The Glovemaker's Daughter

by Leah Fleming

  I lurched over to snatch them but she was too quick for me, waving them over my head. ‘Put them back. Dora. They belong to me . . .’

  ‘Pull the other leg, and you a farmer’s maid? You snatched them from the old lady in the hall. I could have the constable on you,’ she threatened.

  ‘And I could have the constables on you for watering down medicines and selling stuff to ladies to rid them of their bairns,’ I snapped back, still trying to get the gloves.

  ‘They’re no ladies but whores, bawds and strumpets who need rid of the fruits of their lusts. Come on . . . share and share alike.’

  ‘No! They’re not for sale, ever. They were a gift . . .’ I began.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ she stood firm.

  ‘Look at the letters on the embroidery. M for Moorside and E for Elliot, on the cuff for my grandfather, the Justice and M, for Millicent, his wife who gave them to my mother. This’s all I have left of them. See, read,’ I pointed, knowing full well she knew not one letter.

  ‘Why were you so happy to leave, then? M is a common letter.’ Titus was seeking to catch me out. ‘So you steal some gloves; none of us is perfect but how else do we survive?’

  ‘I thought you were a doctor,’ I replied, suddenly exhausted.

  ‘And we thought you were Miss Trembling Quaker, whiter than white. Come on, think what a price these will fetch. You owe it to us,’ he said, his eyes hard and menacing now. Suddenly my anger flared up like a firecracker.

  ‘If you do not put those gloves back, I swear on the bones of my martyred parents, I’ll curse thee so hard you’ll never walk again! The first man I cursed went feet first into a swollen river. The next was removed from his living. Touch them not for they are precious in my sight, never to be worn. They belong to my family.’ My voice was deep and throaty, hard like the calling of a disobedient dog. I was rigid with determination. ‘This is my last warning.’

  Something in my threat must have touched a fear in them. ‘Calm down, no one will touch your blessed gauntlets. Starve if you want to but you go not another mile with us if that’s your attitude. You have learned much from us, ungrateful wench!’

  ‘Ah yes, to cheat and lie and steal. I gave you every coin in my purse. I have earned my keep and starved to keep his lordship here in ale and cakes. I’ll go no further with you. Give me my sack,’ I stood as Dora flung gloves and sack onto the track.

  ‘Why, you ungrateful cow, too good for us now, are we? Lucky for you we’re in striking distance of the town. Without our aid you’d have been selling your body up against a wall every night and begging me for tansy balls to clear your troubles,’ Dora shouted for all to hear.

  ‘And for that I will be grateful but to steal from one another is so uncharitable.’ I was in tears now. How would I make the town before nightfall when I knew not a step of the way?

  ‘Hop back on the wagon,’ Dora called seeing my distress. ‘Don’t be so proud.’ I shook my head as I walked behind them, sniffling and weary. I kept up the sulk for a mile until I stumbled and fell and lay face in the mud, utterly forlorn. When Titus picked me up and plonked me back amongst them, I did not resist. What could I do but sit hugging my bag, staring out at the trail behind us wondering if I could ever trust them again?

  ‘When will you go back for Hal and Holderness?’ I asked, more out of politeness than interest.

  ‘Who?’ Dora looked at me strangely and then made a big sigh. ‘Would you want a child on this road in all weathers? When summer comes, happen that’s the time to see them. They don’t mind.’

  But I minded. If I had parents of my own in the world I would travel the seas over with them by my side, not leave them to strangers. I did not understand the ways of worldly men. I do now.

  I sat in silence, dangling my legs behind, lost in thought and the sudden realisation I had sworn an oath before them on the bones of my parents. I was no longer a Friend of light but a child of darkness, no better than they were in their ignorance. I was lost in a mire of my own making and was sore afraid.

  We parted company at the edge of the town bridge. To my disappointment the river was grey and narrow and not the big river of flowing water of my dream. There was a ruined Abbey and many tracks to take. I waved them on their way with relief in sure hope that our paths would never cross again in life, but the Lord had other plans on that score, as I will come to later.

