The Dark Lady's Mask

by Mary Sharratt

  “You misunderstand me,” Margaret said. “I don’t believe it’s a scandal you hide, but something precious and rare.”

  Aemilia thought how Jacopo had borne his secret regret for his forced conversion all his days, only unburdening himself to her as he lay dying. Would she go to her grave with all this heaviness in her heart? The pestle slipped from her sweat-slick hand.

  “I am a Jew’s daughter,” she said.

  Margaret touched her face, wet with tears. “Come, sit you down. You’re shaking, dear.”

  “When I was a child,” Aemilia told her, “my sister’s husband tried to blackmail my father on account of his religion. What Papa suffered! He was the greatest, kindest man I ever knew.”

  She went on to tell Margaret of her childhood, the Hebrew singing in the cellar, the secrets Papa had kept even from her. As she made her confession, she realized that in writing of Jesus as King of the Jews, it was her own father she sought to resurrect. She told Margaret of her journey to Italy with Will, her visit to the synagogue in the Venice Ghetto, her time with Jacopo Bassano, all of this driven by her love and longing for her lost father.

  “Papa told me that hell is empty,” Aemilia said. “All the devils are up here in plain view.”

  “Did your father ever meet my husband?” Margaret asked, making Aemilia laugh in spite of herself. “You are a paradox, my dear. A Jew’s daughter who writes Christian poetry that moves me to tears. Your work surpasses that of Anne Locke and her son.”

  Aemilia squeezed her friend’s hands. “That’s because I have you for my sweet Muse.”

  OVER THE COMING WEEKS, Aemilia shared her every secret with Margaret until there was nothing left to hide. A chamber that had been dark and dank was now bathed in summer sunlight. With Margaret, she could show her true face, live in the open without a mask. Margaret embraced her as she broke down and told her, sobbing, about losing Odilia. Margaret, in turn, revealed her own heartbreak over the deaths of her two sons.

  “Every day I thank God I still have Anne,” Margaret said. “Now I understand why you’re so fond of her, almost as if she were your own daughter.”

  AT DAWN AEMILIA VAULTED from bed and, still in her nightshift, began to write until she could write no more. She longed to capture the sweet magic of Margaret’s moon-drenched garden.

  When shining Phoebe gave so great a grace,

  Presenting Paradise to your sweet sight,

  Unfolding all the beauty of her face . . .

  She wrote and wrote, no longer caring that her poetry was as much a celebration of her love for Margaret as it was an homage to Margaret’s God. For Margaret had revealed to her that the only religion was love.

  AT SUMMER’S END, WHEN rosehips and hawthorn berries bejewelled the hedges, Queen Anne summoned Anne Clifford to court. But Margaret remained resolute in her wish to remain in her rural retreat.

  “Truly, I have retired from that world,” she told Aemilia, as they headed up to the towering oak tree to view young Anne’s progress down the Thames toward Whitehall. “In my mind, all the joy of courtly life died with our dear Elizabeth. This Scottish King is no lover of women. He and his Queen keep separate courts—his for politics and influence and hers for empty-headed amusements.”

  “My cousin Ben writes that the Queen is a great lover of the masque,” Aemilia said. “In fact, he has written some for her.”

  “Did you bring Master Jonson’s letter, my dear?” Margaret seated herself on the weathered bench encircling the great oak. “Pray, read it. I am a great admirer of his.”

  Pulling the folded letter from her pocket, Aemilia began to read aloud while Winifred unpacked the fruit, cheese, bread, and wine she had carried up in a basket.

  Indeed, Fortune smiled on Ben now that he had gained the Queen’s patronage, but he complained that Will had bested him, for James had become the official patron of Will’s theater company—the King’s Men.

  “Master Shakespeare has staged a murky Scottish tragedy full of ghosts and murder, all in our Sovereign’s honor,” Aemilia read. “Most curious were his three witches—the Weird Sisters. Strangely enough, they reminded me of your Weir sisters.”

  With a lurch, Aemilia stopped reading.

  Winifred was outraged. “Ooh, the wicked man! To insult three honest sisters from Essex!”

