The Dark Lady's Mask (57 page)

“But he stood by his daughter,” the innkeeper said. “I'll grant him that. Terrible scandal three years ago. A scoundrel and drunkard accused Mistress Hall of adultery.”

Aemilia felt a welling of sympathy for Susanna Hall. What she herself had suffered from her damaged reputation was one thing, but in a provincial town like this, even the rumor of adultery could destroy a woman. Perhaps if Mistress Hall had been forced to withstand such defamation, she would be more merciful to someone like Aemilia.

“Doctor Hall took the accuser to court and had him sentenced for slander,” the innkeeper said. “For slander it truly was. I'll speak no ill of Mistress Hall. Her sister, Judith, is another matter. She was foolish enough to marry Thomas Quiney, the wretched fornicator—”

The innkeeper stopped short, as if suddenly remembering he was speaking to a lady.

H
ENRY INSISTED ON ESCORTING
Aemilia to New Place.

“Are you sure this is prudent?” he asked. “You know nothing about this Mistress Hall. Why would she call on you to arrive precisely when her husband is away?”

Aemilia could think of a reason or two but kept them to herself.

When she turned the corner of Chapel Street, the sight of New Place was enough to stop her breath. Built of brick and timber, the house boasted five gables, ten chimneys, and many glass windows. She could scarcely imagine Will, the luckless poet she had once loved, living in this palatial dwelling set among its gardens lush with topiary and roses. The grounds were huge. Off to the far side, she noted an orchard, and over the treetops, the roofs of two barns.

“You said he was a glover's son?” Henry asked, disbelief and envy twining in his voice.

She wondered if somewhere in the furthest reaches of her son's memory, he recalled their idyll in Italy when Will had carried him on his shoulders and held him with such tenderness, as if he were his own.

At the front gate Aemilia nodded farewell to her son before continuing alone up the path to the massive oak door, engraved with the Shakespeare coat of arms and motto,
Non sanz droict.

A maid, brawny and brisk, answered the door. “Mistress Lannery? Mistress Hall is expecting you.” She ushered Aemilia into a vast parlor. “Wait here, if you please. Mistress Hall shall join you shortly.”

Wealth gleamed in every nook and corner, from the carved and painted beams to the silver candlesticks and Dutch oil paintings. In one short life, Will had amassed a fortune. A tapestry of a hunting party riding through a forest covered most of one wall. So much was on display, it was almost vulgar. But Aemilia felt not the faintest sense of Will as she had known him. Nothing of his essence.

Her eyes then lit on the most exquisite virginals she had seen since her days at court. The body of the instrument was inlaid with ivory, mother-of-pearl, and alabaster, and the soundboard was painted with a pastoral scene of shepherdesses and their swains sporting in an eternal Arcadia. Beneath the scene, engraved in gilded letters, were the words she found herself speaking aloud.

“
Sic transit gloria mundi.
” Thus passes the glory of the world.

“You read Latin, Mistress Lanier,” a voice behind her said.

When Aemilia turned to face Susanna Hall, it was like seeing her lost love brought back to life in the guise of a woman. She kept blinking to keep from losing herself in those clouded hazel eyes. A few soft brown curls escaped Mistress Hall's coif to soften her high, intelligent brow. Her gown was of dove-gray silk, edged in black brocade. She wore pearls at her throat and gold rings on her fingers. A fine-looking matron of thirty-three years.

“Mistress Hall,” Aemilia said.

She dropped into a curtsy though, in truth, it wasn't necessary. Despite their gaping differences in fortune, Susanna Hall was not of higher birth. As gentlemen's daughters, they were of fairly equal standing, though Aemilia's family was older. Battista Bassano had not needed to
buy
his coat of arms. Then Aemilia abandoned such petty thoughts and spoke from her heart, as one grieving woman to another.

“May I offer my condolences for your father's passing.”

Susanna Hall seemed at a loss to know what to say or how to treat her. Aemilia could only wonder what Will had told his daughter about her. Did the woman have any inkling that she had invited her late father's former mistress into the family home?

“You must be so proud of your father,” Aemilia said, when she could no longer bear the silence between them. “Do you have a favorite amongst his plays?”

