Simon Hawke - A Mystery Of Errors

“I see that you have wit,” said Gresham, with a smile. “Depending upon one’s perspective, that will, in good time, either make some man very happy or else miserable beyond belief. More wine?”

Elizabeth laughed, both at his good-natured gibe and in relief that things had gone so well. “Please,” she said, holding out her goblet and noticing that it was fine, engraved silver, not pewter. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted the wicker basket Drummond must have brought, containing the goblets and the wine, as well as the trencher for the serving of the bread and cheese. Gresham clearly liked his comforts.

“So, here we are. The perfect pair,” said Gresham, raising his goblet to her. “A son with a father in want of money, and a daughter with a father in want of position. A match made in heaven, one might say.”

“Aye,” she said, “if one father could but wed the other.”

Gresham chuckled and they touched goblets. “I am glad we could achieve what the French call a ‘rapprochement.’ Now the question remains, how best to inform our families of this.”

“Plainly, I should think, would seem the best course,” Elizabeth replied. “I cannot imagine any way to tell them that would result in any sort of satisfaction on their part. So why not simply be plainspoken?”

“Well, for my part, that poses no great hardship,” Gresham said, with a shrug. “Howsoever I may put it to him, I shall incur my father’s anger and displeasure. ‘Twould be neither the first time nor the last. If he wishes to improve his lot through marriage, then let him find himself some rich merchant’s daughter who, unlike yourself, is concerned less with her heart’s desire than with her comfort. I am sure my mother, rest her sweet soul, would understand. My father’s ire is something I can bear without undue concern. But what of yourself, milady? Can we not devise some stratagem that will assuage or, at the very least, redirect your father’s anger at the failure of this match?”

“My father’s anger is something I have grown accustomed to as I have grown older, and become less the dutiful child and more the intemperate woman,” Elizabeth replied, with a grimace. “But, to be honest, I did have a plan of my own to thwart this match.”

Gresham raised his eyebrows. “Did you, indeed?” He looked amused. “Pray tell me what it was.”

“I had intended, this very night, to prove myself a wanton hussy and a slattern in your eyes, by flirting coyly with every man in sight, so much so that you would have been outraged and sorely embarrassed at my boldness and utter lack of manners and discretion. And in conversation, I would have displayed a lazy intellect and a complete lack of interest in anything save my own indulgence. ‘Twas my most earnest intent that by the time this night was ended, you would have found me quite unsuitable.”

Gresham threw back his head and laughed, so loudly that it threw off the actors on the stage, who were not, at that particular moment, delivering any lines that were comedic. They looked up toward the gallery in dismay, but Gresham paid them no mind whatsoever and, with some annoyance, they continued from where they had left off.

“I almost wish that I had given you the opportunity to go through with it,” he said, still chuckling over the idea. “But I much prefer that things have turned out as they did. ‘Tis better that we are honest with each other. However, be that as it may, I think your plan has much merit in it. We shall agree, then, that I was an insufferable boor who found you quite unsuitable, as you put it. Though we shall not, I think, put it off to any failing of your own. You comported yourself with the very essence of feminine charm and grace, but I simply did not find you to my liking, being spoiled and petulant and impossible to please. You have never met a man so lacking in manners and discretion. I was a pig. You were appalled. I found you unbecoming and did not hesitate to tell you so. That, I think, would make a nice touch to raise your father’s ire against me instead of you. And, with any luck, the next match that he proposes for you will be much more to your liking.”

“ ‘Tis not that I find you dislikable,” said Elizabeth. “At least, not anymore.”

Gresham chuckled again. “Nor I you. A man could do far worse and not, I think, much better. We understand each other. It has been a rare pleasure not marrying you, Miss Darcie. And since you seem to have no more interest in this execrable play than I do, perhaps you would allow me the pleasure of taking you home?”

The members of the company were not pleased with the play. The audience was restive, almost from the start, and a number of them had left before the second act. At the end, the applause had been indifferent, and there had been some boos and catcalls at the final bows. After the performance, they had repaired to The Toad and Badger to discuss what had gone wrong over bread and cheese and ale. Since they lived upstairs over the tavern, Smythe and Shakespeare had gone, too, as soon as they were finished with their duties at the stable. By the time they had arrived, tired, but looking forward to an evening’s relaxation, the company were already arguing amongst themselves, trying to find something-or someone-to fault for the failure of that night’s performance.

“ ‘Twas young Dick’s fault, if you ask me,” Will Kemp was saying as they came in. “He was much too heavy-handed with his part. It calls for lightness and expansiveness, like the tone I set in my speech during the prologue.”

“If by expansiveness you mean leering and grimacing and capering like a randy drunken fawn, then indeed you set the tone,” replied Richard Burbage, sourly.

“I’ll have you know I played my part just as well as Dick Tarleton would have played it!” Kemp protested.

“Well, if Dick Tarleton had been drunk to near insensibility and trotting through an Irish peat bog, then I suppose he might have played it that way,” Burbage said.

“The cheek! The impudence! Why, you young upstart…”

“Gentlemen, please…” John Fleming, one of the senior members of the company said, trying to make peace.

“Young upstart? I am just as much a member of this company as you are!” Burbage replied, hotly.

“Aye, because you rode in on your father’s coattails,” Kemp said, sneering. “If ‘twasn’t for the fact that he had built the theatre-”

“Enough!” Edward Alleyn’s stage voice at full volume cut through the air like a scythe, at once attracting the attention of all within the tavern. He put his hands upon the table and leaned forward, fixing them both with a glare worthy of an angry Zeus. “You bicker like a gaggle of small, annoying children! ‘Tis enough to give one indigestion! Keep silent!”

“Damn it, Ned, I’ll not have anyone accusing me of riding on my father’s coattails,” Burbage began, in an offended tone, but Alleyn didn’t let him finish.

“You did ride in on your father’s coattails, Dick,” said Alleyn. “ ‘Tis not to say you have no merit on your own, for you have promise as an actor, but if it wasn’t for your father, you’d still be playing girls or acting as the call boy.”

“I told you so,” said Kemp, smugly.

“And as for you, you gibbering ape, young Burbage here has more talent in his little finger than you possess in your entire, capering, bandy-legged, over-acting body!”

“Bandy-legged! Bandy-legged? Why, you insufferable stuffed ham, if not for my presence in this company, that playhouse would have been empty tonight by the end of the first act! ‘Tis me they come to see, Will Kemp, who brings some joy and laughter to their lives, not some grave, overblown windbag who possesses all the lightness and charm of a descending axe!”