No Shame, No Fear (23 page)

“You have hurt your father greatly,” said my stepmother when we left.

“I know, and I’m sorry for it. But there was nothing else I could have done.”

She looked at me in astonishment. “You could have obeyed him, done his bidding, as was your duty. Each of us has a place in society and obligations to fulfil. Not all are welcome, but they must be attended to. These people you mix with will destroy all order in society.”

But the servants were sympathetic, and so was Anne, who came to me wanting to know where I would stay in London, and when she might come and visit me, and whether I would give Susanna a love token.

“You should give her a ring with both your names on it.”

I laughed and shook my head. “Susanna would not wear a ring.”

“A lock of your hair, then.”

“Maybe. But don’t fear. We won’t forget each other.”

Of the time that was left, I spent as much as possible with Susanna. Mary’s kitchen became my second home, and Susanna and I were able to meet most days in the shop or around the workplace. But Mary saw to it that we were rarely alone together for long. I think she had a concern not so much for Susanna’s virtue – for she trusted me – but that we should work and learn, and become worthy partners for each other; that I should learn the skills and work-patterns of an artisan and Susanna those of a woman who can work alongside her husband in his business; and that we should be friends and workmates as well as lovers. “Then you may decide freely, when you are older,” she said, “whether or not you will become man and wife.” So we both helped in the print room, inking, folding, cutting and stacking, and served customers in the shop, and took orders for goods.

As the time of departure drew nearer Nat and I studied maps and planned our journey to London, or looked at the maze of streets that made up the great city. Susanna joined us. I knew she must feel that I stood on the brink of a new life, while she was to be left behind. As for me, I felt as if I were being torn in two.

On our last evening together we sat on a bench in Mary’s backyard, kissing and talking and making promises. The sun went down, and stars appeared, and bats flickered past in the dusk, and still we would not go in, though Susanna shivered with cold. I wrapped my coat around us both and held her close, breathing her breath and feeling her heart beating against mine. We stayed like that until Mary tapped on the door to remind us that decent folks were ready to lock up and go to bed; and then we kissed each other a last goodnight.

I walked home heavy-hearted, and as I began packing – leaving most of my possessions behind – I thought how much I should miss not only Susanna but the home where I had grown up; and I wondered whether I would ever see my family again.

I planned to take little with me, since I must carry it all on my back. A change of linen, breeches and stockings, a blanket, a Bible, some money in a pouch hidden under my coat. As I sorted through my clothes, something fell and rattled on the base of the chest. It was a small flute I’d bought in Oxford, years ago. I put it to my lips and played a snatch of tune.

Many of my new acquaintance would not approve, I knew. I’d heard of a music teacher in London who burned his instruments after he turned Quaker. But I loved to play, and could not believe it to be ungodly. And Nat, I felt sure, would be of the same mind. I put the flute into a bag I could wear at my waist. I’d take it with me. The thought of music on the road was cheering.

The morning dawned fair, and I was up early. The women were still in their rooms, but I had heard my father go downstairs. I carried my pack down, placed it in the hall with my hat on top of it, and went to find him. The door of his closet was half open. I could see him within, standing with his back to me, looking out of the window.

“Father,” I said.

He turned round. I stepped into the room and, on an impulse, went down on one knee and bowed my head as I always used to do.

“Forgive me for hurting you, Father. Give me your blessing on my journey.”

For a long moment I was conscious of him standing there, the hem of his coat close to my face. Then I felt his hand touch my head.

“Oh, Will…” he said, and his voice broke.

I stood up, and we flung our arms around each other.

“What have you done?” he said, his face wet against mine. “You have ruined your life, destroyed my hopes. I
can’t
forgive you. Don’t ask it.”

“Then wish me Godspeed,” I said.

“Godspeed…” He held me close, then abruptly pushed me from him. “Go,” he said. “Get out, before I beat you. And don’t write to me from London. I shall not reply.”

Susanna

O
n the morning they left, Mary and I walked with Will and Nat as far as the East Bridge. A light mist was rising from the river, but the day promised fair, and I sensed the excitement in the two of them at the prospect of the road ahead.

Mary was brusque as ever, but I knew she was sad to lose Nat, who had been almost a son to her. I kissed Nat, and then Will. All my goodbyes to Will had been said in private the night before, and now I could only tighten my arms around him and whisper, “God keep thee safe.”

“And thee. I’ll write – as soon as we arrive.”

And then they were on their way, and all that was left was to watch and wave until they reached the bend in the road and were lost to sight.

Mary patted my arm and drew me back towards the town. “We must comfort each other now,” she said.

In the days that followed I felt a great emptiness, and thought I would never be happy again. When I was minding the shop I looked at the maps and tried to work out how long it would be before Will and Nat reached the city, how long before we could expect to hear. All I could think about was the promised letter.

Mary became impatient with me. She took me out of the shop and found housework for me to do: cleaning, shopping, laying the buck-tub on washday. “Work is the way to overcome grief,” she said.

