Authors: Meredith Whitford
“I
bought my clothes out of my Lancashire wages. But of course you are right; many people are much worse off.” He took another swig of ale. “Perhaps you are.”
“Most
people would say I too have little to complain of. But consider my life, William. My father died last year and my family seemed to fall apart. My stepmother and I are barely on speaking terms. Bartholomew and Catherine both married as fast as they could, to get away. The four little children, my father’s second family, are dears but they are much younger than me. My stepmother is an excellent housewife and taught me to be the same, but she sincerely believes that’s all a woman can want or should expect in life; marry a man with a good house and a little money, have children, run the house and the farm.
“Nothing
wrong with that. Except that I am twenty-five and bored. Lonely, too. Bart and Kate gone, my stepmother preaching Puritanism at me and sure that books are the Devil’s work. Perhaps they are; perhaps I only prove her point. What makes me different from any other woman? – Nothing except that I’ve turned my brain with book-reading. I’m not even sure I want anything different. I’ll marry one day, probably soon. I’ve a little money that my father left me. I’m a good catch. I would like children. It’s just that I love going to plays and having pretty clothes and reading books and listening to you talking about that sort of thing. All the people I know talk about the harvest, too. And cooking. Worthy, ordinary, and dull.”
“You
a good cook?”
“Not
bad. You a good glover?”
“Not
bad. But Anne, you have friends like Davy Jones and his mummers; his wife your cousin.”
“So
do you.”
“True.
So you’re bored and I am caged. What’s to do?”
“Nothing,
probably. I do realise that most of my troubles are not troubles at all and it is just that too many things have happened too quickly in my life. A year ago I wasn’t discontented. Perhaps in another year I shan’t be. Time cures most things.”
“And
in a little less than three years I will be twenty-one and can kiss Stratford and the glover’s shop goodbye. But in three years I probably won’t want to. I’ll be reconciled to my lot. Resigned, at least.”
“Who
knows. And you’re lucky, you can go away if you want to, do what you like. I can’t. Anyway, could your father actually stop you if you left? Could he bring you back?”
“In
law I think he could. And somehow I can’t quite bring myself just to leave. For all my complaints, I love my family. My father is proud of me and glad I am here to help him. He knows, dimly, that I am not happy, and he often curses himself that he was foolish with money and I can’t go to university. It is very hard to walk out on a well-meaning, kind man who blames himself that he cannot make you happy.”
The
silence stretched, but more comfortably now. At last Anne said, “This isn’t getting that play improved for Davy Jones.”
“No.”
But he made no move to take up the papers or his pen. “I’ve no money,” he said sadly.
“I
could lend you a little.”
“No!
No no no no no. I didn’t mean that. That’s one thing I’ve learnt from Dad’s troubles: don’t borrow, don’t lend. Especially don’t lend. He ran himself into trouble by lending money; usury’s illegal, and he was charging high interest on his loans. I’m going to make money, though, one day. No, all I meant was that I don’t have enough money to buy the books I want.”
“Surely
there are sometimes books sold at market? Davy Jones has some. There are rich men around Stratford, men educated enough to have books. Make some friends, go cap in hand to the gentry and ask.”
“Perhaps.”
Now he did take up his pen, a rather fine goose quill that Anne had obtained on a visit home. He spent a moment scanning over his papers and then began to write.
When
the candle had marked two hours’ passing he sat back, yawning and stretching. “That will have to do for now. Would you care to read it over when you have time? Try to picture it being acted out upon the stage.”
“Very
well. Though I really am no judge, Will.”
“You’ve
seen plays. It’s the audience’s opinion that counts. I wonder how much a London company would pay for a play. As much as a pound, do you think?”
“Surely
not a pound! Perhaps you could find out.”
“Yes,
perhaps. Anne, it’s late and I must go.”
“Very
well.” Much as she enjoyed his company, Anne was sleepy. Like most women, her day began at dawn and she would have to get up to her cousin at least once in the night. “When will you come again?”
