As she put the lid back on the beehive, she remembered how Margaret, the herbalist, had told her to be careful. This warning had stuck in her mind like a knife. Perhaps it was this awkwardness with Geoffrey to which Margaret had referred.
Then again, perhaps Margaret was warning her to be careful of Richard Wheeler. She still did not know what to make of him. He knew she had the orchid, she was sure of it, yet he had not called the constable or asked Thomas to search the house. It was almost like a pact between them, an unspoken understanding.
She paused and looked out over the landscape, the trees interspersed with the slate rooftops, the squat square tower of the church. She thought again of him arriving at the door so unexpectedly. His old-fashioned manner of speech could have been quaint, but it only made him appear formal and distant. She could tell from the way he walked that he was a man used to action, but that this was somehow pent up under his unruffled exterior, like a wild horse in traces. She remembered the intense look in his eyes. Alice felt herself blush for no reason.
Whilst Alice was entertaining Geoffrey, Ella led the manservant to the kitchen, where they sat down with Cook to hear the latest gossip about Sir Geoffrey and his wife, the Lady Emilia. The groom had heard all about Lady Emilia’s secret affair and the letters that went back and forth, but Lizzie, Emilia’s maid, was refusing to tell them anything. According to the groom, she was too frightened of losing her position. They were agog to hear more, but the bell was tinkling from the summerhouse, and Ella reluctantly went to answer it.
She had chuckled when Alice had summoned her to fetch refreshments and said that she had not to be disturbed. Thomas was still at home and was in the parlour, going over some papers. She told the manservant Sir Geoffrey’s message, and he went off to clean the trap and see to the horses. When she made up a tray for Mistress and her guest, she made up another tray for Thomas. Cook was busy with the meal preparations, and a huge pile of gooseberries she was topping and tailing.
‘I’m off to polish the cutlery in the dining room and clean the windows,’ said Ella. ‘I’ll take this up for Master on the way.’
‘Well, don’t be long. I need some help with this bottling.’ Cook gestured at the full baskets under the table. She grabbed angrily at the gooseberries, ripping off the tops and tails as if it was their fault, and throwing them into the pan where they rebounded like gunshot. ‘And Mistress has pinched the boiling pan. How am I sup posed to melt the wax to seal the bottles? I don’t know how she expects me to do all this, and start tomorrow’s breadcakes.’
‘Well, there’s a lot needs polishing too. I’ll be as quick as I can.’
Cook raised her eyebrows in question. She knew Ella’s usual manner of working, which was never exactly brisk, so she resigned herself to a long wait. Ella put the basket of polishing cloths over her arm and picked up the tray. She went straight to the parlour and shut the door behind her.
Thomas looked up from his scattering of papers and smiled, putting them aside. Ella sauntered over and put down the tray on the table. His hand reached round her waist and pulled her towards him.
‘Now then, Master Thomas, whilst Mistress is busy I’ve brought you a few tasty morsels…’ She looked at him with a coquettish smile.
‘You are quite a tasty little morsel yourself,’ he said, enjoying the banter, and stood up, starting to lift her skirts to feel the bare flesh of her legs.
She reached round to the tray and picked up one of the figs. ‘Better have a taste then,’ she said, putting it between her white teeth and turning back to face him, leaning towards his mouth. He bit into it and soon their lips were touching and their tongues probing, and the pulp and seeds were pressed between their mouths. Thomas licked her chin greedily before thrusting his tongue into her mouth again and pulling her hard against him. She clung on, grinding her hips against his as he licked and sucked her neck and the top of her breasts.
She stepped away a little and pulled the laced shoulder of her bodice down, lifting out one of her breasts, rolling the nipple between her finger and thumb until it stood proud. ‘Another fig, Master?’
