Kissing Shakespeare (21 page)

My God, he’s describing the
Shrew!

And after a few lines, I recognized the scene. To keep myself from falling off my stool, I gripped the table and held on for dear life. I, Miranda Graham, aka Olivia Langford, was listening to William Shakespeare read an early version of
The Taming of the Shrew
.

The scene was from Act II, when Petruchio tells Katherine their marriage is a done deal. It begins with their first meeting, which doesn’t go well. After Petruchio says they’ll marry on Sunday, Katherine replies, “I’ll see thee hanged on Sunday first.”

I realized Will had stopped speaking. He was gathering up his papers and circling the table toward me. “I have the most enlightening idea, mistress! You read Kate’s part, and I shall read Peter.”

I nearly panicked. “Nay, Will, I could not do it justice.”

“ ’Twould be most instructive for me to hear you read the words. I beg you oblige me, Olivia.”

I accepted the pages from his outstretched hand. Of course, I knew the lines, and although they’d be somewhat different from those in this early version, I could always pretend I couldn’t read his writing. Which, I remembered, was true.

“Very well. If it pleases you, I shall.”

And so we spoke those famous lines together. Several times, Will plunged his quill into the ink jar and made changes based on what I said when it differed from his working copy and he liked the wording better.

“Aye, aye, ‘beware’ is much livelier than ‘avoid.’ ”

“ ‘Yet you are withered.’ ’Tis more on the mark than ‘shriveled up.’ ”

“Ah, ‘oaths’ fits the scheme, where ‘curses’ does not. You are quite skilled with words, Olivia.”

I smiled. “I love this, Will. These characters have wit and liveliness.”

“Truly?” His eyes sparked with excitement.

“Absolutely. Are you working on any other plays?”

“I have many ideas, but have written only small bits as yet.” He smiled to himself, as if at some private joke. “Royalty make good fodder for drama, do they not?”

I ducked my head so he wouldn’t see my grin. “Indeed! Are you planning to write about English kings?”

“Someday, when my time is more my own.”

“Well, then,” I said. “I believe you will.”

We stared at each other for a moment, and something passed between us. A link fragile as the finest thread, yet strong enough to bear the weight of centuries. It didn’t feel romantic, but it was deep and profound, nevertheless. Whatever happened, we would always have it.

I broke the spell. “ ’Tis getting on toward the midday meal.”

“Aye. My thanks for your help, mistress. You cannot imagine how much this means to me.”

“Someday I expect to see you onstage, speaking the lines you have composed.”

“That is my hope too. There is something bigger than life about the stage, is there not?” He looked dreamy for a minute, and then, unexpectedly, a shadow crossed his face.

“What is troubling you, Will?”

“I feel I shall disappoint Father Thomas if I choose the stage over the church.”

“Only you can judge what to make of your life.”

“I must consider the religious life. I have promised Thomas to think on it.”

“It is dangerous right now to think of becoming a priest. One must leave England to do so, isn’t that true?”

“Aye. It would be difficult to find the necessary funds, although I daresay Master Hoghton would sponsor me.” He rose and began gathering up his papers.

“Certainly you do not want to commit to a way of life only to please another.”

“When that other is a man of such dedication and devotion, ’tis difficult to discount.”

So the wink he’d given me at lunch the other day had only been teasing. He was taking Thomas’s advice to heart.
Sigh
. Will was definitely at risk. If money turned out to be the only thing holding him back, I was sure Alexander would be more than willing to pay for his Jesuit education.

I walked toward the door. Will was shuffling papers, but even so, I thought I heard a sound in the passage. Footsteps scurrying. I yanked open the door, but the hallway stood empty and silent.

Will joined me and we headed for the banqueting hall. On the way, I counted all the doorways into which someone could easily have slipped. The eavesdropper had six rooms in which to conceal him—or her—self.

“I hate this!” I shouted, heaving my needlework across my chamber. It was late afternoon, and day was beginning its slide toward evening.

