by Ann Turnbull
She paused, and looked down at her hands in her lap. “None, for some while. There was plague come on board, and many must have died, but we don’t know who… The ship is still in the river—”
“Still?”
“Yes. It’s been nearly four months now. They say it cannot sail because the master has been arrested for debt, or some such. Oh, he is a foul, worthless man! I know I should seek to see the light in everyone, but in him I cannot! He will be the death of my husband, who is a good Christian and seeks only to worship God in peace—”
Her voice broke, and I reached and touched her hand. “I’m sorry, I should not have…”
She looked at me, her eyes red. “No. I need to be angry. I am angry with Vincent too, for going to Meeting that day when he knew he was at risk.” She brushed tears away. “He is a small man; slight, not strong – except in the spirit. His health is not good; every winter he suffers with a cough… But tell me about thyself, Susanna. Thou hast come with Friends to visit London meetings?”
“No,” I confessed. “I may do that, but I came to find my – the man I promised to marry. Will Heywood.”
“Oh!” She turned to me with renewed interest. “Thou’rt that Susanna! Will was to have been married to thee at midsummer?”
“Yes.”
“Will is a fine young man. Serious and deep-thinking. Thou know he is at Edmund Ramsey’s?”
“Yes.” I didn’t want to tell her, then, about my troubles; they seemed so trivial compared to hers. But she must have sensed that all was not well, for by the time we had washed the dishes and gone up to bed, she had teased it out of me.
“I think thou need have no fear,” she said. She took off her cap and unpinned her hair, which fell dark and straight to below her shoulders. “He was eager to go, and to marry thee.”
“But that was in the summer,” I said. “He’d made no plans to come home since.”
“But thou’ll stay in London?”
I smiled. “I don’t want to go home to my mother, either.”
William
Susanna: thou may have released me from my promise, but I do not release thee—
No. That was too threatening. I tore up the paper and began again:
If thou would only hear what I have to say…
Too apologetic.
I should pursue her, I thought, insist on seeing her. But I feared another rejection. And what could I offer her when I had no work, no prospects, no proper home?
I put the pen and paper away. I would not approach her again, I decided, until I had found a new employer: a bookseller, or stationer, perhaps a notary or some such who needed a clerk; someone who’d give me full-time work that would pay enough to keep a modest household. There must be such work to be found.
Meanwhile, my time at Edmund Ramsey’s was coming to an end. Within a week the cataloguing was finished and I arranged to leave. Working and living with the family, I had come to know them all well – the servants too. But my former ease with Catherine had never returned. I knew she was unhappy, and feared I was responsible for that. It was better to go. Edmund thanked me, said he’d recommend me to any prospective employer, that they’d miss me and I must come back and visit them – and then I returned to my old lodgings in Creed Lane.
It was a shock to be back in that unwholesome place, to have to find my own meals, do my own washing, and face empty days looking for employment. The room, which had been stifling in summer, was now, in December, cheerless and cold. I was glad to be reunited with Nat, but our old camaraderie had diminished with my long absence; and he was at work till the evenings.
The day after my return was my twenty-first birthday: my coming of age. I sat alone by the fire eating a bowl of day-old pease pudding while icy rain beat on the window. Had I been at home with my family I could have expected a celebration, perhaps a gift of money or clothes: certainly some recognition of the day.
I mused on what might have been, had I not fallen in with the Friends of Truth and left Hemsbury without my father’s blessing. If I’d followed the road he’d laid out for me I would by now have been three years or more into my apprenticeship with Nicholas Barron. I’d have money, good lodgings, excellent prospects, and would have travelled in Europe. Nick Barron was an acquaintance and near neighbour of Edmund Ramsey, so I might well have met Catherine. I might have courted her and hoped, in due time, to be married, to the delight of both our families. And I’d have been free, after my apprenticeship, to join Friends if I wished.
