by Ann Turnbull
The carrier set us down at Aldersgate.
The street was crowded and full of noise: wheels on cobbles, hawkers shouting, the harsh, fast speech of Londoners. I looked up and saw a great statue of a king on horseback atop the central arch of the gateway and other carved figures decorating the side towers. A woman carrying baskets of fruit and herbs bumped into me as I stood staring.
“Step aside, wench!” she said. “You block the way.”
We gathered our group together and turned to walk into the city; and at once I saw ahead of us, rising above the shops and houses, a great steeple-house – so huge it could only be Paul’s. It was a commanding slab of a building with a square tower covered in scaffolding. (God had struck off its steeple during a thunderstorm years ago, a Friend told me.) This vast steeple-house was to me a symbol of the power of the Church and its corruption. And yet my spirits rose when I saw it. I knew that Creed Lane, where Will lived, must be close by, and that he worked in a shop in Paul’s Churchyard, and might be there at that very moment, so close I could reach him in minutes. I gabbled all this to Alice, and she said, “Child! Child! Be calm! We will find this inn our fellow travellers spoke of, and unburden ourselves, and give thanks to God for a safe journey. And then we will make enquiries.”
We’d planned to stay at an inn the first night or two. Our group had names of Friends in the city, and we had no doubt that hospitality would be offered us once we had made contact with the meetings.
The eight of us split up and went to various inns near by. Alice and I found one that the carrier had recommended: the Three Tuns in Martin’s Lane. A serving man showed us to our room, and set the luggage down; and then a girl brought us water for washing, and a mug each of small beer.
As I drank mine I looked out of the window into the street below, and saw crowds of people passing by – and yet the girl had said the town was half empty. A cart, laden with barrels, turned into the lane, its iron-shod wheels clattering over the cobbles. A coach coming in the other direction blocked its way and the two drivers shouted at each other and made obscene gestures. The noise in the street, from voices, traffic, and goods being unloaded, was greater than anything I’d known in Hemsbury. The street was narrow, and the room we stood in was jettied so that it overhung the street. Below our window swung the inn sign, with its three barrels; other signs, painted on boards or hanging from poles, showed all the way along. I peered out, noting a glover’s shop, and a saddler’s. A hooded figure went by carrying a white staff, and I saw how the mass of people parted around this person, like water around an island, and none came near. An apothecary, I supposed, or a searcher: some such that dealt with plague sufferers. I shivered.
“Pull the window to,” said Alice. “Let’s give thanks.”
So we sat down – Alice on the only chair, me on the bed. I closed my eyes and let myself become quiet and calm. I was here, and thanked God for it.
We remained silent for a few minutes. When I heard a slight movement from Alice I opened my eyes. She said, “Now I think we must eat.”
I’d had nothing but a piece of bread since waking at Islington, and realized I was hungry. But first I wanted to be clean. I made Alice wait while I washed all over, and changed into clean linen and stockings, and combed my hair and set my cap neatly over it. There was a mirror on the washstand, and while Alice was occupied in reading her Bible I studied my reflection. I’d had no mirror in my room at Mary Faulkner’s, so this was a novelty to me. I pulled out a strand of hair to curl either side of my face.
We ate in the main room of the inn, where I listened to the medley of voices around us. Londoners talk fast and clipped, and speak as if everything must be done today, and as quickly as possible. We attracted a few glances when we came in – I suppose because of our country dress – but we sat in a secluded corner and spoke quietly together.
A serving girl brought our meat. She was about my own age and wore a crimson dress, immodestly low-necked, I thought, and made of some fine silken material; I guessed it to be a rich woman’s cast-off, for I had heard that there was a brisk trade in such clothes at city markets.
I asked her, “Dost thou know Creed Lane?”
She smiled a little at my slow way of speaking, and repeated, “Creed Lane? Yes! It’s but a step away – the other side of St Paul’s.” And she described how to get there, so quickly I could hardly take it in, but reckoned I’d find my way. I had memorized Will’s address: Thomas Corder’s house, next to the Blue Boar.
