Kissing Shakespeare

by Pamela Mingle

  Peg stopped too, and I tugged on the reins to turn her so that I was beside Stephen. He gestured back toward the manor, and when I actually paid attention to the view, my breath caught. “It’s gorgeous!” I said.

  Spread out below was western Lancashire. Because the day was clear, I could see villages nestled into the valleys and smoke curling from chimneys. Hedges enclosed pastureland, and church spires stretched to the sky here and there. “What’s that larger town?” I asked.

  “That’s Preston. I did not think you would want to ride in that direction.”

  I shivered. Mere mention of the name stirred up painful and still fresh images of the burning. “Thank you. I’ll be happy never to see that place again.”

  “Turn your gaze slightly toward those ridges,” he said. I must have looked in the wrong direction, because he reached out and, grasping my chin very gently, turned my head the other way.

  “If you look closely, you can glimpse the Ribble and its estuary going out to sea.” I strained my eyes, but what I was seeing could have been a stone wall, or possibly a river. “Sort of.”

  “Concentrate.”

  I closed my eyes and imagined what it would look like. Maybe like a thin silver ribbon, barely visible at this distance. When I opened my eyes, that was exactly what I saw. “Yes!” I said. “It’s right there, at the horizon.”

  “Aye. It would be, would it not?”

  I quirked my mouth at him, realizing he was teasing me. But it was good-natured. We turned the horses and rode on, through rolling farmland with trees scattered about. After a while, Stephen said, “Let’s stop here. We can tie Peg and then continue on.” He helped me down and found a tree to wrap Peg’s reins around.

  “Won’t she need water?”

  “We will not be gone that long. She can graze here, where she’s out of the sun.”

  He climbed back onto Bolingbroke. I set my foot atop his in the stirrup, and he wrapped his arm around my waist and pulled me up. When I was comfortable, we set off at a walk.

  “What do you think of our little corner of Britain?”

  “It’s beautiful. I haven’t been anywhere other than London. And Stratford, of course, for my parents’ performances. You said they’d performed at Hoghton Tower, didn’t you? They’ve never mentioned it to me.” I was babbling, my happiness at being free of the confines of the house bubbling over. Ever since the sheriff’s visit, an air of worry and fear had hovered like a gloomy presence, oppressive and suffocating, over everything we did. I leaned back against Stephen. His smell was familiar and comforting. Soap, sweat, an herb I couldn’t identify, all blending into what had come to represent my own safety and well-being.

  Olivia, you’re slipping, I warned myself. You’re supposed to fight off any romantic feelings for Stephen. “It’s so fresh up here,” I said, sitting up straight. Pale yellow blooms peeked out along the path. “What are the flowers?”

  “Cowslips. We shall take a different route back, through the woods. Bluebells and wild garlic may be blooming after all the rain we’ve had, though ’tis rather early yet.”

  “What about heather?”

  “Sorry. It flowers in late summer and through the fall. Gorse is just beginning to bloom, though. The bright yellow hedges.” He pointed and I drank it in.

  I let myself relax, trying not to dwell on the fact that Alexander was still imprisoned. I didn’t want to think of Shakespeare, or Thomas Cook and the Jesuits, either. I closed my eyes and felt contented.

  After an hour or so, we crested a hill. Outcroppings of rocks pushed up here and there, and Stephen steered us toward one. He dismounted and then helped me down. “I hope you brought food,” I said, eyeing the rolled-up bundle at the back of the saddle. We scrambled over some small rocks and up to a shelflike area that spread out underneath the massive stone. “The ground is still damp, I fear.” He unfastened his doublet and spread it out for me to sit on.

  “That’s very gallant of you.”

  “Anything for your comfort, mistress.” After unrolling the bundle, he sat down next to me, and before long we were nibbling on bread and cheese and drinking ale from a flask. We were quiet, and comfortable with each other without talking. Whenever I had a moment alone with Will, I felt it was my duty to engage him somehow. Flirting or prying information out of him. Trying to encourage his writing and acting. Even though I really liked him, sometimes it was a burden. I exhaled a deep sigh, and Stephen heard.

