A Mystery Of Errors

“Do you believe she has?”

Shakespeare shrugged. “I do not know. I have had too little contact with the lady to form a reliable impression of her character. However, all jesting aside, in the short time that we did speak, she struck me as sincere. And as someone who was greatly agitated. I certainly believe she is sincere when she tells you that she does not want this marriage to take place. I cannot imagine any reason why she would lie about that. I cannot see anything that she would have to gain. Indeed, ‘twould seem she would stand to gain much more if she went along with it. So I conclude we can accept her at her word there and safely assume there are no hidden reasons why she would play at intrigue in this matter.”

“So that leaves us with Gresham,” Smythe said.

“It does, indeed. On the face of it, Miss Darcie’s actions seem quite clear and understandable. At least, to me. She does not wish to marry a man she does not love, his social standing notwithstanding, so to speak, and thus far, her comportment in this matter seems consistent. Mr. Gresham, on the other hand, if we are to accept Miss Darcie’s version of events, is something of a puzzle.”

“And we have reasons of our own to dislike Mr. Gresham,” added Smythe, with a sour grimace.

“True. All the more reason to make sure those reasons do not interfere with reason,” Shakespeare said, holding up an admonishing forefinger.

“That does it. Enough ale for you. We had better cut you off before you start tripping over your own tongue.”

Shakespeare chuckled. “For all your considerable bulk, my friend, the day I cannot drink three of you under the table is the day I go back to lapping mother’s milk. Meanwhile, I shall have another pot as we contemplate this matter further.” He waved over the serving wench for a refill. “Now then… as to our friend, Mr. Gresham…” He frowned. “Have you seen the fellow?”

“He was the one at the inn that night, remember? He took the last available rooms. And the next day nearly ran us down.”

“Ah, quite so, but I caught merely a glimpse of him as he came in. I remember a tall man, dark hair, wide-brimmed hat, and traveling cloak and not much else.”

“I am surprised you remember that much, considering how much you drank that night,” said Smythe, with a grin.

Shakespeare grunted. “You had a better look at him, in any case. He was well spoken, as I recall, but then one would expect that from a gentleman.”

“He does not strike me as much of a gentleman if he makes a woman out to be a liar,” Smythe said.

“A woman who has just allowed you to kiss her, and therefore raised herself considerably in your esteem,” Shakespeare replied.

“You think a pretty face would make all of my sound judgement take sudden flight?” Smythe countered, irritably.

“Perhaps not. But add to the face an ample bosom, a saucy waist, and a pretty pair of legs wrapped around your middle and I suspect you could become quite addle-pated.”

Smythe shook his head. “You do the lady a disservice, Will. You make her out to be a strumpet, and she is most assuredly not that.”

“Of course not,” Shakespeare replied. “Look, Tuck, I am not trying to disparage the lady or upset you. But you are my friend, and I feel it is my duty to play the Devil’s advocate and point out some things you may have failed to consider. To wit, what do you suppose would happen if Gresham were to learn what just transpired upstairs?”

Smythe stifled his initial response, which was to protest once again that nothing happened. He had been alone with her in a room that had a bed in it, and he had kissed her. To a man like Gresham, that would have been enough. “Well, I should think he would surely call the marriage off. At the very least. I suppose that he might also choose to engage me in a duel.”

“Oh, nonsense,” Shakespeare said, with a dismissive wave. “One can only duel with equals and a gentleman would not duel with an ostler. ‘Tis much more likely that Gresham would simply have you killed. You have placed yourself in a precarious position by promising to help her.”

“What would you have me do, turn her away?” asked Smythe.

“ ‘Twould be a practical consideration,” Shakespeare said, “but then if we were practical, we would not have joined a company of players.” He took a drink, pondered for a moment, and then nodded. “I am inclined to take the lady at her word, I think, and accept what passed between you as a brief and innocent romantic interlude with no ulterior motives on her part, except perhaps a reaching out to form a bond and gain some sympathy. ‘Tis even possible that, upon reflection, she now regrets what she has done. Either way, you seem to have become involved now. If she no longer wants your help, why then, she will doubtless say so.”

“But until she does, I am inclined to help her, if I can,” said Smythe.

“Which brings us back to Gresham once again,” said Shakespeare.

Smythe nodded. “What motive could he have for lying?”