Love's Will

by Meredith Whitford

  “Yes and no. We parted on rather bad terms, Bart.”

  “Aye, he looked a bit shifty. Though he looked at you like he’d come home and hadn’t known it till now.” His big hand closed over hers, clenched on the edge of the table. “Cheer up, Annie. Remember the children.”

  “I do. And I’m full of cheer. Though I won’t be if you call me Annie again.”

  “Made you smile, though. Have some more ale.”

  She had another cup, noting glumly how her daughters had brightened up. How she herself felt, she hardly knew.

  Mrs Hathaway and William came back in, both a little damp around the edges. William smelt of Mrs Hathaway’s yellow soap. He was in his shirtsleeves and breeches, and Anne noticed that the shirt was one she had made; Holland cloth, snowy white, so fine it was almost transparent, with a smart gored collar and black-work bands at the wrists and neck. It made Anne very conscious of her shabby working dress, of her greasy hair knotted under a practical but unflattering cap, of the fact that in months she’d no more than washed her hands and face, her pits and parts, in the cold water of a bedroom basin.

  “I got that boy under the pump,” Mrs Hathaway reported, as one who had fought the good fight. “I’ve never seen such dirt. And don’t tell me London dirt isn’t worse than country dirt. Fleas all over him. Farm or no farm, fleas and lice and filth do not cross my threshold. Hamnet’s burning the boy’s clothes. He can have a suit that Thomas has grown out of.”

  “Dick Burbage and I got him into the bath-tub back at Christmas,” William said, spearing slices of beef. “How he squealed. He thinks washing isn’t natural.”

  “Papa, have you come to stay?” Susanna asked, piling salad onto his plate. Recently she had decided that ‘daddy’ was babyish.

  “That depends. Excellent beef, Mother Hathaway. The theatres are closed because there is plague in London again, so we’ve sent a reduced company on tour. The Burbages have stopped on in London and Augustine Phillips heads the tour. I should join them, but I made no promises.” Under his lashes he shot a look down the table to Anne. She drank some more wine. “You all look very healthy. You’ve been in the sun, I see.”

  “Too much in the sun, perhaps. But of course, you like a brown skin, don’t you, husband.” She had timed that as neatly as any actor.

  His mouth full, William shot her another look, then, having swallowed, said, “The sun’s kiss on a fair woman’s skin is better adornment than any face-paint. I wrote a poem on the subject a while ago. Do you not remember?”

  “I do, but you write so many poems.”

  “Aye, too many. Or not enough.”

  “It looks as if they pay well,” said Bartholomew, enjoying himself.

  “Those for the right audience do. My two long poems have gone into several printings. They make money for the printer, but not for me. It’s the plays that pay.”

  “It don’t seem the wolf’s at the door, though. How much would you get for a play?”

  “Oh, usually some ten pounds.” Smiling at Susanna and Judith as they filled his plate again, William didn’t see the effect of this.

  “Ten pounds!” Bartholomew lowered his pipe. His wife Isobel stared at William as if he’d announced he had been crowned Queen. “Ten pounds for words on paper for men to act?”

  “Oh yes,” said Anne, “Will makes good money. And,” she added, “good plays.”

  “They’d want to be good. Ten pounds. Well, I enjoyed that one of yours the players did last time they came to Stratford. The one about the king. Laugh? I thought I’d crack my sides.” William gave him a sickly smile. “The bit with the clown... he had a little dog, and it was the funniest thing I’ve ever seen.” Anne smiled. William hated the clowns extemporising, she had seen him near come to blows with Will Kemp once over the latter’s inserting his act with his dog into a tragedy. “Yes, that was a good one. So tell me,” Bartholomew went on with an irritatingly man-to-man air, “you own part of a playhouse, Anne was telling us. What sort of income would that bring in?”

  “We each get a share of the profits,” mused William, now cutting a great slice of quince tart, “so, six plays a week, and twelve of us share. Call it four or five pounds a week on average, plus commissions for private performances.”

  “God’s wounds,” breathed Bartholomew. “And I’ve been telling my boys to stick to the farm or plain trades here. Will, that’s two hundred pounds a year. And plays; how many would you write in a year?”

