All thoughts of the conventicle flew out of Lucy’s mind as she and Sam entered Jacob’s bedchamber. An eerie sense of repetition washed over her as she looked about. As on the day before, Jacob’s still form occupied the great bed in the middle of the room, again with several mourners seated around him. The room was more crowded, though, with four mourners she recognized and three others she did not know.
Gervase was there, in the same chair he’d occupied the day before, and Deborah was again perched on the wood stool by the fire. Sarah was there, too, sitting on a chair next to Joan, across from where she’d sat yesterday. She had looked up with a sorrowful and perhaps resigned expression when Lucy entered the room. She did not seem angry, though, which was good.
Lucy nodded at Sarah, trying to convey that she would not share what Jacob had told her. To her disappointment, Sarah looked away, and Lucy felt a strange sense of isolation.
This sense only heightened when Sam edged out of the room, disappearing down the same stairs they had just mounted. For a moment, Lucy just stood there, wishing Sam had done more to explain her presence, particularly when one of the women whom she did not recognize eyed her garb suspiciously. Lucy began to feel very conscious of the blue ribbon attached to her cap, the bright scarf around her neck, and the brooch that secured her cloak together. Fortunately, they could not see her fine Sunday dress, and she twisted her feet inward so that they would not notice her nice shoes.
Spying the same bench she had occupied yesterday, Lucy crossed the room and sat down in silence. Looking around, she felt shut out of a circle she could not see. The mourning had created an intimacy among them that she could not enter. Indeed, by thrusting her way into their presence, Lucy felt she had violated that closeness.
Trying to avoid the gaze of the others, Lucy could not keep her eyes from flickering to Jacob’s corpse. Since she had last seen him, someone had crossed Jacob’s arms and shut his tortured eyes. Lucy could see that his clothes had been changed, too, but they did not look particularly fine; indeed, the clothes he wore looked homespun and a bit cheap. A far cry from the burying suit that even poorer families could usually muster, and unrecognizable to a family of Jacob Whitby’s ilk. What had happened to his fine clothes? Apparently not even a single scrap of cloth remained from his former gentry life.
This meant there would be no Sunday burial for him, of that Lucy was certain. Most likely, his corpse would remain in the bed for several days, until his neighbors and friends had finished paying their respects. At that point, Lucy suspected, the Quakers would have the corpse carted off to Bunhill Fields, just north of London. There, it would be buried alongside other deceased nonconformists in the unofficial and unsanctified graveyard known commonly as Tindall’s Burying Ground.
Lucy sighed. So far, she knew a great deal about Jacob’s death, but next to nothing about his life. As quietly as she could, she pulled out a jar of ink and a slightly crumpled sheet of paper from her small sack. Expectantly she waited, quill in hand, for someone to speak of Jacob’s life.
Except no one did. For the next twenty minutes, the mourners only made utterances when the Spirit moved them, lamenting in strange bursts of tears and incomprehensible murmurings. At one point, Deborah sang a snatch of song and Gervase laughed deeply, as though someone had spoken an uproarious jest. Nothing occurred, though, as wild or as exultant as the day before, for which Lucy was secretly grateful.
However, the longer Lucy sat, the more uncomfortable she felt. What if no one ever spoke about Jacob’s life? What if no one ever said anything useful? Could she ask a question? She did not want to anger the Quakers by interrupting their mourning, but she was rather afraid of returning to Master Aubrey without anything to show for her afternoon away.
She was about to speak when at last she caught Sarah’s eye. To her surprise, Sarah seemed to understand her dilemma and unexpectedly decided to help her out.
“I have been moved by the Lord to speak,” Sarah said loudly. A few people looked up, startled by the break in the stillness. Others continued to keep their heads bowed in prayer. “I am moved to give testimony about the life of Jacob Whitby. Let us speak, so that our friend here, Lucy Campion, might record our words, and be faithful to how his life is rendered in print. It was Jacob’s own dying request that his words be recorded that has brought Lucy here today.”
The heads turned toward Lucy, and she gestured weakly with her quill. Her presence finally explained, she seemed to be accepted by the other Quakers.
