“Have thy parents come to see thee?” Sarah asked. “Jacob?”
He opened his eyes again. “My parents have cast me off.”
“What?” Sarah gasped. “Oh, no.”
“I’m afraid it’s true.” He gulped.
Cast off. How horrible, Lucy could not help but think. Master Hargrave would never cast off his only daughter. Or would he? Clearly he was unhappy with his daughter’s choices. She noticed that Sarah was avoiding her gaze, and a flush had risen in her cheeks. Perhaps she was thinking the same thing.
Jacob groaned again, recalling their attention. “None of it matters now. For the Lord will take me soon.”
From the foot of the bed, Sam repeated some of Jacob’s words. “‘The Lord will take me soon.’”
Lucy glanced at him in surprise, noting for the first time that he was holding a small square board in his lap, upon which he had a piece of paper. In his right hand, he held a quill, with which he had begun to write sure strokes. Catching her look, he explained, “I am recording Brother Jacob’s last utterances, so that others may be inspired by his goodness and courage.”
Lucy nodded. This was a common enough practice, and not just among the Quakers. Many sects sought to publish the final testimonies of their members, particularly those more scandalous pieces that described how a sinner regained grace after a great fall. Usually such pieces had titles such as Last Dying Words or The Sinner’s Journey.
“Master Aubrey sells such speeches at our shop,” she said to Sarah, without thinking about how her words would sound to others in the room. “Indeed, they sell very well.”
Everyone turned and looked at her. “Forgive me,” Lucy whispered, flushing over her crass words. “I fear I have spoken out of turn.”
“Whatever dost thou mean, child?” Joan said, not unkindly.
Lucy squirmed under the collective scrutiny of the room. “I work for the printer Master Aubrey, as his apprentice. We sometimes sell pieces like what you are writing now.”
“Oh, is that so?” Theodora said, exchanging a quick look with her husband. “Perhaps the good Lord has brought thee to us.”
“Oh, no,” Lucy said hurriedly. “I am not a Quaker.”
“What words didst thou just say?” Jacob called weakly from the bed. “Thou art not a Quaker?” His eyes were fervent, searching. “Who art thou?”
“My name is Lucy. I am—was—Miss Sarah’s servant. I accompanied her here, at her father’s request.” She looked at Sarah a bit helplessly. “Shall I leave? I did promise your father that I would stay with you, but perhaps it would be better if I left since I am not a Quaker. I do not wish to interfere. Perhaps I should not be here?”
“No, no, certainly thou must not leave,” Joan said reassuringly before Sarah could speak. “We have no quarrel with others who are not of our conviction, and I can see that thou hast been a loyal companion to one of our own. Thou art very welcome, as a friend of Sarah’s.” She glanced at Sam. “Indeed, we should like to share dear Jacob’s last words with others. We’ve had so few opportunities since the Great Fire to print our pieces. Perhaps thou art the answer to our prayers.”
“Isn’t there a Quaker printer?” Lucy asked. She knew that Master Aubrey had published Quaker tracts in the past, but he’d warned her and Lach to take care where they sold such pieces. Although King Charles had been more tolerant of Quakers of late, they could still run the risk of being arrested and even imprisoned for supporting seditious acts, which included the publishing or selling of Quaker tracts.
“Robert Wilson, but he’s still getting his family resettled after the Fire,” Theodora replied. “Hasn’t returned much to printing. He’s no Quaker, though.”
Jacob spoke again, in that painful halting speech. “I should very much like,” he said slowly, “for Lucy, Sarah’s companion, to write my piece. Have her printer sell it. Perhaps we can spread my words to others besides Quakers.”
During the exchange, Esther had sat silently, her lips pursed. When she spoke, Lucy could sense her reluctance. “Thy master would print a Quaker piece? Take on that danger?” she asked, voicing Lucy’s own concerns.
“He has printed such pieces before,” Lucy said honestly. “But truth be told, I do not know what he will say.” Particularly since Master Aubrey had already experienced some problems at the hands of Roger L’Estrange, the Licenser of the Press. But she thought it prudent to keep that last point to herself.
“There must be a fee,” Esther said. Again her reluctance was clear. “More than I can afford.”
