Chapter 9

T hey stood on Henley Street.

The house loomed across from them.

She stared at it. It was the perfect sort of depiction of a house one expected from the period of Shakespeare's time. Yes, it was a beautiful structure that had withstood centuries.

And yet she felt nothing.

It was alarming. No, she didn't feel nothing. That wasn't accurate. She didn't feel what she'd expected to feel. It was upsetting. And as she gazed at the house, as her heart began to sink, she fisted her gloved hands and gritted her teeth.

"What is it?" Ajax asked softly.

"I don't know," she replied, desperately searching inside herself for an answer. "I was looking for something."

"And you haven't found it?" he queried without judgement.

She tore her gaze from the house on the street and gazed up at him. Henley Street was extremely busy. People were passing back and forth, going about their daily lives, living just as they should. There was nothing particularly magical about the house. Nothing great, so to speak. It was very old. It had clearly been there for centuries, and the people who lived in it were now long distant from William Shakespeare. Though her research had indicated to her that the owners were still connected to him.

She let out a sharp breath and shook her head. "I don't know what I thought I'd feel. Truly, I came here looking for… I don't know now."

"You came here looking for you, Win," he said gently.

Her insides… Oh, dear God, her heart ached at that.

"Is that true?" she gasped, trying to keep herself from vibrating apart before the house William Shakespeare had grown up in.

He nodded slowly. "It is indeed true. At least, that's what I think. That's why you came to Shakespeare's childhood home, to Stratford. Somehow you thought you'd find yourself here, but, Win," he said with utter conviction. He looked like he longed to take her hand in his, but he could not in such a public setting, especially as she was dressed as a young man. Young men did not need their hands held. That was one of the harsh realities of society too.

He paused and then declared, "You've always been there inside you. You didn't need to go looking for you. You just needed to let you out. And you're doing that."

She stared at the house again as his words washed over her. Her eyes began to fill with tears, and she cursed herself. She wasn't supposed to cry, not dressed like this. She couldn't.

Everything had been so wonderful. Everything had been going just right. He had opened doors to her that she hadn't even known existed. And now here, everything was beginning to unravel.

Except for him. He was a thread that seemed determined to pull her together into something new.

Stratford-upon-Avon was not an unmitigated disaster, of course, because she'd discovered that she was not as trapped as she'd believed. That she was not broken as she'd thought. He was opening pathways to her that she hadn't even known existed.

But as she stood here with him, there was no escaping that Shakespeare's house was not a doorway to some magical understanding of herself. The entire town wasn't. She thought she'd find more than this.

"You know what?" he ventured boldly "I think that we need to continue your adventure but differently. You've seen this house. It is just a house. People are born in it. They live their lives in it. They struggle. They fight just as we know Shakespeare's father did. And then those people die. And the house? Well, the house passes to someone else. The house itself is just a place where people play out their lives. It's like a theater. And inside is the stage. The acts come—tragedies, comedies, all of it. And then the curtain falls until a new play opens."

She blinked. "How did you become so wise?"

"Am I?" He laughed. "I did not think I was the wise one in my family. I think you'll find that my mother and my brothers are far wiser than me."

"Cease," she stated.

"What?" he queried.

"Speaking thus about yourself, Ajax," she said. "You mustn't."

"Was I speaking poorly of myself? I wasn't aware of it."

"Yes, you were," she said, "and despite the din of the street and my own discomfort, I see it."

"What?" he asked, tensing.

She squeezed her hands together, remembering that sometimes telling the truth put her in a horrible spot, but she couldn't stop herself. "You are terribly good at living free, but the truth is you don't think well enough of yourself."

His shoulders tensed under his fine coat. "I don't know what to say about that."

"You don't have to say anything," she replied. "Just think about it. Now, if this is just a stage and the people in it are the actors, what are we to do now?" She winced. "There is no script to tell us."

His tension dissipated and he winked. "That's right. There's no script and so we don't know what's coming next."

