“Shakespeare!”
Shakespeare turned around. That rich, booming baritone could only belong to one person. Richard Burbage was in fine form today—erect posture, as stately as nobility. His nose wasn’t nearly as swollen as it had been the last couple of weeks, and his complexion had returned once again to its rosy hue. His eyes, always dark and secretive, came alive differently with each character he portrayed. This morning they seemed to smolder.
“I see my brother has managed to drag you in before the dinner hour,” he said. His voice was piqued.
Shakespeare smiled. He said, “What do you think of my Richard the Third? You’re the one who’s to play him. Do you think he’s evil enough?”
“I’ve been meaning to speak with you about that very book,” Burbage articulated. “I have concerns about Gloucester’s opening words.”
“What kind of concerns?”
“My entrance speech is much too short.”
“It’s forty lines.”
“Bah,” Burbage scoffed. “Hardly a word is out of my mouth before I’m interrupted by Clarence. I need to expound—set forth my plans, my wishes, my desires, my ruthlessness. Add at least another twenty lines.”
“Twenty lines?”
“Or even an addition of thirty would not be excessive.”
Back to his desktop tonight, Shakespeare thought. “Do you like the book as written, Burbage?”
“Aside from the opening speech?”
“Aside from the opening speech.”
“Richard’s part is too small.”
“Do you think Richard is played too sympathetically?”
“No,” Burbage said. “He just isn’t given enough opportunity to speak.” He smiled and added, “I like that touch you added about old Gloucester being a crookback. It shall play magnificently on stage. All eyes will be upon me.”
The ’tire man shouted again. He was now up on the third level. “You must get fitted at once.”
“Five more minutes, please, Robin,” Shakespeare screamed back.
“By the way,” Robin yelled. “Your new sword just snapped in two. That’s what you get for ordering cheap!”
Splendid, thought Shakespeare.
“So you don’t think the play is treasonous?” Shakespeare asked Burbage.
“Heavens, I’m in no position to judge such an accusation!” Burbage answered. “I’m a tragedian, not a censor.” He patted Shakespeare on the back. “Another forty lines, even fifty if it’s going well.” Without another word, Burbage walked away. Robin Hart came forward carrying some pins and a costume.
“Since you persist in ignoring my pleas, I’ve come to you.”
“It’s not possible to dismiss Richard Burbage in mid-sentence,” Shakespeare said.
“Hold still.” The ’tire man placed a cook’s hat atop Shakespeare’s head. The rim was much too large and slipped over his face.
“What is this?” Shakespeare protested, lifting off the hat.
“You are to play the cook this afternoon,” Hart said. “By the way, I’ve found you a sword.”
“Whose?”
“Mine.”
“Tut, Robin. I can walk home and get my own sword.”
“Too late for that. Just be careful with it.”
“I shall.”
“The blade is imported from—dare I say it—Toledo. Such a fine point it has. The slightest poke could cause a nasty wound. But I trust you with it.”
“Many thanks,” Shakespeare said. “I thought Augustine was going to play the cook.”
“Augustine broke his leg. He fell off a horse, the stupid jack!” Hart plopped the hat back on Shakespeare’s head and began to pin the rim. “You’re also to play the guard, the night watchman, the constable—”
“How am I to play the constable if I’m to play the drunkard, when the drunkard and the constable are on stage at the same time? Must I talk to myself?”
“You shall simply shift from one position to another.”
“That’s absurd. I will be laughed off the platform and pelted with slop.”
“Nonsense,” Hart insisted. “You may play the fool as well, if you’d like.”
“I’m already doing that.”
The ’tire man pulled the hat off and pounded Shakespeare on the back. “We have confidence in you, Willy.”
“Where is the book?” Shakespeare asked. “If I am to be an ass in front of hundreds of people, I may as well learn the lines.”
Hart handed him scrolls of the various parts. “The lines are simple enough. If you don’t like what’s there, write your own. Only do be careful of the cues. Keep them consistent with the rest of the book.”
Shakespeare groaned as he read. “Who’s doing the prompting this afternoon?” he asked.
“Willy Dale.”
“Then it seems I should have great need of his services. There are over three hundred lines to commit to memory.”
“I’ve no worry,” Hart said. “You’ve done it before. But a little suggestion, Willy.” He smiled and patted his cheek. “Go gently with the garlics at dinner.”
Rebecca placed the mustache over her lip and pressed it down. Picking up the looking glass, she blew warm air onto its surface and buffed it with the hem of her chemise. It was an old mirror, dull and distorted, and she had to squint to keep her eyes in focus. But once she made out her reflection, she smiled. The mustache and beard she’d chosen were perfect—full with reddish tones. With her face disguised in manly pelt, she realized how much she resembled her brother—their features were the same, only their coloring differed.
She stroked the beard and decided it would be a nuisance to have facial hair, something else to be washed, combed, trimmed, and pomaded. Ah, but what it signified! The hair on her chin and above her lip meant she was no longer artwork—a thing of beauty to be courted, wooed, and won. Nor was she required to remain homebound until a proper escort was found. She wasn’t obliged to act flirtatious or coy. Or keep her hands busy. (The true English gentlewoman was always industrious, her aunt had lectured.) The beard and mustache allowed her the luxury of idleness, the sudden freedom to come and go and do as she pleased.
To be a man, she thought wistfully.
Picking up her brother’s hose, Rebecca pulled them over her coltish legs. Although Ben was taller than she, he wasn’t particularly tall for a man, not like their father. And she had the fortune—or misfortune, her brother had informed her—of being well sized for a woman. His hose were too long for her, but the excess material was easily hidden inside his boots.
Her brother had enormous feet. Even the surplus of stocking failed to fill up the empty space. No matter, she thought. Grandmama would stuff them with rags until they fit snugly. Marry, the boots were old. They’d been redyed a sickly brown, the toes were scuffed beyond repair, and the left sole sported a pennysized hole.