‘Ella.’ He said her name and fastened his lips over the offered nipple, as if he would take her whole breast into his mouth. He started to lick it the way a dog laps water, the noise of it loud in the quiet parlour. Ella was becoming aroused, despite herself. She pushed herself towards him and took hold of the hair at the back of his head, feeling for his crotch with her other hand. He freed her other breast whilst she unbuttoned his breeches, and then took him in her hand, pumping up and down. He groaned and pulled her skirts higher until his hand felt the wet crack between her legs.
She steered him over to lean against the wall. From that position she could see Sir Geoffrey’s groom out of the window, curry-combing the horses.
‘Sir Geoffrey’s manservant,’ she said hoarsely, ‘he’s just outside the window in the lane.’
The idea seemed to excite Thomas even more. He pushed her over towards the window, pulling her bodice off her shoulders, both hands rubbing her bare breasts, his jutting penis thrusting at her back.
‘No, Thomas, he’ll see us.’
‘Then let him.’
She squirmed away, turning him so his back was to the window, and pushing him so he sat down hard onto the carved oak linen-chest.
‘Wait there,’ she said, holding him with her eyes as she went over to the table.
In the centre of the table were set the salt cellar and a small pewter dish with a lid. Ella took the lid off the dish and put in her fingers, bringing out a knob of yellow butter. Thomas watched her, with his breeches open. She knelt down in front of him with the butter and smeared it over him until it melted into a yellow grease. Cupping her hands over it she slowly slid them up and down. Thomas lay back with his head against the window, moaning as she worked the hot butter between her hands.
‘What do you think the manservant would say now, if he could see you through the window? You with your cock all buttery, eh?’
Thomas groaned and his eyes closed.
‘Should I lick it off now? Lick it clean?’
A faint but insistent tinkling noise was just audible over Thomas’s moans.
‘Mistress’s bell.’ She rubbed her greasy hands on her apron and hitched her bodice back over her breasts.
‘Ella?’
But she was already halfway out of the door, tucking her hair into her cap.
Chapter 13
There was a fluttering in the blackberries and Richard saw that a starling had its leg caught in the nets he used to protect the fruit. The bird was thrashing and beating its wings in distress. He took a knife from his pocket and swiftly cut the thread, watching the bird fly in a haphazard arc to the garden wall. There, it preened itself, before hopping to take a mud bath in his newly dug trench. Smiling, he re-tied the thread with his earth-stained fingers.
As usual he was out early digging in the vegetable garden. As he plunged the spade into the ground, he admired the bed where he had been sowing the winter spinach and planting turnips for their green sprouting heads, a welcome sight in winter when the ground was hard. The sun frayed behind a veil of early morning mist, pale lemon-coloured above the horizon; the air was damp and chill. Along the wall next to the cottage he could see the fruiting raspberries–today he must harvest them, ready for market tomorrow. And he must remember to hang new wasp traps, and to bury the tips of the blackberry shoots to form more plants.
It was a lonely life, this. He missed the camaraderie of the barracks. The friendship at the Hall was of a different kind, less free and easy, more controlled. He always felt a little as if he was not quite up to the mark, his Quaker brethren seemed so upright and noble.
He paused for a moment over his spade, the sweat standing in beads from his brow, looking around. Nature’s bounty. His little piece of ground, filled with the fruits of his own hard work. He wiped his hands up and down briskly against his leather jerkin and sliced the spade again through the d
amp soil. He thought of the rumours that some of the villagers were to be dragged off their land for the new enclosures. As long as a man had a plot of land, then he was rich enough and need never starve. He wondered if a time would come when all men would be free to own their own land, and none would be bound to another man’s service.
He hefted the spade again and stood on the edge of it with his boot. It did not give, so he paused again and looked around. He felt a presence grow about him, like the swelling of music–a tune that was strange yet familiar. Even the clods of earth seemed to be part of this music, to have their own note distinct from all the others. It made him yearn for something lost. Perhaps this feeling was what made things grow, made them burst out from the seed to burgeon up and out, to flower and fruit, and then when their longing had gone, to wither and die.