  If there was a hiring fair I would find work, perhaps, but not in the state I was in. I made my way to the riverbank to wash the filth from my face and hands and unpick the one coin I had sewn for safety into the side of my cloak. With it I might last a few more days, change my collar and cap and make myself presentable to Friends as the daughter of sufferers and prisoners. No one knew me in Leeds. My new life was beginning.

  As I sat disconsolate there was a flash of blue kingfisher skimming over the water. How many times had I seen the bird at work in Windebank along the water’s edge in that other country where I was carefree and innocent. How I longed for that time to come again. Now I felt soiled and no amount of scrubbing and fresh clothing would wipe the pitch tar stains from deep in my soul.

  Why had I run away without permission? I had not even written to Uncle Roger about my intentions. He would be thinking the worst of me. What would become of me here? I resolved to write a letter of explanation to them when I was settled.

  Who might show me the next step of the way? Only the Lord in His wisdom could light a path out of this darkness. My heart was heavy with shame and my eyes were blinded with tears. I was too weary to turn back north so it was time to head towards the town in faith.

  ‘Courage is thy sturdy staff.’ I tried to mouth Uncle Roger’s words. Courage would keep me on the track for I was too proud to admit defeat.

  Everywhere I looked there were clumps of stone cottages leaning against each other with broad windows and low thatched roofs, lines of tenters with cloth stretching across the open field like bands of broad ribbon. I joined a straggle of carts and wagons behind a drover’s herd of oxen with dogs barking. There were jaggers carrying bales of cloth, farm tumbrels with cheeses piled in the back and not a known face among them.

  I followed behind, trying not to show my fear as we walked into the town lined with buildings, carts and coaches. In the centre was the Moot Hall. Looking upwards to admire such a sight, my eye was drawn to three poles on which were stuck the heads of three men, little more than skulls now picked clean by wind and rain but terrible none the less to someone who had never even been to a hanging.

  No one else gave this warning a second glance but my eyes kept darting back to the poles. Who were these men, traitors or believers? What fearful place had I come to?

  Where could I find a change of cap? At that moment I would have given anything to catch up with the Crankes and join their company. Where would I lay my head this night? Better to turn back and head for the hills in daylight, I thought, but something stopped me, some inner assurance, some guiding light that I have never been able to explain, pushing one foot in front of the other, past the dreadful pikes and the Moot Hall onwards.

  In the corner of my eye I spied a haberdasher’s stall off the Briggate where there was a display of collars and cuffs, lace work and ribbons. I lingered deep in contemplation as if I was buying the crown jewels, not the cheapest plainest collar, turning my cloak inside out to hide the worst of its dirt.

  ‘Up from the country for the market?’ said the woman who eyed my clothes, missing nothing.

  ‘I am that and in need of hiring,’ I said quickly, glad to make conversation with a human voice again. ‘This is a bigger place than I thought.’

  ‘There’s allus work here for those who can shift themselves,’ she replied. ‘Go and stand at the hiring corner and be sharp about it for the best jobs is gone well before noon. What’s your work?’

  ‘Farm work,’ I said. ‘But I can spin and sew, teach childer . . . anything.’

  ‘Not much call for farm work here, lass,�
� she answered. ‘This is a cloth town, carding, spinning, dyeing is the trades. You’d best go for a servant but mind the men as stares at you too long. Let the women do the choosing. You look plain enough not to cause any bother. The mistress is the one who’ll see if you suit her. Answer plain and speak up when spoken to. Stand up tall and pinch yer cheeks to show yer bloom. They don’t want sickly maids. Good luck, lass. I hope to see you again when you’ve got some wages to spend,’ she said as I turned to where she was pointing.

  ‘I thank thee for thy kindness,’ I replied, eager to be on my way to where the market stalls were laid out in the distant field, wondering if the Crankes would be setting up but there was no sign of their wagon, only stalls of butter and cheese and barrels. This was not the main market day.