  “Peace,” said Margaret. “The court is but a shadow box filled with vanity and illusion. Pay such folly little mind. I do hope our Anne doesn’t become too frivolous in such company. Back in Elizabeth’s day,” she said, gazing at Aemilia, “a lady of the court might aspire to learning and brilliance. Like Mary Sidney. Like you, my dear. Now what have you been writing?”

  Aemilia reached into the basket and found the bundle of pages written in her best italic hand. “An apology in defense of Eve.”

  Margaret’s smile was as rich as claret.

  The passage was long and Aemilia read it with care, knowing that both Margaret and Winifred listened with their full attention, as if in firm belief that her words were inspired. Here on this hill, she was a poet with an audience that imbibed her words.

  Her poem argued that while Eve was blamed for humanity’s fall from grace the sin was actually Adam’s for taking the forbidden fruit. For he, unlike Eve, was fully aware of the consequences. Out of selfishness and the desire for power, Adam let Eve take the fall.

  If Eve did err, it was for knowledge sake,

  The fruit being fair persuaded him to fall:

  No subtle serpent’s falsehood did betray him,

  If he would eat it, who had the power to stay him?

  Not Eve, whose fault was only too much love.

  Winifred nodded. “How right you are, mistress. It’s about time someone defended poor Eve.”

  Margaret remained in contemplative silence as the wind passed over the long waving grasses. “Pray, make fair copies of all your poems,” she said at last. “So I might keep them and reread them again and again.”

  30

  ITH THE FIRST SNOWFALL, Aemilia and Winifred boarded a wherry for London to spend Christmas with their families. Winifred clutched an overflowing sack of gifts for her sisters and Tabitha’s new baby girl. Bursting in her excitement to see them again, she kept nagging the wherryman to row faster.

  But Aemilia felt an emptiness spreading through her chest with each mile separating her from Margaret and Cookham. Already she longed for her room beneath the eaves and the endless supply of writing paper, the admiration in her friend’s eyes when she read each new poem. Even on the wherry, new verses spun themselves in Aemilia’s head, though she had nothing to write with.

  JASPER AWAITED AEMILIA AT Billingsgate landing, accompanied by a tall, dark-haired youth she scarcely recognized until he called her Mother. She threw her arms around Henry and embraced him with all the force of her stored-up love.

  “My darling, you must have grown three inches since I saw you last!”

  In her satchel she had a brand-new cloak for him. She hoped the new garment would be big enough.

  “Where’s Alfonse?” she asked Jasper, when at last she released her son.

  “Carry your mother’s satchel,” Jasper said. “There’s a good lad.”

  While Henry walked on ahead, her cousin spoke in a low voice so the boy wouldn’t overhear. “Your husband was arrested in Hackney for disturbing the peace. He and another gentleman from the Irish military campaign, I believe. I fear he shall have to spend a day in the stocks before they release him.”

  Aemilia gulped the cold air. “Oh, what mischief is he tangled up in? I hope at least Henry has behaved himself.”

  “You have every cause to be proud of your son,” Jasper said in a loud voice. “Why, Henry’s the most diligent of all my apprentices, well on his way to becoming a virtuoso.”

  Henry, his cheeks glowing as if from both embarrassment and pleasure, turned and grinned at them. Jasper then took the satchel from the boy and Aemilia reached for her son’s arm, holding it tightly as they walked up Gr
acechurch Street.

  “I am proud of you,” she told him. “You shall make a fine court musician.”

  “I sang again for the Queen,” Henry told her. “And I saw Lady Anne Clifford dancing with Her Highness in the masques. But I think Lady Anne has no future as a musician. Her fingers on the lute are far too clumsy, and when she sings, she sounds like a wounded goat!”

  “Pray, speak no ill of my pupil,” Aemilia said. “If you sang for the Queen, you must also sing for me. I shall write a song just for your voice.”

  Though she tried to focus her mind solely on her son, her anxieties about Alfonse kept crowding in. Arrested? What if he lost his good name along with everything else? Trouble and ill luck seemed to chase him at every turn.