“I thank thee,” I said, as the girl left.
“I see nothing will hold thee now,” said Alice.
“Will thou come?” I didn’t want her to.
“No. I shall read my Bible, and wash, and perhaps sleep a little before taking the air. We shall meet later. Go carefully, Friend Susanna.”
“I will.”
I soon found Creed Lane. It was a short, steep road, and the Blue Boar lay at the bottom. On one side of it was a small shop, shuttered and locked, on the other a tall, narrow, run-down house where a woman in a dirty apron was swilling a bucket of food scraps into the gutter.
I asked her if this was Thomas Corder’s house.
“It is.” She regarded me curiously.
“I am looking for William Heywood.” My heart beat fast as I spoke his name.
“Oh – Mr Heywood! You must ask Mr Lacon about him. He’s at work.”
“Who? Nat – Mr Lacon?”
“Yes. He works for a printer in Alum Court. He should be home in an hour. Do you want to come in and wait?”
I didn’t. “I’ll find him,” I said.
“Other side of St Paul’s. Off Old Change.”
I thanked her and left.
Alum Court was near, but I struggled to find it in the maze of busy streets where people crowded and jostled me, and where I had to crane my neck to look up at the signs. On the way I passed Paul’s Churchyard, but many of the bookshops there were closed; and besides, the woman hadn’t said Will would be at work; she’d said I must ask Nat. My anxiety returned.
At last I turned a corner into Alum Court – and there was the printer’s shop, with the sign of the hand and pen, like Mary’s, and the name Amos Bligh above it. The drop-down counter that opened onto the street carried a stock of quills and ink and various kinds of notebook. A youth minded it. I caught his eye and asked, “Is Nathaniel Lacon within?”
The boy called his name. And then Nat came out of the back of the shop, looking just as I remembered him: young for his age, ink-stained, fair hair hanging in untidy curls. He knew me at once.
“Susanna!” he exclaimed.
I stepped into the shop and he caught me in a hug which drew all eyes to us and brought tears to mine.
He set me at arm’s length, still holding on to me. “Su, how didst thou get here? Did Will send for thee?”
“No. I came alone. Will doesn’t know. I had to come; his letter, and thine, made me so afraid. Is he ill, Nat? Where is he? I went to your lodgings but the woman said to ask thee…”
“There’s no need to fear.”
He led me further into the shop and introduced me briefly to the other men as a Friend from home. The sound of the press, the smells of ink and paper, the printed sheets hanging to dry, were all familiar to me and, despite the noise and activity, somehow calming.
“He’s with our Friend Edmund Ramsey,” said Nat. “Edmund is a wealthy man, a merchant. He took Will from Newgate to care for him. Will has been very sick, but thou need not fear for him now. He is still living at Edmund Ramsey’s house.”
“And is he recovered?”
“I hear he is much improved.”
So the two had not met recently.
“Where is this house? Is it near? I must see him.”
“Throgmorton Street. It’s near the Exchange. Not far.” He glanced at his idle press. “I’ll go there when I finish work – tell him thou’rt here.” Then, seeing my face, he added, “Or I’ll take thee.”
“But, Nat,
I can go myself, and see him at once.” I couldn’t bear to wait.
He ran an inky hand through his hair and frowned. “I wouldn’t go there alone, Su. They’re grand folk … big house…”
“I don’t care about that! They’re Friends, you say? They won’t refuse to let me in.”
“No, of course not.” But he still seemed uncertain. When he saw that I was determined to go alone he gave me directions and said, “I’ll speak to thee tomorrow, perhaps, and hear thy news?”
“Yes, for sure. I’m staying at the Three Tuns in Martin’s Lane.”
So I left him. I could not wait, now, to find Will. I left Alum Court and, following Nat’s instructions, found my way to Cheapside. Despite the press of people, there were still many shops closed and an atmosphere of dejection about the place as the light began to fade. The air was colder now, and I walked on quickly, looking about me till I came upon what must be the entrance to the Exchange. I stopped and gazed in at the large pillared courtyard, crowded with people, and surrounded on three sides by shops – two storeys of them – lit with candles that shone in the deepening dusk. I stood entranced, for I had seen nothing like it before.