“Sometimes he read to me various speeches and scenes,” Mistress Hall said, her eyes guarded, her voice tepid. “But all I know of the theater is hearsay.”

Aemilia nodded, for it made sense that Mistress Hall had never visited the Globe. What gentleman would wish to expose his sheltered provincial daughter to Southwark with its bawdy houses and gambling dens?

“But I trust you've read his poetry,” Aemilia said, hoping to kindle even the tiniest spark of warmth in her hostess.

Mistress Hall looked pained. “Madam, I cannot read.”

This revelation left Aemilia incredulous. Though she knew Will's wife was illiterate, she had thought that the daughters of such a great man of letters would at least be able to read and write. Even in his poorer days, he had managed to send his son to grammar school. Surely when wealth came his way, he could have hired a private tutor for his girls.

Yet Will must have cherished Susanna—had he not left most of his vast estate to her and her husband? Of all the women in his life, it seemed he'd loved his firstborn above all others. Perhaps he had hoped that his tenderness to Susanna might redeem his every slight to other women, including Susanna's mother.

“Then who wrote the letter inviting me here?” Aemilia asked. It had indeed looked to be written in a woman's hand.

“My friend. She's a curate's daughter, uncommonly educated. But even
she
can't read Latin.”

Aemilia didn't know what to say. At least it was a relief to learn that Mistress Hall hadn't read the sonnets.

“I
FORGET MY MANNERS
,” her hostess said. “Please, sit you down. You must be weary from your journey.”

She offered Aemilia a glass of Madeira.

As Aemilia took her first sip of the sweet wine, she noticed a little girl peeking around the chamber door. She looked to be about eight, with dark gold locks and merry mischief in her eyes as she gawped at the mysterious guest.

“Your daughter, Mistress Hall?” Aemilia said, alerting her to the child's presence.

Her hostess sprang to her feet. “Elizabeth, you naughty girl. You're meant to be helping your grandmother.”

Her grandmother.
With a stab of remorse, Aemilia wondered if Anne Shakespeare was privy to who she was and why she had come.
To have your revenge of me, all you need do is poison the Madeira.

“Mother, who is that lady?” the child demanded, refusing to abandon her sentinel post.

To cover her mother's embarrassed silence, Aemilia spoke up. “My late husband was a stage minstrel for your grandfather. I've come to pay my respects to your good mother.”

As lies went, it was close enough to fact to ring true.

The girl's eyes sparked. It seemed the word
minstrel
was the one that intrigued her most. “Can you play the virginals?”

“The virginals and the lute,” Aemilia told her.

“Can you play the virginals
now
?”

“Elizabeth, that's enough,” said her mother. “Off you go.”

“Pleased to meet you, madam.” The girl displayed a most impressive curtsy.

“And you, Elizabeth,” Aemilia said.

Before her mother could scold her again, the girl pranced away.

“What a lovely child,” Aemilia said, grateful to have a reason to smile. “I had a daughter—” Her eyes stinging, she caught herself and said no more.

Mistress Hall met her gaze. “I know.”

Aemilia's hand shook so hard, she spilled the Madeira on her lap. Will had not only told Susanna about their affair but also about Odilia? If their child had lived, she would have been twenty-one this year. Susanna's half sister. To her horror, Aemilia found she was in tears.

“I had better take my leave.” Her hips stiff from the long ride, Aemilia levered herself up from the chair.

“Not just yet, if you please.” Mistress Hall stood in her path. “First let's finish this business, shall we?”

Aemilia thought her hostess looked as miserable as she herself felt.

Mistress Hall turned her head and waited while Aemilia dried her tears then led her up a flight of stairs. From the chatelaine at her waist, she selected a key and unlocked a door. A wave of musty air struck Aemilia's face as they entered a dim room. Mistress Hall flung open the windows and shutters, allowing the early evening sunlight and breeze to sweep away the staleness.

“Father's study,” she said.

Aemila gazed at the desk with its ink pot and quills, its foolscap and blotter, everything laid out in orderly fashion as though Will would return at any moment and sit down to write. She studied an oil painting of the Globe, which had burned to the ground three years ago, and then she shivered at the sight of a human skull. Will's ghostly presence seemed to fill the room. She almost felt his breath stirring at her nape. With a rush of blood behind her eyes, she saw her own
Salve Deus
on his bookshelf, resting beside his Ovid. So had he read her work after all? Had he treasured her book enough to keep it here, in his
sanctum sanctorum
?

