Love's Will by Meredith Whitford Page B

in which from now on she must sleep alone. The thought made her want to cry. Everything made her want to cry, these days. Two more days and William would be gone.
    Mrs Shakspere came in, holding a pile of shirts and under-linen from the laundry. Susanna was with her, clinging to her, and their two faces wore, for their different reasons, identical expressions of mulish dislike. Mrs Shakspere disapproved of this whole venture of going to London. Disapproval was one thing, but Susanna’s stark, painful disbelief that not even for her would her father stay, was almost beyond bearing. They both blamed Anne, and the two pairs of cold eyes fixed on her, day in, day out, rasped her nerves raw.
    Mrs Shakspere put the linen on the bed. Only one of the shirts was new, Anne had only just finished making it, but everything was of good quality, beautifully mended, laundered snow-white, immaculately ironed. In that at least William’s womenfolk saw eye-to-eye: he would go with the best clothes they could contrive.
    Mrs Shakspere said nothing as she smoothed the shirts. Nor did Susanna. They hadn’t spoken to Anne for a week. Suddenly it was more than she could take.
    “I don’t want it either. But I have to let him go, or make him miserable.”
    “You told me that if you married him he would never go away.”
    “I lied.”
    “So I see. It’s not decent,” said Mrs Shakspere. “If you were any sort of wife you’d stop him going.”
    Anne saw Susanna nodding smugly, so like her grandmother that Anne longed to slap her. “Would I? How? You say you love him, yet you’d see him unhappy because you’re too selfish to part with him. I love him. I love him enough to let him go. And I think it will break my heart. And what do you think it is like for me, to mend his clothes and help him pack and see him longing to go away? And I have to bear it alone, for I’ve no one to comfort me, no one at all.”
     
    William came home that night cheerful, whistling as he bounded up the stairs. Free. His last day as a schoolteacher was over. In two days he’d be on the road to London.
    The landing was poorly lit and he almost fell over Susanna, sitting on the top stair. “Darling, what are you doing there?” She bounced to her feet, looking reproachfully back at him.
    “Mama’s crying and Grandam’s cross and I hate you and if you loved us you wouldn’t go away!” Then, frightened by her defiance, she ran away down the stairs. William caught her halfway down, shook her, spun her around to face him.
    “Don’t ever say that! I love you. I love you all more dearly than anything in the world. Even if you hate me I’ll still love you forever. Don’t say that to me, Susanna.” She stood rigid in his grasp, refusing to meet his eyes. “We explained it all to you, Susanna. I have to go to London to make more money for your mother and you children. I can only do that in London. It’s not forever, I’ll come home when I can, and when I’m settled in London your mother will bring you to me. It’s what must be, Susanna.”
    He wanted to add, “And I can take no more tears and tantrums and ungiving silences,” but his child’s eyes were full of unshed tears. He loved her with that fearful, hopeless love that only parents know. He wanted to snatch her up in his arms, to take her with him, to change his mind and stay. He touched her face, angry when she shied back.
    “I love you, Susanna, and I will miss you, but go I must.” She tossed her head and marched off down the stairs; at the bottom she sped around the corner out of sight, to cry unobserved, he guessed. For a moment he was tempted to go after her. She was only four-and-a-half. But there was nothing more he could say to her.
    In his bedroom he found Anne packing his bag. As he watched, she tucked a sachet of lavender and herbs, guaranteed to keep fleas and lice at bay, between two of his shirts. Her face was calm but her eyes had the sodden look that comes from secret