The Merchant of Vengeance (22 page)

For a moment, Elizabeth had just stood there, stunned and speechless. How was it possible for Granny Meg to have simply disappeared? Except for the stairs leading down to the shop, there was no way in or out of the room. It was as if she had never even been there in the first place. Elizabeth had swallowed hard, thinking once again what she had thought only a short while before: What if the old cunning woman had never really been there at all? What if she truly was a ghost? Elizabeth turned and nearly ran downstairs.

The overcast sky had turned dark, and it began to thunder as the coach drove through the London streets, taking her toward Henry Mayhew's house. She did not really know Portia's father very well. They had only met on a few occasions, and then just briefly. For that matter, until recently, she had not known Portia Mayhew much better.

Henry Mayhew had struck her as a man who had a great deal in common with her own father. They shared the same first name, and they were both men who had not been born to money, but had worked hard and achieved success later in life, which made them value what they had achieved all the more. Like her own father, Henry Mayhew had seemed almost entirely preoccupied with business and was probably not the sort of man who had very much time for women. To such a man, as to her own father, a woman was merely a sort of accoutrement, one that served a specific purpose, much like a prized mount or a sporting hound. Elizabeth chuckled to herself at the unintentional and ribald pun implicit in the thought. A "prized mount," indeed.

She tried to imagine if there had ever been a time when her own father had thought of her mother that way. Clearly, there must have been, for she was living proof of that; however, it seemed impossible to imagine. Perhaps they had merely procreated because it was what married couples were supposed to do. She could not believe her father ever could have acted anything even remotely like the characters in the romantic poems she had read. Indeed, he had expressed his scorn for such pursuits on more than one occasion. He believed that poetry was idle nonsense, fit only for players, bards, and gypsies, not "serious" people. To him, the very idea of romance was foolish. And her mother certainly did not seem like the sort of woman to inspire it. Her parents seemed merely to share the same house and the same bed. Each had his or her own duties to perform, and neither seemed to spend very much rime even speaking to the other. It seemed like such a pointless way to live. Had they ever even been in love?

She knew that their marriage had been arranged, just as most marriages were these days. Marriage for love, as her mother had often said, was all right for "the common sort of people," but it was hardly appropriate for "the upper classes," who needed to concern themselves with more practical matters. The way her mother spoke, one might think they were aristocrats, rather than members of the rising middle class. Or perhaps that was merely the way her mother placated herself for the lack of romance in her life.

Elizabeth had sworn that she would never do that. She would never marry a man she did not love and simply acquiesce to what he and everyone else seemed to expect of her, regardless of her own desires. And if there was anything that she could do to prevent Portia from having to succumb to such a fate, then she would do it without any hesitation.

Once again, her thoughts turned to Tuck's father. What an appalling, arrogant, selfish, and deceitful man! She tried to imagine whether Tuck could ever become like that when he grew older. She shook her head, as if to dispel the very idea. She felt ashamed of herself for even thinking it. Except for a familial physical resemblance, the father and the son had nothing at all in common— most fortunately, she thought. What could possibly account for the two of them being so very different? But then again, what could account for her being so different from her own mother? Had there ever been a time when her mother had thought and felt the same way she did? And if there had, then what could have happened to change her so? Was it merely a matter of advancing age, Elizabeth wondered, or was it marriage to her father that had beaten her down?

The thunder crashed and lightning lit up the sky outside her coach window. The rain began to pelt down. She felt a little sorry for the coachman, sitting up there exposed to the elements in nothing but his hat and cloak, but then that was his job. And at the same time she thought that no one would ever be telling him whom he must marry. He was free to marry anyone he pleased.

She wondered what his life was like. Did he have a 'life awaiting him at home? And if so, how long had they been married? Were they like her parents, who merely slept together to keep each other warm? Or did they, despite the little money that they had, still find romance and passion in their lives? Did they make love in bed by candlelight, or perhaps upon the floor, with their sweaty, naked bodies intertwined before the hot and roaring fire in their hearth?