Sarah then went on to speak about how she had met Jacob, and their early friendship, Lucy scratching furiously the whole time. Truth be told, she could not write all that easily, as a quill had come to her hand long after she was a child, but she hoped her memory would help fill in any gaps later.
After about five minutes, Sarah looked around the room. “I bid thee, Friends, to speak thy pieces as well. I should like to know how my friend became instilled with the love and life of the Lord. How he moved from being a young man of raucous pleasures to a man with a most devoted and serious spirit. The answers to these questions, I beseech thee.”
She looked at the middle-aged woman sitting on the bench at the foot of Jacob’s bed. “Sister Katherine?”
The woman nodded. She was the one who had regarded Lucy with suspicion when she first walked in. “Yes, I will speak. My name is Katherine Barnes, and this is my husband, Devin.” She pointed at the middle-aged man who was standing by the wardrobe. Like Gervase and Sam, he had not removed his hat. “I can share the story of how Jacob converted, which he told Devin and me when we first met, some fifteen months ago.” Katherine then proceeded to relate much of the same tale Jacob had told Lucy before he died.
“Had he already been married then?” Lucy asked, looking over what she had just scrawled.
“No, he and Esther were married just last year. They met after the great sickness, he told me. Her family had passed, I expect. A good man he was,” Katherine explained. “He even set aside funds for us to travel. Some of us went to Malta and even Turkey a few months back, and he believed enough in our convictions to help us on our journeys.
“That was before his family cut him off,” Gervase explained. “He told me once that when he was a youth, full of folly, he was vain and capricious. Yet he was accepted as their natural son, a reflection of his father’s worth.” His jaw tightened. “Once he had been warmed in the Light of Christ, he was treated most unnaturally by his parents, forsaken and forgotten. Ah, ’tis the most cruel irony.”
Katherine’s husband spoke up. “As sure as my name is Devin Barnes, I can tell thee that Jacob Whitby did right by me. That is why my wife and I are here to honor his life today. I know that he had been selling off all his possessions to raise money for the rest of us. He would have given them all away, otherwise.” He gulped. “Jacob Whitby was a good man.”
Theodora and Esther entered the room then. Devin looked at Jacob’s widow. “He had wanted to raise money for all of us who’d been in cast into jail. That’s what he did. Raise money for widows and orphans. His generosity kept my wife, and the babe she held in her arms, with food on our table.”
“I thank thee for thy wondrous testimony concerning my dear husband,” Esther said to Devin. Her smile was both sad and grateful. She looked at Lucy. “Sister Theodora told me that thou hadst returned.”
“Your husband seems to have been a very generous man,” Lucy said, indicating her hastily written script. “Devoted to helping others.”
“Oh, how the Light of God flowed through him!” Joan said. “He did petition the king and Parliament, in our name. We must not forget how the Spirit moved him, and we must continue as the Lord wishes.”
The woman in white began to sway and croon softly again, and Lucy could make no sense of her words.
“She is Ahivah,” Deborah whispered. “My aunt. She likens herself to the Old Testament prophet, the one who warned Jeroboam that his lost kingdom would soon be restored. She foretold the return of King Cha
rles seven years ago. The king called her his ‘Woman in White.’ That is why she still wears white today. Hoping he will recall her and her ‘strange prophecy.’”
Was there a hint of scorn in Deborah’s voice? Lucy noticed the other Quakers were starting to frown, although Ahivah paid her no attention.
“Hush, child,” Joan said, a warning in her voice.
“Sister Joan, I assure thee,” Deborah said, a slight emphasis on the plain-speech address, “I am being moved by the Lord to speak.”
From the corner, Sarah spoke, trying to change the direction of the conversation. “Sister Esther, Lucy was just asking how thou met Jacob. I’m afraid I had lost touch with Jacob before the plague struck, and had only just heard that he had become a Friend at a recent meeting. How did thou and he meet? I should very much like to know, so long as it does not distress thee overly much.”
“Very well,” Esther said, settling down in the embroidered chair closest to her husband’s corpse. “I was working with a tailor when the great plague struck. He and the rest of the family died. I can tell thee, ’twas a terrible time that I do not care to recall.”
