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?”

“Difficult to say. If, as the lady claims, he truly did tell her that he does not desire the marriage any more than she does, then his actions seem a mystery.”

“She believes his purpose in dissembling with her mother was to make it seem as if she had lied about their meeting at the Theatre, made up the whole story in an effort to get out of the marriage.”

“That seems rather foolish,” Shakespeare said. “I mean, ‘twould seem a foolish thing for her to do. If one is going to tell a lie, then it behooves one to tell it in a manner that prevents one from being easily found out. And in this case, ‘twould have been a very simple matter for her to have been found out. All her parents would have had to do was ask Gresham if they had ever met.”

“Which was precisely what he had denied.”

“Except that we know that she was here,” said Shakespeare. “We both saw her.”

“But we both could have been paid to bear false witness in her favor, and that is what Gresham will doubtless claim,” said Smythe. “No one would take the word of a couple of ostlers over that of a gentleman.”

“Quite so. An excellent point. In all likelihood, our testimony would not resolve the problem, especially if her parents are predisposed to disbelieve her because they want the marriage to take place. But the important thing is that we know that she is telling the truth, at least insofar as having met Gresham at the Theatre goes. I suppose ‘tis possible he might not have told her that he does not want the marriage, but then, if that were so, then why not simply deny that? Why deny meeting her at all?”

Smythe nodded. “I think the more we look at it, the more it becomes self-evident that Mr. Gresham is a liar.”

“And I do not like him, anyway,” said Shakespeare. “I can still remember having my arse turned into a pincushion from diving into those thorn bushes when he nearly ran us down.” He winced. “I am still sore from that, damn his eyes. Arrogant bastard.”

“Fine. We are agreed then that he is a liar and a worthless bastard,” Smythe said. “The question is, what do we do about it?”

“Well, we try to find a way to prove he is a liar,” Shakespeare said. “Or, failing that, ‘twould serve your lady’s purposes as well if we could devise some way to thwart the marriage.”

“Agreed. But we have yet to determine what his motives may be. If we knew that, it might help us to devise a plan of action.”

“Perhaps. You say the lady’s parents are well off?”

“Her father is a wealthy merchant who desires to advance himself socially.”

“Hmmm. A lot of that going around these days. ‘Tis all rubbish if you ask me. If you have a lot of money, society eventually comes to you. There is no need to go fawning upon them.”

“That is what Sir William said, though not in so many words,” Smythe agreed. “In the old days, he said, a man won his spurs upon the battlefield. Nowadays, he simply buys them.”

“Which is what Elizabeth Darcie’s father hopes to do,” said Shakespeare. “She is the bait with which he hopes to snare a gentleman of rank. And, of course, the bait is made more tempting with a dowry, which as a wealthy merchant, he can easily afford. But suppose our Mr. Gresham happens to be particularly greedy?”

“What do you mean?”

“We were talking earlier about how Miss Darcie seemed distressed, but not unbalanced,” Shakespeare said. “But what if she did seem to be unbalanced?”

“She certainly did not strike me that way.”

“No, no, of course not. But suppose she was. Not completely out of her mind, you know, but nevertheless, a little touched.” The poet tapped his temple with his forefinger. “Or if she were one of those shrewish women who tend to lie and shout and throw tantrums whenever they are not given their way. ‘Twould make her far less desirable as a wife, I should think. Especially if she had a reputation for such behavior.”

“I see!” said Smythe, realizing where the poet was going. “And if her father were a very wealthy man, then he might well be moved to increase the size of her dowry considerably, as an incentive for a prospective husband to take her off his hands!”

“You get my drift,” said Shakespeare.

“I do, indeed. Gresham makes her out to be touched in the head, or else failing that, a shrewish maid who would be nothing but a trial to her husband. He plays at following through with the arrangement, but at the last moment, seems to hesitate, as if having second thoughts as a result of Elizabeth ’s behavior. And her father, desperate to see them married so that he can make use of Gresham’s social stature, offers him more money to recompense him for the inconvenience he shall experience in trying to tame this shrew. The result: Gresham gets himself a pretty wife and a pretty windfall!”

“Perhaps even a piece of Darcie’s business, if he plays his cards right,” said Shakespeare. “You know, in a perverse sort of way, there is a kind of symmetry to all this. Darcie wants to marry off his daughter to a gentleman so that he can take advantage of the connection to advance himself, and Gresham wants to marry money. Each gets what he wants.”

“Except Elizabeth,” said Smythe, “who only gets used by both.”

“True, true,” said Shakespeare, nodding. “It really is too bad that you are not a gentleman. You think you could get Sir William to adopt you? If you could manage that, then you might just displace Gresham and the two of you could live happily ever after, even with her father’s blessing.”

“Were you planning on drinking that pot of ale or wearing it?” asked Smythe.

“Now you see how you are?” Shakespeare replied. “I do my utmost to help you with your lady’s problem, and arrange for your debut as a player, too, and you threaten to upend a pot of ale over my head. There’s gratitude for you.”

“I am grateful, Will,” said Smythe. “Truly. But… wait. What did you say just now? My debut as a player?”

“Well, ‘tis a walk-on, really, and only one line, but everyone has to start somewhere,” Shakespeare said.

“You got me a part in a play?” Smythe said, with disbelief.

“A very small part,” Shakespeare said, holding his thumb and forefinger about an inch apart.

“Will! An actual part in a play? However did you do it?”

“No need to get carried away now,” Shakespeare said. “They were very pleased with the job I did for them, as you just saw. And I wrote in a small part for you and asked if you could play it. They were dubious until I said that ‘twas only a small part in the second act, and they would not need to add another hired man. You could perform your duties as an ostler before the play begins, have plenty of time to come inside and change, come onstage, do your part, and then go back outside and help with the horses at the close. They were quite amenable, especially when they saw that you are a great, hulking, handsome chap who will doubtless make the ladies in the audience go all aflutter. And not only ladies. There is always a place in the theatre for tall, strapping fellows. With Alleyn gone, they need someone for the audience to gawk at, and while young Burbage is a decent looking sort, he is not the manly brute that you are.”