Love Disguised (31 page)

Will would be nineteen years old when Anne bore their child.
I have too much mischief and longing still in me
. That was his excuse for why he could not be her husband. Was there any time of life or any place of abode free from mischief and longing, trouble and desire? He would be in trouble for certain once Meg discovered why he fled Stratford. As for wooing her, that seemed impossible now, for Anne and the child, though absent, would stand between them like the wall that separated Pyramus and Thisbe. Meg, the best kind of woman, deserved a better man than himself.

Will imagined Anne holding the boy's hand as he learned to walk. The child would totter and he, Will, would take his
other hand and steady him. His heart swelled up at the thought. But what if the child was a girl? She would have Anne's strong nature and freckles across her pretty nose. How could he live on and never touch the face of his daughter? Or look at his own face in a glass and not wonder if its features were copied in a son who longed to call him “Father”?

If you stay, I'll not cling to you
. What more could Will ask? Anne's generosity shamed him. Would it be so terrible to live near Stratford and raise their child together? One babe would not be much trouble. He might write plays as well in Stratford and send them to Burbage, visiting London from time to time. When the child was old enough and if Anne remained healthy, they would move to the city. It seemed to him possible and even desirable to have a piece of both worlds, Stratford and London. As Antony had Rome and Egypt, knew his duty yet satisfied his desire.

A night owl sounded, interrupting Will's reverie. He tugged the reins. The gelding obeyed his hand and turned around. At Hewlands Farm Anne waited beneath the overhanging thatch of the cottage. She led Will to the barn, where they lay together on fresh, sweet hay. Will found his ring still around her neck and, lifting the ribbon over her head, placed the ring on her finger and said he would marry her.

Shoreditch

“Where the devil is Will Shakespeare? He owes me a play!”

A week had passed since Will's departure and James Burbage was plucking his beard hairs in frustration. Leicester would be coming soon to observe the progress of the new play. But there was no new play.

“He will return anon,” said Meg, trying to reassure him. “This play is everything to him. Nothing will keep him from finishing it.”

When a second week went by Meg began to worry. Had some terrible accident befallen Will? John Shakespeare's money problems would not keep him away so long. Perhaps someone else was delaying Will. Could it be the rural lass who once deceived him with her charms? Were they even now dallying together, wrapped in a warm cloak against the cold? Meg dismissed the jealous thought. She wanted to believe Will was simply struggling to write. He tended to put off what he was reluctant to do. How maddened she had been by his last-minute preparations for the court case! But writing this play to please Burbage and the queen was all his ambition.

When Will's letter finally arrived, Meg read with dismay and grief that the country lass was expecting Will's child.
It can't be true!
She thought of Will's cheek pressed against her own and his promise to return. He wrote he was contracted to Anne and they would marry at once.
But he doesn't love her! I thought he loved me!
How well they knew each other, she and Will, how close they had become even without sharing a bed. Her longing for him pained her, while his lightness roused her to anger. She gripped the page, almost tearing it. “Who is the fickle deceiver now, Will Shakespeare?” she said, her voice breaking. Hot tears blurred her vision. She dashed them away with her wrist and read:
You must know that I never suspected Anne's condition all the while you and I were friends
.

“Is that supposed to comfort me?” she wailed. Rather it made her feel twice spurned, for Will wrote as if their friendship was over.

Meg tried to read between the lines. Will was marrying Anne without even posting banns. Was such haste necessary to prevent him from running away again? The letter conveyed nothing of the high-spirited, ambitious Will she knew. Its tone was melancholic. In closing he appealed to Meg:
Speak kindly of me to Burbage; say I have been waylaid by the unexpected but will complete the play anon
.

“Anon. How soon is that?” Meg shook the letter. “Because you are too cowardly to write to Burbage yourself, I must tell him?”

