Love Disguised (30 page)

“Good day, Father. The Burbage matter is settled, you know,” he said.

His father did not even smile.

How hard it must be, Will thought, for him to acknowledge
that he has become indebted to his son! “I calculated how far my earnings will go toward recovering our lost assets; four pounds when my new play is finished and more if the Master of the Revels licenses it for—”

“Keep all your damned earnings, for you'll need every penny to make the Hathaway wench an honest wife!”

Will was stunned into silence. He had no idea what his father meant. Was his mind afflicted, though he spoke clearly? Then Will heard him say Anne Hathaway was with child. He heard him say she had named Will as the father.

Two months in London, and he had not the least inkling of this trouble!

“I can't, I … I
don't
believe it,” Will stammered. Could a child result from his single encounter with Anne in the forest? If such was possible then yes, he could be its father. Unless Anne—no. He would not think that of her.

“Marry her,” said his father. “That's your debt and your duty.”

“I can't marry now,” Will said. “How shall I afford a wife and child? I am but newly hired and have yet to prove myself. Everything depends on my next play.” His heart sank, knowing this argument would never move his father.

“You
will
marry her,” his father insisted. “It's a better match than you deserve.”

Everyone knew the Hathaways were wealthy compared to many of their neighbors. Anne and Catherine's father had provided well for them in his will.

“Ah, now I see the matter clearly,” said Will. “You expect me to pull you out of debt, not by honest labor but with Anne Hathaway's dowry.”

“'Tis the quickest way,” he muttered, looking away.

“The quickest way to ruin the Hathaways, that is. No doubt Anne would prefer the shame of being unwed to that of being a penniless Shakespeare laboring in this pisspot glover's shop.” Will would have said more to hurt his father, but his mother laid a hand on his arm.

“Will, everything is mortgaged. We must sell this house. It will become an inn, and we will take a few small rooms in the back.” Her voice was low, as if she were speaking of someone deceased.

Will pressed his hands to his forehead. He wanted to believe he was in the middle of a feverish dream. But he knew this trouble was real. And it was far worse than being robbed of twenty-five crowns. His family was near ruin. Anne was expecting his child. The neighbors were determined to see them wed. Marriage! Yesterday it was a plot device for a comedy. Today it was a prison in which they would lock him.

“Go see her now,” his mother said gently. “Before they find out you are here.”

The last thing in the world Will wanted was to face Anne Hathaway. He owed James Burbage and his patron a new play. He had promised Meg he would return. But how could he go back to London now? The news about Anne had turned his world upside down. Instead of gazing at the heavens above the Theatre, his eyes were fixed on the ground at his feet. He was mired in Stratford.

“You thought you got away, didn't you?”

Will looked up to see Gilbert leaning against the door, his arms crossed over his chest.

“I didn't know,” Will protested.

“At least it was not the other one or I'd have to marry.”

Will stared at his brother. “Have you taken up with Catherine?”

“What you leave behind falls to me,” said Gilbert smugly. “All the work, Father's troubles, the shame.”

“You dare to complain?” Rage rose in Will. “I've been robbed and beaten and almost jailed trying to settle that damnable debt to William Burbage.”

Gilbert smirked. “Then you know a man deserves some pleasure for all his pains.”

“A
man
does, but not a coxcomb like you,” said Will. In an instant he and Gilbert were wrestling on the ground. Gilbert's fist struck Will's cheek and he tasted blood. But Will was stronger and managed to pin his brother beneath him.

“You can't come home and just take everything back!” said Gilbert, gasping for breath.

“Is
that
why we are fighting?” Will paused to spit out blood and dirt. “I don't want to be a glover. And as for that harpy Catherine, you may keep her. Anne is worth ten of her sister.”

Giving his brother a final shove, Will got to his feet and brushed the dirt from his clothes. He turned away from Henley Street and started down the path to Shottery, filled with dread.

