"An excellent idea, I must say!" Shakespeare responded, clapping him upon the shoulder. "I would much rather spend some time with Dick, sweet Molly, and that old bear Stackpole at the Toad than overpay at Cholmley's and listen to Ned and K
it attempt to outbark each another like a pair of hounds and lay the blame for every flaw in the production on Lord Strange's Men. Forsooth, I have had enough of that rot. To the Toad, then!"
"To the Toad it is," said Smythe. "What say you, shall we chance it with a wherry in this infernal downpour, or shall we go the long way, by the bridge?"
"In this wind, there should be quite a chop," said Shakespeare, somewhat dubiously. "And many of the boats will have pulled in, though a good wherry-man would not be frightened by the weather. Just the same, methinks I would prefer to take the bridge. Either way, we shall get soaked."
"'Well, let us walk, then," Smythe replied. "I have always enjoyed a good walk in the rain."
They wrapped their cloaks around themselves, pulled down their hats, and went out into the wind and rain, through the theatre gates. The rain was coming down in sheets as they started walking toward the river, but they were in good spirits. For the moment, at least, the uncertainties and troubles of the world were all forgotten. The Thames was frothed with whitecaps, and the bracing smell of the sea was strong in the air.
As they made their way toward London Bridge, Shakespeare began to sing a ribald tune, and Smythe laughed, linked arms with him, and joined in. They sang lustily and loudly, looking forward to an evening in front of a warm fire with old friends.
Neither of them noticed that they were being followed.
Elizabeth was growing increasingly concerned about her friend. Already despondent over her father's cancellation of her marriage plans, Portia was plunged into absolute despair when she learned that Thomas had been murdered. When the sheriff's men had come to question them, Portia ran out of the room in tears and fled upstairs to the guest bedroom that she had occupied since leaving home. Now she would not even leave that room. She had taken to her bed and would not get up, not even to eat.
Not knowing what else to do, Elizabeth had sent a servant to Antonia with a message begging her to come at once. But as the day drew on and she did not arrive, Elizabeth grew more and more anxious. It was growing late when Antonia arrived in her carriage at last.
"I wanted to come as soon as I received your message," Antonia explained apologetically, as one of the servants helped her with her cloak, "but my husband was entertaining guests and my presence was required at home. Alas, I could not leave till they had all departed."
"I understand, of course," Elizabeth replied as they made their way together to the drawing room. "And I am much relieved that you have come at last. I am simply driven to distraction. Poor, poor Portia! I just do not know what to do. I cannot think how to help her!"
"You are already helping her, my dear," Antonia replied solicitously. "You have given her safe haven, and a caring heart to see her through this tragic time. And in the end, 'tis said that time itself must heal such wounds."
Elizabeth shook her head. "In this case, Antonia, I am not so certain. Doubtless time could heal grief suffered over an untimely loss, but this was the foul murder of the man she loved, and I do believe she holds her father to account for it, which can only serve to multiply her torment."
"Do you suppose he could have done it?" Antonia asked as the servant poured their wine.
Elizabeth sighed and shook her head once more. "I cannot say. 'Tis not so long ago I would have said that Henry Mayhew certainly did not strike me as a man who would be capable of murder, but I have since discovered that one simply cannot tell such things from appearances and that people one might never think capable of doing such terrible things are, indeed, capable of them and more."
"So then he may have done it," said Antonia. "Or else he may have paid to have it done. Is that what she believes?"
"I am afraid so," said Elizabeth. "What does one tell a girl who thinks her father killed the man she loved?"
"I do not know," Antonia replied. "'What has her father said to this?"
"Thus far, he has said nothing," said Elizabeth.
Antonia frowned. "Does he even know that she is herd"
Elizabeth nodded. "He knows. I sent a servant to him with a letter, so that he would know that she was safe with me. It seemed the proper thing to do. Had I a daughter who ran off somewhere, and I did not know where she was, I would be frantic with concern."
Antonia nodded. "You did the right thing. And how did he respond?"
"See for yourself," Elizabeth replied, picking up a letter and passing it to her. "This came but a few hours ago."
With a look of interest, Antonia took the letter, unfolded it, and read:
My dear Elizabeth,
I have received your letter and was gratified to learn that Portia had decided to spend some time upon a visit with you. Doubtless, your pleasant company shall be of benefit to her and help assuage her distress over recent unfortunate events. The sheriff's men had paid me a visit, as they did you, it seems, and I informed them that there was little more that I could add to what they apparently already knew, but that I would remain at their service if they should require anything further of me in their inquiries. They thanked me respectfully and took their leave.
& to my daughter’s future, the present uncertainty of which has likely been the cause of her distress, you may inform her that she is ever in my thoughts, and that I have already taken certain steps that will assure her welfare and grant her even greater prospects than she may have earlier expected. With warmest wishes of regard and good will toward your family, I remain, as ever, yours sincerely,
Henry Mayhew
"Well, upon my word," said Antonia, as she finished reading the missive, "he does not seem much concerned. What do you suppose he means when he writes that he has 'taken certain steps that will assure her welfare'?"