by Tim Vicary
Her mother was indignant. “‘Tis proper shameful, to fright a poor maid so! Her first child, too! She didn’t miscarry, did she, Adam?”
“Not by the time Will left, anyhow,” replied her father. “No thanks to her visitors, though. Will says they even poked under her bed with their swords — though what they found there wasn’t worth seeking for!”
Little Sarah giggled, but Ann did not.
“How do you know ‘twas Robert Pole, then? I’m sure he wouldn’t do such a thing.”
“‘Course he would!” Simon burst out. “He’s a soldier, isn’t he? Or do you know him better than that?”
“No, of course not. Only — he seemed a nice gentleman enough.”
“Nice gentleman, indeed!” Simon pursued his advantage. “Anyways, Will saw him. He’ll be around here one evening next! Come on, Ann — what did you tell him about us? What was he asking? Didn’t he ask a lot of questions about Colyton folk?”
Ann smiled. That at least she was sure about. “Of course he didn’t, Simon. What would he want to know about us for?”
Her smile infuriated Simon. “About our being ready to rise and arm and throw out idolaters like him, that’s what! About ...”
“Simon!” Their father’s voice snapped sharply, like a whipcrack. His gaze subdued his son, who looked sullenly down at the table. Ann looked from one to the other of them, seeking the reason for the outburst and its sudden end. Was it that Simon had insulted Robert, or ... the look had seemed to carry more than that, as though Simon had been about to betray a secret known only to the men.
She had heard some of the rumours that had been abroad in the past few weeks. The militia had been called out in Taunton and Exeter because it was feared that King Charles’s illegitimate son, the Duke of Monmouth, would return to England with an army from Holland to oppose his uncle, King James; but there had been such rumours many times over the past few years, which had come to nothing. They did have a gun in the house, of course, but only her grandfather’s old matchlock musket, which had been there all her life without being used. So was there more, this time, that she did not know? The sudden, unexpected silence upset her. Did they really believe she could not be trusted, that she would betray them - her family - to Robert Pole?
Her mother looked as surprised and upset as she was. “What’s this about arms? Simon? Adam? For the love of God, you’re not involved in any plot, are you?”
“No, Mary, calm yourself.” Adam bent his head and tickled little Oliver in the tummy, to distract him from the tension in the room. “‘Tis only the boy’s tongue running away with him, from hearing ‘prentices talk of the pride of the militia in Taunton. No more.” He turned sternly to Simon. “And I would not have my son abusing other men as idolaters, unless he has proof that they follow the church of Rome.”
“Robert Pole is no Papist!” said Ann, indignantly. “You know that, Simon. You saw him in Colyton church last Sunday. And ...”
“That proves nothing. So do many Papists go to church, to stay within the law and keep their offices. But what he does at home’s another matter.”
“Why, that’s no different to us, then,” said Ann. “For all you know, he might as well be a Baptist or a Presbyterian like us, and go to a conventicle in secret!”
“Simon, I have said before that I will not have you abuse other men without proof,” said Adam, from the chair where he sat with Oliver. “Do you have any reason, other than the malice in your heart, to accuse any member of the Pole family of Papacy?”
Simon looked less abashed than hurt, as though his father was betraying him by his blind refusal to admit the obvious.
“What would he be searching honest folk’s houses for then, looking for arms that might help the Duke of Monmouth rid us of a Papist King? What if the Poles came here?”
Adam was silent - only for a moment, for the time it took for Ann to realise that the thrush outside had stopped singing, and for her younger sister Rachel to take the fish off the fire because they were burning; but it was long enough for Mary Carter to feel fear turn like a knife in her stomach.
“Adam Carter! What is the truth behind all this talk?” She moved forward suddenly, to look closely into her husband’s face, and almost knocked over Rachel, who was carrying the pan from the fire. “What arms could Robert Pole find here, if he did come to search this house?”
