No Shame, No Fear (17 page)

“Sit with him a while,” she said, “and I’ll clean myself. I stink of prison.” And she added, seeing my look of fear, “Would thou rather I asked Hester?”

“No!” I said. I wouldn’t let her think me a coward. So I sat and watched, and from time to time I bathed his forehead with cool water, and helped him to drink. He was hot and glassy-eyed but no longer raving. When Mary reappeared in clean clothes I left her with him and took the dirty linen downstairs.

Hester was still at work in the kitchen.

“Thou should go now,” I said. “Don’t risk contagion.”

“I will, shortly.”

She was bruising some leaves in a mortar.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Feverfew and sage, and some pepper. It’s to lay on him when he’s quiet, before the fit comes again. Fetch me some soot from the fireplace. It must be fine and powdery.”

“How much?”

She passed me a small spoon. “To fill this.”

I scooped up the soot, and she tipped it into the mixture; then separated an egg and dropped in some of the white, stirring it all together.

“Thou’ll need some strips of cloth,” she said, “to bind it in place. Tell thy mistress to lay this on his wrist and it should ease the fever. I’ll go back to the Mintons’ now and not return. I won’t risk infecting the children.”

“I’m afraid Deb’ll fret for me,” I said, “but I can’t have her brought here, into a house of sickness.”

“I’ll take care of her, the poppet. I like having a little one around.”

“Deb’s no poppet,” I warned, but she laughed and went out.

After a while Nat’s fit passed, and he lapsed into calmer sleep. Mary laid on the poultice, and we both waited on God in silence.

Later, when we were downstairs, eating a bite of supper, she said, “Well, thou seest how all my principles come to naught?”

I didn’t understand, and said so.

“Most Friends won’t leave prison,” she said, “even to die. I thought to be the same. But when the boy fell sick… I could not let him die there, in that foul place. And I could not let anyone else care for him. So I have paid the fines, his and mine. But others will do their three months.”

I thought of Abigail Minton, crying to her mother to let the fines be paid. Who was right? Mary or Elinor?

“I would do the same,” I said, “for someone I loved.”

She was silent a while. Then she said, “I never had a child. Other women seemed to have them – and lose them – so easily. I believe that God gave me my barrenness so that I could use it in his service – preaching, and printing… Well, I have bought my time, and must use it. I’ll start the works up again; print some pamphlets. Thou can help me, if thou hast a mind to it.”

“Oh, yes! I’ve done some printing with Nat. And I still practise writing – and reading.” I thought of the poems of George Herbert and how I’d wanted to talk to her about them.

“We will print, then, when this crisis is past. And, God willing, Nat will recover.”

Next morning Hester came to the back door with news from the prison. Her eyes were brimful of tears. “Hannah Davies is dead – and her so young and leaving a child not five months old. Last night we lost our friends Edward Beale and Luke Evans. And others falling sick all the time. No one wants to be in court today – judges, jury or ushers. They’re saying it’s a black assize and will spread sickness through the town…”

I thought of Will, and my fears for him returned. Would he be in court again?

“There’s my mistress sick with the fever,” Hester went on, “and now my master has it too; and our neighbours willing to pay the fines, but they won’t have it. I’ve said to my mistress: think of thy children. She says the Lord’s will is clear to her, but it seems to me if the Lord gives you children you should care for them. And with the weather so hot, and the overcrowding, it breeds sickness…”

When I went up later to the sickroom, Mary was sitting beside Nat with her eyes closed. I thought at first they were both asleep, but Mary opened her eyes and said, “Has Hester gone?”

“Yes.”

“Thank the Lord. She runs on so, and her voice carries through the floor…”

“She’s been kind,” I said, “and helped me with the work.”

She gave a weary smile. “Oh, I know, she’s a good soul. But I never could abide her endless chatter.”

That night Nat’s fever rose again. The rash was bright red now. He tossed and turned, only half-conscious, and felt burning hot. Mary refused to leave his side. She did not cry or say she wished things had been otherwise, but occupied herself bathing his forehead or encouraging him to drink sips of the herbal tea. Often she simply sat in silence with her eyes closed.

