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As she spoke of their meeting, a jealousy grew in my heart. It seemed unjust that she would get to speak to him, and even receive his apology, but I would never get the chance. The Poet had never even once tried to reach out to me, yet he would be so open and kind to her … her! I suddenly felt as if I had reverted to an eighteen-year-old boy, and wanted to cry out, but I didn’t.
“That must have been most pleasant,” I said. “To know he felt remorse—at least for something.”
She narrowed her eyes, and I sensed she saw the rancor in my heart. “Dear Hughes, you must understand, I was still grieving over the loss of my husband, and in a muddle over whether Jamie truly knew I loved him in the end. Think what you must about Will, but he understood the complexities of true love.”
“Spare me,” I scoffed, unable to contain myself any longer. “I’m terribly sorry, but Will was not capable of true love. I know what that means now. Marlowe was. Barnaby is.”
“Barnaby?”
I lowered my voice. “The friend I live with now.”
She smiled. “I see. How lovely.”
“Every day Barnaby tells me he loves me, and I tell him. His love is constant. Will’s was there one day and not the next. In the end he felt ashamed of what had passed between us, he listened to the moralists I suppose—that the love between two men was sinful.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, rolling her eyes, which was most infuriating. “Will believed none of that silliness. You do understand that he loved you like no other—not me, not her, not anyone. You were his greatest muse.”
“That’s very kind of you, but it’s simply untrue. He even believed our love killed his son. He implied as much the last time he and I spoke. He also said I no longer inspired him.”
She knitted her brow, near anger. “Rubbish. No wonder he did what he did.”
“What are you talking about?”
“My dear, that’s why I’ve been looking for you for all these years. In my last conversation with him, we spoke at length about his caring for you. And, if you recall, there were rumors floating about everywhere, concerning you and him, and you and Marlowe.” She then spoke in a whisper. “Remember the Buggery Act and all that. Will, with his wealth and social standing, was safe, but you—he didn’t want you to be hanged.”
For a moment, it was as if I forgot to breathe. “He told you that?”
“Not all of it, some of it is my own sorting out.”
“So, this story you tell is an invention?” A deeper disquiet filled my chest. “Did you even speak to him about me at all?”
“God’s teeth! Don’t be a fool, Hughes. Please, just listen to me a moment. If Will was cruel at the end, it was most likely because he feared for you, and not only because of those awful zealots flitting about, but because he knew that with his family obligations and, well, with who he was, he couldn’t be the one to make you happy. He so wanted you to be happy. So he had to set you free. And see here, he was right. You have found your happiness. With this Barnaby fellow.”
The weight of her words pressed heavily on my heart, and I felt like an infant, wishing I could cry out, “Someone please tell me if anything she’s saying is true!” But with the Poet dead, there would never be a way for I, nor anyone, to ever know what was truly in his heart. I squeezed my eyes trying to stop my tears. Making matters worse, the church doors had opened, and the mourners poured from the chapel, causing the crowd to push nearer to us.
“I think I should go now,” I said, taking her hand and kissing it. “I thank you so much for speaking, Rose, but I …” I turned, not wanting her to see the tears that were forming in my eyes, and started to leave.
“Wait!” she demanded so loudly that the mourners in the yard sent loud shushes in our direction. “I need to give you something.” She pulled a slip of paper from her purse. “This is the entire reason I met you here today. That day Will and I spoke, he had me accompany him to a publisher named Thomas Thorpe.” She pressed a slip of paper in my hand. “Take this. Please.”
“What is it?”
“It’s an address, not far from Saint Paul’s. Will left something there for you. The next time you’re in London, you must go there.”
My heart began to quiver. I could tell she was being truthful.
“What is it? What did he leave?”
“It’s your proof, my dear.” She smiled. “He hoped you’d discover it on your own, but I knew you’d need a push. That’s why I looked for you. I’ll tell you no more, for I promised him.” The church bells struck three. “Alas, I must run now. I’ve a coach leaving in just a few minutes. Please, Willy, do as I say.”
She then donned her green hood, kissed me on my cheek, and walked briskly out of the graveyard passed the mourners, some of whom seemed to recognize her and began to whisper. I did not know it at the time, but I would never see her again.
It wasn’t until six months later that Barnaby and I ventured down to London. I had seen notices that Little Goat and Alex would be appearing together as the leading players in one of Thomas Dekker’s new plays, and I wanted desperately to see them again, as well as find Sam the Hedgehog and any other old friends who might still be alive.
I managed to see all during our trip. We had a marvelous reunion, recounting our early days with all the madness of having been actors’ apprentices. Little Goat and Alex were stunningly handsome together and looked deliriously happy.
As one might suspect, I also brought the slip of paper with the address Rose had given me. I still doubted that there could be any proof of the Poet’s love manifested in some small token he might have left me. Yet I knew I had to find out what it was, if for no other reason than it would remove the last secret that bound me to him.
On our last day in the capital, while Barnaby was visiting an old friend in Shoreditch, I went to the mysterious address. It turned out to be of a stationer on Kensington Road, an old and noble shoppe. I approached the clerk and asked whether a package had been left for a Mister William Hughes by the renowned poet who had only recently passed six months prior.