“Yes, I’m afraid the cost might be dear. I will have to ask Master Aubrey, of course, but I imagine that he would charge at least several pounds to print,” Lucy replied. “I know he takes into account how many copies you would like, how long it will take us to set and print the piece, and how many pages it will be.”
“Do not fret, dearest Esther,” Joan said, patting Jacob’s wife on the arm. “So many others will receive solace from his words. I believe it to be our duty to share with others how Brother Jacob found his Inner Light. We will able to spread his words further if we print them.” Seeing Esther opening her mouth to protest, she added, “We will pay for it, from our widow’s fund.” She held up her hand. “Now not another word. ’Tis decided.”
Sam and his wife stood up. “Dearest Esther,” Sam said, “now that Sister Sarah and her companion have joined thee in thy vigil, Theodora and I shall leave for a short while, to attend to some duties of our own. We will return in a few hours.” He looked down at Lucy. “I will leave more paper and the quill, should Jacob be moved again to speak. Perhaps thou wouldst be so good as to record his testimony, should he revive again?”
Lucy took the pages and the ink that he had extended to her. “Oh, yes, of course.”
Gervase stood up as well. “I’ve some things to attend to as well. I shall return soon.”
After the Leightons and Gervase left, as if on cue, Jacob began to groan again. Hearing the sound, Joan began to tremble and sway. “Oh, sweet soothing of the Lord,” she cried. “Let us pray that this man be nourished in the Light of God, and that he is cleansed of the sins of his youth.”
Jacob moaned. With great difficulty, he continued to speak. “Indeed, I was a madcap youth, a young man of folly and indiscretions.”
Dipping the quill in the ink, Lucy obediently wrote down his words. This seemed to be the kind of phrase the Quakers like to say, and no doubt what readers expected when they purchased a tract like this one. Sin and repentance, two very old themes indeed.
But then Jacob went on, speaking more fervently, passion rising in his voice. “I was unwilling to wait for what I truly wanted.” Did he glance at Sarah here? Lucy was not sure. He went on. “I spent many a coin on sinful doings, and for this I am heartily ashamed.” Here he seemed to glance at his wife.
“There, there, sweetheart.” Esther came over and soothed him. “That was all before we met. I have long forgiven thee thy youthful follies.” She looked at Lucy. “You may note that he has repented,” she said.
Lucy nodded. “And thus, Jacob Whitby repented his youthful follies,” she said out loud as she wrote his words.
“Repented his youthful follies? This I did!” Jacob exclaimed. “Why then the cart? Why then should the wild beasts strike me down?” He rolled awkwardly on his side, to look at his wife. “Have I not been a good man?”
“Oh, yes!” Joan interjected, seeing that Esther was swallowing, unable to form words. The old Quaker looked across the room at Sarah. “Why, just last week he gave the last of all his wealth, everything he inherited from his family before he was cast off, to help the widowed and the sick.” Joan nodded in satisfaction. “Every penny and shilling. Indeed he did.”
Esther leaned down and smoothed her husband’s forehead. “Such a loving and godly man, so he shall be nourished by the light of God.”
“Why hast God forsaken me, then? Does he mock me?” Jacob asked. “Was I not a good husband?”
“Th
e very best, dear husband.” Her eyes teared up again. Lucy saw her hands ball into fists. “Curse the driver of that ill-fated cart!” She began to sway and would have fallen if Sarah and Joan had not both leapt to support her.
“Please, Esther, lie down for a spell. It does my heart ill to see thee in such distress,” Jacob whispered.
Joan put her arm around her. “There, there, Sister Esther, thou must rest. Even Jacob says so.” Joan turned to Sarah, who still was holding Esther up. “Her chamber is just this way. Sarah, wilt thou help me? She must rest. Deborah, be a dear. Please make a restorative for our sister Esther.”
Deborah smiled again. “Of course,” she said, practically bouncing out. Lucy saw her face as she departed—she looked pleased and relieved to escape the sickroom.
Esther still looked uncertain. “I should not leave my husband’s side.”
“Thou must,” Joan said firmly. “Everyone knows thou art a most devoted wife. But thou must be refreshed in thy body as well as being nourished in the Lord.”
