Yet as Elizabeth grew older and her intelligent, wilful personality became more and more assertive, she became more and more difficult to handle. Potential suitors whom her father now found quite suitable enough were often quickly discouraged by her independent disposition and by her refusal to subordinate her will or her intelligence to theirs.
Quite impractically, she had announced that she would marry only if she were in love, an idea her father blamed upon a tutor who had instructed her in poetry and who had been summarily dismissed for putting such foolish notions into her head. Sadly for Henry Darcie, once that notion had taken root, it was not so easily dislodged. He believed the day would come when Elizabeth would finally come to her senses and realize that her own future, as well as that of her family, depended upon making a good marriage. However, since his last attempt at arranging a marriage for her had nearly ended in disaster, he had, at least for the present, given up trying to make a match for her. Perhaps, he thought, having tried everything else, if he left Elizabeth alone for a time and allowed her at least some of the freedom that she seemed to crave so much, she might eventually become more settled in her disposition and more amenable to practical decisions.
Meanwhile, so long as her attention seemed to be occupied by books, her women friends, and a rather loutish but honourable and good-hearted young player, she would probably keep out of trouble. She had enough sense that she could not possibly consider anything more than friendship with him, and he, in turn, had proven himself trustworthy, even if he was insufferably working class. Remove the reasons for her rebellion, Henry Darcie thought, and her rebellious spirit might dissipate in time. At least, this was his fondest hope.
Smythe both knew and understood this. What Elizabeth had not explained to him, he could easily surmise from his acquaintance with her father, who was, for all his pomposity and ambition, basically a good and decent man. He trusted them both to behave properly, something Smythe found flattering and frustrating at the same time. There were men, he knew, who would not hesitate to take advantage of such a situation, but he could not. And he did not think Elizabeth could… or would. Therein lay the exquisite agony of their relationship.
‘You look as if you have been running, Tuck,“ Elizabeth said to him. ”You are all flushed and out of breath. Are you unwell?“
“Nay… well, perhaps only a little. I fear I drank too much last night and overslept, and when I awoke, my head was fit to burst.”
She raised her eyebrows. “You were drunk? ‘Tis not very like you, Tuck. Is your friend Shakespeare becoming a bad influence upon your Or is it that something causes you distress?”
“The latter, I confess, although ‘tis still a poor excuse for such behaviour, and I have learned my lesson painfully,” Smythe replied, rubbing his still-aching head. “My father came to visit me last night at the Toad and Badger. Our conversation was exceedingly unpleasant, but ’tis a matter of no consequence at present. I am more concerned to learn that the sheriff’s men came to your house this morning. What happened?”
“Methinks that you already know,” she replied. “They wanted to know about poor Thomas.”
“Leffingwell told them that you were at the shop, no doubt,” said Smythe with a grimace. “I was afraid he would. I had hoped to keep you out of it.”
“How are you involved in this?” she asked with a frown.
He sighed. “‘Twas all my fault, I fear.” Her eyes went wide. “What?”
“Oh, I do not mean his murder,” Smythe quickly replied. “I
had naught to do with that, but I fear ‘twas I who had set events in motion that must have led to the foul deed. And now I feel myself responsible for the tragedy that came to pass.“
“But how?” Elizabeth asked, as they proceeded together slowly down the crowded Walk. “I did not know you even knew him.”
“Until yesterday morning, I did not,” said Smythe, and he quickly told her what had happened since the time that he and Will went to see Ben Dickens at his shop. He did not tell her the full scope of his conversation with Thomas Locke, for that was a bolt that struck a bit too close to home, but he did convey the essential substance of it. “So, you see,” he concluded, “‘twas all my fault that Thomas had decided to elope with Portia Mayhew, for had I never mentioned it, the idea might never even have occurred to him.”
“I see,” Elizabeth replied. She took a deep breath and exhaled heavily before continuing. “Well, in that event, perhaps you might feel somewhat relieved of your guilt in this sad matter if you knew that the idea would surely have occurred to him whether you had suggested it or not, for I had also suggested it to Portia.”
“What?” said Smythe, staring at her with astonishment. “You mean to say that you told Portia that she should elope with him? But… when did this occur?”
“From what you have just told me, I would surmise it must have been at nearly the same time that you spoke with Thomas at Ben’s shop,” Elizabeth replied. “So ‘twould seem not to be possible, in truth, to determine for a certainty which of us was first to offer our counsel.”
“Odd’s blood!” said Smythe, thinking Shakespeare had been right. “So that was why you went to Leffingwell’s tailor shop? You were looking for Thomas so that Portia could tell him that she was willing to run off with him?”
“Quite so,” Elizabeth replied. “But she never had the chance to speak with him, poor girl. And now she has been driven nearly insensible with grief over what has happened.”
“When did she learn of it?” asked Smythe.
“When I did, this morning,” Elizabeth replied. “She was staying at my father’s house with me.”
“But why was she at your house?”
“Because she was angry at her father for refusing to let her marry Thomas,” she replied. “And now she refuses to go home, because she is convinced that her father had poor Thomas killed.”
“He may well have done so,” Smythe said. “He would seem a likely suspect, especially if he knew the two of them planned to elope. But then, I do not see how he could have known. There would not seem to have been enough time or opportunity for him to have made such a discovery.”
“Unless he met with Thomas and Thomas told him outright what he planned,” Elizabeth replied.
“But why would he do that?” asked Smythe. “‘Twould seem very foolish to forewarn him.”
“Mayhap Thomas did it out of spite, to defy Portia’s father and flaunt in his face that there was nothing he could do to stop them,” Elizabeth replied.
“Would he have done such a thing?” asked Smythe with a frown. “Was Thomas that much of a hotspur?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “In truth, I do not know,” she said.
“I did not know him. We had never even met.”
“What, never?”
She shook her head. “Not even once. I never did lay eyes upon him.”
“But I thought Portia was your friend?”
“She was, and is, my friend,” Elizabeth replied. “But there was never an occasion for me to meet Thomas. They had only but lately become formally betrothed, and I had not seen very much of her of late. I had heard her speak of him before, but you would know him much better than I, for all the brief time that you spent with him. Did he strike you as a man who was possessed of a bold and fiery disposition?”
Smythe considered for a moment. “Nay, I would say that he did not. He seemed quite driven to distraction by what had happened, but I would say his disposition was more one of desolation and dismay than of scorn or anger. He did not strike me as some roaring boy. Quite the contrary, he seemed more. well, if you had met him, I do not think that you would have taken him for anything but what he was, a tailor.”
“And you do not think that he could have gone to Mayhew’s home and stood up to him? Cannot even a tailor be driven to a fury born of anger and frustration?”