From The Secret Confessions of Anne Shakespeare
Thus spring found me walking alone by Shottery Brook. A breath of southern air had enveloped our island kingdom, and the weather was warm as a yellow apple in the sun. Though it was lambing time, we found excuses that afternoon to play truant from our chores. “I’ll give you an hour if you’ll give me one,” Duck bargained, and we each took a turn minding the household while the other slipped away. My stepmother returned with a handful of daisies and a regretful sigh. “Oh, Anne, do you remember when I was young and first married your father? Now I am a widow and…” Her lip trembled, and she turned it into a crooked smile. “Go on, get out, go find yourself a lover,” she joked, and pushed me through the door.
I admit the thought of a lover, or rather a husband, was on my mind. I would soon be twenty-six, a prime age to wed, and Duck’s push had a hint of impatience to it…Yet when my brain played over the likely candidates, my heart remained strangely empty. I did not fancy any of the local bachelors, though one or two had come calling. Even less did I incline toward the widowers and the taking on of their children as my stepmother had done. I knew I did not possess her gifts of patience or nurture. It frightened me to admit I might not make a good mother at all. But whomever I wed, he would expect me to bear him a brood, and the idea of childbirth sent a cold shudder along my spine. My mother had died of it and a dozen more wives I could name. You may call me lily-livered, but I would not have been unhappy to have proven barren.
I had reached the secluded place where the brook pools into a large pond, surrounded by reeds and overhung by willows, dragonflies buzzing above the lily pads. Catching my reflection in the dappled water, I pictured beside it the faces of various eligible men and heaved a glum sigh. Too bad that our late fornicating monarch Henry VIII, in breaking with the church of Rome, had dissolved the monasteries and religious houses; if we were still Catholic, I would at least have had the option of becoming a nun. It might have well suited me, for in a company of sisters I could have had a brisk and purposeful life, tending gardens or supervising the kitchen or managing the daily affairs. I could have muttered whatever prayers were required. The more I envisioned it, the greater pity it seemed to have missed out.
I tossed my hand over the water in a commanding arc. “Get thee to a nunnery!” I cried.
“What?”
I whirled around, and there stood Will Shakespeare, chuckling.
“What nunnery?” he demanded, coming closer, pleased at my discomfort.
“No nunnery. It’s not important. I—”
“Is there a fish?”
“Where? In the nunnery?”
“No, in the water. You were staring at it as I approached.”
“No, there’s no fish in the water,” I replied.
“But you were fishing, wishing, for something.”
“I was only imagining faces.” I shrugged, perturbed and hoping to end the conversation. Will’s outfit, a blue satin doublet and breeches, seemed a little dandified for a country stroll.
“A strange river that has not fish but faces floating in it,” he observed.
“That’s not what I meant. There probably are fish in the brook, but I was imagining faces because, well, you can see how the play of sunlight and water and the lily pads might suggest…Here, you can see my reflection.”
He stepped up beside me, and we both gazed into the pond. While he took the opportunity to study my visage in the water, I found myself contemplating his. Not bad. His hair was close to mine in color but gingery where I was amber brown. His face was well shaped and the forehead prominent. His upper lip was somewhat thin, his mouth and chin fringed with the first appearance of down. Not bad, but far too young for me. Still, I kept looking.
