Authors: Meredith Whitford
7.
He
came. Ten days after she had given the letter to Davy Jones, he knocked on her cousin’s door and walked straight into the kitchen. Anne, who was sitting at the table tiredly stuffing a rabbit for supper, simply stared at him.
“Your
letter reached me. As you see.”
“Will…
I… I’m sorry.”
He
shrugged. “It takes two.”
“Yes,
it does. Won’t you sit down? Would you like some ale?”
“Thank
you.”
She
tossed the rabbit into a pan, then rose and washed and dried her hands. She poured the ale and sat down again. Across the table they looked at each other. She knew what he was seeing: a plump, untidy housewife whose hair needed washing and whose condition unbecomingly showed in the way her dress strained across her breasts and waist. He, on the other hand, looked suave and elegant in a new dark green doublet. He’d had his hair cut and a small line of paler skin showed at the back of his neck.
“How
was London?” she asked inanely.
“Enjoyable.
I went to a lot of plays. No one was in any hurry to take me on as a player.”
“I
see.”
“Which
is just as well, isn’t it.”
“I
suppose it is, but still I’m sorry you didn’t find your dream. Or will you go back and try again?”
“How
can I? You are having my child and we must be married.”
She
had a brief thought of what it must be like to tell a beloved husband you were carrying his child; to see his joy, to be kissed and congratulated, to go together to tell your families.
“Yes,
I think we must. It is yours, you know.”
For
the first time he smiled. “I know. I’ve no doubt about that. And although I had no idea of getting married, there’s no one I’d rather marry.”
“Kind
of you to say so.”
He
leapt up and took three fast, striding paces up and down the room. “It is not particularly kind of me. I wanted to stay in London, for I think I could have made my way there, there are all sorts of things I could have done.”
“And
perhaps still can,” she cut in.
“What?”
“You have to marry me for the child’s sake, but you don’t have to stay here. I can live at home or here with my cousin. You can return to London or do what you like.”
His
turn to stare blankly at her. “Is that what you want?”
“No.
God, Will, of course it’s not.”
“Well,
there’s no need to cry about it.”
“So
you say.”
“I
do.” He knelt down beside her and took her hand. Smiling, he kissed the corner of her mouth. “Will you marry me, dear Anne?”
“I
will. But I am not… your dear Anne, am I.”
“Yes
you are. Quite dear enough. We’ll be married and we’ll have our child.” He drew her head down onto his shoulder and patted her until she stopped weeping. “It’s Advent soon, and we can’t marry in Advent. So I’d best get busy. I need my parents’ consent because I’m under-age, then I think it’s a matter of obtaining a special licence from the Bishop. But it will be done and we can be married in a week. Good God in heaven, woman, did you think I’d abandon you?”
“But...”
Married at eighteen, a father at nineteen, tied to a wife seven years his elder, scandal and talk and the loss of all his dreams. A Stratford glover or schoolmaster forever. “No, I never thought that. But will your parents give consent? Do they know?”
“I
told them.”
“I
suppose they were shocked.”
“Not
quite the right word. But they have given their consent. They will welcome you as their daughter-in-law and give us a room of our own. It has a bed.”
“A
bed would be useful.”
“And
will see some use.” He laughed. “But all I meant is that I’ve little enough to offer you, but… the room has that much furniture.”
“I
can do a little better than that, Will. I’ve bride-goods, you know, all manner of household stuff. Furniture, blankets, rugs, hangings. And my dowry. My father left me ten marks.”
“Excellent!
I would like to say very grandly that I am above needing my wife’s money, but one never knows.”
“No,
one doesn’t. How will we manage for money? Why not go back to London if you think you could do something there?”
“Later,
perhaps. For now I’ll do what my parents planned for me, I’ll take a job as usher at the grammar school in Stratford. We’ll manage. But first I have to arrange the licence. Now cheer up, we’ll be married soon and… I should have said this at once: I am very happy about the baby. Are you?”
