A Far Horizon

by Brenda Rickman Vantrease

  The hedgerow shadows lengthened and crawled across the road. He hoped to make Reading without having to light the coach lamp. Maybe he shouldn’t have put her at risk, remembering how easily a robber could stop a small coach; remembering too that he was smuggling unlicensed pamphlets out of London. He shifted in his seat, making sure the pistol had not been jolted out of reach.

  ‘Your arms must be tired,’ she said. ‘Would you like me to take the reins? I know how. I sometimes drove the wagon and team for William. I also had a little mare and trap of my own.’ He thought he detected a catch in her voice when she added, ‘My mare’s name was Lilybud.’

  ‘I am fine. Won’t be long now. You said “had.” What happened to Lilybud?’

  ‘She was stolen by marauders.’

  ‘Royalists or Roundheads?’

  ‘I don’t know. I never saw them. Just the bloody mess they left. But it really doesn’t matter who, does it?’

  The huskiness in her voice made him want to put his arm around her to comfort her, but he resisted the impulse, saying only, ‘No, I don’t suppose it does.’

  ‘I came home from Forest Hill and she was gone. Our dogs, William’s Splendid Pair, he called them, were slaughtered, along with his prize Merino sheep.’ He felt her sigh in his own throat. ‘I left that next morning, desperate to find him.’

  These last words were so softly spoken he scarcely heard them. The wind had picked up. With one arm, he pulled the coach blanket up to her lap.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said and fell silent again.

  Seeing a hedgerow up ahead, he pulled sharply to the middle of the road. The horses’ response was a little slow. ‘There is an alehouse at the next crossroads, as I remember. We will stop there and rest the horses.’

  By the time they drove through the stone archway of the coaching inn at Reading, the evening star had risen. In the courtyard he handed the reins off to the stable boy, tucked the pistol into his belt and jumped down. ‘Give them each an extra nosebag,’ he said, handing the boy two silver coins. ‘One for the extra nosebag and one for you. I will call for them in the morning. Early.’

  Every nerve in his body tingled as he reached up and lifted her down. Other parts of his body responded too. Quickly releasing her so she would not notice, he reached for her bag and escorted her in, motioning for the innkeeper, who signaled in recognition. ‘Lord Whittier, may I be of assistance?’

  ‘I would like a clean, well-furnished room for Lady Pendleton. With fresh linen, soap, towels and a sturdy lock on the inside.’

  ‘A single room, my lord?’

  Whittier shot him a warning look, ‘For the lady. She is a dear friend. I will take a bunk in the merchants’ dormitory. Lady Pendleton and I will share a meal in an hour. In the merchants’ dining area. A snug, if one is available. What is the inn specialty today?’

  ‘In the merchants’ room, my lord, it is stuffed breast of partridge in a savory sauce with a salad of braised greens and an apple custard. Would you like wine or beer?’

  Judging from the great number of wagons in the courtyard, the many sieges Reading suffered had not diminished the popularity of the inn. The food would be fresh and the cellar adequate. ‘Wine. Whatever you are serving the merchants.’

  She was silent as he walked her to her chamber and stood in the doorway. He did not trust himself to go in to test the lock – never had he wanted a woman so much in his life as he wanted her – so he ran his fingers over the rusted metal, imagining the softness of her skin, remembering the taste of her lips. ‘Seems sturdy enough, and the bed looks fresh,’ not mentioning how he longed to lie down beside her. ‘A maid will bring you fresh water and towels,’ he said brusquely, putting her satchel on the bed. ‘I want to get to the stationer’s before closing. We will leave for Forest Hill before he opens in the morning. I will be back in about an hour and we can go down to dine.’

  She did not answer but only nodded. Come to think of it, he had not heard her utter a word since they approached the gate to the coach house. Of course. She would be remembering her previous experience with this inn. The memory would have come crashing in on her as they entered the courtyard and crossed the common room. He cursed his choice. There were other inns.