Around the room there were small murmurs. Everyone had lost someone during the plague. Lucy glanced at Sarah. Sarah’s own mother had succumbed to the great sickness during that dreadful time, as had many of their neighbors.
Esther continued, “The tailor had left me the shop in his will, being that he saw all his other kin around him pass into the embrace of the Lord.”
“Was that the Beetners?” Deborah asked. “I think I remember Jacob saying so.”
Drawing a great breath, Esther put her hand to her heart. “Yes, the Beetners,” she said. “A Dutch family, they were. Good people. I was with them for several years. Went into service with them when I was a lass. My mother, a seamstress, had done piecework, so I’d learned at her knee. My father worked for a mill, delivering the pieces, bringing the wool to women like my mother.”
“They left you their livelihood?” Lucy asked. “You must have been a good and loyal servant.” She was thinking of Master Hargrave, how he had given her so much when she left his service. He’d even offered her his wife’s clothes, which surely would have set her up nicely had she taken them.
Esther lowered her eyes. “Yes, I was fond of them, and I believe they returned the sentiment. I managed on my own for a while, but few were buying woven cloths, so the business dried up. I sold what I could, and it was then that I met Jacob. I was but the daughter of a miller’s man, but my dear husband never held my lower birth against me,” Esther said, blowing her nose into a linen square.
“Oh, what a good man he was,” Deborah said, starting to weep, too. She pulled out an embroidered handkerchief, dabbing at her eyes before spreading the cloth across her skirts to dry.
Lucy could not help but notice the handkerchief, thinking it was rather ornate for a Quaker. It was adorned by an intricate pattern of leaves and flowers along the border. Within the bower she could see a lengthy phrase worked in a delicate script.
“How lovely,” Lucy said, pointing at the handkerchief, hoping to distract the woman from her sorrow. “Did you embroider it yourself?”
An odd, almost smug look crossed Deborah’s features. “A remnant from before I became a Quaker,” she said, holding out the linen for Lucy to examine. “I know that such frippery is not the Quaker way.”
“She clasped a little posy, a posy full of grace,” Lucy read. “Oh, I remember that tune.” Under her breath, she hummed the first few notes as the song from her childhood came to her mind. Beside her Theodora coughed, and Lucy stopped abruptly, feeling a bit embarrassed.
“Thou shouldst burn that cloth,” Esther said, all but wagging her finger at Deborah. In a more gentle tone she added, “Best embrace the Lord and leave your worldly goods behind, as he would wish.” The other women nodded.
“I keep it for the memory of my earlier days,” Deborah explained, dabbing her eyes again. “My mother crafted this cloth for me when I was still a child. Before she died of the galloping sickness.”
“In time, you will learn, my child,” Joan said, with a kind smile. “Such frippery simply does not matter to those who follow the Light of God. But for now, I think no one minds that thou dost hold something so dear, kept close to thy heart.”
Sarah turned back to Esther, seeming impatient at the interruption. “Thou wert just about to tell us how thou met thy husband.”
Esther smiled sadly. “When Jacob met me, he said there was no other woman in the world he could love more than me.”
Lucy noticed Sarah stiffen. “Had you already become a Quaker then?” Lucy asked hastily so no one would notice Sarah’s expression.
“No, my dear Jacob had already been called. He was so very glad when my conscience brought me to the cause of the Friends as well.”
“Is that when you met everyone here?” Lucy asked. Or are some of these people strangers to you? she wanted to add.
“This piece isn’t about me, is it?” the widow asked. “’Tis about my dear husband, is it not?”
“Oh yes, of course.” Lucy looked around the room. The other Quakers were also looking at her a bit distrustfully. “I’m just interested in how Quakers became Quakers,” she stammered, “when they decided to, er, leave the church.” She thought her answer sounded lame to her own ears, but to her surprise, the Quakers now looked approving.
“Is it thy wish to know more about the Friends?” Joan asked kindly. “About our calling?”
Sarah jumped in then. “Alas, Lucy must return to her work now. Perhaps another time.”