“Not
sure. My parents are complaining I spend too much time away from home. My father is finding an extraordinary amount of business for me in the evenings.”
“Oh.”
“I think they suspect I have a girl somewhere.”
“Oh,”
said Anne, dying to ask if he had.
“But
I could come next Saturday. Or, no – I thought that on Saturday I might go and look over what costumes and stage things Mr Jones has.”
“Saturday
is my birthday,” Anne said.
William
smiled, but she could tell his mind was elsewhere. “Does your family make anything of birthdays?”
“No.”
But her father had. A little gift, a sweetmeat or a ribbon bought from a peddler, and something special to eat at dinner. Nothing much, but enough to note the day. Her stepmother disapproved of such frivolity. Of anything that cost money.
“I
wish I could give you something,” William said earnestly. “I cannot even ask you to dine with my family or anything like that. Well, I could, but it would be no pleasure for you.”
Anne
laughed, wondering what he would do if she said ‘give me another kiss’. “You needn’t. I don’t know why I even told you. Write me a poem for my birthday.”
She
was joking, but he nodded and said, “Very well. And I’ll come on Saturday.”
“No
no, you want to go and look at Davy’s stage things.”
“I
could do both. That’s if you’re interested. Come with me and look at the costumes.”
About
to say no, Anne realised that he was offering her something he considered a treat. “All right. I can get a village woman to sit with my cousin for an hour or two.”
“Then
I shall see you on Saturday.”
4.
Davy
Jones had hopes of the Stratford council sponsoring his little group of mummers. They paid touring companies, he argued, so why not their own? So far the answer had been: because the touring companies are professionals who play in London and have their name-lord behind them. Local men, artisans and mechanicals might do their best, but it is hardly the same. People pay for a touch of London glamour, they pay to see actors who have played for the Queen and court, not to see John Smith from the next street in a wig. Besides, if the touring companies come here it means Stratford is an important town. Jones countered with: but the London companies come perhaps twice a year at most, are Stratford people meant to be content with that? Would, say, ten shillings break the council’s budget?
The
council hemmed and hawed, but Davy Jones pressed on. He had his little group, he would put on plays regardless, and he would play the political game and work on the men who would be elected to next year’s council. Meanwhile, he kept his small stock of costumes and properties in a tiny room at the back of the Guildhall and advertised his performances by word of mouth.
“What’s
that?” asked Anne, looking at a painted backcloth tacked roughly along the wall, and wishing she had brought a duster.
“A
hell’s-mouth,” said William. “Light a candle, would you please?” He was on his knees prying at the hasp of a trunk. The lock yielded and the lid flew up. He sighed in delight and began to lift the things out.
Anne
prowled the little room, touching the strings of a lute, rapping her knuckles on a cauldron, studying something that proved to be a hobbyhorse.
“I’m
a king,” said William, and she turned around and almost cried out.
A
long crimson velvet cloak swept from his shoulders to the floor, its ermine bands falling around him. On his head was a golden crown studded with jewels the size of a man’s thumb. He held a golden sceptre, and a jewelled gold chain spread across his breast; a sword hung at his side.
He
looked taller, older, altogether different. Magnificent. The illusion was complete. He had become a king, and Anne understood.
“Now
I see.”
“Do
you?”
“Yes.”
He stared at her, his eyes darker in the candlelight. “Be a queen. Queen Anne.”
“I
couldn’t.”
“You
could. You can.”
He
reached out and undid the strings of her cap, threw it aside. A swirl of colour, and a matching cloak fell around her. Gently, and as earnestly as if she were indeed a queen at her coronation, he put a crown on her head.
“Let
your hair down.”