Putting
away the memory of her visit to the wise woman Anne said, “Yes. I am now I am used to the idea. Yes.”
“Good.”
He kissed her again, and stood up. “Anne Shakspere has a ring to it, doesn’t it? Speaking of rings, I’d best buy one. Now I must go. I’ve to arrange about the licence. Oh and Mother bids you come to dinner the day after tomorrow.”
They went together to tell Mrs Hathaway, and because William was there she had to mind her tongue. She was visibly impressed and a little awed by him, and because he flattered and deferred to her, she offered to hold the wedding breakfast at Hewlands Farm, less out of Christian charity than in a spirit of stopping people gossiping.
Two
friends of Anne’s father stood surety to the sum of forty pounds for the marriage licence bond, required because William was under-age. The Bishop granted the licence. The marriage bond was signed and witnessed. The banns would be called the once that time allowed, the next Sunday. They would marry on the Monday.
And
Anne dined formally with the Shaksperes. The house was immaculate and the best pewter and glass had been brought out for the occasion. Mr Shakspere did his best to make conversation, referring often to his friendship with Anne’s father. The children were quiet and respectful. Mrs Shakspere was ominously friendly.
Anne
discovered why when, after the meal, the older woman made an excuse to take her aside. “Well, of course this is hardly what we would want for our son, but least said, soonest mended, and at least you are a respectable woman of a family known to us.”
“Thank
you, ma’am.”
“And
of course, once he is married there will be no more talk of going off to London. He’ll stay here and forget all this playhouse business.”
Anne
looked at her. It was from her that William had his oval face and his hazel eyes. In the course of that one polite meal Anne had come to realize that his friendly, open nature, and his sensuality were from his father and his intelligence and air of breeding from this woman who clutched her sleeve and peered at her with sly satisfaction. A possessive woman for all that she was openly critical of her children.
Instead
of answering in words, Anne curtsied. Let Mary Shakspere make of that what she would.
She
could feel the woman’s eyes on her as she went upstairs with William to see the room that would be theirs.
William
closed the door and pulled Anne into his arms. “Give me a kiss.” Anne felt her starved body respond. She couldn’t stop herself twining her arms around his neck and opening her mouth under his. Against his chest her nipples hardened, wanting his touch. Pregnancy was making her wanton, she had discovered in surprise. She could have torn open her bodice to bare her body to him, could have taken him right here and now. That he had the same need was obvious, but here in his parents’ house they could do nothing but kiss, and ache.
They
moved apart. William said, “What was Mother whispering to you about?”
“How
glad she is that you will have to give up your London ambitions.”
“At
first she tried to make my father refuse his consent to our marrying. Then she thought of that.”
“She’s
in for a surprise, then, isn’t she?”
“What
do you mean?”
“That
we’ll see. Nothing says you have to stay here in Stratford, that we have to.” She strolled about inspecting the room. It was not large, and it was at the front of the house, where it would catch all the noise and dirt from the street. Also it was over the workshop and wool store and smelt strongly of fleeces and curing hides. The little particles of dust in the air made Anne sneeze. The room was presently half-full of hampers and trunks, broken furniture, worn carpets; all the things no one could be bothered mending, burning, or hauling tidily to the attics. The floor needed scrubbing, the windows needed washing. There were cobwebs on the rafters. Anne ran her finger along the mantelpiece and looked with satisfaction at the dust.
“I’m
sorry,” William said awkwardly. “I suppose Mother should have…”
“Your
mother probably knows full well that she is not losing a son so much as gaining an unpaid housemaid. But in return we get free lodging. It is free, isn’t it?”
“Yes,
but…”
“So,
we live free. No expenses. I help in the house – well, I do that at home – and perhaps I could earn a little by brewing. I’m a good brewster. And I raise our child, you work at the school, and we save our money.” She sat on the edge of the bed and gave an experimental bounce. The ropes needed tightening, and a cloud of dust drifted up from the sagging mattress.
“It’s
a rotten bed,” William said, watching her. “Let’s buy a new one.”