So as not to betray her emotions, she turned to examine the map of Bermuda hanging on the wall. Beside it was an etching of a denizen of that isle arrayed in feathers and shells.

“In his last years, Father became fascinated with the New World,” Mistress Hall said. “Had he been younger, I think he would have sailed to the West Indies.”

Susanna's face seemed flushed with memories of her father. But then, as if reminding herself of the task at hand, she unlocked a cabinet and hefted from it a scarred wooden box with its own lock. As she grappled with its weight, Aemilia leaned forward to help her. Together they laid it on the desk. Mistress Hall then removed the smallest key from her chatelaine and handed it to Aemilia.

“Father wanted you to have this,” she said, looking at the box. “I was to give it directly to you in person. He swore me to the strictest secrecy, forbade me to tell even my husband.” Only now did she lift her eyes, bright with tears. “I ask you to be discreet as not to bring any dishonor on my poor mother.”

“Mistress Hall, you have my word.” Aemilia longed to take her hand but didn't dare. “In faith, I'm astonished you even went through with this. You could have refused.”

Susanna Hall shook her head. “He made me promise. I think he feared he would wander forever in purgatory if he didn't do right by you. He was so given to popish superstitions, that man.”

Aemilia imagined Will on his deathbed entrusting his beloved daughter with his soul's turmoil. “You were his confessor,” she said gently.

“To listen to my father, only your pardon could wash him clean.”

“By my troth,” Aemilia said, her own tears welling up again. “I forgave him years ago.”

For to forgive someone is to set that person's highest essence free. Now, in her heart, Aemilia absolved Will.
Let his noblest self shine through all eternity.
Not the miser who hoarded grain or the callous husband, but the poet whose tears she had touched upon a midsummer night twenty-three years ago.

Will's daughter, his female image, gave her a searching look. “Mistress Lanier, I wanted to hate you, but you confound me. He said he'd written poetry about you, but he wouldn't read a word of it to me. Beyond being his mistress, I never knew who or what you were.”

“Would you know truly?” Aemilia gazed into those hazel eyes. “I am a poet.”

She was tempted to take her own book from the shelf and place it in Susanna Hall's hands. But that would be taking too great a liberty. Besides, Mistress Hall seemed stunned enough as it was. In her silence, Aemilia could not keep herself from stroking one of the quills that lay on her dead lover's desk.
He held this in his hand.

“Pray, keep it,” his daughter said, when Aemilia laid the quill back down. “I think he would have wanted it so.”

M
ISTRESS HALL'S STRAPPING MAIDSERVANT
agreed to haul the heavy box back to the Swan Inn. As Aemilia descended the stairs with mistress and maid, she caught a whiff of yeast and hops. Through walls and closed doors came the muffled sound of an older woman singing and her granddaughter laughing.
With Doctor Hall away,
Will's house has become a house of women
, Aemilia thought,
almost like Cookham in the old days, with the Widow Shakespeare as its beer-brewing matriarch
.

The key to the box in her hand, Aemilia followed the maid out a rear door and through the back gardens, past the sheds and barns, and out the back gate. They proceeded down a narrow alley shadowed in overgrown hedges, cut through a snicket, and finally crossed Bridge Street to reach the Swan Inn, all the while trying to attract as little attention as possible.

Aemilia found Henry waiting for her. He raised his eyebrows as she led the maid up to her chamber, where the girl plunked the box on a table as though it were an exceptionally heavy crate of onions.

“My thanks to you and your good mistress.” Aemilia pressed a tuppence in the girl's palm.

“W
E RODE A HUNDRED
miles so you could claim a shabby old box,” Henry said, as he and his mother ate their supper. “Pray, what's inside?”

“Hush,” Aemilia murmured, aware of the others eating and drinking in the Swan Inn, no doubt eager for anything to gab about. “I haven't opened it yet. Tomorrow, before we depart, I shall go to Holy Trinity Church and visit his grave.”