by Jane Rogers
But on with my story. I paused for breath on the bridge, and chancing to glance down, was astonished to see Sisters Rachel and Rebekah, sitting on the bank opposite to the towpath, their skirts up above their knees, and their bare feet dangling in the water. They looked for all the world like two godless mill children on their Sunday holiday. I called to them and they started up instantly, scrambling into their stockings and shoes. They approached me with smiling and obedient haste – which kindness I returned by harranguing them shamefully, in such a fashion as I now cringe to remember. How little we understand, dear Lord, the moods and desires of other minds. And yet I might have paused, I might have considered: two young girls filled by nature with all the happy high spirits of that age; two young girls as innocent of knowledge of wrong behaviour as the lamb frisking in the field; two young girls who had passed the three preceding bright summer days, either in the still hallowed confines of Sanctuary, or in the closer space of the outer office, where they had toiled from morning to evensong over piles of linen and hot heavy irons – glimpsing the chance for a half-hour’s harmless recreation. Does not their easy and joyful embracing of God’s bounty put me to shame? Did I thank Him for the heat of sunshine, the cool glistening water, the brilliance of the grass? Am I now blind to the joy we give Him when we rejoice in His bounteous gift of the physical world?
I pray for forgiveness, both of God and of these sisters, who must witness with astonishment this accumulation of my failings.
By lunchtime today (I have spent the morning in the hot kitchen roasting lamb and beef to be served cold at the feast, and in the preparation of numerous pastries) I felt myself so unwell as to be giddy, and charging Sister Hannah and Sister Leah with the boiling of the fowls and preparation of soup, I made my unsteady way to my bedchamber. After I had lain an hour upon my bed, I raised myself up to answer the call of nature – and then made the discovery which breaks my heart to relate.
I bleed. What does it mean? I stare at the brownish stain on my undergarments, the fresh red blood at its centre. I cannot tell what I must do, a terrible fear gripping me makes me lethargic, scarce able to move. I had not looked for this. I fear. I fear the blood spilt at this conception: I fear I may have been injured in some way. I fear –
Dear God. My fear is that You are not with me. This is my only fear.
*
I am not with child. There can be no doubt left in my mind that this is my monthly women’s courses. Out of step with the pattern of my lifetime, indeed: never before have I been unclean, and so unable to enter Sanctuary, at the Feast of the New Moon. But the absence of the others gives me opportunity to mourn that great loss which I am still scarce able to believe. Like a lost child in the darkness I seek comfort, understanding, illumination. Is this a figure of my end? That I shall be erroneously heavy and heartened with hope, only to discover that I am doomed to perpetual loss? But His forgiveness and mercy are great, He could not so abandon one who has sought above all to serve Him. Can it be as it was with Joanna Southcott, that our error lay in seeking a physical child? Was He displeased with the manner of conception – with my tearful fears and lack of courage? Did my response to that first trial of strength show Him my great unworthiness?
These questions are fruitless, harmful, arrogant. I must pray for the greatest blessing, the humility to accept His will unquestioningly. Thy will be done, oh Lord, though it involve the breaking of my heart and my hopes, I count it but small loss against the love and peace that passeth all understanding, which I may obtain by the intercession of Your grace. Teach me to be a stick, a stone, a clod of earth, that will neither fear nor regret the rain that falls, the sun that scorches, the freezing blasts of winter – teach me acceptance, I pray You, that the piercing regrets and terrors in my heart may be quieted.
Shall the thing formed say to him that formed it, Why hast thou made me thus? Hath not the potter power over the clay, of the same lump to make one vessel unto honour, and another unto dishonour?
And if I weep – through mere human, womanish frailty – it is only for love of Thee, my Lord, and for the hopes that I held of a warm sweet babe in my arms, into whose service I might pour the overflowing pitcher of my holy love. If I weep, do not be angry with me, but know that I weep for sorrow at my own failings.
*
Sister Hannah told me yesterday that she has seen bugs on Sister Dinah’s bed; this afternoon we inspected together and found that there are a quantity of them in and around the bed. The pallet itself was perhaps infested. Now the warm weather has brought them out, and they are everywhere. We moved poor Dinah into Sister Rachel’s bed and Sister Hannah has flung pailfuls of water across the floor to drown any that might attempt to save themselves. Sister Martha she enlisted to carry the parts of the bed down into the yard, where they will steep in a tub. Sister Hannah sets about the room with a fine energy; she knows such bugs from her London days, she tells me, and the cracks between floorboards, in skirting boards, in all the furniture, are places they will hide. I sit beside Dinah’s bed, reading the Good Book, more lost I fear than the poor wandering patient I seek to comfort, while Sister Hannah scrubs about us in a frenzy of cleanliness, and I see (or seem to see) the horrid little creatures spilling from each dark crevice in the floor, each fold in bedding and hangings. My skin crawls, darkness runs about us.
