The Winthrop Woman

by Anya Seton

  "Your purse, gi'e us your purse, me young cocks—" growled one with a knife, watching the swords warily. "Or ye'll see 'ow far me little comforter e'n fly!" He swung the knife by its hilt.

  "There's naught in our purses," cried Harry, and when they answered this with an evil jeering cackle, he reached down and yanked the leather bottle from his belt and threw it amongst them. "Very well, here it is!" They fell upon the bottle, scrambling and cursing, and before they discovered what it was, the young men had scooped up Elizabeth and begun to run. Fortunately at Fleet Bridge they met the Watch ambling towards them with his rattle and his bludgeon, and two stout armed lads with torches behind him. "Ye're late out, citizens," cried the Watch suspiciously. "Where be ye going?"

  "We've been reveling at the Palace," said Harry. "Aye—" chimed in Seaton, "and our coach has met with an accident, so we must walk."

  The Watch examined them by the light of the torches, then he nodded, convinced by their clothes and gentleman's voices.

  "Bad luck, sirs," he said. "I'll see ye safe ome."

  He turned and accompanied them up the Old Bailey, pausing at the corner to cry out, "'Tis past two o'clock of a chill spring night, and all is well."

  At the Three Fauns every window showed light, while Richard Fitch and Peyto, for once in agreement, were standing by the open door, peering anxiously up and down the street. They let out a shout when they saw the advancing party. The gypsy ran and kissed Harry's hand, muttering thanksgivings in his own language, but the apprentice hunched his shoulders and pulled down the corners of his mouth as he said. "So ye've come back from your lewd roisterings. We made sure ye'd all been murdered, but it seems the Devil keeps his own."

  "We had an accident," began Seaton. "We could not help—"

  Before he could finish, the apprentice was shoved aside, Thomas Fones stamped onto the doorstep in his nightcap and dressing gown; he brandished his blackthorn stick and shouted, "You knaves and ribauds, you lying bawdriminy dogs, where have you taken my daughter?"

  "Father, Father!" cried Elizabeth running to him. "I'm here. There's no trouble, Father!" Her voice ended in a gasp, for he brought the stick down furiously across her shoulders, and she staggered. Harry rushed to her, and turning on the enraged Thomas cried, "Indeed, Uncle, you must not hit Bess, and we are sorry to cause you concern—but—"

  "Must not!" screamed the apothecary. "You say 'must not' to me?" He trembled violently, his pinched face had gone purple, and he choked, tottering backwards to a chair in the hall. Priscilla was there, huddled near the peeping titillated maids. She gaped at her husband whom she had never thought strong enough for such rage, and ran to him with a cup of posset, but he pushed her off with his stick, still choking. Martha had crept down at the uproar and stood timidly on the stairs staring with fear at her father, and with wonder at Elizabeth who looked beautiful, untidy and not at all repentant.

  "Look you, sir—" said Seaton coming forward with a conciliatory smile. "When you hear the true tale of our day's adventures, you'll be mollified. Why, sir, what say you to the knowledge that your daughter has now met Their Majesties!"

  At Seaton's voice Thomas had stopped choking, but he listened to not one word as he drew himself shakily up from the chair. "Get out of my house!" he cried, pointing to the door with his quivering stick. He no longer shrilled, his shrunken little figure had a sudden dignity.

  "Why s-sir—" stammered Seaton. "I don't understand."

  "I am sick unto death," said the apothecary, "but I am still master in mine own house, and you—filthy skuldugging Papist—will leave here NOW!"

  Seaton whitened, and stepped back. So that was it! He saw the apprentice's malicious smirk and guessed that he had been followed that morning to the priest at Newgate. He saw Harry's startled frown. Matters of religion had never been discussed between them. Seaton drew a hard breath before he said quickly to Harry, "Aye, it is true. I belong to the Holy Catholic Faith, the one true church of Rome."

  Priscilla gave a moan. The harboring of a Romanist in their home seemed to her more horrifying than anything Harry or Bess might conceivably have done. She began to weep, snuffling noisily and murmuring, "Oh dear, oh dear."

  "Where will you go, Robert?" asked Harry, himself shocked at this revelation, and though troubled for his friend, aware it was not possible to keep Seaton here.