  ‘Are you well, Caroline?’

  She rewarded him with a weak smile. ‘A little tired. That is all.’

  But the haunted look in her eyes told him it was more than fatigue as she said, ‘You go on. I will be ready when you come back. And thank you for this nice room. I am sure you will not save enough on your paper purchase to pay for it. Let me help.’

  ‘The pleasure of your company is more than payment enough. You rest. Take this hour to refresh yourself.’

  A maid knocked on the door with fresh bed linens.

  ‘When she leaves, lock the door and don’t answer it to anybody else. I won’t be long.’

  James was as good as his word. One hour later he knocked on Caroline’s door and softly called her name. She had attempted to refresh her appearance and her spirits. For all his courtesy and expense, he deserved, at the very least, a cheerful companion.

  ‘Shall we go down, milady?’ he asked extending the curve of his arm, which she took as though they were descending the stairs to a ballroom.

  ‘We shall, milord.’

  As they passed through the main room, she averted her gaze from the bench beside the hearth where she had huddled, frightened and alone. Some days it seemed a lifetime ago, but seeing it now, it seemed only yesterday. The room into which he ushered her was nothing like the common room. Much more elegant. It was lined with booth-like alcoves where several merchants with neatly trimmed beards and quality doublets talked softly, some pushing papers between them as they drank and ate and perused their contracts. She could almost see William among them.

  The ‘snugs’ were hung with velvet drapery. ‘Shall we keep the curtains opened or closed?’ he asked, settling across from her. ‘Closed, I think, James. Since there are no other women here, I would not want to call attention.’

  When he pulled the curtain, the space grew more intimate. He sat opposite her across the table. They were close enough to touch hands. She kept hers in her lap, wondering if she had made a mistake, but she would insult him now if she asked for the curtain to be pulled back. Their food appeared through the parted panels and she suddenly realized she was famished. Not wanting to deal with the repercussions of too much food and drink, she had eaten almost nothing and drunk less at their two breaks.

  The food tasted wonderful. James must have thought so too because they were halfway finished before either of them started a conversation.

  ‘Did Ben mention his intentions toward Patience specifically, or are you guessing?’ she asked between forkfuls.

  ‘He asked me about how he could achieve journeyman status, and when I inquired what was the hurry, he told me what was rolling around in his head. I had recently upped his pay and he said he was saving the extra to afford a place where they could live so Patience could leave Mr Milton’s employment and work with him in the print shop. I pointed out to him that he was earning journeyman pay already.’

  ‘But if you are paying him enough already, then why does he need journeyman status?’

  ‘It is a step to his being a master printer. Before he takes a wife, he needs the security of the Worshipful Master of Stationers’ Guild stamp. Then he can hire himself out to any of the guild masters and not have to worry about the fortunes of any one. He would be his own man.’

  ‘But surely he would not leave you when you have done so much for him.’

  ‘More, I think that he thinks I might leave him. He said he thought that I was getting restless because of the Licensing Act and might want to close the shop. Or be forced to do so. He and his new wife would need to be able to survive without me.’

  ‘Are you?’ she said, the suffocating closeness of the heavy curtains suddenly too near. He was the hinge that held them all together in some semblance of security. ‘Are
you getting restless?’

  He shrugged. ‘Not so much restless as hemmed in. I know that we can’t go on forever printing unlawful material. When Parliament finds that we can print faster than they can collect and burn, they will shut all the unlicensed printers down one by one, even if it means heavy fines or imprisonment. They will go after the most subversive first.’ The cocky grin emerged as he added, ‘And I am proud to say that we probably head that list. But I will abandon the venture before that happens.’

  Venture? Was that all it was to him? Just another scheme to be easily replaced?

  ‘Then Ben is wise to seek the official stamp of approval.’

