by Mary Hooper
Filled with pity, I waited for the spasm to pass from her before I prompted her to continue. ‘A letter?’
She nodded and felt among the folds of her dress for her pocket, then dropped the letter out of the window.
It fell on to the cobblestones and lay there for a moment (for to tell the truth I feared to handle it) until Abby cried that I must take it up. I was forced to do so then, and holding it outstretched before me, I ran home with it.
At the corner I looked back, but Abby had again disappeared.
Chapter Thirteen
The first week of September
A saddler who had buried all his children dead of the Plague, did desire only to save the life of his remaining little child, and so prevailed to have it received stark naked into the arms of a friend.’
I sobbed all the way back to the shop and people avoided me as I ran, for they probably thought I was afflicted and half-mad.
Sarah was standing in the doorway with a grave expression upon her face, but my sudden tearful appearance distracted her from whatever had caused this. I gave her the letter and explained in a few words about Abby. Without speaking she shut the shop and we went through to our little room in the back.
She turned the letter over in her hands. ‘We should steam it over vinegar,’ she said.
‘But I have already handled it in bringing it here!’
She shrugged, and I knew she was trying not to alarm me. ‘Then we won’t bother.’
We sat down together on the bed and she peeled up the seal and opened the folded piece of paper. It was a page torn from a book, the handwriting being on one side.
‘It is written in an educated hand,’ Sarah said, ‘although you can see that whoever it is from—’
‘It is from Abby’s employer, Mrs Beauchurch,’ I said.
‘Her hand wavers and she is in some distress.’ Sarah then read out the letter, which was addressed to me.
‘Dear Hannah,
I beg and beseech you in the name of the Almighty that you take my child, Grace, upon receipt of this letter, and carry her with all speed to my sister the Lady Jane at Highclear House, in Dorchester. My child is lusty and hearty now, but if left in this house of death she will surely perish. There are Certificates of Health for you and your sister, but you must travel under the names of Abigail and myself. A carriage has been procured and will be at the sign of the Eagle and Child in Gracechurch Street each day awaiting your arrival. The driver is my sister’s man and has a Certificate to travel.
On reaching Dorchester, Lady Jane will ensure that you and your sister are well cared for. You will be permitted to stay until the Visitation has left London, when you will be given safe passage back.
May the prayers of a mother melt your heart and you find it within yourselves to grant my dying wish and save my child.
By my hand this 30th day of August 1665.
Maria Beauchurch.’
‘Abby is terribly sick and so strange that I could scarce believe it was her,’ I said to Sarah. I lifted a corner of my skirt and wiped my eyes on it. ‘What will we do?’
She put down the letter and turned to look at me. ‘We will go, of course,’ she said calmly, ‘for our own sakes as well as that of the babe. We will not get another chance of leaving London and it grows more dangerous here by the minute.’
I was still shaking from the shock of seeing my poor friend, and from hearing what was asked of us. ‘Must we really go?’ I asked.
She nodded. ‘For when you appeared then, I had just been told a terrible thing by Mr Newbery.’
I looked at her. ‘But there are so many terrible things.’
‘The Bills. They show six thousand dead in London in the last week.’
‘Six thousand!’
‘And nearly two more thousand dead of “other causes” – and they fear it will get higher, for there are so many dying all around that there are no longer enough men to board up and guard the houses. Mr Newbery says the afflicted will now begin to walk the streets and infect others, and the whole population may fall.’
I put my face in my hands, uttering a cry of distress. How had I ever thought that living here in this city . . . this charnel house . . . was preferable to living in the serenity I had enjoyed in the country?
Sarah was already moving about our room, pulling things out of our nest of drawers and stuffing them into a cloth bag. ‘We will wear our good gowns,’ she said. ‘For if we are to act the rich mistress and her nursemaid, then we must look the part.’
