Love's Will (25 page)

“Oh,
he’ll be back, to see the children, see his family. Back as my husband? Well, let us wait and see. Both of us, Joan, waiting on men called William. But meanwhile, let us see about a house. Tomorrow you’ll come with me. We’ll try to see New Place.”

“Yes,”
said Joan, and managed a smile.

Brisk talking having failed to persuade the New Place housekeeper to let them in, Anne tried the London method: bribery. A shilling changed hands and they were in. Joan was scandalised. A whole shilling! But Anne thought it money well spent. For she had fallen in love with New Place the moment she stepped inside its iron gates.

A
courtyard at the front. A deep porch. Room for a garden. Ten chimneys twisting up from the slate-tiled roof. Large, glassed windows at the front, more above.

Inside,
however, things were less good. Plenty of rooms, yes, almost too many for their needs, but what a state they were in. Peeling plaster, damp, worm-ridden timber, a kitchen Anne honestly mistook for a pigsty. Filth of every kind wherever one looked. And the tax on ten chimneys would be enormous. And yet… and yet… Clean the whole place, scrub out that kitchen, sweep the chimneys, mend the stairs and the floor-boards, fix the roof. A parlour, a dining room, a servants’ hall, a buttery and dairy, a wash-house, a still-room, a pantry, two more rooms. Upstairs, a room running the width of the house and holding an immense, elaborately carved bed with tattered crimson hangings; what a guest chamber it would make. And at the other end, another large, airy room which Anne’s fancy immediately furnished with a carpet, tapestries, the green silk coverlet she had been embroidering for two years, their faithful bed, the clothes presses they had bought in London, the silver, the looking-glass. She curbed her imagination. All very fine, for a woman living alone. But why not, after all those years of one room in his mother’s house?

A
room for Hamnet, one each for Judith and Susanna. That was grandeur for you, a room for each child. And one for Joan, with or without the famous Master Hart, and other guest chambers, servants’ bedrooms, a storeroom, a room for sewing, a room William could use for books. A family house at last. A gentleman’s house. A house for guests, a house from which to marry one’s daughters.

And
in the garden, mulberry trees, apple trees, walnut and almond trees, a well, peaches growing against a wall, a kitchen garden and a herb garden, a struggling grape vine. Add some brick paths, clear away the undergrowth and cut the grass. Stables and outbuildings. Repair that tumbled wall. Roses…

“It
needs a great deal of work,” Anne said as she and Joan walked home.

“More
than I’d imagined. I’m sorry, Anne. Not such a good idea of mine after all.”

“Oh
but it was, Joan. Indeed it was. I am going to buy that house.”

“But
Anne...”

“A
hundred pounds should cover it. I wonder if they’d take less.”

“A
hundred?”

“We
shall offer sixty and see what they say.”

“But
Anne...”

“I’ll...
we will go up to a hundred, but hope to get it for less considering all the work it needs.”

“But
Anne, what’s Will going to say?”

“Do
you know, Joan, love, I don’t care.”

Anne confided in her friends the Sadlers about New Place, and although they warned her of the expenses in buying a run-down house, Hamnet Sadler opened negotiations for her with the owner. Nothing was settled as yet, it was all in the manner of vague enquiries, for Anne didn’t want to drive the price up by seeming too eager, but the owner grudgingly agreed to give Master Shakspere first refusal if the house was actually to be sold.

The
first step, Anne thought in satisfaction.

2
.

After two months at home, Anne moved out to Hewlands Farm with the children. Nothing had yet happened about buying New Place, and she had had enough of people called Shakspere. Besides, she discovered, when your life is falling apart you want the old certainties, the reminders of more innocent times. It was good for the children, too; fresh air after London, healthy exercise, Bartholomew’s four children for company, Bartholomew and his wife as well, out from Stratford where they now lived, to lend a hand. Also good for Anne. As summer wore on and harvest time approached, she worked out in the sun with the rest of her family, and twelve hours a day of hard physical work meant that she fell into bed tired enough to sleep.

Her
family knew something was wrong. They never asked, for they were not people much given to talk, but as summer wore on Anne felt them closing around her, forming a protective rank. She was their daughter, sister, aunt. She belonged to them. They liked William, but if he had done her wrong he would not find her defenceless.

The day-labourers hired for the harvest took their noontime meal and, with luck, an hour’s snooze under a shady tree, or wandered into the Forest of Arden. The Hathaways and their employees ate indoors. When the bell rang Anne rounded up her children and trudged back to the house with her brothers. The men stopped to sluice themselves under the pump, as much because Mrs Hathaway was fastidious as because they were keen to wash off the sweat-stuck chaff dust. Hamnet joined them, for at eleven he was old enough to want the male camaraderie of work and physicality. Had she married a farmer, Anne reflected, an eleven-year-old son would probably be a fully-fledged farm worker. Missing some school didn’t matter. This summer with his uncles and cousins was doing Hamnet good. He had filled out, he was as brown as a nut and he was healthy. They were all brown. Hot, Anne wished she and the girls could shuck off their clothes and leap under the pump’s cool gush. A wash, in decency, at the basin, would have to do. But tonight, she thought, perhaps we’ll go to the river.

The
meal was ready. In his Puritan way Bartholomew made much of the blessing, until at last everyone could fall to, niceties of service reduced to “Mustard,” or “Pass the salt.” Anne was wondering why her children had to eat as if they were gardening, when the door opened and her husband came in.

He
appeared so unexpectedly and was so outlandish in that setting that he could have been some cunning artificer’s apparition from a play. They all jumped and Bartholomew dropped the pipe he had begun to fill with tobacco.

“Marry
come up, it’s Will!” said Mrs Hathaway.

“Yes,
Mother, and good day to you all. Anne, my dear.” He bowed. Hemmed in at the end of the table, Anne couldn’t rise to greet him. But to be cool would look too odd. She smiled rather stiffly, and to her annoyance he blew her a jaunty kiss. Then the children were all over him and Mrs Hathaway was telling the maid to bring fresh plates and more food and everyone was talking at once and no one noticed she didn’t return the kiss.

How
like him, she thought. How very like him to turn up without warning, so sure of his welcome. With a rush of good solid anger she looked him over. He had dressed plainly to come into the country, but next to the other men in their homespun and russet, his sober dark blue suit with its edging of satin was a gorgeous as a courtier’s. He was neat, sleek and expensive. Master Shakspere the playwright and theatre-owner. Master William the adulterer and sodomite.

She
had not until now seen the theatre’s boy, Nol, hovering by the door, still clutching Will’s bags.

“Nol,
how good to see you. Are you well? You look hot. Come, a mug of ale.”

“Good
to see you, Mrs S. But I’ll take me ale in the kitchen, I reckon. Master Will, ’ere’s your gear.”

“Thanks,
Nol. Did someone mention ale? But I must wash first.”

“Yes
indeed,” said Mrs Hathaway. “Hamnet, love, take your father... well, you know where everything is, Will. As for you, boy – Nol, is it? – you are very welcome to my house and you shall have a good dinner, but first we’ll have you out under the pump, thank you very much. Fleas, in my house! Come along.”

“Weren’t
expecting him, eh?” Bartholomew murmured to Anne as they went out.

“No.”

“And not too pleased to see him?”

“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?”