Emilia

1604–1611

is 35–42

knew she was not the only person who wrote for Shakespeare. Kit had mentioned it years ago, hinting at the Earl of Oxford and others. There were certainly plays being produced with the name William Shakespeare on them that had not written.

She had asked Shakespeare, from time to time, who else he…well, represented, for want of a better term. He was coy. He said that he was bound to silence, much as he'd promised herself. Once, he asked her why it mattered. "When you go to the butcher for a haunch of meat," he'd said, "does it make a difference which housewife preceded you or came after you, so long as you were able to walk away with your roast?"

It was possibly the sole proof she had of Shakespeare's code of morality, murky as it was.

Yet had wondered at the housewife reference. Was she not the only woman he represented? She could not decide if the thought made her feel more competitive, or gleeful.

It was possible, supposed, that the additional plays allegedly penned by Shakespeare were indeed written by him. But he was a full-time actor with the King's Men, as well as a shareholder. Even if he never slept, had ample opportunity to read his writing every time he sent her a letter. Nowhere in those missives was evidence of the literary skill in "his" plays. She imagined Shakespeare's work had never improved much past the point of his Titus Andronicus, which she'd gussied up for him. If he was still writing at all, he had an editor, one who could take the straw Shakespeare put on the page and spin it into gold. More likely, he slapped his own brand on the works of others.

And what a brand it had become.

When had begun writing plays a decade earlier for Shakespeare, she had only wanted her words to be heard on a public stage, and to secure a modest income. She had required anonymity, and so, she'd borrowed the name of a man who was a nobody.

And unwittingly, she made him a somebody.

With the exception of Kit, and Ben Jonson, very few playwrights were name brands. Playwrights and players were both seen as the very dregs of society—until the quality of plays was genuinely elevated. A Shakespeare play was now in this category. Crowds thronged to the Globe to see them performed; sometimes they even cost a bit more. Legends had begun to spring up around him: he only brings fair copies to the King's Men, never foul, because his work needs no revision. He dreams up new words in his sleep.

Shakespeare preened under the attention, which was as necessary as air for him. The coat of arms he and his father had finally been granted was emblazoned anywhere he could put it; he bragged to that he could not enter a tavern without a young playwright offering to buy him a pint.

When Kit proposed using Shakespeare's allonym, had worried it might not work.

Now she worried that it might have worked too well.

had asked Shakespeare for a meeting, but he'd said he was busy preparing with the King's Men to perform Othello for the first time. The actors would be doing their read-through of the play at the Falcon Inn, in preparation for the performance at Whitehall for King James.

She had practiced her speech to him, but when she reached the inn's courtyard, she could not bring herself to enter. There were too many ghosts inside this building—of Kit, of her youth, and now, of her very own words read by the boisterous players inside.

After she'd spent about an hour of shivering in the cold breath of October, the actors began to bleed from the inn, clutching their parts. Some elbowed each other, deep in conversation as they passed her. Some stumbled, dizzy on ale. Shakespeare walked out with Richard Burbage, the actor who was starring in the tragedy. When he saw , he raised a brow and then clapped Burbage on the back. "I shall meet up with you anon," Shakespeare said.

Burbage's eyes alit on . Although she was no young woman anymore, she still attracted leers. "So you shall, Will," the actor said, laughing as he walked in the direction of the Globe.

"I should have thought you'd come inside," Shakespeare said. "Did you not wish to hear the play read?"

She folded her arms. "Burbage is playing the Moor?"

"He is the finest the King's Men has," Shakespeare replied.

"He is the wrong color," pointed out.

Shakespeare rolled his eyes. "There is paint for that," he said. "Now. What is the reason for your visit? Have you a new play for me?"

swallowed. "No, and I shall not, until we come to terms."

"We have come to terms, mistress."

"A decade ago. As a businessman you must recognize that when the market alters, so does the negotiation."

"Speak plainly," Shakespeare said.

"I would like to be compensated in proportion to the measure of your success." She swallowed. "Thirty shillings, instead of fifteen, for each play sold."

He smirked. "Why on earth would I give up a piece of my share?"

"Because without me you would be getting nothing at all."

Shakespeare folded his arms. "I could copy the Book of Common Prayer, slap my name at the top, and sell out a week of performances. People aren't flocking to the theaters because of your words. They come because they trust the name William Shakespeare."

"What do you think earned that trust?"

"Mayhap at first," he conceded. "But now?" Shakespeare shrugged. "They will consume anything I serve them. And there are other capable cooks."

"Are you so certain your audience will not notice a change in the work?" said.

"Are you so certain they shall ?"

swallowed. She could hear the words she had written into As You Like It: My pride fell with my fortunes.

"I wish you well, then, sir," she said, lifting her chin.

To her surprise, Shakespeare laughed. "So that is that," he said. "I did not expect such righteousness from a practical woman."

"That was your first mistake." She picked up her skirts, intending to walk away.

"Jonson is jabbering about his plays," Shakespeare said. "Calling them his works and hinting that he means to publish them as a collection." He waited for to turn and meet his gaze. "I may do the same."

"They are not yours," she said, her voice low.

"You were paid. The transaction is complete. They are owned by the shareholders of the Globe now. Of which I am one." He smiled at her. "It has been a pleasure doing business with you, mistress."

She hurried toward the Falcon Stairs to the ferry landing. It was not until she reached the dock that she stopped to catch her breath, gulping in air thick with the stench of rotting fish.

squeezed her eyes shut. "Dear God," she whispered. "What have I done?"

—

She quickly realized she would need new work. Alphonso's income rarely made it to their table in the form of food; he gambled or swilled it away. Capitalizing on the education she had received with the Countess, she reinvented herself as a tutor.

