Shottery
In November the fields of Hewlands Farms possessed a stark beauty as gray-green thistles and faded, flowerless stalks swayed in the wind. Thousands of finches flitted and chirped while gathering thistledown to line their nests. They were the last birds of the season to breed, for all the sparrows and wrens had fledged and flown away.
Anne Hathaway envied the simple finches their mates, their soft and happy nests, and their wings. She was also breeding. Of this she was now certain. Only she could not sing about it.
For two months she kept her secret even from Catherine. It was not hard, for since Will’s betrayal they barely spoke. Though they shared a bed as usual, they slept with their backs to each other. But one morning Catherine came upon Anne retching behind the barn. She knew the truth at once, for there was only one reason for a healthy woman to vomit in the morning.
“You will have to be married now,” Catherine said.
“No,” Anne moaned.
“Why? Is the father already married?”
Anne shook her head. “Don’t be a fool and lie with Gilbert, no matter what he promises.”
Catherine ignored this. She stared at Anne’s still-flat stomach. “Whose babe is it, then?”
“Whose but Will Shakespeare’s?” Anne said, indignant. “I’ve been with no man before or since.”
Catherine stiffened. “You got what you wanted, didn’t you?”
“Are you still jealous?” said Anne, her voice rising. “You’ve forgotten Will.”
“Will, I think, has forgotten you,” Catherine said.
“He does not know about the baby. How could he? Not even his family knows where he is living.” Anne sighed. “This is my burden to bear alone.”
Soon Anne’s stepmother suspected as well. “Are you with child?” she demanded. “Don’t lie to me. I have borne six children and know the signs of breeding.”
What was the point of lying? Her condition would become evident. Anne admitted she was carrying Will Shakespeare’s child.
“That errant son of the ruined glover? Why not some prosperous and upstanding farmer whom it would not be a shame to marry?”
Anne knew her stepmother was thinking of Fulke Sandells, her former suitor. He was twenty years her senior! Who would marry an old man and risk being left a widow with all his children to raise? Such was Joan Hathaway’s sorry plight, but it would not be Anne’s while she had a voice to say nay.
“I will raise the child myself,” said Anne.
“Not in this household! I’ll not permit a strumpet and her bastard child to live under my roof.” Spittle flew from Joan’s lips.
“Our vows were as good as a contract,” said Anne defensively. But she trembled.
The very next day her stepmother dragged Sandells into their business. He had been Richard Hathaway’s friend and witnessed his will. Thus he bore a sense of duty toward the family.
“Fulke has been to see John Shakespeare and demanded that his son be brought home,” said Joan. “The parties agree; Will Shakespeare must be made to marry you.”
“Then let those agreeable parties scour all of London looking for him,” Anne retorted, glad for once Will’s whereabouts were unknown.
Joan smirked. “As it happens, Shakespeare lately received a letter from his son. He replied, ordering him home. Sandells posted the letter himself.”
Anne’s heart sank even lower. Once she had dreamed of marriage to Will. But he no longer wanted her. Now he was being haled home like an errant schoolboy to answer for their deed. What if he denied it? Could he still be forced to marry her? Under such circumstances how could either of them ever be happy? Will would blame Anne and grow to hate her.
That night she lay in bed with her back to Catherine and her knees drawn up to her chest.
“Do you condemn me too?” she whispered.
Catherine stirred. “I do not condemn you,” she said. “It might have been me and not you, had I gone out that night.”
“I am sorry for usurping your place in Will’s heart,” Anne whispered. “But see what sadness I have spared you.”
Catherine let out a long, slow breath. “For all the world I would not be in your shoes,” she said, touching Anne’s hand.
Anne squeezed her sister’s fingers. She dared to hope their bond could make her situation bearable. “Catherine?” she ventured. “If Will denies our contract and Joan evicts me, will you come and live with me and the child?”
Catherine sat up in bed, recoiling from Anne. “So shame and her sister must dwell together? What about my good name? I’ve a small enough dowry as it is; who will marry me then?”
Anne felt the familiar heart-sickness rise up, closing off her throat. She could not speak. Without looking at her sister she got out of the bed, pulled off one of the covers, and wrapped it around herself. Then she went out to sleep on the kitchen hearth, which was also hard and unforgiving yet still held some warmth.