“No. She is very beautiful, as I am sure you have remarked,” she added dryly.
“Aye, beautiful… and rather bold, I thought.”
Elizabeth raised her eyebrows. “Oh? I was not aware that you had spoken with her.”
“Only briefly, when she arrived together with the wedding party,” Smythe replied.
“Indeed? And pray tell, what did she say to you?”
“I do not recall precisely. Nothing of substance, I am sure.”
“And yet you do recall that she was bold.”
“Well, doubtless, ‘twas more in the nature of her manner than anything she said.”
“Do tell. And what was her manner towards you?”
Shakespeare chuckled. “You have found, Tuck, both the greatest fault and greatest virtue of all women. They listen.”
“Bestill yourself, you clever quillmaster,” Elizabeth said, sharply. “ ‘Twas not you that I was asking!”
“Mum’s the word, ma’am. I shall take my cue from womankind and be all ears.”
“And I shall box those ears for you if you do not have a care!”
Smythe laughed.
“Laugh all you like,” Elizabeth said, “but when you are done, I shall still be waiting for my answer. I am not distracted.”
“Well… she said…” Smythe shrugged with exasperation. “In all truth, Elizabeth, I cannot recall now what she said, only that what she said seemed very bold. If I had not known better, I might have thought that she had set her cap at me.”
“Blanche has set her cap at men so many times that it has grown quite threadbare,” Elizabeth replied, dryly.
“A woman’s wit is never quite so sharp as when it pricks another woman,” Shakespeare said.
“Provoke me more and you shall find that it can prick a poet, too! Besides, I speak naught but the truth. And there are others, I am sure, who can bear witness to it. Her flaws are plain for all but men to see, who see them not for being
blinded by her beauty.”
“And yet ‘twas Catherine who had the worse reputation of the two,” said Smythe.
“Aye, for being a shrew,” Elizabeth replied. “For that is what men call a woman who dares to speak her mind. But if she should speak with other parts of her anatomy, then men will think with other parts of theirs, as well.”
“Which part would that be, pray tell?” Shakespeare asked, in-nocentiy.
“In your case, I have no doubt ‘twould be the smallest.”
Smythe laughed. “ Twould seem she can box a poet’s ears!”
“ ‘Twere not my ears that she defamed,” Shakespeare replied, with a grimace. And then his expression softened. “Why, Elizabeth, you are crying.”
“ Tis for Catherine,” she replied, her voice quavering. “Oh, I do not know how I can stand it! My heart is breaking!”
“There now,” Shakespeare said. “No shame in tears for a departed friend.”
He offered her his handkerchief. Unfortunately, the kindly intention of the gesture was overwhelmed by the sheer filthiness of the grimey handkerchief, which he had earlier used to wipe away some of the mud with which his face was still besmirched. Elizabeth simply stared at the muddy rag for a moment, then started to laugh, despite herself. Smythe and Shakespeare both joined in, and she put her arms around their waists as they staggered together around the house, toward the other side, helpless with laughter.
“Thank you,” Elizabeth said, as the wave of laughter subsided. “Thank you both for being such good friends.”