‘She loved pretty clothes, and parties, and gossip. She liked noblemen and women. She would have loved to meet the king.’ Jane’s eyes were moist. Something clutched at his heart. But was she putting on an act? She often did.
He stated the obvious: ‘And you’re like your mother.’
‘And my brothers aren’t.’ Julian and Lionel were away at Scottish universities. ‘They’re both like my father, all work and no play. I love my father, but I can’t lead his kind of life.’
She was in an unusual mood, he thought; he had never known her to be this honest about herself.
She said: ‘And the trouble with Rupe is that he, too, is like my father.’
Most Kingsbridge clothiers were like that. They worked hard and had little time for leisure.
Amos had a flash of insight. ‘I suppose I am too.’
‘You are too, dear Amos, though I have no right to criticize you. Where is your father’s grave?’
He offered her his arm and she rested one hand lightly on his sleeve, friendly but not intimate, as they crossed the graveyard.
She had never spoken so affectionately to him, yet she was explaining why she would never be his sweetheart. I don’t understand women, he thought.
They came to his father’s grave. He knelt beside the tombstone and removed a scatter of debris from the ground: dead leaves, a scrap of rag, a pigeon’s feather, a chestnut shell. ‘I suppose I’m like my father, too,’ he said, and stood up.
‘In that way, perhaps. But you’re so high-minded. It makes you formidable.’
He laughed. ‘I’m not formidable, though I’d quite like to be.’
She shook her head. ‘Put it this way: I wouldn’t like to be your enemy.’
He looked into her wide grey eyes. ‘Nor my wife,’ he said sadly.
‘Nor your wife. I’m sorry, Amos.’
He longed to kiss her. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry too.’
*
The Kingsbridge Theatre looked like a grand town house, classical in style, with rows of identical windows. The interior was a large hall with benches on a flat floor, and a raised stage at one end. Against the wall were balconies held up by wooden posts. The most costly seats were on the stage, and it seemed to Amos that the expensively dressed rich people there were part of the show.
The first play of the evening wasThe Jew of Venice, and a painted backdrop showed a waterside city with ships and boats. Elsie came and sat next to Amos. They had been running the Sunday school together for more than two years, and they were close friends now.
Amos had never watched a Shakespeare play. He had seen ballet,opera and pantomime at the theatre, but this was his first drama, and he was looking forward to it eagerly. Elsie had seen Shakespeare before and had read this particular piece. ‘It’s really calledThe Merchant of Venice,’ she said.
‘I expect they sell more tickets if they sayJewinstead ofMerchant.’
‘I suppose so.’ There were Jews in Combe and Bristol, mostly involved in the re-exporting trade, buying tobacco from Virginia and selling it on the European continent. A lot of people hated them but Amos could not see why. They believed in the same God as Anglicans and Methodists, didn’t they?
‘People say Shakespeare is hard to understand,’ Amos said.
‘Sometimes. The language is old-fashioned, but if you listen carefully, it will touch your heart all the same.’
‘Spade says it can be violent.’
‘Yes, bloodthirsty now and again. There’s a scene inKing Lear...’
Amos saw Jane Midwinter coming in.
Elsie abandoned the subject of Shakespeare. ‘You know Jane has broken with poor Rupe Underwood,’ she said.
‘Yes. He’s very bitter about it.’
