A Captive Heart (18 page)

Then,
after eight years, there had been Edmund, or at least the announcement of another baby, and once more Mrs Shakspere forgot her other children and decided to resent her eldest son. Suddenly he must leave school, forget university, go out to work. Younger, he might have blamed and envied the new child, but at sixteen he knew about his father’s money troubles, had even been consulted; he could accept his duty.

Now,
returned after two years as an adult, he saw that his mother valued her children only for their dependence upon her; she existed to be needed as a source of food and bodily intimacy, to fill her babies’ world. As grown or growing people, they held little interest for her. She was over forty now, and coldly William wondered if she realised there would be no more babies and that Edmund wanted to chase after his brothers and play with other children. Already he was pushing away her proffered breast, was impatient with cuddles and being held upon her lap.

As
now. Escaping his mother, Edmund ran to William, clamouring to be picked up. William swung him up onto his shoulders, laughing as the infant grabbed his hair, then saw the flash of malice in his mother’s eyes and felt as if the sun had gone behind a cloud.

“Mother…”

“I have all the work of him all day then you come home and play with him until he’s overexcited and crying. Your father is the same.”

“Perhaps
we simply love him.”

That
was trespassing too far on her preserves. “Loving a child takes more than half an hour at noon or evening when all is done for you. Give him to me.”

“Edmund
stay with Will,” the child announced.

“Mother,”
William tried again, “it is dinner time, I’ve worked hard, there is no dinner ready, the maid’s not here …”

“Where
is your sister?”

He
sighed. “I don’t know.”

“She
is thirteen. I look to her to help me.”

“And
so she does. Mother, can we not afford another maid? Can’t we hire a girl to do the rough work?”

She
gave a harsh, ironic laugh. “Ask your father why we cannot afford another maid – two, three, and a cook, as we used to have.” Slowly, reluctantly, she fastened her dress. “I married a well-to-do man who could afford a proper living. Now I have to send my children out to work. Gilbert is to leave school at the end of the month and be apprenticed to a haberdasher. And you, my boy, are to take work as an usher at the grammar school.”

“Truly?”

“Yes. Then your father can take on another apprentice; we need the indenture money.”

The
hand with which she laced her bodice still bore its jewelled gold rings and, much as he knew they were the last, cherished symbols of the wealthy Arden lady and Alderman’s wife she had once been, William often longed to point out that just one of them would buy the services of a cook and several maids. Or would have paid for his three years at university.

“I
shan’t mind working at the grammar school, although I could do better. Is it certain? It’s been arranged?”

“When
we knew you were coming home.”

“Thanks
for telling me.”

“Don’t
speak to me like that, William. Turn your clever tongue on your father. It was his idea. You’ll start next quarter-day.”

“I
shan’t mind,” he repeated. “But I am eighteen, Mother, too old to have decisions made for me willy-nilly. And if it’s only a matter of money, then let me go to London, I’ve told you I could earn more there.”

“Being
a common theatre player! A mummer!”

“Why
not? The theatre is in fashion in London and – ”

“In
fashion it may be; respectable it will never be. We may not be noble people but you are an Arden and a Shakspere, you come of old families with some position and standing. The Ardens are – ”

“I
know. The oldest family in Warwickshire. We have noble kinsmen. I am well aware of it.”

“And
think it a matter for mockery, I see.”

“Not
at all. But must we never do anything new?”

“Not
if it means something like the theatre.”

Unwisely,
desperately, he persisted. “It’s not as if I have no experience, I – ”

“What
‘experience’, pray?”

“Mother,
please listen! For Sir Alexander de Hoghton, then for Sir Thomas Hesketh.”

“But
you went to Lancashire as a tutor. Teaching schoolboys. Not to strut around in fancy dress.”

