A Mystery of Errors (Shakespeare & Smythe 1)

She shook her head. “No. At least, not yet.”

“Ah. Pity. Doubtless, there shall be before long.”

“Let us understand one another, Mr. Gresham, and speak plainly,” she said. “You do not want this marriage. Anymore than I do.”

“No, Miss Darcie,” he said. “I do not. And ‘twas my hope that you would feel the same way. As, it would appear, you do.”

“I do, indeed, Mr. Gresham. But I mean no offence toward you.”

“Indeed, nor I toward you,” Gresham replied, visibly more at ease now. “I was concerned that my desire to break off this betrothal might have been painful or distressing to you.”

“The marriage was something that my father wanted,” she said, “for reasons that had more to do with his ambitions than with mine.”

Gresham nodded. “Aye. Our situations seem much alike. ‘Twas my father who wanted this, as well.” He smiled. “Apparently, the family fortune has been somewhat depleted by some unwise investments he had made.”

“So he seeks to make a wiser one through you,” Elizabeth replied, with a smile.

Now that she saw which way the wind blew, she felt a great deal more comfortable with Gresham. Her opinion of him had improved, somewhat, as well. She could now see why he had acted as he did. He could not very well have revealed the purpose of this meeting in his invitation. Not knowing how she felt, he had needed to be circumspect, and issue the invitation in such a manner that her family would have little or no time to prepare for it and interject themselves in any way. This was a matter that had needed to be discussed in confidence. Nor could she fault him for wanting to break off the betrothal. He was in love with someone else. What better reason could there be? She had wanted to find a way to break it off herself, because she was not in love with him.

Her sympathies became aroused toward him and she started to look upon him with more understanding. He was not a bad sort, after all. Without his cooperation, there could not have been a marriage. He had not needed to meet with her like this. He could have simply refused to go through with it. He would have raised the ire of his father and perhaps risked being disinherited, but he certainly had not needed to consider her feelings in the matter. And yet, he had done just that. He had wanted to speak with her, prepare her, make some explanation. In this respect, he had comported himself in every way like a true gentleman. Even an honorable one, she thought, smiling to herself at the irony, considering the play being acted below, to which neither of them was paying the least bit of attention anymore.

“I see that you have wit,” said Gresham, with a smile. “Depending upon one’s perspective, that will, in good time, either make some man very happy or else miserable beyond belief. More wine?”

Elizabeth laughed, both at his good-natured gibe and in relief that things had gone so well. “Please,” she said, holding out her goblet and noticing that it was fine, engraved silver, not pewter. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted the wicker basket Drummond must have brought, containing the goblets and the wine, as well as the trencher for the serving of the bread and cheese. Gresham clearly liked his comforts.

“So, here we are. The perfect pair,” said Gresham, raising his goblet to her. “A son with a father in want of money, and a daughter with a father in want of position. A match made in heaven, one might say.”

“Aye,” she said, “if one father could but wed the other.”

Gresham chuckled and they touched goblets. “I am glad we could achieve what the French call a ‘rapprochement.’ Now the question remains, how best to inform our families of this.”

“Plainly, I should think, would seem the best course,” Elizabeth replied. “I cannot imagine any way to tell them that would result in any sort of satisfaction on their part. So why not simply be plainspoken?”

“Well, for my part, that poses no great hardship,” Gresham said, with a shrug. “Howsoever I may put it to him, I shall incur my father’s anger and displeasure. ‘Twould be neither the first time nor the last. If he wishes to improve his lot through marriage, then let him find himself some rich merchant’s daughter who, unlike yourself, is concerned less with her heart’s desire than with her comfort. I am sure my mother, rest her sweet soul, would understand. My father’s ire is something I can bear without undue concern. But what of yourself, milady? Can we not devise some stratagem that will assuage or, at the very least, redirect your father’s anger at the failure of this match?”

“My father’s anger is something I have grown accustomed to as I have grown older, and become less the dutiful child and more the intemperate woman,” Elizabeth replied, with a grimace. “But, to be honest, I did have a plan of my own to thwart this match.”

Gresham raised his eyebrows. “Did you, indeed?” He looked amused. “Pray tell me what it was.”

“I had intended, this very night, to prove myself a wanton hussy and a slattern in your eyes, by flirting coyly with every man in sight, so much so that you would have been outraged and sorely embarrassed at my boldness and utter lack of manners and discretion. And in conversation, I would have displayed a lazy intellect and a complete lack of interest in anything save my own indulgence. ‘Twas my most earnest intent that by the time this night was ended, you would have found me quite unsuitable.”

Gresham threw back his head and laughed, so loudly that it threw off the actors on the stage, who were not, at that particular moment, delivering any lines that were comedic. They looked up toward the gallery in dismay, but Gresham paid them no mind whatsoever and, with some annoyance, they continued from where they had left off.

“I almost wish that I had given you the opportunity to go through with

it,” he said, still chuckling over the idea. “But I much prefer that things have turned out as they did. ‘Tis better that we are honest with each other. However, be that as it may, I think your plan has much merit in it. We shall agree, then, that I was an insufferable boor who found you quite unsuitable, as you put it. Though we shall not, I think, put it off to any failing of your own. You comported yourself with the very essence of feminine charm and grace, but I simply did not find you to my liking, being spoiled and petulant and impossible to please. You have never met a man so lacking in manners and discretion. I was a pig. You were appalled. I found you unbecoming and did not hesitate to tell you so. That, I think, would make a nice touch to raise your father’s ire against me instead of you. And, with any luck, the next match that he proposes for you will be much more to your liking.”

“ ‘Tis not that I find you dislikable,” said Elizabeth. “At least, not anymore.”

Gresham chuckled again. “Nor I you. A man could do far worse and not, I think, much better. We understand each other. It has been a rare pleasure not marrying you, Miss Darcie. And since you seem to have no more interest in this execrable play than I do, perhaps you would allow me the pleasure of taking you home?”

6

THE MEMBERS OF THE COMPANY were not pleased with the play. The audience was restive, almost from the start, and a number of them had left before the second act. At the end, the applause had been indifferent, and there had been some boos and catcalls at the final bows. After the performance, they had repaired to The Toad and Badger to discuss what had gone wrong over bread and cheese and ale. Since they lived upstairs over the tavern, Smythe and Shakespeare had gone, too, as soon as they were finished with their duties at the stable. By the time they had arrived, tired, but looking forward to an evening’s relaxation, the company were already arguing amongst themselves, trying to find something-or someone-to fault for the failure of that night’s performance.

“ ‘Twas young Dick’s fault, if you ask me,” Will Kemp was saying as they came in. “He was much too heavy-handed with his part. It calls for lightness and expansiveness, like the tone I set in my speech during the prologue.”

“If by expansiveness you mean leering and grimacing and capering like a randy drunken fawn, then indeed you set the tone,” replied Richard Burbage, sourly.