The Beckoning Dream. Paula Marshall
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was lined with over sixty years of life, but he still possessed the calm gravity that had been so different from her father’s impotent rage at what had happened to his pleasant life.
She could also see that level with herself, and in front of Sir Thomas’s grand oak table on which books, ledgers and parchments stood at one end, was an armchair in which a man lounged. A man who was staring at her, not with Sir Thomas’s kind and paternal stare, but hungrily, almost ferally, his blue eyes cruel.
Bewildered, but still retaining the steady calm for which her fellow actors admired her, Catherine returned Sir Thomas’s grave look. She must not show her fear, but must keep her head so that Rob might not lose his, and pray that there might be a way out of the dire situation in which he had placed them.
“My dear Catherine,” said Sir Thomas, kindness itself, “I fear that your condition—or perhaps I should say, your brother’s condition—is a sad one. Treason!” He shook his grey head helplessly. “An ugly word, my dear. Nevertheless, God willing, we might find a way through the wood for you.”
What wood was he speaking of? The good old man, Catherine thought dazedly, was being so tactful that she hardly knew what he was saying. The lounging fellow on her right, whose eyes were still so hard on her that she could feel them when she could no longer see them, grunted “Ahem’ in a meaningful tone—although his meaning escaped Catherine!
But apparently not Sir Thomas, for he threw a sideways glance at his unmannerly aide, and said smoothly. “Ah, yes, Mistress Wood. I must be plain. We are not engaged in one of Master Wagstaffe’s comedies, are we?”
“No, indeed,” agreed Catherine.
“Whoever Master Wagstaffe is,” drawled the lounging man. “Another mystery.”
“No matter.” Sir Thomas was a little brisk. “I put it to you, Mistress Wood, that you do not share your brother’s Republican views.”
“I doubt—” and now Catherine was dry “—that he shares them himself. Rob is a weathercock. An attack of the megrims and he is all for the late usurper. If the weather is fine, and there is good food on the table, then it is ‘God save King Charles II’.”
Sir Thomas was suave. “All the more reprehensible of him, then, mistress, to put his life in jeopardy by writing treason. You, I understand, are a good and loyal subject of the King?”
Since his question seemed to invite the answer “Yes”, Catherine gave it to him.
“Oh, excellent,” smiled Sir Thomas. “So you would be willing to do the state some service. You speak Dutch, mistress, do you not? Your late mother being a Netherlander, as I remember.”
This seemed neither here nor there, and its relevance to poor Rob seemed questionable, but doubtless there was some point to this that escaped her. The lounging man was fidgeting again.
Sir Thomas gave him a benevolent stare. “Patience, Tom Trenchard, patience. We are almost at the heart of the matter.”
“Oh, excellent,” drawled Tom Trenchard, mocking Sir Thomas’s earlier remark. “I had thought that we were trapped in the outworks for ever.”
This time Catherine favoured him with a close examination, particularly since Sir Thomas was allowing him more freedom than was usually given to an underling. The principal thing about him was that he was big, much bigger than any of the men in Betterton’s company.
His shoulders were broad, his hands large, and he appeared to be at least six feet in height. His hair, his own, was of a burning red gold—more gold than red. It was neither long like the wigs of the King’s courtiers, nor cropped short like one of Cromwell’s Roundheads, but somewhere in between. It was neither straight nor curly, but again, was also somewhere in between, waving slightly.
His clothes were rough and serviceable. His shirt had been washed until it was yellow, and the weary lace at his throat and wrists was darned. His boots were the best thing about him, but even they were not those of a court gallant. Neither was his harsh and craggy face.
She already knew that he was mannerless, and he gave off the ineffable aura of all the soldiers whom she had ever met, being wild, but contained. Or almost contained. He saw her looking at him, and nodded thoughtfully. “You will know me again, mistress, I see.”
“Do I need to?” Catherine countered, and then to Sir Thomas, “Forgive me, sir, for allowing my attention to stray,” for she knew that the great ones of this world required all attention to be on them, and not on such lowly creatures as she judged herself and the lounging man to be.
He forgave her immediately. “Nay, mistress, you do well to inspect Master Trenchard. You will have much to do with him. As you have not denied either your loyalty, or your knowledge of Dutch, I am putting it to you, mistress, that you might oblige us by accompanying him to the Netherlands, there to use your skills as a linguist and as an actress. You will join him in an enterprise to persuade one William Grahame, who has done the state some service in the past, to bring off one final coup on our behalf.
“William Grahame has indicated to us that he is in a position to give us information about the disposition of the Dutch army and their fleet. He has also said that he will only do so to an emissary of my office who will meet him in the Low Countries at a place of his choosing. Once he has passed this information to us, and not before, your final task will be to bring him safely home to England again. He is weary of living abroad.”
He beamed at her as he finished speaking. Tom Trenchard grunted, mannerless again, “And so we reach the point—at long last.”
“Tom’s grasp of diplomacy is poor, I fear,” explained Sir Thomas needlessly. Catherine had already gathered that. She was already gathering something else, something which might help Rob, even before Sir Thomas mentally ticked off his next point.
“You must also understand, mistress, that success in this delicate matter—if you agree to undertake it—would prove most beneficial when the case of Master Robert Wood comes to trial—if it comes to trial, that is. The likelihood is that, with your kind co-operation, it will not.”
“And if I refuse?” returned Catherine.
“Why then, alas, Master Robert Wood will pay the price for his folly on the headsman’s block on Tower Hill.”
“And if I accept, but fail, what then?” asked Catherine.
“Why then, you all fail. Master Tom Trenchard, Mistress Catherine Wood and Master Robert Wood. Such may—or may not be—God’s will. Only He proposes and disposes.”
“Although Sir Thomas Gower makes a good fist of imitating Him,” drawled Tom Trenchard. “Particularly since it will not be his head on the plate handed to King Herod, whatever happens.”
So there it was. The price of Rob’s freedom was that she undertake a dangerous enterprise—and succeed in it.
“I have agreed with Master Betterton—” Catherine began, but Sir Thomas did not allow her to finish.
“Nay, mistress. I understand that Master Wagstaffe’s masterpiece has its last showing tonight—at which you will, of course, be present to play Belinda.
“Moreover, Master Betterton would not, if asked by those who have the power to do so, refuse to release you for as long as is necessary. Particularly on the understanding that, when you return, you shall be the heroine of Master Wagstaffe’s proposed new play—The Braggart Returns, or, Lackwit Married. I look forward to seeing it.”
This time the look Sir Thomas gave her was that of a fellow conspirator in a plot that had nothing to do with his bully, Trenchard, or with William Grahame in the Netherlands. Unwillingly, Catherine nodded.
“To save Rob, I will agree to your demands.” She had been left with no choice, for Sir Thomas had not one hold over her but two. The greater, of course, was his use of Rob to blackmail her. The lesser was his knowledge of who Will Wagstaffe really was.
And it was also