A number of times during the rehearsal, Smythe sought to catch her gaze, but all to no avail. It was as if he wasn’t even there. When she was not speaking to her new friend, Hera, Elizabeth kept staring straight at Ben, and with what seemed to him more than a little interest.

“ ‘Twould seem you have yourself some competition,” Kemp said slyly, as he sidled up to Smythe backstage.

“Stuff it, Kemp,” Smythe replied in a surly tone, irritated both at Kemp’s remark and at the fact that Elizabeth ’s interest was obvious enough for him to have noticed.

“Oh, my, my,” said Kemp, with a soft, delighted chuckle. “We are prickly today! But then, ‘twould seem a simple enough thing to understand. After all, he is quite handsome, our young Ben, a veritable Greek god, the very personification of Mars! Aye, he would be Mars himself, since he has been to war and thus has the glamor of a warrior.”

“Mars was a Roman god, you ignorant poltroon,” replied Smythe, irritably. “The Greek god of war was Ares, which you might have known if you troubled to read a book once in a while. But then ‘twould be unreasonable to expect a man to read a book when he can scarcely even read his lines.”

Kemp’s nostrils flared and his eyes shot Smythe a look of pure venom, but his voice remained mellifluously smooth as he replied, “A touch, by God! And from a hired man, no less. One would not have thought you capable of so telling a riposte. Bravo, Smythe. Well done. Well done, indeed.”

Smythe sighed, regretting his words. “Forgive me, Kemp,” he said. “ ‘Twas rude and intemperate of me to make such a remark.”

“Oh, now, do not dilute the vinegar with oil,” Kemp said, with a grimace. “ ‘Tis most unseemly. If you are going to be a proper bitch, my dear, then ‘tis best not to lick after you bite.”

“Kemp…” But the older man had already turned smartly on his heel and walked away.

For Smythe, it was a thoroughly miserable afternoon. Everyone else seemed to have an absolutely splendid time and when their guests departed at the end of the rehearsal, just as the shadows were beginning to lengthen in the early evening, everyone seemed quite full of good cheer, almost as if they had actually given a successful performance to a packed house. Smythe alone felt glum, in part because he had allowed Kemp to get his goat, but mostly because Elizabeth had completely ignored him throughout the entire rehearsal.

As for Ben Dickens, Smythe could not see how he could have failed to notice the way Elizabeth had watched him. In fact, he thought that Ben had made a point of flirting with her a little during the rehearsal, not that he could blame him. It was not Ben’s fault. Elizabeth Darcie was a breathtakingly beautiful young woman and Ben had absolutely no way of knowing how Smythe felt about her, a feeling he had thought, up til that point, had been reciprocated, if not in the same degree, then at least to some degree. Now, it seemed as if Elizabeth no longer felt anything for him at all. How could she? She had not even looked at him once.

Smythe watched morosely as they left, heading back toward their carriages, then he turned and set about helping to put everything away after the rehearsal. It was not until a short while later that he noticed there was still someone standing in the yard, toward the back, near the entrance. It was a man, and the man appeared to be watching him.

Shakespeare came up beside him. “Anyone you know?” he asked, casually.

Smythe frowned. And then he caught his breath. “Good God!” he said.

“What is wrong? Who is it?” Shakespeare asked.

“The last man I ever expected to see here,” said Smythe.

“Who?”

“My father,” Smythe replied.

6

YOUR FATHER?” SHAKESPEARE SAID, STARING at Smythe with surprise. “You mean that man there? But I thought you said that he threatened to disown you if you became a player.”

“He did,” said Smythe, “and so he would have, I believe, if he had anything left of which he could disown me when I set out for London with nothing save the clothes upon my back. And even had I stayed, I doubt ‘twould have made much difference to him, one way or the other. From the time he sent me off to live with my uncle, we scarcely even saw each other. For all that he is my father, there never has been any love between us. When I left home, I felt certain that I would never set eyes on him again.”

“And yet there he stands,” said Shakespeare. “Aye. There he stands.”

Shakespeare glanced at him. “You are quite certain ‘tis your father?”

“Aye, ‘tis he.”

“There can be no mistake?”

“I should think that I would know my own father, Will.”

“Aye… well… perhaps, but…”

“What?”

Shakespeare bit his lower lip. “Well… meaning no offense, you understand, but, ah… you told me that your father was a gentleman and that man there does not look much like a gentleman.”

“He never was,” said Smythe, with a shrug, “save in his name and his attire. The name he kept. The attire he appears to have lost, along with his fortune.”

As they stood there, looking out across the yard at him, Symington Smythe II stood there, looking back, dressed in a coarse green woolen cloak and cap, a plain brown doublet, homespun breeches, and worn boots. He carried a walking staff and little else. He did not even seem to have a sword. It was a far cry from the rich apparrel that he once habitually wore, although no matter what he wore, how costly or well-tailored, clothes had never seemed to sit well on him. Thomas Smythe had once remarked that for all the money his older brother spent on his varied and expensive wardrobe, it was like trying to caparison a dray horse. Those words came back to Tuck as he stood there, staring at his father, thinking that he now looked more like a bedraggled tenant farmer than a man with his own family coat of arms. Indeed, he thought, as Will had observed, he did not look much like a gentleman. But then, he had never really acted like one, either.

“Do you not think that you should go and greet him?” Shakespeare asked, raising his eyebrows.

“I was hoping to find some excuse to avoid it,” Smythe replied, with a sigh. “However, I suppose ‘twould be the proper thing for a dutiful son to do.”

“Do you want me to come with you?”

Smythe moistened his lips as he thought about it for a moment. Finally, he made up his mind. “I am grateful for your offer of support, Will, but methinks that this is something I had best see to myself,” he replied.

“Would you like me to wait for you?” Shakespeare asked.

“Nay, Will, go on. S’trewth, I am not sure what he could want with me, and if there is an argument, I should not wish for you to witness it. I shall see you when I get back.”

“If that is what you wish.”

“I do. Go on. I shall go and speak with him.”

“Will you be all right?”

“Aye, Will.” Smythe clapped him on the shoulder. “Thanks. Go on. I will follow before long.”

Most of the others had already left. A few were still lingering, putting things in order or else talking amongst themselves. Smythe watched Shakespeare walk away. He looked back and called out, “I will see you anon, Tuck,” then continued on his way. Tuck’s father glanced at him as Will passed him, and Will gave him a polite nod of greeting, but they did not speak. Tuck stood there watching his father for a few moments. Then he smiled to himself. His father would not come to him. He was expected to make the approach, as always. He took a deep breath and let it out in a heavy sigh. “Very well then,” he said to himself. “On with it.”

He walked across the yard to meet his father. As he approached, he saw that his father looked thinner and there was more white in his hair than before. The dark hair was now liberally streaked. The crow’s feet around his eyes looked more pronounced than he remembered, and his features seemed a bit more gaunt. Clearly, he had not been eating as well as was his wont. But in a curious way, the loss of weight seemed to agree with him. He looked older and leaner, but more fit for it. As his son approached, Symington Smythe II drew himself up to stand erect and proud, his chin high, his gaze aloof. It was his “knight’s demeanor,” as Tuck had always thought of it. Well, the knighthood had eluded him, and though he had somehow managed to cozen his way to an escutcheon, everything else he had now seemed lost to him as well. But the proud “knight’s demeanor” still remained, even though it did not go with the clothes.