Hamnet(31)

When Agnes made this speech, from her place at the spinning, by the fire in the parlour, Eliza’s mother let her knitting needles fall, as if she could not believe what she was hearing, which had made Eliza’s brother laugh immoderately into his cup, which in turn had made their father angry. Eliza, however, had listened, rapt, to every word. Never had she heard such things said, never had anyone spoken in such a way in their house before, with such unselfconscious flow, such frank cheer.

Either way, the wedding is set. The hawking, honey-producing, ale-trading priest will marry them early the next day, in a ceremony arranged quickly, furtively, secretively.

When Eliza gets married, she wants to walk down Henley Street in a crown of flowers, in bright sunshine, so that all may see her. She does not want some ceremony miles from town, in a small church with a strange priest sneaking her and her groom in through the door; she will hold her head high and marry in town. She is sure of it. She will have her banns read loudly at the church door. But her father and Agnes’s brother cooked this up between them so nothing more can be said.

She would, however, like to make the flower crown for Agnes. Who else will do it? Not Agnes’s stepmother, Eliza is sure, or her sisters: they are keeping themselves to themselves, back in Shottery. They may come to the wedding, Agnes has shrugged, or they may not.

But Agnes must have a crown. She cannot be married without one, baby or no baby. So Eliza asks her. She clears her throat. She laces her fingers together, as if about to pray.

‘May I . . .’ she begins, speaking into the icy air of the room ‘. . . I wondered if you would like it if I . . . made your flower crown? For tomorrow?’

She feels Agnes behind her, listening. Eliza hears her inhale and she thinks for a moment that she will refuse, she will say no, that Eliza has spoken out of turn.

The pallet rustles and judders as Agnes turns over to face her.

‘A crown?’ Agnes says, and Eliza can hear in her voice that she is smiling. ‘I would like that very much indeed. Thank you.’

Eliza rolls over and the two of them stare into each other’s faces, sudden conspirators.

‘I don’t know,’ Eliza says, ‘what flowers we will find, this time of year. Maybe some berries or—’

‘Juniper,’ Agnes cuts in. ‘Or holly. Some fern. Or pine.’

‘There’s ivy.’

‘Or hazel flowers. We could go down to the river, you and I,’ Agnes says, catching hold of Eliza’s hand, ‘later today, and see what we can find.’

‘I saw some monkshood there last week. Maybe—’

‘Poisonous,’ Agnes says, turning on to her back, keeping hold of Eliza’s hand and placing it square on her belly. ‘Do you want to feel the baby? She moves about in the early morning. She’ll be needing her breakfast.’

‘She?’ says Eliza, amazed at this abrupt intimacy, the heat of the woman’s taut, hard skin, the strong grip of her hand.

‘I think it will be a girl,’ Agnes says, with a yawn, neat and quick.

Eliza’s hand is being pressed between Agnes’s fingers. It is the oddest sensation, as if something is being drawn from her, like a splinter in the skin or infection from a wound, at the same time as something else is being poured into her. She cannot work out if she is being made to give or receive something. She wants to withdraw her hand, at the same time as wanting it to remain.

‘Your sister,’ Agnes says softly. ‘She was younger than you?’

Eliza stares at the smooth brow, the white temples and black hair of her soon-to-be sister-in-law. How does she know that Eliza had been thinking of Anne?

‘Yes,’ Eliza says. ‘By almost two years.’

‘And she was how old when she died?’

‘Eight.’

Agnes clicks her tongue in sympathy. ‘I am sorry,’ she murmurs, ‘for this loss.’

Eliza doesn’t say that she worries about Anne, all alone, so young, without her, wherever she may be. That for a long time she lay awake at night, whispering her name, just in case she was listening, from wherever she was, in case the sound of Eliza’s voice was a comfort to her. The pain of wondering if Anne was distressed somewhere and that she, Eliza, was unable to hear her, unable to reach her.

Agnes pats the back of Eliza’s hand and speaks in a rush: ‘She has her other sisters with her, remember. The two who died before you were born. They all look after each other. She doesn’t want you to worry. She wants you . . .’ Agnes pauses, looks at Eliza, who is shivering with the cold or the shock or both. ‘I mean,’ she says, in a new, careful voice, ‘I expect that she wouldn’t want you to worry. She would want you to rest easy.’

They are silent for a moment. The clop-clop of a horse’s hoofs passes by the window, heading north up the street.

‘How did you know,’ Eliza whispers, ‘about the other two girls who died?’

Agnes seems to think for a moment. ‘Your brother told me,’ she says, without looking at Eliza.

‘One of them,’ Eliza breathes, ‘was called Eliza. The first child. Did you know that?’

Agnes starts to nod and then shrugs.

‘Gilbert says sometimes that . . .’ Eliza has to cast a look over her shoulder before she speaks ‘. . . that she might come, in the middle of the night, to stand at my bed, wanting her name back from me. That she’ll be angry because I took it.’