Life with Margaret Clifford, Countess of Cumberland, was not what she had been expecting. Her first inkling came when she arrived at the country estate to teach Lady Clifford's fourteen-year-old daughter, Anne. It was two days after the death of the Earl of Cumberland, and out of respect, wore black. She was ushered upon arrival into a room in the far wing of the manor house, one that reminded her of the one Mary Sidney had used. Similar glass phials and tubing were suspended over candles, held at the throat with metal clamps. Lady Clifford, a tall woman with a blade of a nose and overplucked brows, was scrawling notes on a piece of paper beside a bubbling brew that smelled strongly of vinegar and thyme.

"Hand me that, will you," the lady said, snapping her fingers and pointing at what looked like a finely woven fisherman's net.

passed it to Lady Clifford, who proceeded to turn the arm holding the glass phial and spill the contents through the sieve. Tiny spores of herbs caught in the weave, and the rest of the fluid gushed into another waiting silver bowl. The countess peered into it, then touched her pinkie finger to the fluid and licked it. "Still silver. That's disappointing." She sat back, wiping her hands on her apron. "You must be the music tutor."

"Yes, milady," said, curtsying.

"Do you know about alchemical matters?"

She blinked. "I knew a lady, once, who studied."

"I am more interested in physic and chirurgery and the distillation of medicines," the countess said. "But alchemy has its place."

assumed she was trying to change the silver bowl to gold. She looked up to find the woman staring at her. "My humble apologies, mistress," Lady Clifford said. "I have not offered you condolences on your loss."

blinked at her. "My…loss?"

Lady Clifford jerked her chin in the direction of 's dark clothing. "How dedicated to your craft you must be, to make this journey in your grief."

"I did not—I have not—" cleared her throat. "I beg your pardon, my lady. I sought only to show respect for your loss."

Lady Clifford looked at her for a moment. " My loss?" she said, and then she threw back her head and laughed so deeply it filled the bright laboratory. "My dear," she said, "the only regret I have for George's death is that I wasn't the one to kill him."

—

Margaret Clifford had removed to her country house years ago when her husband, George, began swiving every female at court and spreading the lie that it was her incompetence as a wife that had driven him to seek comfort in the arms of others. Instead of trying to clear her reputation, she plucked her daughter, Anne, out of London and decided to educate her with the same devotion she would have given to her two sons, had they survived childhood. If her daughter was destined, as Lady Clifford had been, to find herself at war with a man, then she wanted her armed to the teeth.

Londesborough Hall was in Yorkshire, which meant that had to leave Henry behind. She had entrusted him to Bess's care, and Alma's, knowing that they would keep him away from Alphonso while she was absent. When wasn't instructing Anne she was treated as an esteemed guest and not a hired tutor. She and Lady Clifford and Anne traipsed through the moors at dawn, mist nipping at their walking boots. After the evening meal, would play an instrument to accompany Anne as she sang, or to provide entertainment while Lady Clifford worked on her embroidery.

It took several days to figure out what was so different about this household. Yes, it was run by a pious, educated woman who believed her daughter had every right to an education as well. But that ethos seemed baked into the food they consumed and plastered into the walls surrounding them. There were both male and female servants in the house, but only the maids were part of the inner sanctum. It was a sort of paradise of women, a Themiscyra where Amazons might lay down their weapons and simply enjoy the company of their sisters.

"Is it not interesting," Lady Clifford said one afternoon, when they had finished a round of lawn bowling, "that there is not a male word for slut. "

's jaw dropped.

"There are so many terms to describe a woman who undertook the same behavior as my late husband, after all," Lady Clifford mused. "Whore, dollcommon, harlot. Moll. Prostitute."

glanced at Anne, who was still an innocent, but the girl was avidly nodding. "Wench," Anne added. "Bawd. Crushabell."

"Men are never the fornicators," Lady Clifford said. "Merely the ones who are cuckolded."

cleared her throat. "It does make one wonder who the women are bedding."

"Precisely!" Lady Clifford clapped her hands. "And why the English language has so very many ways to shame a woman into submission."

"I believe it comes down to obedience," said. "A woman who speaks when she is not asked to or who gives away the prize of her chastity has violated the natural order of things by asserting power."

"Indeed. I have often thought that the reason young ladies are denied a classical education is because, all things being equal, men would be left behind in the dust." Lady Clifford shrugged. "It is all of a kind, you know. The name-calling, the limits to learning, the reminder that a weakness of body must mean a weakness of spirit…why, it puts me in mind of a time the late earl refused to race a horse against one of Leicester's unless the man weighed his gelding down with stones."

"And a woman who flouts convention must needs be a witch," added. Both women turned sharply.

Margaret Clifford might be unusual, but she was a devout Puritan, and suddenly realized she may have crossed a line.

"Do you believe God favors man over woman, Mistress Lanier?" Lady Clifford asked.

's heart pounded; this felt like a test. "I believe that we are all God's children," she said carefully. "If we were made in His image, should we not be equal in His regard?"

Lady Clifford nodded, satisfied. "The Clifford estates are entailed in a way that would suggest the same," she said. "They descend to the eldest heir, male or female, and have done so since the time of EdwardII."

It took a moment to process what Lady Clifford was saying. She turned to Anne, who was the presumptive heir, then, to the Cumberland properties—which included castles in Skipton and Brougham and Appleby. "?'Tis true," Anne said. "I am a baron. Perhaps the only one in skirts." She jumped up to set the pins for lawn bowling again.

"You are likely the prettiest baron in the realm, darling," Lady Clifford said, watching Anne roll the ball. "But I'd wager you are also the smartest and most just—and far better suited to running the estates than your uncle Francis."

"Your turn, Mistress Lanier," the girl said, setting the pins again.

took the ball as Lady Clifford continued. "My late husband, determined to humiliate me posthumously, did not leave Anne her due. He bequeathed the earldom to his brother. Anne inherited the title Baron de Clifford only because it was created by writ. Oh, and a paltry sum of fifteen thousand pounds."

