Pausing, she turned toward Lucy. “Do you know, I was still in the Massachusetts Bay Colony when we heard tell of the Great Fire. Of course, by that time, it was all over. God’s plan it was, for the Fire to burn away the sinners of London.”
Lucy nodded. The Lord’s will had been done, to be sure. Still, tensions about what had caused the Fire had not dissipated, and she’d seen fisticuffs brought about by a single word on the topic. She’d heard many people speak about the causes of the Great Fire. Some people blamed the French, while many more blamed the Catholics. “Those dirty papists!” she’d oft heard the cry. Many had blamed the confused watchmaker Robert Hubert, who had indeed been hanged for the crime. Lucy thought it was just as likely to have been the Fariners, who might well have failed to bank the coals of their bakery.
“So many have lost so much,” Lucy said. “I hope that they will all one day find justice. I know that is what Adam believes the new Fire Court will accomplish. To help restore order and to ensure that landlords receive their just due when the streets of London are plotted and built.” For a moment she felt so proud of Adam that she did not even realize she was smiling until she saw Sarah glance at her curiously.
“That is the first time I have ever heard thee address my brother in such a familiar way, Lucy,” Sarah said.
A painful flush flooded Lucy’s cheeks. “I meant, Master Adam. Er, Mr. Hargrave. I beg your pardon for the familiarity.”
Sarah waved away Lucy’s consternation. “Hearing thee speak of my brother in such a fashion, I should almost imagine that thou hast feelings for him.” Her tone was sympathetic, not judgmental.
Lucy had heard such sympathy before. Sometimes, as with Sarah, it was heartfelt and well intentioned, although at other times, it rang false and was mocking in nature. Either way, the message was clear. Falling in love with the master’s son—even if she no longer worked for the magistrate—was a pitiful plight for a servant.
Without replying, Lucy simply turned her face so that the bitter wind would cool her cheeks. She could guess what so many people assumed—that Adam had bedded her when she was serving in his father’s household. That she foolishly believed he would marry her. How many ballads had been set to this same tune? Surely, Master Aubrey made many a coin on this very tale. The handsome gentleman wooing the comely maid. Depending on who wrote it, the story became a bawdy joke or the recipe for a young woman’s ruin.
The truth was far different, although Lucy had never told anyone. I am not the besotted fool they all think me to be, Lucy thought. Certainly Adam had never forced himself upon her; such a dishonorable act would have been vile to him. However, during the Fire, when passion and emotion had overcome them both, Adam had declared his love for her and pledged his troth. For a short while, Lucy had lived and dreamed in a happy haze, thinking that all would be well.
Yet even as the shock and aftermath of the Fire continued to numb and overwhelm the people of London, for Lucy the smoke in her eyes had gradually cleared. The old world that she once knew—where servants marry servants and gentry marry gentry—had begun to right itself.
Now, when Adam spoke of marriage, Lucy put him off as new worries and doubts began to surface. What would such a marriage look like? Certainly, he was handsome and good—her breath still caught when she thought of the lengths to which he had gone to right some terrible wrongs. What former servant could ever even hope to wed a man like him? Most women in her position would have dragged him to the church the moment his declaration of love had been made, being assured income, property, and a good name for their children. But for Lucy, therein lay one of the greatest problems.
Would Adam come to be embarrassed by her humble upbringing? Could he overcome the fact that she had been a chambermaid, cleaning up his own family’s slops? His mother had served Queen Henrietta, as a young lady-in-waiting in the court of King Charles I. Her parents had been poor tenant farmers, and before that, in service. Adam claimed he did not care about such differences, but it was hard to believe that one day he would not wake up and resent her for her low station. His father, the magistrate, had even given his blessing, but surely that, too, could change when everyone’s senses were restored.
And what of Lucy’s newfound occupation? Adam had said that he would not want her to give up her training as a printer and bookseller, but surely she would have to, once a babe or two came along. Indeed, many servants and tradesmen she knew waited to get married and have children until their midtwenties, for precisely this reason. At twenty-one, Lucy had hoped to wait a few more years before getting wed, so that she could build her dowry and develop her livelihood. Of course, the gentry married earlier, and Adam was a few years older than she was already. He was eager to marry and get their lives in order.
That was the worst part about it. If Lucy was to be completely honest, she was not even sure whether it was Adam she wished to marry. Certainly Lucy had adored him almost from the moment they met, and indeed their love had flourished during a time of terrible stress. Yet as she had come to realize, Adam was also one of the only young men she had ever spoken with at length, and she had had no opportunity to meet other potential suitors.
That had changed, however, when Lucy left the magistrate’s household and became better acquainted with Constable Duncan, a man who also seemed to respect and admire her. Though she had not seen him recently, the constable occupied her thoughts in a way that both pleased and distressed her.
Sarah continued on, unaware of Lucy’s musings, speaking now about the Fire Court. “For my part, I do not put much stock in earthly courts, or the men that use the law to better their own ends.” She looked at Lucy. “How I have shocked thee. Thou art thinking that I have impugned the vocation of my father and my brother.” Her laugh was more sorrowful than bitter. “Perhaps I have. They will never understand the suffering that the law of this earthly realm has caused my spiritual brothers and sisters.”
