by Leah Fleming
The woman eyed me with suspicion, taking in my stature and face. Her eyes were cold and forbidding but perhaps that was because she was taken unawares. ‘She’s straight backed, plain spoken but I see the Moorside look. I see young Matt and a little of poor Millicent,’ she nodded turning to me with a sigh. ‘You are fortunate, young woman, to be the object of such charity and concern. I hope you will repay the Master with obedience and loyalty. The maid, I presume, goes back to the farmyard. I want sole charge of this lass,’ she added with hands clasped, awaiting instructions. ‘Tell the farmer that we will deal with her in the household according to her rank,’ she ordered, looking at Nan with disdain.
‘Yes, Ma’am,’ said Nan, bobbing a curtsy, and turned to me. ‘I’ll tell them thee is well looked after. Master Roger will write you, I’m sure, and Diligence when she knows her letters. May the Lord be your guide and consolation.’ Then she hugged me and whispered, ‘Take heed, Joy, of this worldly company, for you can’t touch pitch tar without it leaving some mark.’ I was crying and clinging to her. Why must she leave me here amongst strangers?
‘That’s enough fussing,’ said Dame Foxup, pulling us apart. ‘Anyone would think you’re being sent to prison, not given a chance to rise above your station.’
Nan bobbed again, sniffing as we said our farewells. I stood watching her walk slowly from the hall, concerned about her journey. Why did I not run after her? My legs betrayed me, rooted firm to the spot.
‘Surely she must not walk back to Windebank in this weather?’ I asked, turning to them both for reassurance.
‘The Constable will escort her back home in due course. There will be some oatcake and broth in the kitchen. Have no concern. ’Tis good that you care for your servant, Missy.’
‘She’s not my servant. She belongs to my uncle and aunt. We are friends and equals.’
I felt a sharp clip on my ear from an iron fist.
‘You will learn to speak when you are spoken to in this house. Everyone has their place and no one is too high or low not to feel the back of my hand. Do you understand, Rejoice?’ snapped the Dame. Tears stung my eyes but I held them back.
‘She can get rid of that name for a start. Surely it is shortened into something less formidable. Speak up, lass,’ said the Justice, patting my arm. ‘Dame Priscilla barks only for your best interest.’
‘My cousins called me, Joy, sir.’ I replied, suddenly feeling overwhelmed with homesickness at what I had lost forever.
‘That’s not much better, but more in keeping for nobbut a maid. Miss Joy will do for now, until we think of something better for your baptism,’ he replied.
This was neither the time nor the place to argue about christenings in the steeple-house. Baptism was a sacrament that I could not endure if I was to stay faithful to my beliefs. He meant well, this little man with the barrel chest and warm eyes but of my new instructress, Mistress Foxup, I was not so sure. There was a glint of ice in those flecked eyes. My arrival here was not of her choosing and there was no warmth in her welcome at all. I would have to watch my step with her.
7
It was hard not to be impressed by the grandeur of such a dwelling as we made our entrance through the back door, through the kitchen hall, past tables and sideboards where girls slumped over their pounding bowls, looking at me with curiosity. I had never seen such a mound of food; birds of all sizes hanging from hooks, eggs, pastries and fancy sweetmeats in the making.
‘Are there many guests in the house?’ I asked, hoping not to be boxed on the ears for my enquiry. There must be many mouths to feed here.
‘This is nought but the Yuletide preparations. I like to be ahead for the festivities,’ said Mistress Foxup, inspecting each girl in turn as she went about her business.
‘Yule?’ I questioned, not understanding the significance.
‘The Christ-Mass feasting for the Twelve Days . . .’ she said with impatience.
‘What are they?’ I was curious now. How could such a holy time be the cause for such excess? Christmas was a time of soberness and quiet reflection, a full working day. In my mind a warning bell rang of mention of such pagan ceremonies amongst worldly folk.
‘Surely you have made merry at Yule? Alas, it was banned for many a year by Cromwell’s miserable mob, but since King Charles’s return, God rest his soul, why everyone celebrates with enthusiasm, making up for all those years lost,’ she replied.