  "To Father Christopher at Newgate. The gaol at least will take me in." Seaton attempted a jaunty smile, waved his hand and strode out the door. Thomas Fones slumped in his chair, but straightened at once, turning on Harry. "I give you credit that you did not know the full duplicity of this knave you foisted on me, but you have much else to answer for."

  The apothecary stopped while a spasm of pain knotted itself in his left breast, ran down his arm and ebbed. He had been about to confront his nephew with all the misdemeanors Edward Howes had brought to his attention that day, and also with the sheaf of unpaid bills he himself had discovered in Harry's room. But he had not sufficient strength. He gestured to Priscilla for the posset, gulped down a few swallows, then said grimly, "Were you not so near allied to me, and the son of him I so respect, I could not bear such oppositions in mine own house, but this I do command. From now on you will not see my daughter, Elizabeth, nor be able to include her in your bawdry."

  Elizabeth stiffened. She and Harry looked at each other. "Not now," she whispered, conscious of great weariness, and of faint pity for her father too.

  But Harry had never been one to wait, and the threat of coercion in regard to Elizabeth determined him at once.

  "This command I cannot obey, my good uncle," he said briskly. "For I mean to marry your daughter Bess—at once."

  There was a dead silence. Martha sank upon the steps twisting her hands with excitement. Richard's and Peyto's jaws dropped. The maids began to giggle, and Priscilla to weep louder.

  "What?" whispered the apothecary. "What did you say...?"

  "That Bess and I love each other, and mean to marry." Harry put his arm around the girl, and she leaned against him. "It is so, Father," she said.

  "But you are mad," said Thomas Fones in a small voice. "Bess is already betrothed. You are cousins. 'Tis no fit match for—for either of you. She is not of age. You've gone mad ... mad." His head waggled, and his sparse little beard sank forward on his chest. "I want to go to bed," he said thickly. "Wife, help me! I can bear no more."

  CHAPTER FOUR

  IN AFTER YEARS Elizabeth never could clearly remember the events of that month, which was hazed by turmoil of all kinds. On April 2 Thomas Fones wrote to John Winthrop a distracted letter, telling of Harry's behavior, and the efforts which had been made to put up with his

  much expense and rioutous company ... but will you know the Issue and requitall of my kindness—your son hath wooed and won my daughter Besse for a wyfe and they both pretend to have proceeded so far that there is no recalling of it at least promise of Marriage, and all without my knowledge or consent, what grief this is to me I leave it to your consideration...

  and later he added:

  I cannot write you the many troubles of my mind what to do, for my nephew says plainly if he can not have my good will to have my daughter he will have her without ... I am weak and cannot, I see now, be master in mine owne house, and tis hard meddling between the bark and the tree ... he so near allied to me and son of him I respect ... I am overwhelmed with troubles and afflictiones on all sides...

  John Winthrop was accustomed to discounting much of the apothecary's nervous agitations, but there was no minimizing this letter. As he read it, John's face fell to its sternest grooves, his eyes went stone-gray. He handed the letter silently to Margaret, and at the same time beckoned to Bluet, his manservant, and ordered horses saddled for the journey to London.

  "This is shocking news—" said Margaret slowly as she put the letter on the table. "Oh, what is to be done, John?"

  "Done?" he said through his teeth. "How can I tell until I get there? What needs to be done shall b
e, before the Winthrop name and blood is further disgraced. The Lord sees fit to humble me through my son. That Henry is profligate and dissolute," he pointed to a paragraph in Thomas's letter, "even that he has been 'consorting with Papists' scarce astonishes me ... no wonder then that he should add the seduction of his cousin to his sins. No doubt they are birds of a feather, those two, and shall be roasted in the same hell fire."

  "Yet—" said Margaret anxiously, after a moment, "you will not be overharsh, dearest, will you? He wants her in lawful marriage, they may have true love for each other which condones much."

  "Ha!" said Winthrop. "You prate the silly woman, Margaret. I shall act as is just and fitting—with the Lord's direction."

  And in this mood he rode off to London. But when he arrived there, Harry and Elizabeth's behavior was not of paramount importance, for Thomas Fones lay on his deathbed.

