Stephen followed him, his neck hot, palms sweating, through a darkened passageway where there seemed to be any number of dirty sheepdogs lying around–the owners presumably in the meeting room, and probably equally dirty, he thought. Everyone turned round to stare as the pair entered, but his new acquaintance shepherded him forward towards a tall woman in a grey dress.
‘Dorothy, this is Sam Fielding, from Burton-in-Lonsdale. He’s the young man Isaac was telling me about–from the conventicle last month.’
‘Good morning, Sam. I am very pleased you have come to our meeting. But tell me, are there no others like thee who could meet together in Burton? It is a long way to ride.’
‘There are but a few of us, ma’am,’ said Stephen, and then smiling, despite his dry mouth, ‘I had heard tell of the spirit at meetings here. I wanted to come and see it for myself.’
Dorothy smiled back. He had made the right impression. ‘Welcome then. I daresay Richard will show thee where to hang thy coat.’
‘Thank you.’ He was alert at the sound of that name. And there was something odd in the woman’s tone of voice when she said it, a sort of disdain. She had not introduced them, but this could be Richard Wheeler, the man his father told him had killed his grandmother. The hairs prickled on the back of his neck. He had no time to move away as Richard grasped his arm and pointed to a row of iron coat hooks and benches at the side of the room. ‘Over there.’ And then, as an afterthought, ‘Sorry, I never said, I’m Richard Wheeler.’
So it was him. Stephen hung up his coat, feeling vulnerable in his shirt-sleeves and vest. He followed the others and sat down in the circle of benches. During the meeting he watched Richard covertly. He was a tall straight man, broad-shouldered and swarthy from outside labour. He had a high forehead and expressive eyebrows which were furrowed as if in some invisible conversation with himself. His hands were strong and capable. He was a bigger man than Stephen, and more powerful. Stephen baulked at the idea that he could be his enemy; his instincts told him he would bear the worst of it should it come to a fight.
During the meeting nobody spoke, people were silent and sat still. No one had asked him any awkward questions or wanted to know his background.
It was twenty minutes before anything happened. A woman got up and talked of a husband and wife who had been jailed and beaten for preaching on the street. He noticed that Richard looked uncomfortable during this, biting his lip and frowning at his boots, and that he kept looking over to Dorothy to see her reaction. It was interesting, observing people, like an experiment he might perform during his studies at school. Dorothy ignored Richard’s glances.
After that there was more sitting in silence, which Stephen found extremely dull. Eventually, Isaac, the town clerk, whom Stephen had already met, stood and announced they would discuss the group’s business affairs, and everyone shuffled on their seats and looked at him expectantly. More tedious talk followed, of giving alms to beggars in the district, of visiting the sick, and the two that were in gaol after a lynching.
Then the meeting was called to a close and they were offered some refreshment. The older ladies of the gathering busied themselves bringing round little oatcakes and cups of barley water, whilst the men stood in groups conversing. Stephen kept close to Richard, his ears open. Now surely, the real business would begin.
‘Hast thou heard–our brethren in Sedbergh have refused to give up tithe this harvest?’ said one old man.
‘Yes,’ said another. ‘They have set a guard on the tithebarn, and are refusing to give up any portion.’
‘The church will not let them get away with it, they’ll send troops in if they have to.’
Stephen’s ears pricked up at the mention of soldiers.
‘We should stand with them, then. The church is a false edifice,’ said the first man. ‘No man needs a church to be with God.’
‘Aye,’ said Richard. ‘I’m done with lining the pockets of priests and parsons, whilst those in real need still go hungry.’
‘Shall we moot it at the next meeting?’
‘We can try,’ said the first man, ‘but there are a fair few in gaol already. Last time we tried withholding our dues, Fisk’s rough-hands came and turned over our barns.’
Stephen froze on the spot, feeling a crimson glow spread across his temples. His father’s name already.
‘What thinkst thou, Sam?’ asked Richard.
Stephen did not reply; he was still taking in the information that his father’s men were fighting with the Quakers over tithes. The second time his name was called, he recognized it with a start.
