The Glovemaker's Daughter

by Leah Fleming

  The thought of spending winter shut up in this stone prison being neither servant nor family made my heart sink. Now I could walk I would be expected to attend the steeple-house services with the household. There had to be another way to live than this.

  I could hear Nan’s words in my head; ‘A burning log soon cools away from the heat of the fire.’ Seekers needed each other for company and fervour. My light was dimming fast. I needed spiritual company and a congregation of other believers before I succumbed to temptation again.

  It was not as if anyone here cared one way or another how I lived as long as I was obedient to their wishes. Suddenly my heart leapt with excitement. I was answerable only to God and He would want me out of here. There must be a way, a secret way if I had the courage to take it without delay.

  Why hadn’t I seen it before? My mind was spinning with resolve. I would not stay another minute in a house where I wasn’t wanted and among worldly people. I would do as my father had done and make my own way in the world.

  I hugged my secret with glee and limped a lot, saying the walk had strained my ankle yet again. It was easy to sit at the spinning wheel with bent head not wanting to draw attention while a hundred ideas flashed around my head.

  Only the stuff that I had brought into the house would be taken with me, no blue gowns and ribbons, lace-trimmed collars and stockings; just the honest clothes of a country woman. There was a little of Uncle Roger’s gift left. I would spin the wool and earn my bread here taking only what was due when the time came. Everything would have to fit into a knapsack that could be carried.

  Yet my dreams were haunted by fears. What if I was taken for a vagrant, a loose woman or worse? The safety of other company on the road was my first task until I found a safe haven among Quakers. I needed a disguise in case of a hue and cry that the heir of Justice Moorside had absconded from his custody.

  Steady the sinews, I prayed. ‘The Lord is with thee. He will direct thy path in all things.’ He would not give me this instruction if it were not His command to find a true community of believers or that somewhere out there I would find my heart’s desire as my parents had done all those years ago. Somewhere my life’s companion was waiting for my coming. I was not running from the hard way but running towards a stiffer challenge which would take all the strength and trust I could muster. But if I were wrong, what then? My courage failed for a second. What fate might befall a single maid with no escort?

  For the first time in weeks I felt calm within, a sense of peace that this journey would have the Lord’s own blessing. Only a few days were left until the final festivities on Twelfth Night and then the revels would be over for another year, the house would go back to hard work and plain porridge and I would be gone.

  I have often found that when a right decision is made then all things work towards that end. The Ripon Moorsides suddenly upped and left the house in a flurry of noise and packing. My grandfather took to his bed with coughs and sneezes and demanded his housekeeper be at his beck and call. Her son disappeared back to his college on horseback without even so much as a nod in my direction and I was furious to be ignored. What could I expect when I had sulked in my chamber away from the noise and roisterings below stairs.

  The hall was quiet and empty, nothing to do but clear away and get back to the chores. Even the gossip in the kitchen fell silent when I entered the buttery. My little flirtation with Miles Foxup was not forgotten. There was nothing but a sense of duty keeping me here but mingled with it were memories of rejection and humiliation. No one would miss my going and a sense of urgency flooded over me.

  The fair and the travellers would soon be gone from the town. They would travel in safety as a band on the wild roads, finding shelter in bad weather. I needed to be among their womenfolk, rough though they might be. I would be travelling light; every inch of my sack must earn its keep: a clean shift, stockings, collars, my precious gloves double wrapped for safety at the bottom of the bag and enough food to see me through the first day’s journey. I must be plain and invisible, blend in with my escort and trust in the Lord’s providence.

  That last night under my grandfather’s roof I knelt by the sturdy oak posts of my bed and prayed hard. Find me good company, I pleaded, and a safe passage. Guide me to where I am needed next. Needless to say I tossed and turned all night at the enormity of my disobedience in leaving without permission. The note I wrote was brief, asking for forgiveness in rejecting the Judge’s hospitality in favour of finding my own way and hoping he would feel relieved not to have the burden of my care. I promised to bring honour to his name.

  What else was there to say? It was not fair to confess I found his house cold and unwelcoming and his rejection of my gift humiliating or that I did not fit into its grandeur.