Elizabeth moistened her lips and took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. This was not the sort of thought she should be entertaining as she was preparing to meet Portia's father and convince him of the utter wrongness of his course. She needed to have her wits about her, to be serious and level-headed. Any sort of emotional appeal would be wasted on him. Her argument would have to be completely logical and practical. It would not do, she thought, to argue that Portia was too distraught with grief and needed time to mend her broken heart. He would dismiss that as a trifling matter, a foolish woman's argument. No she thought, the thing to do would be to focus upon Tuck's father, the man to whom Henry Mayhew was apparently about to betroth his daughter. She would have to convince him of the truth about Symington Smythe II, Esquire, that he was a fraud and a bounder, whose true object was not to find himself a suitable wife, but to get his hands upon her father's money.

Of course, that meant she would have to tell him how she knew. She wondered how Mayhew would respond to that. She was not ashamed of Tuck, and she did not keep her friendship with him secret from either her family or her friends. Her father did not object to it, exactly. He tolerated it, in a rather grudging sort of way, in part because he felt indebted to Tuck and in part, she felt, because he trusted him to behave in an honourable fashion. That seemed somewhat incongruous, perhaps, because Tuck was a player and players were generally considered, more or less, to be on a level with prostitutes and gypsies. A man such as her father—in other words, someone like Henry Mayhew—would not normally think that players could behave in an honourable fashion, much less except them to. Nor would her father have thought so, in all likelihood, had not Tuck and Will proven themselves in his eyes. He still did not entirely approve of them, but neither could he bring himself to disapprove. And somewhere in that region of vague tolerance and indecision was bounded her relationship with Tuck.

It was something more than friendship and somewhat less than love. Or at least less than a love that was openly acknowledged or expressed. And if her father should ever suspect that, thought Elizabeth, then what little tolerance he had for their relationship would probably be strained beyond endurance. So long as he believed that it was merely a friendship, or perhaps even a mildly rebellious sort of infatuation on her part, stimulated by its social impropriety, then he could choose to look the other way and sniff disdainfully, shrug his shoulders, roll his eyes, and assume that she would eventually tire of it. However, it was one thing to be vaguely tolerant of her relationship with Tuck because she was discreet about it and never forced the issue or even brought it up in conversation, thereby enabling him to act as if it did not truly exist, yet it was another thing entirely to have someone like Henry Mayhew question him about it. That would throw discretion out the window with all the subtlety of breaking wind at vespers.

"You truly permit your unmarried daughter to associate with players?" she could imagine Mayhew saying to her father. "Good Lord, man, what can you possibly be thinking? 'Strewth, she has not compromised her virtue so much as dragged it through the mud! Have you taken leave of all your senses?"

She could imagine such a conversation all too easily. And in that event, if he were forced to deal with her relationship with Tuck in a way that would publicly embarrass him, she had no doubt that not only would he put his foot down and forbid it, but he would once again resume his efforts to get her married off… except that next time, he might not be so particular about to whom.

She sighed and chewed her lower lip nervously. There was simply no escaping it. Warning Henry Mayhew about Symington Smythe meant telling him about her relationship with his son. And no matter how inconsequential she could try to make it seem, there was no way to make it appear proper and acceptable. Inescapably, trying to help Portia any further meant endangering her relationship with Tuck. But then, revealing the truth to Mayhew went beyond merely trying to help Portia . it meant saving her from a disastrous and appalling marriage. And she had already been through enough pain and suffering. To add to it by saying nothing and thus allowing her to fall into Symington Smythe's clutches would be simply unforgivable. And what was more, Elizabeth had no doubt that Tuck would see it that way, too.

It was still raining very hard and the wind had picked up by the time the coach pulled up in front of Henry Mayhew's home. As the coachman came down off the box to open the door for her, Elizabeth pulled up the hood of her cloak and then carefully stepped down onto the slick, wet cobblestones. She quickly climbed the steps up to the house on tiptoe, hoping that it would not take long for someone to answer the door. She did not relish the idea of waiting very long out in this storm. Much more of this, she thought, and her light shoes were going to be ruined. To her surprise, when she went to knock upon the door, she found that it had not been completely closed. Her first knock pushed it open slightly. She frowned as she opened it and went inside, thinking that it was rather careless of the servants not to close the door properly.