He applied his full weight to the spade and finished the trench for the winter spinach. Afterwards he stood up the spade and pummelled his back with both hands. Then he wheeled the wooden barrow of rubbish to the midden. Earlier he had been down to the wood and stood in the spot where the orchid had been growing, the place where he had seen the white dove. Had he imagined it? He had stood perplexed over the hole in the earth, trying to fathom its meaning. Maybe it was a sign. Perhaps God was telling him he should fight for people to stay on their land. In his mind’s eye he saw again the bird’s white outstretched wings. At the same time, an image of Alice Ibbetson’s face came to him. He saw her rapt expression when she had first seen the little flower. Her face all lit up as if from within.
She was lying, though, and it made him feel sad. He would speak with her again. It was a slippery downhill slope, lying and deceit; a trap waiting to spring. She was a good woman, a sensitive woman. No one could paint nature the way she did and be entirely without a soul. He would save her from herself if he could. Maybe this was what God wanted of him, to bring her back to a life of honesty and truth. He pictured her face, contrite.
Picking up his spade, he went back to the house. The vegetables would have to wait. They were releasing Felicia today, and he was going to ride to Lancaster with the others from the Hall, to meet her and accompany her home.
It was nearly a month since the unfortunate incident in the church, and Felicia had been in gaol all that time. It was important to be there when she was released, to show support. And he wanted to prove to Dorothy that he was fully committed to their cause.
The little group stood expectantly at the gates of the gaol. Noon, they had said.
The sun was high in the sky, but despite this it had become cold, a wind was coming from the north and blew sharp round their ankles. The women gathered their shawls tight round their shoulders and blew on their hands; the men stamped, stepping from foot to foot. They could hear noises from behind the big wooden door but couldn’t see anything. Dorothy saw Richard approach and held out her gloved hand to greet him.
‘I thought to find thee here,’ she said, smiling.
‘No sign yet?’
Dorothy shook her head. There was a muffled clang from behind the door and the people shuffled forward. Huge, strong as the oak that made it and studded with iron nails, the door towered over them. Within it was a smaller, man-sized door with no handle, just a small square peephole. It was next to this door that the group of Quakers were waiting. Richard looked fondly at the unassuming group in their greys and browns. He noticed Jack and Hannah amongst the group, from the conventicle with George Fox, and nodded to them.
‘It’s past noon,’ said Isaac, the town clerk. ‘They said noon.’
No one answered him; they were used to waiting for authority. There was nothing they could do but be patient. They stood close together near the tumbling-down outer walls. The Earl of Derby had ordered the demolition of the walls during the war–until of course he realized he was actually destroying the county gaol, whereupon he stopped.
Richard looked around him. He could see that the city looked prosperous and busy again. There were new houses now, with big windows and double entrance doors. Even after the civil war had finished, the earl and the king’s men had been so irked the castle had been surrendered to the parliamentarians that they laid siege to it. When it proved impregnable, he had turned on the town and set fire to it–more than two hundred people had lost their lives.
The war had continued to claim lives, even when it was long over, thought Richard. He turned to his companions, broken from his thoughts by the sound of Isaac’s voice.
‘Thou wilt take her back to the Hall?’ Isaac looked to Dorothy.
‘Yes, she will need a hot meal, and a chance to bathe and recover herself. I will send for her sister in a few days to fetch her home. My carriage waits at the bottom of the hill.’
Richard blew on his hands and rubbed them together; they were cold. He wished he could have a pipe, it would have warmed his hands, and he found standing still with nothing to do burdensome.
‘I know,’ Hannah said. ‘Let’s sing.’ No one looked very enthusiastic, but Hannah raised her voice and started to sing.
‘Ho! Threshers of God’s harvest,
Why stand with idle blade…’
Her voice rang out loud and unwavering, echoing in the streets around her. Jack’s firm tenor joined her, and then one by one the rest of the assembly, getting louder as their confidence increased.
‘Trust in thy whetted sickle,
And gather up the grain,
The day is fast approaching,
And soon will come again,
The Master calls for reapers
And shall he call in vain?
