The Merchant of Vengeance (12 page)

"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."

"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?"

"A woman knows these things," she replied reassuringly. "Indeed? Well, a man knows a thing or two, as well. And I have taken steps to ensure that this does not happen again!"

Winifred looked up at him and frowned. "What do you mean? What sort of steps?"

"I have already begun making arrangements to ensure that she shall marry someone much more suitable. Much more suitable, indeed," he replied.

Winifred looked startled. "Have you? So soon?"

"Aye, I have, indeed. And what is more, I intend to waste no time about the matter. I shall have Portia married off well and properly before she can get herself into any more trouble, you may rest assured of that!"

"To be quite fair, Henry, you cannot blame Portia for something she could not have known," Winifred replied. "Nor did you know it, for that matter. Do not forget that you gave your approval to the match, at first."

"W’ell, 'twas because I was misled," Mayhew replied testily.

"The young man seemed entirely suitable and presented himself as such. A journeyman tailor, well spoken and well settled and employed in a good shop, with excellent prospects all around… "

He grunted and scowled. "Zounds, what is this country coming to when such people are permitted to mingle with their betters? Why, to think of that. that. spawn of that detestable tribe of usurers with his hands upon my daughter… "

"Henry! You are growing all red in the face again! I fear that you shall become sanguine in your humour, and then we shall have to summon a physician to bleed you!"

"Never you mind my humours, Madame," Mayhew replied irritably. "There is no distemper in my disposition, I assure you. As I have told you, I have taken steps to set things right. In due time, this entire matter will be settled, and there shall be an end to it."

"What are these steps that you have taken, Henry?" Winifred asked with a slight frown. "I must confess that I am much surprised at how quickly you have acted. What, exactly, is the nature of these arrangements you have made?"

"Ah, well, there, madame, you may see the mettle of the man that you shall marry," Mayhew said with a self-satisfied air. "As it happens, fortuitous circumstance led to my making the acquaintance earlier today of a certain gentleman lately arrived in London from his country estate. A proper gentleman, mind you, to the manner born, one who dresses in the height of fashion, with his escutcheon embroidered on his handkerchiefs in gold and silver thread! He carries himself most excellently, most excellently, indeed. And, as we engaged in conversation, I discovered, by pure chance, that he was looking for a wife!"