Chapter 2

This chapter is a bit longer than the first, and I hope to have a more equal product on future chapters. A disclaimer – while I like the story and the characters of Shakespeare in Love, and have tried to write an intriguing sequel with realistic consequences, I do not approve of or endorse Viola and Will's behavior (in the film) as moral, proper, or wise. I have tried to write Viola's feelings on the subject, not necessarily mine. That being said, I hope you can enjoy the story for what it's worth, and let me know how you liked it!

Alsatia. It was the name of the place where lawlessness reigned in London. In the shadow of Blackfriars Monestary, it was considered a place of refuge, and had gradually evolved into anything but that. Those who grew up there counted themselves fortunate if they escaped into the better parts of London town, and those who found themselves there on business or, as was Viola's case, lack of means, were considered to be very down on their luck indeed to set foot into Alsatia.

Viola did not stop running until she was deep in the heart of the sector, her mind racing, thinking of how once before she had outrun Will when she had a secret she didn't wish to be known. Finally she stopped at a hairpin bend in the street that formed a ramshackle corner crowded with tipsy buildings and woebegone dwellings. She leaned her forehead against the mouldering wall before her, and suddenly felt sick at the stench of the place. Straightening, her breath coming in ragged gasps, Viola shut her eyes and stood still, waiting for her heart rate to slow, and reliving once again the night of the shipwreck...

She had been awakened roughly by a pounding on her cabin door, and sat up, narrowly missing the edge of the bunk above her in which her newly-wed husband slumbered. Relief flooded her when she saw the sleeping arrangements that they were forced to accommodate while en route to the colonies, though her husband grumbled and assured her,

"It will not be long, lady. Soon we will have our own luxurious bed in Virginia, and all the joys one could want."

It was not a comforting thought. Seasickness had plagued both of them for the first two weeks, but then the weather had grown fine, and Viola found consolation in pacing the decks in the fresh air and wind, much to her husband's annoyance, and to the sailor's amusement. She did not speak to them, but would smile periodically whenever they would catch her watching their work, and the one would mutter to the other,

"Now there's a piece of finery worth dressin' up for." When they looked again, she would be gone.

The pounding on the door continued, and Viola tried to rise to answer the summons, but was thrown back within her bunk by the violent pitching of the ship.

"My lord –" she began, but a sudden wave of dizziness and nausea came over her, and she stopped short, putting a hand to her throat, and attempting once more – "My lord – !" Just as she managed to get to her feet and begin to make her way across the rolling and shuddering floor, he was awakened, and leapt down from above, nearly landing on her in his haste, his nighshirt aflutter and his hair standing on end as he crashed across the cabin to the door and flung it open.

"What in the name of –"

"My lord Wessex, sir, captain's orders, you are to remain below until further orders."

"Why wake us to tell us that?" he demanded, irritably fingering his mustache and scowling at the ship's hand who was drenched with rain and shaking from his very bones.

"Captain's orders, sir," he stammered, and began to beat his retreat, stumbling up the companionway as the sea lashed the ship to and fro in her wild grip.

"My lord," Viola began. "What is happening?"

"Nothing," he said, and reached toward her as if to comfort her, but just then there was an enormous crash and they both fell against the far wall of the cabin. Shouts were heard on deck, and Viola pushed herself away from the wall, making her mazy way out the door and beneath the hatch which was now opened. Rain poured down into the hold from the deck's surface, and the rain was descending in sheets.

Gritting her teeth and ducking her head against the torrential downpour, Viola grasped the ladder and made her way up to the deck where a scene of havoc awaited her. Men ran to and fro, orders were being bellowed from the stern where the captain and several of the other sailors tried to make fast the loose cargo that was tumbling around on the deck. One of the masts had snapped like a twig and fallen in a tangle of lines across the deck, and Viola tripped and went sprawling just as a huge wave rose before the ship and crashed broadside across the deck. For a moment she was underwater, and then the vessel shook herself free, and rose again, water pouring from the scuppers, and leaving Viola in a sodden heap, coughing and gasping for breath.