Shall souls lie there ungather’d
And waste upon the plain?’
By the time they had reached the end of the verse they were all singing, even Dorothy, whose voice was surprisingly deep and melodious. Richard did not know the hymn, but he picked up the tune and joined in. Their voices carried through the stonework of the walls, and from within more voices could be heard, as if in answer. Dorothy turned to Hannah, and smiled through her singing. The Quakers inside the gaol had heard them and were joining in. By the time they reached the last verse the sound was loud enough to gather a crowd from the surrounding streets. People came to see what the noise was, and stood pointing and jesting at the group outside the gatehouse door.
‘Be faithful to thy purpose
In service of the Lord,
And then a life of friendship
Shall be thy just reward!’
As the verse finished there was a spontaneous cheer from the little group of Friends, followed by boos and laughter from the onlookers. In the jail the hymn ended not with cheering but with a strange silence. Then muffled sobbing, followed by wailing and rattling and banging against bars. Shouts went up from inside the gaol, the sound of angry voices and heavy running feet. The small door creaked open and two men emerged. The older man, obviously an official, spoke.
‘Get away from these doors before I have you arrested.’
Richard went to approach the men to talk with them. The man gesticulated with his hand as if to push him away.
‘I am warning you. Remove yourselves forthwith or I will send for the constable.’
The young lad standing behind him nodded his curly head up and down, safe on his side of the law.
‘We’re not budging. We’ll stand here all day if we have to,’ Jack shouted. ‘Mistress Darby is to be set free today and we’ll wait here till she walks out of that gate.’
‘Then you’ll have a very long wait. Felicia Darby died this morning. Now move away.’
‘What? What did he say?’ They turned to one another in confusion. The officer and the young lad slipped back behind the door and it started to creak shut.
‘Wait!’ Dorothy said.
Richard jumped forward and pressed his body between the door and the stone wall. ‘In God’s name, tell us what happened to her.’
‘She died of a fever,’ the man said shortly.
‘Lord have mercy. We must see
her,’ Dorothy said. ‘Let me see her.’ She seemed suddenly smaller, wearier.
‘Bubb, go to the gov’nor, see if the body still lies there. If it does, ask if we can sign it over.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The young man scurried back through the wooden door, followed by the officer, who shut it behind him with a dull thud.
Dorothy wept silently. Richard and Isaac moved to support her. She leaned on Isaac’s arm, one sleeve pressed against her eyes. Inside the gaol the moaning continued.
‘Give us another tune!’ shouted someone from the crowd.
Jack turned to the still-watching onlookers.
‘Our friend is dead,’ he announced. The crowd hushed. ‘Falsely imprisoned, for bearing witness to the love of God. They say she died of a fever. May she rest in peace.’
‘Good riddance! One less Sabbath breaker,’ a woman shouted from the back of the crowd.
‘They should put ’em all in there,’ said another.
‘For murdering a tune!’ a young lad called out. A ripple of laughter went round the crowd. They turned to each other, spreading the news, enjoying the entertainment. They were about to move away, thinking it was all over, when the older man’s deep voice came from behind the door.
‘Do you want charge of the body?’
Dorothy and Richard exchanged glances.
‘Yes,’ said Richard.
‘Then wait.’
The crowd of watchers stayed where they were, surrounding the subdued Quakers. Some of their group were weeping; Dorothy was outwardly composed, but Richard could see her cheeks were hot and her neck was red. Richard moved to her side in case she should faint.
A coal-haired man near the front of the crowd rubbed his hands together and said, ‘When the body comes out, look for the iron marks round the wrists and ankles. The more they struggle, the blacker they be.’ He nodded over his shoulder to those behind him. ‘You’ll see.’
Richard hoped Dorothy had not heard this and wondered how he could protect her from the sight. He remembered how she had dealt with his friend’s death all those years ago in the war. He was a soldier, he was used to such sights. He hoped her strength would not fail her now.
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