The Misfortunes of Marriage blossomed at The Rose. Its plot was firmer, its characters enriched and its satire more biting and hilarious. The company took full advantage of the superior facilities at the theatre to make their play a more exciting experience. Many dazzling new effects were incorporated by Nicholas Bracewell into the action, including one he had borrowed from Raphael Parsons and adapted for their own purposes. Trapdoors allowed sudden appearances. Flying equipment permitted the dramatic descent of actors and scenic devices. With the book holder in control behind the scenes, the pace of the play never faltered and its thrusts never missed their targets.
The acclaim which greeted the cast as they were led out to take their bow by Firethorn was so loud and so sustained that they could have played the final scene through again before its last echoes died. When the actors plunged back into the tiring-house, they were inebriated with their success. Barnaby Gill was dancing, Richard Honeydew was singing, Edmund Hoode was quoting his favourite speech from the play and John Tallis was croaking happily. Firethorn himself went around hugging each member of the troupe in tearful gratitude.
Even James Ingram was infected by the mood of celebration. He confided his feelings to the book holder.
‘It is a better play than I gave it credit, Nick.’
‘The play is unchanged,’ said Nicholas. ‘What has altered is your perception of it.’
‘True. It is so much easier to appreciate when its author is not here to obstruct my view of its virtues.’
‘Jonas was here this afternoon.’
‘In spirit, if not in body.’
‘That was his voice I heard out there on the stage. Even your mimicry could not reproduce that sound. It was a distinctive voice, James. Too harsh for some, maybe. You have been among them. But impossible to ignore.’
‘Westfield’s Men have done him proud.’
‘No playwright could ask for more,’ said Hoode, joining them as he pulled off his costume. ‘Jonas Applegarth was a true poet. He died for his art. It is a tragedy that we only have this one play of his to act as his headstone.’
‘We may yet have a second,’ suggested Nicholas.
‘Has he bequeathed us another?’
‘No, Edmund. But you could provide it.’
‘I could never write with that surging brilliance. Only Jonas could pen a Jonas Applegarth play.’
‘Work with him as your co-author.’
‘How can he, Nick?’ said Ingram. ‘Jonas is dead.’
‘Yes,’ added Hoode with a touch of envy. ‘He outshines me there as well. Not only did he live with more of a flourish, he died in a way that made all London sit up and say his name. Edmund Hoode will just fade away, unsung, in some mean lodging. That is what I admire most about Jonas Applegarth. His own life was his most vivid and unforgettable drama.’
‘Then there is your theme,’ urged Nicholas.
‘Theme?’
‘Put him back up on the stage in full view.’
‘Jonas?’
‘Why not?’ said Ingram, warming to the idea. ‘Change his name, if you wish. But retain his character. Keep that humour. Keep that wit. Keep that belligerence. If ever a man belonged on the boards with a mouth-filling oath, it is Jonas Applegarth.’
‘His death will certainly give me my final scene.’
‘The play foments in your mind already, Edmund,’ said Nicholas with a smile. ‘Write it as an act of appreciation. Let him know that Westfield’s Men cherish his memory. We loved him but did not have time to tell him so before he left us.’
***
It took Anne Hendrik a long time to make a comparatively short journey. The audience at The Rose was too large and too inclined to linger for her to make a swift exit from the theatre. She and Preben van Loew were forced to wait until the earnest discussions of the play gradually subsided and the press of bodies thinned out. The Dutchman escorted her home before going on to his own house in Bankside.
There was no hurry. Nicholas would be delayed even longer than she had been. First of the company to arrive, he would be the last to leave, having supervised the removal of their scenery and costumes, the cleaning of the tiring-house and the collection of the money from the gatherers. There would be a dozen other chores before he could begin to think of slipping away.
When Anne caught herself calculating the earliest possible time of his arrival, she tried to pull herself together and put him from her mind. There was no guarantee that Nicholas would come. When Westfield’s Men had last played at The Rose, she had no visit from its book holder afterwards. Why should this time be different? They had no obligations towards each other. Ambrose Robinson may have eased them back together but his arrest would just as effectively push them apart. She soon persuaded herself that Nicholas would be too busy carousing with his fellows to remember her invitation. She sank into a chair with resignation.
It was an hour before she got out of it. The tap on the door made her leap up and rush to answer it, waving away the servant who came out from the kitchen. Adjusting her dress and modifying her broad grin to a smile, she opened the door to find Nicholas standing there. She dismissed his apology for being so late and took him into the parlour.
‘Did you enjoy the play?’ he asked.
‘As much as anything I have seen in years.’
‘It is a remarkable piece of theatre.’
‘A little too remarkable for Preben, I fear.’
‘Oh?’
‘He laughed at its jests but shied at its irreverence.’
‘It is strong meat for a timid palate.’
They talked at length about the play until they felt sufficiently relaxed with each other to move away from it. Nicholas had some news for her.
‘I spoke with Master Firethorn today,’ he said, ‘and put the name of Philip Robinson in his ear.’
‘Why?’
‘We need a new apprentice.’
‘And you would consider Philip?’
‘He recommends himself.’
‘He may,’ she said cautiously, ‘but his situation does not. Did you tell Master Firethorn the full facts?’
‘Each and every one.’
‘The boy carries a stigma. Did he not baulk at that?’
‘The only stigma that Lawrence Firethorn recognises is bad acting. Show him a willing lad with a wealth of talent and he’ll take him into Westfield’s Men, though his mother be a witch and his father have cloven hooves and a tail.’
‘Then Philip is apprenticed?’
‘If the Chapel Royal agree to release him.’
‘They’ll embrace the opportunity, Nick. Thank you!’
‘For what?’
‘Your kindness and consideration.’
‘Philip will be an asset to us. I am only being kind and considerate to Westfield’s Men, believe me.’
‘I fretted over him,’ she said. ‘My mind is put at rest by this news. It is a relief to know that some good has come out of all of this upset. I am still wracked with guilt about it.’
‘Why?’
‘I caused you so much unnecessary trouble. But for me, you would never have met Ambrose Robinson.’
‘But for him, I might never have met Anne Hendrik again.’ He grinned at her. ‘I call that a fair exchange.’
‘Then I am content.’
They fell silent. Nicholas feasted his eyes on her and basked in the luxury of her company. He had not been able to enjoy it to the full before. The obstacles between them had now vanished and he could appraise her properly for the first time. Anne wallowed in his curiosity before being prompted by her own.
‘Do you live alone?’ she said.
‘No. The house is full of people.’
‘I was talking about your room,’ she said, probing quietly. ‘I wondered if you…shared it with anybody.’
‘I am never there long enough to notice.’
‘Still married to Westfield’s Men?’
‘With all its misfortunes.’ They laughed together.
‘But what of you, Anne? Alone here still?’
‘Not for much longer.’
‘Why?’
‘That passage with Ambrose taught me much. I felt the lack of a man around the house. I will take another lodger.’
‘I see,’ he said with obvious disappointment.
‘I do it for my own protection, Nick,’ she argued. ‘He would not need to be here night and day. His scent would be enough. It would keep danger away.’
‘What sort of lodger would you seek?’
‘One that suited me.’
‘In what way?’
Her eyes searched his. Nicholas was the first to smile.
‘Where do you live?’ she asked, moving closer.
‘In Thames Street.’
‘How much do you pay your landlord?’
‘Too much.’
He took her in his arms for a long and loving kiss.
‘I am thinking of moving,’ he said.
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The Laughing Hangman nb-8 Page 25