But I had made my choice, and could not regret it. I had chosen independence, and Susanna. I thought, ironically, that now I was at last free to marry without my father’s consent, I had neither the means nor the woman.
Susanna
I remained at Rachel’s house while visiting London meetings with the other Shropshire Friends. We travelled to several meetings, but most of the time I was at home with Rachel, and we soon came to know each other well. I helped to mind the child, to cook, and to shop; and I made sure that I paid for my share of the food and fuel. In all that time – some two or three weeks – I did not see Will, though Nat (whom I met at the Bull and Mouth) told me Will had finished his cataloguing at Edmund Ramsey’s and was back at Creed Lane and looking for other work.
“Does he enquire after me?”
I hadn’t meant to ask, but couldn’t help myself.
“He did once. And I told him thou were at Rachel’s. Did I do right?”
I nodded, and bit my lip, not trusting myself to speak. I’d thought Will might try to see me again, but I’d heard nothing from him – no letter, not even a message. I should have been relieved, but I was not.
Sometimes, in bed at night, Rachel and I talked. It was easier then, when I could not see her face and knew she could not see mine, to talk about love: her love and mine, and what we should do, and what we might hope for. There was something that had been on my mind a long time, from before I left Hemsbury, that I wondered about whenever I imagined myself in bed with Will (which I did often, despite our rift). One night I asked her, “Rachel, dost think Will has ever had another girl?” I could feel myself blushing, and was glad of the darkness. “I don’t mean Catherine Ramsey. Before that, dost think he ever…”
Rachel hesitated. “Thou mean…”
“Yes.”
“I don’t think so. No. Will is such an honest, upright young man, I can’t imagine…”
“But it’s been more than three years,” I said.
“All the same, he’d have waited. People do.”
As the time approached for the Shropshire Friends to return home, I talked to Nat about finding work. “Would thou ask Amos Bligh if he needs anyone?”
“Thou mean to stay in London, then?”
“Yes. I won’t go home and be an old maid.” I caught his eye and tried to laugh. “I’ll be one here.”
“And old maids – even young old maids – need employment?”
“Yes.”
“I could ask him. We are a hand short: Jem Forrest went home to Hertford when the plague came; and Amos knows I plan to leave soon, and set up on my own.”
“I couldn’t replace thee!”
“No. But he might take thee on in place of Jem.”
The next day I heard that Amos Bligh would see me, and went to the print shop in Alum Court. Nat’s employer was a man of about forty years of age, born and bred in London, and trained as a printer from his youth. He had come to the truth some ten years ago and now printed many books, commentaries and court proceedings published by Friends; but, like Mary, he did not turn down any work unless he considered it unfitting.
He was wary of me, a woman so young and with no formal apprenticeship; but he questioned and tested me, and soon found I could deal with most aspects of the work except operating the press.
“Thou know’st typesetting too?” He seemed surprised.
“Yes. I have learned to do it. But mostly I worked on assembling pamphlets, and serving in the shop, and keeping
accounts.”
He looked relieved. “I could employ thee as a general assistant. If I took thee on as a typesetter there might be complaints as thou hast had no apprenticeship. But if thou could turn thy hand to whatever was needed…”
I knew this meant he’d pay me less than his printers; and a woman was paid less anyway; but I didn’t mind. It was work, enough to live on and keep me in London. And while I was in London I was close to Will. I tried to put that thought out of my mind, but it was always there.
I made an offer to Rachel. “If I may stay with thee – if thou wish it – I’ll pay thee a fair rent and my share of all expenses.”
She agreed; and that night she lit the fire in the parlour, so we no longer had to dart through a chilly room and staircase to reach our bedchamber.
At work I soon felt at ease, as I had at Mary Faulkner’s. The men were mostly Friends and all behaved discreetly towards me, from the boy, Joel, to old Thomas Lyle, the typesetter. I took home much more than I’d earned at Mary’s, but these were London rates, and I reckoned Amos Bligh had his money’s worth from me.