I grieve for the lost child. Sinfully, wrongly I know, but my heart is heavy and my spirits dull, I can scarce raise my head from the pillow at morning. I am afraid. When I went in tonight to read to the Prophet he did not speak to me, only pointed to the part I must read and sat at the table with his head in his hands. From Luke, the words of our Blessed Saviour himself:
Daughters of Jerusalem, weep not for me, but weep for yourselves, and for your children. For, behold, the days are coming, in the which they shall say, ‘Blessed are the barren, and the wombs that never bore, and the paps that never gave suck.’ Then shall they begin to say to the mountains, ‘Fall on us!’ and to the hills, ‘Cover us!’ For if they do these things in a green tree, what shall be done in the dry?
Lord, I seek among thy words for comfort, and am rewarded with more pain: as a woman lost in the desert seeks water, and is rewarded with ever-increasing thirst.
Does he grieve? He neither looked at me nor spoke, so when I was done I set down the Book and left him.
I am alone. God has left me: I sense His anger. My body is dull, lifeless, single. I seem to stand apart from my sisters, I see their smiles, I hear their voices, but I cannot come near them. And the sign I saw today, in the destruction of a nest of young birds – let me not speak of it, for I will weep.
I cannot tell what I must do, how to appease His anger. I am unworthy and the child is lost – but what may I do to win again His favour? I cook, I clean, I scrub, my heart dries up at the terrible repetition of tasks and days, and all about me I see figures of an approaching end so far from that I had imagined … How can I break out of this prison of my unworthiness? What can I offer, do, make, to prove my love? I am trapped in a small life. Dear God, I have more to give, I pray you look on me again with love, for unused I waste, I wither like a dried twig.
Oh Lord. And in the rebellion, and the distress, and the hoping, I am also wrong. For I must accept. His will be done. I am nothing but a fragment, a grain of sand in the mortar of His great construction, and have no more right to urge and press my will than the grain of sand has to announce, ‘I shall not be part of this wall, in this shape, but of a different wall, where I may sit atop the highest pinnacle.’ Foolish grain of sand, to think that thy position matters one jot to anyone except thy Maker, who has planned and who will bury you deep between the dungeon layers where yet you may have the joy of knowing that you offer your grain’s worth of support to the great construction, that you play your part in His plan.
Help me, purge me, cleanse me of rebellion. I am afraid, Lord. I am lost. Help me into Your way again.
The greatest sin is doubt. Dear Lord, forgive me. There
are many paths to the Kingdom, and in my Father’s house are many mansions. I will have faith, and my faith shall be my strength and support, and shall light me through my present dark time of the soul, into whatever new pastures He shall chose for me. I thank Thee oh Lord for weeding out my pride, for humbling me. And I am grateful for Thy kindly love, and the care Thou takest to reveal it. For when I let Thy Good Book fall open upon chance tonight, Thy message of comfort blazed up from the page before me: Can a woman forget her sucking child, that she should not have compassion on the son of her womb? Yea, they may forget, yet I will not forget thee.
*
Dinah is gone, praise the Lord. I thank Him that her sufferings are ended. She has been ready this long time to fly to Him, and if ever a human soul was clearly destined for heaven, then she was. I imagine her joy in freedom from her poor tormented body. How true are the teachings of our church, that death is no cause for grief but rather a reason for solemn celebration, ushering as it does the soul of the departed into new and vibrant life in His presence.
But little Thomas. When I think of his sweet face, his little hands stretching out to tug at my hair or make a plaything of my cap … Help me to be glad, dear God. Help me to a right vision. I must not think of his soft warm skin nor his contented little chuckles.
We are to celebrate Sister Dinah’s funeral on a grand scale, both because of her position as one of the Prophet’s women, and because this may be our last opportunity to attract a mass of converts. The Prophet told me this himself. It is the first occasion since the loss of our hopes, on which he has drawn me into his confidence. He has been warned of God that a great affliction will be visited on our church, an affliction which will cause the falling away of many, and division between God’s chosen people. He believes that the end itself will come soon after this affliction, and he wishes us to present a united, joyful face to the Lord while we may, to show our inner readiness.
Sister Dinah’s procession and festival will be held on Thursday. The hearse, gaily decked with white cloths and flowers, and drawn by six white horses with uncut manes and tails, will process from here to the service at Sanctuary, and thence to the graveyard. On the populous part of the route, from Sanctuary to St Michael’s, the hearse will be preceded by the Prophet and the Elders (in ceremonial robes), we six women in our white, the children of the church newly arrayed in white and gold, the musicians, playing our most popular and rousing hymns, and the choir in full voice. When the remains have been committed to earth, we shall return in procession to Southgate, singing hymns of thanksgiving, and with our banners and pennants fluttering in the breeze. Here will be spread a feast to feed the entire church membership. We shall use the housebody as the main dining area and, by use of trestle tables and benches, plan to feed fifty at a sitting. The dining room will also be in use: I had thought, as a more secluded space for the Prophet and Elders, but he pooh-poohed this foolish suggestion, reminding me that all are equal in the sight of the Lord, and that there should be no high or low tables, no special division of places or foodstuffs. He recommended me to purchase a sufficient number of plates, tankards, knives etcetera for the assembled company, saying we should have need of them in future times, when many may take shelter from the Storm of Judgement, beneath our roof. But I hit upon the happy solution of requesting a donation of a place setting from each church member attending the feast: for does not even the meanest household possess at least a spare bowl and spoon to feed a guest? What sense can there be in the church paying for such quantities of goods, when, after the apocalypse, these items (if left in individual, sinful homes) will be consumed with fire along with their owners?
