SHAKESPEARE’ SECRET (16 page)

“So it worked?” he asked.

Hero thought he looked a little smug. “Well, I had to go to the principal's office this morning,” she said. “But it was okay. I mean, she was almost more upset about what they wrote than I was.” She laughed, remembering. Then she stopped. “What did they write?”

Danny glanced at her. “Oh, you know. The usual.” He grinned. “Maybe I should have left it there. It might have made you more popular.”

Hero gave him a shove, but he only laughed at her, unfazed, his blond hair flopping over his forehead. “You going to Miriam's?”

Hero nodded. “Are you coming?”

“Sure, in a while.” He turned back to his friends.

When Hero reached Mrs. Roth's, she found her stooping over a flower bed, pulling weeds. A handful of roots and grasses lay in a sodden pile at her feet.

“Hey,” Hero called. “I can do that.”

“Oh, that's all right, Hero.” Mrs. Roth smiled at her, flexing her hands and rubbing the knuckles. “You and I have more important things to do. Come see what I found.”

She led the way to the porch, where
Tudor England
was splayed open, pages ruffling in the breeze. “Look at this.”

Hero could hear the excitement in her voice. She sat on the step and lifted the book into her lap, glancing at a page crowded with portraits of Queen Elizabeth in all her usual regalia. “I know,” she said. “I've found lots of pictures of her, too. She's always wearing those dresses that look like they'd weigh a ton.”

Mrs. Roth pointed, her smile widening. “Look at her necklace in this one.”

Hero bent closer to the page. It was hard to see the necklace. “There's no pendant,” she said, squinting.

“No,” Mrs. Roth said. “But look at the necklace itself, the pattern of pearls and rubies.”

“Is it our necklace?” Hero gasped. She tilted the page in the sunlight. “Do you think it is?” She jiggled the heavy book on her knees. “But how did Queen Elizabeth ...”

“From her mother, of course. From Anne Boleyn.”

Hero nodded slowly, beginning to piece it together. “But where's the pendant?”

“Well, I've been thinking about that.” Mrs. Roth gripped the post and lowered herself to the step. “Anne Boleyn was tried for adultery and executed for treason. Elizabeth's own position was not at all secure. There were lots of people plotting against her. She knew how easily she might suffer the same fate as her poor mother. So I think she would have been careful not to wear something the public would recognize as Anne Boleyn's. The pendant is very distinctive, and of course her mother's crest was on the back of it.”

“That makes sense,” Hero agreed.

Mrs. Roth touched her arm. “There's more.” She turned the pages to a section of the book marked with a torn piece of paper. “Look at this. It's a poem Elizabeth wrote when she was twenty, while she was under arrest at Woodstock, held for suspected treason.”

Hero read aloud:

“Much suspected by me, Nothing proved can be, Quoth Elizabeth prisoner.”

Hero looked at Mrs. Roth, puzzled. “I didn't know she wrote poetry, but I don't see ...”

Mrs. Roth tapped the page. Hero glanced down again and felt a chill go through her. The caption under the poem read:
“Written with a diamond on her window at Woodstock.”

“I don't understand,” Hero said.

Mrs. Roth beamed. “She used a diamond to write on the window glass. She scratched out the words. She was a prisoner; perhaps she didn't have pen and paper, or perhaps she wanted to leave a permanent record.”

“But is it
the
diamond?” Hero asked. “The Murphy diamond?”

“I doubt we'll ever know.” Mrs. Roth shifted the
book from Hero's lap into her own. “But it could be. She was a prisoner, accused of a crime. Why would she have jewels with her? Unless it was one particular jewel, the pendant left to her by her dead mother—”

Hero interrupted breathlessly “And that's what I have to tell you. I talked to my dad about Edward de Vere, and he said the connection wasn't with Anne Boleyn, it was with Elizabeth. I guess people think they might have been in love or something.” She tried to remember all the details. “I've been reading about him. His father died when he was little, so he was raised by one of her royal advisors. He was Elizabeth's favorite at the court, and she even gave him money, a thousand pounds a year, when he grew up.”

