by Ann Turnbull
Soldiers stood guarding the door of the meeting room. We tried to gather in the courtyard, but they drove us out with threats and curses. There was nothing we could do but go.
Back at the Mintons’, Hester cried out, “Oh, what have they done to thee, child?” and hauled Joe away to be washed. As she doused him with cold water, ignoring his yells, she said, “You won’t go back there after noon, any of you. Not today. You’ve made your witness, and that’s enough. Dost thou hear me, Susanna?”
“I hear thee,” I said; and knew she was right.
She’s a good soul, is Hester, and motherly; one of our people but not always at Meeting; she says someone must stay at home and out of trouble or how will life go on?
I left her in charge and went to the printer’s and told Simon Race that John and Nat had been taken. We stood talking with the works empty around us, the press silent.
“We must close the works down with the three of them gone,” said Simon. “I can’t run it alone.”
“I could help thee.”
He shook his head. “No. We’d need John, for the press. Besides, there’s not much work coming in now from the town. I think people are nervous of being seen here.”
He looked anxious, and I realized he had a child to support, and that if Mary’s income dwindled she might have to let him go; and me too. Mary had given me my second month’s pay early, knowing she might be arrested, and I had the weighty crown coin wrapped in a handkerchief and tucked under my mattress in the bed upstairs, where I hadn’t slept for a week. It was time I went home, I thought, and found out how things were with my parents, and gave them the money. I needed none of it, for I still had spending money left from the two shillings I’d kept from my first pay.
That night I lay alone in the bed I had shared with Judith. Abigail slept near by, and her brothers in the next room. But Judith was gone, and Nat; and Will – I dared not think about Will. I missed Mary, and wished I had her there to counsel me. But one thing I saw clearly: if we were to keep the meeting alive during this time of trouble it must be the children who kept faith. And I was the eldest. I must be the one to lead them.
William
My father and I returned from Welshpool on Monday, having travelled most of the day. We had not got on well. He had kept me in the background during his business transactions, no doubt fearful that I would disgrace him as I had done with John Rhys. I was angry at being removed from Hemsbury and only spoke when spoken to. And although I was attentive to his commands, he complained that I was sullen.
It was late when we reached home, and both of us were hungry. I knew the servants would have a cold meal prepared that could be put on the table quickly, but I didn’t want to wait. Ned came out to take the horses and help unload our packages, and while my father was engaged with him, I said, “I must go out. I shall not be long,” and was out of the courtyard and into the street before he could argue.
I went straight to the Mintons’ shop. Hester opened the door, and called Susanna, who came running. We flew into each other’s arms.
“What news, love?” I asked.
“They are all taken,” she told me. “Nat, Judith, John Pardoe, John and Isobel of the Seven Stars… All came before the mayor today and were sent to join the others in prison. They await trial at the sessions.”
“It’s finished, then? The meeting is closed down?”
“Only if we allow it. The children are free. We plan to keep the meeting. Will thou come? Say yes. I need thee there.”
“And shall have me.” I held her close. We would stand together as witnesses to the truth. “But with John and Isobel taken, how can we use the Seven Stars?”
“I have a key. And if they prevent us, we’ll meet outside. The meeting is not illegal unless more than five people are over sixteen.”
That pleased me. That would answer my father.
Before I went home I walked for a while around the streets to get my courage up. I knew there could be no compromise with my father now. When I arrived back at the house I was trembling, keyed up for the conflict I knew must come.
Meriel met me in the hall. “Supper’s ready, sir.”
I thanked her, wondering if she could see how tense I was.
With my hat on, I made my way to the dining room. My heart was beating fast. Anne and our stepmother were just going in, and my father, also wearing his hat, was already there, about to take his place at the head of the table.
Anne looked up at me and whispered, “Will, your hat…” and then I saw her eyes widen in alarm as she realized what I was about to do.
My father, facing me across the room, understood at once. “Will,” he said, and his voice was soft with menace, “take off your hat.”
I stood still and took a breath. “I will not, Father.”
He moved like lightning – up from his seat, down the length of the room – seized my hat and flung it aside. He was red in the face and breathing heavily. The women stared, horrified, as I darted and retrieved my hat and went to put it back on, but he caught my arm and wrestled it away.
“I am the head of this household,” he said, “and you will appear bareheaded before me or leave!”
My stepmother came between us, took the hat and, with an angry glance at me, said, “Husband, don’t distress yourself, I beg you. William, apologize to your father.”
“I meant no offence, Father,” I said.
“You meant to provoke me,” he retorted, “and you succeeded. Will, I care nothing for your beliefs, if you call them that. But while you are in my house you will give me respect.”
“I do respect thee, Fa—”
But I got no further because he struck me such a blow across the face that I staggered back against the sideboard. Anne cried out, and Milly rushed into the room and began to bark, darting from one to another of us.