The preparation of foodstuffs for such numbers has provided a challenge, but we women of the household have not been left alone to answer this. Every able-bodied woman of the church is to provide one dish. Aaron Woollacott has promised us the supplies from his deceased sister’s offices, among which is a goodly quantity of potted meat and trout. And we have two boxes of fine American apples from William Lees; all the children shall have one. We do miss Sister Leah’s skills in the kitchen, though. I thank Thee, Lord. I thank thee for the housewifely talents of my sisters. I thank Thee for the opportunity to celebrate Thy glory in this coming feast day. And most of all I thank Thee for the strength to endure, that Thou hast given me. I am content to wait at Thy table. I am patient and content, though I know the end will come. I do not cry with a shrill voice for a more vital part to play. Thy will be done, Lord; blessed are they who only stand and wait. You will find me, Lord, standing and waiting, waiting and standing. My Lord, I endure.
Leah
I am less anxious over Thomas now, he seems to rally, though his cough is not yet gone. Dinah, however, is sick in earnest. I was shocked when I took her a drink last night, to see her sudden deterioration; the hollowness of her cheeks, and the dullness of her eyes. There is a smell to her sickroom which turns my stomach. Poor little Rachel sits with her most of the time, I do not know how she can stand it.
And Madam Hannah, who has been my particular study, has spent no time with the Prophet these past couple of days. Of that I am certain, for I have made it my business to know where she is at every minute of the day and night. She was out all afternoon yesterday (on some business about printing spinners’ handbills, for members of her reading class, she told me, upon very precise enquiry) but he was in his room. When he has been out, she has been at home. When she read to him on Thursday evening, she was in the room no more than twenty-five minutes, during which I contrived to pass the door twice, and heard the steady flow of her reading voice.
So the situation between them may not be as serious as I feared. Who knows, what I witnessed may even have been the first occasion of their union?
At present we are all confined to the house until Ashton Wakes are over; all the mills are out. Saint Joanna says there is dangerous drunkenness and revelry in the streets. We are obliged to pray ‘for those poor sinners’. I do not care – I have no stomach for the Wakes this year. Although I have had good sport there in the past.
All my thinking and reasoning of these past few days lead me to conclude that what advantage Hannah has gained over me, she has gained only by boldness; and that it is for me to seize my opportunity. I have little or nothing to lose, for how could my current situation be worsened? Only by having her for the Prophet’s wife and lady of the house, and knowing myself relegated to the status of her servant for the rest of my days. But for her shamelessness, he would undoubtedly have been more aware of my subtle hints and glances; but now the time for subtlety has gone. I know he wants me. A hundred details of his behaviour, over the past months, confirm that.
The plans for this missionary tour were at last made known to all. Saint Joanna, Rachel and Rebekah stay at home, to care for Dinah and for Thomas. Rebekah will look after Thomas as well as I could myself, and besides, his cough is almost gone, he is nearly his old cheerful chubby self again. However, I could wish for companions other than Hannah and Martha.
*
After a tedious journey in the company of these two silent, hateful women, events at last begin to play into my hands. We are in the prosperous seaside town of Whitby. Driving in on the York turnpike I saw a number of fine stately, well-proportioned houses; but we are accommodated in cramped and crooked quarters, where fishermen and the poorer sort live. We are spread over two houses; Martha and Hannah stay in one lodgings, and Samuel Walker, the Prophet and myself in another. I am to read to him this evening; he has gone out to take a walk beforehand. Samuel is out visiting his aunt who is a stalwart of the Whitby Israelites. I have ample time to prepare myself – and let the reading take as long as it will! Even if Samuel return, there is still my bedchamber free …
I sit waiting on my bed. A part of me is glad I have waited so long, for I sense now that I cannot fail; and to have rushed at it earlier, and spoilt my chances, would have been cause for lasting regret. When I look in the glass the face I see is radiant.
> I hear his footsteps on the stairs, his deep voice responding to some query from the woman of the house. He passes my door, I hear him enter his chamber. I give him five minutes to settle himself, then I glance again at my reflection, give my cheeks a pinch, and go knock on his door. When he calls me in I pause, then walk across to his window.
‘You have a fine view of the sea, here.’
‘Yes,’ he replies, without moving – staring in the direction of the window, where (as I know full well) all he can see is me, for I am in the way of his view.
‘Did you have a pleasant walk?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where did you go?’ I turn to look at him now, smiling. He is watching me. He can tell, I know, my intention. He is already sitting a little forward; his hands clasp the arms of his chair. I turn so that I am in profile against the light of the window. My nipples are hard against the fabric of my dress.
