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. But a starving man didn’t scoff at scraps. They were the only shoes Ben had left behind, and they would suffice. A pity he’d taken all his good ones to Venice, Rebecca thought. She especially liked his red velvet shoes with the gold buckles. They would have looked splendid with the yellow and black round hose she’d chosen to wear today.
Her chest would look much too womanly under a doublet. She needed help. She gathered up a set of gold sleeves, a slashed gold and red doublet, a pair of gloves, and a brown cap with a peacock feather. Stuffing the clothes under her arms, she opened the door to her brother’s bedchambers and peered down the hallway: a chambermaid, carrying fresh sheets. She disappeared into the left guest closet.
Her mother was not due back from her visit with Aunt Maria until suppertime. Her father was God knew where, discussing God knew what with God knew whom. He’d taken with him the new houseguest, Esteban Ferreira de Gama. De Gama had been most cordial to Rebecca since his arrival a week ago. She thought him quite witty, if not handsome—thickly set, with enormously powerful legs, like those of a draft horse. A warm smile, but not lecherous. Not like Manuel de Andrada.
Only he remained inside the house with her, alone with Grandmama and the servants, the door to his cell shut.
What would that weasel say if he saw her like this—false beard and dressed as a man. Would he laugh at her, tease her, or threaten to tell her father? She decided most definitely he’d threaten to expose her game—unless, of course, she capitulated to him. How many times he had pawed her or worse, tried to corner her and pry open her legs. She dared not tell the men in her family about it. She’d implied de Andrada’s improprieties to Ben once before, and her impulsive brother had been ready to kill the weasel on the spot. She had to use all her feminine wiles to restrain his rage. The last thing in the world the family needed was an unexplained murder in their house, the law poking its nose into the family’s personal affairs. So she held her peace about de Andrada and kept the door to her bedchamber locked.
Manuel de Andrada had to be a very important man for Father to keep him around. Or at the very least, a man who knew too much. She spat on the floor and cursed his name. How much longer would her father have to support that maggot? Give him clothes, food, and shelter? Several of her kinsmen had spoken of poison and de Andrada in the same sentence. She wished the talk would convert to action.
Tiptoeing out of her brother’s bower—all the sleeping quarters were on the upper level—she scampered down the hallway, then ran down the spiral staircase, hurrying into the library. She hid behind a walnut bookcase overflowing with her father’s medical tomes and surveyed the room.
No one around.
She