Shottery

Will hardly understood what moved him to defend Anne, but he knew what he had said to Gilbert was true. Anne was worth a dozen of Catherine. But that didn't mean he wanted to marry her. He needed to hear from her lips what was true and what was not. He thought of his ring lying against the soft skin of her neck and he shivered. The biting wind at his back hurried him toward Hewlands Farm. It stirred the withered stalks in the fields, sending up clouds of thistledown that floated through the air like snow unable to settle.

And there she was, meandering through the field. Though she was wrapped in a cloak with her head down, he recognized her gait.

Will had no idea what to say to her. He stepped behind a bush to collect his thoughts. She was approaching; in a moment she would see him and think he was hiding from her.

He came forward. “Anne, 'tis I.” He reached up to take off his hat and realized he had lost it in the scuffle with Gilbert.

“I know. I saw you first.” She smiled. There were little lines at the corners of her gray-green eyes.

“Why did you pretend not to see me?”

“I wondered if you would turn away from me.” She lifted her hand to shade her eyes.

Will stepped to the side so she would not have to look into the sun. He took her hand and brought it down, held it in his own. It was small and cold. He wanted to ask,
Is it true?
But when her eyes met his and he saw such regret and fear there, he knew.

“Believe me, Will, I did not want this to happen. It was not a ruse to trap you into marrying me, no matter what my sister says. I did love you.”

“Do you still?” Will blurted out.

“Why should I say yes and add to my own grief?” She paused. “Did you love me?”

“Let's not play games with each other,” Will said gently. “What are we going to do?”

“I don't know,” she said. “Sit with me and let us talk.”

There was a fallen tree nearby and Will led her to it, still holding her hand.

“What happened?” she asked, touching his swelling cheek.

Will groaned. “A fight with my flap-mouthed brother.” He didn't tell her what they had argued about. They sat with the sun warming their backs as the wind fell to a mere whisper in the dried grass. Will tried to describe London to Anne, who had never been outside of Warwickshire. He told of his adventures with Mack, though neglected to mention Mack was a woman, an omission that made him feel a little guilty.

“This Mack sounds like a merry friend,” said Anne. Her silvery laughter ended in a sigh. Though they sat shoulder to
shoulder for warmth, there was something between them holding them apart. Will realized it was the babe growing inside Anne. It was also Meg, whom he had nearly kissed not two days ago.

“I have little news save gossip of poor Anne Hathaway, whose trouble is everybody's business.” She said this without self-pity. “So be careful, Will. Once Fulke Sandells knows you are hereabouts, he'll be escorting us to the nearest church.”

“I'm not afraid of Sandells. No man will keep me from my ambitions. I've just been hired to act and write plays for a London company.” Saying this, Will felt awkward and self-serving, but he had to let Anne know of his situation.

The wind lifted Anne's brown hair and scattered its strands. Her silence rebuked him.

“Neither of us wants to be married, do we?” said Will.

“I do want a husband, but not one who is unwilling.”

“And I won't be forced to marry!” said Will in some agitation.

“Nor will I.” Anne stood up abruptly. “So marriage is not for us.”

“We have taken different paths, Anne.”

“
You
took a different path. I am still on this one.” She lifted her foot and planted it again. “And I am not free to choose another.”

Here was proof of Meg's assertion that women were less free than men. Will could walk away from the child. Anne could not. He stood up but Anne's words stopped him before he could take a single step.

“Why did you come here, Will? Your presence gives me hope, which your words then deny.”

“I did not know.” He gestured to her lap. “My father summoned me about a legal matter, or so I thought.”

Anne looked at him despairingly. “If you had known of the baby—”

The baby
. She had spoken of it, finally. Will seemed to see a newborn thing writhing in her arms.
Her baby and his
.

“If you had known, would you have come back?” Her voice became a whisper.

Will could not say yes, nor could he with certainty say no. His eyes began to sting and he realized his cheeks were wet with tears. He sat back down and wiped his eyes with his forearm.

“Did our vows of love mean nothing?” Anne said, staring at her hands in her lap. “I am the same woman who spoke them and you are the same man, yet everything has changed.”

“You deserve better than me,” said Will. “I fear I would be no good husband, for I have too much mischief and longing still in me.” His voice broke with tears. He had not wept like this since he was a boy and cut his arm and saw his own lifeblood pouring out.