's swing flew wide. Paltry.

"But I shall fight the King if I must, to give my daughter her rightful inheritance."

"Mama is no stranger to battles like this," Anne said. "Mistress Lanier, do you know of Beamsley? It is an almshouse near Skipton for widows. My mother began the construction in 1593, and ever since, it has been a refuge for women of little means."

"Your charity is a credit to you, Lady Clifford," said.

Margaret Clifford stood, tossing the ball from hand to hand, squinting at the pins. "I wished only for my goodwill to outlive me," she said. "Yet there will come a time when I am no longer here to give voice to my wishes. I needed to be able to direct my legacy from beyond the grave."

"Hundreds of years from now, those buildings will still be earmarked as a haven for widows," Anne said. "It's part of the deed."

"Yes," Lady Clifford said, drawing back her arm. "They can never be sold or taken over. A man can't decide one day that he wants them. If you want to create something that men cannot dismantle," she said, letting the ball fly, "you must beat them at their own game."

Anne squealed. "Mama! You knocked them all down!"

Lady Clifford smiled. "Didn't I just," she said.

My darling boy,

I think you would like the place where I am staying. There is a moor that sucks at your feet when you walk upon it, and a home that feels crowded with ghosts. The young woman who is my pupil is learning quickly and, Henry, she is a lady and a baron! I know you think it impossible for those two words to sit side by side—and yet such impossibilities exist all around us: open secrets, sweet sorrow, civil war.

I have had word from Cousin Alma that you are applying yourself to your studies and so you must; so too should you heed Cousin Jeronimo in your musical education. He says you have composed a piece on recorder; pray, practice it so that I might hear it the moment I return.

I am sorry to tell you, my love, that I will not be with you for Christmastide. The Countess of Cumberland has asked me to attend her when she visits Cooke-ham, her brother's estate in Berkshire. There is sure to be a feast in the likes of which I have never partaken.

And yet, I shall be starving, because you are all that sustainsme.

Your loving mother

—

"I will never fall in love," Anne announced one day when she and were walking the forest grounds at Cooke-ham. Frost silvered the trees and their footsteps crunched on the snow.

"I do not know that it is a choice," replied.

The girl stopped walking. "You speak from experience, then? You are wholly devoted to your husband?"

picked up her skirts and began to move again. "I do not think your mother is the sort who would force you to marry if you do not wish it."

"Oh, I will likely marry," Anne said, shrugging. "I do not see how we will be able to litigate without the patronage of a man. But I would much rather get what is due me as heir than produce a successor for someone else's line." She glanced at . "I bore witness to my parents' marriage, mistress. I know very few marry for love."

"You are too young to be cynical."

"Were you not at my age?" Anne asked.

At Anne's age, she was two years in Hunsdon's bed. "No," she said softly. "I was too practical to be cynical."

"What does it feel like?" Anne asked. "Love?"

moved aside a low-hanging branch and considered the question. "Like drowning, I think."

Anne smirked. "And you call me cynical."

"I have heard it said that the hardest part is just allowing it to happen. That once you stop fighting it is quite…peaceful."

"Do all the dead wash up on the shore to tell you so?"

laughed and tugged at Anne's braid. "Minx," she said. "This is wholly anecdotal."

"If you mean to champion love, using the language of death to describe it is perhaps not the soundest argument."

"And if you mean to elude it you may find yourself still blindsided."

"That's exactly it," Anne said. "It's like fighting with your sword arm up the castle stairs, and leaving your heart exposed. Why make yourself vulnerable?"

"Well, for the same reason your lady mother distills metals and spirits. There are certain alchemical reactions where two distinct elements can come together and form something greater than the individual parts."

Anne smirked. "Half the time she blows things up by accident."

A twig cracked, and they looked up to find a doe staring at them from a clearing. Her ears twitched before she bounded deeper into the woods.

"Deer do not mate for life," Anne mused. "They travel separately, by sex, and come together in the woods only when the doe chooses to mate." It was an oversimplification, but knew she was not wrong. "The mamas raise their fawns without the stags anywhere nearby. The males serve their purpose…and then move on."

"True," said, "but you are not a doe."

"More's the pity." Anne turned. "How do you know ? That a man is…the one?"

thought of Southampton. It had been years since she had seen him, but she could not smell the first grass of spring without thinking of what it was like to lie with him on the banks of the marsh in Paris Garden. There were times she still was certain she saw him in a crowd, then blinked only to find the sun in her eyes. She could replay every encounter they had ever had like beads on a strand of pearls, polishing each moment in her memory. "When he is with you," said carefully, "you cannot be in the moment, because you are thinking of what it will feel like when he is gone. And when he is gone, you are missing the piece of yourself you care for most."

"That sounds miserable," Anne said.

"There are boons as well"— laughed—"but those are not for maidens to know."

"So a person who overwhelms you like a tide, who makes you forget yourself— willingly, and whose lovemaking causes your heart to beat faster, or whatnot—that is one's true love?"

"In brief, yes." slid a glance at her. "Have I convinced you, then, to open your mind to it?"

Anne shook her head vehemently. "No," she said, "but now I know what to avoid."

—

Lady Clifford decided to remain at her brother's estate past the holiday, and within a few months, spring exploded across Berkshire. Cooke-ham sparkled like a tiara jeweled with sapphire ponds and emerald lawns and amethyst blossoms bursting from the lilac trees. scribbled ideas for the beginning of a poem while Anne studied Euclidian theorems. Lady Clifford had spent the morning attempting to smelt iron with coal, but frustration brought her outside to join them. It was an Eden, realized. A garden of knowledge that, this time, was unrestricted to women.

Sweet Cooke-ham, where I first obtained / Grace from that grace where perfect grace remained, wrote.

