The Dark Lady's Mask

by Mary Sharratt

  After Winifred carried Odilia up to the nursery for her nap, Aemilia reached for her lute. As she strummed and hummed beneath her breath, she felt a presence behind her.

  “Henry?” She glanced over her shoulder.

  Alfonse stood staring at her. Aemilia’s stomach clenched. Her hands froze on the lute strings.

  He opened his mouth to speak when voices erupted in the hallway.

  Tabby came running. “Mistress, Master Jonson has come to visit.”

  Aemilia nearly wept in relief to see her cousin barge in with the bombast of a hero marching toward the Queen to receive his knighthood. He stopped in his tracks at the sight of her. She burned to think how she must appear to her cousin with her unkempt hair crammed beneath her coif, her smell of milk.

  “Gentle kinswoman,” he said, recovering his composure. With a flourish, he placed a heavy sack of coins in her hand. “I’ve kept my word and held Shakescene to his side of the bargain. This is your half of the first profits of Twelfth Night.”

  As Aemilia grasped the money, Alfonse walked out of the room.

  Ben appeared bemused. “I am left with the distinct impression that Master Lanier dislikes me. Oh well. To every man his humor.”

  Her cousin’s sheer presence made it impossible not to smile. She allowed herself a shiver of victory as she weighed the silver and gold coins in her hands.

  “Thank you, Ben.”

  Her cousin seated himself in the most regal fashion. “I, too, hope to grow rich off my shares in the Lord Chamberlain’s Men. Now could one of your servants be so good as to offer refreshment? It’s a long way to travel from Billingsgate and I am parched.”

  Tabitha trotted off toward the kitchen.

  “Lord Hunsdon says the play has been a success,” Aemilia said.

  “My dear, it’s the talk of London, the closest thing to the commedia dell’arte most of those souls have ever seen. Thanks to you, I might add. Of course, everyone is asking how some provincial with a grammar-school education can write Italian comedies all by himself.”

  Aemilia bowed her head, wondering how Will had reacted when his actors ribbed him about the play being written in a woman’s hand. But Lord Hunsdon had eliminated the possibility of that ever happening again. She, the coauthor of the plays who had brought Will to Italy in the first place, had become invisible, a phantom. But was that not what she had asked of Will at the very beginning of their collaboration? I need you to be my mask. At least the sack of coins in her hand was tangible and real.

  “I must grant he’s a good actor,” Ben said. “He plays his part well, both on stage and off, if you know my meaning. When those gullible fools congratulate him on his natural genius, he just smiles, as though enjoying his new mystique.”

  Her cousin grinned when Tabitha delivered his coddled ale, but his cup froze an inch from his mouth at the sound coming from the next room.

  “What in God’s creation is that?” he asked.

  Aemilia turned her head at the high piercing note. “A flute.”

  When first she married Alfonse, he was a flautist in the Queen’s Musicke, but she couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard him play. Indeed, she was astonished to discover that he still owned his instrument and hadn’t pawned it to pay his gambling debts. Was there an inkling of possibility he might still earn his living as a minstrel?

  Aemilia tiptoed into the dining chamber with Ben at her heels. Even Winifred, Pru, and Henry had come to gape at the spectacle. Alfonse had spread the sheet music on the table, but his eyes were squeezed shut as he played. Lost in his own world, he seemed. Oblivious to their presence. His first notes were halting, but as he continued, his music swelled in certainty and power. He was unpracticed, to be sure, but he had not lost his art.

  Aemilia’s blood froze when she saw Henry approach Alfonse, as though in a trance. She stepped forward to snatch her son away, but it was too late. Henry hugged on to Alfonse’s leg. Her heart was in her throat as she prepared to charge forward. She gripped Ben’s wrist.

  Alfonse stopped playing and looked down at the little boy who gazed up to him in wide-eyed wonder. Something moved over her husband’s face as he slowly reached down to ruffle her son’s hair.

  A FORTNIGHT LATER, BEN delivered another sack of coins along with the news that rehearsals for the next comedy, Much Ado About Nothing, had begun. Aemilia wrote copies of the three remaining comedies to deliver to Lord Hunsdon. Jasper, in gratitude for his employment at Gray’s Inn, sent her a wagonload of hay and straw for Bathsheba.

