can stop being blinded by Miss Darcie's admittedly radiant charms long enough to think clearly for a moment, then what conclusion can you draw from this?"
"You believe that she was flirting with me in front of the servant on purpose, only to make this Gresham jealous?"
"Well, far be it from me to pretend I know a woman's motives for anything she does," said Shakespeare, wryly. "As for her doing it in front of Drummond on purpose, there can be, I think, no doubt of that. 'Twas clear to her you had a bone to pick with the owner of the coach that nearly ran you down. And so, as you observed, she made a point of telling you his name, when there was no need at all for her to do so. Especially after I had told her it could easily have been another coach that merely looked like this one. It seems clear to me she is intent on pointing you toward Gresham… and at the same time, giving Gresham ample reason to bear a grudge against you."
"But why? What reason could she have for causing trouble between the two of us?" said Smythe, as they led the horses to the paddock. "She does not even know me."
"Who is to say? She may have taken offence at your manner. Or else it had nothing to do with you at all. Perhaps she simply enjoys making Gresham jealous. Some women like to see men demonstrate their power, the more so if 'tis done on their behalf. In any event, the rhyme or reason of it really does not matter. The potential consequences do, for they represent nothing but trouble. Stay away from these people, Tuck. As I said before, they are not like us. And we mean less to them than the dirt clods they crush beneath their boots."
Smythe sighed. "I see the sense in what you say. You are right, of course. What possible interest could a lady such as that have in a lowly ostler?"
"Be of good cheer, Tuck. She was right in one respect at least; you are a handsome fellow, and this is London, after all, with opportunities at every corner. There shall be sweet young girls aplenty for you in good time. Just see to it that you are not incautious, and that you do not shoot your bolts at targets far beyond your reach."
"I defer to your superior wisdom, Father Shakespeare," Smythe said, with an elaborate, mocking bow.
Shakespeare threw a dirt clod at him.
An evening at the playhouse was not what Elizabeth had expected. However, she had not really been sure what to expect. A coach ride along the Strand? Supper or high tea at Gresham's home, or perhaps an outing in the park? The invitation had been mysteriously and frustratingly unspecific. Her mother had not been pleased about that, and she had been even less pleased about Elizabeth accepting it. Had it come from anyone else, there would have been no question about it, but Edwina Darcie knew how much her husband wanted this marriage to take place and, in his absence, had not been confident enough to stand upon her own authority.
She had found her daughter becoming much more willful of late and was not quite certain what to do about it. As a result, she had her own reasons for wanting the marriage to take place, and as soon as possible. Elizabeth was not a child anymore and her mother did not enjoy having another grown woman around the house to threaten, however indirectly, her domain. Aside from that, the social circles into which an alliance with the Gresham name would introduce them made her giddy with anticipation. Consequently, Elizabeth knew that her objections to the presumptive invitation were little more than posturing.
She, however, had her own reasons for accepting the invitation, and they had nothing at all to do with her regard for the proper way of doing things or for Mr. Anthony Gresham, for that matter. Indeed, he was falling lower in her estimation by the minute.
First, she thought, he sends a rather imperious invitation, on uncommonly short notice, which was both inconsiderate and rude in its presumption. Second, he had not even bothered to tell her where this assignation would
"You believe that she was flirting with me in front of the servant on purpose, only to make this Gresham jealous?"
"Well, far be it from me to pretend I know a woman's motives for anything she does," said Shakespeare, wryly. "As for her doing it in front of Drummond on purpose, there can be, I think, no doubt of that. 'Twas clear to her you had a bone to pick with the owner of the coach that nearly ran you down. And so, as you observed, she made a point of telling you his name, when there was no need at all for her to do so. Especially after I had told her it could easily have been another coach that merely looked like this one. It seems clear to me she is intent on pointing you toward Gresham… and at the same time, giving Gresham ample reason to bear a grudge against you."
"But why? What reason could she have for causing trouble between the two of us?" said Smythe, as they led the horses to the paddock. "She does not even know me."
"Who is to say? She may have taken offence at your manner. Or else it had nothing to do with you at all. Perhaps she simply enjoys making Gresham jealous. Some women like to see men demonstrate their power, the more so if 'tis done on their behalf. In any event, the rhyme or reason of it really does not matter. The potential consequences do, for they represent nothing but trouble. Stay away from these people, Tuck. As I said before, they are not like us. And we mean less to them than the dirt clods they crush beneath their boots."
Smythe sighed. "I see the sense in what you say. You are right, of course. What possible interest could a lady such as that have in a lowly ostler?"
"Be of good cheer, Tuck. She was right in one respect at least; you are a handsome fellow, and this is London, after all, with opportunities at every corner. There shall be sweet young girls aplenty for you in good time. Just see to it that you are not incautious, and that you do not shoot your bolts at targets far beyond your reach."
"I defer to your superior wisdom, Father Shakespeare," Smythe said, with an elaborate, mocking bow.
Shakespeare threw a dirt clod at him.
An evening at the playhouse was not what Elizabeth had expected. However, she had not really been sure what to expect. A coach ride along the Strand? Supper or high tea at Gresham's home, or perhaps an outing in the park? The invitation had been mysteriously and frustratingly unspecific. Her mother had not been pleased about that, and she had been even less pleased about Elizabeth accepting it. Had it come from anyone else, there would have been no question about it, but Edwina Darcie knew how much her husband wanted this marriage to take place and, in his absence, had not been confident enough to stand upon her own authority.
She had found her daughter becoming much more willful of late and was not quite certain what to do about it. As a result, she had her own reasons for wanting the marriage to take place, and as soon as possible. Elizabeth was not a child anymore and her mother did not enjoy having another grown woman around the house to threaten, however indirectly, her domain. Aside from that, the social circles into which an alliance with the Gresham name would introduce them made her giddy with anticipation. Consequently, Elizabeth knew that her objections to the presumptive invitation were little more than posturing.
She, however, had her own reasons for accepting the invitation, and they had nothing at all to do with her regard for the proper way of doing things or for Mr. Anthony Gresham, for that matter. Indeed, he was falling lower in her estimation by the minute.
First, she thought, he sends a rather imperious invitation, on uncommonly short notice, which was both inconsiderate and rude in its presumption. Second, he had not even bothered to tell her where this assignation would
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