Even
his voice had changed. As shocked as if he had told her to take off her clothes, and as unable to resist as if it were truly a king’s command, she pulled the pins and combs from her hair and ran her fingers through the plait as it tumbled down. She only ever trimmed the ends of her hair when they split and grew ragged. It fell past her waist, a shining dark-brown mass, clean and scented because she had taken a bath the day before.
“A
queen,” he said, and put the crown upon her head. “Jewels for a queen.” A rope of pearls for her neck, diamond and ruby rings for her fingers.
It
didn’t matter that the velvet of the cloaks was worn and rubbed, the ermine only dyed lambs’ wool, that the pearls were made of fish scales and glue, the jewels were glass. The crowns and sword were painted wood and tin. But the world of illusion was a double one where falseness was transmuted and seductive. The tiny looking-glass on the wall showed a king and queen, not a woman and a boy in makeshift costumes in a country town.
“King
William and Queen Anne.”
“They
never ruled together.”
“Here
they do.”
In
the glass she saw the king bend and kiss the queen. She saw the queen tip her head back so that her veil of hair echoed the fall of the crimson cloak, and accept the kiss as her due.
It
was play-acting, of course; playing at playing. A king kissed a queen on their coronation day.
More
than that. He kissed her again. She should reprove him, move away, tell him to go. Not just stand here clad in silly clothes, leaning against him, breathing in his warm male smell, letting him play with her hair. But when he closed his arms around her and kissed her again, and harder, she could only say, “Will.” And the protest was lost in his mouth. She was lost.
Whether
he meant anything more than a brotherly, friendly kiss she never knew, because when his mouth touched hers something happened that was quite outside her experience. Just a kiss, an everyday thing – but it was as if lightning leapt between them and set them both afire. Each saw the other’s eyes ablaze with swift desire, their bodies seemed to melt together. Helplessly Anne wound her arms around his neck and let his tongue meet hers, drenching her in sweetness. His hands slid up to frame her face, holding her still for his kiss, his lips moved to the corner of her mouth, her eyes, her brow, her throat.
And
now it was she who held his face and looked into his eyes and brought her mouth to his, she who held him, caressed him, and made no more resistance when he lifted her up his arms and kissed her in earnest. No bed but the velvet cloaks. Enough.
So
this was what all the ado was about. A boy’s lean body, a man’s hard prick, a poet’s tongue, all on a summer’s night. Hot breath, hot flesh, hands following mouths, soft endearments, then lovely completion.
Afterwards, he held her sweetly against his heart, stroking her sweat-stuck hair. With her fingertips she traced the line of his lips and, daring, kissed his nipple.
“Did
I please you?” he whispered.
“Yes.
It was sweet, Will. Sweet William.”
“And
your first time.”
“Yes.”
“Mine too.” Astonished, she craned up to look at him. He smiled, his brows lifting. “Truly, it was. And I had no idea what a woman’s body would be like. So beautiful, Anne.”
She
had thought all men wanted women with breasts like udders, plump hips, golden hair. What could be beautiful about her narrow body with its small breasts? But she felt beautiful, she felt old and alone no longer. In the distance lightning cracked. Anne counted, waiting for the thunder.
“Six
miles away.”
“Mmm.”
He moved her closer to him, drawing her head down on his breast, stroking her hair. A moment later he was asleep, and while he slept Anne could hold him, touch him, love him as she would.
Thunder
growled again, closer. William murmured in his sleep, his arm clutching her closer. Lightning, again, and more thunder, and William woke.
“The
storm’s breaking. There will be rain in a moment.”
“So
if we go out we’ll get wet.”
“Clever
of you.”
“I
mean we had better stay here till the rain ends.”
She
would have moved back into his embrace, but he sat up and, naked, reached into the costume trunk again. A flurry of orange satin, then blue wool. Women’s dresses. A tin breastplate; for a Roman, William said. Another sword. Two doublets, a black lawyer’s gown. A long blonde wig. More pearls. Face paints, lead paste to whiten the skin, kohl for the eyes, rouge for cheeks and lips.