“My father’s old musket, that he used against the King in his time. No more. You know that as well as I do, woman.” Adam looked back at her for a long moment, his lined face tense, determined, defiant. He felt his hand trembling, and gripped the edge of the chair to stop it.
Mary searched his face for the safety of her family. It was an answer about more than muskets.
“Mummy! I’m hungry! Can we have the fish now?” Little Sarah broke the silence by banging her knife on the table. Mary Carter sighed, and the tension eased slightly.
“Yes, if your father will thank God for what He has given us.”
The family sat on the long wooden benches around the table and bowed their heads as Adam said grace, and then for a while they ate in silence, cutting the mackerel off the bone with their knives and putting the slippery pieces on slices of bread to eat. Rachel boned the fish for Oliver, and pushed away the cat which had crept up under him, hoping for pieces to fall to the floor. Then Ann lit the tallow dips, and Sarah began a story about a pedlar who had spilt a sackful of candles at the top of Market Street, so that people had had to jump and skip to get out of the way as they came rolling down the hill, and for a while the family atmosphere eased.
When the table had been cleared, their father read to them from the Bible. They prayed together, as they always did, and then the younger girls and little Oliver went up to bed. Mary went upstairs to see to them, and after a moment Adam Carter turned to his son.
“Simon, if you would forgive me, I feel I must speak to your sister alone. There is my study, if you wish to read.”
Simon looked surprised, but got to his feet. “No, thank you father. I had thought to take a walk down to the bridge, before sleeping.”
Ann watched him go out, and then turned her eyes to her father, with a bold, innocent curiosity, quite at odds with the nervous flutter in her stomach. How much did he really know? Her father was thought of as a kind man, yet few in the stern village community would have blamed him taking his belt to her, had they known of her behaviour with Robert that afternoon.
He glanced at her, then lit his long clay pipe with a spill from the fire, frowning as he sought for words.
“Ann, I would not have you set too much store by what your brother said tonight, but yet there was a grain of sense in it. I trust you did not speak to Robert Pole about our religion, nor about what you may have heard said in this house, and others, concerning the King.”
“Why no, father, of course not.” She blushed furiously, taken by surprise. “We did not speak of such things. And if he were to try to use me as a spy, as Simon said, I think I should have enough sense to see it.”
“I hope you would.” Adam paused, the ruddy firelight flickering on his lean, solemn face. His eyes sought hers, and held them. “I hope too, that no more has passed between you, but honest talk on the highway.”
“Why no, father.” Her eyes widened slightly, in surprised innocence, and stared back at him, look for look. Yet she felt the blush prickling her cheeks, and was glad of the disguise of the firelight.
“He has made no improper suggestions then, nor met with you alone?” The words came hard and stern; Adam Carter loved his daughter dearly, but he knew her too well to fully trust those wide, innocent green eyes. Just as they had so often beguiled him to spare the rod when she was younger, so he could easily see how they might have tempted a young cavalier like Robert Pole, well used to getting what he wanted, especially from women.
“No, father, he has not.” But she could not hold his gaze; she looked away from him into the fire, her face half-hidden by the red glow of her hair. “
Well, not really improper.”
“Ann, tell me. Remember, a lie endangers your immortal soul.”
She knew it, and trembled within – an icy shiver that started from her stomach and spread through all her limbs, leaving her cold and desperate and a little distant from herself, so that she watched her own seemingly nervous, blushing reply critically, as though it were a performance.
“It was … it was not really improper, father, only … he did ask if I would ride a little along with him. But I didn’t go, and he took my refusal most gentlemanlike. I … I think he meant no harm by it.”
“And that was all? You didn’t go?”
“No, father.”
“Then no harm’s done.” He looked at her steadily for a moment, silent. She saw herself through his eyes – calm now, no longer blushing, hands modestly clasped on her lap, able to face him again with those wide, innocent eyes, and then look away, humbly, towards the fire. The performance would do – if only this terrible flutter did not keep returning to her stomach.