“Parliament
passed an act against unlicensed schoolmasters. It was safer and easier to keep me on as one of his private troupe of players and musicians. So you see, Mother…”

But
she turned it against him, mocking, “Much ice a few private mummings would cut in London. What’ll you do, boy, go to some lord whose players have performed for the Queen and whine, ‘Please, sir, I once entertained some country people in the north’?”

“I’m
a little better than that. There could be money in it.”

“Ha!”

“And I think I could write for the theatre, I wrote a play for –”

“You!
No, you’ll work at the grammar school and that’s flat.”

“When
I’m of age…”

“Oh,
no doubt you’ll do what you like then. No doubt you’ll turn your back on your dull and humble parents and your dull and humble country town and get yourself appointed Master of the Queen’s Revels.” She reached up for Edmund who, bored because William showed no sign of playing any of his usual games, went happily into her arms. Over his head she stared up at William, her face icy. “Do what you like when you are twenty-one, but until then you will do what your parents tell you.”

2.

Another
morning in the workshop, stitching gloves until his eyes ached, then an afternoon spent making deliveries and running errands for his father. “Take the horse,” his father said, “and wear your best clothes. Be polite and make a good impression.”

At
least it got him out of house and shop, into the summer countryside, and there was no limit set on the time of his return. Out of anyone’s sight, in the country roads, he dawdled, free for once to think and daydream without interruption. At home there was always noise, some demand.

Late
in the afternoon he realised he should have planned his round more carefully, for he was riding west, into the sun. It was a hot day and he was thirsty. He pulled his hat lower over his eyes, remembering with pleasure that going west would take him past Shottery, where the Hathaways lived. He had one last delivery to make, then on his way home he could stop at Hewlands Farm and beg a drink. Maybe Anne would be there. He had liked her that day at market. She was the only person he had met since he came home who didn’t meet his jokes with a blank stare.

Then,
as if his thoughts had conjured her up, he saw her. He recognised her at once, even though she was hopping and stumbling down the road. For an instant he wondered if she was drunk or suffered from the falling sickness, then as he drew closer he saw she was merely favouring her right foot.

“Madam!
Anne! What’s wrong? Can I help?” He reined in, and swung down from the saddle.

“Oh,
William. What are you doing out here?”

He
held out his arm for her hand, letting her lean on him. “Deliveries for my father. Sprained your ankle?”

“Turned
it,” she said through clenched teeth. “I climbed a gate instead of opening it. I jumped down and fell awkwardly. It’s nothing much, but it does hurt.”

“Are
you on your way home?”

“Yes,
from Temple Grafton. It’s only another half mile.”

“I
know. I’ll take you home. You can ride up in front of me on the horse.”

“I’d
be grateful,” she said. “Thank you. If it’s not taking you too far out of your way?”

“Not
at all. It will hurt your ankle somewhat, getting up, but there’s no help for it, I’m afraid.” Wincing, she put her weight on her right foot. He took her left in his hands and tossed her up. She had to scramble to get her seat, clutching the horse’s mane, then she nodded and he put his foot in the stirrup and mounted up behind her. The horse had stood patiently, and now walked on when he shook the reins.

After
a moment he said, “It will be easier if you lean back against me. I’m afraid you’ll have to take off your hat.”

She
did so, holding it rolled against her knee. Her hair was a pretty shade of dark brown, shot through with autumn-leaf colours. She must have washed it not long since, for over the dust of the road and her fresh sweat, he could smell soap and rosemary. She was a slender woman and not tall; she fitted nicely into the curve of his arm, against his shoulder. He had never held a woman so closely before, even in all innocence like this. Before he went to Lancashire he’d taken little interest in girls, and, there, he had been closely supervised. One of the maidservants had kissed him at Christmas and made it plain he need not stop at kissing, but she had been a loose and reechy girl, as repellent as attractive, and he had taken fright. The gentle swell of Anne’s breast was pressing against his arm. Nothing he could do about that, even had he wanted to.

As
if conscious of the same thing, she shifted a little to sit more upright. “Are you still bored with Stratford?” she asked, making conversation.

