Yet it haunted Aemilia that one recipient of Salve Deus who still hadn’t responded to its publication was Will, though Ben assured her he had placed a copy directly in Will’s hand. For many months, she had braced herself for some stinging repartee or satire on his part ridiculing her poetic pretensions. But there was only silence. Did Will think this, her reply to his sonnets, unworthy of his notice? Courtesy demanded that he should at least send her a note of acknowledgment, however perfunctory.
AEMILIA BIDED HER TIME until Ben’s next visit.
Her cousin was lately returned from a sojourn in Paris, where he had traveled as a tutor with his nineteen-year-old protégé, Wat Raleigh, whose father, Sir Walter Raleigh, had been locked in the Tower since Elizabeth’s reign.
While Aemilia served Ben wine and sweetmeats, he regaled her with his adventures. “Dear cousin, had you only seen me. Young Wat contrived to get me dead drunk then laid me out in a cart, which he wheeled about the whole of Paris, telling its fair denizens that this was a livelier image of the crucifix than any they had.”
Aemilia shuddered to imagine how much liquor her cousin had imbibed to leave him so inebriated. But when she could think of no reply and failed to even smile, her cousin leaned forward with a look of concern.
“Something troubles you,” he said.
She forced herself to say the words. “Have you heard anything at all from Master Shakespeare?”
Ben clasped her hand. “Did you truly not hear the news? He’s stopped writing plays and returned to Stratford.”
Aemilia waited for Ben to burst out laughing at his own joke. But it appeared he was in earnest.
“He no longer writes?”
Impossible, she thought, remembering him shut up in their bedchamber in Verona, covering page after page as if in thrall to the poetry coursing through him. Now that she had become a published woman of letters, Will had ceased to write at all?
Ben shrugged. “In truth, he may of late have scribbled a play or two with some collaborator from the King’s Men. But I fear we’ve seen the end of Shakespeare as we’ve come to know him.”
EPILOGUE
So Come My Soul to Bliss as I Speak True
33
Stratford-upon-Avon, 1616
EMILIA TROTTED HER BORROWED mare down a road tunneled in arching leaves. She breathed in the air, redolent with blossoming elderflower. Whitethorn and blackthorn wove their branches in a living web, and at their feet sprang foxglove and greater Solomon’s seal, everything glittering from the rain that had just ceased. From her perch in the saddle, her eyes sought out gaps in the hedge, hoping to catch a glimpse of the fabled Forest of Arden. Instead, she saw fields of wheat and barley, and pastures adrift in buttercups, until at last she reached the outskirts of Stratford.
“It seems an unremarkable place,” said Henry, riding beside her, as they passed a row of cottages with unglazed windows.
At twenty-three, her son was only a year younger than Aemilia had been when she absconded to Italy with him as a babe in her arms. Tall and broad shouldered, Henry was armed with the sword and rapier Alfonse had wielded in the Irish wars.
“So hard to believe your father is already three years dead,” she said.
Alfonse lay buried in Saint James’s churchyard in Clerkenwell. He had left her with the straw and hay patent and thousands of pounds of debts. The thought of her late husband’s unfulfilled life washed her in sorrow. If only she’d had the power to grant him his knighthood, his portion of glory.
“He wasn’t my father.” Henry stared straight ahead, his reproach of her hanging in the air between them.
Aemilia felt her temper flare. Be thankful you’re a man, she wanted to tell him. You will never have to make the same choices I was forced to make. But when she replied, she kept her voice mild. “He was your father in every way that mattered.”
She watched her son rub his wet eyes.
“He truly loved you,” Henry said, glancing sideways at her. “He would hear no ill spoken of you.”
Now it was her turn to blink back tears. She had begun to think that grief was her constant companion, for she was a woman twice bereaved. Not only had she lost her husband, but just a month ago Margaret had gone to her eternal rest. How shall I live without you, my arctic star, my refuge? On a silken cord around Aemilia’s neck hung the golden ring Margaret had bequeathed to her, the precious metal warm against her heart.
