Mistress Shakespeare

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A bold and intriguing novel about the woman who was William Shakespeare's secret wife, by the national bestselling author.

As historical records show, Anne Whateley of Temple Grafton was betrothed to William Shakespeare just days before he was forced to wed the pregnant Anne Hathaway. Here, Anne Whateley takes up her pen to tell the intimate story of her daring life with Will. Obliged to acknowledge Will's publicly sanctioned marriage, Anne Whateley nevertheless follows him from...

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Mistress Shakespeare

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Overview

A bold and intriguing novel about the woman who was William Shakespeare's secret wife, by the national bestselling author.

As historical records show, Anne Whateley of Temple Grafton was betrothed to William Shakespeare just days before he was forced to wed the pregnant Anne Hathaway. Here, Anne Whateley takes up her pen to tell the intimate story of her daring life with Will. Obliged to acknowledge Will's publicly sanctioned marriage, Anne Whateley nevertheless follows him from rural Stratford-Upon-Avon to teeming London, where they honor their secret union, the coming together of two passionate souls. Persecution and plague, insurrection and inferno, friends and foes all play parts in Anne's lively tale.

Spanning half a century of Elizabethan and Jacobean history, and sweeping from the lowest reaches of society to the royal court, this richly textured novel tells the real story of Shakespeare in love.

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Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly

On November 27, 1582, the Worcester archives show a grant for a marriage license for one Anne Whateley and her groom, Wm Shaxpere. Yet several days later, William Shakespeare married a pregnant Anne Hathaway. Harper's slack latest takes this mystery as its subject, imagining Anne Whateley as Shakespeare's only true love. Friends from childhood driven apart by their families' antipathy, Will and Anne rediscover each other as they come of age, and the young lovers plan to wed in spite of their families' disapproval. When Will is forced into marriage with Anne Hathaway, Anne Whateley flees to London and throws herself into her family's business, but the two reunite when Will arrives in London, and Anne becomes his tireless promoter. The novel's chief pleasures derive from the easy intersection of Shakespeare's work, the history of Elizabethan England and the life that the author imagines Shakespeare might have had. Though the Bard's language infuses the story with life, the emotions underlying the lovers' ruptures and reunions feel repetitive, and because there is never any question about how the romance plays out, the central narrative feels flat. (Feb.)

Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
Kirkus Reviews
William Shakespeare had two wives, both named Anne, one of whom was the dark lady of the sonnets, this mainstream historical romance declares. Prolific historical novelist Harper (The Hooded Hawke, 2007, etc.) offers an unexceptional mix of biography and politics in this account of historical figure Anne Whateley, who grew up in Stratford as a friend of Shakespeare despite the bad blood between their two families. Brave, clever and beautiful, with dark good looks inherited from her Italian mother, Whateley becomes Shakespeare's lover and muse. She is betrothed to Shakespeare, but the revelation of Anne Hathaway's pregnancy forces Shakespeare to marry the other woman instead. Heartbroken, Whateley moves to London, but she later feels enough loyalty to warn the Shakespeares of political peril. Her love/hate relationship with Shakespeare resumes when he arrives in London, now an actor and fledgling playwright. She inspires his sonnets and also Love's Labours Lost, which she helps him finish and sell, and offers all manner of assistance including helping him find a patron and rescuing him from a blaze at the Globe Theatre. Christopher Marlowe, Dr. Dee, Sir Walter Raleigh and Elizabeth I pass through the novel's pages, while the plays and poetry come sequentially into being. Harper supplies a busy panorama of Elizabethan London and its intrigues, however her emphasis on Whateley's role diminishes the genius of the playwright. Meandering and conventional, but capable.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780399155451
  • Publisher: Penguin Group (USA) Incorporated
  • Publication date: 2/5/2009
  • Pages: 384
  • Product dimensions: 6.10 (w) x 9.10 (h) x 1.40 (d)

Meet the Author

Karen Harper

Karen Harper is a New York Times– and USA Today–bestselling author whose novels, both historical and contemporary, have been published worldwide. A former college and high school English instructor, Harper now lives in Columbus, Ohio, and Naples, Florida, and frequently travels around the country to promote her books and speak about writing.

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Read an Excerpt

Prologue

LONDON, FEBRUARY 10, 1601

When I opened my door at mid-morn and saw the strange boy, I should have known something was wrong. I'd been on edge for three days, not only because of the aborted rebellion against the queen, but because Will and I were at such odds over it—and over our own relationship.

