Kissing Shakespeare (23 page)

Breaking the kiss, he said, “You are … I am …” but never finished his thought. Instead, he rested his cheek against my forehead. We stood there like that for the longest time before we pulled apart and climbed back on Bolingbroke.

Neither of us said much on the way back. Resting against him, I was lost somewhere in the magic of the day. Between the swaying of the horse and the rise and fall of Stephen’s chest as he breathed, I felt completely relaxed, and even dozed for a while. I jerked awake when we stopped, and he helped me down and then up onto Peg.

As we approached the spot where we had taken in the magnificent view earlier in the day, Stephen pointed out a lone horseman riding slowly up the drive. “ ’Tis my uncle returned home,” he said. “Thank God.”

T
HE RAIN RETURNED WITH A VENGEANCE
, but it didn’t affect the lightness of my mood. My day with Stephen had been so nearly perfect that the memory stayed with me and bolstered me, no matter how dreary the weather. I couldn’t stop thinking about kissing him.

I asked him if he’d rehearse the
Shrew
with me. After all, when I arrived back in the present, I’d have to perform it again. “You know Petruchio’s lines, don’t you?”

He gave a wry smile and said, “Well enough.” I hoped he was thinking about “Kiss me, Kate.”

We managed to steal a few afternoons in the library to practice, and gradually, I began to feel more confident about my acting. One day, after we’d gone through the wedding scene, Stephen grabbed my hand and squeezed it. “You did well, Olivia! I thought your playing had the right degree of anger and irony mixed.”

“Thank you,” I said, a happy glow filling me. And right then, it occurred to me that for the first time, I’d said the lines the way my mother had taught me, finding the natural flow of the words, rhythm, and meter. “Character flows from language,” Mom had insisted when she was coaching me for the part. Irritated, I’d rolled my eyes and insisted I knew what Katherine was all about, thank you very much, without her help.

“What are you thinking?” Stephen asked.

I gave him a sheepish smile. “That my mother was right about something. Very difficult to admit, since I’ve sworn to ignore any of her advice about my acting for all time.” I rolled my eyes, and he laughed.

“That would be a costly mistake, I believe.”

I plopped down on the settle. “Do you think Katherine and Petruchio truly love each other?”

“What do you think?” he said, throwing the question back at me.

“You sound like a shrink.”

“A what?”

“Never mind. I’m convinced they do. They must! Did you know
The Taming of the Shrew
is still one of the most performed of Shakespeare’s plays? How could audiences be so into it if, deep down, they didn’t believe Katherine and Petruchio were in love?”

“Couldn’t a modern audience simply think it funny?”

“Sure, some people would. But Petruchio’s so mean to Katherine. He wants to marry her for her dowry. He’s late for their wedding, and then he won’t let her stay for the wedding feast. And he offers her food and clothing, and ends up taking it all away. Even Petruchio’s servants think he’s cruel.”

“Nay, I do not agree. He is simply teaching her to obey him. A thing every God-fearing man wants in a proper wife.”

“What? Are you serious?”

“ ’Tis in the Bible, Olivia, that a woman must obey her husband. And as you must have noticed by now, it is the established belief among people of
this
time.”

“But that’s disgusting!”

“To you, maybe. In this century, the audience would think, ‘Well done, Petruchio! You have put Kate in her rightful place.’ ”

I knew he had a point, but nevertheless it galled me. Especially because he seemed to share that view. “So that’s what you think too?”

He shrugged. “I am a man of my time.”

“And I was really starting to like you. You’re nothing but a sexist.”

He laughed. “Is that like a clodpole or blockhead?”

“Not really.”

“I do not know the word, but it sounds like a fault. Can you not overlook it in me?”

I grabbed the nearest cushion and lobbed it at him. “You better watch it, Langford.”

He dodged out of the way just in time, chuckling. “I surrender, mistress. I will never require an obedient wife.”

“You’ll be lucky to get any wife.” I laughed, but my mind was still on Katherine, and how to portray her. Long before Mr. Finley had chosen the
Shrew
for our spring play, we’d read and studied it. He’d lectured about the different interpretations of Katherine. Some scholars tried to put a modern spin on her character, while others insisted there was only one true interpretation—the straight reading, the one Stephen so enthusiastically endorsed.

I’d have to put my own stamp on the role. My performance somehow had to be a blend of Elizabethan and modern sensibilities. I wanted to keep my expression soft, to show I was in love, even while Petruchio was trying to break my spirit. And the “advice to the wives” speech at the end. Ironic? Humorous? I wasn’t sure yet, but I still had time to work it out.

“Your mind is elsewhere,” Stephen said.

“I’m sorry. I was still thinking of the performance.”

“Come, be seated for a moment.” Stephen had lowered himself onto the settle before the fireplace and now motioned me over. I sat next to him, my skin tingling. I wasn’t thinking of the performance anymore.

“How do you fare with your reading?” he asked.