Jennet giggled. “Patience, Olivia. When I first learned to stitch, I near threw it onto the hearth many a time.”

I walked over and picked up the embroidery frame, adjusting it so the linen was taut. “Look at this! It’s—’tis a fright. I’ve ripped this out so many times, my aunt will guess the truth.”

“Give it to me,” Jennet said. I handed it over gladly.

I’d never like needlework—that was a given—but why shouldn’t I enjoy an afternoon with a girl my age? Even if I didn’t quite trust her. It was a welcome break from the gloom around the Tower. Despite everyone keeping to their usual routines, faces were strained because Alexander was still in jail. For something to do, I’d asked Jennet to help me with my embroidery, in case I was asked to produce it when Elizabeth returned. And as Stephen had suggested, it was a good way of drawing out the other girl.

Jennet was explaining something. “I’ll form a new design in this corner, so the wear on the fabric will not be noticed. Pray, why did your mother not instruct you in needlework?”

The thought of my mother with any kind of needle in her hand made me want to hoot with laughter. “My parents believe educating oneself is more important, but Mother would not want my aunt to know that.”

“Your secret is safe with me.”

Ha!
Was any secret safe with Jennet? I had serious doubts about that.

Oddly, the mention of my mother released a flood of homesickness. I missed my grandfather. And Macy. Not being able to text, call, or contact anyone was definitely weird, not to mention lonely. Stranger still was Stephen’s explanation that time was standing still while I was … away. I couldn’t get my head around the idea.

“Is something amiss, Olivia?”

“Nay … pardon me. I was thinking of something. Did your mother teach you, Jennet? You are very handy with the needle.”

Sorrow shadowed her eyes briefly. “Aye, before she died. I was but four years old when we began. She was called to God after giving birth to my youngest sister, Honor, when I was ten years old.”

“It must have been hard to lose your mother when you were so young.”

She nodded briefly in acknowledgment.

“You have another sister?”

“Aye, Joan.” While her face had softened when she spoke of Honor, mention of Joan seemed to have the opposite effect.

I pierced the fabric with my needle. Jennet had traced a simple design of a flower onto the cloth. I would start with the petals, practicing the satin stitch. “You must have borne great responsibility in the care of your sisters after your mother died,” I said.

“Joan has caused me much trouble. She is stubborn by nature, and lazy and silly besides. I do not mind caring for Honor, though. She’s a sweet and loving little thing.”

“I have always wished for a sister.”

“And I for a brother! Your brother is such a gentleman, and so well favored. I am glad he has made a good recovery.”

I glanced up in surprise, since I’d thought Jennet had eyes only for Will Shakespeare. She had a bit of a sly smile on her face. If she were the writer of the note questioning my identity, perhaps she was testing me, to discover my true relationship to Stephen.

“Aye. You are not the first young lady to remark upon his charms.” I forced a giggle, and Jennet laughed too. “Is it customary for the females in your family to marry at a young age?”

Her head jerked up. “Why do you ask me such a question?”

Obviously I’d hit a nerve, so I decided to dig deeper. “No reason, only I have heard that Puritan young ladies are expected to take a husband early.”

She paused with her needle in midair, her eyes studying me. Then she plunged the needle into the fabric, drew it through, plunged again. Her hands were shaking. “My father has chosen a husband for me,” Jennet said, revealing this tidbit with a certain degree of bitterness. She stuck the fabric again, as if her intended’s face were trapped within the frame.

“You do not like him.”

“He is a widower with three children, one of whom is but a few years younger than I. Father believes him to be a suitable match for me because he is one of the church elders.” She snorted. “Elder describes him well. He must be at least two and forty. The last time I saw him, he had a large wen protruding from his cheek.”

“A wen?” It must be a pimple or a blemish of some kind.
Good lord
. Why would Jennet’s father want her to marry such a man? “Surely there are other suitable men more of an age with you?”