A woman near by smiled at me. She wore a fine fur jacket cut low to show her white bosom.
“It’s a sad sight,” she said. “Half the shops still shut, and no one of quality here.”
“But it’s beautiful,” I said.
She looked me over. “Down from the north, are you?”
“Yes.” I began to retreat. I wanted to be on my way now.
But she laid a hand on my arm. “If you need a place to stay, I can help you.”
I saw then what she was about, and said, “I thank thee, no,” and moved quickly away. Instead I asked a respectable-looking maidservant, “Please, where is Throgmorton Street?”
She directed me, and was also able to describe Edmund Ramsey’s house, so that as I came into the street I knew it at once.
Despite what I’d said to Nat, the sight of the great door did somewhat intimidate me. But I was no servant, and these were Friends; so I stepped up boldly and knocked.
A maid answered the door. She was simply but more finely dressed than I, and I half feared she might direct me to the back entrance. But she was pleasant spoken, and when I asked for Will she let me into the hall, which was panelled with a woven wall covering – green, with a damask pattern of birds and flowers.
From upstairs I heard music being played – and that surprised me.
The stairs were wide and polished to a deep shine. She led me up them, saying, over her shoulder, “He’ll be in the drawing room, with the family.”
We reached the landing. Now we were outside the room the music was coming from.
The door was open. She knocked, but was not heard: the music – a fast, merry tune – continued. I came to stand beside her and looked in and saw a grand bright room hung with damask fabric and lit by candles, and a group of people gathered around a keyboard instrument. There were several girls, one of them seated and playing; and Will stood among them, turning the pages for the player, who was a fair, pretty girl – the prettiest girl I had ever seen. She was playing fast. Her small white hands flew about the keys, and as she played she glanced up at Will, and the two of them laughed together. Will looked healthy, and well cared for, and the girls were like butterflies in their wide-skirted silk gowns: one gold, one green, and the musician in yellow as bright as her hair.
I stared at this scene – and suddenly one of the girls saw me, and said something, and they all looked up, startled. The music stopped.
Will gazed at me for an instant without recognition; and I knew he was seeing a country Friend come visiting in her heavy woollen skirts and black hat and sturdy shoes – one who meant nothing to him.
And then he knew me. A look of utter astonishment crossed his face. “Susanna!” he exclaimed – and he broke through the group and hastened towards me.
I turned and fled. I didn’t want to be reunited with him in front of these girls. I’d had my answer. He was not ill. He did not need me. All I wanted now was to be gone, out of this house.
The maid had left. I ran down the stairs, reached the door, and grappled with the latch.
“Susanna! Don’t go!” He was close behind me.
But the door was open. I was free. I plunged out into the street, and began running back the way I had come, towards the Exchange.
He followed me, shouting, “Su! Wait! It’s dark…”
It was growing dark now, and that helped me escape. I darted behind a sedan chair carried by two serving men with link boys holding torches, and then around a group of maids laden with baskets. When I glanced back I could no longer see him.
I hurried on, head down, choking with tears. In my mind, I still saw him standing beside the yellow-haired girl, the two of them laughing together, the keys giving up their sparkling music under her hands. That’s where he belongs, I thought; not with me. That’s what he meant when he wrote: my circumstances are quite changed. And I knew I should never have come.
William
I ran after her as far as the Exchange, but she had gone. It was almost dark. Lamps had begun to appear above doorways all around, and the candlelit shops in the Exchange glimmered enticingly. Could she have run in there, I wondered? No. She’d have darted down some alley.
I stared about me, desperate. The streets were still busy; people were hurrying home from work and shops. I looked down several side streets and stopped passers-by and asked if they had seen a country girl in a high black hat, but Londoners walk fast and take no heed of others; no one had noticed her.