  But Aemilia was utterly unprepared for the sight of the new virginals delivered to her door and hefted into her parlor, courtesy of Lord Hunsdon.

  Beside herself with joy, she played a saltarello for Henry, who laughed and danced. Then she pressed Odilia’s little fingers to the wooden jacks till the baby squealed at the tune her mother had her playing. In a few years, she’d teach her daughter to play properly.

  Balancing the baby in her lap, she tore open the letter that had come with the virginals.

  My most musical lady,

  Your plays have reaped such acclaim that I have purchased this virginals from my shares in the company. God willing, you shall never have reason to sell any of your instruments again. Once the troupe moves to the Theater at Shoreditch, they shall turn a huge profit indeed.

  The most joyous news of all is that I have arranged for the Lord Chamberlain’s Men to perform Twelfth Night at Whitehall before Her Royal Majesty. Your W. S.’s fame is now assured.

  Fondly, H. C.

  Aemilia had scarcely finished reading when Odilia grasped the paper and tore at it, jabbering contentedly. The ink was already running from her spittle. Only when the baby tried to suck on the letter did her mother rescue it and put it out of her daughter’s reach.

  Twelfth Night to be performed at Whitehall, right here in Westminster, a mere stroll from her door! So close and yet a universe away, for she had been banished from court. Tears pricked at her eyes to think of that glittering circle where she had once shone like a diamond in the Queen’s necklace, that circle she might never enter again.

  A royal audience—what a triumph for Will. Even Ben would never be able to dismiss him again. If nothing else, Will would have to acknowledge that she had kept the promise she had made to him that morning in his boardinghouse when he was still a pauper. By bringing him to the attention of Lord Hunsdon, she had drawn him into the sphere of the Queen. But she received no message from him. Her poet who wrote so beautifully of love had not sent her a single word.

  IN FEBRUARY, AROUND THE Feast of Saint Valentine when the wild birds began their mating flights and true lovers sent each other tokens, came the thaw. The first snowdrops appeared in her garden. Sunlight spilled through her window and cast its gold on Odilia’s face as Aemilia held the Murano glass beads over her and swung them back and forth. Reaching for the necklace, her daughter grabbed it and held it in her fist.

  “Carissima!” Aemilia hugged her daughter and covered her in kisses.

  Odilia had survived the worst of winter. Degree by infinitesimal degree, the days grew longer and the world grew green again. Spring was on its way and her daughter thrived. Exultantly, her mother squeezed the plump muscles in Odilia’s arms and legs.

  Henry bounded in, waving a child’s wooden flute. Standing before his mother, he blew a few notes while she watched in amazement.

  “Where did you get that, love?” Aemilia asked, hugging him close, one arm around him and one around his sister.

  “From Papa,” the boy said, his face gleaming in pride.

  A tight place inside Aemilia came unwound. She had never seen this side of her husband, the kindness that had moved him to gift Henry with this treasured toy, and Henry was calling Alfonse his papa. She wondered where Alfonse was, why he did not come to join them. Outside of mealtimes, he hardly seemed to spend any time in her presence, and yet he had clearly shown affection to her son. She supposed it was much easier for Alfonse to care for an i
nnocent boy than an unfaithful wife.

  “Oddy,” Henry said to his sister. It was the closest he could come to saying her name.

  He blew his flute for her then made funny faces and stuck out his tongue till the baby mimicked him and stuck out her own tongue. Helpless with giggles, Henry fell against his mother. They were already playing together, her son and daughter. Aemilia’s heart overflowed.

  25

  INCE RETURNING FROM ITALY, Aemilia had slept in the nursery with her children, leaving the marriage bed to Alfonse. One morning in March, she awakened with the sunlight already streaming through the slats in the shutters—Odilia had slept through the night.

  Her breasts heavy with milk, Aemilia reached into the cradle, but the baby didn’t stir. Her daughter felt stiff in her arms, her skin cold to her touch, and her eyes wouldn’t open. In a panic, Aemilia unwrapped the baby’s swaddling and listened for her heartbeat, but she heard only her own ragged breathing.