“Really?” Mrs. Roth's eyes widened. “He might have been her lover? But that seems unlikely, doesn't it? If he was born in 1550, he was seventeen years younger than Elizabeth.”

Hero laughed. “Yeah, she'd be old enough to be his mother.”

Mrs. Roth looked at her strangely. “What did you say?”

“She'd be old enough to be his mother. Back then, they had kids kind of young, right?”

Mrs. Roth nodded slowly, turning the pages of the
book. “His mother.” She paused, looking at Hero. “What if she were his mother?”

“But she didn't have any children,” Hero said. She hesitated. “Unless it was a secret. Unless nobody knew.” She stared at the book.

“When was Edward de Vere born again?” Mrs. Roth asked.

“In 1550. Or around there. My dad says the dates aren't very accurate.”

“So what happened to Elizabeth in 1550? Let's see, there was something when she was a teenager, some scandal,” Mrs. Roth flipped the pages. “Ah yes, here it is, in 1548 or 1549. She was living in the house of Catherine Parr—you remember, the last wife of Henry VIII—who had remarried. And there was something involving Catherine Parr's husband or another man. Some impropriety. It sounds as though nobody knew exactly what happened, but Elizabeth was forced to leave the house afterward.”

“They kicked her out?” Hero turned to Mrs. Roth suddenly, grabbing her sleeve. “Do you think ... do you think she got pregnant? Could that be it?” She bounced to her feet. “Because if she were Edward de Vere's mother ... if she were his mother, then Anne Boleyn would be his grandmother!”

“And it would make sense, perfect sense, for Edward de Vere to inherit his grandmother's necklace, ” Mrs. Roth finished for her. They looked at each other in astonishment.

Hero shook her head slowly. She felt a strange thrill running through her. “Not only that,” she said. “It's more than that. My dad kept saying there was no proof of the relationship between Elizabeth and Edward de Vere, why they were so close. But what if the necklace is the proof?”

“You mean the proof that Edward de Vere was Elizabeth's son?” Mrs. Roth asked.

“And the reason that everything had to be kept secret.” Hero began to pace in front of the porch. “Shakespeare's plays. If Edward de Vere wrote all those plays, but he was the queen's son, he couldn't put his name on anything.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Roth. She looked at Hero, her eyes wide. “Your father said the royals believed playwriting was beneath them. If Edward de Vere was the queen's son, her
illegitimate
son no less, it would have been even more important to hide his authorship. She wouldn't have wanted him to attract attention. It might have exposed their relationship.”

“And don't forget the money,” Hero added, hopping
from one foot to the other. “The thousand pounds. Maybe she paid him that to keep him from telling anyone about his writing.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Roth said. “As compensation for staying anonymous, because she wasn't going to have her own son earn his living by writing plays for commoners.” She shook her head in wonder. “Oh, Hero! I'm remembering the plays, all the details of royal life, the intrigues of the court.”

Hero nodded excitedly. “My dad said that the real Shakespeare was just an ordinary businessman who shouldn't have known about all that.”

“And all the plays about slander or betrayal,” Mrs. Roth continued. “Think of your play,
Much Ado About Nothing.
Hero must fake her death because of a false accusation. If that were Shakespeare's secret—that he was really Elizabeth's son and Anne Boleyn's grandson—all of his writing about slander would be even more powerful. The reason his grandmother died. The reason his mother was imprisoned.”

“And it all fits,” Hero said, barely able to contain herself. “I mean, there isn't much known about Edward de Vere's parents, and he grew up as Elizabeth's favorite . . . Oh, Mrs. Roth! What if the necklace is the key to everything?”

Mrs. Roth squeezed her hand. “Think of it! What if we've discovered the secret identity of William Shakespeare?”