With her usual determined stride Meg set out for the Theatre, taking a roundabout way to give herself time to think. She wanted to blame someone. Will, for being weak. Anne, for deceiving and ensnaring him. But she, Meg, had also
deceived Will. Was anyone capable of truth? Of constancy?
I am; I will always be your true friend!
Will was inconstant but generous, loving whoever was close at hand and forgetting all else. She could not envy Anne being married to such a man. In truth he was not much more than a boy. Now with a wife and soon with a child to support. Would he have to take up the occupation he hated, that of a glover? When would he find the time to write plays? She must pity him, but could she forgive him?

She found Burbage in a dither and the actors idly playing cards, for they had nothing to rehearse.

“You say he absconded? With a wife?” said Burbage in disbelief.

“He promises to complete the play,” said Meg.

“We shall not see it anytime soon, for what man puts his nose to the grindstone when his master is a hundred miles away?” Burbage groaned. “Especially one distracted by a new wife.”

“Will is wedded?” said Bumpass. “Then his pen is now put to other purposes!” He thrust his hips forward, causing Wagstaff and the others to laugh.

Meg ignored them. “I thought this was all his desire,” she said to Burbage, spreading her arms wide. “This playhouse, these players—”

“And you,” said Burbage. “We all thought—”

Meg put up her hand to silence him. “No,” she whispered.

What Meg had wanted from Will was more than what anyone might think. She wanted to be his lifelong friend. Now that was impossible. She wondered why the duties of marriage must eclipse the delights of friendship. Would there ever
come a time when weddings resulted from friendship, not fleshly weakness?

“He will not disappoint us,” said Burbage grimly. “He dares not.”

“If he is writing anything, 'tis a sugared sonnet,” said Hightower with a disdainful wave of his hand. “All posies and pearls and unmanly sentiment.”

Wagstaff said, “He is taking inventory of the lady's charms, but not with ink and paper.”

“Silence, you prating fools!” shouted Burbage. “Twelfth Night is the sixth of January. Tomorrow December begins and I. Have. No. Script!”

Everyone fell silent. Meg knew they feared losing the coveted opportunity to perform for the queen.

“Perchance your Will has written some scenes already,” said Burbage. “Go to his room and see what you can find.”

Meg disliked the idea of going through Will's belongings, but for the sake of Burbage and his company she decided to do it. She followed the carpenter to his lodging. Will's desk was cleared. He had left little of himself behind, not even a book. She lifted the mattress and found some soiled stockings and a pair of long-fingered gloves made of supple white leather and lined in satin. They were nothing like the small braided ones Will had given to Mistress Overby when he first arrived at the Boar's Head. Meg slipped her hand inside. The glove was cool, the fit snug. The stitches in the crooks between the fingers were uneven. Clearly the maker had executed them with difficulty. Had Will sewn these gloves with his own hands? In her mind's eye she saw his short, ink-stained fingers. A pen suited them better than a needle. Meg
put on the other glove. She felt in her bones that they had been made for her, that Will had meant for her to keep them.

Meanwhile Makeshift was rummaging on the floor. He stood up and thrust a handful of blotted, crumpled papers at Meg.

“If he had laid plans in his head before scratching away with his pen, he wouldn't have wasted so much paper,” said Makeshift. “I wouldn't saw a single plank without knowing what I was building.”

Meg took off the gloves and set them aside. She examined the papers, which were covered on both sides with crabbed handwriting. Sawdust spilled from the creases and drifted to the floor.

“If I take these, it's not stealing, is it?” she said more to herself than to Makeshift.

“No, for I heard him curse what he wrote and call it trash,” said the carpenter. He scratched his head. “But those nails, though they be on the floor and I curse when I step on them, are not trash but useful to me. Take them and you would be a thief.”

Meg assured the carpenter she would not touch his nails. She straightened the pages and went back to the Theatre. Burbage had gone home, where she found him standing before his hearth staring at the pantofles on his feet while his son played with the dog.

“You know as well as I do, he is not coming back,” said Burbage, glancing up at Meg as if hoping she would contradict him.

“He will come back, Father,” said Richard. “He promised to write a play about a king just for me.”

“He's got ten years,” said Burbage, “for it will be that long until you are man enough to play a king.” He sighed. “No, 'tis tomorrow that concerns me. I have a meeting with Leicester and naught to show him.”