"You be Mistress Anne Whateley?"

My stomach knotted. The boy was no street urchin but was well attired and sported a clean face and hands. "Who wants to know?" I asked as he extended something to me. He must have a missive saying someone was ill. Or dead. Or, God save us, arrested.

"'Tis a tie from a fine pair of sleeves meant for you with other garments too, once adorning Her Majesty's person," he recited in a high, singsong voice as he placed a willow-green velvet ribbon laced with gold thread in my hand. In faith, it was beautiful workmanship.

"Didn't want me carrying all that through the streets," he added.

"'Tis all waiting for you at the Great Wardrobe nearby."

"I know where that is, lad, but have you not mistook me for another? I have naught to do with the queen's wardrobe."

"Three figured brocade gowns, two fine sleeves with points and ribbon ties, a butterfly ruff and velvet cloak for the Lord Chamberlain's players to use at the Globe Theatre. Since they be busy today, I am to fetch you to receive the garb."

Of late certain nobles had given me donated garments to pass on to Will's fellows. I'd done many things for the players behind the scenes, as they put it. I'd once helped with costumes, and that at court too. In the disastrous performance but three days ago, I'd held the book and prompted the players. I'd copied rolls for Will and his fellows as well as taken his dictation. Many knew I had helped to provide the fine cushions that padded the hard wooden seats beneath the bums of earls and countesses who graced the expensive gallery seats at the Globe. So mayhap the word was out that I was the Jack—or Jill—of all trades at the Globe.

Yet things from the queen's wardrobe? It was said she had more than two thousand gowns, so I supposed she could spare a few. The Shakespeare and Burbage company had performed before the court both at Whitehall and Richmond, but after the catastrophe of the Essex Rebellion, three days ago, Her Grace was donating personal pieces to them? Surely, she had heard that they had staged Will's Richard II, a play some whispered had intentionally incited the rebellion against her throne.

I'd told Will—another of our arguments—that promoting that tragedy at that time could be not only foolhardy but fatal, so thank the good Lord the Virgin Queen valued her favorite plays and players. The promised garments must be an olive branch extended to them. At least this would prove to Will once and for all something else I'd argued for years. Elizabeth Tudor was a magnanimous monarch, not one who should be dethroned or dispatched before God Himself took the sixty-seven-year-old ruler from this life. "One moment," I told the boy. "I must fetch my cloak, for the wind blows chill."

And blows ill, I thought, as I put away the pages of As You Like It, so-called a comedy, for it was larded with serious stuff. Will and I had been feuding over what was love, and I was looking at a copy of his role as Jaques, the part he'd written for himself. Like this character, Will had been "Monsieur Melancholy" lately and, looking closer at Jaques' lines, I'd been appalled by what I'd found. And though Will and I were not speaking right now, I meant to take it up with him too. More than once he'd stripped our tortured love bare for all London to see, devil take the man, and he meant to do it again in this play!

"We're off straightaway then," the lad called over his shoulder as I followed him out the door into the courtyard. I lived in the large Blackfriars precinct, but it was still a goodly walk to the Wardrobe. Ever since I'd set foot in London eighteen years before, I'd loved this area and Will did too. When we were young and even more foolish than we were now at thirty-six years of age, Blackfriars was our fantastical place. We'd oft pretended we owned a fine brick mansion set like a jewel in green velvet gardens among homes of the queen's noblemen and gentry.

And to think that Gloriana herself had dined at Blackfriars earlier this year in the Earl of Worcester's house! She'd been met at the river and carried up the hill on a palanquin, I recalled with a sigh. At Blackfriars too the queen's noble cousin, the Lord Chamberlain, the players' patron, lived in elegant style in Hunsdon House. Maybe, I thought, his lordship had put in a good word for Will and his men in this Essex mess, so the queen had decided not only to forgive them but to reward them.

Still hieing myself along apace with the boy down the public street edging the area, I had to watch where I stepped to avoid the reeky central gutter and the occasional pan of slop thrown from upper windows. Others were abroad, but the streets still seemed greatly forsaken in the wake of the ruined rebellion. The half-timbered facades and their thatched brows frowned down on us, making the narrow streets even more oppressive.

We entered through the eastern gatehouse I so admired. As ever, I craned my neck to savor the venerable grandeur of its three stories. Its diamond-paned windows gazed like winking eyes over the city with fine views of mansions and their great privy gardens, old Bridewell Palace across the Fleet to the west, the city walls and even the bustling Thames.