  ONCE THEY ARRIVED AT Jasper’s house in Camomile Street, Aemilia found a scrap of paper and wrote the poem that had been playing in her head since she left Cookham. She would turn it into the song she had promised Henry—the melody a jewel case for his haunting soprano that so enchanted the Queen. But the lyrics she would dedicate to Margaret. She would sing the song to her friend as her New Year’s gift when she returned to Cookham after Twelfth Night.

  WITH JASPER’S FAMILY AND apprentices gathered round, Aemilia played the lute to accompany Henry as he sang her new composition. His every note shimmered like silver.

  Sweet holy rivers, pure celestial springs,

  Proceeding from the fountain of our life—

  Her son’s ethereal voice was lost in the great racket erupting from the front door.

  “Captain Lanier,” a dazed servant announced.

  “Papa!” Henry cried, charging forward to hug him.

  Aemilia set down her lute and sprang to her feet as Alfonse swaggered in, none too sober, looking more jubilant than she had ever seen him. Her relief to see him again, safe and whole and in such high spirits, was overshadowed by her worry.

  “Jasper said you were arrested,” she murmured, with a quick glance to her cousin and his wife. “How did they let you go so soon?”

  Her husband twirled her in his arms. “My noble friend, he came to my rescue!”

  When his companion strode in, Aemilia felt the floor drop away. She shrank behind her son, clutching his shoulders as though the boy were her shield.

  The mere sight of this man stung her. His long mane, as lustrous as any maiden’s, had darkened from gold to auburn. No longer a boy, he was stalwart looking, tall and muscled, but no less beautiful. Harry was the epitome of male perfection grown into maturity. Pray God, let him not recognize her. Perhaps he had forgotten about her visits to Southampton House eleven years ago. But the moment Harry laid eyes on her, his face shone in recognition.

  “Ah, the lovely Mistress Lanier! Your husband has told me so much about you.”

  Alfonse made her son step aside so Harry could kiss her hand. He looked her up and down as though tempted to lift her skirts to see if she wore breeches beneath them.

  At least Alfonse appeared oblivious to all this as he made his obsequious introduction. “We are graced by the presence of none other than my Lord Henry Wriothesley, Earl of Southampton!”

  Her son frowned and folded his arms in front of his chest. “But, my lord, the late Queen locked you in the Tower!”

  Alfonse looked as though he would weep.

  Harry laughed and cupped her son’s chin. “Ah, the monstrous regiment of women! If Elizabeth imprisoned me, our gracious Majesty James released me and restored me to court. Now I am at liberty to reward my dear Alfonse for his loyal service in Ireland.” He looked at Aemilia while he spoke. “I have petitioned the King to grant your husband a patent on the weighing of hay and straw brought into London and Westminster. He shall have six shillings on every hay load and three shillings on every load of straw.”

  “Our worries, they are over!” Alfonse said, kissing her. “We shall have a proper home again.”

  “A patent,” she said, turning to Harry. “Truly, my lord?”

  “For past services rendered,” said Harry, his eyes on her, not Alfonse.

  Aemilia gripped her son so tightly that young Henry looked up at her in confusion.

  AS ALFONSE, JASPER, AND Deborah fussed over their aristocratic guest, Aemilia found an excuse to slip out into the garden and breathe some fresh air.

  Had Harry been in earnest? Could such a patent truly meet the King’s approval? Or did Harry only toy with their hopes? She conjured Margaret’s quiet presence, her sober counsel. If Fortune was inconstant, Margaret was Aemilia’s Polaris, her arctic star, steadfast and ever radiant, shedding light on her deepest turmoil. The Muse that guided her hand.

  “This is where you hide, my old friend!”

  Aemilia spun round to see Harry.

  “Won’t you even say thank you?” he asked her.

  “It’s kind of you if you’re being serious and not playing games with my poor husband.”

  From inside the house came the sound of Alfonse’s singing.

  Harry laughed. “As if you never went behind his back and played the trickster, my dear Emilio.”

  “My days of wearing breeches are long past,” she told him.

  “Indeed, I hear you serve the most pious Countess of Cumberland,” he said, his voice as light as hers was grave.

  “And what is that to you, my lord?”

  “My dear Aemilia-who-is-no-longer-Emilio, pray, don’t be so cross! Am I not allowed to pine for my vanished youth and its lost pleasures?”

