Page 36 of Love, Will

I gave her the space she needed for a while, then slowly stepped towards the bed and sat next to her. Anne did not react, only kept looking down, crying quietly. I raised my hand gently and touched her back, stoking lightly up and down to try to calm her and after seeing that my gesture was not received with further violence, I fully grabbed her into my arms, squeezing her tightly while she shed tears on my shoulder. We both sat there for a long time, two people with no other connection than a certificate of marriage.

When her tears dried out, she let go of the embrace and wiped her nose with a handkerchief she pulled out from her apron pocket. Then proceeded to finally look at me and demanded, “Who is she, William?”

I frowned and gazed at her in surprise, not understanding her meaning. This seemed to anger her again as she rose from the bed and stood upright in front of me, staring at me from above.

“Tell me who she is, William. I am still your wife and I want to know.”

I spotted hate and maybe even... jealousy?... in her eyes, so I quickly replied, “Who do you mean?”

Anne puffed angrily, then raised her tone. “Both Hamnet and your mother have read me your work. You are a published author now, yes?”

I felt pain at the name of my recently deceased son; she did as well because my wife stopped to dryly gulp down that lump in her throat before she continued. “Everyone talks about how great your plays are, how romantic you are, they call you the poet of true love,” she pushed.

I nodded, not knowing what to say to her. What the accusation meant.

“We both know this love is not something you write for me, so you must have an inspiration in London, correct? What do you actors call it... a muse?”

Unable to hold my face still any longer, I allowed drops of pain to show. I understood what she was asking and the memory itself opened rivers of agony in my chest.

“Tell me Will!” she shouted. “Who has your heart?”

I could not hold myself together any longer and started to cry. I bared my heart to my wife, sobbing, deeply, loudly, like a child, and did not dare to look Anne in the eyes. It was my turn to drop to the floor on my knees, defeated, drowning in the ache with my wife right before me, watching me crumble.

I remained kneeling before her and raised my hands towards her own, as if she was the only one who could save me from the sorrow. I hugged her hips as hard as I could and buried my face in her apron, still crying, allowing myself to feel all the emotions I kept hidden for months, the absence and the longing, the sound of my heart breaking. I cried so hard that I hoped to drip the tiny pieces of my shattered heart into her apron, so she could wash them away along with her own faded tears.

After a while, she started caressing my head, running her fingers through my hair. Anne allowed me to feel everything I needed and more; she was patient and did not say a word, becoming my pillar and holding herself firm, since I was unable to do so.

“Henry…” I breathed into her apron, in between gulping breaths.

“What?” she slowly bent over to hear the words I had so quickly expelled.

“His name is Henry…” I murmured and then forced myself to look up at her, to look into her eyes as the confession would condemn my soul to eternal damnation and possibly my body to hanging. “I am in love with a man,” I sighed.

“I see…” Anne whispered, still holding my gaze. She helped me up, and we both sat on the bed again, facing each other. My spouse gazed at me while slowly sucking at her lips, clearly trying to hold her words back, so I continued.

“He is an Earl... of Southampton,” I added. “And he broke my heart,” I rasped while an avalanche of pain hit me again.

It was my turn to bury my head into her shoulder and shed tears, while she only said, “It’s alright Will, I know everything about a broken heart.”

We spent the day talking; I told her everything that happened since I arrived in London and I even confessed our sexual engagements after which she needed a moment to recover. She assisted with my pain and sorrow, nodded whenever was necessary and asked questions she had about my life there, but especially about Henry. She seemed to be most interested in his physical aspect and how being intimate with him felt different from joining with a woman.

Whenever I needed a break from telling my story, she told me about her days, about her hopes and pain, how she suffered from my abandonment and thought she was the joke of town as everyone suspected the woman I was writing about in London was not her.

I asked for her forgiveness, swearing to do right by her from then onwards and become a better husband. Anne told me she did not need my love any longer, that she craved it for too many years and it had left a burnt taste at the back of her heart, and asked me to be her companion in life and offer her the support and company she needed.

We spent our days together, talking, walking around town and enjoying each other’s company in a way we never had when we were younger. She showed interest in learning about London, how the women wore their hair and the dresses they had, the atmosphere at the theatre and even who made our costumes.

For the last ten years she had been locked in the same house, reliving the same day while carrying her duties as a daughter to my parents and a mother to our children and never once complained about her role in the household or the fact that I had forced her to live in a small room for the longest of time.

“I’ve seen the house on the corner of Chapel Street and Chapel Lane is up for sale,” I said, sipping tea from my cup, admiring her flowers. Over the years, Anne took mother’s responsibilities and added the mending of the garden to her duties.

“Yeah, it’s been up for sale for a while now…”

“How so?” I asked.

“Well, it’s the second largest in the entire town, New Place, they call it. With all those bricks and timber,” she replied in awe.

“I understand it has ten fireplaces,” I remarked.

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