‘Yes, Sam, how is it over Burton way?’ They all looked expectantly at him for a reply.
‘Oh, I think we, I mean…I think we will probably pay our dues as usual,’ he finished lamely. Richard stared at him without saying anything.
‘Though, of course, we are with you on principle,’ he added, floundering but trying to sense the lie of the land. He hoped he sounded suitably committed.
‘So, Sam, if we should rally enough support, thou wouldst join us in opposing this unholy law?’ pressed Richard.
‘Of course,’ he replied. Had Richard spotted something suspicious about him? Was that why he was questioning him? Stephen felt uncomfortable and looked down at his feet, newly shod in solid leather work boots. His father had told him to rough the toecaps with a grinding stone, and he had done so. When he looked up, Richard was still looking at him, as if his clothes were of great interest. Stephen swallowed and tried to look nonchalant. Richard’s eyes travelled over Stephen’s tweed suit, over the horn buttons, his unpressed cuffs, the yellow cotton cravat at his neck. Prepared to brazen it out if necessary, Stephen drew himself up to his full height. But Richard turned to the other two, and clapped his hands together.
‘Well then, we are all agreed. I will raise it to the vote at the next meeting.’
‘I must be on my way,’ said Stephen, eager to leave the group and reorder his thoughts.
‘Yes, yes,’ said one of the men. ‘It is a good distance, if thou art to be back in time for a day’s trade.’
Stephen bowed slightly as he had seen the others do, and withdrew to the coat hooks where his overcoat was hanging with the rest. So the group was going to organize a rebellion and refuse to pay tithes, were they? His father would have something to say about that. And it was indeed the dissembler Richard Wheeler who was instigating the idea and persuading the others to vote on it. Stephen took down his damp coat, which smelt of greasy wool, and threw it round his shoulders. As he did up the frogged fastening he felt a firm hand descend on his shoulder and, startled, spun round to find himself looking directly into Richard’s face.
‘Now then, Sam, I will accompany thee down the hill,’ said Richard.
‘Oh no, I can ride on alone,’ said Stephen, fear gnawing in his guts. What if Richard had seen the resemblance to his father and was going to take him somewhere to dispatch him? Stephen had no desire to be alone with Richard.
‘It is no trouble, and I have a mind for thy company,’ said Richard, insisting.
‘Very well,’ said Stephen warily, ‘if thou art sure it will not inconvenience thee.’ He spoke slowly, struggling with the archaic-sounding form of address.
Richard was smiling at him now, but Stephen’s mind was racing, planning how he might escape should he be attacked on the route to the main highway. Richard steered him out of the hall with a hand at his back.
‘You have not fooled me, young man, though you might have fooled the others.’
Stephen’s stomach lurched but he tried to remain calm, letting himself be guided out to the yard.
‘What do you mean?’ Richard had not used ‘thou’, but ‘you’, and Stephen likewise had fallen into the trap and used the more modern expression. He had no idea what Richard Wheeler had in mind, but he hurried to the horses, his armpits clammy, his heart hammering against his ribs. He would get mounted first, so at least he would stand a chance of escape.
&n
bsp; ‘Thy clothes. This is the first time thou hast dressed this way, I can tell.’
Stephen swung himself into the saddle and cast his eyes rapidly over Richard’s silhouette–no sword or musket.
‘What of it?’ He decided to try a bluff. ‘Cannot a man have new clothes without that all the world derides him for it?’
Richard was mounted now and drew his horse alongside. ‘Thou art used to finer stuff than this.’ He prodded at Stephen’s breeches with his whip hand.
‘Maybe.’ Stephen was almost out of the yard now and within sight of open fields. He got ready to kick his horse on, moving him self ahead. Richard urged his horse into a trot so his stirrup-iron clashed with Stephen’s and the horse’s damp belly brushed against his thigh as he came up beside him again.
‘Like thee, Sam, I am a recent convert, and a former gentleman. It takes one to know one, I suppose.’ Richard turned his head and smiled. ‘I still cannot abide these rough cotton shirts, and find plain speech more difficult to master than any fancy Latin.’
