Page 49 of The Two Wills

“What jolly news!” I cried. “You won’t be tempted to stay at home, will you?”

“Of course not,” he said. “The Lord Chamberlain’s Men is my true home now. Besides, my mother won’t be able to afford another mouth to feed being that my deplorable father is gone. Now, what drama do you have to tell me that requires all my attention?”

I took a deep breath to signal my tale’s seriousness. “My rival is back—or rather, she never left.”

“You mean that beautiful raven-haired woman we saw at the beach? Italian, wasn’t she?”

“A Moor, I believe. Her name is Rose. Will, it appears, didn’t turn her away after all.” Disgust filled my voice. “She’s in London awaiting his return.”

Little Goat sighed. “I can’t believe you’re still going on about this, Hughes. I thought Alex had finally convinced you? Will is not for you.”

“I was coming to that conclusion as well. But he’s since written me several sonnets that suggest I might have been hasty.”

“Love sonnets?”

“Yes … well … mostly love.”

“Has he made an approach?” Little Goat raised his child’s eyebrow like a gossipy fishwife.

“No … not yet. But it’s because of that horrid woman. She’s blinded him to me.”

“Hughes.” Little Goat sighed again. “If a fish pie isn’t a pork pie, wishing it was will never make it so.”

“Judas!” I grew adamant in my cause. “I’m telling you, there’s still a chance Will is a pork pie! See here, there’s been many a moment where he’s been a mite’s eyelash away from kissing me. But when that trollop showed up, she bewitched him. I need to show him who she truly is, so he’ll come to his senses. Then we’ll see for certain whether he is pork pie or fish pie or mincemeat.”

“You’re not going to do anything violent, are you?”

“Of course not. I have my life on the stage to think about. But I do have a plan, and I’ll need both your and Sam’s help to make it succeed.”

Little Goat rolled his eyeballs, to reiterate his distaste for my obsession. “Go ahead,” he groaned, “tell me your plan, but I’m going to tell you not to do it, so prepare yourself.”

“I understand, but do listen first,” I begged. “Shortly after we return to London, I will choose a morning when I’m certain the Poet will be in his rooms. You will go to the Nags Head alehouse where the whore stays—”

“Your mother?”

“No, you flea-brained ninny! I’m talking about Rose. She took rooms at the Nag’s Head. In the very alehouse where I once worked! Can you imagine? Her window on its second floor will be directly across the alley from Will’s. I read it in their letters to each other.”

“You read his private letters?” Little Goat’s voice was even more admonishing than before. “That’s most foul, Hughes! He taught you to read, and you use it thusly. Shame on you!”

“Pish! It’s a trifle. Please let me finish?”

“I’ll try,” he said in a grumble.

“Anyway, you will disguise yourself as a messenger.”

“A messenger? Why?”

“Because you will go to Rose and inform her that her husband is gravely ill and has sent for her. You then will make sure she boards a coach for London Bridge. You’ll need to wear a disguise, though it’s unlikely she would recognize you.”

“May I have a limp as well?” he asked, his sour expression gaining a mischievous twinkle.

“Yes, you may. An eye patch too, if you like.”

“Heigh ho! I’m liking this part of the idea at least.”

“Good. But before your little adventure, I’ll need your expertise with my hair and face.”

“For your role in the new comedy?”