A Mystery of Errors (Shakespeare & Smythe 1)

Awakened by the creaking door and the weight of his tread upon the squeaky floorboards, she gasped and sat bolt upright in the bed, alarm clearly written on her features. But when she saw him, she seemed at once relieved.

“Oh! ‘Tis you, at last!”

For a moment, Smythe thought he had intruded upon a serving wench from the tavern who had been bedded by his roommate in celebration of the completion of his task, but then he saw that she was fully dressed and suddenly realized why she looked familiar. She was not one of the serving wenches from the tavern, but the young woman who had arrived at the Theatre in that coach… Anthony Gresham’s coach. He had made a point of remembering the name. She was not wearing the same elegant dress she had worn then, and had garbed herself most plainly, but he recognized her nonetheless. And she, apparently, remembered him. Indeed, it sounded as if she had come specifically to see him, which seemed even more remarkable.

“Milady?” Smythe said, taken aback. “Forgive me my impertinence, but am I to understand you have been waiting for me?”

“Oh, for hours!” she said, in exasperation, swinging her legs down to the floor. Smythe caught a tantalizing glimpse of bare calves and ankles nearly to the knee and discreetly looked away. “I had begun to think that you would never come!”

“But… how did you get in here?”

“Your friend, Master Shakespeare, let me in. He told me you would soon return and that if I cared to wait, then I should make myself at home.”

“Master Shakespeare, is it? Well, we shall see. But I must admit that I am mystified, milady. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

She smiled, and seemed to look a bit more calm. “You are very well spoken for an ostler.”

“I always try to be well sp

oken to beautiful women I find lying in my bed,” he replied.

She chuckled. “You are impertinent, but I do believe it suits you. Your name is Smythe, if I recall aright. Symington Smythe. Is that not so?”

“It is, milady. But friends such as Master Shakespeare call me Tuck.”

“Tuck,” she repeated, as if trying it on him for size. “I like it. It suits you, too. I am Elizabeth Darcie.”

“How do you do, Mistress Darcie?” he bowed slightly from the waist. “You must have come here on an urgent errand, indeed, to risk your reputation upon an unchaperoned visit to an ostler’s lodgings. Perhaps, all things considered, it would be better if we spoke downstairs, in the tavern?”

She waved him off. “I have slept up here for hours,” she said. “If there is any damage to be done to my reputation, then ‘tis already done and doubtless past repair. What is more, I do not care about that in the least. I have a pressing concern that is far greater.”

“Perhaps you should care,” Smythe replied. “However, be that as it may, I am at your service.” He pulled the bench over and sat down.

“I had hoped you would be,” she replied. “You have a kind and honest face. And right now, I need a kindness from you, and some honesty.”

“If it lies at all within my capability, milady, then consider it done,” he said.

She smiled. “Thank you. You are very gallant. What I need from you should not greatly tax your efforts, nor inconvenience you to any great degree. At least, that is my hope. Allow me to explain…”

Smythe nodded, indicating that she should go on.

She took a deep breath and began. “Such is my unhappy situation: Unwillingly, I had been betrothed to Anthony Gresham by my father, who seeks to improve his social standing through the marriage. In turn, my dowry would help the Greshams to recover from some poor investments they had made. And so ‘twould seem the match would be of benefit to everyone concerned… save for the unfortunate, reluctant bride, who wants to have no part of it.”

“I see,” Smythe said. “Your situation sounds indeed unfortunate, though not at all unusual, I fear. Marriage these days, especially among the upper classes, is far more often a matter of convenience and expediency for the families involved than a fortuitous result of love between the bride and groom. Tenanted estates and lands hang in the balance, as do mercantile interests and position in society.”

She sniffed. “You sound like my father. And so love matters not at all?”

“I did not say that,” Smythe replied. “As it happens, ‘twould matter a great deal to me. But then, my opinion on such matters carries little weight, and these days, few outside the working classes even expect love to play a part in the arrangement of a marriage. My own father’s thoughts along these lines were quite similar to those of yours, save that mine squandered the family fortune and thereby spared me the advantages of an inheritance and an arranged match. So now that I am common as the dirt beneath your feet, unlike the socially superior, I can afford to indulge common emotions such as love.”

Elizabeth sighed. “Truly, it does seem common to them. It is beyond the compass of my comprehension. The wisdom of our elders holds that in a proper marriage, love would follow on the heels of marriage, and not necessarily hard upon. If, indeed, it ever came, ‘twould come in time. Contentment and security, amiability and civility are virtues seemingly far more valued in a marriage than romantic love. Those qualities are said to make for marriages that are more sensible and stable than one based upon an emotion as common and ephemeral as love. At least, such are the prevailing, conventional beliefs. Unfortunately, they are not beliefs I share. And as my beliefs were not conventional, it did not seem I would prevail. That is, until just yesterday, when I received an invitation to the Theatre, an invitation from the very man I was to marry.”

“Ah,” said Smythe. “ ‘Twas the reason you arrived in Gresham ’s coach.”

“Just so. And ‘twas you who met that coach, mere moments before Gresham ’s servant, Drummond, came to escort me to the box up in the gallery, where Anthony Gresham awaited with the most unexpected news.”

“And what news was this?”

“That he no more desired to marry me than I desired to marry him!”