by Leah Fleming
‘You come highly commended,’ Adam Prentiss shook our hands with a firm grip. ‘As you see I have let things slide. There is a boy who can do heavy work but he needs pointing to chores.’
I roamed over his land with a good eye on what was in decent repair and what fences were loose. The soil had a good tilth fed from the riverbank. There were fruit bushes and trees and a decent well. Jordan walked around in a daze. ‘I don’t know the first thing about farming.’
‘You’ll soon learn. I know enough for the two of us. What do you think? Could you make a life here away from everything you’ve ever known?’
He pulled me into his arms. ‘Whither thou goest, there go I,’ he said. ‘Together we will make Adam Prentiss proud. This will be our home.’
It is many a year now since we first set eyes on this blessed earth and the homestead we call The Paradise. We tilled and ploughed, sewed and harvested, gathered in together and when Adam passed away we had enough put by to make this place our own. The years that followed were indeed golden but nothing in life lasts forever.
42
The winter of 1724 was hard and long. Jordan caught a chill in his bones that no potions would shift. I sat up many a night praying that he would not desert me for we were entwined together like gnarled roots in the deep earth. How could I let my beloved go? I lay by his side to warm him but his legs grew cold and his breathing rasped and then was no more. I kept vigil by his side unwilling to be parted from my dear Captain. The ground was frozen hard and there was no chance to bury him. He lay there for days until our near neighbours insisted they hack out a grave in the field.
People were kind and help was offered as I struggled on. Without children to pass on the farm I knew I would not stay to see all we had done fade as I was fading. The Paradise needed young bodies and eager hearts and there were plenty willing to take it over. How can you leave a place that smiles on you, a place where you have shared such good and bad times together? There was no future for me here.
My dearest friend, Sabine, was also widowed and suggested I should come back to Philly to join her and help in their shop. It seemed the right move for I have learned many times over to let go of one life to start another. Once more my dusty journal was taken up to record all that happened since Jordan returned from the wars.
Tamar still called there to ask after me, another dear faithful friend, still hoping I would return to the fold. It was from her that I heard the meeting house was to be pulled down and rebuilt in stone. Good Hope was now a prosperous town. I took a notion, for old time’s sake, to make a visit. Not many living would remember me. Joseph and Mary Emsworth had long departed this life and Jacob too from a fever in the brain. All their children grew plump, flushed with success, some with children of their own.
Sabine offered to come along too out of curiosity but I preferred to make this pilgrimage alone. It had long been my hope that a copy of my early writings on the settlement of the township might be of interest to this new generation of Seekers. There was much in that story that would echo that of their parents’ journey to the New World. It was with this intention that I carried my heavy journal bound together to present to the elders for them to read and keep in their records.
I knew there was much that might appear ungodly and hurtful but I wanted them to acknowledge their part in why I left when I did. Tamar arranged a meeting in which I would present my offering as of historical interest rather than a spiritual document of faith.
How the township had changed in over twenty years of absence, I noted, as I stepped away from the river. Stone replaced wood, slate replaced thatched roofs. The forest trails were now cart roads and the Main Street paved with sidewalks, lined with elegant brick houses. There was a church with a steeple for not everyone was of the Seeker persuasion. There were shops with provisions for all trades and a fine Town Hall. I paused by the lane leading to the Emsworths’ farm but had no breath left in my lungs to make the uphill journey.
Tamar’s town house was close to the new building works that rose up two storeys high with large upper windows to let in light and air. It wasn’t quite finished and sparsely furnished. There was a porch to shelter the door and stabling for horses. It was a pity Jacob did not live to see all his plans come to fruition. It was Ethan, his eldest son, dark haired and dark eyed like his mother, who greeted me and offered me refreshment as I lay down my offering on the table, the red leather binding gleaming in the dusty sunlight.
Suddenly I feared that my visit might be misconstrued or misunderstood. It had been too long a separation. I was no longer one of them. Perhaps they thought me presumptuous, since I had shown little interest in Good Hope since the day I shook its dust off my feet. They did not know I had supported the Lenape school with secret donations to Tamar for years. I owed those lovely people my life and had tried to return their gift with one of my own.
Three men in tall black hats and stern faces sat across from my seat in silence. I had forgotten how powerful silence can be. I felt an old familiar flush of guilt like a woman’s flash of heat. This was a mistake. I was not welcome. Ethan made a wan smile and coughed.
‘I’m afraid thee is misguided to think thy account would be of value to us. There is a record in the minutes of 1692 that thee was “obstinate, wayward, going thine own gait in defiance of our discipline and that with sadness thee were given up to the will of the Lord and put from us.”
‘There will be nothing in these pages that will be edifying to the spirit and might in some cases encourage weaker brethren in defiance. Thee made thy choice when thee stepped away from us into a worldly marriage. Now being a widow, it is a hope that thee might once more be ready to submit to our ordinance in the light of humility.’
He paused looking round to the others for support and continued.