If losing her dearest friend had left Aemilia anguished, Margaret’s daughter was truly at sea, for Anne had lost her one champion in the battle for her inheritance. Her husband threatened to take her children away if she didn’t submit. Aemilia carried her former pupil’s letter in her saddle bag.
Oh, Aemilia, if you could only see me now. I am like an owl in the desert, so broken and hopeless. Every day I read your Cookham poem. My memories of our time there are one of my few remaining consolations.
Wrenching her thoughts from Anne, Aemilia turned to her son. “It was good of you to make the journey with me.”
They had been traveling for four days, covering about a hundred miles. Winifred had offered to accompany her as well, but her maid hadn’t sat in a saddle for more than two decades. Aemilia had deemed it best to spare her the ordeal of the long-distance ride.
“I could hardly have you come all this way on your own, Mother.” Henry spoke with an air of dutiful propriety that reminded her of Jasper.
Her son was as circumspect as she had been reckless at his age, as frugal as Alfonse had been spendthrift. Though Henry was a devastatingly handsome young man, with his natural father’s aristocratic cheekbones and her own dark coloring, her son had vowed not to marry until they managed to pay off Alfonse’s debts. She hoped her son wasn’t condemning himself to a life of loneliness. To complicate matters, Alfonse’s brother Innocent was badgering her to sign over the hay and straw patent to him as he had eight children to feed. He promised to have the patent renewed and divide the proceeds, but she didn’t know if she could trust her brother-in-law to keep his word.
One thing remained certain—she needed to find a reliable source of income in her widowhood. After years of giving private lessons to young girls, she longed to have her own establishment where she could teach not just music but also Latin and Greek, offering the same kind of humanist education Susan Bertie had given her. After all, girls weren’t welcome in the grammar schools and not every family, even among the gentry, could afford a private tutor. However, a day school for girls might be just within their reach.
Aemilia was negotiating to rent a property in Drury Lane near Saint Giles-in-the-Fields, where many wealthy families lived. If Fortune proved kind, the school would not only allow her to pay off Alfonse’s debts but also widen the circle of learned young women. Then again, so many of her dreams had been dashed. Did she dare believe in this one?
She and Henry rode through Rother Market, where the houses grew more substantial as befitting a thriving town of two thousand souls. Still, it seemed such a small place, as though its burghers were resigned to live their lives in miniature far away from the great stage of power and influence. She could still not grasp why Will at the very height of his success had retired to this backwater never to write another play.
Townspeople gaped at her and her son. It seemed they were unused to the sight of strangers, especially one as fetching as Henry. When he stopped to ask one of the market wives where they could find respectable lodgings, Aemilia observed how the young woman gazed at him as though he were Adonis fallen to earth. But Henry seemed oblivious to her adoration.
“The Swan Inn in Bridge Street, sir.” The woman pointed out the direction they must go.
Aemilia murmured her thanks and pressed a silver penny in the woman’s hand.
ONCE THEY HAD SECURED rooms at the Swan and Aemilia had washed and changed into her good gown, she asked the innkeeper the way to New Place.
The man snapped to attention. “Good mistress, what business have you at New Place?”
She hesitated, knowing that whatever she replied would be spread across town, giving the gossips something to chew on.
“I’ll hazard it’s Master Shakespeare you’ve come all this way to see,” the innkeeper said. “I fear you’re too late. He died in April.”
“I’ve heard the sad tidings,” she said, lowering her head in respect for the deceased.
A fortnight ago Aemilia had received a letter from Will’s eldest daughter summoning her to Stratford on account of a secret bequest he had left to her, one that did not involve money. Should you venture here for lucre’s sake, the letter had sternly informed her, you shall be sorely disappointed.
“In faith, it’s Mistress Susanna Hall I’ve come to see.” Aemilia regarded the innkeeper without shame, as befitting a woman of forty-seven years clad in the sober attire of a widow. She told herself that no stranger could even guess at her past.
The innkeeper nodded, his curiosity apparently sated, for surely a widow calling on a matron was hardly a matter worthy of further speculation.