"But I have that whole itinerary," she protested.

"Yes, you do," he agreed. "Shall we stick to it?"

She bit the inside of her lip. "I wanted to see all those places."

"Then let's," he said. "But I think there's somewhere I'd like to show you."

"Oh," she said, curious now. "Where?"

"How would you like to see the castle of a kingmaker?"

Her eyes widened and she was stunned because she knew exactly who he meant and where he intended to take her. "Very much indeed," she said.

He gave her an approving nod. "Then let us go."

And with that, they headed down the street away from all the expectations she'd made and with the understanding that maybe she'd just opened Ajax's eyes to his own set of expectations and how limiting he'd let himself be in them. Because he was far greater than he imagined. She knew that in her core, and she wanted him to see it too.

As they entered the inn, she was all but bursting with questions and Ajax was relieved. He'd hated to see the sorrow on her face, the disappointment as she'd begun to understand that she'd never find herself in external things.

He'd seen it before, over and over again, as people chased their lives away, desperately hoping that some thing or some moment would show them who they were inside. As if a new house, a hand of cards, a bottle of perfume, or a cravat could make a man or a woman, as it were.

It couldn't.

There were no external markers that could suddenly turn one into the person one wished to be. No, it was, dare he say, an inside piece of work, and he'd been at it most of his life. He was certainly more fortunate than most in that he'd been awoken to the idea by his mother that buying things and achieving things would not bring him peace inside.

Now, he was already born having a great deal. It was the good fortune of being a Briarwood. That said, he'd seen young men born to such privilege fall by the wayside, pursuing material goods, pursuing accolades, pursuing horses, pursuing adulation.

None of it ever worked out.

One might have thought that a loftier aim, such as pursuing Shakespeare, would have worked out for Winifred, but usually such things were simply external and meant to distract one from the turmoil within.

He was grateful that she'd realized it. Because her inner turmoil was now exposed, she was going to have to come to terms with the battle raging inside her, the battle for the real Lady Winifred. And he was going to make certain that she did indeed win. And the old Winifred, the Winifred that her family had made her become, would never gain control again.

"How shall we gain admittance?" she asked as they headed into the busy inn. "Do you even know the family that owns the ruined castle?"

He laughed, loving the feel of being surrounded by jolly good living. "Yes, I do, but that doesn't actually matter. You see, when one is a brother to the Duke of Westleigh, one can go just about anywhere and do just about anything."

She laughed in turn, which turned into a groan. "Of course. I should have thought of that."

He nodded. "All doors open to anyone related to my older brother. So I shall take you there on the morrow. We shall gain admittance, and we shall have a grand tour. We could probably spend the whole day there. It's a vast place. The castle is marvelous. I've been many times."

"You don't need to boast about it so intensely," she teased.

He winced playfully. "Forgive me. You see, Mama is a great fan of Shakespeare like yourself, so I have been dragged all over the countryside seeing many things connected to Shakespeare. Though I confess I've never been to Stratford. Mama was not very interested in the village that he was born in."

Her brows rose upward. "Why?" she asked, surprised.

"Well, do you know anything about my mother's story?" he queried as they crossed into the common room, weaving their way through crowds of people to find a table. He waved for a barmaid to fetch them their evening drink.

"Not really," she confessed. "I've just heard rumors."

He grinned slowly. "Rumors? Do tell."

She hesitated but then, as she was naturally inclined to do, she said honestly, "Well, she was an actress, wasn't she? She performed upon the stage and, as my mother would say, waved her limbs about."

A slow rumble of a laugh tumbled out of him. "Oh, Mama would greatly appreciate that! Waved her limbs about, indeed. I suppose one could argue that when she did play the pants roles, just like you are doing now in real life, she did wave her limbs about in stockings and rather elaborate breeches."

"Ah," she corrected, her lips twitching. "But I'm not performing."

He lowered himself to the wooden bench and pounded the table. "Now I agree with you. I think this is the most honest you've ever been."