She stepped out of her workaday dress and apron and threw them on the bed, then took down her best grey taffeta gown and jacket, and put on her little lace hood. ‘’Tis not the height of fashion,’ she said, ‘but I daresay that the men at the city gates won’t know any better.’
She came to me and clasped my hands in hers. ‘This is our way out, Hannah. This will save us!’ I did not reply or move and she shook my shoulders gently. ‘Set to, Hannah. You can wear your blue and put my little travelling cape over the top.’
I rose and turned so Sarah could unbutton my gown at the back, my mind a mess of thoughts: Tom, Abby, our journey, the babe . . .
‘We will shut up the shop and not tell anyone where we’re going, for who knows but there might be some law against impersonating a person of quality and using their Certificate of Health,’ Sarah said. I nodded obediently. I would let Sarah take charge, for I did not wish to have to decide things myself.
Two bags were packed with some clean shifts and a change of clothes each, and somehow I found myself dressed and ready, a cape around my shoulders and a clean white cap on my head. Sarah decided to leave what there was left of our plague sweetmeats outside the shop for the poor to eat (which they would, of course, immediately) for she said it would just encourage rats if we left them inside.
‘And who knows – our sweetmeats might do someone some good,’ she said.
There was a knot of fear in my stomach as we closed our shop behind us. Suppose it was discovered that we were travelling under false documents? Would we then be consigned to the pest hospital (which I had heard was little more than a burial ground)? And – worse still – suppose little Grace carried the plague germs on her? If everyone else in that house had succumbed, why should she be spared?
Sarah secured the door and then, having thought of something else, went back inside and came out carrying a folded linen sheet.
‘We mustn’t take anything from Abby’s house,’ she said, pushing the sheet into the bag. ‘For they say you should remove nothing from a house which has plague in it.’
‘But we are taking Grace—’
‘We will have to trust that she is healthy. But she must have no clothing or swaddling cloths on her. Nothing in which plague germs could hide.’
She closed the door again just as Mr Newbery came out from his shop. ‘I’m shutting up,’ he said. ‘What is the point of making parchment and fine writing papers when no one’s buying them?’ He looked at us curiously. ‘But are you shutting up too? I would have thought your business was doing well.’
‘We are . . . are . . .’ Sarah stumbled.
‘Going to church!’ I finished for her.
‘Well, that’s very good and commendable,’ Mr Newbery said. ‘Though you may not get in through the gates, what with all those corpses lying about!’
‘We will somehow manage to get in and pray,’ I said piously.
‘And spend the rest of the day in silent contemplation of our fate,’ Sarah added.
‘Well, say a prayer for me,’ Mr Newbery said. ‘I’ll be in a pew in the Three Pigeons.’ He gave us a wave and walked off in the opposite direction.
Sarah and I did not speak for some moments, for I was deep in thoughts of what might lie ahead. Deep in thoughts of Tom, too, and as we approached Doctor da Silva’s I asked if I might go and say goodbye to him.
‘I’d rather you did not,’ Sarah said. ‘For the less people know about our flight from London, the better.’<
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‘But Tom can be trusted,’ I pleaded. ‘And think how worried he’ll be if he comes down to see me and finds the shop empty. He’ll think we’ve both been taken by the sickness.’
She sighed, but in the end gave me leave to see him. ‘Hurry, though,’ she said as I pushed open the door of the apothecary’s. ‘With Abby so very ill, every moment is precious.’
Tom was in the shop, and I quickly explained to him and the doctor what was happening, and they were most anxious and concerned for us. The doctor gave me a sleeping draught for the babe, a strong purging elixir for Abby, and also two onions which I was to tell her to roast and place on the buboes to try and bring them to a head. He packed these things into a small valise and told Tom to escort us to Belle Vue House to ensure that we had safe passage.