  She hadn’t even known she cried out until the Weir sisters came running. Henry tumbled out of bed and stared, his eyes huge and frightened.

  Her heart pounding in mad hope, Aemilia passed the baby to Prudence, who seemed to have every herb in existence hanging from their kitchen beams. If Pru had raised Alfonse like Lazarus when he had nearly died of the French pox, surely she could revive a little baby. Perhaps Odilia had a fit during the night or perhaps she had only fainted.

  While Prudence examined Odilia, Aemilia comforted Henry.

  “If it stays fine today,” she told him, “I’ll take you riding on Bathsheba.”

  Trembling, she lifted her gaze to Prudence, who wrapped Odilia back into her swaddling. Everything in the room seemed to blur and twist when she saw Prudence’s tears. Her stoic Pru.

  “Sweet mistress, forgive me.” Prudence’s hands squeezed hers. “There’s nothing I can do. Your precious angel’s in heaven now.”

  No, no, no. Pushing Prudence away, Aemilia snatched her baby off the bed. Surely there must be some way she could warm her daughter’s cold flesh, breathe life back into those little lungs. Her knees buckled as the awfulness settled in her heart and sent her crashing to the floor.

  Winifred knelt beside her and wrapped her arms around her. Still holding her baby, Aemilia fell against her maid with shuddering sobs. Had Will passed his curse of loss and grief onto her, destroying their daughter? You may have your tragedy yet. She could have borne any loss, but not this. Not her child, drowned in dead sleep. Her tears rained down on Odilia’s face.

  PRUDENCE BREWED HER MISTRESS a cup of valerian root steeped with lavender and hops, but Aemilia’s hands shook too hard to take the cup. How could it have happened that Odilia simply died in the night just as she was beginning to grow so rosy and plump?

  “You mustn’t blame yourself,” said Pru. “Scores of infants die in this very parish. Our own Tabby lost her babe.” Prudence held the cup to her mistress’s lips. “Please drink. It will do you good.”

  Aemilia stiffened and clenched her teeth—no brew of Prudence’s could dull this pain. Of course, I blame myself, she wanted to scream. If only she had awakened in the night to see if Odilia needed her even if she hadn’t cried. If only she’d taken better care while pregnant, but, no, she had worked herself ragged in the vineyard and then crossed the Alps on muleback. If she had hired a wet nurse, might her daughter have lived? What if her own milk hadn’t been wholesome enough?

  How she had loved the child, pouring out all her care and attention to make her strong. Yet she had failed. How could fate be so cruel? Anne Locke’s ghostly voice whispered in her ear, The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Anne had believed in predestination. Had Odilia been damned from her very inception, her death Aemilia’s punishment for her sin? An adulteress and a bigamist, she was reviled even by God.

  WINIFRED AND PRUDENCE WASHED the baby in preparation for the funeral.

  “Let her be buried in her christening gown,” Aemilia said, her head turned to the window, for she couldn’t bear to look at that poor corpse. Instead, she watched Tabitha lead Bathsheba around the garden. Henry perched in the saddle and held on to a leather strap around the mare’s neck. Her little lad looked contented, or at least distracted from the torrent of grief running through the rest of the household.

  “That gown will be too small for her now,” Winifred said, her voice choked.

  “Then we must alter it.” Aemilia watched how carefully Bathsheba trod along, as if mindful of the vulnerable young life on her back.

  “But you might still need the christening gown,” Winifred said. “Should you have another.”

  “There will be no more children,” said Aemilia. Burying another child would kill me.

  Turning from the window, she approached the kitchen table where her lifeless baby lay. The sight was enough to make her double over, but she kept her spine rigid. Wound around her hand was the necklace of Murano glass beads that she now fit around Odilia’s neck. Let this, the one token of her father’s regard, be buried with her. Aemilia kissed her dead daughter’s brow.

  SAINT MARGARET’S CHURCHYARD WAS a carpet of crocus and daffodils that March morning. Primroses, anemones, and the first violets bedecked the tiny coffin, borne by Ben and Jasper. When they set the casket beside the newly dug grave, Aemilia laid a wreath of rosemary upon it.