“I
can bring one from home.”
“No, our marriage bed should be our own. Not,” he said, turning aside to perch a buttock on the window sill, “that it will any fine sort of bed. One day I’ll buy you the grandest bed in England. One day. I am going to be rich, Anne, I am going to make my way in the world. For now I can offer you nothing, but one day I will give you a fine house, fine furniture, the position my wife deserves. If our child’s a boy he will have the best education, a future. I will get away from home, and Stratford and I’ll be a rich man. One day. I’ve nothing to give you now except a second-best bed and a second-best life. But wait, Anne, and I’ll take care of you.”
“You’re
giving me your name so the child won’t be born a bastard and I won’t be branded a whore.”
His
face lightening into a smile, he said, “Well, it’s my child too, after all.”
“But
to strip the matter to the bone, you do not love me.” He flushed, and didn’t answer. “But we must marry. People will laugh at you, married to a woman seven years your elder. Face that. So, Will, let me help you. Let me be your partner as well as your wife, and your friend, I hope.”
“Always
my friend.”
“Yes,
well, let’s see if we say that in a few years time or a few months, with a squalling baby… No, Will, let me help. We’ve no choice for the present, but who knows. We can do what we like. It would be pleasant to be rich, but I would rather you were happy. Shall we say, five years?”
“Why
five?”
“It’s
a good, round number, but very well, call it two or four or until you are of age; let’s see what happens. You could write a lot of plays and poems in three years, five years.”
Looking
oddly at her he said, “Yes… yes, I shall, Anne. And, yes, we’ll be partners and friends. A true marriage. Come, clap hands and a bargain.”
She
took his outstretched hand, looking steadily into his eyes. “A bargain.”
Part
Two
1587
1.
The bed they had bought was second-hand – William persisted in calling it, snidely, second-best – but it had two great advantages. One: it was sturdy and didn’t creak under lovemaking or childbirth; and two: its carved head concealed a hidey-hole with a lock.
Very
quietly, afraid of waking William or the children, Anne knelt up in bed, opened the little cupboard and took out the bag of money.
Quite
a lot of money now, after nearly five years – sixteen pounds. Ten marks of it was Anne’s dowry, untouched all this time; the rest they had saved from Anne’s small earnings from selling ale, William’s wages as a grammar school usher, the extra he sometimes earned writing letters or legal documents for people in the town, and the four pounds his friend, Richard Field, had got for selling three plays to theatre owners in London.
They
had few expenses, but still it was money saved by going without new clothes, books, any amusement that cost money. Last Christmas their gifts to each other had been four pens, courtesy of the Christmas goose at Hewlands Farm, and a hair ribbon. Ink and paper could be afforded, just, as long as they were used only for money-making writing. At least there would be no more children; the twins’ horrendous birth, in the third year of their marriage, had seen to that. Neither Anne nor William cared; three were enough. Anne had weaned Susanna at twelve months, and they had meant to take care, but there had been a languorous warm May night; one of the few nights they didn’t both fall asleep the moment they went to bed. They had thought they could afford two children, but they hadn’t counted on twins. Three children before William was twenty-one.
No
prospect of a house of their own for at least two years more. William’s father owned other houses in Stratford and he could have let them have one at a low rent, or no rent, but he had refused – afraid, Anne suspected, that William would do less to help him in his business. Twelve hours a day at school, and every night at least two hours on his father’s letters or accounts; more time spent helping the lawyer.
Or
perhaps Mr Shakspere feared to lose Anne because without her he would have to hire another maid. Anne was fond of her father-in-law, but there was no denying that these days he was close-fisted. Two more years, Anne thought grimly, three at most, and I’ll be out of here to my own house.
Carefully
she counted out the money, muffling it in the folds of her shift. Not carefully enough, for beside her William turned over, groaned and blinked at her.
“What
are you doing?”
“Counting
the money.”
“So
early?”
“Why
not?”
