Free Love's Will by Meredith Whitford Page A

had lived. That same week, come to think of it, Davy Jones’s mummers had put on another play, this time paid for by Stratford’s council. The king and queen had been much admired, William had reported.
    On that thought Anne turned back to the bed and chased the children away. “Go ask the maid for water to wash, and Aunt Joan will dress you. I will see you at the breakfast table.” Susanna thought about arguing, caught her eye, and raced after the twins.
    William lay back and folded his hands under his head. “Why this early-morning counting of money and this zeal to see the play?”
    “Because if we don’t do something now we never will. If you don’t do something.”
    “Such as what?”
    “Talk to the players. Ask them if they can take you on.”
    “Don’t be ridiculous, playing companies don’t recruit in country towns. They’d laugh in my face.”
    “And God forbid you take a risk, eh? Would you really rather live with a grudge than put your dream to the test? Much easier, isn’t it, to rot here in Stratford blaming me for trapping you into marriage, than actually seeing if you have anything more than a boy’s dream?”
    Struggling upright he snapped, “That’s unfair! I have never blamed you or thought of it as being trapped.” Anne raised a sceptical eyebrow. He flushed. “Very well: sometimes I’ve thought that. As I’d bet you have too.”
    “Of course I have. Do you think this is a dream come true, living here, five of us in one room in your parents’ house? Having three children so quickly? Working sixteen hours a day to save your parents paying for another maid? Training your baby brother to the pot? Letting your sister cry on my shoulder because she’s eighteen and no man’s offered for her? Wiping up your brother’s puke when he comes home drunk? Feeding your mother herbals to get her through her change of life? Never having a new dress? Watching you write plays at ten o’clock at night to earn a few more shillings when you can’t even afford a drink with friends? Listening to you, the few times you feel like talking to me, droning out how much you long to try your luck in London and how good you could be? Watching you posture and make mouths in the glass like a love-struck girl while I try to stay awake to read your plays for you, and knowing that’s as close as you’ll ever come to a real theatre or making an effort to be an actor because it’s easier to stay here and be a schoolmaster, because you’re afraid to try and because it is so, so much easier to blame me?”
    She ran out of breath, and with it all her anger trickled away. Wearily she finished, “Whatever I say, you’ll find some excuse, some very good reason, to do otherwise.”
    “I didn’t know you were so unhappy.”
    “Did you not? Well, things could be worse. I’ve a decent home, even if it’s not my own, and three healthy children I love. Remember how before we married we used to talk of how unhappy we were? We’re five years older and no better off, except for the children. And sixteen pounds.”
    “Sixteen pounds would hire and furnish a house.”
    “Here in Stratford?”
    “Wherever you wanted.”
    “London?”
    “Do you want to go to London?”
    “I’m not sure, Will.” She sat on the side of the bed and ran her fingers through his hair. “I always wanted to see London, but live there? I don’t know. But the players are in town, and if you don’t at least talk to them and ask them their advice, I will take the children and go home to Hewlands Farm – not forever, not to leave you, but because I need a change. Because you are twenty-three and look forty, and you’re unhappy and hard to live with.”
    “Am I really that bad? I work long hours, true, but that’s for money for you and the children. We could have our own house.”
    “Before you woke up I was thinking how much I’d enjoy stabbing you to death. You’re not so bad. I love you. But I won’t live with an unhappy coward who