Page 56 of The Two Wills

“You were the one who insisted we keep this up!” he hisses at me one night when we are out of earshot of any witnesses.

“If we confess our fakery, we’ve lost all power. We just need to wait until he makes the approach. He’ll either offer himself to me … or to you, which, to be painfully honest, is very unlikely.”

Hughes twists his mouth into a gloating smirk. “He could choose me. You know, he’s written me dozens of sonnets.”

“Has he?” I say, not revealing my jealousy, which is most profound. “Were they rude, like the two he’s written me?”

“As a matter of fact,” he says smugly, “they were very affectionate.” He pauses to gauge my reaction, which I give little. “Gushing even. It was almost embarrassing how complimentary they were, and not just of my looks but also of my character—”

“Enough!” I blurt. Then, more calmly I assert: “We need to focus on how to get him back in the game.”

I begin to think about what the Poet’s true motive is in loving me, if he loves me at all. And then I think of my own motivation for loving him—for loving any of these wretched Englishmen. My family has suffered much humiliation and degradation since arriving on these shores. As a child, I expressed my desire for revenge through rudeness and small acts of violence. But ever since I came of age and discovered I had a certain power over men, I’ve delighted in conquering their sort by means of romantic intrigue. It wasn’t merely their lust I wanted. I wanted them to desire me so completely, beyond all their senses, that they’d kneel before me in public, degrading themselves in hopes I’d return their affection. And when they surrendered their hearts completely, I’d leave them wanting, without even a final goodbye kiss. Oh, the moaning and begging I had to suffer through. I adored it.

But my desire for the Poet is different. With him, I’ve come to long for something deeper; I want to inspire him as the youth does—no, that’s a lie. I want to inspire him more than the youth does. This longing haunts me. Why has he not even shown the slightest desire to reunite with me? How is this possible for all the affection he has previously shown?

“Perhaps he never truly loved me,” I say as if the boy can read my thoughts. “Perhaps Will hates me even. Some men—the loathsome sort—often enjoy sport with women they despise.”

Hughes sees my wounded expression, and his eyes soften even more. “That’s not true. He doesn’t hate you. I think he really liked you.”

“How would you know?” I ask.

“He’s written you more sonnets than just those two.”

“More?”

“Yes. Not as many as me, of course. But more.”

“How many?” I ask eagerly. I hate how desperate I sound, but I can’t help myself. “Pray tell! Three? Four?”

He sighs as if he doesn’t want to tell me, but then he does. “I read at least six about you, but maybe a couple more.”

“More than six? He showed you?”

“No. I snuck into his room and found ’em stashed in a book he owns called Plutarch’s Lives. That’s why I got so angry and came up with that soft-brained plan to defame your character. I will say, he seems to labor much harder on the sonnets he writes for you.”

“Why do you say that?” I ask, trying not to appear overly satisfied.

“It’s just that he scratches out more words on your sonnets than mine. Like he can’t find the right word. Like he wants to get things better with yours. Mine seem to come to him easy, like writing a list of things to buy at market. Also, them that he writes for me are all fuzzy in meaning. Yours is clear as snot.”

“Unfortunately, true love cannot be explained so lucidly,” I say, once again my self-doubt returning. The youth sees it.

“I’m not sure about that. I was clear in my affection for Barnaby Stubb—he was my first true great love, when I was a boy.”

I bite my thumbnail as I ponder. I know the Poet well enough to know he was not acting a role during our intimacy. And knowing there are other sonnets about me makes my cause even more worth pursuing …

“I want to make you a promise,” I say.

“What?” Distrust fills his face once more.

“If you are his choice, if he comes to you, confesses his heart, and begs your return to his confidence, then I shall step aside.”

“You will?” His brow rises to test me. There is no doubt he grew up surrounded by knaves in an alehouse.

“I will. Do you agree to do the same? If he comes to me and begs my return?”

Hughes thinks about it longer than I expect. “I guess.”

“Well, let us off to bed. Hopefully we shall get a clear answer soon as to the most important motivator of his love—his mistress or his muse.”