  Would there be anyone looking to hire? My heart sank when I reached the corner for there was no queue, only a lone man standing on a stool addressing the passers-by waving some papers in the air; a tall thin man of middling years trying to out-shout the clamour of the stallholders selling their ware.

  ‘Woe to you, sinners and back-biters! Repent, for the day of the Lord is nigh, when all shall be called to judgement!’

  ‘Cut it out, preacher! We’ve heard it all before! If I want a sermon I’ll go to a priest . . . Bugger off, I’ve got butter to sell before noon,’ yelled the nearest costermonger. ‘Go somewhere else!’

  The man was undeterred. ‘Repent, for the Lord sees all thy sinning whether thou givest full measure on thy scale. He is not mocked . . . Come and take heed and rejoice, for the time is upon us.’

  Someone threw the contents of a piss pot out of the casement above in his direction but it caught me by mistake and I stepped back in horror as my new collar was drenched ‘Oh no!’ I cried. ‘Not my new cap too!’

  He saw my distress and stepped off his stool. ‘A thousand pardons, young lady. Thee hath taken my punishment. How cold are the hearts of men when it comes to salvation. What retribution they will suffer if they seek not the truth? Rejoice in the truth.’ His voice was deep and strong and his eyes afire with indignation.

  How strange to hear my name called out. Was this a sign? I was trying to wipe off the dousing. ‘Rejoice is my given name, sir. I have travelled far to find work and follow the inner light of truth as revealed to us by George Fox.’

  ‘Have thee, indeed?’ he replied, staring hard into my face. ‘From whence have you come?’

  ‘Many a weary mile from Scarperton, sir, over the high dales from Windebank. Now I find no one at the hiring corner and my only collar is ruined,’ I said, feeling the tears of frustration welling up.

  ‘So the Lord hath brought thee to the hiring corner but not on the right day. He hath brought thee to where you are sore needed. Come with me. I know where there is work enough to fill thy days. Come, have no fear, thy journey is over. He hath guided thy path to my door. My name is Zephaniah Webster. This is my third-day preaching corner. Do you have a letter of introduction with you? Have your parents given consent that you are free to take work?’

  His questions were coming thick and fast but I was in no mood to follow him.

  I shook my head. ‘My uncle can vouchsafe for me. We have had hard times and our meeting house was burnt to the ground. ’Tis a long story. My parents, Matthew and Alice Moorside, were prisoners and sufferers but I see there’re no hirings today so how can I find work?’

  ‘Come with me, my wife is in sore need of help. We will find work for you if you are willing,’ he said.

  ‘But I do not know thee,’ I said, bending my head. How could I just walk off with a stranger down the street? Was it safe to trust his words? He looked a man of substance with a fine woollen jacket and britches; his stock was white and crisp, his face unmarked and his hands clean and he wore no wig but a tall black hat.

  ‘Ask any in this town if Zephaniah Webster, the cloth merchant, keeps his word.’

  ‘Do you know of this man?’ I asked, looking up at the man who had dowsed me in piss.

  ‘Aye, lass, ’tis the owd windbag Quaker, Zeph Webster who stands on street corners calling to all and sundry, deafening the trade and waking me of a morn! He’s been up before the Justice more times than I’ve had hot pasties and gives the Parson an ear-bashing whenever he passes, but he’ll not cheat at the cloth market and his tokens are good copper. If Webster says he’ll find work for you then he’ll do it, silly old wazzock.’ The man nodded. ‘He can’t help his funny beliefs.’

  ‘Sir,’ I said turning back to him. ‘I am trusting thou art an honest man.’

  ‘And I am trusting that thee is who thee says thee is, for there’s many claiming to be Friends of the Truth who are in paid employ of the constables as informers.’

  As we walked he told me how persecuted the meetings were in Leeds, that many had suffered for their faith as we had done.

  ‘My poor wife is sick after childbirth. We have many young children, a business to keep going and markets to attend. My word is my bond, as I trust yours is too, Rejoice Moorside?’

  Could it be so easy? Had I found true Seekers and employment at a stroke? Was this a sign of blessing on all my enterprise? After the long journey, had I found my spiritual home at long last?

