Page 9 of Love, Will

Chapter 2

“Love goes by haps; Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps” ~ Much ado about nothing

I met Anne when I was seventeen years old and delivered gloves. Father used to send me to make deliveries after I finished my tutoring hours and I had part of the afternoon free to give him a hand. I remember that day very well as I did not have dinner and came home famished, but instead of finding my mother preparing supper, I found her caring for my little brother Edmund who was very sick at the time. She and father roamed around the house, not knowing what plants to brew or what tincture to apply on his chest to make him better. When I saw my father busy and concerned, I went straight to the workshop to assume responsibility for the day.

One apprentice told me the status of the orders and we discovered that we almost missed one, which father was expected to deliver to Shottery, almost an hour by foot and two others that were completed and the other apprentice was to deliver as soon as he finished mixing the dyes for the next day. I immediately asked for the number of the house and took the order. It had been carefully packed in one of mother’s handmade pouches with embroidered lavender flowers.

By the time I realized they were for a lady, I was already halfway gone and did not feel at ease with what I had just offered. I did not trust my ability to be courteous on an empty stomach. Nevertheless, I hurried to Shottery along with my growling stomach on a chilly spring evening.

I spent little time on that side of town since myself and my companions from grammar school preferred to attend town dances or sit at the tavern when we could afford it, and Shottery was well known for housing expensive folk. I did take, however, time to admire their gardens and thatched roofs, making a mental note to tell mother if any notable gardening ideas came up on my journey.

I always loved the smell of flowers, grass and anything green, and these houses were full of blooming buds and newborn tulip bulbs. So the walk let my lungs rejoice in the fresh smell.

My stomach did not keep the pace, however, and yelled with a growl. Freshly made pastry. The smell radiated so addictive, wrapping me in a curtain of hunger. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath in, inhaling the smell as much as I could, hoping it would somehow take life inside my belly and fill it. I must have remained still, my muscles trapped by the aroma, as I heard a female voice addressing me.

“Do you need anything? Sir?”

I startled and woke up from imagining the deliciousness of a pastry downpouring in my stomach and looked in the direction the voice came from. I saw a woman in a grey dress with a white bonnet; she looked about to finish her chores of the day and gasped for a quiet moment.

“Pardon me, my lady, I did not mean to startle you. I was just enjoying a heavenly smell of pastry that is floating around so smoothly it would make even the gods come down and ask for a bite.” She chuckled. So did I.

“What are you, some kind of poet? Or some kind of beggar?”

I opened my mouth to answer, but she continued.

“No matter, they are one and the same.”

“My apologies, madam. I just…”

“Miss,” she corrected and interrupted me again.

“I need to find the house of the Hathaways,” I pushed. “To make a delivery.”

“Right then, that is why you are running so late. What are you, stopping at every house smelling their supper?”

“Pardon me?” I was shocked by the candor of this woman and the way she spoke to a man, with ferocious attire and stance. Like a queen commanding a crowd.

“You are to deliver the gloves to me, you nitwit. Come in.” She opened the door wide and stepped into the house, expecting me to follow. I hesitated for a moment, then realized how hungry and desperate I was to return home, so I followed her steps. She did not wait for me by the door, allowing me to enter first so she could follow behind, like a woman was supposed to. Instead, I let myself into the doorway and had to find her in the sitting room. When I did, she was at a table covered with embroidery and threads. Evidently, I had interrupted her activity by stopping to smell the pastries in front of her house. At the thought of food, my stomach growled again, and I immediately realized this house was the source of their making.

“Show me then,” she demanded, without inviting me to take a seat at the table. Was she by herself in the house? How was it even possible? Either way, it did not pose an impediment in my delivery, so I took the embroidered pouch and placed it on the table, avoiding any wrinkles and opened it from the side, unbuttoning where the design was fairest. I then took out the gloves, but she stopped me.

“Who did this? Was it your wife?” She grabbed the pouch from my hand and started admiring mother’s work. A sense of sheer pride inundated me.

“No madam... miss,” I corrected myself. “My mother made it.”

“Such a beautiful, soft hand. She is a mistress of the needle indeed, such soft features, the easiness of the piercing, precise direction and decision.”

“She is very good indeed. It is her passion,” I bragged with the proudest tone I could muster.

“What is the cost?

“The gloves are 12 pence. This is the usual cost, I assure you.”

“The pouch I meant.” She looked irritated that I did not grasp her question at first.

“This is…” I mumbled. “It does not have a fixed price, mother…”

“I will offer 20 pence for both,” she said decidedly, the bargain already struck and rose from the table to walk into another room, leaving me on my own.

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