A Mystery Of Errors

“In truth, I am no longer a young girl, Mother,” Elizabeth protested, politely. “I am a grown woman. And I do believe I should accept. Besides, it is not as if he had simply glimpsed me on the street and asked about in order to discover where I lived. There is, after all, an understanding, is there not? These are goods which have already been bartered.”

“Honestly, Elizabeth!”

“Honestly, indeed, Mother,” Elizabeth replied, matter of factly. “It is nothing but the truth, so why seem so affronted by it? I am merely being traded away to enhance Father’s social position.”

“Now what sort of talk is that? I simply cannot comprehend what makes you say such things! Perhaps your father was right that your tutor filled your head with all manner of nonsense. Lord knows, I certainly never raised you that way! Bartered goods, indeed! You speak as if we have never had your best interests in mind at all.”

“Did you?” Elizabeth asked, softly.

Her mother’s mouth simply opened and closed repeatedly, like that of a fish out of water, as she struggled for an answer and couldn’t seem to find one that was appropriate to the occasion. So Edwina Darcie did what she always did whenever her wits were not up to the task of formulating a suitable riposte. She raised her chin and sniffed contemptuously, then turned demonstratively and left the room in a flurry of skirts and umbrage.

Elizabeth sighed, then turned to the messenger, who still waited patiently for her response. “You may tell your master that I should be glad to accept his kind invitation.”

“Thank you, milady,” said the messenger, bowing slightly. “In that event, I am instructed to inform you that my master shall be sending his coach for you.”

“You may thank him for me and tell him I am most grateful for his consideration,” said Elizabeth, with a smile.

Mr. Anthony Gresham, it seemed, was nobody’s fool. The betrothal may have already been arranged and, in the minds of both their parents, the marriage could well be a fait accompli, but he clearly wanted to see his intended for himself before he set off for the church. What other reason could there be for such an invitation? It was very nearly an imperious summons. It had been well and politely phrased, to be sure, but on such short notice, it was presumptuous and there was an air of arrogant expectation that it would be obeyed, right down to ordering the servant to deliver it directly into her hand and then await her response, which presumed that she would not even take any time to think it over. Her mother could not see the arrogance of it, because the subtleties escaped her. Her father certainly would, but then he would probably expect it from somebody like Gresham and excuse it, for wanting to attain a position where he could be as arrogant himself. Elizabeth sighed.

Well, she thought, with any luck, in their eagerness to see the matter settled, neither of them would think too much about what motives Mr. Gresham had behind this invitation. There was even a good chance that his coach would arrive to pick her up before her father came home for the evening. He often worked late. In that event, he wouldn’t even have a chance to think about it and come up with some reason to postpone the meeting at the last moment, until such time as he would be in a position to exercise some more control over how and when it was conducted. For if he did have a chance to think about it, then he might realize that Fate had just handed his daughter the perfect opportunity to thwart his plans for her.

So, she thought, the high and mighty Mr. Anthony Gresham wanted to see the goods displayed before he bought them, did he? Elizabeth smiled, smugly. Well then, see them he would. And she would display herself in such a fashion as to make him blanch. It would be an evening that he would not soon forget. And then, she thought, chuckling to herself, we shall see if there shall be a wedding.

She hurried to get ready.

***

“When we came to seek employment with the Queen’s Men, this was not the sort of position that I had in mind,” said Shakespeare, wryly, as he held the horse while the gentleman dismounted.

Smythe came up beside him, leading a saddled bay by its reins. “Well, one has to start somewhere, I suppose. But I must admit that this was not quite my idea of working in the Theatre, either.”

“Ostlers,” said Shakespeare, with a grimace, as they led the patrons’ horses to the stable. “We came to London to be players, and instead, we are mere ostlers. Stable boys! Odd’s blood, I could have stayed in Stratford and done far better than this!”

“But you would not be in the Theatre,” Smythe said, as they led the horses toward the stalls.

“And I would not have shit upon my boots, either.”

“I thought you had previously arranged a position with the company when they had come through your Stratford whilst on tour,” said Smythe.