My heart plunged. “Reading?” I echoed.
He wants to know about reading?
“I haven’t had much time to work on it.”

“Would you care to do so now?”

“Now?”

He twisted a corner of his mouth. “Are your ears plugged, mistress? Aye, now.”

No kissing today, apparently.
Damn!

“If you are called upon to read a letter to a servant, or my aunt should require you to read a Bible verse, you must not hesitate.”

His mention of letters and servants triggered a memory. “I need to tell you something about Will first. I was so excited about reading the
Shrew
with him, I forgot all about it.”

He raised a brow. “Go on.”

“On my way to the classroom the other day, a servant passed me. He was carrying a letter to Will from Thomas Cook.”

“And?”

“And nothing. I mentioned it to Will, hoping he might open it and tell me something about what was in it. But he didn’t bite. He said he’d read it later. Why would Thomas write to him when they could as easily talk?”

“They cannot speak often in private. The letter may contain something important. If you should see it lying about …”

“I don’t know when that would be.” I frowned at him.

“On another visit to his classroom, mayhap?”

“Maybe. I’m supposed to meet with Will again, so I guess it might as well be there.”

“We must move things along, Olivia.”

“I know. I promised you I’d … take this to the ultimate outcome, and I will.”
The “ultimate outcome.” What does that even mean?
The last time we’d talked about this, I’d told Stephen I couldn’t wait to make love with Will. My lack of enthusiasm must have registered, because his eyes softened and he grasped my hand. “Soon. We must—you must—do it soon.”

I nodded, and he said, “Let us look at Ovid and see how you’re progressing.”

Wonderful
.

On a rainy Monday afternoon I settled myself in the ladies’ withdrawing room, practicing my newfound needlework skills. No one could fault me for lack of effort. It was April 10th, my twentieth day in the past. I’d been keeping track in my head. I knew Stephen was right about moving things along. At this point, I was growing desperate for an opportunity to work my wiles on Will. For the time being, I felt I’d done all I could to encourage his writing and acting, and I’d keep working that angle.

It still nagged at me that the sheriff had asked us about “young Shakespeare.” We had never figured out why he wanted to know, though I suspected the sheriff and his goons weren’t all that picky about who they arrested and tortured if they thought he might have information they could use against their perceived enemies.

I’d just returned to my room, trying to decide what to do next, when I heard someone walking quietly through the passageway. It was Jennet, wearing a cloak with the hood pulled up over her head. My chamber was dark, and I hadn’t been in it for the last few hours. There was no way she could have known I was in there. Since it was pouring outside, I couldn’t imagine why she’d be venturing out, but I made an impulsive decision to follow her. Even if it came to nothing, at least it was a chance to take some action.

I waited until she’d descended the stairs and the courtyard door had closed behind her before following. Even though I’d thrown my own cloak on and pulled up the hood, the steady downpour soaked me within a few minutes. Jennet headed toward the thick forest beyond the rose garden, and I stayed as close as I dared. If she turned around, she’d spot me immediately in the open area between the trees and the tilting green.

Jennet entered the woods and hesitated, apparently uncertain about which path to follow. Please don’t turn around, I begged silently. Evidently she made up her mind, because she continued. When I arrived at the spot where she’d paused, I looked around and spied a bit of red cloth tied to a low-hanging branch. Someone had marked a trail! That would make this easier. Walking beneath the trees protected me from the rain, at least. I turned briefly and looked toward the house, at the bulk of the great keep rising into the sky. Should I turn back?

I decided to keep going. I waited for Jennet to get farther ahead of me, since I knew I could depend on the red markers to guide me. The sound of the rain was muted under the trees, and a musky smell of dampness and rotting leaves drifted up from the ground. I zigzagged around trees, fallen logs, and dripping ferns, watching for the red pointers. When something deeper in the woods caught my eye—a rapid movement, a blur of color—I stopped. I thought I could make out two figures huddled together. I crept closer, the leaf-covered ground muffling my footsteps.

When I’d gotten as close as I could risk, I hid myself behind a clump of dead trees and watched. Jennet was talking to a man with a huge hook nose. No one I recognized. Her hood had fallen away, leaving her exposed to the rain. Dank hair clung to her companion’s forehead. Dressed in a doublet and hose, he wore nothing else to protect himself from the wet weather. Unable to hear anything, I crept away before they discovered me. On the way back, I played a guessing game with myself as to the identity of the mystery man, and what exactly Jennet had to say to him.

Back inside, I waved to Stephen as I walked through the passage. Pulling my cloak off, I threw it on the bed just as Bess, bearing hot water, entered through the servants’ door. She took one look at my scraggly appearance and said, “Why were you outside on such a day, mistress?” She walked over and began toweling my hair dry.

I didn’t blame her for asking, since I’d wondered the same thing about Jennet. “I needed some fresh air after doing needlework for a few hours.” That was the best I could come up with.