“Doctor Hall is away in Warwick,” he said, “but you’ll find Mistress Hall at home. It’s not ten minutes’ walk from here, New Place is. I suspect even a Londoner like you will find it impressive. Left it all to his daughter and son-in-law, Master Shakespeare did. Shamefully neglected his own wife in the will, though. That’s what everyone round here says.”
Aemilia’s heart pricked to think of poor Anne Shakespeare and all she had endured.
“You speak as if Master Shakespeare was not the most popular man in Stratford,” she said.
The innkeeper nodded, as though he harbored strong opinions on the subject. “First he runs away, a young father leaving behind three little children. His wife never complained, mind you. She just carried on with her brewing and did as best she could. Then he returns, as rich as a lord and as arrogant, too, hoarding grain in his barn during the famine a few years back when we’d hunger riots in the streets.”
Aemilia struggled to connect the landlord’s description of this avaricious man to the Will she had known, that hungry poet who had devoured the lamb pie she brought to him at his boardinghouse.
“But he stood by his daughter,” the innkeeper said. “I’ll grant him that. Terrible scandal three years ago. A scoundrel and drunkard accused Mistress Hall of adultery.”
Aemilia felt a welling of sympathy for Susanna Hall. What she herself had suffered from her damaged reputation was one thing, but in a provincial town like this, even the rumor of adultery could destroy a woman. Perhaps if Mistress Hall had been forced to withstand such defamation, she would be more merciful to someone like Aemilia.
“Doctor Hall took the accuser to court and had him sentenced for slander,” the innkeeper said. “For slander it truly was. I’ll speak no ill of Mistress Hall. Her sister, Judith, is another matter. She was foolish enough to marry Thomas Quiney, the wretched fornicator—”
The innkeeper stopped short, as if suddenly remembering he was speaking to a lady.
HENRY INSISTED ON ESCORTING Aemilia to New Place.
“Are you sure this is prudent?” he asked. “You know nothing about this Mistress Hall. Why would she call on you to arrive precisely when her husband is away?”
Aemilia could think of a reason or two but kept them to herself.
When she turned the corner of Chapel Street, the sight of New Place was enough to stop her breath. Built of brick and timber, the house boasted five gables, ten chimneys, and many glass windows. She could scarcely imagine Will, the luckless poet she had once loved, living in this palatial dwelling set among its gardens lush with topiary and roses. The grounds were huge. Off to the far side, she noted an orchard, and over the treetops, the roofs of two barns.
“You said he was a glover’s son?” Henry asked, disbelief and envy twining in his voice.
She wondered if somewhere in the furthest reaches of her son’s memory, he recalled their idyll in Italy when Will had carried him on his shoulders and held him with such tenderness, as if he were his own.
At the front gate Aemilia nodded farewell to her son before continuing alone up the path to the massive oak door, engraved with the Shakespeare coat of arms and motto, Non sanz droict.
A maid, brawny and brisk, answered the door. “Mistress Lannery? Mistress Hall is expecting you.” She ushered Aemilia into a vast parlor. “Wait here, if you please. Mistress Hall shall join you shortly.”
Wealth gleamed in every nook and corner, from the carved and painted beams to the silver candlesticks and Dutch oil paintings. In one short life, Will had amassed a fortune. A tapestry of a hunting party riding through a forest covered most of one wall. So much was on display, it was almost vulgar. But Aemilia felt not the faintest sense of Will as she had known him. Nothing of his essence.
Her eyes then lit on the most exquisite virginals she had seen since her days at court. The body of the instrument was inlaid with ivory, mother-of-pearl, and alabaster, and the soundboard was painted with a pastoral scene of shepherdesses and their swains sporting in an eternal Arcadia. Beneath the scene, engraved in gilded letters, were the words she found herself speaking aloud.
“Sic transit gloria mundi.” Thus passes the glory of the world.
“You read Latin, Mistress Lanier,” a voice behind her said.