“Of course there are.” Her gaze shifted for a moment, and I wondered if she was thinking of Will Shakespeare. “But he is not to be swayed. He says I must—” She stopped speaking and shrieked, dropping her needlework.

I thought maybe talking about her betrothed had pushed her over the edge. “A rat!” she shouted. We both leaped to our feet, and I glimpsed a hairy rodent scurrying along the wall. This was no little field mouse. It was big and evil looking. I grasped Jennet’s arm and pulled her toward the bed. “Up here!” I yelled. She gave me a strange look, but climbed up on the bed with me. All I could think of was rats being flea infested, and fleas carrying the plague. Of course, nobody had figured that out yet.

“Help!” I cried, watching the disgusting creature tear around the room.

“Mistress, ’tis only a rat,” Jennet said. “Vile but harmless.”

“You’re the one who screamed,” I replied.

Will burst in. “What in God’s name is the trouble in here?”

I pointed. “A rat!”

Out of the corner of my eye, I spied Stephen entering the room. “God’s eyes! I thought you were being killed.”

I pretended I hadn’t heard him. “Get it out of here! Rats carry disease.”

Stephen picked up a stool and chased after the rodent with it, until it scurried down the passage, off to do its dirty work in other parts of the house.
Wonderful
.

“I shall ask the steward to summon the mole catcher,” Stephen said when he returned.

“How did it get in here?” I asked, jumping off the bed.

“Down the chimney, most likely,” Will said. “Or perhaps through the servants’ door.” He eyed the back wall. “There may be a small hole somewhere. You would be amazed at the tiny openings they can squeeze through.” His eyes sparkled. “No doubt it has spent many a night curled up in your bed while you lay sleeping. Right, Stephen?”

“Aye,” Stephen said. “ ’Tis said they are so still, one does not sense their presence.”

“Very amusing, eh Jennet?” I said.

“Indeed.” Her mouth tightened and jealousy flared in her eyes. “ ’Tis near mealtime,” she said. “We’d best prepare.”

“I shall escort you to your chamber,” Will said. Jennet took his arm and he smiled warmly at her. Well, that should fix things, I thought.

Stephen watched them leave. “They get on well,” he said.

I shrugged. “I told you she has feelings for him. She looked like she wanted to bite someone’s head off just now. I think she thought Will was flirting with me.”

He pondered what I’d said for a moment. “In truth? I confess I did not notice.”

Guys were so clueless
.

“Olivia, if you are not occupied, will you ride with me tomorrow?”

That was the last thing I had expected him to say. I’d been bracing myself for a lecture regarding my lack of progress with the seduction.

“Pardon me?” I sneaked a look at him, but he was gazing off to the side. A weird habit of Stephen’s.

Now he looked directly at me. “Ride with me, in the afternoon. I believe I am well enough healed now.”

This was interesting. “Stephen, you know how poor my riding is.”

“When I said ‘with me,’ I meant exactly that. On my horse, as we did riding back from Preston.”

I should say no. I definitely should say no
. But I heard myself say, “Okay.” The truth was, I’d be thrilled to leave these four walls behind for an afternoon, especially in Stephen’s company.

“Will tomorrow after the midday meal suit you?”

I hesitated. “Are you sure you’re well enough?” Almost of its own volition, my hand reached out and I traced my fingers over the broken places on his face. The cut above his brow, and the purplish bruise surrounding his eye. Gingerly, I touched his damaged nose, then rubbed my thumb across the cut on his lip, now nearly healed. He didn’t move a muscle, but his eyes glowed with a warmth I hadn’t seen before. Then, in one swift motion, he grabbed my hand, stilling it. He clutched it to his chest for a moment before releasing it. I thought he might kiss me, but he said, “Until later,” and strode from the room.

I stood there a long time, dazed, that giddy feeling pulling up through me.

After a while, I picked up my embroidery again, determined to master some of the stitches. I remembered my conversation with Jennet right before the rat had distracted us. She’d started to say something important. “He is not to be swayed. He says I must …” I would have loved to know the ending to that sentence.