Free The Diary of William Shakespeare, Gentleman by Jackie French Page B

be the hope of home for us again. For if we had no house, no gloves could be stitched. Gloves need an air-room to stretch the leather and dry it so it keeps its shape; a warm room so the glover’s fingers are nimble enough to make the stitches; a room with windows enough to give good light.
    We would have all the light we needed under the green trees. Till winter came, and the leaves were gone, and we, as beggars, froze as well. It was impossible. Yet, looking at my father’s face, I knew it to be true.
    I said, still trusting him, ‘Father, what can we do?’
    He did not look at me but in his empty tankard. ‘You, my son, must marry.’
    â€˜But, Father —’
    He held up his hand. ‘Mistress Marchmant is a small, fair girl, and six pounds a year is a small, fair dowry. But it will take more than a small dowry now. It would be different if she had the fields to sell, but rent . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Six pounds would not tickle the stomach of my debt. You must woo yourself an heiress, lad, to save us all.’
    And that was how my father sought to sell me; not at age ten, but at eighteen.
    Dinner: a haunch of veal, cold, as the servants are holidaying; a pigeon pie, made yesterday; cheese cakes; almond biscuits; prunes; raisins of the sun; a damson cheese. My wife spiced cider to warm our stomachs with the cold meal. Supper: a brawn of kid; pickled mushrooms; butter with oatcakes, as no bread was baked today; apples and cheese tarts.
    Bowels this afternoon a trifle queasy from cold meats and oatcakes, but waters remain clear.

Wednesday, 18th November 1615
    This day I did the accounts for this household, the first for two months. My wife’s tallies are most neat; nor did I find fault. My position being better even than last quarter, I called her and told her that for the next twelve months she shall have thirty pounds for all expenses, clothes and everything. She was much content, not having expected half that much.
    My daughter Judith came in to kiss me, for she shall have a new dress, of sarcenet, and new stockings too. She sat upon my knee and twirled her curls, which I have noticed is the way with her when she wishes me to give her aught.
    â€˜Winter’s days are short,’ she said.
    This being true, I did not reply.
    â€˜But they are brighter with good company to dinner.’
    â€˜We will have guests over Christmastide. And Susanna and good Dr Hall bring the sun even into winter’s dullness,’ I said.
    Susanna plays the harpsichord, which neither my wife nor Judith have accomplished. With her loss, we have music and dancing only when she visits.
    Judith pouted. I hid my smile. This was not how she had planned the conversation.
    â€˜We could ask new people to dine, Father,’ she offered.
    â€˜That is indeed possible,’ I said. ‘If angels can dance upon a pin, a man can have new faces at his table.’
    â€˜Thomas Quiney has a most interesting face.’
    I stood, removing her from my knee. ‘You have had dealings with Thomas Quiney?’
    The landlord of Atwood’s tavern was as free with his affections as his ale. I remembered how he had bowed to us at the Mop Fair.
    â€˜I have but seen him in church and at the market, no more,’ she said hurriedly. ‘Not even to talk to him.’
    The lady doth protest too much.
    â€˜He is not a man I will see at my table.’
    â€˜Because he is in trade, not a gentleman?’
    â€˜Because though he be a man, I doubt his gentleness. And that is all to be said of Thomas Quiney, or ever will be said. You understand?’
    â€˜But, Father —’
    â€˜Do you question your father’s word?’
    â€˜No, Father,’ she said. ‘I do greatly love thee.’ She smiled and kissed my cheek again.
    Oh, John Kneebone, I thought, my tenant farmer Lear. How will your daughters smile when you have naught to give them? My daughter’s smile today is for the new