westfield’s Men. This time he was lucky and got off lightly with a clip across the ear and a few blood-curdling oaths. Dart left the premises in Paternoster Lane with the playbills under his arm and began the familiar round.
The perils that befall the puny awaited him at every turn. He was jostled by elbows, pushed by hands, tripped by feet, abused by tongues and even chased by a gang of urchins but he continued steadfastly on his way and put up the playbills on every post and fence along the route. The reputation of Westfield’s Men went before them and they had built up an appreciable following in a city that was clamouring for lively theatre but that same following needed to be informed of dates and times and places. Though he was involved in unrelieved drudgery, George Dart told himself that he was a vital link between the company and its prospective audience and thereby sought to check his rising sensation of worthlessness.
When the dispiriting work was over, there was one last chore for him. At the command of Lawrence Firethorn himself, he was to deliver the remaining playbill at a house in Bishopsgate. Since it was a continuation of Gracechurch Street, he knew it well but the market was its usual seething mass of humanity and he had to struggle with all his depleted might to make headway. Stanford Place eventually came into sight and he was daunted. Its monstrous size was forbidding and he could hear the barking of dogs from within as he hovered at the threshold. He stepped back involuntarily and was about to turn tail when he remembered the order that had been given to him by Firethorn. Facing his master with the news that he had disobeyed would be worse than hurling his frail body into the midst of a pack of ravening mastiffs. He opted for the lesser punishment and reached out to pull the bell at Stanford Place.
Response was immediate. The barking increased in volume and clawed feet could be heard scrabbling at the other side of the door. When it was opened with a dignified sweep, three dogs let him know that they did not welcome his arrival. They were silenced by a curt command from the slim and supercilious man who was now gazing down his nose at the unsolicited caller. Years as the household steward had given Simon Pendleton an ability to sum up stray visitors in an instant. He felt able to use a tone of complete contempt for the crumpled George Dart.
‘Depart from this place at once, boy.’
‘But I have business here, sir,’ pleaded the other.
‘None that need be taken seriously.’
‘Do but hear me, master.’
‘Away with you and your confounded begging bowl!’
‘I ask for nothing,’ said Dart hurriedly. ‘Except that this be delivered to the mistress of the house.’
Pendleton was taken aback as the handbill was passed over to him. Rolled up into a scroll, it was tied with a piece of pink ribbon to give it a hint of importance. Even though it was covered by the sweaty fingerprints of its bearer, it enforced more serious consideration.
‘Who are you?’ asked Pendleton.
‘A mere messenger, sir.’
‘From whom, boy?’
‘The lady will understand.’
‘I desire further information.’
‘My duty has been done,’ said Dart gratefully.
And before the dogs could even begin to growl, he swung around and scurried off into the crowd with a speed born of desperation. A typical morning had ended.
Marriage to a much older man was turning out to have many unforeseen advantages and Matilda Stanford enjoyed the process of discovering what they were. When a young woman consents to wed a partner of more mature years, it is usually more of an arranged match than a case of irresistible love and so it was with her. Doting parents had been delighted when so august a figure as the Master of the Mercers’ Company took an interest in their daughter and they encouraged that interest as wholeheartedly as they could. While the father worked sedulously on the potential suitor, the mother began to frame the girl’s mind to the concept of marriage as social advance and she had slowly broken down all of Matilda’s reservations. Now that she had been a wife for five months, the new mistress of Stanford Place was revelling in her good fortune.
Her husband was kind, attentive and ready to please her with touching eagerness. At the same time, Walter Stanford was a wealthy merchant whose continued success depended on the unremitting work he put into his business affairs. His preoccupation with those — and with the many duties of being Lord Mayor Elect — meant that his wife was given ample free time to spread her wings and to learn the power of his purse. Nor was Matilda put under any undue pressure in the marriage bed. He was a patient and considerate man, never enforcing any conjugal rights that she did not willingly concede and treating her with unflagging respect. There was another element in the relationship. Though devoted to his new wife, Walter Stanford was still, to some degree, in mourning for her predecessor, his first wife, Alice, mother of his two children, a charming woman who had been killed before her time in a tragic accident some eighteen months earlier.
What pleased Matilda was the fact that she was not expected to be a complete replacement for someone who had shared her husband’s life and bed for well over twenty years. Alice Stanford lay in the past. Matilda was the present and future, a rich prize owing to a rich man, an envied catch, a superb item to display in a household that prided itself above all else on the quality of its decoration. She had no illusions about it. Walter Stanford had married her to fill a gap in nature. She was there primarily to be seen as a wife rather than to satisfy his lust or provide him with heirs. It was a situation she came to appreciate.
Romance was signally lacking but there had been none of that in her parents’ marriage and that was the model on which she based her judgements. Walter Stanford might not be able to stir her emotions but he could impress her with his wealth, please her with his gallantry and amuse her with the way that he showered gifts upon her. Matilda was indeed unawakened but only because she slept so soundly in such a comfortable existence.
‘Where shall we go next?’