by Ann Turnbull
I put Romeo and Juliet on the pile to be removed, along with Rowley’s All’s Lost by Lust.
The afternoon light was fading, and I began to think of finishing for the day. From the drawing room, below, I heard the sound of someone playing the virginal: awkward, stilted playing – young Dorothy, I guessed. The sound, mercifully, stopped; and then someone else took over. This time the music – a country dance tune – was light and sprightly, perfectly judged.
I left the library and went downstairs to the landing, where a maid was lighting a candle in a sconce on the wall.
The drawing-room door was open. I stood in the entrance and saw that the player was Catherine. She was absorbed in the music, her hands sure and quick, blonde ringlets bouncing gently against her cheek.
The other two were dancing. They had joined hands and were tripping down the length of the room.
Catherine finished with a flourish, looked up, and saw me.
“Thou play well,” I said.
She blushed. “It’s a simple piece.”
Her sisters stood pink and breathless.
“Play a jig, Kate,” said Dorothy.
“Oh, Dorothy! Thou know Father does not like us to dance.”
“But he’s not home yet.”
“I shall play a pavane. That is more seemly.” She turned to me. “Would thou like to play something, Will?”
“I’ll hear thy pavane first.”
She began to play. “Look through the music on the table, there.”
The stately sound of the pavane subdued her sisters, who danced gravely, like court ladies.
Before long their mother came in.
“Enough of this now, girls,” she said. “You had your fill of dancing, I should think, at your cousins’ house.” She turned to me. “I’m sure you don’t dance, Will?”
“Not any more.”
“And don’t approve?”
“I … don’t think about it a great deal.” I hoped this was diplomatic.
She smiled, and I saw her daughters’ prettiness in her face. “It creates laughter and exercise, which is innocent enough, I believe; but too much of it leads to frivolous thoughts, and to licence.”
“I have no opportunity to dance,” I said, “but I love music – and I have a flute that I play sometimes. It’s good to keep in practice.”
“Oh, yes!” agreed Catherine warmly – and blushed as she caught her mother’s eye.
After her mother had gone out, Catherine said to me, “We used to play and sing every evening before Father was led to the truth. Our cousins in Essex are not Friends and it was like old times.”
“Mother enjoyed it too,” remarked Jane.
I felt pulled by different factions in the family and said, “Perhaps I should leave you…”
“No. Play for us,” said Catherine. “Mother will not mind at all if it is something instrumental.”
I found a piece by Orlando Gibbons.
Catherine stood up and let me take her place. The seat was warm from her body, and I was aware of her closeness as she stood beside me. She turned the pages, and the other two drew near.
As I finished the piece, Catherine said, “Thou hast grown up with music.”
“Yes.”
“And miss it?” She was looking at me with sympathy.
“More than I’d realized. But thy parents? Have they both given it up?”
“Almost. I think Father feels the loss greatly, but that only makes him more certain that he should resist it.”
“Because it is a distraction?”
“Yes. He doesn’t forbid us to play, but he doesn’t like it to take up too much of our time. He believes we will give it up ourselves when we are ready.”
“And will thou?”
I spoke teasingly, and was rewarded with a smile.
“I know I should hope so.”
The next day was first-day. The family did not go out to Meeting, but gathered in their own dining room, joined by two of their servants and six neighbouring Friends, among them the physician who had attended to me, and his wife and brother. Since the law allowed for only five to meet in addition to the household, we were now an illegal meeting. I found it difficult to see it as such, for here there was none of the tension and excitement of a large meeting like that at the Bull and Mouth, where one after another would stand up to preach, and which was constantly under siege. It seemed unlikely, unless Edmund Ramsey caused trouble for the authorities, that his house would be targeted.
The silence was deep, and I felt its intensity, and afterwards marvelled that such power could be created between so few people. I remarked on this to Catherine as we left, and asked her, “Did you go to Meeting in Essex?”
“No.” She glanced up at me shyly. She had a demure manner, not like Susanna with her straight gaze. “We went to church with Uncle and Aunt and the cousins. Mother would not seek out Friends with Father not there.”
“And which dost thou prefer?” For it was clear that she had not yet chosen for herself.
“Church is easier,” she said. “It’s expected of us. And more sociable – all society is there. And at St Leonard’s they have a good minister – his sermons are not dull, like some. But I have never been to an outside Friends’ meeting such as thou go to. Father forbids it because I am old enough now to be sent to prison.”
She looked, I thought, so fair and vulnerable that it was no wonder he felt protective. I could not imagine such a girl in Newgate.
She, in turn, was looking at me.
“I can see thou hast suffered in prison,” she said. “We must take care of thee.”
Her mother had drawn near, no doubt mindful of her daughter’s honour.
“Do many merchants or gentry attend meetings?” I asked, including the mother in my question.
“Very few,” said Margaret. “There is Sir William Penn’s son – also William; he must be thy age, Will, twenty or twenty-one. My husband met him once at Gracechurch Street last winter and believes it will not be long before he is convinced. A great trial to his father, who cannot tolerate his closeness to Friends; but a most vital and energetic young man… Now, girls” – she turned to gather the attention of her daughters – “no music today. Reading and sewing only.”
