The Setting: Elizabethan London, 1597
The Scene: Home of Francis and Agnes Poppyworth
We should call it off.
We cannot back out now, it would bring ruin unto the family.
We could ask for more time.
Negotiations are complete.
But I’m sure we could postpone a bit.
It is as certain as the sun rises each morn.
Aye, sir, you are correct, but at what cost?
Cost? There is no cost; she will be a noblewoman, and her children will bear his Baron’s coat of arms. It is the most advantageous match.
Yes, but what if something goes wrong?
Like what, my dear lady?
Suppose we intervene in the handiwork of Eros if we censure the stirrings of her soul and oblige her to actions that would torture us for all eternity.
What are you even saying?
If we steer the cruel hands of fortune, weaving misery and the blackest despair from which we shall never bestir.
Aye, my lady, how would we direct destiny in such a fashion?
By disavowing that which cannot be disavowed — love’s true mark.
The only vow in question is the one she will make with Lord Edward Browne once the contract is ready.
But, sir, what if she is secretly in love with the baker’s boy, and by separating the star-crossed pair, we condemn them to a fate much worse than denied affection?
She is in love with the baker’s boy?? That scoundrel!
No, no, my lord, I only conjecture.
Oh, I see.
Yes?
I know exactly what this is about.
You do?
This is because of that wretched play we saw.
I do not know what you mean.
Oh, yes, madam, it is about that sob fest we sat through last week at the Theater. I wanted to go home, but you said we must not miss the opening.
I do not know to what you refer.
I will never understand why you hang on to that man’s words thus. After Richard III, you snuck around eavesdropping on every conversation for a fortnight, trying to ward off conspiracies.
No. That was an isolated occurrence. My current fears are sent from the wings of heaven upon my breast to protect my most precious jewel, born from the thunder of the skies and the lips of the gods.
Seriously?
I don’t want to make the same mistake as the Capulets!
We are in no way as rich or capricious as the Capulets! She will never find a better man to take her. We must act and sign the marriage contract before he changes his mind.
What if we ask our daughter what she wishes?
She is 17, she has no wish that is not what we wish for her.
I would like to ask her.
Alright. But if this goes tits up, it’s your fault.
Margaret, come at once!
Yes, father?
Do you want to marry Lord Edward Browne.
Oh, yes, indeed.
There.
Wait. Dear, are you quite certain?
Yes? Why does my fair mother ask?
I want to ensure your happiness, dear. What if you decide to take a potion that makes you sleep and when you wake, you see your clandestine beloved dead on the altar, and you stab yourself with a sword because mortal life is not worth living while he breathes not?
I… do not think that will happen, mother. Lord Browne has a very fine coach, and he said I get to choose new silks for my dresses.
I refer to the baker’s boy, Margaret. Hasn’t he caught your eye?
Thomas? The one who talks to the chickens and smells like yeast?
Yes, why he makes the most divine minced pies I have ever tasted. He is quite handsome in some lights.
Ew. He sleeps in the hay with the animals.
Well, that might be wise of him. They say it’s better for your back.
Enough of this nonsense. Margaret, you will wed Lord Edward Browne. We will sign the papers. And your mother will not see another Shakespeare play, so help me God.
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