  Before first light I woke and dressed silently, layer upon layer, careful to take nothing that had been given here. I slipped into the buttery for cheese and oatcake that I knew could be spared, a lump of kettle cake and pie. This food would have to see me through for many miles. The coins in my purse would not last long on this bold adventure.

  It was a crisp winter morning, the sun rising in a lemony lavender sky, weak and chill. I was glad of my coney mittens and muffler, thick cloak and all my petticoats covering my legs. With each firm stride I felt my body warming and cheeks flushing. No looking back on the house and the comfort of a feather bed, I thought, but striding forward to catch the travellers packing up in the town.

  My first disappointment was the sight of the quiet empty streets with no wagons and carts and stalls. All was as if they had never been, just one wagon at the end of the corner, by the ale house with the sign of the black horse hanging from the door. I was too late!

  Drawing closer with relief I recognised the familiar covered wagon of the doctor, with its pots and pans but no horse and no signs of life. Perhaps it was not too late. I stood by the wagon, hope rising in my chest but there was no sign of them as the morning street began to fill up with carts and townsfolk. It was not like the doctor to leave his goods unguarded. I could hear arguing through the open door of the ale house, deep voices raised and coming my way.

  ‘ ’Tis all a mistake, landlord!’ the sonorous tones of Doctor Cranke boomed as they spilled out onto the street.

  ‘Nowt of sort. You was out to diddle me of my dues and no mistake! The mule is mine now. There’s charges for seeing to him.’ The landlord in his leather apron and arms folded was barring the door.

  ‘And you shall have every penny. Dora will fetch you one of our copper pans as recompense,’ smiled the doctor, unaware of my presence. Dora was scuttling into the wagon at his command.

  ‘I’ve pots enough to line from one beam to another. It’s silver I’m after, all my dues for stable and hay and those mutton chops and all the ale you’ve drunk these past weeks. You can push your bloody lotions and potions all the way to London, you cheating thieves.’

  ‘Steady on, landlord, we can come to some arrangement,’ argued the good doctor. This was my cue to step into view and come to their rescue.

  ‘Can I help?’ I smiled, revealing my face to them. The couple looked shocked to see me standing in the half light. ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘Nothing, nothing, my dear,’ said the doctor, raising his hat. ‘A little misunderstanding, that’s all. The sales were poorer and what with the children’s keep we are embarrassed.’

  ‘You drank all your sales and more besides, don’t listen to him, Miss,’ said the landlord, eyeing my sober garments.

  ‘Oh Titus, we’re ruined! What is to become of our poor children – and another on the way? This always happens to us. We try to be kind and look we are misunderstood, charged for more than we agreed,’ wept Dora, flinging herself on the ground in distress.

  ‘I can help,’ I said, ferreting into my person for my hidden purse. ‘I can lend you some coins. ‘How much do you owe?’

  ‘They owe me five shillings . . . a crown and not a penny less.’

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nbsp; ‘No, no we cannot take your charity,’ replied the doctor, barring my arm. The landlord snatched the coins and bit them to test their metal. He turned away, no longer interested.

  ‘How can we ever thank you for your charity?’ Dora pressed herself upon me; her breath smelt of stale ale.

  ‘Look upon this as a payment for services rendered,’ I replied. With one stroke my problem was solved too. ‘May I ride with you?’

  ‘You are leaving here? Whatever for?’ she said, staring hard to understand.

  ‘I am not who you think . . . Just a farm girl who must make her own way in the world, under God’s orders. I cannot travel alone.’

  ‘Indeed not, Miss, but this is very humble transport. You’d better to take the coach. We’ve no money for inns or lodgings as you can see,’ said Titus, bowing low. ‘We would be delighted to be of assistance but we make towards Leeds.’

  ‘Then to Leeds I will go.’ In my eagerness to leave I would not have cared if he had been going south, north or any direction. ‘I’ve no money now for fancy coaches but will be of service as you see fit. I am looking to find Friends, Seekers of the True Light. They will take care of us.’

