His arms tightened round her and his lips were warm and demanding, his breath quickening. Stumbling, they fell in a heap together onto Agnes’s chair. William’s hands, a little clumsy in their bandages, loosed Susannah’s chemise and he bent his head to nuzzle her breast. ‘My lovely, lovely Susannah,’ he murmured. ‘No matter what, tomorrow we’ll find a parson to marry us before I go mad with longing.’
Susannah wondered if she could bear to wait until then.
A sudden gust of wind moaned in the chimney and rattled the casement again. William frowned and gently disentangled himself from Susannah. He went to the window and pressed his face to the glass to assess the progress of the fire. After a while, he said, ‘Susannah?’
‘Yes, William?’ She sat up, suddenly tense again. Was it time? ‘Dorset House is afire.’
Dread clutched at her.
‘Then we must leave!’
‘But come and look!’
‘What is it?’ She hurried to stand beside him.
Great flames were spouting upwards from the rooftops of Dorset House. They could hear the roar of the conflagration through the closed casement and smoke wormed its way through the cracks in the window frame. An explosion as loud as cannon fire shot a volley of orange sparks into the air and the wind caught them and whisked them away.
‘The wind!’ Susannah said. ‘Is it changing? Those sparks blew back towards the fire!’ The smoke whirled and eddied over the rooftops and then, very slowly, began to drift away from them.
Clinging together, they watched in silence until, at last, it seemed certain that the wind was blowing towards the east.
Gradually Susannah felt the tension easing in William’s body.
‘It’s not my imagination, is it?’ he asked.
‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘I do believe the fire really has stopped advancing.’
Into the Light
May
1671
Chapter 32
Susannah is running through a dark tunnel of trees, heading for the light. At the end of the tunnel she stops, blinking in the sunshine. The door to the orchard is ajar and she slips through it, the long grass soaking the hem of her skirt with dew. She halts under an apple tree and a blackbird, sitting on a branch above her, utters a warning cry and flits off to a safer perch in the plum tree.
Susannah stills her breath and listens. The air vibrates with the humming of bees and the early-morning sun is warm on her face. A duck on the river quacks on the other side of the high brick wall but she still cannot hear the sound she is listening for.
Then, in front of her, the long grass sways and Beth, her red-gold curls dancing, breaks cover.
‘I see you!’ calls Susannah. She runs towards her daughter who darts behind an apple tree. ‘Where are you?’ She makes a great play of searching behind each tree in the orchard, her expressions of dismay becoming more exaggerated as Beth’s giggles become louder. ‘You naughty creature, hiding from your mama! Where have you hidden yourself?’ Creeping closer to the tree, she suddenly pounces.
Laughing, she snatches up the wriggling child and smothers her with kisses.
Hand in hand they leave the orchard for the garden, their shoes crunching along the gravel path lined with clipped yews. Facing them at the end of the avenue is a house built of brick the colour of faded damask roses and with high gables and tall, twisted chimneys. Merryfields.
Beth tugs on her mother’s hand. ‘May I make some sugar biscuits for when Father comes home?’
‘He’d like that. Ask Peg or Jennet if they will help you.’
Beth blows her mother a kiss and runs off in the direction of the house.
A scattering of people are working in the gardens, some dead-heading the roses and others weeding the vegetable plot or tying up the herbs in the physic garden.
Susannah pauses to talk to a young man with a faraway expression in his eyes as he tends his vegetables.
‘How are your carrots, Ben?’
‘Growing fast.’ He turns back to his hoeing, utterly intent upon his task.
Nearby, an old man kneels on the ground picking out stones and putting them in a bucket. He lifts a hand and smiles as she passes.
The kitchen is as busy as ever. Mistress Oliver, Peg and Jennet are preparing a feast for their master’s return from London. The kitchen table is spread with pies, jellies and custards. Four chickens and a haunch of venison turn on the spit. Peg has wrapped Beth and her own daughter, a curly-haired moppet with big brown eyes, in clean aprons and is helping them to weigh out the ingredients for the sugar cakes.
