The Watchtower

great crowd shows
    how much you too are moved and so I’ll wave
    in gratitude that you’ve come here today.
    The poet had fastened his gaze on Marguerite while reciting, but now he faced the throng and waved in a grand manner, to which there was an enthusiastic response with a few exceptions, such as that of the footman, who whispered to a man dressed in rainbow hues, “Such a union never will last!” What impertinence! Will thought, focusing instead on the familiar sound of the poet’s voice. Even though he himself had been struck with desire for Marguerite, he would never dare to interrupt the poet’s recitation. His voice had a ringing clarity, indeed majesty, to it Will had not heard in private, and he did not wonder at it given what depth of inspiration he now knew Marguerite could inspire.
    Marguerite continued:
    Our love’s a brighter sun than summer noon’s,
    and yet as soft as a slow breeze in May,
    and will survive in rhymes amidst the ruins
    of fortunes, mansions, nations. Let us cheer
    you all for your great warmth—that you’ve come here—
    Will swam in the flow of Marguerite’s voice as in the gentlest of rivers, near oblivious to the joy she showed in this proclamation of her and the poet’s love for each other. Somehow, he was managing to disregard that formidable obstacle for the moment.
    Marguerite went on:
    —to celebrate our union. Love has won!
    The poet stepped forward to conclude, smiling at Marguerite:
    Our marriage bed awaits, if not tonight
    then soon: our flesh and blood will be as one;
    enough of this world’s darkness. Love is light!
    To renewed applause, the poet and Marguerite then began a ceremonial descent down the stairs, greeting the partygoers, especially those they recognized, with a regal yet congenial air. Will leaned forward over the stair railing so that he could greet the poet and be introduced to Marguerite, but the couple went in different directions midway down the stairs, as if carried off by conflicting currents, so that in another minute Will found himself nervously bowing to Marguerite alone, taking and gently kissing her small, finely gloved hand.
    “Wondrous lady, I am Will Hughes, tutored by your beloved and now come to London to join the King’s Players.” He gazed into Marguerite’s eyes as he rose from his bow. Meeting Marguerite’s gaze was like diving into two deep pools of blue-green light. He felt himself again swooning with ecstasy. As he regained his composure, he saw a flash of recognition in Marguerite’s eyes and waited hopefully for something more—a profound look, expressive words, some other reassurance—but she just nodded with an amiable smile and appeared about to move on to her next congratulator. Was it possible she did not feel what he was feeling? Had the flash of recognition simply been her recalling his name? Or maybe, he tried to reassure himself, she was more adept at masking elation than he was?
    Perhaps in response to his perturbed expression, she did add, “Yes, Will, I have heard wonderful things about you. I am very pleased to meet you.” But she moved on.
    “Wait, please!” he called, catching awkwardly at her sleeve. “I must see you—”
    She glanced sharply back at him.
    “I mean, the two of you … in a less hectic setting and as soon as possible? May I pay a call on you tomorrow? Or Tuesday?”
    “I am sure there will be an occasion for it,” Marguerite said distantly. She seemed to reflect for a moment, then glanced more directly into his eyes again. Will thought he saw a tremor pass over her features. But if it had, she retreated from it.
    “I must go,” she said with formal coldness. “We will send you a note.”
    “I know you have something to tell me,” Will said with an uncomfortable smile.
    Marguerite’s expression grew pained, and she moved on to a large woman in a flowery dress, who held out both hands to her in a warm greeting. Will turned away then in despair, finding the front door with much more ease than he had found the stairs, and leaving the party without bothering to seek out the poet. His elation had turned to ashes with Marguerite’s final chill words.
    Darkness had fallen outside, broken only by intermittent torchlight along Lyme Street, as if Will had plunged into a pool of gloom emanating from his mood. He could not believe that Marguerite had not felt what he’d felt, but it appeared to be true! Why had she rushed away like that? And what did her pained look mean?