She struggled to her feet again, and staggered forward, the deck falling from beneath her as she tried to make forward progress, only to rise again and slam into the bottoms of her feet, nearly throwing her backwards. At last she reached a man bent over the side, miserably retching. She took a handful of his shirt in her hand and pulled; he turned, and regarded her with shock.

"You are supposed to remain below, miss!" he exclaimed, water pouring from his face, the wind flapping his hair like a flag in a gale. Viola opened her mouth to protest, but there was a sudden cry;

"Look out!" Another spar came down, crashing through the railing beside them. Viola screamed and jumped back, but the beam fell squarely across the young sailor pinning him to the rain-washed deck. Before she could ascertain if he were alive or dead, the howling wind whipped through Viola's clothing and nearly knocked her off her feet; a giant wall of water rose before her eyes, and as she opened her mouth to scream yet again, suddenly found it full of seawater as it crashed over the foundering ship and carried her over the edge and into the ocean's foaming rage.

She was within the sea's grip for what seemed like hours on end, but what was in all likelihood mere minutes. The waves crashed above her, slapping billions of bubbles beneath the surface to swirl around her an obscure her vision. For a moment she was too shocked by the cold to even move, but then she began to fight the water as she struggled her way to the tempest-tossed surface. At last her head broke the water and she took a deep gasping breath, choking as a wave slapped into her face and down her throat. Coughing and sputtering, Viola struggled back to the surface and for a fleeting moment the thought flashed through her head: This is the end. But her mind rebelled against the very idea, and so she began to fight again, fight the wind and waves, and her heavy clothing dragging her beneath the sea, knowing she could never win, but not being able to bear the idea of giving up so soon...

Hours later, their rescue had come. Her memories were a blur... but she had been seized by the ruff of her dress like an aberrant puppy and hauled aboard a ship's boat, and from there, rowed to the vessel that proved their salvation. It was the Providential – a fitting name, Viola thought. For not only had her life been saved, but she was told that she was the only survivor fished from the wreckage. No others were found. Lord Wessex... She was free.

Viola took a deep breath and straightened, looking about her at the scummy streets and bedraggled children that ran to and fro in them. She had not come this far to give up now. Having seen Will had given her the strenght of resolve that she needed to press forward. His love was steadfast. She knew that their cause was a lost one – like Romeo and Juliet, but she was no coward. Mustering up her courage, Viola held her head high, sallied across the street, dodging a rotten cart an unshaven man shoved into her path, followed by a slurred, ""Watch 'er," and knocked upon the door before her. It was a long while in opening, and Viola took a deep breath and raised her hand, preparing to knock harder this time, praying the flimsy door would not fall in and she would be to blame, when it rattled on it's rickety hinges, and creaked open, revealing a buxom woman in a dirty apron squinting at her from the grime.

"Help 'ye?" she said, looking doubtfully out of her small deep-set eyes at the stranger.

"Well, I certainly hope so," Viola began, and then, remembering to roughen her voice, and doing so with the skill of a born player. ""Ere's to 'opin' ye can."

The deep line between the woman's brows deepened further as she placed her hands on her hips and glared at the stranger.

"Now, see 'ere, young skirt. Do I 'pear to be the sort that takes in –"

"I see you're a –" Viola fumbled, glancing upwards at the swinging sign above her, "-laundry woman. You take in washin'?"

"Take washin'. I don't take strangers."

"I take it that you don't." Viola bit her tongue and resisted further witticisms as she haggled her desperate bargain. "It seems to be more'n you can 'andle on your own," she said, peering inside, and hoping the heaps she imagined were dirty laundry were actually that, and not something else of which she would rather not know. "I come to offer me services. I han't done it much before, but I learn quick."

"Do ye?" The woman looked incredulous. "How much ye askin'?"

"Board and whatever food you can spare. 'T'sall. I make do."

"You'll 'ave to," the woman said, and beckoned Viola inside. "What do they call ye?"

After a quick moment, Viola blurted out, "Julia." It would be easy to answer to, since it was so similar to Juliet, a part that she felt was nearly one and the same with her own now.

"Julia what?" The woman grunted as she heaved a basket of wet washing to her sturdy hip and strode out the back door of the establishment into a tiny filthy courtyard criss-crossed with drying lines.

