Love's Will by Meredith Whitford Page B

Soon there would be no disguising her condition.
    Her cousin noticed, of course, and in the course of one chilly evening she had the whole story out of Anne.
    “He must marry you.”
    “But...”
    “But nothing. Do you want your child born a bastard?”
    “No.”
    “Probably neither does he. He need not live with you, but marry you he must. He’s a decent boy from a good family. He’ll want to do what is right.”
    “But he is only eighteen.”
    “Old enough to play the man in bed. Old enough to know that you pay for your pleasure. Why should you be the only one who pays?”
    “True. But he’s in London.”
    “Then go and see his parents, tell them to fetch him home. Or… can you write?”
    “A little. Enough, I daresay. But how do I send a letter to London?”
    “That’s easy. Ask someone who’s going there; a carter taking goods, someone visiting. Pay them to take a letter. Or simply hire a man to go, someone from the livery stables.” She reached over and took Anne’s hand. “Don’t think of going there yourself,” she said quietly. “It’s too far for a woman in your condition and in this weather. And if the news of the child doesn’t bring him home, then your pleading with him yourself won’t do it either. In that case, better no father at all. And if worst comes to worst you can live with me here.”
    Yes, then, she would write. But, another problem; her cousin could neither read nor write and had no ink or paper. Nor would she find such things at home, any more than she would find any sympathy for her plight.
    She went to her other cousin, to Frances Jones, Davy’s wife. They were astonished, shocked and disapproving, but they gave her paper, ink, pen and sealing wax, and Davy knew someone who would take the letter to London. He also knew, on the Stratford grapevine, where William was staying with his friend Dick Field. Anne paid two shillings for her letter’s carriage.
    Then all she could do was wait. It was November, she was nearly three months pregnant, and marriages were forbidden after Advent.
     

 
    7.
     
    He came. Ten days after she had given the letter to Davy Jones, he knocked on her cousin’s door and walked straight into the kitchen. Anne, who was sitting at the table tiredly stuffing a rabbit for supper, simply stared at him.
    “Your letter reached me. As you see.”
    “Will… I… I’m sorry.”
    He shrugged. “It takes two.”
    “Yes, it does. Won’t you sit down? Would you like some ale?”
    “Thank you.”
    She tossed the rabbit into a pan, then rose and washed and dried her hands. She poured the ale and sat down again. Across the table they looked at each other. She knew what he was seeing: a plump, untidy housewife whose hair needed washing and whose condition unbecomingly showed in the way her dress strained across her breasts and waist. He, on the other hand, looked suave and elegant in a new dark green doublet. He’d had his hair cut and a small line of paler skin showed at the back of his neck.
    “How was London?” she asked inanely.
    “Enjoyable. I went to a lot of plays. No one was in any hurry to take me on as a player.”
    “I see.”
    “Which is just as well, isn’t it.”
    “I suppose it is, but still I’m sorry you didn’t find your dream. Or will you go back and try again?”
    “How can I? You are having my child and we must be married.”
    She had a brief thought of what it must be like to tell a beloved husband you were carrying his child; to see his joy, to be kissed and congratulated, to go together to tell your families.
    “Yes, I think we must. It is yours, you know.”
    For the first time he smiled. “I know. I’ve no doubt about that. And although I had no idea of getting married, there’s no one I’d rather marry.”
    “Kind of you to say so.”
    He leapt up and took three fast, striding paces up and down the room. “It is not particularly kind of me. I wanted to stay in London, for I think I could have made my way there,