Will and I had once found the gatehouse's lower door ajar. Holding hands, we'd tiptoed up the twisting stairs. Standing stripped of goods, the rooms were being whitewashed for new owners. Such narrow but elegant, sunny chambers!

"Next time 'tis offered, I'll buy it for you," Will had promised grandly, though he had but three pounds to his name after sending money back to Stratford.

"Says you, the dreamer, my marvelous maker of fine fictions," I'd retorted. But our lovemaking had been very real, and I yet treasured the memory. Nor, I told myself, would I forget this one, for I'd never been inside the vast structure that housed the queen's wardrobe, that which was not of immediate need and kept at Whitehall Palace.

I'd adored Elizabeth of England from the first moment I'd seen her, gorgeously gowned, on a white horse, when I was but eleven and she'd come to visit her favorite, the Earl of Leicester, near my home in Warwickshire.

The boy led me round the corner into an alcove hidden from the street. He knocked thrice upon it.

"Do you serve Her Majesty?" I asked while we waited.

"I serve those who serve her," he said only.

I meant to question him further, but the door creaked open and an old woman with face wrinkles like cobwebs stood there with her sleeves rolled up. She wore a broadcloth apron as if she were tending a kitchen. "Follow me," she said, not waiting for introduction or comment. The boy did not enter with us but closed the door behind me. It thudded nearly as loud as the beating of my heart, which I told myself was only from our quick pace and my excitement to see this place.

"Farthingales here. Watch your head," the old woman muttered. I trailed her through a narrow alleyway of swinging metal hoops, like lonely bird cages, over which the queen's elaborate kirtles and petticoats would be draped. We plunged down an alley of sweetsmelling sleeves arranged by color, though the limited lantern light made the rich tawny, ruby and ivory hues all seem dusky. Boned bodices came next, then an aisle of fur-edged capes and robes. Of a sudden, the sweet scent of lime and lavender from the garments changed to some sharp smell that made me sneeze.

"Camphor to keep out moths," my guide said.

I jammed a finger under my nose to halt a torrent of sneezes. The maze deepened: swags of green and white Tudor bunting lined the way, then dusty, draped flags and battle banners. Suddenly, my stomach clenched with foreboding. Why would not the garments to be given me simply be ready at the door? We seemed to have passed from attire to military materials. As we rounded the next corner, my worst fears leaped at me from the shadows.

Within a dimly lit grotto of garments, behind a small portable table sat a man simply but finely attired all in black; his amber eyes shone flatly, like an adder's. It took me but a moment to realize I knew him—that is, I knew who he was. I had glimpsed him at court the time the players had taken me with them. His hunchback form was unmistakable. For months, the whole city had talked of naught but the bloodless battles between this man and the Earl of Essex. If he was here to see me—or I to see him—I dreaded to know why.

Robert Cecil, the Earl of Salisbury, the queen's closest councillor and chief secretary, was the avowed enemy of Elizabeth's former favored courtier, Robert Devereaux, Lord Essex, and his compatriot the Earl of Southampton, the men who had led the rebellion against her. It was through Cecil that the two earls had been arrested and rightly so. It was through Cecil that Will's patron, the Earl of Southampton, was being held prisoner in the Tower under the same terrible charges as his friend Essex.

"That is all," Cecil spoke to the woman, who scurried away. I remembered to curtsy. I was pleased it was quite a steady one because my legs were starting to shake. I saw we were not alone; two men—guards or secretaries?—sat at another table off to my left side. Had I been snared in a trap baited with the promise of royal garments only to be summoned to an inquisition?

"I do indeed have the pieces of cast-off wardrobe for the players you were promised, Mistress Whateley," Cecil said as if he'd read my mind. "I do not speak untruths or half-truths, and I pray you will not either. I must inform you that, since Her Majesty much enjoys the talents of the Globe's players, I can only hope they will be able to remain at large to put the royal items to good use as costumes in their dramas."

After that initial assault, I could scarce catch my air. The memory of my dear, doomed girlhood friend Kat leaped into my mind's eye, for I felt like that—trapped, floating face up, exposed, bereft of help, hope or even breath.

"Fetch a seat for Mistress Whateley, Thompson," Cecil said, and a man jumped to obey. It was some sort of folding camp stool. I perched poised on the edge, telling myself to sit erect and to show calm and confidence no matter what befell. Oh, yes, I could be a player too. And I was not such a country maid that I did not know this was to be a war of wits, and that this one the rabble called Robertus Diabolus—Robert the Devil—had the upper hand.