“Joan, thou art so very kind. My own true spiritual mother,” Esther murmured, allowing the two women to steer her out of the room.
“Wilt thou tend Brother Jacob while we tend to Esther?” Joan asked Lucy. “Perhaps he will take some restorative soup, although I fear he may be in too much pain for that. One of us will be back shortly.”
When they left, Lucy sat in the chair that Sarah had vacated. “I am so sorry this happened to you,” Lucy whispered to the man lying on the bed. “Though I am not a Quaker, I do believe God will forgive you for your sins. If you are in pain, perhaps you must let go.”
To her surprise, Jacob opened his eyes again and looked straight at her, no hint of the great anger she had just witnessed. Speaking carefully, he said, “I must tell thee. There was a reason that I summoned Sarah and Adam to my side.”
“They were your dear friends,” Lucy said, trying to sound reassuring.
“Yes, that is so. And I have my regrets, especially for a falling-out that we had several years ago. Youthful indiscretions.” He made a rueful sound. “I had hoped to speak to Adam, but perhaps thou canst help me.” He clutched at her hand frantically.
Seeing this, Lucy grew alarmed. Perhaps his time was closing in. “Shh,” she tried to soothe the man. Whatever potion he had been taking seemed to be wearing off. She looked about. A small vial lay on the table next to his bed; she picked it up and worked the tight cork out. Passing it under her nose, she breathed in the deep pungent aroma of the restorative. She poured a few drops onto a spoon. “This would taste better in some soup.”
The man shuddered in pain again. “No soup,” he said faintly. “Just that.”
Lucy held the spoon to his lips and dribbled a few drops into his mouth. “Maybe I should call your wife back? So that she can be with you when—” She did not finish the thought.
“Listen to me,” he repeated, swallowing with difficulty. He seemed to be trying to sit up, to get closer to her. His voice began to drop, forcing Lucy to put her head down so that his mouth was against her ear. “I must tell thee something, and there may not be much time. I do not know whom to trust. I wanted to talk to Adam. Oh, why didn’t Adam come? And Sarah, I hardly know her now.”
“You are getting very excited. Perhaps you should lie still—”
“Listen to me. Thou must tell Adam. He will know what to do. Dost thou understand?”
Fearful of the man’s intensity, Lucy managed to nod.
“I was pushed in front of that cart,” Jacob whispered. “Deliberately. Someone wanted me to die.”
Lucy froze. Had she heard him correctly? Surely the man’s wits were addled. “No, sir. That couldn’t be. It was dark, foggy. Maybe someone bumped into you and—”
“No,” Jacob interrupted. His speech was labored and was growing more difficult to understand. “I was pushed. I did not trip. I was not jostled. Someone put two hands on my back and pushed me straight into those horses.” His face contorted as he remembered the horrors of the accident.
Against her better judgment Lucy felt moved to believe him, even though what he was saying terrified her. “Who would do such a dreadful thing?” she whispered. “Did you see who pushed you?”
“No, I could barely see anything in that wretched fog. But I have an idea.” Another paroxysm of pain passed over his body.
“Who was it? Someone you know?”
“Yes, I believe so. I had received a letter from my sister, Julia.” He stopped to cough a bit. Lucy winced as a bit of bloody spittle trickled from his mouth. “We’d still managed to exchange letters, even though my father had cast me from the house.”
“Yes? What did she tell you?” She wiped his chin.
Another deep pain ran over the man. “She said she had received information that one of the Quakers in our group is an impostor.” He paused, licking his dry lips. “Water.”
Lucy held a cup up to his mouth. “Who? Who was she talking about?”
He took a tortured sip and continued. “She didn’t want to write more in the letter. She bid me to come see her. That was where I was going when I was pushed.”
Lucy sat back, her hand to her lips. “You believe that a Quaker, a Friend, a lover of peace, would have pushed you in front of a cart?”
“I can see thou dost not believe me. I understand, what I am saying seems preposterous.” His voice dropped further, and Lucy leaned in even closer to hear him. “I’m afraid now that the person who came after me might threaten my wife. I tried to tell her, but she did not believe me. The Quakers have been such friends to her, I could not bear to break her heart.”
