At the Sign of the Star (3 page)

“It is my own fate which interests me most of all,” I said.

Mr. Barker asked me about my birth, its time and place, and after that he sat scratching his quill on his paper and looking at the charts in the very almanac I'd consulted myself three weeks before. I sat primly on a fine cane chair. The looking glass opposite me showed a bit of the room beyond, through the doorway, and I stretched my neck to see if I could spy his collection, but I could not.

At last Mr. Barker finished and lay his quill in a tray of sand. He folded his great, inky hands together and looked at me so soberly I grew afraid, but I said nothing.

“A great change is coming to your life,” he said.

“For good or for ill?”

“That will depend upon you. You will be as a boat on the sea, tossed by powers beyond your control. Still, you are the pilot of that boat, and everything will depend upon the course you steer. Remember always to head
into
the wind, and do not flee it. Otherwise, you may capsize your boat.”

“But what sort of a change?”

His voice was gentle. “You will suffer a great loss.”

“Not—not my father!”

“I am speaking of your own life, child, not your father's.”

This only bewildered me, and I tried to ask more questions, such as when this loss would befall me. But he would not say more, and instead began to shoo me from his rooms. As the maidservant took me to the door he called after me, “Remember, you are the pilot!” But I thought it poor consolation when he had given me such a dreadful fright—and at my own expense, too.

5

It was on Sunday next that I learned what my great loss was to be. I saw it for myself that morning, and was told straight out that evening after supper.

Hester saw it, too, but did not know she was seeing it.

We had gone again to St. Botolph's Bishopsgate. I did not care for Reverend Little, but I liked the walk, for it took us all through the City. The morning was gray, and the air from the Thames River floated damp against our cheeks, but I did not care. Hester and I walked in front with my father, and behind us came Cook and Jane, the serving girl, then Robert with Charles and James, the other apprentices. Godfrey, the boy, walked sometimes next to Jane, and sometimes with the older boys, that he might hear their chatter. We passed by the stones and beams they were putting together at St. Paul's, to rebuild the cathedral, and I pointed with great excitement to a fine column. My father only shook his head and said he did not think that it would ever be done. We walked through Cheapside, and saw the ruins of churches burnt in the Great Fire that destroyed so much of London my second year of life. But in the same street we saw the new shops of goldsmiths, drapers, and haberdashers. The shops were shut up for the Sabbath, of course, but the streets were filled with people in their Sunday finery, nodding and bowing to one another. They were filled, too, with ne'er-do-wells who were playing when they ought to have been at church. We saw some young apprentices sitting on steps and waving their tankards at one another while they told jokes. One of them called out to our boys to join them; Charles said he would, and Robert cuffed him. We walked on through Threadneedle Street. I heard a shrill crow of pain, and looking down a narrow lane I caught a glimpse of a cockfight.

I do not know which I loved more, seeing the folk who bowed and nodded and worried about the weather, or seeing the boys who would certainly be fined for staying away from divine service if they were caught. Both were a part of life in London, and that I loved most of all.

Hester, however, loved it not. “Look at this,” she would say as she stepped over the turds someone had emptied from a chamber pot into the street. “What a filthy place London is.”

And so it was, and so it is, but I have never minded it.

St. Botolph's was dark and old, for it was not burnt in the Great Fire. I sat with my cloak pulled close amid the dreary, chill, stone monuments, and paid little attention to song and prayer. But I listened more carefully to the preaching, as was my habit, for sometimes a good sermon can be published with profit. However, the Reverend Little's words would find no wider audience; he made dull what should have stirred us all.

When the service was done, Hester and I stood in the lane outside and curtsied to this merchant and that neighbor. The draper and his wife bade me good morning with wide smiles, and their grown daughter, Susannah, spoke to me by name, which surprised me. “I have seen you in your father's shop,” she said. She smiled as she said it, but I felt accused, as though she had said I should not be there.