“Hush, Milly, hush!” said Anne while my stepmother took my father’s arm and tried to persuade him to sit down. But nothing would stop him now; he began to beat me about the head and body with his fists while Anne screamed at him to stop and Milly barked and barked, and my stepmother closed the door as if that would prevent the servants from hearing.
I put up my arms to protect my face and endured the blows; I would not strike back. And part of me was imagining how funny the scene must look to an outsider, so that I found myself wanting to laugh and had to struggle to disguise it.
At last the women prevailed and my father was persuaded to sit down on condition that I left off my hat and never addressed him as “thee” again. I considered whether I should refuse this, and whether I should retrieve the hat, or let all be for now – and decided on the latter course. I was hungry, and mentally exhausted, and felt sorry to have distressed them all so much.
So I stood until my father was seated, and then we all sat down, and Milly stopped yapping and settled under Anne’s chair, and Meriel came in with the dishes as if she had overheard nothing.
We sat with heads bowed, my father gave thanks to God, and we ate, mostly in silence. My stepmother spoke solicitously to my father and cast reproachful looks at me, and Anne kept her attention on the dog, tossing scraps to her under the table.
Usually, my father and I would sit together and talk after supper, but that night he said he would go to his closet and read. My stepmother turned on me as he left, asking how I could behave so barbarously, as she put it, with my father tired from his travels; did I have no thought for his digestion? What sort of people had I been consorting with that would turn me against my own family?
“I have great love for my family, and always will,” I said, and saw her flinch; for she knows that she is not family to me and never can be.
Later, in my room, I sat on the bed and covered my face with my hands and tried to clear my mind, but it was too full. I knew I had been churlish to my stepmother, not in what I said but in the way I had made her feel. I knew I had angered my father and that he could not understand the change in me. I looked around at the fam
iliar room: the low chair that I’d used as a child now piled with books; the clothes chest carved with a scene of Adam and Eve and, coming between them, a serpent with a human face that used to frighten me; the four-poster bed with hangings embroidered long ago by my grandmother. This was my place. I belonged here, and I was jeopardizing it for a vision of life that could mean prison, punishment, even transportation to the colonies – Jamaica or Barbados.
I heard a faint knock at the door.
“Who is it?”
“Anne.”
“Come in.”
Her face, small under the elaborate arrangement of dark curls, looked pinched and tearful.
She came and sat beside me and put her arms around me, and I hugged her. She was rigidly corseted – much tighter laced than Susanna – and could not bend from the waist, and it seemed to me that this was a denial of truth as much as hat-honour and deferential speech.
“I hate it when Father is angry with you,” she said.
“It can’t be helped, Anne.”
“But why must you insult him by saying ‘thee’ and ‘thou’?”
“It’s not an insult. It puts us all on a level. I won’t defer to anyone or expect anyone to defer to me. It makes us equal, as we are before God. Dost thou see?”
“No. I don’t see why it matters; why you should upset everyone over it.”
“I don’t wish to, but … these outward forms are symbols…” I struggled to explain, and ended, “It is the truth and I must act on it.”
“Mother says Nicholas Barron will reject you as his apprentice and we shall all be shamed and Father’s business will suffer. And she says there is a girl who has lured you into all this. Is there a girl, Will? Meriel says she’s seen you going often into the Mintons’, the glover’s.”
I felt a flash of anger. Mother says; Meriel says. They were all watching me.
“Is it true, Will?”
I said carefully, “There is a girl I like, but she has not lured me. I have been drawn to Quakers this long time past.”
She focused on the girl. “Is it the glover’s daughter? The tall, fair one?”
“No.”
“Who, then?”
“Thou dost not know her.”
“How old is she? Is she pretty?”
“I won’t tell thee.”
She got up then. “Well, you’d better be careful, if you want her kept secret. Mother says Father means to find out.”
The following Thursday was the evening of the midsummer dinner. This feast is one of the big events of the civic year. The Council Chamber is set with long tables and decorated with flags and greenery, and all the councillors and aldermen and their wives and adult sons attend. I was invited this year for the first time. Anne was jealous; young girls were not invited.
“I’d gladly give thee my place,” I said. “I’ve no wish to go and dress up and flaunt our father’s wealth.”
I was aware of sounding self-righteous, but the showiness of the feast went against all my instincts.
“I like you better dressed up,” said Anne. “You look so drab since you met those Quakers. Where are your buttons with the silver embroidery?”
“In a pouch in my chamber. Thou may have them if thou wish.”
“Father will not like your coat so plain.”
“No.” My father and stepmother and I had already had several arguments about what I should wear. I had told him that I didn’t want to go; that if I did go I would be sure to distress him since I would wear simple clothes and not doff my hat to anyone.
“Nicholas Barron will be there,” my father said. “He expects to see you. The last I heard, he was hoping to get the bond drawn up.”
“He will have heard by now that I am not fit for his employ.”