In the middle of December, Alice Betts and the other Shropshire Friends set off for home. Alice and I embraced, and she said she’d give news of me to Mary – “But not too much news, never fear! Only that thou’rt safe and well and with Friends.”
“I thank thee, Alice.”
I imagined their long cold journey, the fields and hillsides of my home country perhaps white already under snow, my parents and Deb stocked up with corn and salt pork for the winter, the trees dark and leafless now in the little wood where I’d hoped to walk with Will.
Here in London we had hard frosts, but no snow had yet fallen. Despite the grip of winter, the plague persisted. We still saw the searchers with their white staves in the streets, and sometimes the cross on a door. There was a charnel-house smell in Foster Lane that came from the overfilled burial ground of the steeple-house of Anne and Agnes near by. Rachel hung bunches of herbs around the house, and burned rosemary to clean the air.
Still I did not see Will. My spirits were low, despite my work and the friendship of Nat and Rachel. I saw now that I had deceived myself. I had given Will his freedom, but had not expected him to take it. I’d thought he would come after me; that I might resist him, but he’d still desire me; we’d quarrel, perhaps, but all would be resolved. Now I realized that he was avoiding me; and I felt resentful that for all his declaration of love it seemed he did not care enough to pursue me.
I would not go to him. I was too proud and too hurt.
The feast of Christmas came and went. People hung garlands on their doors and inside their houses; and in the markets there was greenery for sale, gathered and brought in by country folk. We Friends did not celebrate Christmas, though we were at Meeting on Christmas Eve, that being first-day. On Christmas Day the city streets were quiet except for the sound of church bells. Amos Bligh opened his shop as usual, and someone must have reported it, for he was arrested and taken to Wood Street counter, and later fined.
Nat had got into the habit of walking me home to Foster Lane in the dark evenings. It was only a step, but he insisted, and it became a companionable thing between us. Usually he left me at Rachel’s door. Rachel was a young woman whose husband was away; the neighbours probably already regarded her with suspicion because she was a Quaker, so he was careful of her reputation. But one evening a sudden rainstorm sent us scurrying down the passage and we both fell into Rachel’s kitchen, breathless, laughing and soaked. She hung up our cloaks and hats to dry and warmed some ale with spices in it, and insisted we all eat together before Nat went home.
Nat and I told her about our day at work, which had been busy, with a bothersome customer who was never satisfied; and Rachel laughed and said, “Thou’ll be glad to leave, Nat!” and asked him about his plans to set up on his own.
“I’m minded to go to Bethnal Green, or Stepney,” he said. “Rents are lower, and it’s outside the reach of the guilds. Plenty of wealthy folk, scholars and such. I reckon a printer could do well there.”
“A business of thy own,” said Rachel. “What more could thou want?”
“A wife,” said Nat. “And children. I’d like to marry.”
And I thought: Yes, he’s an orphan; never knew his parents. He’d want a family; it would be important to him.
Rachel was in a teasing mood. “Rebecca? Patience? Sarah?” She named girls at the Bull and Mouth meeting.
He shook his head and grinned. “None of them. I’ve no one in mind yet.”
“Well, thou’d be quite a catch. Thy own master, hard-working, sober—”
“Free of the clap,” added Nat.
I joined in the laughter despite myself; only Nat could get away with such talk without seeming offensive. Rachel exclaimed, “What would our sober Friends think? It’s time thou left, Nat Lacon! Thy cloak is dry and the rain has stopped. Be on thy way!”
He went out, amid more banter.
Rachel was still smiling when she turned back to me. “Thou could do worse, Susanna.”
“Nat?”
“He likes thee. And you’re in the same trade. Suited. I’m sure half our friends already think—”
“I love Will,” I said.
But now I wondered. I’d told Will – and believed it – that he belonged with people like the Ramseys; and if that was so, then surely I belonged with someone like Nat?
“He has a fondness for thee, I can tell,” said Rachel.