  “Usually two.” William glanced up at Bartholomew, smiling. “I usually write a comedy and a tragedy – the latter have the dog scenes – each year. Three, some years. I made over three hundred pounds last year.”

  “Well, I’ll be! All that from the playhouse and writing. What do you do with it all, eh?”

  “Will spends a lot on music,” said Anne. “He’s very fond of music. He has a particular liking for Scotch music.”

  “What, the bagpipes?” asked Mrs Hathaway.

  “And other instruments, played most sweetly.”

  “But you are out of date, wife,” said William. “I had a passing liking for certain things from Scotland, but I find I prefer the sweeter music of the south.”

  “Ah yes, South – ”

  “I mean England,” he swiftly interposed. “Give me English music.”

  “Amen to that,” said Bartholomew, draining his cup and standing up. “And if you stop with us, as I hope you will for a time at least, we’ll have music in the evenings. But for now I must be back to work. Come on, boys. We’ll see you at supper, Will?”

  “Indeed. I would like to stay, if I may.” He glanced at Anne.

  “You may. But what of your family? Have you visited them?”

  “Of course. They told me you were here. Edmund is at home, our mother cosseting and cramming him. She thinks we don’t have food in London. Now where’s Hamnet? Not still washing Nol?”

  “In the kitchen, eating.”

  “Then let’s find him,” said William, standing and putting his arms around his daughters. “And perhaps we will take a walk to digest our dinner. Anne, you will come?”

  With her family all looking at her, Anne could not refuse.

  They walked in the forest. The sun shone, dappling through the trees, alternately casting William into shadow and making fire of his hair. Susanna’s head, resting sometimes on his shoulder, shone with the same ruddy light. Judith held his hand, while Hamnet walked jauntily in front of them, backwards so he could talk to his father.

  Strolling behind them, Anne thought, I gave him handsome children, children he adores. And I told him to come home on my terms or not at all. We women are powerless. Our husbands can beat us, betray us, use us how they like, and we can do little. Quiet domestic revenge and little else, unless we turn to murder. He knows I would never take his children from him, not that the law would allow it. Yet he has come home.

  “It’s quite pretty ’ere,” Nol’s voice broke in on her thoughts. “Not enough ’ouses, though. I’d rather London. Do you get wolves in these woods?”

  “No wolves. Or not four-legged ones.”

  “Master Will’s been that miserable since you come ’ome, Mrs S.”

  She had never thought this boy stupid. “Oh?”

  “Yes. Looks like someone who’s lost a shillin’ and found a groat. Finished ’is new play, ’e did, and ’e was that snappy takin’ the players through it you wouldn’t believe. I reckon he was lonely.”

  Anne knew a hint when she heard one. “Lonely?”

  “Aye. Not so fick with Lord Sarfampton since his lordship took up with that Scotch tart, and now ’e reckons ’imself in love with that lady at Court. Sarfampton does, I mean. An’ there was a story goin’ round that you’d walked out on him, like, and someone twitted ’im on losin’ his wife, jokin’ like, and he fair ’it the roof.”

  “Really,” said Anne with great satisfaction.

  “Yeh, really. Said ’e wouldn’t ’ave his wife talked about, like, when she was the
cleverest most truest woman in the world. The players give ’im a round of applause. ’E’s been workin’ ’ard, too ’E’s near finished another play. Lonely, like, and workin’ to take ’is mind off of it.”

  “Nol,” said Anne, looking at him with love, “what would you like most in the world?”

  “To learn to read so I can be a player,” he said promptly.

  “I didn’t know. Well, we can have you taught to read, nothing simpler.”

  “Isn’t it ’ard, though, to learn? Y’see, Mrs S, I thought, like, if I could read and the players took me on, I’d ’ave a trade, like, and I’d ’ave summat to offer a girl.”

  Amused, Anne glanced at him, and made two discoveries. He was blushing, and his eyes were fixed on Susanna.

  On Susanna. On my daughter, who will not marry a common Cockney street boy. Who is a child!