Stephen was taken aback to realize that Richard was being friendly, that he had understood his clothes to be an emblem of the power of his convictions, not a ploy to disguise the fact he was his father’s son.
Stephen nodded, trying to sort out a proper response. Richard continued to speak with an air of someone about to bestow a confidence.
‘I have been a Quaker since the war, but still find the simplicity of the life hard. I feel for thee, for I see how discomfited thou art in those clothes.’ He looked at him and laughed. ‘And I applaud thee, for I know how hard it must have been to give away the fine life you had before.’
Stephen gave a noncommittal shrug.
‘Tell me,’ said Richard. ‘Where are thy family? Perhaps I know of them?’
Nothing had prepared Stephen for this unexpected turn of events. Pictures of his parents flashed behind his eyes as he struggled to find an acceptable answer. With a stroke of inspiration he answered, ‘My family was killed by the king’s men in the war.’
Richard was silent but shook his head in sympathy. Stephen did not dare to speak. He had lost track of his invention, Sam Fielding, and had constructed no imaginary life for a parliamentarian son of a dead nobleman.
With a flash of inspiration he said, ‘Tell me about these people that are in gaol, Hannah and Jack Fleetwood.’ If he was crafty, he might be able to steer the conversation and get some information out of Richard about the plot against the king.
Richard outlined some events surrounding the Fleetwoods’ arrest, after which he said, ‘I still feel badly, Sam. I should have done something to stop it getting that far. Turn the crowd somehow.’
‘But what couldst thou have done? Thou hast vowed not to take up arms.’
Stephen was fascinated by this idea of a pledge of peace. He could not imagine making such a vow. What if they were to be set upon by highway robbers on the return journey? He would certainly lift his fists then. He had thought it extraordinary that the Quakers carried neither sword nor musket. Why, even ladies held a little dagger concealed about their person when they were abroad. In London, Stephen had worn his fine sword with a swagger; it had been lovingly crafted and he was itching for a chance to use it against some scoundrel, to show off his thrust and parry. He had a fine pair of muskets too, but somehow a gun seemed less manly than a sword, and there had been many a frightening accident with the powder.
A pair of crows flapped by, making their raucous call. They watched them fly by and out towards the estuary.
‘Dorothy has not spoken with me properly since the day Jack and Hannah were arrested.’ Richard was rueful. ‘I think she blames me for it, because I stood by and let it happen, and am not imprisoned for my faith along with them.’
‘Surely she cannot be that uncharitable?’
‘She tolerates me, yes. She is never ill-mannered, just distant.’
Stephen made a sympathetic grunt. ‘Hast thou tried to speak plain with her on this matter?’
‘Well, no. I see what thou art saying, Sam. It does no good to let wounds fester.’
They rode on. Stephen’s shoulders relaxed; he had not been discovered. The horses clopped down the wet track, both men sunk in their own thoughts. Stephen knew that Sam’s history had become more convoluted and that he must master its intricacies if he were to carry on going to meetings at the Hall.
Richard seemed to be mulling over their conversation silently, until at length he said, ‘I will speak with her the morrow. Thanks to thee, friend–thou hast seen clearly what I could not.’ Richard gave him a smile of such openness and warmth that Stephen immediately felt ill at ease. He had to remind himself that this man was planning to withhold from the church its rightful levies, that Richard was in dispute with his father and was a traitor to the king, and worse, that he had murdered Stephen’s kin in cold blood.
Stephen nodded stiffly in return. He was resolved to tell his father what he had heard. He would do his duty by the committee; he could not afford to be swayed by this semblance of friendship. Richard was his enemy, and he must be on his mettle, remember his responsibilities. The safety of the whole country could depend on it.
After they parted, Stephen kicked his lumbering horse into a gallop, doubling back from the Burton road to the track to Fisk Manor. It was best to keep out of the village in case people began to talk and he was recognized. He enjoyed the sensation of the wind racing past his ears. Even after only a few hours he was glad to lose the constraints of being Sam Fielding.
When he arrived home there was a carriage waiting outside the door, full of portmanteaux and travelling baskets.