  While the vicar spoke the last rites, she could hardly see through her tears. Each time she remembered the way Odilia used to smile and babble, Aemilia foundered. She would have collapsed without Winifred holding her arm and supporting her.

  Beside her was a gaping emptiness, the absence of her child’s father. So was this how Anne Shakespeare had felt, standing alone at Hamnet’s grave, her husband having abandoned her to begin a new life in Italy? Aemilia thought for a moment that she and Anne had become kindred spirits in their suffering and loss. Oh, don’t be a fool. If Anne Shakespeare so much as laid eyes on you, she’d spit and curse the womb that bore you.

  Aemilia didn’t dare look at her husband. She could not stomach any more contempt than what she had already reaped. You don’t have to hate me, Alfonse. I hate myself enough for both of us.

  THE FUNERAL DINNER WAS steeped in a suffocating silence. Even Ben hardly ate or drank, and Annie quietly wiped the tears from her eyes. Odilia’s death had made it impossible to ignore how precarious life was, how easily Death could gain the upper hand and steal away their own future children.

  Before her guests departed, Aemilia placed the folded and sealed paper in Ben’s hand. “Please see that Master Shakespeare gets this.” Her voice was as heavy as lead.

  Her cousin nodded and pressed her hand before tucking the missive inside his doublet.

  She had written two sentences.

  Odilia Lanier, christened 2 December, 1594, and buried 6 March, 1595. Rosemary for remembrance.

  Folded into the paper was a sprig of rosemary from her garden.

  AEMILIA FEARED HER GRIEF might pollute poor Henry. When the weather proved fair, she sent her son out with the servants so that the boy might amuse himself by watching the boats and barges sailing down the Thames. Let him look upon something other than his mother’s misery.

  Shutting herself up in the parlor, she surrendered to the sobs that broke like storm waves inside her with a violence that left her gasping. On her hands and knees, she moaned and pummeled the floor in hope of purging herself, so that when Henry returned she could at least attempt to cling to some semblance of self-possession.

  At the creak of the opening door, she reeled. A man stood upon the threshold, his face in shadow. For an instant, she allowed herself the madness of believing that Will had come to mourn beside her and share this burden. They would bear the yoke between them.

  When he stepped forward, she saw it was Alfonse. How could he look at her like that? Was he gloating to see her punished for her sin, to find her so helpless and undone? With the servants gone, he finally had his chance to do his worst. Her heart pounded sickly, but instead of leaping to
her feet and staring him down, she covered her face, too defeated to offer resistance. Let him murder her if that was what he wanted. Let her rest beside Odilia for all eternity.

  She swallowed a cry as he pulled her hands away from her face and clasped them. He knelt beside her.

  “I am so sorry.” He spoke with such humility, as though not simply expressing condolences for Odilia’s death, but begging her pardon for every unhappiness his own words and deeds had brought upon them both.

  She gaped at him, too dazed to speak.

  “Is it too late to win your regard?” he asked her. “Misfortune might still be reversed, no? I will join the Earl of Essex on his next expedition. By God’s grace, I shall yet be knighted and you shall be a lady.”

  As if such titles could mean anything to her now. But she had never heard him speak with such tenderness. She considered the many mistakes they both had made. She had abandoned him only to return with another man’s bastard while his whoring had saddled him with the pox he would carry for the rest of what might prove to be a short life. Each in their own way, she and Alfonse were utterly broken. But they no longer had to be enemies.

  “May you be knighted.” Aemilia tried to smile, but it hurt her face. “In Henry’s eyes, you’re already a hero.”

  She thought of how Alfonse had carved the wooden flute for her son, how Henry looked up to him. Surely Alfonse offered better company to the boy than she herself had of late.

  “I am teaching him to play the flute,” Alfonse said. “He’s a very musical child.”

  “Like his parents,” she said gently, in a stroke making Alfonse Henry’s father in love if not in blood.

  IN MAY, AEMILIA DECIDED the time had come to see her comedy performed by the Lord Chamberlain’s Men.