No Shame, No Fear (8 page)

Her colour rose, but she held my gaze. It was one of the things that had first drawn me to her, this mixture of modesty and straightforwardness. She was innocent, but not ignorant; and I knew she was thinking, as I was, of the words of the song we had heard, and their meaning.

“But not all music is so base,” I said. “There is much fine music in the world. I don’t think I could bear to give it up. Are Quakers entirely against it?”

I felt so much drawn to these people that I longed to reconcile the two.

“Many are,” she said. “Thou should talk to Mary. She was brought up with music, like thee.”

“But does she play it now?”

“She has no instrument that I know of. And little time.”

“I think I would always have time for music,” I said.

She nodded. “Sometimes when I hear music playing I long to dance, and I do wonder whether it is such a wrong thing to do…”

For the next two weeks I did not return to the Seven Stars. I wanted to know whether the power of the silent meeting had been a true experience, and I knew the presence of Susanna would be a distraction. So I found another meeting.

One day I rode out alone to Haydon Green, a village to the north of Hemsbury, where meetings were held in the parlour of a large farmhouse. Strangely, it was my father who told me of it, mentioning the place, in a voice of outrage, as a “nest of fanatics” where some Quakers had recently taken a stand against church tithes.

I found no fanatics, only silence and a sense of rightness, and people of goodwill. I began to feel that I had not been mistaken; that this was where I belonged.

My father asked me once where I had been, and I said, “Out riding in the countryside,” and spoke of the spring air, the lambs in the fields. I was deceiving him with half-truths, but I knew I needed to become clear in my own mind before I challenged him.

The days were lengthening. Sometimes I saw couples – servants and young working people – walking together by the river or about the town; and I longed to go out with Susanna in the easy way that they did, walking hand in hand and sidling off into a copse or a disused barn to kiss and caress. But they were equals; in time, if they loved each other, or the girl was got with child, they would marry. My father would never allow me to marry Susanna, so I must rein in my feelings and take care not to compromise her. We could not be seen out alone together.

But I saw her on first-days. I began going to the meetings at the Seven Stars, and talked to the elders and made friends with the young ones, Nat Lacon, Daniel Kite, Tom Minton. From them I heard that the new act outlawing religious gatherings was due to come into force in May. I saw that soon I must give up my new secret life or confront my father, but the thought of such a confrontation made me afraid. He was a man of powerful will, and I had never before disobeyed him in any important matter.

Susanna

“I
see you’ve hooked yourself a fine young gentleman,” said Em.

The two of us were making our way up Broad Street with our pails of water on yokes over our shoulders. I stopped – and it was more than the weight of water making me breathless. I stared at her. How could she know about Will?

She burst out laughing. “Did you think it was a secret? I’ve seen him ogling you in the street. And he comes to your shop, doesn’t he?”

“He’s a scholar,” I said. “He buys books and paper…”

“Is that all he buys?” She shot me a sly look. “He’s wealthy, that one. Don’t sell yourself cheap, Su.”

“What do you mean?” My heart beat fast.

“You know,” she said.

I did. Em seemed to run a system of barter with her own young man. If he bought her some lace or a bunch of silk ribbons she’d reward him by allowing his hand to go a bit further than usual. I knew because she told me all about her courtship, the bargains and quarrels and makings-up. It was something I would never have dreamed of talking about myself, but I was fascinated by the day-to-day ebb and flow of her romance and its matter-of-fact details. They would marry in due course, once he was settled in business and could afford to do so; and, since she was good-natured and practical, no doubt they’d be happy enough. But it was not for me. I wanted love.

“He’ll never marry you,” said Em, “so you might as well get what you can out of him now. Ask for a love token; something gold.
I
would.” She gave me a sharp look. “Or did you imagine you’d be wed?”

I was silent. I would not lie to her.

“Oh, Su! Don’t look so downhearted!” She stopped and turned to face me. “I only meant to warn you; you’re such an innocent. These grand folk, they’ll take anything that’s offered, but they don’t marry girls like us. Truly, they don’t.”

Will is different, I thought. But would he marry me? For a girl there is only marriage or dishonour. Or parting – but I couldn’t bear to think of that. I tried to disregard Em’s words, but she had made me see the world as a mercenary place in which love counted for little.

Later that morning, stepping out of the baker’s with a basket of fresh-baked loaves, I came face to face with Will and two gallants who seemed to be his friends. Very fine they were: lace on their shirts, feathers in their hats, and their shoes tied with ribbon. Will gave me a nod, so slight that only I could see it, and they passed on, taking up the whole width of the pavement, and talking loudly and laughing.

I felt a pang then, for I saw that here was a whole part of his life that I knew nothing of, in which he would not include me. I should have been grateful to him for not speaking, for it would have shamed me; and yet I resented it, the more so because of what Em had said.

When he came into the shop that afternoon I was in low spirits. I treated him like a customer and kept a distance from him. He was puzzled and hurt, I could see, but I felt unable to hide my feelings.

“How have I offended you?” he asked.

“Thou hast not.”

“Then what…?”

I had turned away from him and he stepped in front to face me.

I could not explain to him what was on my mind, so I told him about another thing that had begun to trouble me these last few days.

“In May they will pass the new act…”

“The Quaker Act? Yes.” He frowned. “My father knows nothing yet of my going to meetings. Or of you. But – it shan’t stop me.”

“Will! It means breaking the law. No more than five people over sixteen years old may assemble for non-Anglican worship. That’s what it will say. Only five. They mean to outlaw us altogether. Thou could be arrested.”

“I’m not afraid of that.”

“Thou’rt afraid to tell thy father!”

“I’m not!” But he wouldn’t meet my eye.