What to do now? I felt angry and helpless: furious with her for rushing out into the darkness of a strange city, and with myself for causing her distress.
I had no choice but to go back to the house. As I walked there – still in my indoor shoes, which were now soiled from the street – I saw the encounter as it must have appeared to her: the grand, intimidating house; myself, not ill as she’d perhaps imagined, but playing unseemly music and surrounded by fashionably dressed girls.
And yet Susanna wasn’t one to be in awe of grand folk. I’d always thought she’d face anyone – the King himself – and not be daunted. Why had she run from me?
At the back of my mind, where I would have preferred to avoid it, lay the answer: Catherine Ramsey. I’d been looking at Catherine. The piece she was playing had been approaching its crescendo and she, delighting in her skill and control, had caught my eye and we had both laughed with the sheer joy of it. Nothing more. I knew there was nothing more. And if I’d ever had any doubts, the appearance of Susanna in the doorway had instantly dissolved them.
She’d be alone out there now in the darkening streets. I had to find her. Where had she come from? Some inn, I supposed. I thought about what I’d said in my last letter; then counted the days and realized it could not have reached Hemsbury before she left. So she hadn’t read it – couldn’t have known when she set out from Shropshire that I was with the Ramseys. Someone else had told her that. She must have spoken to Nat.
Back at the house, the door had been closed, and I had to knock to be readmitted. The maid, Sarah, looked at me with undisguised curiosity, but said nothing, except to enquire whether she should take my shoes for cleaning.
I gave her my shoes, asked her to tell the family I would not be home for supper, and raced upstairs in stockinged feet. The drawing-room door was, mercifully, shut, and there was no sign of any of the Ramsey girls – probably on their mother’s orders. I’d have to face them – but not now. Now I must find Susanna. I flung on coat, hat, outdoor shoes, and left the house.
I’d go to Creed Lane. See Nat. He must know where she was.
Susanna
I hurried the length of Cheapside, but when I reached the dark bulk of Paul’s I stopped and, for the first time, wondered where I was going. I could not remember the way to the Three Tuns, or to Creed Lane, or even Alum Court. Panic grew in me. Peo
ple walked by so fast that I feared to stop them – and no one asked me if I needed help, as folk would at home on seeing a stranger who looked lost.
As I stood there, bewildered and afraid, a familiar figure emerged from a side street.
“Nat!” I cried. I flew into his arms and foolishly burst into a torrent of tears.
“Su! What’s happened? Don’t cry. Thou’rt safe now.” He patted me, making soothing noises, while I gulped great sobs that kept rising up in my throat so that I could not speak.
He led me back to Creed Lane, to his lodgings, and asked if I wanted to come in, or would I rather sit with him in the Blue Boar, next door?
I knew it would be more seemly for us to go to the Blue Boar, but I could not bear the thought of folk looking at me, and said, in a small choked voice, “I’ll come in.”
Back home in Shropshire, I’d never have gone into a young man’s lodgings with him, nor embraced him in the street; but London seemed to be a place of strangers where no one watched or cared. Nevertheless, the woman I’d spoken to earlier glanced at me, I thought, with mild interest as I followed Nat into his room.
It was a while before I stopped gulping and crying. Nat left me to it, and began trying to revive the fire, which had sunk to embers.
The room was cold. It was a low, cheerless, cramped space, the window overlooking a muddy yard. Out there I could see a midden and a privy, the smell of which drifted in, even though the window was closed. I sat on the only chair. There was a stool, and two beds – Nat’s unmade, with a cat and kittens asleep in it, the other covered with a counterpane and several more kittens. A bowl of scummy water stood on the washstand.
The fire came to life, and smoke billowed briefly into the room. Nat poured me a mug of beer and picked up a kitten and gave it to me to hold.
I managed to laugh in spite of myself. “Is this thy cure for heartache?”
“Maybe.”
I stroked the kitten and it kneaded my skirt with its tiny claws. A small purring came from it. Nat squatted beside me. “So what is this heartache? Didst thou find him? Thou weren’t there long.”