She gave him a strange look as she sat beside him. "You are right."

He knew it. He'd already known it, and he was glad she was beginning to see it too.

"Did your mother like those roles?" she asked, her brow furrowing. "Surely, she felt exposed."

He considered this and all the stories his mother had told them. "Mama loved those parts. She said playing those was liberating. She understood that when Shakespeare wrote those characters, they were played by boys, not women at all. Women weren't allowed on the stage until the 1660s, but she said it always gave her a feeling of freedom."

Her eyes danced. "That's what I feel too," she breathed. "Being a man is so…entirely different. I have choices. I can do so much."

He winked at her and whispered, "Best be careful talking about playing a man here."

She gave a quick nod and composed her face into a suitably stern male look. "Oh, you're right. Of course."

Two tankards of frothing ale were put down in front of them, and they both took a quick drink.

She let out a contented sigh.

"Feeling better?" he asked.

She cocked her head to the side, her short dark wig catching the firelight. "With you? With you, I feel like I could weather any difficulty. As if the worst disappointments might come, but we'll find a way to turn it all about. Or so it seems."

He leaned towards her and drew in a deep, life-giving breath, one that filled his lungs as hope slipped through him. Hope that he was just the man she needed.

"That's the point of life. To make anything awful seem hopeful and full of chance. That's the trick of this existence. To find the possibility in the darkness."

She frowned, staring down into her ale. "I don't see what possibility there will be up in Suffolk."

"You don't have to do it," he blurted.

She shook her head and said with a resigned tone, "Oh, but I do. What recourse have I but to follow the rules of my mother? To do as she says. Even my brother Alfred is lost."

"Why?" he demanded.

Her frown turned into an irritated scowl.

"Forgive me," he said. "I don't understand. Surely, you could choose differently?"

"Of course I can't. You know I can't," she pointed out bluntly.

He refused to let her see so narrowly, even if it was a challenge.

He straightened and gazed at her up and down. "Look at you now," he stated factually. "Could the Win that you are now have imagined doing this a year ago?"

Her scowl softened and her mouth dropped open. "I suppose not."

"So do not limit your thinking. The world will hand you an opportunity. Look for it," he urged. "Do not resign yourself to a future which makes you miserable. No need to choose hell while one is alive."

He should ask her to marry him. Here and now. It was the fastest solution. The easiest.

But he bit down on the inside of his cheek. Easy was not the best. It would be a rescue, and he had a strong sense that Winifred did not need him to rescue her. She needed to rescue herself, lest she go the rest of her life feeling as if she was a bit of driftwood tossed about in a storm, when she was a power as great as any gale. A bird could not know it could fly unless it spread its wings.

She ground her teeth together. "I'm going to say something rather rude to you."

He felt a wave of delighted anticipation. "Please do."

"On purpose," she clarified.

He plunked his elbow onto the table and turned further towards her. "I never find anything that you say rude, but do go ahead."

She drew in a long, preparatory breath. "It's all tosh what you're saying. Because of who you are and what you are. It's easy for you to say such a thing."

He narrowed his gaze and pulled his chin back. "I don't understand." He coughed at her hard stare. "Well, I mean I do. I'm a duke's brother. I have wealth—"

"No, no," she broke in, "it's more than that." She tilted her head down and gave him a knowing look. "I met your mother."

That last statement came out as if it was a book of information rather than four simple words.

He sputtered on the ale he'd just brought to his lips. "I beg your pardon."

"I met your mother," she reiterated. "The night of the ball when you asked me to dance, she approached me. I suppose I should have told you about it before."

He sucked in a slow breath and closed his eyes. "You met her."

"She cornered me, if you must know, and dragged me into a small room. She wanted to know what I had planned for you."

"Of course she did," he rasped as he slowly opened his eyes. He drove a hand through his hair. His mother, his darling wonderful mother, could not stop herself from meddling in her children's lives. He was grateful. Of course, she always got the right of things, so he refused to whine about it.