He
shrugged and turned over again. Anne stared at his bare, well-muscled back and thought how much she would like to plunge a knife into it.
“Will.
The players are in town today. The Queen’s Men.”
“So?”
“So we can afford to go to the play. I have asked Joan to mind the children. Three hours to ourselves, seeing a play.”
“I
don’t want to go. Save the money.”
“Keep
your voice down or you’ll wake the children.”
Too
late. A thud, the patter of tiny feet, and the curtains at the foot of the bed parted on a shining morning face surrounded by russet curls.
“Good
morning, Susanna.”
“Good
morning, Mama. Is Daddy awake?”
“Yes,”
Anne said meanly, and four-year-old Susanna scrambled up the bed beside her father.
“Dad-dee.”
“I’m asleep.”
“No
you’re not ’cause you’re talking. Tell me a story.”
“It’s
too early. God, it’s barely dawn. No story.”
“I’ll
wait till you’re awake.” Susanna snuggled into the middle of the bed between them. She had her father twisted around her little finger, and knew it. They tried to be strict with her and not let her grow spoiled, but she was so clever and pretty, and they loved her so desperately. She looked like William, she had his shape of face, his hazel eyes, his red-brown hair. Nothing about her was Anne’s.
“Susanna,”
said Anne, “would you like to go and see a play today?” William’s eyes snapped open.
“What’s
a play?”
“It’s
when a lot of people act out a story on a stage, in pretty costumes.”
“I
want to go.”
“Good.
You and I shall go; Daddy doesn’t want to.”
“Why
not?”
“Ask
him.”
“Daddy?”
“Oh, very well, we’ll go and see the play. But you’ll have to sit very still and quietly, Susanna.”
“I
will. The twins can’t come too, can they? They’re too little.”
“Much
too little.”
“You’ve
woken them,” William said resignedly, as again came the thud and patter and the flinging aside of the bed curtains. The two small faces that peered in were identical and blended their parents’ features, but Hamnet had Anne’s dark hair and brows and her dove-grey eyes, while Judith took after William’s mother with blue eyes and fair hair. The twins were, this July, two years and five months old, and had an infinite capacity for noise.
Well-trained,
they said a polite good morning, then bounced onto the bed. “Daddy tell us a story,” Hamnet said confidently.
“Too
early.”
“He’s
been awake for a long time,” said Susanna.
“And
I must get up,” Anne said, and swept all the money but two shillings back into the bag and locked it away. “Daddy will tell you a very quick story then you must go and wash and dress for breakfast.”
It
was going to be a hot day. The dawn mist had already burned off and the sky had the hard, clear look of intense sunshine ahead. Anne disliked summer in a town, the heat held in by the crowding houses, the air muggy and over-used; perhaps it was time to spend a few days at Hewlands Farm. Five years of respectable marriage, and the children, had improved matters between Anne and her stepmother. The children loved going to the farm. They had cousins there now, for Anne’s brother Bartholomew had also made up his differences with their stepmother and brought his wife Isabel back. They had two babies now. Anne’s sister Catherine had been less lucky; none of her children had lived. Idly planning as she dressed, Anne listened to the rise and fall of her husband’s voice as he told a story – from the odd word she could catch she thought it was a version of
The Odyssey
.
Five
years ago this month she had first met William Shakspere, just home from the north, and he had come to call on her and had told her old cousin that same story. Poor cousin Agnes had survived to see Susanna christened, and then had faded away as gently and undemandingly as she had lived. That same week, come to think of it, Davy Jones’s mummers had put on another play, this time paid for by Stratford’s council. The king and queen had been much admired, William had reported.
On
that thought Anne turned back to the bed and chased the children away. “Go ask the maid for water to wash, and Aunt Joan will dress you. I will see you at the breakfast table.” Susanna thought about arguing, caught her eye, and raced after the twins.
William
lay back and folded his hands under his head. “Why this early-morning counting of money and this zeal to see the play?”
“Because
if we don’t do something now we never will. If you don’t do something.”