  The family were gathered in the parlor at the Three Fauns. Emmanuel and Lucy Downing sat a little apart conversing in hushed tones. Henry and Elizabeth stood without speaking by the window. Martha, twisting and untwisting a corner of her apron, crouched near her stepmother, Priscilla, who wept without restraint, while clasping her own little Mary to her breast. Sammy, subdued for once, huddled by the fire and gaped at his elders.

  The great Doctor Harvey from St. Batholomew's had been summoned to examine the patient, and he now ponderously descended the stairs, shaking his head. "There is no hope, my good people," he said. "None at all. You'd best say farewell to him."

  Priscilla uttered a shriek, and the others clustered around the physician to ask frightened questions, but Elizabeth stiffened and ran frantically up the stairs. It can't be true, she thought, always he has talked of dying, but it couldn't really happen. She entered the sickroom and knelt by her father's bed. Already Thomas had drifted into a peaceful world where the tempests of this one seemed remote. But he opened his eyes as she took his hand and laid it against her wet cheek. "Bessie..." he whispered, "Poor Bessie."

  "Dear Father, forgive me, I know I've been such a trouble to you, I'll obey now, anything you wish, I swear it."

  He shook his head feebly. "No matter, child—let be ... seems long ago ... Trust in God." He sighed and made a further effort. "Is John Winthrop...?"

  "Aye," she said. "He's below. Shall I fetch him?"

  "All of them," he panted.

  So it came about that as anger had dropped away from the dying man, John Winthrop could not hold on to his, and when Thomas Fones asked it, John gave a stifled consent to the marriage.

  "They have ... done wrong," whispered the apothecary. "They must not postpone the righting of it even for my death ... Forgive my daughter, Brother John ... as I do your son. Anne would have wished it so."

  "Aye," said John, and at the memory of his sister tears came to his eyes. He glanced once at Elizabeth, seeing there briefly the image of her mother and not the flaunting carnal beauty which always infuriated him. "God's will be done," he murmured.

  Thomas Fones died at dawn. All the windows were shuttered, black wreaths were nailed to the doors, the sound of weeping filled the house. There was the funeral and burial at St. Sepulchre's, then almost at once the news of another death. The carrier brought a letter from Margaret saying that old Mistress Winthrop had finally succumbed to her sufferings on April 19, four days after Thomas Fones.

  The old lady's death gave nobody great sorrow, but certainly added no lightness to Elizabeth's pre-bridal days. She and Harry were to be married April 25. John Winthrop—having made up his mind to this date, coldly furnished money for the special license, and apprised the Rector at St. Sepulchre's—would not swerve from the decision.

  "I do not," Winthrop said to Harry with distaste, "wish to know what the probabilities are for disgraceful evidence of your sin with Elizabeth, but the marriage will take place as I have arranged. You will then both proceed to Groton, and stay there in seclusion until I have fully acquainted myself with your deplorable financial affairs here in London, and decided when you return to Barbadoes."

  Harry gulped and reddened. "Yes, sir." Always his father reduced him to the status of a discomfited child, try as he would to assert his manhood and own opinions. Also it was true that there seemed to be a startling amount of debts to be paid, and the usual dearth of money with which to do it. His father was being fair, and even spared him reproaches, for the present. But he was also inflexible—and in charge. Harry had not seen Elizabeth alone since Thomas Fones's death; she seemed sad and remote when he did see her. He still yearned for her but the glamour of those first hours of their love had been dimmed. Harry, who now lodged at the Downings', stole out of their house that night, found Seaton and Thanet in one of their favorite taverns near Smithfield and got prodigiously drunk.

  On a rainy Saturday morning, April 25, 1629, Elizabeth and Harry Winthrop were married at St. Sepulchre's in the briefest of ceremonies. They stood and then knelt by the altar rail, swathed both of them in black, as were the handful of family who crowded behind them in the bare aisle. There were no candles, no flowers—and Elizabeth, at John Winthrop's decree, received no ring from Harry. The wedding ring was a superstition to be abolished like all the other Roman follies which tarnished God's revealed word.

