The Diary of William Shakespeare, Gentleman (8 page)

‘Anne will show you to the door.'

Anne did, quietly preceding me again and handing me my cloak.

‘Thank you, Mistress Anne, and for the fine dinner.' I smiled at her. ‘Never was there sweeter, or by a sweeter hand.'

She looked surprised, both at the compliment and that it were said at all.

‘Will you walk to the baker's tomorrow?'

‘Yes, Master Shakespeare.' Her voice was still low and pleasant.

‘Would you object if I were to meet you and walk that way?'

She gazed at me for as long as it takes to say half a prayer. I began to wonder if she were slow-witted, that with no conversation she had no reason to sit with her family at table. But it seemed she was only startled.

She glanced back, to make sure she was not overheard. ‘Indeed, sir, I would like that.'

‘Then I will see you tomorrow morn,' I whispered. ‘And when the stars shine bright tonight, you will be the bright star that I dream of.'

She had naught to say to that too. But she watched me as I wended my way through the garden's flowers and, when I turned at the gate, she waved. Her figure was slimmer than I'd thought under the dumpy apron. She looked younger and very much alone. No wonder her godfathers had sought to dower her. For the first time I pitied her and not myself.

This be the dinner that Ass Quiney piled upon his trencher: rabbits, stewed, for they are tough this season of the year, then roasted; saddle of mutton with a sauce of apples, cinnamon and cloves; a macaroni pie; radishes from our hothouses, with winter butter; turnips, mashed; an almond tart; a pippin jelly. Second course: mutton chops, cooked on the fire; a pigeon pie; sweetbreads in a sauce; a saffron cream; cheese; butter. Spiced wine to drink, and not from Quiney's ale house, where it is said he buys barrels long past their prime, clears the bad wine with alum and disguises it with sugar.

Bowels and waters: excellent.

My granddaughter, Elizabeth, is come after church with Susanna to sew with my wife, our hall being larger and better lit than theirs. A pretty girl, and with her mother's wit, and with her dower will be no hard task to find her a good husband. Judith once more has gone to her friend Catherine, to help make sugared fancies for their Christmas feast. This skill at least she has. Her mother has taught her well.

The river has swum above its banks, flooding the turnip fields and Brussel's sprouts, making naught happy but the ducks too stubborn to leave for winter. And I up here with a good fire, not for the warmth but to keep away the damp. Boredom stitches morning to the evening now, the days shorter, greyer and more dull. In summer I may spend a whole day admiring my fields, walking to inspect my granary, seeing the increase of my tenants' sheep. But memory shines brighter than firelight on this autumn day, even when the past is bitter. And yet not each part of those days was wormwood. I had sympathy for Mistress Anne, and even liked her. It was no hardship to meet with her again, were it not for the whispers, ‘Judyth! Judyth!' that sang about me every hour.

I met Anne the next day just beyond their garden gate. She wore a brighter gown than the day before, blue sprinkled with flowers. I wondered if it be her best, and if her sister-in-law might question her about it.

I realised I had naught to say. ‘Marry me and let me have your dowry' was all that filled my mind. I stumbled on. ‘Fine day, is it not?'

The breeze was cold, and wet grass nibbled at my stockings, and an autumn mist shrouded the trees.

But she seemed to like the comment. For this, at least, she had an answer, as she had not for my fine words. Her smile again was pleasant. ‘It is fine indeed.'

‘How much bread must you get?' I managed.

‘Ten loaves, sir. Four for today, and four for tomorrow, and two to thicken the pottage for young James.'

‘A heavy burden for so sweet a frame.'

Once more she looked startled. ‘Sir, I can carry a sow about to farrow. The bread is no weight, I assure you.'

Could a poet be wedded to a woman who boasted she could lift a sow?

‘That is most . . . admirable,' I said.

‘And a basket of wet washing, sir, is no small burden.'

Did they make this girl do the washing too? Even tenant farmers hired a washerwoman.

I said with sudden feeling, ‘It is a hard life for you, Mistress Anne.'

She flushed. ‘It is the one I was born to, sir.'

‘But it is one that marriage may change. Do you wish to serve your brother's family all your life? To be nursemaid to their children, and not your own?'

For once I had no cunning. I truly wished to know her answer.

It came softly. ‘No, sir.'

‘Anne, may I kiss thee?'

‘I . . . I do not know, sir.'

That was answer enough for me. I bent and kissed her lips gently. They tasted of hearth cake, no doubt left over from yesterday, while she made fresh for her brother's family. For a moment she was still and then her lips moved on mine. I took her basket, laid it on the road, then kissed her again, the early mist a white cloak about us. When I at last broke away, her lips were flushed, her cheeks too. She looked almost pretty.

I picked up her basket and offered her my arm. We walked together to the fork near the village. I left her then, in case there should be gossip and her sister-in-law would scold her, and wended my way home.