  “What’s troubling you, Olivia?”

  “I was thinking it is more enjoyable to be in your company than in Will Shakespeare’s. Because of my … assignment.”

  “I think, for today, we should not talk of Will. Let today be only for our pleasure.”

  I smiled at him. “You’re granting me a day off? Thank you for allowing me an entire afternoon during which I’m not required to think about my duty here.”

  He winced. “Am I so strict a taskmaster as that?”

  “You are.” I finished a bite of cheese. “Stephen,” I said softly.

  “Olivia?” His mouth curved teasingly.

  “Tell me about Mary.” The words formed without my permission. He looked stricken.

  “Who told you about her?”

  Should I apologize and change the subject? No. The door was open, and he didn’t seem angry. A little surprised, but not angry. “Bess mentioned her. It was on Easter, actually.”

  His eyes were shadowed. “Of course. She assumed my sister would know. What exactly did she say?”

  “How sorry everyone was when Alexander told them she died.” Should I tell him the rest? That Bess asked if he has courted anyone else since Mary’s death? But Stephen’s voice hushed me.

  “Mary and I were betrothed. Even though our parents had arranged our marriage, we fell in love and I very much wanted to wed her. She wanted it too. At least, I always believed she did, right up until the end.”

  “Would you tell me what happened?”

  “Mary took her own life. She walked into the river one night and drowned.” His head had been bent, and now he looked up at me. His eyes shone with tears, and I felt my own tearing up.

  “Could it have been an accidental drowning?”

  “Nay. She had weighed herself down with stones, so there was no doubting her intention.”

  “Did she leave a note? A message of any kind?”

  He nodded. “It said only that she loved me, and her family. And she begged to be forgiven.”

  “Oh, Stephen, I’m so sorry.”

  “I have tried to understand why she did it. Since she died, I am tormented with dreams of attempting to save her. But I am always too late. She disappears beneath the cold, murky water before I am able to rescue her. And I am left with the same question: Why?” He’d been sitting on the rock, hands clasped together between his knees. Now he got to his feet, and I did too.

  “Was her behavior different than usual leading up to her death? Was she sad and withdrawn?”

  He frowned at me. “She was melancholy and kept to herself more than usual, no doubt of that. But she was always of that bent. I spoke to her parents about it, and a practitioner visited her. There was simply nothing to explain it. Was not and is not.”

  “But you blame yourself.” I’d read about the symptoms of clinical depression for a school project, and Stephen’s description of Mary sounded like it fit.

  “Certainly I do. Would you not?”

  I grasped his arms and said, “It seems like guilt is always part of grieving. But Stephen, if you lived in my century, you’d know that some people lapse into deep depression for no reason. We have drugs and special doctors who treat the condition. It sounds like that’s what Mary suffered from. You mustn’t blame yourself.”

  He blinked away tears. “Would that we had lived in your time, if Mary could have been saved.” He walked away, turning his back to me, and I was sure he was struggling not to weep. After a minute, he pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his nose and eyes. He twisted around to
look at me. “ ‘What a piece of work is a man,’ ” he said with an ironic look.

  “Quoting Hamlet now. That’s not an encouraging sign.” His mouth curved up, not quite a smile, but the beginning of one.

  Rejoining me, he said, “I am indebted to you, Olivia. For listening and not judging me. This was to be our day of pleasure, and I have spoiled it. Mayhap we should be going back.”

  I wasn’t ready yet. I especially didn’t want our day to end with Mary’s sad story. But I shrugged and said, “All right. If you think it’s time.” I bent down to collect the remnants of our lunch. “I haven’t told you about my visit with Will the other day,” I added.

  Stephen snatched up his doublet and slipped it on. “I have been trying to guess what you were about.”

  “I’d asked him to share some of his writing with me—and you won’t believe it, but he read me some of the Shrew!”

  “Great God! Has he finished it?”

  I shook my head. “He said he’d written scattered scenes. Then he had the idea for us to read the lines together. I nearly panicked until I realized I knew them from memory.”