‘We bear thee no ill will but see no reason to continue to consort with you. Should you wish to be re-examined and restored to grace, we would, of course welcome thee back into fellowship among us. I can say no more but pray thee will see the error of thy ways. May the Lord grant thee peace and salvation.’
They did not even open my journal. It lay like a coffin on a slab as they filtered out of the room leaving the two of us alone. Thus were we both dismissed. Nothing had changed here as I had changed. The spirit of the place was still chilly, not even lukewarm.
There was no anger on my part at first. I felt numb and sad as I lifted my journal and saw behind it there was a pen and quill with ink still in place on the table, so I sat down to write in these closing words: ‘I have no strength nor the will to lug this account of my life’s journey all the way back to the city.’
For all their careful records of Seeker life here I know in my deepest core that my own account will be acceptable in the eyes of One who alone is our Judge. This book must be preserved and where better than within the walls of the new building, wrapped as it is in a leather sack. I have already noted a hiding place safe from wind and sun and rain where I might lay down this little part of me, so it only remains to write:
Perhaps someone one day will read these my words and hear my voice across the oceans of time. Then all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well . . .
GOOD HOPE
October 2015
‘It was right here where Dean found the package.’ Sam was pointing to a stone low down in the wall. ‘The gap has been filled in now, of course.’
Rachel stared down, shaking her head. She then looked up at the tall guy towering over her, with his tanned face and warm smile. ‘I can’t believe I’m here in Good Hope at the very spot where Joy hid her book. I feel as if I’ve got to know her over these past months better than any of my closer relatives. She was ahead of her time in so many respects. How could she have ever fitted into their narrow ways?’
‘It’s not like that now, believe me. The Friends here are lovely people and very forward thinking. They would never have refused to read her story. They’re very proud to call her one of their own.�
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‘It’s been such a lovely visit, I can’t thank you enough. The launch of the book was so special. Here’s me thinking retirement would be one day after another and you set me on a journey that has opened so many new interests.’
‘But it’s not over yet, Rachel. There’s so much of this beautiful area to see and trails where we can walk in the steps of our mutual friend. Please stay on a little longer.’
Rachel smiled, sensing Sam Storer was a loner like herself. She would like to know him better. And there was no pressure on her time. ‘In return I hope you’re going to visit Yorkshire for yourself and see all Joy’s places in person.’
Sam nodded. ‘Sure, I’d love to come over. There’s so much I want to see there.’
Rachel smiled, hoping he meant what he said. ‘There’s just one thing missing,’ she added. ‘I would like to have seen a portrait of Joy. Perhaps there’s a resemblance in our genes. They said she was a Moorside in looks.’
‘Oh there is . . . I only saw her once,’ Sam whispered.
‘You what?’ Rachel said. ‘You’re having me on.’
‘Promise you won’t laugh, but I once saw her here by the wall. I now think she was waiting for someone to find her story. I’ve gone back many times but she’s never appeared again.’
‘Oh do tell me more, Sam.’
Sam took her arm and led her down the path to the bench in the old burial field to share more of his secret, knowing it would be safe with this new friend. Why did he wonder if this meeting was all Joy’s doing and that it was she who had brought them together . . . but that would be fanciful, wouldn’t it?
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I was inspired to write this story by a visit to the Quaker Tapestry on display in Kendal’s Meeting House, Cumbria. It tells the history of the movement in wonderful stitchery. One panel stood out for me where children sat in silence defying the authority that forbade them to worship in their own way. This made the starting point of Joy’s own journey.
This is a fictional story about the founding of religious colonies in Pennsylvania and not based on any one town but an amalgam of many. The persecution of Quaker families in Britain in the late seventeenth century is well recorded in Joseph Besse’s A collection of the Sufferings of the people called Quakers.
I would like to thank the Settle Society of Friends for the loan of relevant books from their library, especially Jean and John Asher for pointing me in the direction of letters from William Ellis of Airton during his travels to America in the 1690s.
The journey of this book has taken me across the pond in search of the Lenni-Lenape people, to the National Museum of the American Indian in Washington DC and The Museum of Indian Culture near Allentown. I also acknowledge information from The Indians of New Jersey by M R Harrington.
Once again many thanks to my son, Josh, for transporting us far and wide in search of locations and to our friends, Lorraine and John Chilton of Coopersburg, for their warm hospitality and more, making this visit so memorable.
I thank my editor, Joanne Dickinson and copy editor Sally Partington for some useful suggestions and corrections to my text, also my writing friends, Trisha Ashley and Elizabeth Gill for their continuing encouragement.
Finally to David and our family: much love for all your support.
Leah Fleming, 2017.
Leah Fleming was born in Lancashire and is married with three sons and a daughter. She writes from an old farmhouse in the Yorkshire Dales and an olive grove in Crete.
Also by Leah Fleming
The Girl from World’s End
The War Widows
Orphans of War
Mothers and Daughters
Remembrance Day
Winter’s Children
The Captain’s Daughter
The Girl Under the Olive Tree
The Postcard
The Last Pearl
Dancing at the Victory Café
First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2017
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Copyright © Leah Fleming, 2017
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