  But no, Susanna was not a child. Thirteen, and her menses had begun just before her birthday. A woman, as the world counted it, and marriageable. And lovely. She too had grown this summer, and Anne had had to let out her bodices for the new fullness of her bosom. Her russet hair framed a delicate, heart-shaped face full of lively charm. Mothers are partial, but yes, Susanna was a lovely girl. And too good for Nol. Poor Nol.

  “How old are you?” Anne asked him.

  “Dunno. I fink I might be seventeen.”

  “No family?”

  “Nah. Well, I must of ’ad, but I never knew ’em. You don’t miss what you ain’t never ’ad, they say, but sometimes I think I’d like to ’ave people what belonged to me, like.”

  “Yes, there is nothing like it. Well, why not think of learning to read and see if a playing company will take you on. You must know a good deal about the stage by now. And when you’re older, with a trade, as you say, you’ll find a girl and have family of your own. But I don’t think very young marriages are always a good idea.”

  “Nah, p’r’aps not.” He shivered suddenly, sneezing. “I don’t mind washing sometimes, Mrs S, but that old lady ’ad me in me drawers under that pump. ’Tain’t natural, all this scrubbing. I reckon I’ve been and gone and caught a cold.”

  “You’ll survive,” Anne said heartlessly. “The Queen takes a bath every month, they say, and she’s still hale.”

  “P’r’aps.” Nol giggled. “Master Will ’ad a bath last night. Cor, ’e was like a girl at it, Mrs S, scrubbin’ away and puttin’ sweet ’erbs in the water an’ cuttin’ ’is toenails.”

  “Indeed,” said Anne. “And Mother had him under the pump too.”

  “She’s fussy, ain’t she? But it’s fine to be in a grand ’ome like yours, Mrs S, with everything clean, like. Like yours was in London. I missed you when you went away. You reckon girls’d like me if I washed a bit more? Master Will said last night, when ’e was washing ’imself, women like that sort of fing. And I could learn to speak more gentlemanly, I fink.”

  “Aye, we do like those things.” Anne felt suddenly light-hearted. “Learn to be a player, Nol, and have a bath from time to time, and anything is possible.”

  “And what are you two talking about so intently?”

  Anne looked up at William. The children had scampered on ahead, while he stopped and waited for her and Nol. “Bathing, and what women like.”

  “They say Cleopatra bathed in asses’ milk. Nol, the children are going down to the river, why don’t you join them?”

  “Why not?” said Nol, and with a wink at Anne raced after the others. Anne noticed that Susanna waited for him.

  “Bathing, eh?” said William.

  “Yes. I hear you had a bath last night.”

  “I did, madam. I washed off the dust of the roads and the dirt of London to come home.”

  “And have you come home, Will?”

  “If indeed I have a home.”

  Walking slowly on, Anne said, “You may well have a house, if you agree my plan. You have children, who love you. That is a home, always.”

  “And a wife?”

  “Have I a husband?”

  “You have a fool for a husband.”

  “A fool, who enjoys fooling?”

  “No, a fool who fooled against his will. Your will. Your Will.”

  They had stopped, standing together under a tree, sheltered from sight. Distantly their children’s shouts came to them. Slowly, as if he thought to be rebuffed, William put his hand on Anne’s cheek.

  “I have come home to my wife. To you. Because I did not know how deeply I had hurt you until I knew about Harry and that woman.”

  “How very like a man,” Anne remarked. “You break my heart, and you don’t even know you’ve hurt me.”

  “And how very like a woman of think of precisely that revenge. For it was your idea, was it not?” Anne said nothing. Which was an answer of sorts. “Clever of you. A neat revenge. But you always were a clever woman. You know me too well.”

  “And what of your Scotchwoman?”

  “She’s with Harry, so far as I know. Or Essex. She casts her net wide.”

  “You would have her again if she returned?”

  “No.”

  “Be sure, for I will not share you.”

  “Then you shall not.” When she still stared up at him, unresponsive, he cried, “I can spin words out of air but not make my wife believe I love her.”