“We will become an illegal people,” I said. “It will not be wise for thee to associate with us.”

I had not thought much about all this before, but now it became clear to me: the gulf that was opening between us. I felt the inevitability of it, and tears stood in my eyes, ready to fall.

“Susanna.” He put his arms around me, kissed my hair and then my face. I swung between delight and terror that someone would come in. The tears ran down my face and he kissed them away and pulled me close.

“Don’t cry,” he said. “We won’t be parted. I promise. Don’t cry.”

I felt his lips touch mine, feather-soft at first, then firmer, warmer, with an eagerness that made me respond and kiss him back. I wondered, fleetingly, if I should do this. Was it wrong if we were not promised in marriage? But I could not bring myself to stop.

The shop door opened, and we sprang apart. He turned away, as if to seek a book, and I went to serve my customer.

Later, when I was alone, I touched my lips with my fingertips and thought about the kiss.

He had said, “We won’t be parted.” Surely that must mean he loved me?

But he had not dared tell his father about me, or about meeting with Friends. And I knew his father planned for him to become apprenticed to a silk merchant who would take him away to London. It was his duty to obey his father, and he had all the power.

The next day Mary gave me a gold crown coin – my wages for the month. I turned it in my hand; I’d never earned so much before.

“Thou’ll be wanting to go home and see thy family,” she said.

“Oh, yes!” I felt a rush of longing. My parents, Deb, Isaac – so much had happened since I had seen them last. And my father was out of prison. A Friend from Eaton Bellamy Meeting had brought that news a few days ago, along with a letter in response to the one I had sent my mother; this, written by my father, spoke of their surprise and pleasure at my new skill.

And yet, much as I loved them all, I didn’t want to leave Hemsbury now, even for a day. I wanted Will; to be with him at every possible moment; to have more kisses – and there was a fear at the back of my mind that if I wasn’t there he might begin to think about how uneducated I was, how ignorant and unsuited to him.

But I would not be away for long.

“Go on sixth-day,” Mary suggested. “Stay the night and return next day.”

When I told Will he asked, “How will you get there?”

“I’ll walk.”

“Ten miles? Alone?” He looked shocked.

“We always walk. There are plenty of folk on the road. I’ll likely get a lift in a farm cart.”

“My sister would never go anywhere unaccompanied,” he said; and I saw once again how different our lives were.

I liked being on the road, alone and independent. And now it was springtime, the blackthorn was out, and there were primroses and violets by the wayside. The hedges were green and high, and by midsummer they’d be arching over with the pink blossoms of sweetbrier. It was a joy to be out in the clean air and to hear birds singing and see new lambs in the fields. I realized how much I’d missed it. But not the drudgery, I reminded myself; not the heavy work and the loneliness and the narrow-minded neighbours.

I took my wages, hidden in a pocket under my skirt. My parents were glad to see me, and to have the money. My father was at work again, but he had suffered a loss of trade. They wanted to know all about my new life. I must have spoken Will’s name more than I meant to, for they soon guessed; and when they heard he was an alderman’s son they were worried.

“I hope Mary takes good care of thee,” my mother said.

I knew what sort of care she meant. “Mary is strict,” I assured her. “But, Mam, Will is a seeker; he comes to Meeting. He is not out to…” I stumbled for words, embarrassed. “He sees me as an equal.”

My mother nodded approval, but she was still concerned. “Keep thy heart free,” she counselled. “Thou’rt too young for courtship.”

“Thou wast young,” I said, “when thou met my father. And married him.” I knew she’d been less than twenty.

“I was.” She glanced at my father, and a smile passed between them.

A picture came into my mind, then, of my father, a soldier in Cromwell’s army, and a seeker after the truth, billeted on that farm in Staffordshire where my mother lived under the harsh rule of her Puritan parents. For the first time I saw them as young, like me, and I imagined the quickening of love between them, my mother seizing her chance of freedom.

“It was a time of war,” she said, as if she’d seen my thoughts. “Everything was different then.”

On May Eve, Mary and Nat and I watched a great maypole go up in the centre of town. That evening dozens of young people went out into the woods to gather greenery, and many didn’t come back till dawn. All day on May Day there was dancing and drinking around the maypole, and the streets were full of revellers. I looked out for Will, half hoping, half fearing, he’d be there. He was not, but he came that evening to a meeting at the Seven Stars.

In our own community of the truth, we had more sober concerns than bringing in the may. We knew that the new act would soon come into force. For some time Friends from other meetings had been visiting, to talk and pray with us. Some came from as far away as Birmingham and Bristol. Meetings were now held several times a week, after work, for we all felt a strong need to be together and to wait on the Lord for guidance. Will came to most of these, but he still had not spoken to his father, and I grew afraid once again that when the trouble began he would be forced to leave us, and perhaps to leave me. I didn’t know if he had the strength to defy his family.

The day we heard that the Quaker Act had been passed by Parliament, the room at the Seven Stars was full, and extra benches had to be brought in. In the silence that fell upon the company I felt the strength of our people. Judith’s father, Samuel Minton, spoke first. He said our task was to bear witness to the truth. If we met in secret the authorities might turn a blind eye. “Many of them are good men, unwilling to persecute us,” he said. “It’s what they want us to do: to go quietly and meet secretly if we must. But to do this would be a denial of the truth.” Several others spoke that evening, all against secrecy. We were resolved to meet in the truth and take the consequences.

In the days that followed, some people had visions and spoke prophecies. John Callicott interrupted a sermon at All Saints Church and was arrested. Daniel Kite stripped naked except for a loincloth and walked through the streets on market day, proclaiming the power of the Lord.