I cleaned and tidied the kitchen, then took down Mary’s Bible and sat reading by candlelight until my eyes grew tired. The house was quiet; I missed Nat’s teasing and laughter. Alone, by the embers of the fire, I prayed for his recovery.

With jail fever in the house I would not go to the conduit in the morning, but Em, who had heard of our trouble, took my pails and fetched water for me.

“They’re saying in town that the Quakers will spread sickness,” she said.

“Only because they are so crowded in prison!”

She ignored my logic, and glanced at our house with a disapproving look which seemed to include my mistress, the sick man and the entire business.

“You’d be best out of this, Su. Find another employer. The tailors would have you; they’re looking for a girl.”

“I would not desert Mary!”

But she was no longer listening. Something had caught her eye. “Here comes your young man,” she said.

“Will!”

I darted outside, causing Em to step back.

He was down the street, heading my way. The joy of seeing him overcame my fear.

“I’ll leave you two together,” said Em, with a knowing smile. She lifted her yoke.

“I thank thee, Em.” I said it absently, all my attention on Will, who had seen me and was hurrying towards me.

“I
told
thee not to come!”

“I had to. How is Nat?”

“Sleeping now; the fever comes and goes. He’s—” My voice broke and I choked back sudden tears that were perhaps as much to do with Will as with Nat. “He’s in God’s hands.”

“I had to see thee. We’ve not spoken since first-day.”

He reached out to me, but I stepped back over the doorstep. “No! Don’t touch me. I may carry the fever on my clothes.”

“If there’s danger, I’ll share it with thee.”

“No!” He seemed to me reckless, childish even. “Folk are dying, Will. If thou should die, can’t thou see it would break my heart? Thy father’s, too. He must love thee, in spite of all.”

“Susanna! Let me come in! I’ve told my father I mean to marry thee. I’ll leave home, find work. We’ll be together, man and wife – if thou’ll have me?”

His eyes searched my face, warm and eager. I felt such a rush of longing for him that it was all I could do not to run into his arms.

“Yes,” I said. “Oh, yes! I’ll marry thee – if God wills it.” He let out a breath and stepped forward – and at once I put my arms out, straight and stiff, to keep him off. “But stay back now! Be safe.”

“Susanna.” He was smiling. “I’ll come tomorrow. No, don’t argue. I’ll come. Here on thy doorstep. Every day until I can hold thee again. And I’ll pray for Nat. For all of you. I love thee, Su.”

“I love thee,” I said. “Now go.” And I closed the door.

Without stopping to pick up the pails of water, I ran along the passage, upstairs, and into the room I shared with Mary. I opened the window wide and leaned out and watched him walking away up the street, hidden for a moment behind the jettied storey of the next house, then in view again, his tall figure moving quickly between groups of maidservants and carts and early-morning traders, until I could see no further, and he was gone.

I drew the window back, and sat down on my bed.

Married. We would be married! I wanted to tell the world, to share my joy. But I could not leave the house; and Mary was sleeping, exhausted, in a chair by Nat’s bed. And perhaps, I thought, as soberness returned, the news should wait. Everything must wait until Nat was well and the house clear of sickness. I could hold my secret until then.

Susanna Heywood. William and Susanna Heywood. The names had a good sound.

William

I
walked home as jaunty as if I had won a prize. The day seemed to sparkle and I smiled at everyone I met. It was only later, when I reached home, that I realized what a long way I still was from achieving that independence I had promised Susanna.

My father kept me busy in the shop and warehouse all week. The court sessions had finished after two days, and the justices went home – thankful, no doubt, to be away from the risk of jail fever. Several prisoners had collapsed in court, and the lawyers and councillors had sat through the proceedings with posies of herbs at hand. A woman outside the court-house had done a brisk trade selling them.

True to my word, I went every morning to see Susanna. Nat’s fever raged all week, but on sixth-day Susanna told me, “He’s weak, his heartbeat faint. But the fever is going down.”

“God be thanked.” But I had heard that people who survived the fever sometimes died soon after from weakness or from inflammation of the lungs. I knew Nat was not out of danger. And neither was Susanna. I feared for her in that house of sickness.