Any other time I would have been merry whilst walking with Tom through the City, but this was very different. The three of us barely spoke as we hurried along, and when we did it was just to murmur in low tones of the dire things we saw around us. There were more corpses placed outside houses for collection – I saw at least three – and other sad sights: a woman sobbing, ‘Dead, all dead!’ from a top-floor window and a man dressed only with a rag around his private parts, crying aloud and tearing at his flesh with his fingernails so that his arms and chest ran with blood. We also saw a death cart trundling along, so over-full with corpses that some were slumped across the bench seat with the driver.
Tom hurried us past all these sights until we arrived in the vicinity of Belle Vue House, and here the streets became quieter, most of the residents having gone into the country some time before.
Going round to the back of the house my heart was heavy, for I was fearful of what condition Abby would be in. If she was well I feared the effect giving the babe away would have on her, for she loved Grace, and caring for her gave her something to live for. If she was worse – well, I did not dare think on that.
As before, there was no answer to my call. We all tried, calling softly at first and then more loudly, and in the end Tom gave a most piercing whistle, like a blackbird, but even this did not bring her to the window.
‘I fear she may have fallen into a deep sleep,’ I said. For I had heard that this is what happened just before plague sufferers died.
‘I fear she—’ Tom began, but then glanced at me and did not finish.
We looked around us. A large green and gold vine encircled the house, going right up to the fourth floor, but Sarah decided that it was not strong enough to climb, or Tom might have shinned up it.
We called some more but then had to stop, because the watchman on duty at the front of the house came round wanting to know what we were at. Tom, luckily, having been warned of the man’s arrival by the sound of his boots on the cobblestones, ducked into one of the empty stables and so was not seen by him.
‘Our sister is the maid in this house and we are concerned for her welfare,’ I informed the guard – but very politely, for I knew we must not arouse his suspicions or enmity.
‘When did you last take in food to anyone in there?’ Sarah asked anxiously.
‘The milch-ass called this morning as usual and a flagon of milk was sent up,’ he said. He looked suspiciously at our bundles of clothes on the ground. ‘Anything which goes into this house must go through me. And nothing must come out!’
We assured him that of course it would not, and he went back to the front of the house again.
Tom reappeared. ‘I have an idea,’ he said. ‘As this looks to be a slow business, why don’t you go to the Eagle and Child and secure the carriage, while I wait here for you. I will call Abby meantimes, and when you return, if I have not roused her, I will insist on being let in the house. I will say I am an apothecary and that I have been sent by the parish.’
‘We cannot ask you to do—’ Sarah began, but Tom hushed her.
‘Go and get the carriage,’ he said. ‘You must act with all haste.’
Sarah knew the Eagle and Child, which was a large and notable inn in Gracechurch Street with stables at the back. While Sarah waited in the courtyard, I went in to ask for the inn-keeper’s wife and, when she appeared, informed her that I was the maid at Belle Vue House and that my mistress was Mrs Beauchurch.
‘Do you have something for us?’ I asked.
She was obviously expecting me and, nodding her head, she went to a locked cupboard and took a roll of parchment from it. She then fetched a deep canvas bag. Unrolling the parchment I found it contained a sum of money and the two Health Certificates of which Abby had spoken, one in her name and one in that of Mrs Beauchurch. They stated that, being free of the pestilence we should be granted safe passage out of London. They were signed by the Lord Mayor himself, Sir John Lawrence.
In the canvas bag there was a soft white woollen shawl for Grace, a flask of wine, a travelling rug and cushions for Sarah and myself, also some kid gloves, a lantern and some other little items for our comfort during the journey.
I went outside to the courtyard and rejoined Sarah, and in a few moments two horses were brought out of the stables, and a groom had wheeled out a small blue-varnished carriage, a coat of arms on its door, from the coach house. While we waited there a boy ran helter-skelter through the yard, and returned a few moments later with a stout and bald man of perhaps fifty years. This fellow bowed and introduced himself to us as Mr Carter, coachman to the Lady Jane.
Sarah, holding her head high, told him that she was Mrs Beauchurch.