  ‘Yes. I have already applied to the council for a license for him. But we are going to have to print a few more materials bearing the crossed sword and Stationers’ Guild imprimatur to make us look legitimate. I’ve signed up a couple of projects; a cookbook and a guide to women’s health, but when the Areopagitica arrives in the bookstalls—’

  Caroline interrupted him. ‘But maybe Milton’s pamphlet will persuade Parliament to be more lenient. His argument is powerful. For freedom to speak, I mean – not divorce.’

  She looked at the expensive meal only half-eaten on her plate, her appetite suddenly gone. What he was saying was very troubling. Not the news about Patience and Ben’s plans. More how all their lives, their choices, should be so determined by circumstances outside their control.

  ‘That is wishful thinking, Caroline. Not going to happen. No matter who wins the war. We are all right for now, simply because Parliament is too busy to ferret out all the unlicensed printers. But we need to be realistic.’

  ‘What about Mr Milton? He wrote it. Will they not go after him instead of you?’

  He shrugged. ‘Not like they will come after his printer. Milton is well known and respected by many in Parliament. His writings concerning the failures of the Church of England – and especially the Laudians – have been very helpful to the Puritan cause. They will go after the independent presses, so they can control the flow of his pen. That is why we need to have a plan.’

  A plan? How did one plan for the unknown? They were all pawns in the war. A gust of wind shook the window of their snug. Outside, a sprinkle of leaves buffeted the glazing before settling in a sodden heap. For all their yellow and crimson glory, tomorrow they would just be a pile of dying brown matter. She looked down at her half-finished plate. ‘This portion was too generous. I am quite full.’

  He poked his fork into her plate and transferred the slice of partridge to his own.

  ‘It will not go to waste,’ he said. And when the apple tart appeared, he ate that too, between forkfuls saying, ‘Don’t worry, Caroline. Whatever happens I won’t abandon you. I will try my best to keep you and Ben and Patience – if she is indeed his choice – safe. Have you ever considered how our little orphan quartet functions like a family?’

  ‘I guess I never thought of it that way. We are all orphans – alike in that we are alone. Even Patience. Ben said all she had was a grandfather who died last year. And though Ben has me and I have him, we are not bound by blood.’

  ‘Not by blood maybe, but we are all bound together by friendship and by work. More than that, we share a stubbornness, a will to act, a kind of inner resourcefulness, a determination to survive, and a sense of loyalty to that bond.’ He scraped the last bit of tart from her plate. ‘That is more than you can say for some blood families.’

  She smiled then, trying to look reassured, telling herself how fortunate she was to have a friend in him. But she and William and Ben had been a real family and the war had shattered that. ‘An all too unfortunate truth,’ she said, fatigue ambushing her. The hours on the road, the memories attached to the inn with the shadow of her loss looming ever larger here, and now this disquieting conversation had suddenly sapped her strength.

  ‘Thank you again, James, for dinner and for inviting me, but I think I would like to go up now. You said we needed to leave early in the morning, and it has been a long day. A lovely day, but long.’

  Scraping back his chair, he stood up and offered her his arm. ‘Allow me to see you safely up the stairs to the gallery.’

  She looked neither right nor left as they walked through the common room and up the stairs. When they reached her door, she thanked him again and bade him goodnight, wondering if he would spend the evening at the gaming table in the main room. After she had slid the bolt on her bedroom door and heard his receding footfalls, she resisted the urge to call him back.

  Caroline found Mary Milton in the brewhouse with her mother. It was mid-afternoon. The hut was hot and close with the smell of mash and yeast. Sweat rolled down Mary’s face as she helped Ann pour the steaming wort to cool in the fermenting tub.

  Caroline stood, unnoticed in the open doorway, watching them, drinking in each word, each movement, even the pungent smell. Ann Powell bent over the last of the three vats. ‘This one is ready. I will bottle it while you grind the coriander seeds for the next barrel.’

  Coriander seeds. That was Ann’s secret to the hazy, golden ale that Forest Hill was known for. Coriander and wheat added to the barley. Ann Powell had never used hops in her ale. She said she didn’t like the bitter taste of beer. Mary dragged the mortar and pestle from its shelf and began to grind the seeds, stopping only to massage her slender neck.