If was Eve in this paradise, then it was the Countess of Cumberland from whom she was receiving favor. If only she could guarantee an income forever here, and not have to worry about the fact that when Anne married, she would once again be penniless. If only she did not need Shakespeare to share her writing.

She had never imagined there was a noblewoman like Margaret Clifford, who would champion equality not just in her own daughter's education but in a public court of law that would award Anne the inheritance she deserved.

What if there were others?

What if could find them?

It was common practice for poets to dedicate their work to noble benefactors who they hoped might support them. If could garner the patronage of strong, educated women—well, perhaps she would never again have to rely upon men.

Beat them at their own game, Lady Clifford had said.

could not write plays under her own name. But there was no reason she could not use poetry to write about faith and godliness and all the other qualities men wished women to have. She personally did not give a fig about Jesus—for the Bible ended with the first volume—but who would dare criticize her if she wrote about Christ on the cross?

looked up from her writing desk and smiled.

Lady Clifford caught her eye. "You look as if you've discovered the philosopher's stone."

"Mayhap," said, "there is more than one way to achieve eternal life."

—

Another outbreak of the plague in 1606 sent back home, as Lady Clifford and Anne traveled abroad to escape the pestilence. She was overjoyed to reunite with Henry but was once again forced into proximity with Alphonso.

She spent hours sitting at the oak table writing, as her husband stomped around their home. His hay patent provided minimal income, but disease kept people from coming and going in the city, so their budget for rent and food was once again reduced. Bess found ways to stretch a meal, but there was no coin from 's plays to purchase herbs that could be fashioned into remedies or preventatives for disease that she might sell as she had done during previous epidemics. Instead, Alphonso watched her with hooded eyes. "Can you not find another paid position?" he demanded.

"Hmm," she said, hardly giving him attention. "Indeed, that is what I attempt to do."

Scattered across the table were ten different poems dedicated to women of great standing and piety—from Lady Clifford and her daughter to Queen Anne and her daughter Princess Elizabeth and Lucy Russell, Countess of Bedford. She wanted these ladies to be her patrons. If she could use her poems to celebrate their devotion and piety, then she hoped they would offer her charity. Surely not doing so would make them look considerably less devoted and pious.

It was harder to write as herself than it had been to write as Shakespeare. Stylistically, she did not want to invite comparison—there was still too much risk. The cadence of the prose must be different from what she usually wrote. She found herself forcing her natural lyrical style into the base expectations of what a female poet might be, and making it formulaic and strained instead.

Bess appeared with a trencher. "Mistress? Shall I serve?"

"Of course," said. "I am nearly finished with this…letter." She looked at Alphonso. "You know, you, too, could tutor music."

He scoffed. "I am so proficient I could not lower myself to work with a beginner."

God save her from stupid men.

Bess placed a knife beside her, and a loaf of bread wrapped in linen. Henry clattered down the stairs, drawn by the smell of the meal.

"Darling," said, smiling at him. "How is the Cicero?"

"Tedious," he said. He sank down into his usual seat on the far bench. He was thirteen now, more man than boy, with a fine fuzz on his upper lip and a voice that broke in the middle of sentences. He was growing up too fast, and she knew he would leave her house soon.

All the more reason for her to focus on her book of poetry. It truly was her last hope.

She was working today on the longest poem in the collection, a defense of Eve. The Christians believed that the pain of childbirth was recompense for Eve's original sin, but dear God, all the woman had done was offer a piece of fruit to her partner.

Surely Adam cannot be excus'd.

Her fault, though great, yet he was most to blame;

What Weakness offered, Strength might have refus'd,

Being Lord of all, the greater was his shame.

If man was so very superior, might he not just have said he wasn't hungry?

"Wife," Alphonso ordered. "Stop your scribbling."

looked up at him, set down her quill, and gathered her papers. "Yes, of course." She handed the pile to Bess, taking a trencher in return.

"Wife. You are sitting in my seat."

She blinked up at him innocently. It was true that in all the years they had lived in this house, Alphonso had taken his meals at the head of the table, where now settled. Henry sat opposite, and and Bess shared the long bench on the side. "Why is this your seat?" she asked.

"Because…" He frowned. "Because it is where I always sit."

"So your position is accorded simply by habit?"

"My position is accorded by me being the head of this household," Alphonso said. "By me being the man of the family."

Henry watched this exchange, chewing his food.

"Why that seat?" pressed.

"It is the best," Alphonso said, although there was nothing unique about his chair. If anything, it was rickety.

"Ah." She nodded, then moved to the long bench. "It is odd, Husband, that you'd not choose the longest seat, then. Biggest is best, no?"

He narrowed his eyes. Then he grabbed his trencher and shoved it to the side of the table. "Move," Alphonso ordered, sitting down nearly on top of her before could return to the head of the table.

"To be clear," she said, "is that now your seat? I wouldn't want to mistake it again and cause distress."

Alphonso grunted, and Henry smothered a laugh with a cough.

"So it turns out that a man's position is not accorded by habit," mused.

Alphonso pushed back his trencher. "You sour my stomach, woman," he groused, and he stalked out the front door.

took a sip of ale and tore a hunk of bread from the loaf. She looked at Henry. "Another serving, darling?" she asked, and she winked.

—

Over the next few years, balanced her household chores with her writing, perfecting her poetry. One day, while at a market buying cooking grease, she passed a bookseller displaying his newest wares. "Fancy a read, missus?" he asked. Before she could say no, she noticed the title page.

Shake-Speares Sonnets. Never before Imprinted.

"How much?" she heard herself say.

"A shilling."

She counted the poems: 154 of them, followed by a long piece called "A Lover's Complaint." She walked until she found a spot to sit and read.

Several poems that she had sold him over the years—including the sonnet she had written for Odyllia—were included.