We spent the rest of the day quietly. In the afternoon the women read the Bible and sat silently together, while Edmund and I went to the meeting at the Bull and Mouth. I arrived tired, for I still lacked strength, but was received with joy by my friends, most of whom had not seen me since I was sent to Newgate. It was a sad embrace I had with Hannah Palmer. All her youth and vigour seemed to have left her since her brother’s death, and I was filled with renewed grief for Francis and for John Turner.
Jane Catlin tut-tutted at my hollow cheeks, but Nat asked me, “Will thou be going to Hemsbury soon?”
“Not yet. I’ve no work – nothing to offer Susanna. I’d be ashamed to face her father now. And thee?”
He shook his head. “Winter travel is hard. And I lost pay at the height of the plague. I’ll go in the spring, maybe.” He glanced across at Edmund, who was talking to some of the elders, and I thought I detected some feeling of rejection as he remarked, “Thou’rt settled in at Throgmorton Street, then? Seen the last of Creed Lane?”
“I’ll come back soon – for a while.”
I felt unclear about my future. When would Susanna and I be married? When we were, we’d need to find somewhere for the two of us to live. I remembered how excited I had felt about that, back in the spring. But now, everything had changed.
Susanna
“I still say thou’rt over-hasty,” Mary said, opening the box in which she kept the print-shop money. “Thou might pass him on the road.”
That gave me a moment’s anxiety. But I knew the wording of his letter by heart; I had read it so often. There was no hint in it that he planned to come to Hemsbury: only that he’d write again when he was able; and he had not written.
“It’s my chance to go with
Friends,” I said, “before winter sets in.”
The thought of a winter of waiting was unbearable to me.
Mary counted the coins into my hand. They made up my final wages. Whatever I found in London, my life was about to change. I did not expect ever to work for Mary again. She knew that.
She looked at me, and sighed. “Thou’ll be a loss to the business,” she said, “and to me.”
For a moment I thought she was about to embrace me, but then she patted my arm and said brusquely, “Well, put that away somewhere safe. Thou’rt off to see thy parents now, I suppose?”
“Yes.”
Everything was arranged for the journey to London. Several others had joined Alice Betts in her concern to visit Friends in the city, and we were now a group of eight. Collections had been made at meetings around the county for the relief of distressed London Friends; we’d take the money with us, along with what spiritual comfort we could offer. Alice and I were the only women in the group. She was pleased to have my company and understood entirely my need to go, for she is a woman who always acts promptly on what seems right to her.
Back home, in Long Aston, I found my parents anxious about the plague and the dangers of the great city. My mother, especially, feared that I might find myself alone and heartbroken in London if – God forbid, as she said – something had happened to prevent my marriage to Will. But she understood my haste.
“He is ill, and has suffered,” she said. “If I were in thy place, I would go to him straight away.”
My father wanted to give me some money.
“I have my savings!” I protested. “Three years’ worth.”
“Then keep it well hidden under thy clothes.”
“I shall, never fear. I’ll wear layers of skirts in this cold weather.”
He insisted on giving me extra for the journey. “London will cost you much,” he said.
My mother brought out the wedding shift they had made for me.
“I’ll come back, Mam,” I said, “if I’m to be wed.”
“Who knows what thou’ll do? Take it now. London folk dress finer than us, I reckon. Thou won’t want to look drab.”
My father murmured against vanity, but my mother insisted, “’Tisn’t vanity to be clean and comely.”
And she hugged me hard, and said, “God bless thee, daughter, and help thee find thy love.”
William
Over the next two weeks I grew rapidly stronger and put back the weight I had lost. The Ramseys made sure I ate well and did not work too long indoors, and I walked about the city and over to Westminster and Southwark on errands for Edmund to build up my strength.
My spirits also revived, and I began to feel again a sense of confidence in the future. I wrote to Susanna on the fifteenth of November, telling her not only of the help I’d had from Edmund Ramsey but about my time in prison; about the deaths of my friends and the responsibility I felt for them. I told her, too, of the deaths of the Martell family.
I am in no position, now, to offer thee marriage, and yet there is nothing I desire more. I intend to find a new employer and begin again. As soon as I am settled and can find a home for us, I’ll come, or send for thee. It may mean a winter apart, but I can’t bring thee here, yet, to live in poverty in this stricken city. Will thou wait for me, love? Tell me thou will. I long for us to be together.
The weather was now cold, and the plague in retreat. People were returning to London in large numbers, and I knew that once the shops and businesses began to open again my chances of finding work would increase. Edmund made enquiries for me. Meanwhile I continued to sort and catalogue his books.
The Ramsey girls were always around the house, and we fell into a habit, in the late afternoon, of playing music together. The younger girls liked best to romp and sing – they treated me, I think, like a replacement for their merry Essex cousins – but Catherine had a true love of music, and the two of us enjoyed talking about it, and finding new pieces to play.