“And I have seen you there,” I answered her. All the grown folk laughed, and began to chat among themselves, while I waited impatiently to move on. But we did not move on, and at last Hester and I drew off, and murmured to one another as we listened to my father pay extravagant compliments to the draper's daughter.

“Beauty!” I repeated to Hester, having heard the word escape my father's mouth. “If bread is beautiful, then so is Susannah Beckwith.”

“Or if coal is beautiful,” Hester said.

“If lard is beautiful.”

“If sand is beautiful.”

“Sand
is
beautiful,” I answered.

“Well, so is Susannah Beckwith's gown, even if her face is plain. Look at it.”

I looked. And I looked some more. She was wearing a blue velvet gown drawn back to show a yellow underskirt, and the ruffles of her embroidered chemise showed at her neck. Her yellow hood was cast back to show off her hair, which was wired in ringlets that hung at the sides of her face. “Now, why is
she
all dressed up?” I said as I watched her simper at my father, but as soon as I spoke I knew the answer. I knew why we'd been going to St. Botolph's, and why my father was not himself, and where he'd been when he ought to have been dining with John Dryden. I knew what my great loss was going to be—my very inheritance. The only thing I didn't know was how to head into the wind.

I didn't say anything to Hester. My tongue felt like a brick in my mouth. I knew there was no use lashing out, no use crying or ranting. What I needed was caution, and a plan.

“Catching herself a husband, I suppose,” Hester said, answering my question.

I did not speak, but my head felt hot from the fury of my thinking.

*   *   *

He did not look at me when he told me. He looked at his pipe, stuffing it and prodding it as he readied himself for a smoke. We sat together in the small parlor, Hester being busy with her duties.

“I have news,” he said.

“Good news, I hope,” I said, to torment him.

“Good news indeed,” he replied, but he knew I would not think so. “I have decided to marry again.”

“Father! My greatest congratulations. I have long awaited such news. Your betrothed must count herself lucky indeed to marry so fine a man.”

My father looked surprised and much relieved.

“Thank you, Margaret,” he said. “I believe she does so. I am to marry Susannah Beckwith at the end of June. The banns will be read next week.”

“Susannah Beckwith?” I repeated. I spoke as though I could not believe my ears. “Have you not heard—but it is not my place—Susannah Beckwith. Oh. I wish you both joy, of course. Susannah Beckwith.”

He did not ask me what I meant, but I could see by the dismay in his face that he believed me. Why should he not? He had known me long, and knew it was not my custom to pretend what I did not feel. Neither is it my custom, however, to be cheated of what is mine.

THE LADIES' CALLING

1

My father often dined away from home, but from time to time he invited others to dine with him instead. When company came, I used always to eat with Hester in the small parlor, whilst the apprentices and servants ate in the kitchen. But over the past year, my father had asked me more and more often to dine with him, and if I kept silence well through the first course, he sometimes invited me to speak during the second. I loved these occasions, for it is a fine thing to listen to wit and raillery, or even to argument, though keeping silence is not so easy.

I did not find it easy on the Sunday that Mr. Pennyman and his wife came to dine after church.

Everything was laid out most elegantly for the Pennymans. Jane had brought two chairs from the parlor, making four altogether. The napkins were of fine linen, the plates of china, and there were forks as well as spoons and knives. There was even one for me. It was a sunny day, and the afternoon light fell soft upon the wooden floorboards, while the kitchen smells floated pleasantly into the room.

Cook had done her best to keep our tongues entertained with the dinner, for the bill of fare included stewed carp, a boiled pudding, a chine of veal, a calf's head pie, a roasted chicken, and a salad made with the buds of herbs and violets. The stewed carp was not well seasoned, but the calf's head pie had a tasty crust, and the chicken was golden and juicy. However, the food could not keep me happy. It was that morning that the banns had been read for the first time, and the Pennymans were full of congratulations for my father, which sounded harsh in my ears.