No. To this book I will be true.

I left her that we be not seen and the talk repeated to my Judyth. For still I hoped that somehow my father's fortune would be restored, the ship would return in time to save me with a good cargo of cloth or pepper, Spanish treasure. It was not Anne's reputation I guarded, for if hers were lost, then she must marry me, but mine own.

Dinner: forced stuffed sirloin of beef; knuckle of mutton with oysters; an ox palate, baked, with mustard sauce; a dish of cockscombs; whipped syllabub with trifles; savoury soup of duck; a dish of coleworts with sweet butter; hartshorn flummery with rhubarb, it still growing well in our hothouses, despite the cold; apples; cheese; spiced wine.

Bowels and waters: exceedingly fine.

Our spices arrived from London today, on the cart of our John Robinson: raisins of the sun; fine currants; powdered sugar, loaf sugar; cloves and mace; liquorice, aniseed; cinnamon; rice; saffron to colour the warden pies; dates; a case of nutmegs; large ginger and ginger candied; one gallon of olives; one barrel of suckets; sanders and other dyes for colouring jellies, of which my wife, with her poor teeth, is most fond. They will see us through the winter if the road be closed to London. Of prunes this time we ordered none, my wife having pickled our crops this summer.

The house smells of spices as my wife and the maids unpack them to go in the cupboard to which only my wife has the keys. Our maids be good girls, and our serving men most trusted, but a nutmeg or a few cloves are a temptation for those who have them not.

I met with Anne twice more as she walked to fetch the bread on Tuesdays, for it seemed her sister-in-law deemed they could have yesterday's bread or hearth cakes on the other days. I twice more kissed her too.

The next sally was my father's: meeting Bartholomew as if by accident at the cattle sale, and asking him to dine the morrow and most especially bring his wife and sister.

My mother, Joan and Mary set the table well, with sucket spoons and plate that my mother had brought with her as part of her dowry. I half hoped that Mistress Hathaway would insist that Anne be left to mind the children, that they would arrive with some excuse. But there she was, in that blue dress with flowers and a veil, more suitable to a woman twice her age, covering all her hair.

Mistress Hathaway sat upon my father's right, and Bartholomew upon his left, with the salt cellar in front of him to honour him, which would have left Anne and me across the table so we could not in all politeness talk. But my father had cunningly invited Anne's godfathers as well, and my sister Joan to table, so Anne and I sat side by side.

My father asked Bartholomew to carve the turkey; a handsome bird and most expensive, which we could ill afford. My brother and I had trapped the larks for the lark pie the week before. There was a blancmange of chicken and almonds; a ragout of onions and one of cauliflower. For the second course we had roasted duck; pickled green walnuts; a French cream tart; and the last of the quince cheese, with small ale, strong beer and autumn cider.

Anne ate little and said less, but when I reached my hand to hers under the table she squeezed it back. She kept her eyes downcast while her sister-in-law chattered, but I could see her looking at our plate, our chairs, our hall.

Later I asked if Joan and I might show Anne the field behind the house and the new calf, Joan to be there as a chaperone of course. Joan ran ahead to gather grass to tempt the cow to bring her calf to us.

I smiled at Anne. ‘How do you like our home?'

‘I like it much, Master Shakespeare.'

She lifted her skirts above the wet grass. I saw worn shoes with no buckles, and a glimpse of a much darned stocking. And yet her sister-in-law wore silk.

‘It might be thine,' I said.

She lifted her eyes to mine. I picked a late-bloomed rose, and ignored the thorn it left in my finger.

‘If this be a rose, why, you outbloom it. If this be day, then you must be the sun, and the sun of my life too. Will you marry me, Anne? To be my wife, my sun, my rose?

‘And if you say me nay,' I added quickly, for I had prepared my speech the night before:

‘
As thy presence is, gracious and kind,

Or to thyself at least kind-hearted prove:

Make thee another self, for love of me,

That beauty still may live in thine or thee.
'

‘Yes,' she said.

I blinked, unsure what next to say. I had words to entreat her, to praise her, but no words for a plain ‘yes'.

‘Oh, rapturous day,' I said.

That seemed to be enough. She smiled.

But there was something missing here. Why did she give no cries of joy? Just that one small smile, and one word: yes. If she did not love me wildly, I was sure she did not hold me in distaste. My kisses were pleasant to her, and my company; and surely this house, where she would be daughter-in-law and, in years to come, wife of it all, must be welcome too?

Joan ran back to us. ‘Father is beckoning.' And so we returned to the house, Anne at my side, her hands still holding her skirts above the damp.

I called upon her brother the next day. I wore my best breeches and shirt, wished I had aught but an apprentice's cap.

Anne showed me in, her face as blank as her sister-in-law's plates. There were no smiles nor kisses now.