“I’m glad, then. For you know, Ann, he is far above us in wealth and position, and his opinions and those of his family are not shared by most men of this village. And we live in times when men’s opinions may easily lead to blows – ‘tis not every man who will submit peaceably to having his house searched and his wife disturbed by some whipper-snapper with a magistrate’s warrant in one hand and a pistol in the other!”
“Oh, father, I can hardly believe it of him! To disturb a woman in childbed, in her own house – surely there must be some mistake?” She hesitated, realizing that the concern in her voice was too sincere. “I mean only, he seemed so gentlemanlike and fair-spoken, I couldn’t imagine it of him.”
“Fair-spoken to you perhaps, when he was trying to beguile a pretty girl by the road-side; but he is a soldier, Ann, and such rude violence is part of the everyday life of such men. Oh Ann, I do believe he has beguiled you too, with his fair words and handsome clothes – ‘tis true, isn’t it, girl?”
She looked down shyly, the picture of modesty. “Perhaps, a little, father. He did seem a fine man, and not at all unmannerly.”
“Ann, my dear, that’s how they all seem, when they want something of a maid! And you mustn’t think I’d be set against the lad, for all his Tory ways, if the Lord was to see fit to send him to me to ask permission to make my daughter a lady in Shute manor. ‘Twould be a fine thing, for the daughter of a humble mercer and carrier, with a bit of trade and a few pack-horses to his name. But that’s not what he has in mind, my girl, is it now?”
For a moment there had been a slight shy hope in his voice, far behind the firm, fatherly kindness and worldly wisdom. She looked away from him, into the embers of the fire.
“No, father, I suppose not.” For a second she wished she could respond to his kindness and that shy hope, and tell him the truth about her love for Robert and his plans, and the temptation she felt … But she knew he would be appalled at their shamelessness, and certain that Robert was trying to trick her by offering even so much. And - wouldn’t he be right?
“So if you should happen to see him again, give him a cool answer and pass by. ‘Twill save you a lot of trouble in the end. And in any case, there be better men nearer home.”
“Yes, father.”
“You know that Tom Goodchild came to see me, some days ago, to ask my permission to pay court to you?”
Ann did not move, but her heart began to beat hard against her ribs. To lie by showing any interest in Tom would get her out of the danger of one trap into another. And yet it was a trap that, three weeks ago, she would have longed for.
Adam persisted. “Has he spoken to you of it yet?”
“He has asked me to wear his ring.”
“Has he, by Heaven! Then you’re a lucky girl! But where is it? You aren’t wearing it.”
“I ... I told him I wasn’t sure. I think ... perhaps I’m too young.”
“Too young? Nonsense, girl! Why, your mother and I were having the banns read when she was younger than you! She was scarce your age when you were born!”
“What’s this, Adam? Talk of our wedding? That’s a good many years past, now.”
They both looked up to see Mary Carter come in from the stair door. She sat down on a bench by the table, smoothed her crumpled apron over her skirts, and looked at them expectantly, a soft smile crinkling her round rosy face in the firelight. Ann realized it was nearly dark outside now.
“You remember I told you Tom Goodchild had spoken for Ann, Mary, to be betrothed to her. But the silly maid says she’s too young!”
“I’ve not refused him, mother,” Ann said hurriedly. “Only asked him for time to think.”
“Poor lad. I should have thought you’d have had time to think already – all these years going round with him and playing together.”
“But … that was just play and friendliness, mother. I know you were married at my age, but I do feel young, somehow, to have my own house and care for a husband and children. Did you not feel so?”
“‘Twas all I ever wanted, girl.” Her mother’s voice was puzzled. “Of course, we had some hard times, especially when you were in the cradle and I was carrying Simon, but so do all young mothers. ‘Tis only part of growing up.”
“But if you don’t feel you are ready for it?”