Lizzie Pickering was standing blubbing at the bottom of the stairs, her eyes red-rimmed and her scrawny fingers chewing over a sodden napkin. When she saw him go by to the stables she looked up at him with an imploring expression. He put the nag in the stall then hurried in through the back door where there seemed to be more confusion, with furniture out of place and the noise of feet coming and going in the corridor above.
A writing desk was half blocking the doorway to the dining room and there was a big bundle of something cluttering up the passageway to the study. It looked like the drapes from his mother’s bed. He wound his way round these obstacles until he could get to the stairs, and mounted them two at a time. On the upstairs corridor he managed to catch hold of Patterson as he pushed a wheeled bassinet full of lace petticoats past.
‘What’s going on?’
‘It’s not for me to say, sir.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. Tell me unless you want to join Lizzie on the front step.’
Patterson looked shiftily from side to side.
‘Lady Emilia, sir. She’s…’
‘Stop mumbling. What about my mother? Is she ill?’
‘She’s been given an hour, sir. To get out and never come back.’
Stephen could not take in the words.
‘Who says this? Is this a joke?’ Although he knew whatever was happening was no laughing matter, he wanted it to be. The house had a different air already; it looked uncared for, a random collection of meaningless possessions.
‘Where is my father?’
Patterson shook his head. ‘Out, sir.’ Then, seeing more information was required: ‘He went out at ten of the clock, and will be back at eleven. Mistress has one hour to gather what she can of her personal possessions. What will go in the carriage and the handcart. If she’s still here when he returns he’ll have her clapped in gaol.’
‘Is she still here?’
‘In there, sir.’ Stephen was already squeezing past towards his mother’s chamber. When he flung open the door he could see Patterson had been right. The drapes had been stripped from the bed; the overmantel tapestry of the wild hart had gone, leaving a sooty stain around a light mark. The looking glass and delicate scent bottles, boxes of jewels and silver candlesticks were gone from her dresser. His mother was under the window, bent over an open trunk, already overfull, trying to st
uff in more combs and lace caps and gloves. Her face was white, and she was still in her nightgown.
She looked up when she heard him enter. He approached her with his arms outstretched as if to embrace her, but she stayed him with her eyes. ‘Do not say anything,’ she said, stony-faced. ‘There is no time. Help me.’
Stephen looked on helplessly. ‘How?’ There was no answer. ‘What am I to do?’
His mother did not even turn, but carried on pressing the lid on the trunk. He could see the small muscles working in her neck. ‘Look for some plate–gold or silver, anything to hand. The servants have been told not to let me near it, but they’ll obey you.’
‘But…’
‘Quickly, now, there is little time.’ As she said it, as though to punctuate it, all the clocks began to chime the quarter. He had not realized they owned so many clocks, nor that all their chimes were so different.
Seeing his hesitation, she entreated him. ‘Go! Please, Stephen, it may be all I have to stay me for the years ahead.’
He stumbled out of the room and down the corridor, passing the servants scurrying with their heads down, carrying armfuls of vermilion silk, a washstand with several basins balanced one on the other, a tray full of glasses and jugs. Stephen ignored them and headed for the dining room. Patterson was at the door as if guarding it. He seemed to know what Stephen had come for.
‘She’s not to have the plate. Master was quite adamant on that, sir.’ ‘Get out of my way, Patterson. Master is not here. You will take my orders. Open that cupboard.’
‘No, sir. Master said not to.’
‘Give me the key.’
Patterson remained stolidly where he was, unmoving.
‘If you do not immediately give me the key, I will knock you flat, do you hear?’
‘You are not to have the key.’ Patterson looked Stephen brazenly in the eye, before Stephen’s fist came out and he reeled backwards into the room. Stephen pressed his advantage and wrestled him to the floor.
‘You bastard,’ Patterson said thickly, the words out before he could stem them. He tried to stand but Stephen had him in a head-lock. Stephen dragged the metal key-ring from Patterson’s pocket with his free hand. He thrust Patterson’s head to the floor and it made contact with a thud. Stephen struggled towards the cupboard, but Patterson punched him from the floor, landing a blow to his ribs that made him bite his lip.
The Lady's Slipper Page 19
