Our spices arrived from London today, on the cart of our John Robinson: raisins of the sun; fine currants; powdered sugar, loaf sugar; cloves and mace; liquorice, aniseed; cinnamon; rice; saffron to colour the warden pies; dates; a case of nutmegs; large ginger and ginger candied; one gallon of olives; one barrel of suckets; sanders and other dyes for colouring jellies, of which my wife, with her poor teeth, is most fond. They will see us through the winter if the road be closed to London. Of prunes this time we ordered none, my wife having pickled our crops this summer.
The house smells of spices as my wife and the maids unpack them to go in the cupboard to which only my wife has the keys. Our maids be good girls, and our serving men most trusted, but a nutmeg or a few cloves are a temptation for those who have them not.
I met with Anne twice more as she walked to fetch the bread on Tuesdays, for it seemed her sister-in-law deemed they could have yesterday’s bread or hearth cakes on the other days. I twice more kissed her too.
The next sally was my father’s: meeting Bartholomew as if by accident at the cattle sale, and asking him to dine the morrow and most especially bring his wife and sister.
My mother, Joan and Mary set the table well, with sucket spoons and plate that my mother had brought with her as part of her dowry. I half hoped that Mistress Hathaway would insist that Anne be left to mind the children, that they would arrive with some excuse. But there she was, in that blue dress with flowers and a veil, more suitable to a woman twice her age, covering all her hair.
Mistress Hathaway sat upon my father’s right, and Bartholomew upon his left, with the salt cellar in front of him to honour him, which would have left Anne and me across the table so we could not in all politeness talk. But my father had cunningly invited Anne’s godfathers as well, and my sister Joan to table, so Anne and I sat side by side.
My father asked Bartholomew to carve the turkey; a handsome bird and most expensive, which we could ill afford. My brother and I had trapped the larks for the lark pie the week before. There was a blancmange of chicken and almonds; a ragout of onions and one of cauliflower. For the second course we had roasted duck; pickled green walnuts; a French cream tart; and the last of the quince cheese, with small ale, strong beer and autumn cider.
Anne ate little and said less, but when I reached my hand to hers under the table she squeezed it back. She kept her eyes downcast while her sister-in-law chattered, but I could see her looking at our plate, our chairs, our hall.
Later I asked if Joan and I might show Anne the field behind the house and the new calf, Joan to be there as a chaperone of course. Joan ran ahead to gather grass to tempt the cow to bring her calf to us.
I smiled at Anne. ‘How do you like our home?’
‘I like it much, Master Shakespeare.’
She lifted her skirts above the wet grass. I saw worn shoes with no buckles, and a glimpse of a much darned stocking. And yet her sister-in-law wore silk.
‘It might be thine,’ I said.
She lifted her eyes to mine. I picked a late-bloomed rose, and ignored the thorn it left in my finger.
‘If this be a rose, why, you outbloom it. If this be day, then you must be the sun, and the sun of my life too. Will you marry me, Anne? To be my wife, my sun, my rose?
‘And if you say me nay,’ I added quickly, for I had prepared my speech the night before:
‘As thy presence is, gracious and kind,
Or to thyself at least kind-hearted prove:
Make thee another self, for love of me,
That beauty still may live in thine or thee.’
‘Yes,’ she said.
I blinked, unsure what next to say. I had words to entreat her, to praise her, but no words for a plain ‘yes’.
‘Oh, rapturous day,’ I said.
That seemed to be enough. She smiled.
But there was something missing here. Why did she give no cries of joy? Just that one small smile, and one word: yes. If she did not love me wildly, I was sure she did not hold me in distaste. My kisses were pleasant to her, and my company; and surely this house, where she would be daughter-in-law and, in years to come, wife of it all, must be welcome too?
Joan ran back to us. ‘Father is beckoning.’ And so we returned to the house, Anne at my side, her hands still holding her skirts above the damp.
I called upon her brother the next day. I wore my best breeches and shirt, wished I had aught but an apprentice’s cap.
Anne showed me in, her face as blank as her sister-in-law’s plates. There were no smiles nor kisses now.
Her sister-in-law rose and curtseyed as I came in, then left the hall with Anne.
Bartholomew bowed. ‘Master Shakespeare, I trust I see you well. I had meant to send thanks to your good father for our dinner. You may now bear the thanks to him from me.’ He did not ask me to sit, nor offered ale.
What was the matter here? Surely he must guess why I had come? And he was just a yeoman farmer, while my father had been high bailiff.
‘Sir, I come to ask for more than thanks. I wish to ask for your sister, Anne, to be my wife.’
Bartholomew affected to look surprised. But he must have seen the attention I paid his sister. If he did not know why I had come, why did his wife leave the hall, and Anne?
‘Are you serious, Master Shakespeare?’
‘Most serious, sir. I do believe Anne gives me her affection, as I give mine to her.’
‘Master Shakespeare, let me be blunt. You are eight years younger than my sister, a man not yet a journeyman, and yet you offer to take a wife?’
Had Anne known that he would refuse? Was that why she had given me only that plain ‘yes’?
I flushed. ‘I have my father’s house and estate to offer her.’ I wanted to add, ‘Who else do you think will marry her, twenty-six and plain of face, with chapped hands and faded dress?’
‘Sir, my answer must be no. I bid you good day.’
I hesitated, but no one came to accompany me to the front door. And so I turned and left, through the front door, along the garden path and out the gate. There was no sign of Anne.
I did not know if I was angry, despairing or relieved.
Dinner: pigeons, well fattened and roasted; and rabbits caught and fattened too, for it makes a man weak to eat only lean meat with winter coming; collops of beef; a pie of mutton tongues; jelly of pippins; small hollow biscuits; carrot puffs; sorrel with eggs; baked creams; a cheese with caraway; butter with liquorice and cinnamon; raisins of the sun. Jem has broached a new barrel of malmsey wine. I drank it hot, and found it excellent.
Bowels: at ease, and waters clear.