What was there to say? I bowed my head and swallowed the reply, knowing that it would mean another clip around the head. Never in my whole life had I celebrated such ceremonies or pagan feasts. We were set apart from such antics.
‘Don’t look so pained. Christmas tide is no punishment. A Moorside must learn how to keep a good table at such a time, to entertain company and give the season its due, I say.’
Had she not realised that I was nobody of rank, I thought, but said nothing.
‘We make the best Christmas pie in the district and the richest mince puddings. A new dish for every day of the feast with only the best trimmings. You will learn what goes with what and how to lay a fine table. Mary and Bess will show you how,’ Dame Priscilla replied.
‘We ate in simple fashion at Windebank,’ I offered, not daring to raise my eyes in pride or relish the delicious aromas coming from the spice box.
‘So I gather from the size of you, but that was then and this is now,’ she snapped. ‘Justice Moorside in his wisdom has chosen to honour his family’s charitable name by taking you into his household. You, of course are expected to repay such with obedience, respect and deference to his wishes at all times. What better time to start but at Yuletide. We will order a suitable gown to be made in haste and a hood befitting your elevated station. You will take your place at his table and learn from me. Now what do you say to such generosity?’
‘Are you the Mistress of the house?’ I asked in innocence, not sure how this woman stood in the household.
‘I am the keeper of the house in all matters domestic,’ she said with head held high. But you would be mistress of this place, I thought as I watched her cheeks flush with pride.
‘Beg pardon, Mistress. All this is strange to me,’ I offered. ‘Forgive my ignorance. I am but a poor country lass, unused to worldly matters.’
‘Why is it that everything that comes out of your mouth sounds like a pious sermon? There will be no more theeing and thouing under this roof, do you hear? You will learn quickly or feel the back of my hand until you do. A show of gratitude would be a start. All I’ve seen so far is a sour face, a stubborn will and a sharp tongue. You have a lot to learn, my girl, and quick if the Master is not to be disappointed.’
We carried on up the back stairs to the great hall at the front of the house, a room panelled and well furnished with fine chairs and tables, a great hearth and walls full of portraits. Faces peered down at me from ruffs, their eyes following me around the room; ladies and gentlemen bedecked in fancy furbelows, silks and satins and jewels, such gaudy hangings and ornaments. There were no plain collars and cuffs, no sober clothes on these gentlefolk.
Living in Scarperton Hall would be taking me away from the only world I had ever known. If my father knew my fate he would not rest easy in his eternal sleep. This was everything he had chosen to deny. If only I could run away, but disobedience would mean being sent to the House of Correction, to the cold dungeons of despair. I was not strong enough in my faith yet to face such suffering.
Better to conform outwardly but hold my faith tight within, where no one could reach my spiritual heart. I must be firm and resist the temptation to enjoy the trappings of finery and gentility. If they wanted gratitude then they would get the right words but not necessarily with the right sentiments. I must dissemble and learn to deceive further if I was to survive. My heart sank at such thoughts, but what else could I do?
The next days were spent helping oversee the cleaning and Yule preparations. There were to be visitors from afar. It appeared that my grandfather’s bro
ther, Ned, who died at the battle of Naseby, had family who were distant cousins to me. They visited every year at this time so there were many chambers to air and clean and make ready.
It was my job to flick the goose quill brush around the surfaces and see that the arks and bed hangings were polished and mended. The maids were to do the rough work. I was to be Dame Priscilla’s spy. They giggled and stared at me and did little work until I knelt down to show them just how to scour the corners of each chamber with vigour and ruthlessness. Aunt Margery would be proud of me. It all took longer than expected and Mistress Foxup was in a bad mood when she caught me on the floor with them. I was taken aside and told that a Moorside was above such menial work.
Instead I was taken to the seamstress who measured me for the gown and waistcoat with full sleeves and a lace collar trim. I did suggest that my fine trimmed collar would do but they laughed and said the rough linen would show up the sheen of the brocade.