“Yes.”
He saw her eyebrows lift and realised how short he had sounded. “Sorry. But yes, I am bored. I can’t help it. Aren’t you ever bored with your life?”

“Often.
Not much I can do about it, though. I suppose it is worse for you, having been away, having experienced other things and places, I mean.”

“It’s
partly that. And… well, my parents won’t listen. They want the best for me, I suppose, but it’s the same old things, same old ideas as if I were still a child. I’m to work at the grammar school, usher to the little boys.”

“And
you don’t want that?”

“It’s
not what I would choose but I don’t mind it. I quite liked being a tutor, although that was in a private house. But – if I tell you, you won’t laugh?”

“Of
course not,” she said gently.

“I
told you at market last week that I had gone to London. Well, while I was there I went to the playhouses, all of them, and I saw every play I could. And that is what I want to do. To be a player. To join one of the theatre companies. My parents won’t hear of it, of course.”

“Perhaps
they think you’re too young yet.”

“It’s
not only that. They say it’s not respectable, but what they mean is that no one in our family has ever done anything like that before, therefore no one ever shall. I shall not.”

“You’re
the eldest son. Your father must want you to take over his business.”

“Perhaps
he does, eventually, but for now it’s the grammar school. I have to earn. My brother Gilbert, too. I’m to be an usher, Gilbert a haberdasher, probably Richard’s to work for Father in a year or two. Meanwhile Father kills two birds with one stone – sends us out to work and gets the indenture from the apprentices he takes on in the business. Not that I’ll earn much as a junior usher. It’s not as if I have a university degree. I could probably make more as a player but of course they won’t hear of it.”

“Perhaps
they just don’t want you to go away. Their eldest son must be special to them.”

“They
sent me away before when I was only sixteen, and sent me much further than to London.”

“You
resent that?”

It
was the first time he had thought of it in just those terms. “I think I do, a little. I did miss my home and family, at least at first. But I enjoyed those two years. I wanted to stay on in the north, but my employer died and there were other difficulties. Catholic sympathies.”

“Ah.”

Her eyes were grey, a soft clear colour emphasised by the darkness of her brows and lashes. She was not quite pretty, but she had something; any man would call her attractive. He tried to remember how old she was, how much older than he. Certainly old enough to have been trusted to mind him and his brother when they were children.

Not
knowing why he said something so dangerous, except that he liked her eyes and she was the only person who had ever listened to him, he said, “My father too. Catholic sympathies. He conforms, of course, and I’ve not seen him do anything open, but it’s – well, it’s one of those things that are known within a family. I hope it’s no more than sympathies.” Belatedly, more boyishly than he realised, he added, “You won’t repeat that to anyone, will you?”

“Of
course not. For one thing, you told me in confidence; for another, your father was my father’s friend. Plenty of Catholic sympathisers around here, too.”

“But
not you?”

“No.
My stepmother and brother incline to Puritanism, but my father was staunchly Church of England. I do what is lawful.”

“Me
too,” he said, and laughed. “And sometimes I do what is right.”

“Often
not the same thing, I agree.”

“No.
But, to be both right and lawful, I shall stay here obeying my parents until I’m of age. Three years.”

“And
then?”

“I
shall do what I want. Go to London. Try to join one of the playing companies. And – this is what I meant before when I hoped you wouldn’t laugh. I know how it sounds, but…”

“Tell.
I shan’t laugh.”

“Well
then, I think I could write.”

She
didn’t laugh. She said, puzzled, “Write? Books?”

“I
meant plays. Poetry too, perhaps. I am sure I could. Always I have such ideas; words, tales and legends. I wrote, well, helped with, a masque for Lord Stanley when I was in the north, and I know I could write.” He caught her eye. “I suppose I only mean I want to.”

“I’ve
never known anyone who even thought of such things, but I’m sure you could. Have you ever tried? Writing a play, I mean.”