I tried to buck myself up: however much at odds Will and I were now, had I not been so close to him and the players that I was well armed with clever turns of phrase? I knew how to listen well for cues before responding. Yet this was the man who had inherited Sir Francis Walsingham's dreaded web of intelligencers, who had brought down the lofty likes of Essex and Southampton and had made mincemeat of lesser men and women like Will's kin.

"Thank you for your consideration, my lord," I said before he could speak again. The words, too many, I warrant, tumbled from my mouth. "For the seat, I mean, but I am also grateful for the gift of Her Majesty's cast-off garments to the Lord Chamberlain's Men, not only for them but for myself—to be able to merely care for them. We all honor our queen."

"Do we all?" he parried. "Mistress, I need straight answers from you. I have not hauled in the players themselves—yet—because I cannot abide prevarications or histrionics offstage. I have it on good authority you are forthright and have spoken your mind to the Globe's actors. And I will have you speak plainly here."

"Of course, my lord, but I cannot see why we must meet in such a place, away from others—"

"I did not think," he interrupted, "knowing Will Shakespeare as intimately as you do, a covert meeting was something new to you." My insides lurched. He knew about me and Will. How much did he know, from how far back? He must be punning upon the word knowing in the biblical sense and be aware that Will and I had met secretly off and on for years. And worse, that I had been questioned once before by someone from Her Majesty's government about where Will Shakespeare's loyalties lay.

I fought to compose my features. Our eyes met and held. His face was not uncomely, but he was so misshapen in bodily form it was said the queen called him her Pygmy. I knew of nicknames that could sting, for I was of half-Italian blood and had oft been called Gypsy or Egyptian.

Cecil's enemies called him simply the Hunchback, and during the rebellion, someone had scrawled on his front door, in a near quote from Will's description of the hunchback King Richard III, HERE LIES THE TOAD! I well knew that playwrights had been imprisoned, tortured and killed for slanders stuck on doors in London. "Let me speak plain, mistress," he said when I did not flinch under his gaze and did not respond again. "It is well known that Shakespeare and his fellow players performed The Tragedy of King Richard II, at the behest of the Earl of Essex and his dear friend-in-arms Southampton, just before the recent rebellion. I am certain I need not tell such a devoted friend of the playwright that scenes are in that drama that advocate the overthrow of a sitting monarch by a favorite of the English crowds."

"It's just a play, my lord, employing the past and hardly predicting the future." I saw where he was going now but had no notion of how best to navigate the dangers. "Indeed, the Lord Chamberlain's Men were paid a goodly sum for performing it," I continued. "They had no political statement to make, but simply needed the money, forty pieces of silver, so—"

"It should have been thirty pieces of silver!" he exploded, smacking his palm on his table, making it jump and shudder. "They are Judases, as much favor as Her Grace has shown them! And, yes, mistress, I hear you repeat the name of the Lord Chamberlain, as they bear the queen's cousin's name as patron. But," he said thrusting up both hands when he saw me ready to protest, "I know Will Shakespeare's bread is buttered on the other side too, for he's been cozy with Southampton for years, and the Shakespeare family has a convoluted, questionable past as Catholics and rebels!"

I was dumbfounded. He knew about Will's beginnings, family connections, his life from the earliest days. Then he could ruin Will with this—ruin me too.

"All I can tell you of my Warwickshire friend Will Shakespeare in all this," I said, fighting again to control my voice, "is that he prays that your lordship and Her Gracious Majesty will spare the life of his friend and sponsor the Earl of Southampton. He merely did a favor for him and for the needed money. He meant no political statement."

I was lying and I felt myself begin a fiery blush from the tip of my ears to my throat. I could only pray that the tawny hue of my skin hid that. And here I was fighting for Will when I could have strangled him with my bare hands but three days ago.

"Both earls' coming trials will decide all that," Cecil said, "but we can hardly claim that poets and playwrights are above such political frays, can we? Praying we forgive Southampton, that's what he's been up to, eh? More like, London's favorite playwright has been writing something else to stir up sedition. Ben Jonson went to the Marshalsea prison five years ago for a slanderous play," he went on, jabbing a finger at me like a scolding schoolmaster. "Thomas Kyd was questioned under extreme duress and, sadly, died soon after. Christopher Marlowe—"

"Was supposedly accidentally stabbed in a tavern brawl," I dared to interrupt. My Italian blood was up; I could not help myself. At least he seemed not to know of my past with Southampton or Marlowe either. "And," I plunged on, "it was said Marlowe was an informer for Sir Francis Walsingham, so I'm not sure what it behooves one to be an informer, as it's whispered his demise could have been an assassination and not an accident!"