  “Don’t love your wife,” Anne cried back. “Love me! Love Anne. Love the woman who fell in love with you fourteen years ago and who loves you still. Love me.”

  “I do. Anne, I do. All that passionate love, infatuation, pining... that’s for boys and girls, not for us. We are married, and we love each other in the only way that matters. Forever, forgivingly. Anne, I wrote you a poem. Do you want to hear it?”

  “Yes,” she said warily, and, holding her hands in his he began to recite.

  When in disgrace with Fortune and men’s eyes

  I all alone beweep my outcast state,

  And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,

  And look upon myself and curse my fate,

  Wishing myself like to one more rich in hope,

  Featur’d like him, like him of friends possess’d,

  Desiring this man’s art and that man’s scope,

  With what I most enjoy contented least;

  Yet, in these thoughts myself almost despising,

  Haply I think on thee and then my state,

  Like to the lark at break of day arising

  From sullen earth sings hymns at heaven’s gate;

  For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings,

  That then I scorn to change my state with kings.”

  Anne had an excellent memory. That poem had not been among the ones she had found locked away. “So, after fourteen years, I get a second poem.”

  “A poem of love, my dear. A poem of need and belonging and knowing. Love me, Anne, love your fool husband who loves you. Forgive me if you can, and love me.” He held out his arms. Slowly, sighing, needful, Anne went to his embrace. She rested her head against his shoulder, felt his lips caressing her hair, her brow, her cheek. “Don’t cry, love,” he said softly. “Don’t cry.”

  “I didn’t know I was.”

  “Yes. Tears, idle tears.” He kissed her then, claiming her mouth so sweetly that she put her arms around his neck and clung to him. “Forgive me, darling, and let us start again.”

  “But when something is broken...”

  “It can be mended, and the mend makes it stronger.”

  “But the mended place still shows and takes the wear until the unmended part tears, or breaks.”

  “But if the mend is done well, no one else need know the thing was broken, and you are all the more careful in handling the mended thing.” His voice hardened. “Or shall I go away again, Anne, after this short visit? Shall we live apart, pretending, for appearances sake, for the children’s sake, that it’s merely that you prefer the country while I must be in London? Shall we never meet again as husband and wife?”

  “I
do prefer the country. But never meet again? No, Will. We’ll swallow pride and hurt and carry on.”

  “With love. Yes, with love. And, wife, I told you I stopped at home before coming here, and I talked with Joan. She told me –”

  “Of her hatter?”

  “Her what?”

  “She’s in love with some wandering hatter.”

  “Mad! What’s his name?”

  “Willie Hart. And she’s breaking her heart.”

  William shook his head, flummoxed. “Who and if she marries is up to my father, though I expect I’ll have to put up a dowry for her. But Anne, forget that. I have something for you. A proof I’m in earnest.” From inside his doublet he produced a paper, folded lengthwise. He gave it to Anne. “See?”

  But of course she didn’t see. This had the look of some important thing, a legal paper perhaps. She saw William’s signature at the bottom and a stamped seal, but she was used only to William’s writing and to print. These small and tightly written words were beyond her. She thought she made out ‘contract’ and … “New Place?”

  “Yes.” William was watching her very intently. “Joan told me how much you wanted it, so I have bought it for you. I hope, for us. That is the contract to purchase and I have put twenty pounds down to seal the bargain. How much have we in the bed-head, Anne?”

  “Over a hundred pounds, I think. Will, New Place!”

  “It’s in bad condition so I shall insist on some repairs before we pay the balance of the price and we may not get clear title to the place for some time, but it’s ours. We could be living in New Place on our wedding anniversary. How like you that?”

  “You need to ask?”

  “And is it proof enough that I need your forgiveness and will amend my ways and be a faithful husband?”

  For a moment Anne still hung back. “Dare you promise that? Can you promise that? What of Harry?”

  “A part of me will always be his. In memory. Nothing else. I dare and do promise you. And that’s the proof in your hand. A house of our own at last. A different life. I must still be often in London, but from now I’m excused from the summer touring. I shall use that time to write, here, at home. You shall join me in London if and when you wish, but I think a new life in a New Place?”