  Nevertheless as we walked I was taking note of every street and turning so if need be I could make my way back to safety should this all turn out wrong: right, left, over the grey river bridge the other side to stone houses leaning together holding each other upright.

  There were more fields of cloth stretched on tenter posts, waving in the breeze.

  ‘I know nothing of cloth making,’ I offered, fearing he would find me unfit for service after all.

  ‘Nor should thee, lass, being delivered to us for quite another purpose. Thee will be my dear wife’s right arm and her body in all things. She does not like to lie abed but the strength has left her legs. Thee will suit her, being plain and sturdy enough . . . it’s not far now.’

  And thus I came into the employment of clothier Zeph Webster as servant, nursemaid to his eight children and legs and right arm of his wife, Tabitha, who ruled her kingdom from behind the drapes of their four-poster bed. Another adventure was begun.

  12

  The house of Zephaniah Webster was by the riverbank and had nothing of the quiet grandeur of Scarperton Hall, being both workplace and dwelling and close to the cloth market where their broadcloth was sold. It was a sturdy stone building with flagged floors that hummed to the spinning wheel and clacked with weaver’s looms, back and forth all day. Most of all it swarmed with children’s chatter. But once a month the house was silenced when the Fellowship of Friends gathered for a meeting under cover of darkness.

  My mistress had borne ten children, two living only a few days and their latest son, Will, did not look long for this life. No wonder she was worn out with travail but she made her wishes plain enough so that the household ran to her command.

  For weeks after that first arrival I did not raise my head from clearing, washing and rounding up the brood as they tumbled out of every nook and cranny like noisy puppies. That they came in twos like peas out of a pod was a strange marvel; Abraham and Abner, Tamsin and Susanna, Hiram and Hepzibah, then Mercy whose sister did not survive and little Will who lay swaddled in the cradle with such a yellow face and no mind to suck.

  Tabitha Webster struggled to lift herself even to do the necessaries; her right leg was so stiff and swollen she could scarce lift it off the bed but with a stick beating down on the wooden rafters she could bring me scurrying up to do her will. She was a stickler for laundry and linen being pressed and folded to her satisfaction and that her children wore clean linen each day.

  I tried a comfrey poultice on her leg to ease the swelling all to no avail. I offered every restorative we used on the farm but nothing would shift the bad humour within the flesh. None of old Dame Emmott’s receipts had any effect either.

  The Master went about his business, buying and selling cloth, overseeing his own weavers an
d spinners and apprentices. He sat long into the night with a candle, busy about his accounts; sometimes I found him still asleep in the morn with candle grease dripped all over the pages of his ledger.

  It was good to feel useful but there were times when exhaustion overwhelmed me and I fell asleep during First Day Meeting, causing concern and my first admonition.

  As a child of Seekers I was entitled to attend the assembly and I wrote to Uncle Roger telling him of my good fortune, only for the meeting to receive a cool letter back which upset me so greatly I wept before the whole congregation and would not be comforted.

  Rejoice Moorside, daughter of prisoners and sufferers, being nearly sixteen years of age and being without father or mother, was lately in the care of her kinsman Roger Windebank. She hath made profession of her faith in times past but hath shifted from place to place as her own instruction leads her which is contrary to Truth’s order. It is hoped that within the care of Friends she will find a true calling and settlement of life.

  SIGNED: Roger Windebank. Edward Horton. John Swainson. Margery Windebank. Isabel Sampson

  They were rightly angry because I had left the Hall without permission, and had word got out about me travelling with the Crankes? First Day should be the high point of my week but for weeks I sat at the back in bad humour. When it was our turn to host the meeting, there was food to prepare, a baby to nurse, the twins to dress in turn if I could catch them first. Then I had to help Tabitha dress before Zeph carried her down to receive her guests; but not before I scrubbed out every crevice, polished and scoured so that no one could say I shirked my duty. There was not a moment to myself to brood or enjoy the silence. Sometimes I fell asleep at kneeling prayers and I woke shivering on the floor.