“Long ago I loved someone,” Anne said. She told Will how David Burman had died and that she slept with Will to seize a moment of happiness before it fled. “But I learned I cannot hold someone who is destined to leave me. Therefore go, Will Shakespeare. I will not keep you here.”

Sorrow, Will saw, was deep in her bones. It made her strong. Her child would also be strong. He admired Anne yet could summon no words that would not sound like base flattery. She was not the same Anne who had flirted with him, tricked
her sister, and lain with him for the purpose of delight. It would take him longer than a November afternoon to know this new Anne.

When Will did not move, Anne said, her voice rising with hope. “If you decide to stay, I'll not cling or be jealous.”

Her kindness was too much to bear. He pushed against it. “How can I forgo all my opportunities in London and remain here? You know how miserable I would be.”

“Go then, and let me deal with my neighbors,” she said. Will heard the disappointment in her voice. “I will say we never vowed our love.” She forced a smile. “Perhaps Sandells will marry me. He once wanted to.”

Will knew she said this not to make him feel guilty, but to assure him she would be well without him. He stood up again. How should he bid her farewell? No words would suffice. A kiss might mislead her and fail to convey his undefinable passion: his strange sorrow at the loss of her, Anne. Or was it joy he felt to be granted his freedom? A poet he was and yet could not describe his own heart or express its love. For a kind of love it surely was, to long to be as noble and wise as another person.

In the end he said nothing. He kissed his hand to Anne as he withdrew, holding her gaze until she looked away. Then he turned toward the long shadows cast by the setting sun. He began to run as if trying to overtake the dark image of himself.

By the time he reached Henley Street dusk had swallowed every shadow. He saddled up his gelding and took to the road. At Daventry he would find a room for the night and give a false name in case Sandells or his father came searching for
him. Perhaps he would ride through the night. Burbage was expecting a play.

Meg, too, would be waiting for him. What should he say when she asked about the crisis in Stratford? Would he lie to her and say nothing about Anne? She was so perceptive he doubted she could be fooled. And think of the consequences of his lie being discovered!

“Fie upon Truth, who in time always shows herself,” he said to the night.

Anne's face, bearing a sad smile, floated into his mind. Lying to Meg would doubly disown Anne. Did two lies make one truth? No. Two vows made one marriage though.
The ring
, he thought.
I did not get my ring back from her
. He didn't notice her wearing it. The thought came and left again like a curious creature in the night.

He tried to turn his tired mind to the play and plan it scene by scene, but his troubles distracted him.

He decided to tell Meg the truth: that Anne was carrying his child and had chosen to raise it alone rather than compel Will to marry her. Meg must admire Anne's courage. But what would she say of him? He could guess.
You are no better than Roger Ruffneck, who abandoned his wife and child for his own vile pleasures
. The champion of wronged women and neglected orphans, Meg would have good reason to despise him. She would say the child's misfortune—its bastardy—was his fault, for he had the means to prevent it and did not.

Will remembered as a child seeing a round-bellied woman in a white sheet standing before Holy Trinity Church, her head bowed in shame as the preacher expounded upon her sins. Would Anne suffer the same humiliation and be
called a harlot by everyone in the village? It was too harsh a word for one whose only fault was to love Will unwisely. He could keep her from the shame. If he married her.

The gelding had halted in the road while Will's thoughts ran every which way. Will snapped the reins but the stubborn horse did not move. He leaned forward and rested his forehead on its rough mane.

Fulke Sandells must be fifteen years older than Anne. If she married him she would become mistress of his hog farm. Would Sandells be a kind father to her child? To
Will's
son? For surely it would be a boy and might even resemble him. But if he chanced to see Anne and the boy, he could not call him “son.” If Anne did not marry, the boy would have no one to call “Father.” He would be a bastard. “Whoreson,” they would shout at the boy, a word harder than a stone. Was there such a word for him, Will? Varlet. Vile knave. Not for getting Anne Hathaway with child but for leaving her to face the consequences alone.