I visited the Mintons several times. Susanna had asked me to check on Deb, and I found the child much indulged by Hester and Abigail, and was able to make Susanna happy with news of her.

But there was no news of Judith or her parents since no one was allowed to visit any of the prisons while the sickness continued. Meanwhile, Sam Minton’s business was suffering.

“Judith and our mother did most of the glove-stitching,” Tom told me. “With them in prison, and our father too, there is only the apprentice and me to cut out, and Abby to stitch.”

“And I’m not near as neat and quick as Judith,” said Abigail.

I thought of the loss of trade and goodwill, and the fines which might amount to a month’s pay for a working man.

“At least
we
are a family business,” said Tom. “Isaac’s father works alone, and now there is nothing coming in, except what Susanna can earn. And there’s the rent to pay if they are to keep their home.”

“I shall look for work,” said Isaac.

But he was only a lad, not above twelve. He couldn’t earn much. I thought of the apprenticeship I had been offered. What wouldn’t any of these children give for such a chance? But the answer came: not their souls. They would refuse it, as I intended to do. Their parents had already given up much more.

“Well, the Quaker meetings will founder,” my father said with satisfaction as we entered the warehouse on seventh-day. “No one will dare gather, with sickness in the town.”

“We
will
gather,” I said. “The children will meet as usual.” I spoke confidently, though I guessed he was right and we would be a small group and no trouble to the authorities.

“
You
will not go.”

“I will. I must.”

I was conscious that here, in the warehouse, was the heart of my father’s life. All around us bales of wool were stacked, tangible evidence of his wealth and status. These bales would cushion me, if I let them; they would provide the eight hundred pounds for my bond; set me up in a wealthy trade; form my inheritance in due course.

“I saw Nick Barron yesterday,” he said. “I told him you accepted his offer.”

“What?”
Shock and outrage took the breath from me for an instant. “But – but I don’t… I am writing…” I pictured the crumpled attempts flung into the fireplace, the difficult letter still unwritten. “Thou had no right!”

He ignored this; ignored, too, my use of “thou”, which usually provoked him to anger. “You will thank me in due time. Barron was much pleased, he said, and will proceed with the paperwork.”

“I cannot be taken on against my will!”

My father seemed unaware of the enormity of what he had done. “You will have a month to see how you like the work,” he said, “as is usual. I don’t doubt you will fall into the way of it very well. And the sooner it’s settled, the better.”

“Father,” I said. My breath came fast. “Thou cannot direct my life. I will choose my own master. And my own religion.”

We heard a door open elsewhere in the building, and voices. Richard and the other men were arriving for work.

My father put a hand on my shoulder. “A month in London, and you’ll find you see things quite differently. New interests, new company, all the life of the city. You’ll shake off these ideas. And the girl… I know how it is when passion strikes. You can think of nothing else; you must have her. But it will pass, believe me. In London, you’ll forget her.”

And he drew me away to join the others, quite unaware of my feelings.

I shall refuse to sign, I thought. No: I could not allow matters to reach that point before protesting; it would embarrass everyone. I must write, explain. But to write that letter, now, would be harder than ever; and speed was necessary. I’ll tell him, I decided, face to face.

A chance came during the day, when I was sent out on an errand. Nicholas Barron’s house is in St Peter’s Street – Peter’s Street, as the Quakers call it – a substantial house, much like our own, and no doubt with a family like ours who concern themselves with dowries and inheritances, and who dress in fine clothes and dance and sing and play music, and don’t worry too much about religion. An excellent connection, as my father had said, and one I would have welcomed only a few months ago.

A maid answered my knock and went to find her master. I waited in the hall, which was oak-panelled and smelled of beeswax and lavender. There was a lion-legged chair, polished to a dark sheen. The maid had asked me to sit, but I was too nervous.

Nicholas Barron came smiling, though with an air of busyness. “Will! Your father has told me…” And, to the maid: “Bess! Fetch some beer.”

“No!” I said. “I won’t delay thee. My father acted without my knowledge – or consent.” I saw his face change. “I am sorry, sir.” The formal “sir” came out without my thinking.