‘Master Elliot does not want to see a Puritan at his table. You are a fortunate lass, indeed, to be honoured with such luxuries, what is wrong with you? You will wear the hood to church.’
Never in my life have I worn bone lacework. I have seen it made and sold but not to adorn the shoulders of a Quaker girl. It was indecent. Never in my life had I attended a church service but this was not the time to argue or refuse. Dame Priscilla was much distracted by the news that her son, Miles, was returning from his studies at the university. His name dripped from her tongue at every opportunity; how he was the brightest of scholars at the grammar school, the handsomest of men at the college, the kindest of sons to his widowed mother and the paragon of all virtues. I disliked him already for not being real.
‘My father was at the side of young Master Ned when he fell in battle, Master Elliot has taken care of me and my boy since then. He has treated Miles like his heir, having such disappointment in his own children. The Master suffered many misfortunes and reversals after the late King was executed. Since the Stuarts returned to the throne the Master’s fortunes have revived, Praise the Lord! You are thrice blessed in such a benefactor for he has overlooked your father’s desertion in favour of your upkeep. Never forget that, Missy.’
She would never call me by my given name nor by Joy either. I was Miss, Missy, lass, girl or worse. My room was a small chamber off the turn of the stairs, skirted round with oak panels with diamond panes in the windows and a bed hung with crewel-work drapes. I had all the necessary offices but when I opened the casement I saw only the grey stone walls of the court house and the yard below. How I missed the wild hills and the moors of Windebank Farm. It was not easy to settle in such a confined space as Scarperton Hall.
And then came one of those monthly curses daughters of Eve must endure. I was glad that Nan had explained their purpose and what I must do to hide them from view. How the blood would come and go with the moon as long as I was pure and undefiled. I hid my cloths at first but then took them to be boiled in the laundry vat where the old woman barely lifted her eyes at my request.
This meant that I was now considered old enough to wed and bear children but how that was achieved I knew not, except how the bull goes to the cow in season. This was something I must ask of Nan if ever I saw her again. Mistress Priscilla would not allow such an impudent question.
It was hard to fathom her ways. In my grandfather’s presence she smiled and appeared kind, patting my shoulder, but on the stairs she berated me for slouching, for not sitting upright, for having a rough accent to my words or eating too heartily at the table.
‘It is my duty to make a silken purse out of this farm-bred pig’s ear,’ she laughed in front of Mary and Bess in the kitchen. I pretended not to hear but my cheeks rouged up with dismay. I never let her see she was making my misery worse. Didn’t anyone guess how awkward it was for me to find myself in this gaudy prison, being watched for every fault and peccadillo? I bent my head but made no show of outward discomfort.
This was the first of many times when I learned the art of retreating into silence, to let things glide over the surface as if I was unruffled by cruel words, giving me an air of infuriating calm that belied the confusion within. It has stood me in good stead over the years.
She was waiting for a show of temper, a show of pride in answering her back. I would never give her the satisfaction of a response. Instead I asked Bess to show me how to mould the raised piecrust ready for the filling, ignoring the jibes as if I were deaf.
If Miles Foxup was anything like his mother then my troubles would be doubled. Was it not enough to have to celebrate Christ’s birth in giddy fashion, feasting and dancing with strangers as the worldly do? Now there was a cartload of holly, ivy and greenery to deck around the walls and tables.
Only the scent of the strips of rosemary gave me comfort. The scent between my fingers took me back to the apple orchard of Windebank and my parents’ grave. It was painful to know I was dishonouring their memory just by being here. I sat many a night in the darkness, praying that the Lord in His Mercy would forgive my weakness and find me a way out of this trial.
Then came a long-awaited letter from Uncle Roger with news of all I loved far up the dale.
Parson Protheroe hath been removed from his hired living. The new incumbent turns a blind eye to our meetings away from the village but still demands his tithes and fines none the less. The days speed on here. Mallory doth work alongside me like a man for all his tender years and will have no more of learning. Diligence hath taken to her horn book and lettering but is learning lace making from Widow Sampson. The Mistress asked to remind you that you must be a shining light of industry and piety in yon worldly place. Away with vain fancies, she entreats but what doth the Justice make of the gloves you brought?
