Another new play, and Anne was going to the theatre. Hamnet was at school, Susanna and Judith spending the day with the family of one of the other players. For any housewife with children, a day to herself was a holiday, and Anne sang under her breath as she dressed. In Stratford a woman who used face-paint was rated as a whore, but in London a touch of rouge and black on the eyelashes was permissible. At thirty-six she had some fine lines around her eyes, but her skin was clear and soft, she had no need of the white-lead pastes and vivid stains of city women. On the whole, she thought as she peered at her reflection in William’s small mirror, not too bad for a middle-aged woman. A dab of scent behind the ears, and she was ready. Hearing the knock on the door she pulled on her new green coat and hat and hurried down the stairs. One thing London was not, was a place where a woman could safely go about alone, and William paid one of the theatre boys, a Cockney hanger-on who did rather well out of holding horses and running messages, to escort her to the playhouse.
