“But, milord,” said Shakespeare, “what shall we tell the others of this matter on the morrow? They shall be full of questions about the causes behind all these strange events.”
“And I have no doubt that you shall have suitable answers for them that will satisfy their craving and yet still mask the truth,” Sir William said, putting on his hat and cloak. “After all, as Richard Burbage said, you are ‘soon to make your mark as one of England ’s greatest poets,’ Master Shakespeare.” He chuckled. “Look to your muse to serve you. And now I bid you all good night.”
As Sir William closed the door behind him, Henry Darcie and Elizabeth stood to leave, as well. “I must thank you for your service to my daughter, Mr. Smythe,” he said. Elizabeth, standing beside him, met Smythe’s gaze. “You believed in her when even her own mother and I did not.”
“Well, under the circumstances, sir, who could blame you?”
“I blame myself,” said Darcie. “I should have taken more trouble to examine the suitability of the match, to make inquiries, to… to…”
“Consider your daughter’s feelings?” Shakespeare suggested.
“Well…” Darcie grunted, clearly feeling that the poet was presumptuous, but not feeling in a position to say so. “That, too, I suppose. Again, my gratitude to you… gentlemen.” He gave them a curt bow and left. With a lingering glance back, Elizabeth followed her father.
Shakespeare shook his head, then turned to Smythe and shrugged. “Well… I shall come up with some sort of story to explain all this, I suppose. Though at the moment, Lord only knows what it shall be.” He shook his head. “This has all been the most curious and unsettling affair. Odd’s blood, I need a drink.”
“Here,” said Smythe. “Have some more wine. We can take the bottle up with us.”
“To think of it,” said Shakespeare, as they headed up the stairs to their room, “two brothers, identical in every way, to say nothing of a sister, and then a servant who serves both, innocents caught up in strange misapprehensions… you know, with a few small changes here and there to mask the truth of these events, there may well be a story for a play here.”
“Nonsense,” Smythe said. “ ‘Tis all much too fantastic. Who would ever believe it? What audience could be so credulous?”
“Perhaps if ‘twere done as a sort of farce, a comedy,” said Shakespeare, musing as he paused at the top of the stairs. “ ‘Tis not really a bad idea, you know.”
“I’d leave it alone, if I were you,” said Smythe, with a grimace. “You’ll get both our heads chopped off if you do not have a care.”
“Well, ‘twould be just a play, you know… a foolish thing of very little consequence.” Shakespeare shrugged. “After all, in a hundred years, who do you suppose would care?”
Smythe snorted as he opened the door and plopped down into bed, fully dressed. “Not me. I am much too tired. Good night, Will.”
“Methinks I shall work awhile.”
“Well, don’t stay up too late. Remember, we have another performance tomorrow. And do not forget to blow the candle out when you are done.”
“Good night, Tuck. Sleep well. Flights of angels and all that rot. Hmmm. Now where did I leave my inkwell?”