The garden door opens and Emmanuel enters, carrying a basket of wood. He puts another log on the fire and then steals a kiss from his wife. ‘Peg, I’m going to take Joseph fishing. See if we can catch some trout for supper.’
‘Have you swept the paths?’
‘Yes’m.’
‘And cleaned out the chickens?’
He rolls his eyes, making the little girls laugh. ‘Yes’m.’
‘Go on with you, then,’ she says. ‘It’s a sunny day and you’ll only get under my feet.’
Joseph, grown strong and tall for ten, brings in a second basket of logs. He still bears a scar on his neck as a reminder of his escape from the pestilence. He drops his basket and he and Emmanuel depart.
Susannah knows now that she should never have doubted William’s good intentions and he often teases her about it. He was no more capable of banishing Emmanuel to work in the plantations than herself and had arranged for his tenant, Roger Somer ford, to find work for him, and later for Peg, too, at Merryfields. Although still young, Emmanuel and Peg are married and proving to be good and steady parents.
Susannah leaves the kitchen and walks along the corridor. She peers in through the open door of the Little Parlour and sees Mary, one of the guests, sitting on the window seat, reading poetry to Aunt Agnes. Mary had arrived at Merryfields six months before, wild-eyed and weeping after her husband and children died of a fever. She had no wish to live without them and her family had despaired of her but gradually she is recovering her spirits. Susannah stops to listen for a while and then continues along the corridor. She stops before another door and unlocks it with the key hanging from the chatelaine round her waist.
Inside, she closes her eyes and breathes deeply. Spirits of turpentine, lavender, sulphur, liquorice and drying herbs; all the familiar scents that transport her back to her father’s apothecary shop. She opens her eyes and smiles in contentment as she sees the neat shelves of gallypots and the teardrop-shaped bottles of coloured water catching the sun on the windowsill. Here are the tools of her trade which, combined with William’s professional skills, maintain the health of the household and the village. But it is the great pestle and mortar that holds pride of place upon the counter, sitting next to her father’s invaluable journals. After the Great Fire had burned itself out and the earth was cool enough, she and William had returned to the ruins to retrieve them.
A new city of London is rising from the ashes of the old. St Paul’s had burned, after all; the heat of the fire so great that the stone exploded and the lead from the roof melted until it ran like a river in the streets. But plans are underway to build a magnificent new cathedral. The city had mourned and many people were ruined but it hadn’t taken long for the Londoners with their indomitable spirit to roll up their sleeves, clear the rubble and start rebuilding. And who knows, thinks Susannah, perhaps the cleansing by fire, though as painful as cauterising the wound of an amputated limb, might ensure better health for all who lived there.
Susannah potters about for a while, tying herbs into neat bunches and making new labels for the gallypots. Writing an entry into the latest journal, she notes the ingredients for a new prescription for quinsy. She glances out of the window and sees that the sun is high in the sky. It is time. She locks the door of the apothecary behind her and sets off down the garden again.
In the orchard she opens the door in the wall and slips throu
gh onto the grassy river bank.
Emmanuel and Joseph are fishing at the far end of the landing stage with their feet dangling over the water.
Susannah sits on the grass and waits.
Presently she sees a boat approaching and shades her eyes against the sun. A moorhen splatters to the opposite bank in sudden panic, casting diamond drops in her wake.
Leaping to her feet, Susannah waves both arms.
The boatman ties up at the landing stage and William jumps out and enfolds her in his embrace. ‘I’ve missed you,’ he whispers. Then he turns back to the boat and helps a woman to disembark. ‘This is our new guest, Mistress Picard,’ he says, ‘come to rest with us awhile.’
Mistress Pickard, distress etched in her face, looks up at Susannah with wounded eyes.
‘You are very welcome,’ says Susannah, taking her hand. ‘Come, let me show you Merryfields.’