The rest, she could only assume, he had purchased from some other poets. It was outrageous to claim that the pittance paid to them at the time of sale encompassed the right to publish them again, even more widely, without compensation.

That rat bastard.

Forgetting the rest of her shopping list, hurried back to her lodgings, where she pulled out the stack of papers that would become her book of religious poetry. For too long, she had been refining it. She really had only one chance to acquire the financial support of the ten patronesses in her dedications.

But this?

This was war.

—

It took over a year to find a publisher who was willing to meet with a woman.

Bess helped air out the one court gown that she had not sold during the past decade to put food on the table. It was hopelessly out of fashion but still made of the finest velvet, with pearls sewn into the fabric and a lace collar and cuffs that they bleached in the sun to restore to snowy white. Bess would accompany her to the meeting—a lady would always be attended by her maid.

Richard Bonian's publishing offices were not far from her lodgings, but it was a warm day and she had walked there in her heavy dress. She was flushed and sweating, partly because of the weather and partly because of nerves. Bess sat in a chair in the corner of the room, her eyes wide as saucers, while Master Bonian took 's manuscript into his ham-size hands.

" Salve Deus Rex Jud?orum, " he read aloud.

"Yes, that is the title," said. "Hail God, King of the Jews."

"It is a psalter then?"

shook her head. "Not a book of psalms, sir, but a book of poetry."

"Women do not write poetry," Bonian said.

She smoothed her hands over her skirt. "What you hold in your hands proves otherwise."

He assessed her elaborately pinned hair, her dated dress. "You are married, Mistress Lanier? And your husband supports this strange endeavor?"

"He is indeed the very reason I am called to write," said. Bess coughed.

Bonian shuffled through the pages, skimming her work. " You came not in the world without our pain…Make that a bar against your cruelty. Your fault being greater, why should you disdain / Our being your equals, free from tyranny? " He raised a brow. "A Defense of Eve ? From the point of view of a woman?"

"Indeed," replied. "How else should I see the world?"

"This is heretical," Bonian said. "No male wishes to be called out as cruel or flawed."

"No female wishes that, either."

"Yes, but they are not buying the books I publish."

leaned forward. " Yet, " she said. "You are a businessman, sir. Most noblewomen can read."

"And so they do—the Bible or the Sidney Psalter."

"Because there is little else published that celebrates their virtue and their faith," argued. "If the material does not exist, then naturally they cannot purchase it."

Bonian drummed his fingers on his desk.

She lowered her gaze. "I could never claim to understand the tides of business," said. "I speak only as a woman myself, called on by God to reflect on the piety of those who are my betters."

Bonian pursed his lips. "It will be too expensive to print. Cut it down to five dedicatory poems."

"You ask me to choose between my right hand and my left. It would be impossible to leave out any of these patronesses."

The publisher shook his head. "I cannot accommodate you, then. The cost would be prohibitive."

hesitated. If she cut five of the dedications, that was five fewer women she was appealing to for money. "I see," she said, rising to her feet. "Thank you for your time, Master Bonian. Bess, come. Master Thorpe will not wish to wait."

tried to silently communicate to Bess to follow her lead, though they did not have another meeting set up. She was bluffing.

"Thorpe?" Bonian said. "Thomas Thorpe?"

nodded. "You are acquainted?"

She did not know Thomas Thorpe. She only knew that his name was listed as publisher on Shakespeare's book of sonnets.

"I believe he has recently published a book of poetry," said. "And is looking for more."

She watched Bonian's face flush and thought how wonderfully predictable men could be. "Fine," he said. "I will publish your book. It must be a limited print run if you insist on keeping all the prefatory material. Otherwise it is too risky an endeavor, and Thorpe would tell you the same. You are no Shakespeare."

smiled, sinking back into the chair. "Of course not," she said.

—

She never would truly know why her book was not successful. Was it because she hinted at dangerous ideas in these poems? Was it that she hadn't dared to create literary fireworks while writing in her own name?

Was it because the husbands of the women she had hoped to entice would not allow their wives to read a female author? Did they fear the blank canvases of women's minds could be filled with thoughts of something other than them?

Of the ten ladies had hoped to attract as patrons for her writing, not one stepped forward. Not even Margaret Clifford and Lady Anne, who—to be fair—were embroiled in the court battle to wrangle Anne's inheritance back from her uncle. It stung. She had written a passionate elegy championing women, only to have women turn their backs on her.

By the time winter snarled into London in 1611, there was no money left. Henry was working with Alphonso, occasionally playing at court to fill in for one of the recorder players or flutists, and they were still collecting the hay patent money—but Alphonso drank away the coin almost as soon as it was made. For the first time in her life, had no secret stash of income to fall back upon. There were nights they skipped meals. Alma would visit with a basket of table leavings, saying that they had more than they could consume, and although 's cheeks burned to accept such charity, her belly ached too much to turn her cousin away.

One night, found herself unable to sleep. Ever since Henry had grown, she had bedded down with Bess, the maid willingly giving up half her tiny room for her mistress. Careful not to wake Bess, carried a candle downstairs, listening to the wind hiss through the cracks in the door.

At forty-two, she would have to re-create herself, once again. But she was so, so tired.

She found her writing desk where Bess had stored it near the dark hearth. Pulling her wrap tighter around her shoulders, she slipped free a piece of paper and removed the bottle of ink she now watered down to make it last longer. She cut a fresh point to her quill.

She gripped the quill in her hands, and for the first time ever had no idea what to write.

Words had transported her when she was a child trapped by circumstance. Words had helped her escape her prison as a woman and had knit back the bones she broke as a wife. Words had bricked the wall she had started to build sixteen years ago, after aborting the child of the only man she would ever love.

"A sad tale," she whispered softly, "is best for winter."