  Her glance fell on the open door. ‘Caroline?’

  Anne Powell looked up. ‘Caroline. Girl, are you a sight for bleary old eyes.’

  Mary dropped the pestle and ran to the doorway, threw her arms around Caroline then withdrew, laughing. ‘Sorry. Hope you haven’t forgotten the way a country girl smells.’

  ‘I have forgotten nothing. Even the smell of sour mash is something I miss. Do you need some help?’

  ‘Of course, we need help,’ Ann said. ‘We always need help. You are sorely missed, my girl.’

  ‘Where is sister Sarah?’

  ‘Married – at least she says she is. Gone off with that Captain Potter. Followed after him like some slutty camp follower when he was posted out of here.’

  ‘War makes unexpected alliances,’ Caroline said, reaching for her old apron still hanging on a peg by the door.

  Ann gave her hand a playful slap. ‘Do not go reaching for that dirty old thing. We are going to the kitchen and will have something cool to drink, and talk like the civilized folk we used to be. I will come back here later and finish. How long can you stay? A long time, I’m hoping. Christ and all the saints, how Mary has missed you. We all have.’

  ‘I have missed you too,’ Caroline said. ‘Sorely. And I will be grateful for a cool drink. We left Reading early this morning and it’s been a pretty good clip.’

  ‘We?’ Mary asked.

  ‘I’ll tell you about it. All about London and what I’ve been doing these days. I’ve time enough for a good long chat. I can stay the night. If that’s all right?’

  ‘All right? We wish she would stay forever, don’t we, Mother?

  ‘We want you to stay with us as long as you can. As always,’ Ann said, tearing a little. ‘The girls will be so glad to see you. Squire is away. He will be sorry he missed you.’

  ‘My brothers have deserted us. They found more glory in fighting for the King,’ Mary said. ‘The last we heard from them they had survived the battle on Marston Moor, thank God.’

  In the stillness of the afternoon kitchen, they drank cool buttermilk from the spring house. ‘I can tell you have the same cook,’ Caroline said between bites of gingerbread. ‘What about the other servants?’

  ‘Just the women. We can’t pay them much, but they are loyal. And we share our food and fuel with them – we have plenty of wood. You have probably noticed how most of the oaks are gone. If the squire doesn’t stop cutting soon we will have to rename the manor No-Forest Hill.’ She shrugged. ‘But it’s the only income we have, except the King’s worthless script. Even the rents have all dried up.’ She drummed her fingers nervously on the table. ‘That�
�s enough about us. How did you get here? Did you have any trouble?’

  ‘No trouble. A friend brought me. He has business in Reading and Oxford.’ The words were hardly out of her mouth before she shook her head, forestalling the frown on Ann’s face. ‘Don’t get all worked up and think I have abandoned virtue. He is my employer. James Whittier. I work for him sometimes in his print shop. Arthur – he calls himself Ben these days – works for him.’

  ‘Is he a good man? Is he kind to you and Arthur? Is he a Puritan like … John?’

  ‘He has shown us both every kindness, though we do work hard on his behalf.’ She gave a little half-laugh. ‘But hardly a Puritan. He sometimes ducks the churchwardens by closing shop and disappearing to some of the taverns that play Sunday round-robin secretly for their regulars. His little protest, he calls it, against forced piety. He shows up once in a while at St Bride’s. It is close by.’

  ‘Is he a King’s man then?’

  ‘He says he is neutral – if one can ever really be neutral on something so important.’

  Ann excused herself then to fetch Betsy and little Anne, who were supposed to be in the orchard gathering pears. They would want to see Caroline, too, she said. Mary and Caroline went up to the room they had once shared.

  Mary took off the kerchief and hung up the smock. It shed a faint smell of peat smoke and coriander in the pretty bedroom painted with green vines and unicorns.