  We must have looked a jolly caravan plodding slowly eastwards towards the sun rising over the hills. My heart was full with relief that I had rescued them and they had rescued me. In my youthful innocence I thought our troubles would be few and there would be Godly signposts showing me every step on this new adventure in trust. That such an impulsive decision to take this road to freedom would have its own joys and discomforts I was soon to find out.

  GOOD HOPE

  2014

  Hi Rachel

  Thanks for your email and those photos. I think we have something really interesting going on with our combined research. We are building up quite a picture of her life in Yorkshire.

  You say that Scarperton Hall is now a boutique hotel and you found the tombstone of Joy’s grandfather, Elliot Moorside, in the parish Church. I have been Googling Scarperton and its district; such a beautiful place and very historic. I hope you can follow these extracts as they are copied for us to read. All that ‘thee-ing and thou-ing’ can seem a bit excessive but it’s how they spoke to each other, I’m told.

  She really is quite a character, don’t you think?

  The paper restorers are positive that they can rescue all the pages so I have to be patient. I think this is the most exciting thing that has happened in Good Hope for years. The local newspaper is full of it.

  Best wishes

  Sam

  11

  Even after so many wanderings, I can recall every detail of that first fateful journey across wild rolling Yorkshire country, following the River Aire down from high peaks whipped by every wind; seeing fine views in every direction, slithering on lower slopes between snowy passes. It was a zigzag of icy tracks in the depths of winter with only the warmth of righteous indignation and the fire of Titus’s warm potions to stop my fingers and toes from blackening with frost.

  What a relief to see we were not alone, for the tracks were well trodden with fellow travellers: packmen carrying fleeces of wool, pedlars with burdens on their backs, soldiers from the wars returning, journeymen in search of work and servants in need of hire. There were rougher men in gangs, roaring boys with staves and ragged coats who eyed our wagon with interest until they saw we had nothing but pots and pans. My meagre supply of food was soon exhausted and what we ate came from the forage pot. The doctor had his pistol at the ready and Dora a long knife of Sheffield steel that glinted when unsheathed. This couple knew how to take care of themselves.

  Now and then we caught up with a carriage and four struggling to stay upright and Titus would hang around at the inn to sell the last of his remedies for chilblains and colds. If these sales were good we would pay for refuge in the stables in the warm hay; if not we found a high wall for shelter, piled on all the sheepskins over our frozen bodies and huddled together for warmth. That was when temptation came in my dreams of feather mattresses and Bessie’s stews, tantalising smells wafted under my nose and I woke shivering and hungry.

  If only it was a straight path to the town, but the Crankes were determined to milk every coin from the smaller out-of-the-way villages and townships past scattered farmsteads with far-flung barns that gave us shelter. We set out the stall sometimes at dusk after a long day on the road. Buyers crept under cover of darkness for fear of the priest. I saw to the old mule, finding water and oats while Dora sold love potions, snail juice and cough syrups from the crockpots.

  That’s when I learned that there were many remedies to relieve women of their monthly burdens, tinctures of wild poppy and greased balls of herbs. Dora laughed when she told me her goodwife’s rescue remedy for emptying the contents of a tired womb. Here was I thinking that tansy was a useful flavouring for stale food and a deterrent for biting fleas and other pests. I was too young to see how desperate these farm women were to rid themselves of unwanted children. I didn’t understand why she stuffed padding under her skirts to make people think she was with child when she was not.

  It was a pity that whatever money was made was soon consumed in the ale house. Titus had a great thirst after a day on the road. I knew I was becoming a burden to them and offered them the last of my coins in way of recompense. These were gratefully received and quickly spent.

  There were few greens and herbs to gather from which to make fresh stock and sometimes to my enduring shame we were reduced to stealing from barns and byres, hiding by the milk cow and calf to pull milk from her teats into a bucket for our gruel.

  Soon all my clothes were exhausted, torn and encrusted with muck, my cheeks roughed from the chapping winds and my hands raw and coarse, my stockings in holes and my boots leaked. We looked like all the other bog trotters on the moor, little more than animals foraging for food and shelter where we could and my heart was laid low with tiredness.