And then one day she came to me with a proposal.

“I could do with another hand in the print room,” she said, “now Nat is gone. I would not offer thee an apprenticeship – thou would not want to be bound for seven years – but what say thee to an agreement for a shorter term? If thou stayed with me two years, or three, I might teach thee much of printing practice and bookselling and accounts.”

“Oh!” I said. “Yes! Yes, I’d like that.”

I saw myself at eighteen, no longer a maidservant but a woman who could read and write, a woman with a trade.

“We could get a girl in to help with the housework perhaps twice a week,” Mary said, thinking it through, “but thou must be ready to turn thy hand to whatever’s needed in shop or house.”

I nodded, willing. Mary’s offer was generous, I knew. An assistant who stayed only three years could never repay the time spent teaching her.

“Then let’s put it to thy parents,” she said.

Now, though still yearning for Will, I began to feel more purposeful. Mary and I visited my parents in prison; an agreement was made, and put into writing, and I was able to call myself a printer’s assistant. Em was astonished, and saw no advantage for me in the new arrangement, only more work, but Judith understood and approved. Judith was still in prison: thin, with a lingering cough, but calm and determined in spirit. She told me that she and Daniel Kite had promised to marry when they were released; and that when he had enough money saved for their passage, they would sail to America.

The first-day meetings continued, but we began gathering in a Friend’s house instead of in the street. The harassment lessened for a while, but Mary warned me that our troubles were not over; already there was talk of harsher penalties. “I believe it will be worse in the years to come,” she said. “But with God’s help we will endure.”

I wondered often about the future, and what it held for me. I thought of Em, with her young man: the comfortable, conforming life she planned to live. I might live like that if I chose. But, despite all danger, I knew I would not. “Stay at home and spin,” the vagrant woman had advised me. But that was not a choice; not in these times.

At the end of September the authorities released all the prisoners who had served their sentences. I took Isaac and Deb home to our parents in Long Aston, and stayed a few days. We met with Eaton Bellamy Friends, and there was talk of finding an apprenticeship for Isaac. Tom Minton had found a master in Bristol, and would leave home before winter, and Isaac had thoughts of going there too.

I told my mother about Will, how I missed him and had not yet heard from him.

“Oh, it’s hard to wait for news!” she said. “But he is in God’s hands. We are all held in the love of God. Have faith.”

And at last, one day, the letter came – two letters, in fact, for Mary had one from Nat. Both were brought by a Friend travelling on business.

I held mine, looking at the wax seal, the direction with my name on it, hardly able to believe it was for me. I had never received a letter before.

I took it up to my bed to read; I sat enclosed by the screen, broke the seal, and unfolded it.

He was well. He and Nat were living with a Friend, a printer, in a street near Paul’s steeple-house. Nat was employed as a journeyman printer and Will taken on as an assistant at a bookseller’s. He was happy, he wrote, and had made many new friends at meetings in the city, but no one he loved to be with as much as me. (That line I read again and again.) He told me much more: about the city, the river, the books he sold, the people he met, the meetings they’d had on the way. I read it all, but it was his words of love that I read most eagerly: that he missed me and longed for the time when we could be together again. “Write to me soon,” he said.

I wrote the same day. My letter was not as long as his, for I still found writing difficult and must take much care with it. I told him all that had happened here, and ended:

I know nothing of letters, or what is right and proper for a girl to say.

But I will tell thee that I love thee, and miss thee; and when I am free to come to thee I shall leave my home and family and let no one hold me back. When I think of that day, all the long miles that separate us seem as nothing.

I pray God keep thee in the light and watch over thee till we meet again.

Thy friend, Susanna Thorn.

About the Author

Ann Turnbull grew up in south-east London but now lives in Shropshire. She has always loved reading and knew from the age of ten that she wanted to be an author. Her numerous books for children include
Alice in Love and War, A Long Way Home
and
House of Ghosts
, as well as her Quaker trilogy –
No Shame, No Fear
(shortlisted for the Guardian Children’s Book Award and Whitbread Award)
Forged in the Fire
and
Seeking Eden
. For younger children, she has also written
Greek Myths
, illustrated by Sarah Young.

You can find out more about Ann Turnbull and her books by visiting her website at
www.annturnbull.com

Books by the same author

House of Ghosts

A Long Way Home

No Friend of Mine

Pigeon Summer

Room for a Stranger

Forged in the Fire

Seeking Eden

FORGED IN THE FIRE

London 1665–66. With the plague raging and the scent of smoke upon the wind, Will and Susanna, separated by class and distance, struggle to reunite. Will has become a Quaker and broken with his father. Leaving Susanna behind in Shropshire, he travels to London, swearing to send for her once he is settled. But Will is arrested and thrown in gaol for standing up for his beliefs. This, along with the rapidly spreading plague and a dire misunderstanding, conspire to keep the lovers apart…

SEEKING EDEN