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“Ah, but he wouldn’t have written the words if not for you.” She took my hand and spoke softly so no one would hear. “He needs you.” She smiled in a way that for a moment I suspected she knew about him and me, but then she added, “And Burbage of course.”

I breathed a sigh of relief, and said, “Well, Will is a good friend to me.”

“Friend?” she said so queerly, as if it might be a new word she hadn’t heard. Then she looked around, and whispered without a hint of rancor, “You needn’t pretend, lad. I know what my husband gets up to, and not because of the gossip. He tells me everything. Always has.”

I must have looked utterly foolish with my mouth agape and eyes like saucers, because, even in her sorrow, she emitted a little laugh. “You’ll catch flies looking like that, lad. Don’t be surprised with how much I know. He is my husband, yes, but he is more my dearest friend. I’ve known him since he was a boy, after all.”

I suddenly felt the profound absurdity of me sitting in the kitchen with this poor woman whose son had just died, speaking of her husband who was my lover. I stood up to leave. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. I really should go and leave you in peace.”

She grabbed the hem of my doublet. “Please don’t go yet.” There was a desperation to her voice. “I need to speak of anything other than my son at the moment. This … this conversation is actually taking my mind off things.”

I could see she was in earnest, and who was I to deny her a respite from her misery?

“As you wish, Madam.” I sat.

“Please just call me Anne,” she said. “Now what shall we talk of?”

“Whatever you wish, Madam … erm … sorry. Anne.”

“You are a polite young man. I know. I’ll tell you how Will and I came to know each other. So, as you probably already know, Will was pressed into marrying me, since I got pregnant with Judith. We both suspected a nightmare of a marriage, but instead, as we got to know each other, we found we liked each other tremendously and became good friends. As time went on, as we shared many of our deepest secrets, we both agreed to allow each other our freedom without rancor. It turned out to be a far luckier arrangement than we imagined. He treated me as his equal, and I was there to share the work of the home and to discuss his dreams and love affairs. The bodily nature of our passion cooled quickly, and we stopped that aspect of our marriage early.”

While I knew I should remain silent, I couldn’t help but ask, “Did that hurt terribly, Madam?”

“’Twas a speck to me. Most marriages cool thusly. It doesn’t mean the love ends. Later, when the Queen’s Men offered him a place on a tour that would take him to London, I did not quibble. A man like that can’t be kept tied to the nursery anyway—nor did I want him moping about the house.” She gave a little wink. “I had my own desires. Just as long as he sent money for the children, and his parents lent a hand and some support, I told him to go and discover a life for himself. I knew about his sport with women …” She smiled a little more in my directions. “As well as his love for other … passionate friendships.”

My face and the tips of my ears grew hot, and I held my breath. There was still the chance her confession would end with her in a rage, perhaps throwing the pot of boiling water to scar me from being able to perform any longer. I moved my knees in case I had to make a run for it.

“Just know …” She seemed to intuit my trepidation and touched my hand kindly to assure me. “My boy has always been curious and has always chased beautiful objects of affection to inspire him. But you … it’s different this time. None of the others moved him like you, lad.”

Her words caused such warmness in my heart, I sat there silent, unable to speak.

She continued. “Oh, there was that one woman. What was it? Name of a flower. Petunia? Daffodil?”

“Rose?”

“Yes. That was it—Rose. I worried about her. But later, when he wrote how heartbroken he was that you had gone with her, and how he worried for you being with such a worldly woman, I knew the muse of whom he spoke so fondly must mean more to him than just as an inspirer of his verse.”

I finally could hold my tongue no longer, I said, “I’m sorry, Madam, I’m puzzled why you tell me all this, and on this day.”

“Ah, yes, I suppose I’m telling you because …” She grabbed the sideboard to steady herself. It was the first moment I could see, like the Poet, the madness of her grief did not carry itself in a common way. “Sorry,” she said, once again gathering herself against the tears in her eyes. “I suppose I want you of all people to see, that despite all, despite the loss of his beloved son, Will does still love this family. He still does love me. I just want you to know, I am not some harridan, kept in the dark about his other affections. I’ve known, I’ve always known. But our love for each other is still strong, and it holds no less value than yours. He and I made a home and three children …” Her lips quivered as she held back her tears.

“I am so sorry, Madam,” I said. “I cannot imagine your grief. And you are right. Will loves and values you and your children most dearly. He’s told me so. Many times.”

This was somewhat of an overstatement, or even a lie, for the Poet rarely spoke to anyone of his home life. That didn’t mean he hadn’t felt as Anne had said. He secreted so much of what was in his heart.

I didn’t mind that I sugared the truth, since it seemed to quiet her heart a little. She lifted her hand and stroked my cheek. “You are a gentle love.”

The door opened, and the Poet entered. He too wore black with his formal starched collar around his neck. His eyes were reddened and weary. He didn’t appear to register the strangeness of me being there with his wife. He embraced Anne, and I saw made manifest the love they shared. When he released the embrace, he finally acknowledged me.

“Ah, Hughes, I see you have finally met my dear Anne,” he said as if it was nothing. There was a dullness to his voice, and he didn’t look over at me at all but instead looked out the kitchen window. “I’ve always thought you two should meet.”

“Yes,” she said, handing me the cup of posset, then addressing the Poet. “He’s even lovelier than you told me. Those sky-colored eyes and that smile, and such a kind young man to listen to my chattering.” Again, she stroked my cheek before addressing her husband. “Are the others on their way?”

“They are, my dearest.”

He finally looked over at us—or at her, rather. His voice with Anne was so tender.

“I should get going, and let you to your company,” I said. “I’ll wait out front with the carriage.”