My father and I had spoken no more about his wedding. After I planted in his head the idea that there might be scandal to be discovered about Susannah Beckwith, I hoped that he might delay the wedding while he made his investigations. But it is one thing to plant an idea, and another to make it grow. Still, the banns were to be read for two more weeks before the wedding could take place, and anything might happen in that time. I was most hopeful that my father's intended bride had already been married, secretly and imprudently, and that her husband was yet living and would come forward to forbid the banns. I had heard of such things happening before, and it seemed to me both possible and proper that such a thing might happen now. The almanac foretold bad news from across the sea, and a husband in Flanders would be bad news indeed for Susannah Beckwith. However, I did not mean to leave everything to the stars.

At the start of the dinner my elders discoursed on political matters. They spoke of the Earl of Shaftesbury and his friends, and how the King would handle him, and what ought to be done about the Papists. Then they spoke on more general topics, such as the weather, and the affairs of mutual friends, and the comet. And at last they spoke of the printed word, which in our household always became the subject of discussion sooner or later.

Mr. Pennyman was the author of
A Wife's Misdeeds,
which we had published last Hilary term. It was about how immoral women are, and how closely they must be watched by their husbands to prevent them from taking their marital pleasures elsewhere. It pretended to be the tale of a young and lustful wife named Miranda, but there was very little tale, and much dreary lecturing. However, we sold many copies, for infidelity is always an interesting subject.

“I believe my daughter has read your work,” my father said to Mr. Pennyman as the roasted chicken was brought in. “Margaret?”

He often gave me a chance of this sort. I was expected to flatter the authors sweetly, and not to advance my own views, though a few times I asked mischievious questions out of pretended innocence. My father always scolded me afterward, but in a way that showed he was well pleased, for he valued my wit in spite of himself.

“Indeed,” I said. “I found it both clever and instructive. It is finding a large audience, as well it should.” Mr. Pennyman smiled largely, and his wife gave a firm nod. “I wonder, sir, if you might answer a question for me,” I continued.

“Certainly,” he said, but his wife frowned faintly, as though she thought I was impertinent.

“Miranda's conduct was a disgrace to our sex, it is true. But ought not her husband to have expected such troubles when they married? For she was younger than he, and did not marry for love.”

“Certainly not!” said Mrs. Pennyman. I knew before I spoke that what I said would not be agreeable to her, for she was far younger than her husband. But it mattered more to me that Susannah Beckwith was only a girl compared with my father. “What sort of education have you had, girl, to ask such a question? Chastity does not derive from love, but from obedience to God's law.”

“Because she was young, it does not follow that she did not love,” my father said as though he could not help himself.

“But how can a man of means, himself no longer young, ever know that a young woman chooses him for love and not for money?” I asked, as though I wanted only to learn.

“A man of more years is also a man of greater wisdom,” Mr. Pennyman said. “And a better judge of character.” Then he looked to my father, as though to ask why he did not put a stop to my pertness.

“Enough, Margaret,” my father said. “You speak of what you do not yet understand.” He spoke almost in a mumble, but when I looked at his face I saw it was white, and I knew there would be more to come when the guests had gone.

*   *   *

I thought he would call me to the small parlor, where he often worked, but instead he found me with Hester, bundling the laundry, and bade me follow him. I did so, and he led me to the kitchen. Cook was not there, though a great kettle hung over the fire.

“I have never heard such rudeness, Margaret,” he said, and his voice was unlike itself, filled with uneasy anger. “I never thought to hear such rudeness from
you.
I know your education has been irregular. But by God you know more than to disgrace me in that way. I must beat you for it.” And he picked up the broom.

I opened my mouth to speak—it was my habit, always, to speak—but said nothing. I had been beaten a few times as a child, of course, when I was six or seven. My mother beat me, that I might learn obedience. But not since her death had I had bruises at a parent's hand. And all that came into my head now was that it must not happen.