"What did she want?" he asked with long-learned patience when it came to Sylvia, Dowager Duchess of Westleigh.

Her eyes began to sparkle, not with annoyance but with awe. "She wanted to make sure I wasn't going to hurt you and that I wasn't going to get hurt, but she thought rather well of my decisions, which surprised me greatly. I was sure that she was going to turn me over to my mama."

Ajax snorted. "My mother? She would never. Not in a month of Sundays. Any person seeking their freedom, liberation, or a better understanding of themselves? She'll celebrate."

Winifred nodded. "She said she'd help me."

He cocked his head to the side and smiled at her. "Well, there you go. There's your way out of the darkness of Suffolk. My mother will help you. She'll find a way." He banged his hand on the table as an idea hit him. "She'll find a position for you."

"A position?" she echoed.

"My mother is a woman of many talents." His mind began ticking as he considered the possibilities. "You love Shakespeare. You're clearly good at disguise. She could find you a job in the theater."

Winifred's mouth dropped open and yet he could see the temptation lurking behind the horror. "My mother would die of apoplexy," she hissed.

"Mothers are always claiming that they're going to die of apoplexy, but they never do," he replied simply before taking a long triumphant drink.

She stared at him for a long moment. "But what if—"

"Truly, she'll recover," he cut in. "My family has recovered over and over again, and maybe the shock will do her good. She doesn't seem a very happy sort of person."

Winifred let out a sigh. "She's not. I think my father's death really ruined so much of her happiness."

"I'm sorry for it," he said gently, not wishing to be cavalier about such a thing. "My mother was distraught when our father died, but I think she had weathered so much already that she understood that it was part of the natural order of life. And she was simply grateful that she'd been with him. And then she made up her mind to make certain that her children were reflections of her love for him."

Winifred winced. She looked towards the fire as if trying to decide if she should share her experiences, but then she threw all caution to the wind and said, "That's not at all what happened with my mother. She clung to us and clutched at us and was determined that there would be no mistakes, that we would not disappoint our departed father, and that we would not let the family down. And I have honestly been nothing but a disappointment. I don't even know where my older brother is at present. He has the title, but he's on a mission to find a wife. He doesn't like being around us, in any case, and I can't blame him. I'm sure he'll marry soon. Mama is determined that he should. It's his duty, after all." Her face creased with sorrow. "I don't even receive letters from him anymore. That's how little we talk. How much we're separated. How…he escaped us."

"I'm sorry," he soothed, hating her pain but knowing it was important she speak it. "I can't imagine not talking to my brothers and sisters. We are so close."

She shrugged. "Alfred and I are close like that. And if I hadn't had him, I don't know what I would've done."

"You're not alone now," he replied, longing to take her in his arms.

Her face transformed at that. "That's what your mother said."

"You must know one thing," he said.

"What's that?" she asked.

"My mother is always right."

And then, suddenly, a voice boomed from across the room. "Ajax!"

He tensed and closed his eyes. It couldn't be. No. No, it couldn't be. He opened his eyes slowly, willing himself to be mistaken.

He spotted Winifred first.

Her eyes were wide. Her mouth was open, and she sat poker straight.

"Don't tell me," he groaned.

"What?" she whispered.

"It's a rather annoying blond fellow. Looks a bit like me, rather big. And I bet he has company."

She let out a bleat of alarm. "That's correct. How did you know?"

He let out a beleaguered sigh. "Because it's impossible not to know when a Briarwood is in the room."

And with that, Ajax turned slowly on his bench and spotted his brother, Lord Zephyr.

Zephyr lifted his hand in a merry salute. And then his brother Achilles and his cousin Jean-Luc emerged.

Ajax cursed himself for being a thousand kinds of fool for leaving any evidence behind about this endeavor. Because that was the only explanation for their presence. And he was going to murder them.

One by one.

But then Ajax stood and waited for the banter that he knew was about to begin.