She had convinced herself that suffering was bearable if it meant justice in the end. But what if her struggles did not change the perception of those whose lives her work had brushed against? What if she was less than a footnote, bound to be forgotten?

Since what I am to say must be that

Which contradicts my accusation, and

The testimony on my part no other

But what comes from myself, it shall scarce boot me

To say "Not guilty": mine integrity

Being counted falsehood, shall, as I express it,

Be so received. But thus: if powers divine

Behold our human actions, as they do,

I doubt not then but innocence shall make

False accusation blush and tyranny

Tremble at patience.

She wrote in a stream of consciousness, the plea of one who had already been found at fault, one who had nothing left in her arsenal with which to fight.

This would be a story about a woman who had done nothing wrong.

She'd be exiled, pregnant, because of her husband's jealousy.

Sixteen years would pass, and he would believe his wife was dead…until he saw her again. Would the husband realize his mistake and learn to trust those he loves, or would any change in his behavior simply be due to amazement at seeing her alive again? wasn't certain. But one thing was clear: neither husband nor wife would ever wipe away the losses they'd suffered.

At dawn, Bess found asleep at the table. As soon as Bess gently shook her awake, knew what she had to do.

—

The crowd at the Mermaid Tavern was well in their cups. Not much had changed since had last visited the Bread Street establishment, with Kit. It was the first Friday of the month, and the Sireniacal Fraternity—a drinking club—was loud and boisterous, each member trying to best the others with a raunchy joke.

She had sold a posy ring for funds so that she could pay a beggar boy outside the Globe to tell her where Shakespeare went for company and drink. Now, she sat with her back to the wall in a corner, her cloak hiding her face, so that she could remain as anonymous as possible. She recognized Ben Jonson from her meeting at Mary Sidney's poetry salon years ago, but his eyes skated over her, as if he found her features familiar but was unable to place them.

A tavern maid brought another ale, along with a bowl of stew. She handed over the last of her coin—she would be walking home, then, no hack for her. "Mind they don't spill on ye," the woman said, jerking her chin in the direction of one of the drunk men, who was now inexplicably wearing a pair of smallclothes on his head, tied beneath the chin like a baby's bonnet. "Last meeting, they tried to see if one of the half-wits could swim by dumping a pitcher of ale on his head."

As she walked off, the rowdy lot began banging on the table, and Shakespeare was ferried forward, spilling the contents of his mug on his doublet. "Give us a jest, Will!" one of the men yelled.

He brushed his hair off his face with his free hand and began. "?'Twas a girl from the forest of Arden…"

Arden. It was the name of the forest in As You Like It —a fingerprint she had intentionally left behind, a nod to the title of the first play she had ever written.

"Who was blowing a lad in the garden!" Shakespeare continued, and the crowd roared in delight. "He said, I don't follow, it seems you are hollow …and she belched and said, Do beg yer pardon! "

He took a stumbling bow as the others toasted him. stood, clapping, and when the rest of the crowd had sunk to their benches again to drain their drink, she remained on her feet until Shakespeare noticed her.

He walked over and sat down at her table. "Mistress. I did not know you frequented the Mermaid."

"I do not," she admitted. "I was hoping to find you." took a deep breath. "I have come to apologize."

"Ah." Shakespeare smirked. "I thought that was the only word in the English language you did not know."

"I have written a play," said, drawing out the manuscript she had completed, tied with string. "It is a comedy of sorts."

"I have not been producing comedies," he said.

This was true; King Lear and Macbeth and Antony and Cleopatra and Timon of Athens —all written in the years during which they had not spoken, presumably crafted by other playwrights whose work he brokered—were the very opposite.

"All the more reason it is time for one."

He pursed his lips. "I do not know how much longer I shall keep up the charade. I find myself wishing to retire to Stratford. The business is wearying."

did not have the luxury of rest. " The Winter's Tale is not just a comedy," she clarified. "It is one born of tragedy at the start."

He tilted his head. "How so?"

She leaned forward. "A jealous king, Leontes, accuses his wife, Hermione, of infidelity with his best friend—though she's innocent. The king imprisons her, she gives birth, and the baby girl is hidden away and raised by shepherds. When she is brought to trial, her son dies of distress, and hearing that, so does she."

"This sounds miserable," Shakespeare said.

"No, because sixteen years have passed. King Leontes realizes his judgment was harsh. Meanwhile, his baby daughter grows up unaware of any of this. Perdita falls in love with the son of a prince, whose father does not approve of them because of the difference in their station. But this prince is the very son of King Leontes's best friend—and when it is discovered that Perdita is the king's long-lost daughter, the marriage is allowed. Everyone is reunited, Leontes and his best friend are reconciled, Perdita can get married."

"Well," Shakespeare said. "This is happier."

"But wait! A statue is presented—a rendering of Hermione, the wronged queen. Leontes is stunned by how realistic and beautiful it is…and then it comes to life." met his gaze. "You see? Time heals all wounds."

They were no longer speaking of the play. "And yet," he said, his voice chilled, "scars remain."

"I beg of you, Master Shakespeare. I need this. I need… you. "

For a long moment, he regarded her. She felt like a mouse in a field with a hawk circling. "I read your book," he said finally.

She blinked; she had not anticipated this. "You," she said wryly, "and six others in the whole of England."

"It did not sound like you. By which I mean: it did not sound like me. "

"That was my hope," replied.

Shakespeare scratched at his beard. "Our partnership is but a riddle. What grows bigger the more one takes away?"

"A hole," answered.

"Or a man," he said quietly, "who takes credit due another."

It was, she thought, the closest thing to contrition she would ever hear from Shakespeare. She supposed there was a different sort of emptiness in knowing that you were praised for work that was not your own. How strange that there had been two of them sharing this name, and neither one felt complete.

"You always had such hubris, mistress," Shakespeare said. "It is interesting to see you groveling."