He grabbed her arm. “Please, tell Adam to talk to my sister. Have my murderer brought to justice. I must protect my wife from harm. She has no one else, and I’m afraid she will turn to the wrong person. Promise me that thou wilt tell Adam what I told thee, but no one else!”
Hardly knowing what she was saying, Lucy nodded her head. “I promise, Mr. Whitby,” she whispered. “I promise.”
Jacob began to cough then, and could speak no more. Lucy brought the cup to his lips, but he could not swallow. “My time has come!” he said, his voice raspy. “Oh Lord! My time has come. I feel no pain. I have seen his glory and tasted of his most precious Truth, and it is sweet unto my taste. Judge me, Lord. Judge me.” His voiced faded away.
“Mrs. Whitby! Miss Sarah!” Lucy went to the door and called out in fear, then returned to his bedside.
The women burst back into the room. Esther threw herself on her husband’s form. “Oh, dear husband,” she called to him, weeping. Lucy backed up against the wall, still shocked from what she had just learned.
Sarah backed off. Lucy slipped her hand in hers. Together they all watched Jacob take his last dying breath.
“Did he say anything else?” Esther demanded, turning back to Lucy. Her purple eyes glowed with tears. “Any other message?”
“No.” Lucy gulped. “Just that his last thoughts were of you and that”—she could not keep her voice from breaking—“he felt his time had been called too soon.”
Even as she spoke, Lucy could hear the man’s last whispered words over and over in her mind, as though he were still there to utter them. Their significance began to settle more deeply upon her. Mr. Whitby had been murdered, and no one knew it but her.
4
The next two hours passed in a strange blur of tears, shrieks, and general confusion. Never in her life, not even when she saw neighbors and friends felled by the plague, had Lucy witnessed such wild, unchecked distress.
Esther Whitby had begun to tremble and shake in the most alarming way—“Quaking in the presence of the Lord,” she said. Joan had begun to shriek outright, half praying, half crying, proclaiming her gratitude to the Lord for relieving Jacob of his suffering. Deborah had begun speaking in what seemed like another tongue; Joan, regaining her own lucidity, called her name sharply, and the young Quaker continued her lament in English.
At some point Theodora
and Sam returned. Theodora took one glance into the room and began to wail much as Joan had done. Sam let out one sad gulp and sat back on a bench, preferring to remain in the shadows with his sorrow.
Amid it all, Sarah sat silently, staring at Jacob’s corpse, tears slipping down her pale cheeks.
Since the Whitbys had no servants, Lucy began to do what she knew best, more to calm her own tumultuous thoughts than anything else. Creeping down to the kitchen, she prepared a soothing brew of chamomile, lemon peel, and nutmeg. She wished for a bit of wormwood, but she could see none in the Whitbys’ bare stores. Instead she took the last drops of Jacob’s restorative and added them to the concoction, then began to pass it out among the Quakers, pressing a mug into Sarah’s cold hands first.
Jacob’s last words weighed heavily on Lucy. As she walked into Esther’s bedchamber with two steaming mugs, she looked at the Quaker lying facedown on her pillow. Esther had taken off her dress and was now wearing a sleeping gown. Joan was sitting beside her, humming a tune and stroking her long blond hair, which had been released from its bun. Theodora was sitting on the other side, silent now, but rocking back and forth, a great pain evident in her face.
Hearing Lucy’s soft step on the floor, Esther rolled over, looking for a moment more like a forlorn child than a woman who had just lost her husband. She even managed a tremulous smile as she reached up to accept one of the mugs from Lucy. Joan leaned over and pushed some wayward hairs off Esther’s flushed forehead and cheek. The gesture was loving, compassionate. Esther just couldn’t be in danger, Lucy thought. Jacob had to have been mistaken. It was difficult making sense of anything, with Sarah so distraught. After a while, not having anything to do, she just sat beside Sarah, and neither one spoke.
* * *
When Lucy heard a knock at the servants’ entrance, she was ever so grateful to see John standing there, having been bidden by the magistrate to bring them home.
“How does Mr. Whitby fare?” he asked, shuffling back and forth, trying to warm his feet.
The Masque of a Murderer Page 4