Her sister-in-law rose and curtseyed as I came in, then left the hall with Anne.

Bartholomew bowed. ‘Master Shakespeare, I trust I see you well. I had meant to send thanks to your good father for our dinner. You may now bear the thanks to him from me.' He did not ask me to sit, nor offered ale.

What was the matter here? Surely he must guess why I had come? And he was just a yeoman farmer, while my father had been high bailiff.

‘Sir, I come to ask for more than thanks. I wish to ask for your sister, Anne, to be my wife.'

Bartholomew affected to look surprised. But he must have seen the attention I paid his sister. If he did not know why I had come, why did his wife leave the hall, and Anne?

‘Are you serious, Master Shakespeare?'

‘Most serious, sir. I do believe Anne gives me her affection, as I give mine to her.'

‘Master Shakespeare, let me be blunt. You are eight years younger than my sister, a man not yet a journeyman, and yet you offer to take a wife?'

Had Anne known that he would refuse? Was that why she had given me only that plain ‘yes'?

I flushed. ‘I have my father's house and estate to offer her.' I wanted to add, ‘Who else do you think will marry her, twenty-six and plain of face, with chapped hands and faded dress?'

‘Sir, my answer must be no. I bid you good day.'

I hesitated, but no one came to accompany me to the front door. And so I turned and left, through the front
door, along the garden path and out the gate. There was no sign of Anne.

I did not know if I was angry, despairing or relieved.

Dinner: pigeons, well fattened and roasted; and rabbits caught and fattened too, for it makes a man weak to eat only lean meat with winter coming; collops of beef; a pie of mutton tongues; jelly of pippins; small hollow biscuits; carrot puffs; sorrel with eggs; baked creams; a cheese with caraway; butter with liquorice and cinnamon; raisins of the sun. Jem has broached a new barrel of malmsey wine. I drank it hot, and found it excellent.

Bowels: at ease, and waters clear.

Judith is making garlands of holly, rosemary and bay, and Susanna has come to join her.

‘It will soon be St Thomas's Eve,' I heard Judith say to her sister.

Susanna laughed. ‘Will you put a green garland under your pillow to dream who might be your husband?'

Judith flushed, and looked down at the garlands. ‘I might. Did you dream of Dr Hall before he wooed you?'

‘I had good conversation with him the many times he dined with our family before he asked for me,' said Susanna. ‘I knew him to be a man of sense and wit.'

‘But what of love?' asked Judith.

‘Love comes with sense and wit and kindness,' said Susanna, smiling to show that she had all these with Dr Hall.

But love can come with trickery as well.

‘Anne's brother tells me nay,' I told my father, all those years ago.

Father sat back in his cushioned chair, while I stood by on the hearth. ‘I had thought he might. For surely others have offered for her, with a rich dowry such as hers.'

‘But why does he refuse, sir?'

Father snorted. ‘Because while Anne is unmarried, he keeps both her fields for himself and her services as his servant. Do you think that wife of his could keep house as well as Anne? Her godfather Edmund says she makes the best small beer in the county.'

‘Then I have failed, sir, like the others.'

‘Not at all. You must take matters into your own hands, son. Or rather your codpiece.'

‘I . . . I do not understand, sir.'

I had already been drafting an advertisement to offer myself as a tutor, as Judyth had suggested; had looked at the beech tree, now shedding its autumn leaves, and dreamt of writing a poem tonight for her to find there.

‘If Anne is with child,' my father said, ‘then she must marry you.'

He began to sing a song I had heard many times in the tavern, though had not thought to hear in our hall.

‘
Each evening is Saint Valentine's Day,

When a lad will find a time,

Through window or through door

To be a Valentine.

Let in the maid that out a maid

Was never maid no more

Alack, and fie for shame!

Young men will do it if they get a chance;

By lust, they are to blame.

Said she, “Before you got me into bed,

You promised me to wed.”

He answers, “So would I have done, by yonder sun,

If you hadn't come to my bed.”
'

‘You would have me . . .'

‘It is for the girl's own good. To speak frankly, lad, her brother will not let her go else.'

‘But what if she says nay?'

But even as I thought it, I remembered Anne's face: the heaviness of defeat that lay there, the hope when she looked at me. Anne would not refuse me.

My father looked once more at the fire. ‘She has a dowry and is therefore to be wooed; she is a woman and therefore to be won.'

Dinner: an ox tongue, roasted the French way; boiled mutton with rice; roast goose with sauce of spiced livers; a saffron broth with greens; parsnips with mustard sauce; pickled broccoli; cheese pudding spiced with caraway and nutmeg; a pudding of nectarines that had been dried, with cinnamon and nutmeg; cheese; spiced butter; biscuits. The new wine continues good.

Bowels and waters: steady.