  My freedom was coming at a high price. The town where I would find my own community of Friends was fast slipping over the horizon and I had outstayed my welcome, being no more than another mouth to feed. No wonder they had offloaded their children.

  When Titus was full of ale he became quarrelsome and noisy. He and Dora would fight and use vile language, the like of which made me blush. Sober they were kindness itself but fired with spirit they became strangers. I learned a new vocabulary in their company. One that when pushed I am still inclined to blurt out, to my eternal shame.

  Sometimes in the morning they woke and poked me in the ribs to rise up and see to the chores so they could lie abed and make up their quarrel. I soon learned how it is between a man and a woman and that he was no different to the cock with his hens or the bull in a field of cows.

  So it was true what Bess had whispered in the kitchen, that they that marry for love with no money had merry nights but poor days. When they were about their lusty business they did not care sometimes if I was aside them or not, such were their carryings on. This brought me much embarrassment and confusion. I was not sure I wanted to be infected with the disease of amorous love after all.

  When I opened my legs to receive a man I wanted some clean sheets and a full belly and the light of the Lord’s blessing over our heads, not some scrabbling in the straw.

  The coarseness of their couplings troubled my dreams. This journey was not how I had imagined. Perhaps I had chosen the wrong path after all.

  ‘When do we reach the big town?’ I whispered to Dora while we were searching for snails hidden in the crevices of walls and hedgerows. Spring was at last in sight, the hours of daylight pulling out and the sun warmed my face and itching sores. At least there would be a pot of warm broth to feast on tonight, but Titus had other ideas.

  He grabbed the pail from us, ignoring my question. ‘We don’t go into Leeds without fresh stock. Off you go for fresh shoots, fennel, hart’s tongue and liverwort to pack onto the snails. We can leave them over night to cleanse themselves and with the last of our syrup
we can let their juice down into the liquid. If we’re lucky I can squeeze enough to fill the empty vials. Then you can shell the snails. Nothing must be wasted. In smoky towns they need our snail juice to cure the lung troubles. There’ll be rich pickings.’

  There was comfort in the meanderings now; even the sight of a steeple-house cheered me. Every bridge we crossed was bringing me nearer my goal, every market cross and thatched roof brought more customers, but the constable stood around at nightfall to shove us out of town, out of sight. I sensed the journey was coming to its natural end and I would not be sorry to leave their company.

  They were not the friends I hoped for, sharing truths and godly concerns, but the friends I needed to survive: cunning, worldly wise, foragers, thieves and tough skinned, these protectors. The Lord had chosen them wisely, I suppose, but at the time all I could see were their faults.

  My belly had long forgotten the taste of good food, my clothes hung from me and my hair was lank and itchy. How could I make my way looking like a beggar? At least a beggar maid was invisible, untouchable. Sometimes we were shouted away and threatened with staves. There was safety in numbers. I ought to have been grateful, but one morning my faith in them was utterly destroyed.

  I can still feel the lurch in my stomach when I caught sight of Dora ferreting in my knapsack thinking I was out of sight. I had spent hours searching for the docks to make us pudding with the one egg we had found by the roadside. It was to be a special treat. She turned, waving my golden gloves in the air.

  ‘Who’s a sneaky thief, then?’ she winked. ‘These are worth a pretty penny. Look at the quality. Fine ladies’ gloves’ll fetch gold at Leeds market . . . Titus! Come and see what little miss pious has been hiding all these weeks!’

  ‘Put them back!’ I yelled. ‘They are not for sale.’

  ‘Not for sale! After us nearly starving to death and keeping a roof over your head, sharing every last penny with you and you tell me these are not for sale?’ Dora’s eyes flashed like flints. Her claws were out for a fight. ‘These will set us all up in comfort for weeks. Look, gold wire lace-work and seed pearls. You sneaky girly, no wonder you wanted to leave Scarperton in such a hurry. I bet there was a hue and cry after you skedaddled from the hall and here’s us thinking you were such a pious little Puritan.’