“You are in every way fit!” He sounded exasperated. “In upbringing, education, appearance, willingness to serve – or so it used to be. If only you would break free of these Quakers… I insist that you come, Will. I could not explain your absence – unless you wish me to lie and say you are ill?”
He knew I would not want to be involved in a lie.
And so I joined them that evening: my father resplendent in gold and lace; my stepmother in a new green gown and with her hair bunched in curls at the sides; and myself in a dark blue coat with plain linen buttons and my hat with the grey plume firmly on my head.
It was a warm evening and the hall was full. There were strong mingled smells of perfume, flowers, herbs, and overheated bodies confined in layers of corsets and rich fabric. I felt hot, and saw that my stepmother’s face was pink and shiny even before we began to greet people of our acquaintance.
“They have decked the hall beautifully!” she exclaimed, fanning herself.
I looked around at the flags in faded reds and golds, the flowers, the alcove decorated with greenery where musicians were arranging themselves with their instruments. The tables were laid with snowy linen and set with glass and silver; there were finger-bowls of rose-scented water and flowers all down the length. Anne would love this, I thought; she would enjoy every moment. And then I tried to imagine Susanna here, and could not.
Servants were busy setting out the food: dishes of beef, pork and pheasant; a salmon, flaky soft and laid on a bed of dill; two entire swans, in pastry bases, arranged as if in life, with upraised wings; an array of pies and pastries and sauces; dishes of salad; vegetables cut into fancy shapes.
As everyone met and mingled there was an outbreak of curtseying and bowing, and such a doffing of hats that it caused a welcome stir of air. I said good evening to people I knew and did not doff my hat, but my father suddenly snatched it from my head and thrust it into my hands, muttering, “Behave civilly for a few hours, and damn your principles, can’t you?”
When we came to sit down I found that I had been placed between my father and Nicholas Barron.
I felt hot and nervous, wondering how I should greet Barron without causing offence. But he took the initiative.
“Well, William, they’re saying you’ve turned Quaker. Is it true?”
“Yes, s…” I had to struggle not to say “sir”.
“And your father none too happy with it, I understand?”
I looked at my father, who was talking animatedly to someone across the table.
“It’s the hat-honour and the way of speaking that anger him most.”
“That’s understandable,” he said. He leaned back and regarded me. “Is it so important? Since it gives offence, why not abandon it? It is not the heart of your belief, surely?”
“No, indeed!” I began to tell him about the inward light, about waiting in the silence, about the spirit being accessible to everyone. He listened, apparently with interest, not interrupting as my father would. I like this man, I thought. I could serve him well, and make a success of my apprenticeship to him.
A servant came by and poured wine into each of our glasses. Barron took a few slices of beef, and indicated to me to take some. “So these outward signs…? Tell me what they mean.”
“We believe that the light of God is within every man – and woman – so we do not recognize difference of rank.”
“You don’t? How would you address the King?”
“By his name: Charles Stuart.”
“You don’t consider the King above you in rank?”
“In worldly rank, yes…” I felt that this conversation was becoming dangerous, and wished I had Sam Minton or Mary Faulkner to answer for me.
“If you were asked to take the oath of allegiance,” he persisted, “would you take it?”
“No. But not because I deny allegiance to the Crown. Because I would not swear an oath – any oath.”
He changed tack. “Of course, a more immediate problem is your intention to take part in illegal meetings.”
“We deny that they are illegal.”
“But the law says otherwise, and people have been imprisoned. Will you defy the law?”
“If I must.”
“You are very young to take on so much, so quickly.”
“I have been thinking of these things for some time.”
The dishes were being passed around, and we helped ourselves to salmon and some small pies containing spicy meat. Nicholas Barron began, to my relief, to tell me about his business and the work his previous apprentice had taken on. He described his new premises in London, their nearness to the docks, the convenience, the extra space, the contacts with merchants from all over Europe. I knew it was work that I could take in my stride, that would challenge and interest me. I knew, too, that he’d keep me in good style and pay me a wage. And I would travel: to Belgium, France, Italy.
The wine glasses were refilled, and I grew more relaxed. My father introduced me to another alderman and we talked awhile, and then I listened to the musicians.
Much later, when the dinner was over and people were leaving, Nicholas Barron drew me aside.
“You know I’d like to take you on as my apprentice,” he said. “You have the manner and the education, and you are a youth I could work with and who would be a help in my business. You will stand up for your principles too, and I admire that. But, to be blunt, Will, I need a lad who can stay out of prison. I think I can trust you not to cheat or drink or fight or otherwise get into trouble, but the laws are tightening against Quakers. The London Quakers are numerous and troublesome and the law comes down heavily on them. Soon the only way for a Quaker to worship in peace will be for him to do it secretly, or in a very small group. If you attend meetings you’ll be arrested, and I don’t want to spend my time and money bailing you out.”
“I can’t promise—” I began.
