by Alexa Schnee
“Have you written recently?” He handed me the cloth and I put it up to my own face.
“Not since Alfonso’s been home. I was just going to start when you came in.”
He reached over and fingered my little book. The leather was more worn, since I had written religiously before Alfonso had come home, and he could probably see that I had made some progress. He opened it up, flipping through the pages.
“You really should think of publishing this.”
“It is but a child’s tale.”
“Yet you keep writing.”
He had me looking for an answer there. It was true that I believed that it was only a book for Henry, but perhaps I had actually absorbed his words. Maybe I secretly wished that it would be published. That was the reason I continued to spend so much time huddled over that book.
“Here”—he pointed to my tiny script—“is a perfectly charming sentence. ‘It was the night of the Midsummer night’s dream.’ That is beautiful.”
I stood up, came around behind him, and placed a hand on his shoulder, peering at the words. He held up the book and pointed at the sentence, showing me where I had written the words.
“But that’s what it was,” I laughed. “The story takes place Midsummer’s night.”
“Well, then, it’s just fine. What if you used it as the title? Also, the first ‘night’ should be replaced. ‘The twilight of a Midsummer’s dream.’”
I sighed. How could I attain his skill? I thought it was a fine sentence before, but now I saw that I could not compare to his talent.
“That is entirely different.” I smiled and faced him. “And much better. Now I know I should not write when I cannot think of words such as that.”
“On the contrary. This is an excellent first attempt. All writers start with a draft such as this. Then they go back and revise their work. The real skill is going back and deciding what was good and should be kept and what needs to be left unsaid.”
I nodded. It made sense that words could not just be plucked out of the air and placed on a page. The first task was to get them down; the second, to make them worth reading.
“Are you writing another play?” I asked, trying to make him forget about my meager attempts.
“Yes. It’s simple, but I do like where it is going.”
“Can you tell me about it? Or is it secret?” I gave him a coy smile.
“For you, my lady, it would be an honor,” he played along, dipping into a small bow. “It is about two forbidden lovers from two very different worlds.”
There was another pause in our conversation. I scratched my palm. I stood from my seat and took the book from his hands. My hand brushed his, and I wondered if he felt the same jolt go up his arm.
The day at the play felt so long ago. That afternoon, when we were once so close, now almost seemed a day with someone else. Then, we were touching each other without shame; now, it was as if we were children just learning the lessons of love.
“That is very kind,” I said. “But perhaps…”
He nodded, as though he knew what I was going to say.
“Of course. I understand. A lady and a playwright in a house with the husband gone might generate some gossip.”
“I hate to waste your time when it could be so valuably put to use at the theatre.”
“The theatre,” he said, and I instantly shushed him. The sound of his voice was big and booming, and it echoed off the walls of the unstable house.
“The theatre,” he started again, “cannot compare to being here. It’s full of ugly men pretending to be someone else. A lady is a sight for a man’s sore eyes,” he said.
“Really?” I asked. Part of me believed him truly, but the rest was still unsure. Why was he saying this to me? The words were so beautiful, as if they were out of a sonnet or poem.
“Of course. Why would I say otherwise?”
“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “You spend your days creating fantasy. You make your own world on a whim. Your words may not reflect reality.”
“I would never deceive a lady.”
I laughed, but it came out sounding bitter. “Not all men are so kind as you.”
William watched me for a moment. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “If you don’t mind me saying so, Emilia Lanier, I think you are not being fair.”
“I think you’re wrong.”
“Do you remember the day I first met you? You told me everyone said you looked like your cousin and I said that I read souls, not faces? Well, that’s true,” William explained. “And I am sure you know as well as I that every soul has both good and bad parts. You and Alfonso are as different as the sun and the moon. You are the sun, but even the sun can shine too brightly at times. He is the moon, but the moon can shine as the sun some nights.”
I nodded, trying to work out what he was saying.
“So what are you, William Shakespeare? A sun or a moon?”
He laughed. “Neither. I am a simple astronomer, gazing upon the heavenly bodies as an unworthy observer.”
“You are hardly unworthy.”
“I have been told I am. I can only hope that I will leave my mark in the universe, but who is to say what destiny will bestow on me.”
The silence that followed was almost unbearable. I felt almost as if the strength of his gaze was too strong. I could not think of anything worth saying. My eyes drifted to the object in my hands, my book of scratched-out words and phrases.
“So this play you are writing…,” I asked, trying to give the conversation a slightly different tone. “What will you do with it when you are done?”
“I will tear every line apart. Come, set the book over here and I will show you.” He sat down at the kitchen table and motioned for me to join him.
Hesitantly, I walked over and placed the book in front of him. He opened it up as if it were an old friend. A long, slender finger pointed to a line on the first page, where my characters announced their impending wedding.
“You have a good start for a story here. You introduce your main character right away, and from what I’ve read, it seems the dialogue flows well.”