“Will did make a start,” said Meg, handing Burbage Will's jumbled writings. “He called it
Love Disguised
.”

Burbage took the pages from Meg and read quickly through them.

“Not one of the player's parts is complete. Scenes are only half-written,” he said in dismay. He regarded Meg with a furrowed brow. “But
you
know the plot.”

Meg did. It was her story, after all.

“You and Will worked side by side.”

Meg saw where Burbage's thoughts were tending. “I am no poet,” she said, shaking her head. “My skill with words is slight compared to his.”

“I'll send to Oxford for someone to help you. Poets there are as plentiful as partridges.”

“And their wits are smaller than a bird's brain!” Meg protested. “They will turn Will's lively scenes to dumbshows and his comedy to dry philosophy.” She was echoing Will, who had once compared scholars in their libraries to dead men in tombs.

Burbage shook the papers in front of her face. “What other choice do I have?”

Meg understood his desperation. Bold measures were called for. She took a deep breath. “Let me go to Stratford and persuade Will to return until this play is performed.”

Burbage tugged at his beard. “It does not behoove us to beg,” he said. Meg could see that beneath his distress, he was also hurt by Will's departure.

“I need a play now. It must be
this
plot. You understand?” His look was pleading. “Wagstaff will have to do for the hero, though I prefer your Will.”

“Master Burbage, do not refer to him as ‘my Will,' ” Meg blurted out. “For he does not and never did belong to me.”

Burbage gave her a wary look. “I think you protest too much. I am not easily fooled. If you discouraged his attentions and drove him off, I am inclined to be angry with you.”

“I promise it was no word or deed of mine that made him leave,” she said.

Burbage raised his eyebrows. Meg saw he had guessed the truth. “Ah! He had a prior duty, a very pregnant one that prevented your love.”

“I tell you I did not love him.” Meg felt her voice falter.

“But you do,” he said softly. “For friendship, my dear, is the most enduring love, long outlasting the swift-burning passion inflicted by Cupid's darts. Not even absence can destroy it.”

“You are almost a poet,” said Meg, smiling weakly. “
You
finish Will's play.”

“And you are a better match for Will Shakespeare than some country wench. I'll wager you exceed her in beauty, virtue, and especially wit.”

“Do not forget length,” said Meg, feeling secretly pleased. No one had ever remarked upon her beauty before her height. But this was no time for flattery and preening. “Give me Will's play and let me read it through,” she said, snatching the pages.

At her cottage Meg pored over the work by the light of a small lamp. With painstaking care she deciphered Will's careless hand and every troublesome word. Reading the scenes and fragments, she could almost hear Will's voice. She recognized Davy Dapper, Violetta, and Justice Littlewit. Meg herself
was on the page, tearing off her disguise and saying to the hero,
I am no longer Mack; I am only Meg
. Will had not even changed her name. But elsewhere the hero said to his beloved words Meg did not remember hearing:
I have got my wish and you, your Will. So let us kiss and love each other still
. Had Will said this to Anne?

Her lamp flickered and consumed its last drop of oil. Meg sat in the dark, her bosom aching. Will was gone from her life. He had briefly trod the stage with her, then exited, leaving Meg standing alone. But there was no applause, for the play was not over. Indeed it was barely begun. Why should she not go on with it? So many parts she had played in her sixteen years. She started out as little Meg Macdougall, who became an orphan and a thievish boy. Then she was a tavern maid, her own twin brother, an avenger of injustice, and a lawyer. She became the friend of Will Shakespeare. Now she was becoming an actor. She had even played a queen, Cleopatra.

Meg smiled, remembering Will's confusion when she had said,
I am not Mack; I am only Meg
. Now it struck her—there was no such person as “only Meg.” She was everyone she had ever been or pretended to be. All her roles were as much a part of her as her long arms and legs and her mind with its myriad thoughts and desires. Within herself she now identified a longing that must be unique, for no one else stood where she did at this moment, brought hither by circumstances that were hers alone. No one had seen with her eyes, spoken with her tongue, or imagined her thoughts. No one had known Will Shakespeare the way she knew him.