  “What scene was it?”

  “It was the first scene in act two, Katherine and Petruchio’s first meeting.”

  “And was it the same?”

  “Not quite. He made some changes based on what I was saying. I have the feeling he thinks I’m some kind of genius with words!”

  “That scene is one of the best in the play. The verbal parrying is quite amusing.”

  “I love it too, even though Petruchio steals it.”

  “Katherine has some great retorts, though. And I’m fond of the ‘Kiss me, Kate’ bit. Could you and I practice that?” He stood there staring at me, his head tilted sideways.

  I thought he was joking, but a spark gleamed in his eyes. Then his gaze dropped to my lips. His seemed infinitely kissable. I closed my eyes and leaned toward him. Cupping my chin in his hand, he kissed me, and my heart went spinning. After a few intense seconds, Stephen coaxed my lips apart. He slid his tongue inside my mouth, exploring, tasting. I put my hands against his chest and felt his warmth and his strength radiating into my body.

  He drew back, gently but firmly.

  “Wh-what …?” I felt dazed.

  Looking amused, he brushed his fingers lightly across my skin, stroking my cheek. “Come, we must start back or we shall be late for the evening meal.”

  Well. Thanks for the kiss, Olivia, but we wouldn’t want to be late for dinner. Gritting my teeth, I handed him the bits of bread and cheese that were left, and he packed them up with the now empty flask.

  Something occurred to me on the way back. I hesitated to ask, but my curiosity won out. “Stephen, could I ask you one more question about Mary?”

  I could feel his body tense slightly. “Whatever you wish.”

  “With your visions, couldn’t you have learned what was going to happen and intervened? Stopped it?”

  Abruptly, he reined in Bolingbroke and practically flew off the saddle. Then he reached for me and hauled me down in front of him.

  His eyes were solemn, hard, and his fingers felt like steel bands around my arms. “You asked me this before, do you not remember? I would not use the visions for personal gain. Ever. I have never tried to summon them, and most likely never will.”

  “Is that in the wizard code of behavior?” I asked, and immediately regretted it.

  I felt the sharp reproach of his look, unwavering and intense, until I was forced to look away. “Sorry,” I whispered, hoping I hadn’t spoiled the closeness between us. He turned, and I reached out for him. “Stephen, I truly am sorry. Are we okay?”

  His eyes softened, and he nodded briefly. After hesitating a moment he said, “I cannot speak for my ancestors who have held the power, but it would be wrong for me to use the magic for myself. Even apart from material gain. Like it or not, I have a higher duty. Beyond that, I must live my life the same as anybody else.”

  Something akin to shame, and heartache for him, pressed against my chest. “You’re a good man, Stephen Langford,” I said in a shaky voice. “I’m sorry for thinking you might use the power to benefit yourself. I see now you would never do that.”

  “God save me,” he said, “come here.” He reached for my hand and drew me close, then pulled me into an embrace. Exactly what I’d been longing for—his arms around me. This time, I kissed him, each of the wounded places I’d touched yesterday. I wanted him to feel how much I cared about him. He held me as if he were afraid I might try to run away, and in the end, his lips found mine again.

  Breaking the kiss, he said, “You are … I am …” but never finished his thought. Instead, he rested his cheek against my forehead. We stood there like that for the longest time before we pulled apart and climbed back on Bolingbroke.

  Neither of us said much on the way back. Resting against him, I was lost somewhere in the magic of the day. Between the swaying of the horse and the rise and fall of Stephen’s chest as he breathed, I felt completely relaxed, and even dozed for a while. I jerked awake when we stopped, and he helped me down and then up onto Peg.

  As we approached the spot where we had taken in the magnificent view earlier in the day, Stephen pointed out a lone horseman riding slowly up the drive. “ ’Tis my uncle returned home,” he said. “Thank God.”

  THE RAIN RETURNED WITH A VENGEANCE, but it didn’t affect the lightness of my mood. My day with Stephen had been so nearly perfect that the memory stayed with me and bolstered me, no matter how dreary the weather. I couldn’t stop thinking about kissing him.