"Ah," he said, and his mouth crimped in either annoyance or amusement. "The beauty does have hidden fangs as well as a clever brain."

We stared at each other in a stalemate but hardly, I thought, a truce. Air from an unseen source shifted a battle banner behind his head. One of Jaques' lines from As You Like It leaped through my mind to taunt me: "The worst fault you have is to be in love." With a shudder up my spine, I realized then what I said in the next few moments could save Will or damn him to torture, imprisonment or even death.

"But tell me," Cecil said, leaning on his elbows and steepling his long-fingered hands before his mouth, "before we go on, exactly what is William Shakespeare to you? Here you are, an exotic woman, a tempting vixen, when he has a wife and family back in Stratford- Upon-the-Avon. Tell me true, Mistress Anne Whateley, what is the man to you?"

That, I thought, was the question. For nearly two decades, since even before the day he'd publicly, legally wed Anne Hathaway, I'd not only loved but loathed William Shakespeare to the very breadth and depth of my being. What was he to me and I to him? God's truth, in my pierced and patched heart, I, Anne Rosaline Whateley, was above all else, the first Mistress Shakespeare, Will's other wife.

THE HISTORY OF ANNE ROSALINE WHATELEY

I would not have anyone believe I am untutored nor ignorant of how one's life's story is commonly constructed. I admit the previous scene of dialogue with Robert Cecil in London is not truly a prologue, for much of what I will write next came before. After all, an old adage says, "What's past is prologue." But you see, that confrontation with Cecil caused me to search my soul to record my life. What, indeed, am I to Will and to others? What and who am I to myself?

Having inspired characters in Will's plays and worked closely with him in many ways—ah, both of us love to rhyme—I have decided to arrange the events of my story as if it were a five-act play, that is, divided into the major parts of my life and story. As Will wrote for a play last year, "All the world's a stage and all the men and women merely players." And since I have the London playhouses and their people in my blood as fiercely as does he, I shall relate my narrative in such a pattern.

This tale will reveal not only my life but Will's, so entwined are our plots, so to speak. Sometimes I fear his rivals will consign his work to oblivion, or that theatrical tastes may shift yet again and judge him of no account, or that plague or the prating Puritans will shut down the playhouses permanently. If so, I pray this account will let others know him and his work even better—and justify my part in his life too.

The rendering of my thoughts, emotions and experiences is part comedy and part tragedy as well as history, for life is such a mingling. And so, I write this report of the woman born Anne Rosaline Whateley, she who both detested and adored a man named William Shakespeare.

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  • Posted February 16, 2009

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    I, Will, Always Love You!

    George Santayana warned leaders and citizens alike, "Those who cannot learn from history are doomed to repeat it." Karen Harper's Will Shakespeare goes one step further with a quote that deeply resonates throughout this novel narrated by his "real" wife, Anne Whateley, "The past is prologue. All is true." <BR/><BR/>Beginning with a youthful romance and secret wedding, Anne records her love/hate relationship with Will as he struggles to escape the glove-maker trade and become a poet/playwright in a world that sharply degrades and damns the latter trade. But creativity and love are the the true prologue that unites Will and Anne through multiple tragedies such as the suicide death of a beloved friend, Kat, over lost love; the death of Anne's father; Will's forced, loveless marriage to Anne Hathaway; and far too numerous other family member deaths. <BR/><BR/>Readers will enter the world of Queen Elizabeth I, the Gloriana monarch revered by Anne but mistrusted by Will. For it is widely believed that the Queen's Players, the dramatists Thomas Kyd, Ben Jonson, John Lyly, George Peele and especially Christopher Marlowe are perhaps spies for the monarch in one way or another. Still their talent places them in the forefront of Will's competition as he slowly but surely earns his fame as poet and playwright in his own right. The Earl of Southampton becomes Will's patron through Anne's mediation, a relationship that becomes a liability when the Earl's relationship connects him to the political rebellion led by the Earl of Essex. <BR/><BR/>These glorious pages teem with the creative process Will and Anne share in writing and producing Will's famous plays, beginning with Love's Labour's Lost, written for Anne, a tribute and tragic look at their relationship. Friends are innumerable who help Will obtain the monies he needs to begin his literary career which flourishes. Anne and Will survive the devastating Black Plague and the treachery of former friends and foes.<BR/><BR/>The tension never lags in this most tempestuous relationship fraught with fear of discovery and jealousy, the conflicts a catalyst for even more vibrant, vivacious plays and poetry that thrill and entrance theatre-lovers from the Queen and subsequent King James to the majority of common English citizens.<BR/><BR/>Yes, history is prologue, building and forging historical and personal relationships that endure because of Will and Anne Whateley's writing, a searing sword piercing every thought, word and deed to expose the truth defining the essence of human beings. <BR/><BR/>Mistress Shakespeare is a beautiful, well-plotted, intricately characterized novel that will become a classic for sure of superb historical fiction! <BR/><BR/>Reviewed by Viviane Crystal on February 16, 2009

