XIII. Question

Having never been married, I have never had the misfortune of losing a husband. However, in seeing how Hamlet grieves for his father and after hearing his enraged words about his mother, I cannot understand Gertrude's behaviour. I do not dare criticize a queen, but I have been thinking much about her condition and for a recent widow she is positively rosy. She gathers her ladies-in-waiting to her like a mother hen and we feast on courtly gossip in her apartments. Though she dons deepest black, her garb is decorated with a rainfall of new jewels and she acts as though she were wearing any other colour.

Gertrude is merry, laughing with us and telling us stories of her own, ones that delight minds such as Adelaide's. It is as if the queen has forgotten all her years married to King Hamlet.

I long to ask her about it. None of the others are suspicious, save Adelaide and Fernanda, and that may be either because they are nosier than the others or my current attitude has begun to inspire them.

"I think the queen is in love," Adelaide says giddily, bouncing up and down. It is early in the evening and we are alone for once.

"Have you noticed her new jewels?" Fernanda says. "The white diamond pendant she had fastened around her neck—"

"Of course I noticed, I helped her put it on," Adelaide interrupts.

"I wish I had something that fine," Fernanda sighs longingly.

"Oh, who cares?" Adelaide snaps. "It's always jewels this and jewels that with you, Fernanda!"

"It is not!" Fernanda retorts.

Adelaide flounces her hair. "You do too!" she shoots back.

I cannot help but roll my eyes at the two of them and their argument – they are being endearingly ridiculous.

"Why can't you see past all the glitz and glamour?" Adelaide continues, grating Fernanda for all she is worth.

Fernanda's eyes flash dangerously. "Because I am a noble woman and not a peasant girl!" she retorts, holding her head high.

Adelaide raises an eyebrow. "Sir Edward would wish that you were," she says coyly.

They both glance at me and the three of us cannot help but burst into laughter. Sir Edward had never recovered from the blow I had dealt him in the summer. Though it was commonly known he had been making eyes at Fernanda, everyone knew that he would not succeed even in speaking to her.

The laughter dies down. We have lost much of the inspiration for humour since the king's death and winter's onset.

Adelaide lounges in her chair, her legs thrown indecently over its arms as she chews on her thumbnail in silence. "I think," she announces after a moment, "that even if the queen were a peasant girl, she would look the same."

"Adelaide!" Fernanda exclaims. "What a horrid thing to say! Do not let anyone hear you say it!"

"Not horrid!" Adelaide protests before Fernanda has even finished speaking. "A… round-about compliment, I believe. The queen is in love."

"This again?" Fernanda says. Even though her words imply a worn-out topic for gossip, her curious expression betrays her. "The queen in love? So soon after the old king's death? Isn't it a trite indecent even to consider such a thing?"

"I believe the queen is in love," I say quietly.

My friends turn to me, shocked.

"Why, Ophelia!"

"I thought you would never suggest such a thing!"

"Wait!" Adelaide sits up straight in her chair. "She recognizes the queen's symptoms because she has them herself!" She points at me triumphantly. "Proof that Ophelia has a secret lover!"

"You never give up, do you?" I say unenthusiastically.

Adelaide smiles like an angel.

"The queen is in love?" Fernanda asks.

"I believe so," I say.

"How do we go about proving it?" Adelaide asks eagerly.

"We don't," I tell her firmly. "I do. The queen is… more friend than majesty to me. I shall simply ask her myself."

"Will you tell us what she says?"

"That depends on her answer, Adelaide."

I am not going to spread the queen's secrets for her, but I have to know for sure. Hamlet thinks his mother and uncle's connection is closer than grieving widow and comforting brother-in-law. He told me to look with my eyes… I have the ability to look. Can I confirm his suspicions? What will I do if I find them to be true? I partially fear an answer, because I do not want to believe that dear Gertrude, my queen, is susceptible to such depravities as courting a member of her own family, and so soon after her late husband's death. It was family by marriage, but family nonetheless…

The next afternoon, when Gertrude dismisses the others, I approach her cautiously on the topic.

"There is some matter of important I wish to discuss with you, my lady," I say.

"Yes, Ophelia," she says as she sits by her hearth. "What is it?"

I swallow hard. I am not sure I can ask such impertinent a question, even though I must somehow bring myself to do so… I must have the answer from her, for the sake of honest truth.

Gertrude notes my expression. "Dear child, you look ill! Whatever is the matter?" She comes and sits by me. "Tell me, Ophelia."

"Are you truly still grieving, Gertrude?" I ask quietly.

Her face falls. "I see. So you wonder and ask. I knew you would soon." She pauses and for a long while stares into nothing, contemplating how to tell me. "I cannot contain my happiness for long. I can no longer grieve. I wear the black as a sign of respect for my late husband, but I have said my goodbyes. I move on."

"Do you love again?" I am timid in my question.

Gertrude laughs softly. "Dear Ophelia," she says fondly. "How innocent you can be. Love can cure all things, if it persists."

So she is truthfully in love – as her son suspected. As her ladies-in-waiting suspected. As I suspected.

There is only one man with whom she can be in love. I have seen him pass through her door with my own eyes, on the pretence of discussing the affairs of the country. Perhaps love is the affairs of country.

I rise to my feet. "I do not think your son will approve."

She shakes her head and invites me to leave. "I do not live by rules created and maintained by my son," she says. "My life is mine alone to live."