  I asked him if he’d rehearse the Shrew with me. After all, when I arrived back in the present, I’d have to perform it again. “You know Petruchio’s lines, don’t you?”

  He gave a wry smile and said, “Well enough.” I hoped he was thinking about “Kiss me, Kate.”

  We managed to steal a few afternoons in the library to practice, and gradually, I began to feel more confident about my acting. One day, after we’d gone through the wedding scene, Stephen grabbed my hand and squeezed it. “You did well, Olivia! I thought your playing had the right degree of anger and irony mixed.”

  “Thank you,” I said, a happy glow filling me. And right then, it occurred to me that for the first time, I’d said the lines the way my mother had taught me, finding the natural flow of the words, rhythm, and meter. “Character flows from language,” Mom had insisted when she was coaching me for the part. Irritated, I’d rolled my eyes and insisted I knew what Katherine was all about, thank you very much, without her help.

  “What are you thinking?” Stephen asked.

  I gave him a sheepish smile. “That my mother was right about something. Very difficult to admit, since I’ve sworn to ignore any of her advice about my acting for all time.” I rolled my eyes, and he laughed.

  “That would be a costly mistake, I believe.”

  I plopped down on the settle. “Do you think Katherine and Petruchio truly love each other?”

  “What do you think?” he said, throwing the question back at me.

  “You sound like a shrink.”

  “A what?”

  “Never mind. I’m convinced they do. They must! Did you know The Taming of the Shrew is still one of the most performed of Shakespeare’s plays? How could audiences be so into it if, deep down, they didn’t believe Katherine and Petruchio were in love?”

  “Couldn’t a modern audience simply think it funny?”

  “Sure, some people would. But Petruchio’s so mean to Katherine. He wants to marry her for her dowry. He’s late for their wedding, and then he won’t let her stay for the wedding feast. And he offers her food and clothing, and ends up taking it all away. Even Petruchio’s servants think he’s cruel.”

  “Nay, I do not agree. He is simply teaching her to obey him. A thing every God-fearing man wants in a proper wife.”

  “What? Are you serious?”

  “ ’Tis in the Bible, Olivia, that a woman must obey he
r husband. And as you must have noticed by now, it is the established belief among people of this time.”

  “But that’s disgusting!”

  “To you, maybe. In this century, the audience would think, ‘Well done, Petruchio! You have put Kate in her rightful place.’ ”

  I knew he had a point, but nevertheless it galled me. Especially because he seemed to share that view. “So that’s what you think too?”

  He shrugged. “I am a man of my time.”

  “And I was really starting to like you. You’re nothing but a sexist.”

  He laughed. “Is that like a clodpole or blockhead?”

  “Not really.”

  “I do not know the word, but it sounds like a fault. Can you not overlook it in me?”

  I grabbed the nearest cushion and lobbed it at him. “You better watch it, Langford.”

  He dodged out of the way just in time, chuckling. “I surrender, mistress. I will never require an obedient wife.”

  “You’ll be lucky to get any wife.” I laughed, but my mind was still on Katherine, and how to portray her. Long before Mr. Finley had chosen the Shrew for our spring play, we’d read and studied it. He’d lectured about the different interpretations of Katherine. Some scholars tried to put a modern spin on her character, while others insisted there was only one true interpretation—the straight reading, the one Stephen so enthusiastically endorsed.

  I’d have to put my own stamp on the role. My performance somehow had to be a blend of Elizabethan and modern sensibilities. I wanted to keep my expression soft, to show I was in love, even while Petruchio was trying to break my spirit. And the “advice to the wives” speech at the end. Ironic? Humorous? I wasn’t sure yet, but I still had time to work it out.

  “Your mind is elsewhere,” Stephen said.

  “I’m sorry. I was still thinking of the performance.”

  “Come, be seated for a moment.” Stephen had lowered himself onto the settle before the fireplace and now motioned me over. I sat next to him, my skin tingling. I wasn’t thinking of the performance anymore.