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted November 26, 2008

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    This is an intriguing biographical fiction

    Anne Whatley and William Shakespeare have been friends since childhood. On 27 November 1582 a marriage license in Latin between Anne Whateley and Wm Shaxpere is issued in nearby Worcester, England. However, their respective families object to their relationship. A few days later William Shakespeare and pregnant Anne Hathaway wed.<BR/><BR/>To escape from the reminders of her broken heart Anne flees to London. She occupies her mind with the family business. When Will comes to town, they meet up with both still attracted to one another, but he is a married man. Still Anne becomes Will¿s ardent advocate of his work and though their departures are sweet sorrows their reunions are passionate.<BR/><BR/>This is an intriguing biographical fiction that indirectly looks at Shakespeare¿s life through Anne Whatley¿s lens by combining fact and what if fiction. The story line provides a focus on the Elizabethan Era especially from the viewpoint of artists and their patrons. Although the romantic plot lacks suspense as there is only so much poetic license an author can take to fill gaps and reach the known end, fans will enjoy this solid glimpse into Shakespeare in love.<BR/><BR/>Harriet Klausner

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted August 1, 2012

    Hard to put down

    Wonderful and intriging, cant wait to start my next Karen Harper novel

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  • Posted September 5, 2011

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    TEPID

    What could've been a smoldering story of love, betrayal, religious and political strife in Elizabethan England just turned out to be a tepid book on the "wronged" mistress of William Shakespeare. Making Anne Hathaway an awful wife didn't endear me to "talented" and beautiful Anne Whateley. The glamorization of adultery, by painting the wife with hideous colors and by trying to convince us that the other woman is more deserving, has never worked for me. And I found it particularly irksome in this novel. It's not such a bad book, but it's not good either. Get it if it's on sale and you'll pay less than you would for a magazine. That's why I didn't regret buying it because it was really cheap.

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  • Posted June 15, 2011

    Inspiring! What love story!

    I thoroughly loved this book. I've read lots of historical fiction and it goes without saying that some authors are better than others in creating a plausible and exciting story around a few known facts. It's my first reading of this authors work and with so few reviews i knew i was taking a risk but bought it anyway because i love reading stories about this period in history and more importantly, it was on the bargain page and I have no regrets! Mistress Shakespear has not only inspired me to read other books by her it has inspired me to dig up my Shakespear plays and try again to read them. The love story she imagines between Will and Anne is believable in that it was at times romantic and loving and at other times frustrating and impossible. The pacing is good there is plenty of suspense and i just loved it! I read it three days despite having to work. If I'd started it Sunday morning I'd have easily finished it by dinnertime.

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  • Posted July 23, 2010

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    not a compelling read

    Wanted to love this book as I love Shakespeare's works and anything describing Elizabethian times. And historical fiction usually intrigues me. i.e., Even if the writing is not the best, I'll still finish usually finish a historical fiction novel because I want to know how the author envisioned this "filling in" of the blanks or "alternate" universe. However, other than a few "gems" of insight every so often, I couldn't get into this particular story, even though the premise is one I usually love, and ended up putting it down in favor of another on my e-bookshelf. Maybe I'll try to finish it later....

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  • Posted April 8, 2009

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    I Also Recommend:

    Great Read! Never pictured Shakespeare in that light!! Wish I read this book before reading his works in high school..

    I would suggest this read before you start to read his works..I would think you would enjoy and understand his style and art form allot easier than just jumping into "Shakespeare".. Very good book and very enjoyable...

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