The three girls were educated at home by a tutor, though the plague had put a stop to their lessons for the time being. Catherine knew Latin, French, and some Greek and Italian. Sometimes we played and sang from a book of French songs she’d brought with her from Essex – light pieces, often about “l’amour”. I was aware of the danger of seeming to flirt with her – for she had a shyness about her that invited it, and singing together caused us to exchange glances and smiles. I never spoke to her about Susanna – my love for Susanna was a private thing to me – but I felt sure her mother must have warned her that I was promised to another girl. This lay between us, unspoken, but I think we both knew that if it had not been for Susanna we might have drawn closer. As it was, I was careful to be no more than friendly, and to include her sisters in our conversations; and the mother kept a watchful eye on us all.
But Catherine was pretty and alluring – and she was there, and Susanna was not. I could not help feeling some desire for her.
It’s innocent enough, I thought. And I’ll be gone soon.
Susanna
We were to travel by carrier, probably in a cart open to the weather. I planned to wear a hat and hood, a heavy quilted petticoat under my skirt, and a large woollen cloak. In my bag I packed three shifts (two plain ones and my wedding shift), two collars, a few pairs of stockings, an extra woollen skirt and bodice, and a Bible. It seemed a fair-sized bagful, and the cloak was bulky. Alice took less: little more than she stood up in. She said, “‘Consider the lilies of the field’,” and directed me to Matthew’s gospel. But I cannot bear dirty linen, so I took nothing out.
Right up to the last moment I hoped another letter would come from Will; but it did not. And so, on seventh-day the eleventh of November, Alice and I joined six Shropshire Friends in the yard of the White Lion in Broad Street. A few other people were waiting, bound for Birmingham, or Coventry, but no others for London.
The carrier had a pack-train with horses and several carts. We were fitted in among bales of woollen cloth and sat on benches in reasonable comfort. The first overnight stop was at Shifnal. We rose early next day and joined local Friends at Meeting – for the carrier left later than usual on first-day mornings.
Having been only one day on the road it was irksome to me to have to stop at all, and I began the meeting in a state of restlessness, but Alice’s testimony helped me to cease fretting and attend to the light within. She spoke simply of our group’s mission and of the suffering of Londoners. She is a woman of some forty-five years, small and round and sweet-faced, very plainly dressed, and uncaring of her appearance – for her mind is turned continually to God. There is such gentleness about her that even those who despise Dissenters cannot help but respond to it.
Alice understood my anxiety to be away, and when at last we set off again she smiled and said, “Now, with God’s grace to speed us, we shall go all the faster.” But I confess I saw little evidence of it. The horses ambled on, and the carts bumped their way slowly over cobbles in town or ruts on the country roads; and once our cart slipped half into a ditch and had to be hauled out with the help of some men working in nearby fields. One of them winked at me as I stood waiting and seemed surprised when I did not blush or look away.
“Her gave me a straight look!” he joked to his companion.
His accent was strange to me. I wondered where we were, and how far on our way. In Mary’s shop, before I left, I had spread out maps and looked at the route we might take, from Birmingham perhaps to Northampton, or Stratford, coming in to London from the north-west. I had travelled long distance before: to Oxford, to see Will; and when I was five or six years old I had moved from Bristol to Shropshire with my parents. But neither journey was as far as London.
Once back on the road, we travelled between endless fields, some full of sheep or cattle, some with men ploughing. For mile after mile the countryside looked much the same: brown fields, grey skies, flocks of birds following the plough. We passed through many villages about the size of Long Aston,
and many small towns. Each night we stopped at an inn. Sometimes by the time we arrived I was so stiff and cold I did not enquire where we were, or care: only that there was a bed, and water to wash in, and a hot supper. For several days it rained relentlessly, and our progress was slowed even more as the wheels churned through mud. The goods were protected under a layer of waxed cloth, and the carrier’s men used some more of this to erect a rough shelter for us. From beneath it we peered out over the horses’ heads at a dark, wintry world; some days it barely grew light.
I remember reaching Northampton, and Bedford, where new travellers came aboard; and then, after more than a week on the road, we reached Islington, our last overnight stop. I gazed across the fields in the direction of London and saw, less than two miles distant, the smoke from many fires, and what seemed to be a great flock of birds circling. Another traveller told us these were the kites which hung constantly above London, the middens and ditches being so plentiful that they were never short of carrion, especially in this time of plague.
Islington was a small village, but busy with many coaches and pack-trains. The inn where we stayed was full of travellers from all parts of the country; I had never heard so many different accents.
Next morning I woke long before dawn, and could not get back to sleep, my mind was so busy. I knew we’d be in London within a few hours – in the city itself, which Will had told me was little over a mile square. He’d be near; in no time, surely, I’d see him again. I tried to bring his face clearly to mind: his smile; his eyes, which I thought so beautiful – light greenish-grey, with dark lashes. I had no doubt that I’d know him, even from a distance. But his last letter troubled me: that shaky handwriting telling of changed circumstances. Anxiety mixed with my excitement.
At dawn we climbed aboard the cart for the last time. The sun was a pink glow in the east, the fields white with frost. Cold air stung my face, enlivening me. It would be a bright day.