Viola picked her way around the sodden piles of stinking clothes that had yet to be dunked in the tea-colored water that stood in barrels by the door, and replied "Just Julia."

"Alright, then, Just Julia. Ther'ell be no secrets from me, 'hear? Whatever ye've done, it can't be so bad that we'll send ye away. Alsatia's full of the like. Why else'd we be here. Lend a hand, girl!" she snapped, and Viola jumped to her aid in hoisting a dripping set of sheets across the line.

"Where are the pins?" Viola said, looking about her, recalling the days when Maria would hang out the fresh linens and towels to dry in the fitful breezes of their garden. The woman gave her a funny look.

"No pins. They get stole too easy, and cost too much. Ef it falls down, shake it, and pit it back up. Still cleaner'n when it came to me." She laughed a raucous laugh, and linked her arm through Viola's, who gave a start, but allowed herself to be ushered inside.

"Call me Martha. 'Just Martha'," she mimicked. Viola smiled. "I'll tell ye I live in Alsatia because me first husband didn't do right by me, so I got 'im real drunk and then took 'im out with a barrel stave. Didn't mean to actually kill 'im, 'ee just didn't get up again."

Viola stared. "Wh-what about the second?"

"He left me years ago when I tried to do the same by 'im. But that was only 'cause he was rottener than the first. You see," she grinned. "Can't be worth keepin' from me." Viola gulped. But Martha pressed on. "So what'd you do?"

"I fell in love," Viola whispered. Martha stared. "That's it?" And she burst into a peal of laughter even more boisterous than the first – she seemed to find this genuinely funny. Viola took a deep breath, and, remembering her accent, finished,

"I'm in a bad way, 'cause 'ee's married, and I can't tell 'im."

Martha wiped her eyes. "Tell 'im what?"

"That I'm pregnant."

Martha shook her head. "Ain't the first." Viola felt resentment rising in her chest at the common view Martha took of the case. Not for a moment did she regret Will, did she regret their relationship, those beautiful nights in each other's arms, living their dreams, rehearsing their parts, speaking in poetry, and hiding, constantly hiding everything, first that she was a girl, then that they were lovers... Not for a moment did she regret their relationship, and anything and everything it entailed, including these consequences. She hated to think of this as a consequence. From the time that she knew, she resisted the urge to feel like every other woman who was irresponsible and paid the price. Their relationship had been a beautiful thing, and thanks to this, it would continue to be. That was how she wished to think of it: a continuation of her relationship with Will, even if he never knew. He could not know. A family and the ensuing responsibilities had tethered him to work he hated in Stratford-upon-Avon, and in the end he professed hatred for them and broke free to go away and write. That was the last thing Viola wished to be to him – an expense, a responsibility, a cage, a muzzle to his gift. And so he must never know. She would work, and live, and never stop loving Will, or his child.

Martha watched the young woman's face for a long moment from the shadows as she sorted her thoughts into words. She spoke slowly.

"I'm grateful to ye for lettin' me on 'ere, but I'd like to not be known. There's those who'd wish to do me – us – 'arm if they knew of us." Martha's eyebrows lifted.

"A fugitive, then."

Viola nodded. "And most grateful to ye for your silence."

Martha squinted wisely. "That's one thing Alsatia knows how to do well. We don't let our secrets see the light side of London, that's for sure."

That night, Viola curled up on the rough mattress that Martha threw down upon the hard-packed floor for the both of them, trying to stay as far away from Martha's broad back as she could without falling off into the dirt. The night was cold, and she began to shiver, at first just small tremors that skittered down her slim frame, but soon great wracking quakes that made her head and body ache and threatened to wake up her bed mate. She grasped the edge of the gritty quilt and tugged it closer up around her shoulders, and curled into a tighter ball, twining her shaking fingers together at her warm center. Martha stirred and moved ever so slightly, mumbling,

"Keep together, and keep warm,"

"Aye," Viola managed, and gingerly leaned into Martha's warm back.

"That's right, girl." Gradually, Viola's shaking subsided, and as Martha's gentle snores filled the hovel Viola forced her eyes to close, and tried to recall everything she had ever heard about laundry.