We hope ere long to visit with thee. Thy loving Friend and Uncle, Roger Windebank.
I hugged the letter to my chest, re-reading it many times for consolation. As for the gloves they were still tight packed in my kist. The Justice had no desire to inspect them and I had no desire to bring them out. They were safely packaged with herbs, out of sight.
I wondered whether to show them to the seamstress who came to fit the new gown on my shoulders. It was a summer sky blue, of a heavy shiny cloth that swished when I turned about but was cut low across my breast and needed a collar. I ought to be grateful and excited to be wearing such finery but in truth, I was scared to put on such a vainglorious gown. It did not sit right upon my shoulders for I was aware of acres of bare flesh and how my new bosoms lifted out of my corset.
Mabel Ackroyd, the embroiderer, who spent all her days sewing beads into intricate patterns down the front of dresses and gloves for hours and hours, said it looked fine on me and set off my colouring. Sometimes I sat with her to watch the skill of it all. She made such fancy work that my fingers ached to copy her. My efforts were hopeless, being all thumbs but it was soothing work.
It was she who told me that it was the custom to give gifts at Yuletide, in gratitude to servants for all their endeavours in the household. What could I give, having no money of my own? Then I recalled Uncle Roger’s gift tucked safe away in case of fines. Perhaps I should use some of that to purchase small mindings for Mary and Bess, and Mabel too? I would have to ask the Mistress what was expected of me.
It was only right to show gratitude for my keep, yet to spend Roger’s coins did not seem fair. Still, there was no other way. I would have to ask permission to venture into Scarperton to the High Street and find some tokens, as there was little time to make anything up myself.
‘You have left it late to purchase gifts, Missy,’ said Mistress Priscilla, sniffing as if I was a bad smell under her nose. ‘But I myself will take the horses into town beside you and supervise some suitable tokens. Ribbons are always welcomed by the girls for decking their tired gowns. I hope your new gown has growing room, you look a leggy lass to me and such a lucky one to have found favour with your kin. You must give your grandfather something to show your gratitude,’ s
he added.
I nodded and retreated back to my chamber in despair. What did one give a man who everything in this world? I was taught that true gifts are of the spirit: love, kindness, sacrifice, charity to all in need. None of those could you buy on a costermonger’s stall in the market place.
These gifts didn’t matter when you ran free over the fells, jumped across the becks and sat in the cottages of Friends who had nothing of show but a few sticks of furniture yet had hearts a big as pressed cheeses. Here I was a wild bird caught in a snare at the whim of the fowler. Above or below stairs I did not fit in with my homespun ways and rough tongue.
Sometimes when I met my grandfather on the stairs, he would stop and look at me as if trying to place me. He had forgotten I was under his roof, staring to think of my name, perhaps.
‘Hah . . . er. You are so like . . .’ then he sighed and hurried on. I was the last link with his children, with his wife, Millicent, his daughter, Maria. Perhaps I reminded him of them and for a second he thought they were still alive and well and he was young again. He had gathered in that which was lost, ensnared the wild creature to protect it from harm. I was sure he meant well but there was no warmth or consideration of my welfare. I was just another bothersome maid to feed and clothe and keep under control. No one looked on me with compassion, they were too busy preparing for this cursed Yuletide.
‘Better is the life of the poor man in his cottage than delicate fare in another man’s house,’ I sighed to myself as I climbed the stairs, and ‘better a dry crust and quietness therein than a house full of sacrifices with strife.’
There was a small room filled from floor to ceiling with books, mostly in Latin that I couldn’t read. It was a good place to hide when I felt low in spirit. There was a smell to the leather and the must that was strangely comforting. I fingered the books lovingly, knowing that these were the very books that fed my father’s mind. I felt closest to him in this room and imagined him sitting at his studies cramming his head with knowledge that one day he would use to argue his case against heretics and Divines.