“At
Sir Thomas Hesketh’s house and once at the Earl of Derby’s, I played a girl. I made a very pretty girl.”
“I
prefer you as a man.”
“I
think I do too.” Putting down the armful of costumes he swivelled around on his knees and held out his arms. They kissed, he touched her in some remarkable ways, then he was inside her again, to the accompaniment of thunder to muffle the sounds they made together, lightning, at last the rain.
It
was only a brief summer storm, soon over.
Soon
over. Summer’s lease.
The
jewels were paste, the ermine lamb's wool, the silks and velvets tawdry and smelling of other people’s sweat.
Anne
braided and pinned up her hair again. Dressed. Tidied herself. Watched William doing the same.
Her
voice sounded harsh when she said, “Will the costumes do for Davy Jones’s mummers?”
“Oh
yes. As my patched-up play will do.”
“Good
enough for a country town.”
“The
costumes and the play are. You are infinitely better.”
“I
doubt it. Will, I must go.”
“And
so must I.”
Well,
what else had she expected?
“Anne.”
“What?”
“Your
poem.”
“Poem?
Oh.” She took the folded paper he held out to her. “Thank you.”
“It’s
a sonnet,” he said hopefully.
“What’s
that?”
“Oh
… eight lines, then six; proposition and answer. I hope you like it.”
“I’m
sure I shall. I must go.”
“I’ll
see you home.”
“Thank
you.”
They
put the costumes and properties neatly away and latched the door behind them. In silence they walked back towards Temple Grafton, then halfway there William took Anne’s hand and kissed her again, and she found the courage to say, “Did you take me there to play with the costumes in the hope of what we did?”
“No.
I never thought of it. But you looked so beautiful.”
“Ha!”
“You did.”
“I’m
not beautiful, not even pretty. I’m a farmer’s daughter. I’m brown from the sun, I’m skinny.”
“You
made a beautiful queen.”
“In
borrowed finery. Cheap stuff.”
“You
looked beautiful. Desirable. Whatever I say here will be wrong, won’t it.”
“Probably.”
“As a matter of fact I think you are pretty. You’ve glorious hair, and I like grey eyes with black brows and lashes. I’ve always thought you a pretty woman. That poem I wrote for you, shall I recite it?”
“Yes
please,” said Anne, who didn’t care, unless it was a declaration of undying love.
He
took a deep breath and began.
“
Those lips that Love’s own hand did make,
Breath’d forth the sound that said ‘I hate’,
To me that languished for her sake:
But when she saw my woeful state,
Straight in her heart did mercy come;
Chiding that tongue that ever sweet,
Was used in giving gentle doom:
And taught it thus anew to greet:
‘I hate’ she altered with an end,
That followed it as gentle day,
Doth follow night who like a fiend,
From heaven to hell is flown away.
‘I hate’, from hate away she threw,
And saved my life saying, ‘not you’
.”
They
walked on for a while.
“You
noted the pun on ‘Hathaway’, didn’t you? Hate away – Hathaway.”
“Yes,
I noted it.”
They
walked on for a while.
“Don’t
you like it?”
“I
like it,” said Anne, who thought that as a poet he made a good glover. “I’m not sure I understood it.”
They
walked on for a while.
“Shall
I say it to you again?”
“Yes
please.”
He
did so.
They
walked on for a while.
“I
like it very much,” said Anne. “But isn’t it a poem about a lover languishing because the woman he loves doesn’t love him?”
“It’s
just a poem. Playing with words. Following a style, a fashion.”
They
walked on for a while.
“I’ve
never had a poem written for me before. Doubt I ever shall again.”
“You
might. Shall I write you another?”
“Yes
please.”
“Good.”
They were at Temple Grafton. Anne’s cousin’s cottage was on this nearer side of the village. It was too late for the old lady still to be up. At the gate Anne turned to William. “I must go in now. Will you come again, as you used to?”