  She fell into silence, recalling that midsummer night when she had witnessed Will’s hopeless love for Harry.

  “At least you still remember,” he said, with a note of mournful nostalgia. “At least I can still make you blush. Unlike him.”

  “You refer to Master Shakespeare, my lord?” She turned to Harry and saw the hurt in his eyes. So Harry loved him after all. “He’s quite rich, I hear. A gentleman with a coat of arms.” She realized for the first time that there was no bitterness left in her heart. Now I speak with the wisdom of a poet—not the anguish of a poet’s spurned mistress. “Those whom Fortune favors do as they please.”

  “But he’s grown so very self-important,” said Harry. “And cold, Aemilia, as though he never loved at all.”

  She saw that he trembled and wondered if he wept.

  “Whilst I was in the Tower, I wrote letter after letter to him. Most respectable, you understand, for the guards read them before allowing them to be sent. He never answered one. I fear I was no longer useful to him. How I miss my William as he was that summer—so humble and sweet.”

  “Let the past rest,” she said. “Let your heart be at peace.”

  “We were so beautiful then,” he said, with such yearning that she thought his voice would break. “The three of us in that room and you playing the virginals whilst he read his poetry.”

  “If it’s music you desire, you are in a house of musicians. Come, let’s join the others. My son will sing madrigals for you.” Aemilia gave Harry’s arm a sisterly squeeze before leading him back inside the crowded house.

  THE MORNING AFTER TWELFTH Night, Aemilia bade her farewells to her husband and son. When she cried into Henry’s hair, Alfonse gently gripped her shoulders and kissed her. “Peace, our boy shall be fine.”

  Then Alfonse returned to court and Henry to his apprenticeship while she boarded the wherry back to Cookham. Though it always wrenched her to leave her son, a quiet joy glowed in her heart as she and Winifred traveled up the Thames. No matter what happened at court, no matter the outcome of Harry’s patent, no matter what misadventures Alfonse tangled himself up in, Margaret awaited her. Her kindred spirit, her soul’s harbor.

  MARGARET EMBRACED HER IN greeting and Anne clasped her arm and chattered as they traveled by cart up to the manor house.

  “As a New Year’s gift, I gave the Queen a fan of lace and she gave me a pair of embroidered gloves!” The beaming girl held up her gloved hands for Aemilia’s inspection.

  “Poor Aemilia can hardly get a word in,
the way you prattle, my dear,” her mother said. “How fares your son, Aemilia? I hope you found him in good health.”

  “The best health,” she said, with gratitude. “One day I must bring him here to sing for you both.”

  “I’ve heard him sing at court,” Anne said. “In truth, his voice moves the Queen to tears.”

  “He mirrors his mother’s brilliance,” Margaret said, not masking her fondness.

  Though it was bitterly cold, Aemilia felt radiant and warm from the roots of her hair to the tips of her toes. Likewise, Winifred, sitting in the depths of the cart with the satchels and boxes, seemed as sleek with contentment as a well-fed cat. She wore her brand-new cloak with the rabbit-skin collar, Aemilia’s gift to her.

  THE MANOR HOUSE WAS fragrant with the smell of Yuletide evergreens burning in the great hearth to bring luck for the New Year.

  “Master Daniel is returning in a fortnight,” Margaret told Aemilia, as they walked up the stairs. “But we shall put him in a different room so that you might keep yours. He’s to teach Anne mathematics and rhetoric while you teach her music and read with her.”

  “I prefer my lessons with Aemilia,” Anne said. “Master Daniel is so solemn and serious. He never laughs.”

  Margaret took Aemilia’s arm as they entered Aemilia’s freshly aired room beneath the eaves. A pomander of roses and spices was set in a dish beside the stack of fresh paper.

  “With Master Daniel teaching half of Anne’s lessons, you shall have more time to write,” Margaret said.

  Without the least hesitation or embarrassment, Aemilia threw her arms around her friend, her patron, her savior. “My every poem I shall dedicate to you and the Lady Anne!”

  “To me!” Anne cried, dancing around the room and clapping her hands as though performing in one of the Queen’s masques. “Ah, but you haven’t seen our surprise!”