"'Allo" she called out, as she stood just inside the doorway. "'Allo, is anybody home?"

There was no reply forthcoming. It was dark inside. The storm had made the night come early, but there were no candles burning in the hall. That seemed rather peculiar. Even if Mayhew was not at home, surely the servants were. What could they be thinking, leaving the house so dark? It certainly looked as if they were being derelict in their duties.

"'Allo, 'allo?" she called out once again.

There was no answer. A moment later, she heard what sounded like a soft moan.

" 'Allo, is someone there?" she called out again, frowning. It was difficult to see well in the dark. She wished she had a candle. She took several steps forward and suddenly tripped over something large lying at her feet and fell to the floor, crying out in alarm.

Someone groaned quite dose to her, and a man's voice said,

"Oh, my God'!"

Elizabeth gasped and sat up on the floor. "Merciful Heavens!

Who is there?"

She suddenly felt a hand close around her ankle, and instinctively she cried out and jerked her foot away, scuttling backward.

"Ow… help me, please…" someone said.

Whoever it was, she realized, was on the floor alongside her. She had tripped over someone, someone who was obviously hurt and in pain.

She took a deep breath. "Steady now," she said, steeling her nerves. Her eyes were growing accustomed to the darkness, and she could now make out someone stretched out on the floor nearby. "I shall try to help you. Here, hold out your hand."

She crawled over to the prostrate figure and saw a hand reaching out, unsteadily. She took hold of it. "Right, I have you. Now you shall have to help me. Can you stand? I cannot lift you up all by myself."

"I… shall try…

They struggled to their feet, Elizabeth trying to hold him steady. Fortunately, he was not a large or heavy man. It took a moment or two, but they managed to stand up together.

"Come on, now, lean on me," she said. "My name is Elizabeth

Darcie. I am Portia's friend. Who are you, fellow?"

"I am Hastings, mistress… the… the steward of this house…"

"What happened, Hastings? Are you ill or injured?"

"Ohh… my head. They dubbed me down, the base villains…" He gasped suddenly, though not so much with pain apparently, as with alarm. "Oh, good God! Master Henry and Mistress Winifred! Oh dear, oh dear, I fear what has befallen them! They were at home when those scoundrels broke in!"

"How many of them were there?" asked Elizabeth, alarmed that they might still be in the house.

"I… I am not certain. At least three or four, methinks. Perhaps more… oh, alas, I fear for Master Henry and poor Mistress Winifred!"

"We shall find them, Hastings," Elizabeth replied. "Calm yourself. Think now, was it already raining when these men attacked you and broke in?"

"Nay, mistress," he answered without hesitation. "'Twas not raining."

"Good. 'Twas a while ago, then, and with luck they may already have fled. You must fetch a candle or a lantern. And a weapon, if you have one. Quickly, if you can."

"At once, mistress… perhaps you had best wait here…

But Elizabeth did not wait. "While Hastings went to get a light, she reached inside her cloak and pulled out the small bodkin that she carried with her whenever she went out. It was not a large dagger, but it was very well made, double edged and exceedingly sharp. It had been a present from Tuck, and she prized it because he had made it especially for her. He had given her some lessons in the proper use of it, and although it hardly made her feel invincible, she thought that if she had to use it, she could do so without any hesitation and with a fair degree of competency.

As she moved cautiously through the dark house, she held the bodkin ready in her hand and listened carefully for the slightest sound. She thought that it was likely those men were no longer in the house, but just the same, she moved slowly and tried to keep her footsteps as soft as possible. She felt a tightness in her stomach, and her breaths were quick and shallow. She felt afraid, but she refused to let that stop her. Somewhere in the house, there could be injured people who would need her help.