I nodded and winced. “But…”
He laughed. “But all writing can be improved.”
We worked for several hours. He would read my composition aloud and tell me what he thought could be improved. He wasn’t always kind in his criticism. Sometimes his suggestions felt like knives. But I knew he was right, and I knew that his additions could be what made my writing publishable.
“Tired?” he asked. The sun was saying its last good-bye through the windows of the house.
“No, just confused. The words never sound good enough when I write them. They only sound fine when you revise them and make them your own.”
“That’s because you are writing them from here.” He placed his hand on my head as a priest or bishop would. “Words come from here.” His hand snaked down to my chest, where he indicated my heart. It was beating wildly. Could he feel it?
He looked embarrassed for a moment, his face a dark red, and he was about to take his hand away…until I stopped him. I felt my own hands reach his and hold it against my chest. Something had overcome me. I did not care what the queen thought or what Alfonso thought or what the lady next door thought. I wanted something for me. I wanted to be selfish and delight in what I loved.
I could not help that I was attracted to William Shakespeare. I could not help that every time I heard his name I felt the feeling of butterflies’ wings beating in my stomach. I could not help that every time he touched me, I felt complete. And it was wrong, I knew it was. God would not approve. The queen would not approve. But for once in my life I had made a decision of my own. It may not have been right, but it was mine. For once I had chosen to do what my heart desired. I loved William Shakespeare. I loved someone. Had there ever been a time when I could say that?
William’s eyes grew wide at first, as if he was surprised that I would be so bold, but then they
softened. And then his lips were on mine.
It was just a kiss. It was nothing more than that, but it was so beautiful and so hard to comprehend. It was like the slap of Alfonso’s hand against my lips, but it felt right. Good. And I realized what I had been missing.
I kissed him back; I gave myself to the feeling of happiness sweeping over me. We kissed again and again and again.
“You love me?” I asked him.
Another kiss.
“Yes.”
Another.
“When?” I demanded.
The next one was on my neck. He made his way up to my cheek.
“No sooner had I looked at you than did I love.”
His lips were gentle on mine, and I could not pull myself away. My mind was screaming with warnings and reasons I should not be kissing William Shakespeare, but the rest of me wanted him. I could not stop. I just tasted him.
It was only when Henry cried out that we realized what we were doing. I had been disloyal to Alfonso. Not only did I betray him, but I had done it with one of his best friends.
They were just kisses, but it was more than that.
He had said that he loved me.
I pulled away and rushed over to my baby. I was ashamed that I had ever been so bold. I had sinned. William Shakespeare thought me a whore, no doubt. But the taste of his lips was like nothing I had ever experienced, and I could only imagine what giving in to my emotions would bring.
“You?” William Shakespeare asked. “Do you love me?”
What could I say? I did. I loved him more than I thought any woman could love a man. If I said no, I would lose him. If I said yes, what would happen?
“I do, William.”
With the baby now quieted and on my hip, I walked back over to him. His eyes were on mine, not where Alfonso’s always went when I talked to him. Had he seen as many things in my eyes as I had in his? Had he thought me beautiful that day when I walked the halls to the banquet hall and met him for the first time?
“But this cannot be.” I sighed.
Just a few moments ago we were lost in a world of our own, and now it seemed that world had evaporated. There were responsibilities and commitments that we had both made and promised to keep.
“And everything we said, everything we meant, is nothing to you. Why would you say those things to hurt me…?” He trailed off.
“I know.” I took the blame for my actions. It was my fault. “And I am ashamed.”
My heart continued beating like a steady drum, and I knew the truth. I wanted to be, but I was not ashamed.
“Ashamed? Do you regret loving me, Lady Lanier? Is that just it? Do you look at me and say, ‘He is nothing but a playwright. He is not worthy of my love and I am ashamed to have these feelings for him’?”
“No.”
“Then what? Are you too proud?”
“No…”
“Really? Because I cannot figure out why you are turning me away after leading me to think that you cared,” he said. “You were a mistress to someone decades older than you; did you do the same things to him to ensure his monthly check?”
My mind spun with his words. Had being Henry Carey’s mistress been wrong? I had had no choice. What else could I have done?
“Stop,” I cried. “Your words hurt.”
Henry began to whimper once again. I could feel his body quivering.
“You act as though you have your life—your morals—completely understood,” William said. “But do you really?”
He was right. My values were blurred, more than they ever had been. I could not really know what was truthful and what was fair. How could I? Everything that once seemed perfectly reasonable had been turned around by this man.
“We cannot do this,” I sputtered. “It is wrong. You spend so much time alone in that world of your imaginings…but this is not that world. This is not a play. This is real life, and we must decide what is decent and good. And this is not—”
“Is this worse than what you have? Am I, a simple playwright who loves you, worse than your husband, who beats you?”
I pulled back. My hand flew to my bruised nose. “What if Alfonso found out? What if the queen found out? I have seen what she has done, William. I have had to live my whole life by what she has dictated.”