  Marriage was an earthly necessity permitted by Scriptures but the Lord Jesus had also explicitly said that in heaven there was no marriage or giving in marriage, and some Puritans now considered that a civil contract was sufficient. John Winthrop did not yet subscribe to so sharp a break with tradition, but he insisted on the minimum of ritual, and Elizabeth found herself married before the frightened mist had cleared from her eyes or she had had time to look from the rector's grave face to that of Harry which had flushed a deep red. He smelled strongly of the brandy he had been swigging since dawn, and seemed to her an utter stranger in the tight black suit and plain white falling collar his father had provided.

  As the rector said, "I now pronounce you man and wife" Harry bent to kiss her, but she scarcely responded for she heard Martha weeping behind her, and John Winthrop's voice saying, "Very good. So that's done. We will leave at once for my brother Downing's." And they filed silently out of the church.

  The wedding breakfast was to be held at Peterborough Court since the Fones family was in deepest mourning, and Emmanuel Downing had generously hired two coaches to convey them all to his home. He had also overridden Lucy's objections and ordered a lavish feast with capons, wine and bride cake. "How can you so countenance this disgraceful marriage!" Lucy had repeatedly cried. "The behavior of those two has been the death of Thomas Fones, and is like to be the death of your poor clerk Edward to whom that little trollop had given her solemn promise!"

  "The egg is burst, m'dear," rejoined her husband. "As for Edward he's not the first man to be jilted, nor will be the last. He'll recover, and there's plenty o' pretty faces in Essex to help him."

  Edward Howes had been sent to his home on a holiday, as soon as Elizabeth and Harry's intent had become known.

  It was Emmanuel who instigated what jollity there was at the wedding breakfast. He circulated flagons of sack, he proposed toasts to the young couple. Gradually the atmosphere thawed, and after John Winthrop yielded to his brother-in-law's urgings and drank some of the strong sweet bride-ale, he rose to his feet and held up his pewter mug, smiling stiffly. "I drink to the good health of the new Mistress Winthrop," he said looking at Elizabeth. He paused and went on, "I propose to let bygones be bygones. You are now wholly a Winthrop, my dear—and have become my daughter. I am sure that with God's direction you will do credit to your new state and be a true helpmeet to your husband." His glanced flickered over Harry, who was nervously chewing his lips, having downed his mugful of ale at one draught. "And Henry, on this your wedding day I give you my blessing, with the prayer that our Gracious Lord will make the light of His countenance shine in your heart, from henceforward."

  Lucy said, "Amen," and Harry mumbled, "Thank you, sir," while Elizabeth managed to smile back at he
r new father-in-law. Indeed, through her continuing daze she was grateful for his speech. It was rather like God relenting. Elizabeth was not wholly aware that when she thought of God, she always saw him with John Winthrop's face.

  "And now," continued John, his eyes softening and his voice rising to genuine warmth, "I wish to propose the healths of two absent ones who are dear to us all. My sweet and good wife, Margaret." He sipped while they drank, then he added, "And to my beloved son, John."

  At the mention of this name Elizabeth's numbness shattered. Her cheeks flushed red as Harry's and then paled. Oh, what have I done! she thought. I never meant it to be Harry—how did it happen—I've been mad! But Jack didn't care for me, he never wrote. Yet now I'll have to see him all the time when he comes back, and I'll be his sister! IF he comes back ... her thoughts raced like started hares. She tried to hide her face in the mug and choked on a mouthful of ale. Nobody noticed except Martha who sat across the table, for Emmanuel had risen to propose other toasts. Elizabeth saw the girl's sympathetic but bewildered eyes watching her. "What is it, Bess?" the little mouth silently formed the words, and they steadied Elizabeth's panic. "Nothing, darling," she signaled back, with a rush of love for this sister who never failed in natural sensitivity though her childishness sometimes precluded understanding. Soon I shall take Martha to live with me at Groton, Elizabeth thought. And with the realization that she had the power now to do this, that she had become a Winthrop of Groton Manor, faint new pride stirred in her.

  "Well, Bess—" said a rough voice at her side. "You've not spoke to me since we left the church. I never thought you'd prove so modest a bride!" Harry grabbed her around the waist and kissed her lustily on the mouth. Emmanuel roared, the others all smiled. John Winthrop said tolerantly, "The time has come for the young couple to have privacy, no doubt. You may retire to your chamber when you like."