's eyes flashed. "I am not—"

"Ah"—he grinned—"so it is you, after all." He plucked the play from her grasp. "One last play…for old times' sake." He stood up. "However, terms cannot be as they were. Ten shillings."

Before, he had paid her fifteen.

"Yes," said, swallowing. "Of course."

—

She did not see Shakespeare again, nor she did see The Winter's Tale performed. She had ten shillings that had to last her, and she could no longer afford to go to the theater.

She taught music for a few pence a week to local children; she sewed herbs into muslin bags to create teas that could cure a headache, get rid of moles and rashes, prevent conception. Her business spread by word of mouth, and she operated from her home whenever Alphonso was not around to grow angry. Local women who patronized her knew that when she hung a lavender wreath on her door, she was open for business.

It was on a blustery September day in 1613 when Alphonso was at court that was preparing a tisane for a midwife who was going through the change of life. "Cold one minute, and boiling the next," the woman was saying. "I scarce know whether to wear all me skirts at once or take them off and run stark naked down the street—"

At a knock on the door, Bess left her post at the hearth, where she was shelling walnuts. "Master Jeronimo," she said loudly, warning .

"Mistress Sitwell," murmured, pushing the loose herbs into a pouch and handing them to her, "perhaps we can finish our conversation later."

The midwife nodded, glancing to Jeronimo, who stood in the doorway, holding his hat in his hands. He turned to allow the woman to pass, and then looked at Bess.

"Bess," said. "Give us a moment."

" Piccolina, " Jeronimo said, taking 's hand and leading her to the chair by the fire.

She did not have to hear the words to know. "Alphonso is dead?"

Her cousin nodded. "Yes. I wanted you to hear it from me."

"How?"

His throat bobbed. "He went to bed and he did not wake up."

narrowed her eyes. " Whose bed, Jeronimo?"

"A singer who accompanied the recorder troupe for King James."

A laugh startled out of , and she clapped her hand over her mouth. She dissolved into giggles, clutching her sides. "Well," she said, finally. "At least he went doing what he loved."

Jeronimo backed away. "Should I get Alma for you?"

"That will not be necessary," said. "I thank you for coming to tell me."

He walked toward the door, hesitating at the threshold. "I know, Cousin, that it was not always easy for you."

smiled faintly. "We must not speak of it. It's over."

She waited until the door closed behind him. There would be much to do—receiving the body, purchasing a winding-sheet, contacting Saint James in Clerkenwell so that Alphonso might be buried in the churchyard. She would have to speak to Henry, who—at court—would have heard the news. She would have to talk to Alphonso's brother about the hay patent to make sure she continued to receive some of the income due—she was quite certain Alphonso had not written a will. Those who think they are invincible rarely do.

Her hands went to the neck of her kirtle to make the customary tear. But instead of ripping the rough fabric, she patted the space over her heart.

walked to the back of the apartments, where the master bedchamber was. She pulled the coverlet from the bed and stripped the blankets and linens from the wool-stuffed mattress. She balled these up and threw them across the room. She went to Bess's room and carefully opened the stitches at the top of the feather bed, slipping her fingers inside to retrieve the miniature of Southampton she had moved into the chamber when she began sleeping there. She took it back to the master bedchamber, fisting it in her palm. Then she lay facedown on the bare mattress, her hand clasped around the image of the man who'd held her heart, and she slept better than she had for years.

—

The quality of mercy is not strained , thought. It was impossible not to think of the indefatigable character of Portia as now sat in a court of law, facing her brother-in-law, Innocent. She was the only woman in a sea of men, and she was attempting to get what was rightfully hers.

As Alphonso's widow, she should have continued to receive a portion of the hay patent her husband had secured years earlier, but Innocent had kept the money himself. When she could not bully him into paying her share, she brought the petition before the assizes, where it was heard by a judge who moved the case to the King's Bench.

She had thought often about Lady Clifford and Lady Anne, whose inheritance battles had only grown more complicated. When a court had decided that Lady Anne was entitled to half the old earl's estate, she refused, saying she deserved all of it.

wondered if those two noble ladies felt more confident amid the clerks and barristers that moved through Westminster Hall in their dark robes. She thought about Christine de Pizan's assertion that women and men were both capable of learning the law. She thought of how in her play, Portia had played at being a man in court.

"Mistress Lanier," the chief justice before her said. "I shall ask you one more time. Are you certain you wish to represent yourself?"

She could not afford a lawyer. "Who else could better tell my story, sir?"

The chief justice shook his head. "Proceed."

"I base my argument on the precedent set by Slade's case," said, rising, "through the action of assumpsit. By failing to pay me money due from the patent left to me as my husband's widow, Innocent Lanier has committed deceit, and is liable." She sat back down in a rustle of skirts, listening to the hushed whispers flying around the room. From the corner of her eye, she saw Innocent's barrister, a serjeant-at-law, lean toward him and murmur in his ear.

The chief justice blinked at her. "Have you legal training, mistress?"

"I…read, sir. Widely."

Innocent's barrister stood. "The defense wishes for a stay," he said. "We did not expect the plaintiff to have such a comprehensive understanding of English contract law."

There was a clamor behind . "Are you truly claiming," a voice said, "that the defense wishes it had prepared a defense? You should not have assumed your plaintiff was not a worthy adversary."

The speaker approached the chief justice. "My lord," the justice said. "You honor us with your interest in these proceedings."

Southampton turned, his gaze skating over , then settling pointedly on Innocent's lawyer. "Well," he said, " someone has to." He turned to , his face impassive. "Mistress, am I correct in understanding that the patent of which you speak is the very same that my former guardian, Lord Burghley, arranged for your husband?"

"Yes, my lord," managed. She stared at his long hair, still red, if threaded now with gray. His bright eyes. The smile that tipped higher on one side than the other.