“Now, Ann, this is some strange Pride to be striven against,” Adam said firmly. The ritual of confession to a Catholic priest had long been abolished, but the rigorous purging of sin from other men’s souls had been taken over and strengthened by the Puritans. Adam knew it was his duty to care for his daughter’s soul as well as for her body, whatever the state of his own might be.
“Do you feel yourself different, or better than other women, in some way? Or is it that Tom Goodchild is no longer good enough for you?”
“No, father, of course it’s not that, but …”
“You can cook well enough, can’t you, and sew and spin and wash clothes? You know how to keep house and care for babies. And it’s not as though Tom were a man from another town, who would take you away from your friends and family. You have known and loved him since you were babes together. So how can it not be Pride, when the Lord favours you with an offer from such a man as this? A godly man, prosperous, well thought of by all? Answer me that!”
“I didn’t say I had refused him, father. It’s just that … I know he’s a good man, as you say, and I couldn’t hope for better – but I’m not sure if I’m ready to love him as a wife. I don’t think I’m better than he is – I think perhaps I’m much worse.”
Again the modest look, the innocent eyes appealing, then downcast; but the distress was real enough.
“Let the girl be, Adam. Ann, my dear, listen. That is what betrothal is for - to get used to the idea. As I understand it, he hasn’t asked you to marry him tomorrow, has he?”
“No, mother.”
“Then say to him that you’ll be his betrothed, but do not wish to marry for a few weeks, perhaps a month or so. That’s how we were, weren’t we, Adam? And I do understand a little of how you feel - ‘tis a bit of a fearsome business even when you long for it as I did, to take on a man and house and children all at once, when a few months before you had nothing. But if you let the idea grow with you for a time, then you may find you’re more ready for it, when the time do come.”
“Perhaps, mother. But what if you’re not? If you’ve given your word and then don’t like the idea after all?”
“That’s why you must think a little before giving it. But I’d be sad to think it would come to that, with you and Tom Goodchild.”
“And you can’t keep him waiting too long for an answer,” said Adam. “I’d thought to ask his family around to sup with us soon. ‘Twould be a fine thing to be able to celebrate a betrothal at the same time.”
“Yes, father. I … I must think a little more about it. If I may go to bed now, I’ll think of it there.” She rose quietly, kissed her parents goodnight, and
went upstairs to the bedroom she shared with her two young sisters, who were already asleep.
Adam and Mary watched her go, and then looked at each other, troubled, in the firelight.
4
ANN UNDRESSED slowly in the moonlight, and slipped into bed beside Rachel, quietly so as not to wake her. Then she lay for a long while awake, listening to the steady breathing of Rachel beside her, and the occasional soft grunts and gasps of little Sarah as she fought the bedding in the truckle bed in the other side of the room. Sarah had always been a restless sleeper, and Ann was glad she did not have to share a bed with her. She watched the infinitesimally slow progress of the moonlight across the beams and plaster of the walls and the floor, and listened to the hoot of owls from the church tower, and the occasional scurry of mice behind the wainscot.
What had she decided? What should she decide? All evening she had held her feelings about Robert safe and secret inside her; and now that she brought them out to examine she found it hard to disentangle them from other feelings, equally confused.
She had lied to her father - would she be damned for that? For a moment she saw in her mind’s eye a vision of Hell - a flaming lake of burning fire on which the figures of the damned struggled and smouldered endlessly, like flies on their backs in water. Within this was her own private horror, in which she and the other damned were chained helplessly to burning rocks, while the demons in the shape of huge sharp-jawed snakes slithered around, nibbling off a nose here and a breast there, and poking their infected snouts into the bowels and brains of people who could never die or escape, but only suffer, screaming silently forever.
A cold sweat prickled on her skin, and she almost leapt out of bed and ran next door into her parents’ room to tell them that she could not bear to go to Hell, that she had lied, and needed their forgiveness. But she forced herself to lie still, her eyes open, until gradually the vision faded, and she could think clearly once more.