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therefore take the edge off his excitement by dining in style with friends or pursuing his latest dalliance with a female admirer. Life was seductively rich and bountiful.
    Tonight, however, it seemed poor and niggardly. As he let his horse trot homeward, Firethorn heaved a sigh of deep desolation.
Marriage and Mischief
had been as well received as ever but its leading man had not been allowed to enjoy the occasion. Shaken by the apparent desertion of Sebastian Carrick, he was in two minds about the latter’s untried deputy, hoping that Owen Elias would somehow come through unscathed and yet fearing that the Welshman might steal some of his personal thunder. The post mortem had been deadly. In place of the customary praise and self-congratulation, he had to endure the bitter mockery of Barnaby Gill who kept asking Firethorn why he had nominated as their new sharer a man who had committed the ultimate sin against the company. Edmund Hoode rubbed salt into professional wounds by suggesting that Owen Elias should retain his new role in the play and that it should be enlarged to give his talents more scope.
    There was no evening feast to soften the impact of all these blows, no indulgence from Lord Westfield himself, no fair lady waiting for him at an appointed place. Firethorn was despondent. When he reached home, there would be the torments of a scolding wife to greet him. He had to steel himself before crossing his own hearth.
    ‘Welcome home, my prince!’
    ‘Margery …’
    ‘Your honour was but lately on my tongue.’
    ‘I am pleased to hear it.’
    ‘Then come from tongue to lips.’
    The kiss was as enjoyable as it was unexpected. MargeryFirethorn enfolded her husband in her arms, plucked him to her capacious bosom and kissed away a day’s absence. His spirits were rekindled at once.
    ‘What means this salutation?’ he said when he had enough breath back to get the question out. ‘What does it betoken, my angel?’
    ‘Is your memory so short, sir?’
    ‘Jog it a little, Margery.’
    ‘Cambridge.’
    ‘A pretty town. I played Pompey the Great there once.’
    ‘Does it hold no other meaning for you?’
    ‘Why yes,’ he said with a roguish smile that was suppressed instantly as wifely suspicion stirred. Firethorn continued quickly. ‘Cambridge is dear to me because of your dear sister. Mistress Agnes Jarrold. The very copy of your portrait, yet neither so comely nor so enchanting.’
    ‘I travel to Cambridge in the morning.’
    ‘Your husband had not forgot,’ he lied. ‘Why else would I have returned so early to your warm greeting?’
    ‘Come on in and take your ease, sir,’ she said as she conducted him to a chair. ‘I have wine ready for you and supper stays in the kitchen. Tell me your news before I stop your mouth with more kisses. How did Westfield’s Men fare?’
    ‘Do not ask, sweet wife. Do not ask.’
    ‘Why so?’
    Margery Firethorn was the only woman who could have survived domestic life with the wayward genius she had married. Handsome, well proportioned and outspoken,she had a bellicose charm which could still ensnare him. A proud housewife and a caring mother, she was also – even after all these years – his true love and that fact impressed itself upon him now. Instead of bustling about the place in her usual working attire, Margery was wearing her best dress and her most appealing expression. Whenever they were to part for a while, the couple always took a fond farewell of each other the night before. Firethorn was the more regular traveller but it was his wife’s turn to ride off now. Her younger sister, Agnes, married to a Cambridge bookseller, was due to have a baby in the near future. Since she had lost her two previous children within hours of their birth, she had requested Margery’s help and support during the third ordeal. It was an entreaty that could not be denied.
    Firethorn was keen for his wife to stand by the bedside of his sister-in-law and quick to appreciate