As they stood up to go, Esther looked straight at Lucy with her shining violet eyes. “My dear Jacob. He had already become a Quaker, and it was he who convinced me of my wayward ways, of the path that I needed to take. Not so long after, we got married in the Quaker way. He announced our intent to wed in every public spot. I felt he was very pleased indeed to marry me.” She smiled at the memory.
As Lucy wrote down the words, she wondered what a Quaker wedding would be like. No trappings, no finery, that was for sure.
“Oh, thou art confused,” she said to Lucy, correctly reading her thoughts. “Naturally, we Quakers do not post banns. Instead we openly declare our love and fidelity where the public may hear of our betrothal—in the markets, by the shops, and even before a church, though we do not share their conviction. Jacob took my hands and said, ‘This, my Friend Esther, until death.’” She began to weep, and the women in the room rushed to attend to her.
After a short spell, Esther wiped her eyes. “I was ever so grateful to be welcomed into thy loving fold,” she said, fluttering her hand to include the women gathered around her.
Joan looked up at Lucy. “Thou art welcome here anytime, child. Perhaps thou wilt find what thou art seeking with us.” For a second she paused and looked at Theodora, who puckered her lips. “If thou art able to join us, we will be meeting at our Devonshire house in two days’ time, near Bunhill Fields. If thy conscience so bids, thou art very welcome. Our vigil here will be done, and we will bury our brother Jacob. At nine o’clock in the morning.”
“Th-thank you,” Lucy stammered, startled by the invitation. Before she could say more, Sarah bundled her out of the room.
Only when they reached the street did Sarah speak. “The Quakers do like to proselytize, Lucy. A little longer, and they’d have converted thee. I could not have that on my conscience.”
“I thought Quakers expect people to follow their own conscience,” Lucy replied carefully. “So it could not be on your conscience, should I choose to follow mine.”
Sarah looked at her in surprise. “Lucy, I always forget how intelligent thou art. I suppose all that time listening to my tutors from behind the curtains—yes, I knew thou wert there—helped thee develop thy intellect. What I meant was that I do believe it would verily kill my father should thou join the Friends, too. And Adam would be none too happy either, I should think.”
“Miss S
arah, I mean, just Sarah,” she said, letting the comment about Adam pass. She never knew how to speak of the delicate subject. “There is one other thing about what Mr. Whitby told me, before he died of his affliction.”
Sarah looked at her suspiciously. “Lucy, I cannot bear to hear those wild accusations again. Pray do not tell me more.”
“No, no, it’s not that,” Lucy said hastily. “It’s just that Mr. Whitby told me that he wanted his sister to know he’d been thinking of her when he died. He’d been on his way to see her, you know, when he was struck by the cart. I think he had hoped to make amends to his family.”
“Oh, I didn’t know that!” Sarah said, looking stricken. “How awful! I wonder now if anyone even told them he died?”
“I’m sure they were informed, by a constable or some other official,” Lucy said reassuringly. “Perhaps, though, they’d like to see you. As a gesture of your family friendship.”
Sarah shook her head sadly. “I do not think the Whitbys would want to see me. I will ask Adam to go, on our family’s behalf. He said he would like to have his midday meal with me. We’ve scarcely spoken since I arrived home.” She sighed. “I won’t lie. I dread spending time with Father and Adam. I’ve spent enough time around judges and courts. I was even brought to trial myself.”
“Sarah!” Lucy exclaimed. “Were you tried? In the New World?”
Sarah grimaced. “You must not tell Father. But yes, I was tried in court. In the Massachusetts Bay Colony.”
“What happened?” Lucy asked, her mouth agape, trying to imagine it all to no avail.
“Joan and I were both hauled to court for speaking the Truth. Found guilty. I was put in stocks and pelted with rotten food for thirty minutes. Then they released me. Joan was whipped first and left there for four hours, since that was her second offense.”
“How dreadful!” Lucy gasped.
Sarah’s laugh, a hollow mirthless sound, made Lucy wince. “It could have been worse. I could have been tarred and feathered. Or even branded with a hot iron. All in the name of order and justice. Whatever would Father have said? Maybe I should tell him. He will no doubt think I received the punishment I deserve.”
The Masque of a Murderer Page 6
