A Mystery Of Errors

Nobody would believe her. If her own mother did not credit her story, her father certainly would not. Especially after she had told him that Gresham said she was unsuitable. Too small bosomed and horse-faced. She never should have added that last part. But then, the whole thing had been his idea in the first place. Now, her father would know that she had made that up, and would, of course, believe that she had made all the rest of it up, as well.

Perhaps that was precisely what Gresham had intended, she thought, as she lay in bed and fought back tears of rage and helplessness. If he had wanted to create a rift between herself and her parents, he could not have succeeded more admirably. They already believed their daughter was too willful and too stubborn, now they would believe she was a liar, too. A spiteful, deceitful, and conniving shrew, she thought. That was what he had made her out to be. And now it would appear as if he were being magnanimous in taking her off her parents’ hands. That might well allow him to turn the terms of the marriage more to his advantage, she thought. Much like a clever bargain hunter in the market, negotiating a cheaper price for a bolt of cloth because he had found a blemish in it. She gritted her teeth. What an utterly loathsome scoundrel he was!

And this, unless she could think of something absolutely brilliant to prevent it, would be the man to whom she would be married! It was unthinkable. It was simply monstrous. There had to be some way to escape this, to expose him…

Surely, someone must have seen her at the Theatre. She had been there with her father dozens of times; he was one of the principal investors, people knew him there, and they knew her… but no. She could not recall running into anyone she knew when she arrived. Most of the audience had already been seated in the galleries, and she would not know anyone among the groundlings, obviously, so nobody had seen her when Drummond had conducted her to Gresham ’s private box. And the box had been screened off, of course, so that no one could have seen her in there unless, perhaps, one of the actors on the stage had recognized her, though she did not really know any of them, had never spoken to them, so there was really no one who… The ostler!

She sat bolt upright in bed. That handsome young ostler had seen her! They had exchanged words! More than words, they’d flirted. Surely, he would remember her! But who was he? What was his name?

Wait, he had told her. What was it? She racked her brain. Something rather common, and yet uncommon. It tripped rather fetchingly off the tongue, as she recalled. But what was it? Smythe! That was it! Something Smythe… Something Smythe… Symington! Symington Smythe!

She had a witness. A witness who could corroborate that she’d been at the Theatre that night. And that she had met Drummond! She had to find him. And as soon as possible. He was her only chance to prove that she had told the truth. She got up and quickly started to change her clothes.

8

GREEN OAKS, THE SPRAWLING ESTATE of Sir William Worley, was one of the most palatial homes that Smythe had ever seen. He had heard that the queen herself often visited Green Oaks, usually in late June or early July, when she would habitually leave London in procession with her entire court and make her summer excursions through the countryside, staying at various private residences. Green Oaks was where she usually began. Ostensibly, these excursions were a way for the queen to go out among her subjects every year and see some of the land she ruled. Co-incidentally, they also got her out of London during the height of the plague season and allowed her to vacation in the country at the expense of her hosts. And these royal visits could apparently be quite expensive, as they required that the queen be entertained and could last anywhere from a month up to six weeks, or whenever the queen grew bored and decided to move on. It was not unusual for one of Her Majesty’s hosts to shell out from two to three thousand pounds to pay for such a visit, but most considered the princely, indeed, the queenly sum well spent in exchange for the favor and influence they believed it could procure.

Obviously, if Sir William could afford to entertain the queen in such a fashion on an annual basis, he had to be fabulously wealthy, and his estate gave ample testimony to the size of his fortune. Located well outside the London city limits, on several hundred lushly wooded and meadowed acres, the house was a huge, rough-hewn, gray stone edifice laid out in the shape of the letter “H,” with a windowed hallway as the cross-stroke separating two large interior courtyard gardens.