“The queen? You cannot live your life by trying to please the queen. She is not your mother, your family, or your God.”
I hated him at that instant. He knew more about me than I wanted him to.
“Get out of my house.”
I was hateful. I was harsh. I did not like myself when I said this, but I did mean it. His words could be beautiful, but some of them were also sharp and hurtful. Those words were more painful than Alfonso’s slaps could ever be.
He glared at me with those eyes. He gave me one hard, long look. And then he was gone.
ENGLAND, 1595
DURING THE REIGN OF QUEEN ELIZABETH I
LONDON
THE YEAR TURNED, AND I couldn’t forget William. I would wake up any given morning, sure that I had done the right thing in not seeing him. It was wrong to think about him. I would break my fast, and then the first creeping of doubt would enter my mind. Had what I said been right? Perhaps I went too far. I would try to push it from my mind.
Then, in midmorning, I would think that I had been wrong. I would cry out and realize what I had done. I burned our food and spilled the wash water. Henry was in his cradle much more than he should have been while I thought about what I had done—what I should have done.
By midafternoon I was ready to travel to his home and tell him that he was right and I was wrong. I was ready to give up everything and find him. I imagined jumping into his arms and kissing him over and over again. I did not care what anyone thought of me by midafternoon.
By dinnertime, I had it all planned out. I would knock on his door the next day and speak elegant words of apology until he took me back. If he didn’t, I would continue to do it every day until he did. By this time, cooking seemed pointless and I would do as little as possible, ignoring my groaning stomach and only feeding Henry when he cried out.
I would go to bed, sure of my course for the morning, and sleep soundly, for tomorrow the nightmare would be over and I would once again have William Shakespeare to myself. I would love him until the end of time, and we would always have each other.
And then the cycle would repeat.
It went on for several weeks. I could see the pattern I was living, but I couldn’t change it. I didn’t write. I didn’t eat. I wondered if I was slowly losing my mind.
I neglected Henry during that time. I would carry out the motions of motherhood halfheartedly. I would feed him and change his diapers and rock him to sleep, but my mind was on someone else. I finally made up my mind. I was going to go to him and apologize. I could not stand to leave things on these terms. I wanted my life to be normal again The very day I planned to don my nicest dress and journey across London, I received a post.
At first I thought it might have been a letter from William, so I opened it with a haste I did not know was possible. But as I began to read, I recognized Alfonso’s rough handwriting. He would be returning just after Twelfth Night. My heart dropped to my toes. My husband was coming home.
My deepest wish was that Shakespeare would come back to me—and now he would be back, but for Alfonso. The thought of having him in our home without first making amends horrified me. When Alfonso was home, I was just the wife. Now I would be the hated hag of a wife who had turned him down. How could he ever stand to look at me again? I needed to ask his forgiveness.
That day, as my hands held the small bit of paper with Alfonso’s messy handwriting, I realized what I needed to do. I would only have one chance to change my circumstances, and that day, well, that was it. Before Alfonso returned home, before I became that vision in William’s eyes, there was a chance to change what I had done wrong. I could give William Shakespeare—and myself—a new chance.
I placed Henry on my hip and made my way over to the widow’s house next door. I thumped on it sharply.
“Do you want me to watch the child?” she asked. Her eyes judged me instantly.
“I will pay you,” I replied. I handed her my baby boy—no, he was easily a child now.
“The playwright?” she nosed. “Aye, I would leave my boy and husband behind for him too.”
Her words caught me off guard, and I did not know what to say to her. She was right. How could I deny that what she assumed I was doing was true? I looked away.
“How long should I keep him? Or do you know?” She was smug.
“It won’t be long,” I said, though there was no way of knowing. I could be turned away before I even got the opportunity to tell him that I was sorry. What if he threw me out onto the street and called me a witch? I wouldn’t be surprised. I felt like one.
I thanked her and began down the crowded streets. Wagons and carts pushed by, eager to go around me, as I tried to figure what to do and where to go. The smells of the people and the animals distracted me for a moment. My stomach mocked me as I passed a stand emitting the aroma of freshly baked bread. I should have eaten that morning.
I hoped I could find my way to the theater. I cursed my forgetfulness. I had been thinking so much about how exhilarating his hand felt in mine that I did not pay attention to street names.
Eventually, after asking several people, I was pointed in the general direction of the Rose Theatre. I felt lost, but I kept on going. I even caught myself praying that I would find him. I stopped myself. Should I really be praying to be led to something that was sinful? It didn’t seem proper, but I didn’t know what else to do.
When I finally stepped inside the theatre, I felt more lost than I had on the streets of London. The pageantry and colors surrounded me in the form of costumes and scenes, and I found myself in a world that was not my own. I looked for something, anything, familiar. My shoes were soaked with mud, and the cold London air filled the large room. Actors and musicians paraded around, and I was confused and frustrated. Finally I approached a well-dressed gentleman.