‘Indeed,’ he said, giving a slight wink. ‘And you are hardly changed since your last visit to Dorchester.’
Sarah inclined her head, and managed very well not to look askance at this.
‘I have been expecting you, and I am to be your coachman and your guard for the journey,’ Mr Carter went on. ‘Your passage has been considered and your stops planned ahead of us. I only hope you will not find the journey too arduous.’
Sarah, in her role as gracious lady, smiled her thanks. ‘We are looking forward to it,’ she said, and then hesitated. ‘When we are all prepared here, I have to go back to my house to collect my child,’ she added. ‘It is just a short distance away.’
‘I am at your service,’ Mr Carter murmured.
As the horses were bridled and prepared I was still in an agony of fear about Abby, but could not help but marvel at the smooth way everything had been made ready for us. Sarah said to me quietly that it was all to do with money, and that anything, any service, could be procured if someone was willing to pay enough for it.
Feeling very nervous, but also very grand – for neither of us had ever been driven in a carriage before – Sarah directed Mr Carter to Belle Vue House. On drawing close by, we asked him to stop just out of view of the courtyard, for we were both anxious about being noticed by the watchman. If this happened, Sarah said, if it became known that we were stealing a child away from an enclosed house, then he would certainly lock us all into the house and inform the magistrates.
Alighting and going to the courtyard, we found that Tom had not been able to rouse Abby, and that he now proposed to go inside the house. ‘For what could be more natural than an apothecary should attend his patient,’ he said, holding up his valise. ‘Doctor da Silva does it all the time.’
‘I don’t think you should go,’ I said worriedly, but although part of me wanted to beg him not to risk such danger, I had no idea how we would secure little Grace otherwise.
Tom took my hand. ‘It’s nothing. I see plague sufferers every day of the week. Just wish me well and wait here for me.’
‘Be careful,’ was all I could say in return, and though I knew that these words sounded pitifully inadequate, my mind was so full of fear and dread that I could not think of any others.
While Sarah and I waited, Tom went around to the front of the house. I do not know what he said to the guard, but a few moments later his face appeared at the first-floor window we had been calling up to for so long.
‘Is it all right?’ I a
sked breathlessly. ‘Have you found Abby?’
He did not reply and I asked again, already knowing in my heart what he was about to say.
‘I have,’ he said gravely.
Sarah took my hand and held it.
‘She is here on the stairs,’ he went on, ‘but, Hannah, I do not think she suffered much, for there is a look of hope on her face.’
‘Her hope was that you would come back,’ Sarah said, looking at me with great pity. ‘She must have been looking out for you.’
So Abby was dead.
Dead. The word struck me cold and brutal, and the image which came into my head of my lovely friend being no more than a heap of rotting flesh made me want to scream and sob and pull at my clothes like the mad people in the streets did. I dared not indulge myself, though, for we had much to do if I was to carry out Abby’s last wishes. I did not even allow myself to weep, but knew I must put my feelings to one side until later.
‘What . . . what of the babe?’ I asked Tom, and I was bitterly scared now, for if she too was dead, then all this had been for nothing.
Tom disappeared, and came back a moment later with a bundle in his arms. ‘I have her here,’ he said, holding up Grace. ‘She was sleeping, but now she smiles at me.’
At this I felt a rush of tears to my eyes. ‘Is she well?’ I asked anxiously.
‘She seems well enough,’ Tom said, looking her over. ‘I am no expert but her eyes are bright, she seems well-fed, and she is pink-cheeked.’
‘Will you bring her out to us now?’ Sarah asked in a low voice.
‘And risk being seen by the guard?’ Tom said. ‘I think not. We must—’
‘Is there a basket nearby?’ I asked suddenly. ‘There was one with a rope attached which the household used to get its provisions.’
‘There is,’ Tom said, bending down for it. ‘And I think it will be just big enough.’
‘Will you take off her things, Tom,’ Sarah said. ‘We have brought a clean sheet to wrap her in.’