“Oh! We’ve known each other for years. Worked together.” I remembered how safe I’d felt when I ran into his arms that first evening in London, how he’d taken me home, and defended me from Will’s anger. “We’re like brother and sister.”
A few days later I came home to find Rachel quite changed. I saw at once that something bad had happened, and a feeling of dread came over me.
“What is it? Thy husband…?”
“The Black Spread-Eagle has sailed.”
“Oh, Rachel.”
I put my arms around her. She was shaking.
“All this time,” she said, “five months and more, I’ve kept a hope alive that they’d be released, that someone would declare the ship unfit to sail. So long as they were still in London it seemed possible…”
I could think of nothing to comfort her, except to say, “Whatever they must endure in Jamaica, it could not be worse than living below decks these last five months.”
“I know. I hold to that. But – oh, I feel the loss of him now, so much more, knowing he is at sea and gone from me!”
We heard no more of the prison ship, except that it was probably on its way to Plymouth. Rachel was heavy with grief, and her misery affected me. But I too was unhappy. Weeks had passed since Christmas, and I had heard nothing from Will. I was in a strange city, in winter, far from home and family. I wondered why I remained here at all if Will did not want me, why everything had gone wrong, and what would become of me.
These thoughts were on my mind one evening as we were finishing work. Two printers were away with colds, and Amos had gone to deliver a late order himself. I was left sweeping up, alone except for Nat, who was tidying the fount cases while he waited to walk home with me.
I put away the broom, and went to fetch my cloak.
Nat approached. “Ready to go?”
I looked up at him and nodded without speaking.
He must have seen my unhappiness in my face, for he stepped quickly towards me and put his arms around me and said, “Oh, Su!” I clung to him, burying my face in his shoulder, and he lowered his head so that our faces were touching. We stayed like that, unmoving, for several moments. I could smell the printer’s ink on him, and feel the roughness of his chin against my cheek; and I knew for certain that if I turned my face even a little towards him my mouth would meet his, and we would kiss each other, and nothing would ever be the same between us again.
I was tempted, for I wanted love; and I saw now that it would, after all, be possib
le to love someone other than Will. But I did nothing; and it was Nat who moved, putting me gently away from him, and saying, “Let’s get thee home.”
William
I found a succession of jobs: swilling pots and unloading barrels at a waterfront tavern; running errands for a baker whose boy had died of the plague; packing orders, two days a week, for a hat-maker, a Friend, in King Street. There was plenty of work of a casual kind to be had as the plague retreated. By Christmas I had combined the daytime packing and the evening tavern work and was only at home three nights a week. It provided scarcely enough to live on, but left me free to search for something better.
Nat and I spent little time together. He was making plans to set up in business on his own and had a friend, a typesetter, whom he visited in Whitechapel some evenings. We would pass each other as we came in and out and, when we did meet, were often too tired to talk. I felt jealous of his good prospects and disappointed in my own efforts.
“It’s not thy fault,” he said. “There’s a prejudice against incomers, especially Dissenters. When more businesses reopen thou’ll find something.”
He put a hand on my shoulder. “Let’s go to the Crown tonight. It’ll cheer thee. And it’s warmer than this place.”
So we went out, and ate and talked.
There had been much anxiety in the city of late about the new year that was coming: 1666. It was the date itself that was feared: the numbers 666, the mark of the Beast, the Devil. Our Friend Elizabeth Wright had seen visions of the city laid waste, Paul’s steeple-house ruined and open to the stars. And there had been reports of strange-shaped clouds, a monstrous birth in Aldgate, a comet…
“But the comet was a year ago,” said Nat. “And I reckon we’ve had our calamity already, with the plague.”
“I’ve been reading,” I said. “William Lilly, and others; Friends’ writings…”
It seemed to me that there must be some pattern to these things, some meaning to be found, and I had been reading whatever books and pamphlets I could find and marking passages that particularly struck me.