William carries her bags into the house leaving the two women to follow. They walk together through the garden, while Susannah talks to her of the fine library, the gardens and the other guests who are waiting to greet her.
Mistress Pickard stops under the arbour and slowly reaches out to stroke the soft petals of a dog rose and to breathe in its sweet scent.
‘You may have a garden of your own if you wish,’ Susannah says.
Mistress Pickard bends to scoop up a handful of soil and rubs it through her fingers. ‘I should like that. My mother grew gillyflowers in her garden when I was a child.’
Susannah takes Mistress Pickard to her room and leaves her to unpack and rest after her journey. Closing the door quietly behind her, she hurries along the gallery to her own bedchamber.
Inside, William is stripped to the waist and rinsing his face in a basin of warm water. He looks up at her with a smile as sweet as honey. ‘There you are!’
Susannah lifts her face to receive his kiss.
‘I need to clean the city dirt away before I kiss you properly.’
‘Shall I wash your back?’ Susannah rubs the wet soap between her palms and smoothes it over his broad shoulders, taking pleasure in the aromatic lavender scent as she eases her thumbs along the muscles next to his spine. After five years of marriage, touching his naked skin still makes her shiver with delight.
He tips his head so that she can massage away the knots of tension in the side of his neck. ‘Guess who I saw in the city yesterday?’ he says.
‘The King?’ hazards Susannah. ‘Not quite.’
‘Who then?’
‘Arabella!’
‘No!’ Surprise makes the soap squeeze out of her hand and fall with a splash into the basin. ‘After all this time!’ Apprehension makes her voice sharp. ‘But what news of my little brothers? Are they safe and well?’
‘Up to all kinds of mischief, I understand. I knew you’d want to see them and Arabella has graciously said they may come and stay for a few weeks since she has arrangements to make.’
‘Arrangements?’
‘She was in a smart carriage with a gentleman. If I’m not mistaken he’ll soon be husband number three.’
‘Aunt Agnes always said that Arabella would fall on her feet.’ Relief that Joshua and Samuel are well is mixed with irritation that Arabella is as self-serving as ever. She turns William to face her, forgetting Arabella as she moves her soapy hands in slow circles over his torso, the light covering of dark hair on his chest forming into spiral patterns. She drops a lingering kiss on the soft skin in the hollow above his collarbone and smiles in anticipation as she feels him quiver with pleasure under her lips.
‘Susannah?’
‘Mmm?’ Slowly she wipes away the soap with a linen cloth and pats him dry with a clean towel. Tracing a finger over his chest, a tremor of excitement and longing grips her; the desire to reaffirm the passion they feel for each other.
He takes her face in his hands and she drowns in the love shining in his eyes. She loses herself in the fervour of his kisses as she feels his heartbeat quicken to match her own.
Loosening her laces, he murmurs words of love as he buries his face in her breast. Her petticoats fall to the floor in a silken rustle and then her bare skin is warm against his.
The sheets are cool and slightly rough against their nakedness as they slide into bed. She winds her arms about his neck, arching her back to press her breasts against him. She wants to close the space between them, to meld their bodies together for all time.
‘My sweet Susannah,’ he whispers. His lips are hot on her neck as he traces her body with his hands. He runs a fingertip very slowly down her belly until he finds her secret place and she lies quivering beneath his touch, liquid with desire. William lifts her hips to his and she lets out a small gasp of pleasure as he enters her. He whispers her name as they move together, softly at first and then more urgently as their passion rises. Swelling waves of sensation ripple through Susannah’s body and surge to a climax. She lets out a cry of triumph, gripping William to her breast.
He arches his back as his own pleasure takes him, sighs and sinks down beside her.
A little while later, curled up against his shoulder, listening to his steady breathing, Susannah sighs in contentment. William’s love has given her the strength to mourn and move on to the new life they have made together.
He turns to look at her, his dark eyes smiling and, once again, Susannah sends up a prayer of thanks for the comfort and joy of their love.