“Such
as what?”
“Talk
to the players. Ask them if they can take you on.”
“Don’t
be ridiculous, playing companies don’t recruit in country towns. They’d laugh in my face.”
“And
God forbid you take a risk, eh? Would you really rather live with a grudge than put your dream to the test? Much easier, isn’t it, to rot here in Stratford blaming me for trapping you into marriage, than actually seeing if you have anything more than a boy’s dream?”
Struggling
upright he snapped, “That’s unfair! I have never blamed you or thought of it as being trapped.” Anne raised a sceptical eyebrow. He flushed. “Very well: sometimes I’ve thought that. As I’d bet you have too.”
“Of
course I have. Do you think this is a dream come true, living here, five of us in one room in your parents’ house? Having three children so quickly? Working sixteen hours a day to save your parents paying for another maid? Training your baby brother to the pot? Letting your sister cry on my shoulder because she’s eighteen and no man’s offered for her? Wiping up your brother’s puke when he comes home drunk? Feeding your mother herbals to get her through her change of life? Never having a new dress? Watching you write plays at ten o’clock at night to earn a few more shillings when you can’t even afford a drink with friends? Listening to you, the few times you feel like talking to me, droning out how much you long to try your luck in London and how good you could be? Watching you posture and make mouths in the glass like a love-struck girl while I try to stay awake to read your plays for you, and knowing that’s as close as you’ll ever come to a real theatre or making an effort to be an actor because it’s easier to stay here and be a schoolmaster, because you’re afraid to try and because it is so, so much easier to blame me?”
She
ran out of breath, and with it all her anger trickled away. Wearily she finished, “Whatever I say, you’ll find some excuse, some very good reason, to do otherwise.”
“I
didn’t know you were so unhappy.”
“Did
you not? Well, things could be worse. I’ve a decent home, even if it’s not my own, and three healthy children I love. Remember how before we married we used to talk of how unhappy we were? We’re five years older and no better off, except for the children. And sixteen pounds.”
“Sixteen
pounds would hire and furnish a house.”
“Here
in Stratford?”
“Wherever
you wanted.”
“London?”
“Do you want to go to London?”
“I’m
not sure, Will.” She sat on the side of the bed and ran her fingers through his hair. “I always wanted to see London, but live there? I don’t know. But the players are in town, and if you don’t at least talk to them and ask them their advice, I will take the children and go home to Hewlands Farm – not forever, not to leave you, but because I need a change. Because you are twenty-three and look forty, and you’re unhappy and hard to live with.”
“Am
I really that bad? I work long hours, true, but that’s for money for you and the children. We could have our own house.”
“Before
you woke up I was thinking how much I’d enjoy stabbing you to death. You’re not so bad. I love you. But I won’t live with an unhappy coward who lost his dream for lack of effort or courage, and punishes his wife for it.”
Rather
pale, watching her intently, he said, “What if I try, and fail?”
“At
least you’d know. At least you will have tried. Better to be a glover or an usher in a school because that is what you do best. But Will, look – Dick Field said he had no trouble selling those plays you sent him, and I’ve always thought you could have got more for them if you had been in London yourself. Give it a try. Speak to the players today. Ask them for advice, ask what your chances are of a playing company taking you on. Show them your plays, tell them you sold two to Whatsisname.”
“Henslowe.”
“Whatever. Or, William, and you laughed at me last time I suggested this, you could write to Lord Strange, for whom you used to work in Lancashire, and ask him if his company of players would take you on.”
“I
could not write to a nobleman I’ve not seen in five, six years.”
“Why
not? I’ve never been more than five miles from Stratford but I know how things are done; country town or capital city, it’s who you know, it’s using people you’ve met, it’s reminding useful people of old acquaintance or obligation. So, William, you can rot here blaming me or your stars for the rest of your life, or you can test out your dream. Start by coming to the play today.”
It
sounded like the sort of line on which players made their exit from a scene on stage, and so she exited, downstairs to feed her family their breakfast.