Mistaken Identity...

This set up for a historical romantic-comedy was written some time ago on a whim before realising that I can write neither romance nor comedy. It was promptly abandoned and languished in a dark cupboard until I had the urge to tidy said cupboard. In an attempt at ‘make do and mend’ I patched it up and hopefully the end result is not too tatty...

With every step it was like the point of a dagger was being dragged across the soles of her feet. With every other step it felt like that dagger was pricking into the vulnerable sides of her toes. Rosalind Clare allowed herself only a brief, gleeful moment to imagine flinging the wretched shoes far, far away before focusing once again on putting one foot in front of the other. In normal circumstances she would have enjoyed the opportunity to take a solitary morning walk with the fresh spring sunlight gently gleaming against the delicate new shoots of bud and leaf. These, however, were not those circumstances.

It was as she took another step forward that she felt the right shoe begin to slip. It should have been impossible; they were crushingly tight and inflexible after all. Nevertheless the shoe was about to fall off and she desperately flexed her abused toes as she tried to cling onto the soft inner lining. It was all to no avail. The slipper slipped right off and landed rather predictably in a muddy puddle.

She was going to be in so much trouble.

“Oh you vile thing!” She stomped her foot before remembering too late that it was no longer shod. Her throbbing foot was now also cold and wet. “Argh!”

“It’s only a shoe.” The voice was impatiently sarcastic as was the expression of the man it belonged to. Rosalind scowled at the stranger, too upset to be appropriately embarrassed by her predicament.

“It not just a shoe!”  She exclaimed heatedly. “It’s an incredibly expensive and fashionable shoe. In fact it’s one of a kind.” She was fairly certain he muttered something unpleasant under his breath about females and fashion but she was too agitated to care. “Now what am I going to do?” He was deliberately obtuse when he answered her rhetorical question.

“You could always wash it. Your skirts are so long I doubt anyone will be able to see them anyway.”

“I can’t wash it!” She practically screeched at him. “It’s just... It can’t be done.” She trailed off miserably. Rosalind was by now fully aware of the ridiculousness of the situation and she could feel the flush of delayed embarrassment heat her face.

“Oh for goodness sake.” The man bit off as he strode forward and plucked the shoe from the puddle.

“No!” She cried. “Don’t touch it - your hands!” As the man thrust the shoe toward her she realised that his hands were not encrusted with dirt and grime as she had expected. They were in fact perfectly nice hands. Elegantly tapered, with clean nails and few calluses, they were clearly not the hands of a common labourer.

“Well. Don’t you want your shoe back? Or don’t you want to get your precious hands dirty?” He was baiting her intentionally.

“Oh just give it here.” She said snatching the shoe away from him ungratefully and examining the damage. “She’s definitely going to make me pay for this.” Rosalind moaned plaintively to herself.

“Who?” The man asked rudely with unapologetic nosiness.

“Lady Judith. It’s her shoe.”

“Why on earth are you wearing her shoes?”

“Well it certainly wasn’t for fun.” Rosalind retorted crossly to the incredulous look he gave her aching feet. “They’re too tight for her to wear. As I have bigger feet she told me I had to stretch them.”

“You’re one of her servants?”

“I was, but after this she’ll either dismiss me outright or force me to pay her back.” Sudden understanding forced a delighted laugh past her lips. “Did you think I was a Lady?” Amusement smoothed away the previous ire she had felt for him.

“We’ll tell her it’s my fault.”

“That’s hardly going to help.”

“I’m not worried about paying for them.” He shrugged carelessly and she frowned at him, wondering if he realised exactly how expensive Lady Judith’s taste for shoes were.

“No I cannot accept that. This is my responsibility.”

“Nonsense. As I’m going to marry the woman it’s hardly of any consequence whether or not I’ve ruined a pair of her shoes. I can buy her another fifty pairs after all.” Rosalind nearly dropped the shoe back into the puddle. The man standing before her in plain homespun garments looked nothing like a powerful baron.

“You’re Fulk fitzGerald?” Forget hurling the shoes far, far away she suddenly wished that she could find herself even further away than that.

“Exactly, so why don’t we just keep this incident between ourselves.”