‘Now I know I am truly come home,’ he says. ‘But we should rise before someone comes looking for us.’
‘And it would never do to find the serious and responsible doctor in bed with his wife in the middle of the afternoon.’
William kisses the tip of her nose. ‘No, it wouldn’t. I’d never be able to look my patients in the eye again.’
Susannah stretches luxuriously. ‘Two more minutes?’
‘Go on with you, you little hussy, time to get up!’
William is tying the laces on Susannah’s bodice when footsteps race along the passage and the door is flung back. ‘Father!’ Beth races to him, her arms wide.
William glances at Susannah in amusement. ‘Not a moment too soon,’ he murmurs. He lifts Beth up and kisses her. ‘Have you been good while I was away, my little sugar plum?’
‘Very good! And I made jumbals, especially for you!’ Beth hugs him tight, covering his cheek with sticky kisses.
‘Has she been good enough for sugar plums, Mama?’
Susannah smiles, pinning her tumbled curls back into place. ‘Yes, but only one or two, not a whole box.’
William laughs and swings Beth down to the ground. ‘Come on then! But first I want to make a visit.’
‘I know where we’re going!’ says Beth. She skips along the gallery and William and Susannah follow, hand in hand.
Beth stops outside a door where puts a finger to her lips before carefully lifting the latch.
Inside, Phoebe is singing while she rocks the cradle with her foot. She smiles a greeting and hold out her arms to Beth, who scrambles onto her knee.
William comes quietly forward and looks into the cradle at his sleeping son.
Susannah watches his features soften as her own heart swells with love. There can be no place closer to heaven on earth than her home at Merryfields with her husband and children.
William, gently stroking baby Kit’s dark hair, looks up at her with a face alight with love and reaches for her hand.
Acknowledgements
Love and thanks to my husband Simon, all my lovely children and to my parents for their endless support, to Howard Barlow who believed in me, to Edward Smith and members of youwriteon.com for the reviews, to my agent Annette Green and my editor Lucy Icke at Piatkus who’s helped me to make the story flower.
My gratitude to all the members of WordWatchers for their friendly encouragement and plain speaking.
And finally, my thanks to Samuel Pepys, whose diary allowed me a peep into Restoration London.
Turn the page
Charlotte Betts’s second novel
Coming soon from Piatkus
Chapter 1
November 1687
Darkness had already fallen when shouts and then the sound of a whistle blown three times made Beth’s head jerk up from her easel. Her paintbrush slid from her hand and fell unheeded to the floor. Instantly alert, she reached for her own silver whistle, which always hung round her neck. Noises in the night were not unusual in a lunatic asylum but generally the disturbance came from within the walls, not from the outside.
Several sets of footsteps raced along the gallery and in the courtyard below Orpheus began to bark as furiously as if the Devil himself had knocked at the gate. Beth pushed open the casement and hung shivering over the sill to peer into the frosty night.
The servants had run outside with lamps and there was a throng of shouting people milling around in the flickering light. The commotion was too great for anyone to hear when she called down to them so she hurried to investigate.
In the stone-flagged hall the front door was wide open to the night air and Poor Joan and a small group of anxious inmates huddled together, while Beth’s mother and her youngest brother, John, attempted to reassure them. Orpheus still raged outside, his barks reverberating around the courtyard louder than a peal of bells in a belfry.
Beth caught sight of her father’s black-clad figure striding purposefully across the hall and ran after him down the front steps and into the courtyard.
‘Orpheus!’ William Ambrose caught hold of the wolfhound’s collar and pulled his big head round to face him. The dog’s teeth were bared in a vicious snarl and spittle frothed his muzzle. William snapped his fingers. ‘Quiet, sir! Your job is done!’ When Orpheus gave a throaty growl William raised a warning finger. ‘Beth, take control of this hell-hound, while I find out what is happening.’
‘Yes, Father.’ Beth hooked her fingers through the dog’s studded collar and tickled his ears until he quietened.
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