Hero looked up and saw Danny about to turn in the gate. “Here comes Danny,” she whispered quickly. “I didn't tell him about the necklace. I thought you wouldn't want me to because of his dad. He knows we're looking for the diamond, but that's all.”

“Hey,” Danny called to them, glancing at the yard. “You weren't weeding, were you, Miriam? Let me do that.”

“Oh, would you?” Mrs. Roth smiled at him gratefully. “That would be lovely. I'll get us some refreshments.”

Mrs. Roth went inside, and Hero joined Danny in the garden. She tried not to think about the necklace, but her heart was racing. She was afraid she'd say something she shouldn't. They crouched side by side, yanking tufts of grass from the dark, loose earth beneath the rosebushes.

“So your dad doesn't know you took the spray paint?” Hero asked. “You won't get in trouble for that, will you?”

Danny shook his head. “I didn't use that much.

And my dad's got a lot of other stuff to worry about.” He smiled a little. “That's the good thing about having only one parent around. He's not watching my every move, you know? He doesn't have time.”

“Do you ever see your mom?” Hero asked. “Do you visit her?”

Danny shook his head. “I haven't seen her since she left.”

“Don't you miss her?”

Danny shrugged. “I was five when she left. I don't remember her that well.” He hesitated. “I mean, I do. I remember how she looked. But sometimes I don't know if I really remember, or if I just know how she looked from the pictures. We have pictures of her all over the place. My dad hung them up. So I wouldn't forget, I guess.” He sat back on his heels. “I remember how she smelled, and I remember games we played. But I don't remember how I felt about her. Isn't that weird?”

Hero didn't know what to say. It was strange not to know how you felt about your mom. But it wasn't strange to forget how you felt about someone who disappeared years ago. “Well,” she said after a minute. “You were five, right? You were really little.”

“Yeah.”

“So why did she leave?” Hero asked.

“She just left.” Danny pulled up a fistful of crabgrass, banging it against the flagstone. The ball of dirt around the roots crumbled, and he brushed it back into the flower bed.

Hero waited.

“She got tired . . . you know, tired of being a mom.”

Hero had never heard of such a thing. She stared at him. “Really?”

“That's what my dad says.” Danny hesitated. “Well, he doesn't say that exactly. He says she got tired of her life. She couldn't stand her life. But, I mean, she was at home with me all the time, so ...” He left the question hanging in the air.

Hero looked at him, wanting to help. She thought of her own brisk, good-natured mother, who was so annoying at times but at least always there. “Maybe it was something with your dad,” she said. “There are lots of reasons she could have left.” She yanked a leggy weed from the dense shock of tiger lilies. “And now she's in California?”

“Yeah, L.A. She wants to be an actress.” Danny collected the weeds at his feet and tossed them onto Hero's pile. “You know, acting, you can't do that around here. You pretty much have to be in L.A.”

“That makes sense.” Hero nodded, watching him. “Well, how's she doing? Has she made any movies?”

“Not yet, but she's done some commercials. She's trying to break into the film stuff. It's hard. She doesn't have any money. But I think she'll make it. My mom's really beautiful.”

“She is?”

He nodded firmly. “Definitely.”

Hero stood up, stretching. “It must be hard for you,” she said hesitantly.

Danny wiped his face on his T-shirt, leaving a damp brown streak across it. “Sometimes. But she wasn't happy here. My dad says she was never happy.”

The screen door creaked open, and Mrs. Roth stepped out, balancing a tray.

“Oh, look at you two!” she said approvingly. “You've finished two beds. It would have taken me all afternoon to get that far. Come have something to drink.”

They all settled on the porch steps, and Hero held the cold glass against her face. The tea tasted cool and sweet, with a lemony sharpness. The china plate was heaped with cookies this time, chocolate chip. Danny took four. Hero rested one on her knee. They all looked across the garden to the Netherfields' house.