“Er,
no, not really.”

“And
your experience is limited to the plays you saw during your week in London?”

“There
is no need,” he said stiffly, “to make fun of me.”

“I
wasn’t. But I do think that perhaps you’re not yet quite equipped to take London by storm. And making plays might be harder than you think. If your parents won’t let you go away, you’ve got three years. You might as well make use of the time. Look, I know it’s not exactly London, but my cousin Frances married Mr Davy Jones in Stratford and he has a little troupe of mummers. He sometimes puts on a play.”

“I
don’t know him.”

“I
could introduce you. You could ask him if you could write something for his players. Perhaps you could take part. It’s a start. You could write something and next time one of the touring companies is in town, you could show it to them; get a professional opinion.”

“That’s
good sense. Would you really introduce me to Mr Jones?”

“Nothing
simpler.”

“Thank
you. And, if I wrote something, would you… I mean… could I show it to you? Read it to you?”

“Oh,
William, I’m no judge. I’d have no idea.”

“Why
not? You’ve seen plays. And you’re a clever woman.”

“You’d
better stop.”

“I
didn’t mean to sound impertinent.”

“No,
I meant you’re about to go past our gate.”

“Oh.”
He had been so swept up in his grievances that he had forgotten she was more than a chance-come-by and welcome listener. “I’m sorry, I forgot. Is your ankle very bad?”

“Better
for not walking on it. If you could set me down now…”

“Oh
no, I’ll see you inside, help you. Is there someone at home to care for you?” Earnestly he said, “You should soak your foot in cold water, then bandage it up.” Leaning down, he unhooked the gate and kicked it open. The horse seemed to remember it had been here before, and approved, for it walked contentedly into the farmyard behind the house.

“My
stepmother’s probably at home. The maids will be.”

“I’ll
help you in,” he insisted. She began to demur, but when he dismounted and lifted her down and she put weight on her damaged foot, she gasped and he saw her turn pale. Quickly he put his arm around her. Then, with a better idea, he simply lifted her up in his arms and carried her into the house.

Anne’s
home was a large, handsome house, built on a slope running down to a brook. To one side was an orchard, to the other a spreading kitchen garden. The kitchen into which William carried Anne was broad and low-ceilinged, spotless, and full of good cooking smells. Two maidservants, three children and a little, round, fair-haired woman all turned to stare at Anne in a strange man’s arms.

“Mother,”
she said hastily, “I turned my ankle – nothing too bad – and very luckily William Shakspere found me on the way and gave me a ride home. William, you remember my stepmother, Mrs Hathaway.”

“Of
course. Good afternoon, madam.”

“Good
day to you.” Mrs Hathaway dried her hands on her apron, looking William over. “It’s very kind of you, Master William.”

“Not
at all. Mistress Anne should soak her ankle in cold water. Could I fetch water from the well?”

“Tom
will do it,” said Anne. The stout boy, about ten, didn’t move. “Please, Thomas.”

When
he still didn’t move William said easily, “It would be too heavy for him. Let me fetch it. Can I set you down somewhere?”

“It’s
not too heavy for me!”

“Well,
if you’re sure.”

“Clever,”
Anne whispered as the child shot out the door. Aloud she added, “Mother, I shan’t be in your way; William, if you don’t mind taking me to the hall. You remember where it is?”

“Of
course.” And he carried her through the connecting door. He remembered this house quite well, but there had been changes since his last visit; a new fireplace, a ceiling put into the hall for rooms to be made above. Here too everything was very clean and tidy. There were excellent pewter and brass pieces on the mantel and sideboard, handsome furniture, three painted hangings. The air smelt of lavender, beeswax polish and the flowers that stood in an earthenware jug. The table, covered with a crimson cloth, had eight chairs arranged around it and two more armed chairs stood by the hearth. William deposited Anne in one of these and knelt to undo her boot.