When Aemilia turned to face Susanna Hall, it was like seeing her lost love brought back to life in the guise of a woman. She kept blinking to keep from losing herself in those clouded hazel eyes. A few soft brown curls escaped Mistress Hall’s coif to soften her high, intelligent brow. Her gown was of dove-gray silk, edged in black brocade. She wore pearls at her throat and gold rings on her fingers. A fine-looking matron of thirty-three years.
“Mistress Hall,” Aemilia said.
She dropped into a curtsy though, in truth, it wasn’t necessary. Despite their gaping differences in fortune, Susanna Hall was not of higher birth. As gentlemen’s daughters, they were of fairly equal standing, though Aemilia’s family was older. Battista Bassano had not needed to buy his coat of arms. Then Aemilia abandoned such petty thoughts and spoke from her heart, as one grieving woman to another.
“May I offer my condolences for your father’s passing.”
Susanna Hall seemed at a loss to know what to say or how to treat her. Aemilia could only wonder what Will had told his daughter about her. Did the woman have any inkling that she had invited her late father’s former mistress into the family home?
“You must be so proud of your father,” Aemilia said, when she could no longer bear the silence between them. “Do you have a favorite amongst his plays?”
“Sometimes he read to me various speeches and scenes,” Mistress Hall said, her eyes guarded, her voice tepid. “But all I know of the theater is hearsay.”
Aemilia nodded, for it made sense that Mistress Hall had never visited the Globe. What gentleman would wish to expose his sheltered provincial daughter to Southwark with its bawdy houses and gambling dens?
“But I trust you’ve read his poetry,” Aemilia said, hoping to kindle even the tiniest spark of warmth in her hostess.
Mistress Hall looked pained. “Madam, I cannot read.”
This revelation left Aemilia incredulous. Though she knew Will’s wife was illiterate, she had thought that the daughters of such a great man of letters would at least be able to read and write. Even in his poorer days, he had managed to send his son to grammar school. Surely when wealth came his way, he could have hired a private tutor for his girls.
Yet Will must have cherished Susanna—had he not left most of his vast estate to her and her husband? Of all the women in his life, it seemed he’d loved his firstborn above all others. Perhaps he had hoped that his tenderness to Susanna might redeem his every slight to other women, including Susanna’s mother.
“Then who wrote the letter inviting me here?” Aemilia asked. It had indeed looked to be written in a woman’s hand.
“My friend. She’s a curate’s daughter, uncommonly ed
ucated. But even she can’t read Latin.”
Aemilia didn’t know what to say. At least it was a relief to learn that Mistress Hall hadn’t read the sonnets.
“I FORGET MY MANNERS,” her hostess said. “Please, sit you down. You must be weary from your journey.”
She offered Aemilia a glass of Madeira.
As Aemilia took her first sip of the sweet wine, she noticed a little girl peeking around the chamber door. She looked to be about eight, with dark gold locks and merry mischief in her eyes as she gawped at the mysterious guest.
“Your daughter, Mistress Hall?” Aemilia said, alerting her to the child’s presence.
Her hostess sprang to her feet. “Elizabeth, you naughty girl. You’re meant to be helping your grandmother.”
Her grandmother. With a stab of remorse, Aemilia wondered if Anne Shakespeare was privy to who she was and why she had come. To have your revenge of me, all you need do is poison the Madeira.
“Mother, who is that lady?” the child demanded, refusing to abandon her sentinel post.
To cover her mother’s embarrassed silence, Aemilia spoke up. “My late husband was a stage minstrel for your grandfather. I’ve come to pay my respects to your good mother.”
As lies went, it was close enough to fact to ring true.
The girl’s eyes sparked. It seemed the word minstrel was the one that intrigued her most. “Can you play the virginals?”
“The virginals and the lute,” Aemilia told her.
“Can you play the virginals now?”
“Elizabeth, that’s enough,” said her mother. “Off you go.”
“Pleased to meet you, madam.” The girl displayed a most impressive curtsy.
“And you, Elizabeth,” Aemilia said.
Before her mother could scold her again, the girl pranced away.
“What a lovely child,” Aemilia said, grateful to have a reason to smile. “I had a daughter—” Her eyes stinging, she caught herself and said no more.
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