"What debt is owed?"

A lifetime, she thought.

"Eighteen pounds," she said.

His gaze was locked on hers. He took a step closer, and then stopped. Slowly, he turned to Innocent. "And you, Master Lanier, what claim do you hold on the patent?"

"My brother said it was mine to do with as I wish."

"You have written proof of this claim?" Southampton said.

She had forgotten so much about him. That he commanded attention without even trying. That he had a small scar through his right eyebrow, from swordplay with sticks when he was a child. That he had been trained in the law at Gray's Inn and could likely argue circles around everyone in this chamber.

"I have it…somewhere," Innocent replied.

"Unless you can produce it, I should think it is in the best interests of the court to follow the letter of the patent law as decreed by Lord Burghley originally." He smiled at the chief justice. "But of course, this is not my bench."

The chief justice could not be seen contradicting the Earl of Southampton; as a legal strategy, what the Earl said was effective. "Indeed, this was to be my judgment," he said. "The plaintiff in this action upon assumpsit shall recover not only damages but also the whole debt. The defendant will be required to pay Mistress Lanier twenty pounds."

The observers in the chamber erupted in discussion as the justice called for the chamber to be vacated. Innocent started toward , but Southampton stepped between them. "Mistress," he said quietly. "A moment of your time?"

The room emptied until she was left standing in a shaft of sunlight with Southampton. She smelled the tallow of the candles sputtering in sconces and the faint thread of tobacco. She smoothed her hair and ducked her face, suddenly aware she was thirteen years older than when they were last together.

He caught her hand. "Don't," he murmured. He looked down at her fingers, resting in his, and dropped them suddenly as if they were glowing coals.

"Thank you," said simply.

Southampton smiled faintly. "I could not let him continue to torment you beyond the grave, could I?"

"How did you know?"

"Your brother-in-law crossed my path at an inn," he said. "Foolish men brag when they drink."

She let herself study him—the fine sprays of lines at the corners of his eyes, the parentheses carved around his smile. "You are well?"

He nodded. "And you?"

"I am better now," she confessed.

He tilted his head. "How is he?"

She knew immediately what he was asking, and she felt that familiar rush of pride swell through her, blooming on her face. "Henry is lovely," said. "He is kind, and thoughtful, and smart as a blade. He is the best musician in my family."

"I have heard him play once or twice at court," Southampton said. "I wished to talk to him. But I did not know…" His words dried like dust. "I did not."

wondered if her son would remember Southampton. He had been so little when they spent time together in Paris Garden, pretending to be a family.

"I have two daughters and two sons," he blurted out, and she froze.

"I know."

His breath huffed between them, falling like a stone. "I do not know why I said that."

"To remind me," she whispered, "that you still can never be mine."

He met her gaze. "So much has changed, ," he said, "and so much has not."

She felt her throat tighten and her eyes filling with tears, so she turned away. "I must go."

Immediately, he stepped away, clasping his hands behind his back. "If your brother-in-law does not pay you expediently, have you another income?"

For one brief, terrifying moment, she thought he might suggest employing her again. Perhaps this time for his daughters and sons, as a tutor. She thought if he spoke the words, she would leave this building and walk straight into the Thames.

"I shall survive," said. "I always do." She swallowed, stuck in the tar of memory. "Do you regret it?" she asked, grateful that she could not see his face.

The weight of their history pressed down on them. She thought he might not answer, to spare her from hearing the truth.

Then Southampton said, "I don't think there is right, or wrong. There are only choices, and consequences." He hesitated. " What we changed was innocence for innocence. "

Her heart began to pound as he quoted The Winter's Tale to her. She turned and took a step toward him, finishing the line. " We knew not the doctrine of ill-doing, nor dreamed that any did. "

"You are a fan of theater, too," Southampton said. "That play, it is my favorite. It stayed with me."

She could barely form her lips around words. "Did it?"

" Exit, pursued by a bear, " he said, quoting one of the stage directions—words she had written after remembering the story he'd told young Henry at Paris Garden. "Time appeared on the stage as a character itself, to mark the passage of sixteen years in the play. And strangely, that performance was sixteen years after the happiest summer of my life." Southampton took her hand, rubbing his thumb over her palm. "I read your last letter so often it fell apart, . But it did not matter, because I knew the words by heart. A sad tale's best for winter, " he quoted.

For years had felt like the sole occupant of a lighthouse, sending a beam toward him over the dark ocean. For years there had been no response. And now? To know that her words had not only reached him but guided him to her shore?

A small cry climbed the ladder of her throat, and then she was in his arms and pressed against him and his mouth was crushed to hers. His hands speared into her hair, scattering the pins like raindrops around them. She melted like wax, shaped against him, remade.

was twenty-three, looking up at him with the sun a halo on his hair, as he traced a message over the flat of her belly: Mine. She was twenty-four, swallowing the herbs that would flush the proof of that from her body. She was twenty-nine, attempting to stay upright as he told her he was married. And now this. Their time together had never been linear; it was a loop, and they were destined to keep returning to the start, and getting nowhere.

When they finally drew apart, she put her hands against Southampton's chest.

"Did you think of me, when you were writing it?" he asked, his lips against her temple.

"Yes," she confessed. "And also when I wasn't."

Then she realized what she had just admitted. "My lord," she said, panicking. "You…you cannot—"

"I would never," he said quickly. "It has been so many years since I alone knew your secrets. I would not be so unwise as to give up that honor again."

She lay her palm against his cheek. "Oh, Henry," said.

He caught her hand in his again and brushed his lips against her knuckles, a goodbye.

closed her eyes. She squeezed his fingers, as if she might be able to hold on to him this time. Do not leave me, she prayed, silently. Just one more breath, one more moment, with you.

But she was an expert in being disappointed.