Her words disturbed Lucy, causing an unexpected lump to form in her throat, as she thought of how the magistrate and his son revered the law and the pursuit of justice. Sarah’s words seemed to tarnish what they cherished. She did not know what to reply, and so remained silent for the remainder of the walk.
* * *
A short while later, Lucy took a deep bite into a piece of meat pie, savoring the well-seasoned meat, leeks, and potatoes. Indeed, the warmth of Master Hargrave’s kitchen embraced her, and she looked about in pleasure. Cook and her husband, John, the master’s all-around Jack, had worked for the magistrate for nearly twenty years. Cook’s niece, little skinny Annie, had come to them only a year and a half before, after Lucy had found her half starved, begging on the streets. In time, she had taken on Lucy’s old duties as chambermaid. Right now, Cook and Annie bustled about while John sat in the corner, sharpening knives. For an instant, Lucy felt as if she had never left Master Hargrave’s employment. Sarah seemed to be enjoying herself as well, her earlier discontent forgotten.
As Lucy had expected, the magistrate did not join the servants for their meal, but given what Sarah had said about their strained relationship, perhaps that was for the best.
Annie was now plying Sarah with questions about her travels. She had pulled out a pamphlet that Lucy had given her called A True Narrative of the Splendors of the New World.
“How terribly exciting this must have been for you!” Annie said.
Sarah looked at the piece, her expression unreadable. “Exciting? Yes, I suppose thou couldst say that.” A shadow passed over her face. “Crossing the Atlantic was no easy feat. On many occasions, I thought for certain that I would die. Indeed, some of my dear companions did not survive the ordeal. My spirit was much nourished by the grace of the Lord, and I thanked him mightily for sparing my life.”
Lucy and the others murmured a quick prayer as well.
“I did meet some true Indians, though,” Sarah said, then fell silent when her father, the magistrate, entered the kitchen.
Master Hargrave was not a tal
l man, nor was he heavyset, but his stately presence seemed to fill the small room. Under one arm, he carried a well-thumbed book with a blue-and-gold-checked binding.
With a slight thrill of anticipation, Lucy wondered whether he was planning to read a passage or two to them. Master Hargrave had always honored his duty as head of the household to instruct his servants in the Bible. In addition, he had sometimes passed the long hours at home reading passages of other works aloud to his servants. Lucy remembered those moments fondly, thinking of how she had hung on every word, even when she did not understand all that he said. The first time she had asked him a question, she did not know who had been more stunned, but he had answered it regardless. From then on, he would ask her questions about what he read, regarding her with approval as she puzzled through an idea. Indeed, Lucy suspected that it was from those moments that she had developed some of her own peculiar notions. Right now, the magistrate’s stern face relaxed when he saw her.
Lucy stood up hastily, wiping her mouth on a cloth. “Sir,” she said, giving him a quick bob.
“Good afternoon, Lucy,” the magistrate said, nodding at her. “I’m glad my old friend Horace Aubrey was able to give you some time off today, to celebrate my daughter’s return. She was quite intent to have you join us.” He gave his daughter a stern glance. “Next time, daughter, I expect that you will have Annie or John accompany you. There are many wretched sorts about who might prey on a young girl alone.”
It was one thing to let a female servant—or, for that matter, a bookseller—travel alone. It was quite another matter for the daughter of a magistrate to do the same. Lucy could see that this restriction did not sit well with Sarah—after all, hadn’t she traveled halfway around the world with few companions?
Seeing an angry retort rising to Sarah’s lips, Lucy jumped in hastily. “Thank you, sir. I do so appreciate being able to see Miss Sarah. I am quite looking forward to hearing more about her travels in the New World—”
“That’s fine, Lucy,” Master Hargrave said. His voice, though kind, had the effect of stopping her little speech. “It is good to have my daughter home again,” he said to Lucy. He turned back to Sarah. “I daresay I should like to get used to seeing you at my table again.”
Sarah’s lips tightened. “I will not be staying long, Father. I came back only to ensure the well-being of my brother, and of yourself, of course.” As she spoke, Lucy noticed that she no longer used her adopted Quaker thees and thous. “As I am now assured of both, that you are in good health and good spirits, I must soon continue to follow the path the Lord has set for me.”
The magistrate frowned. “Daughter, I cannot in good faith allow you to continue this traipsing about the earth, putting yourself in heaven knows what predicaments and travails.” He stopped short, seeming to recall that he was in the presence of his servants.
Cook and John had busied themselves with other things, and after a bewildered look around, Annie did the same.
Lucy bent her head. Oh, why had Sarah not given her father the gift? Perhaps if she had, these terrible tensions might not have flared so fiercely.
“I am sorry for having spoken of this subject in such a way,” the magistrate said to his servants. He seated himself at the end of the table. To his daughter he added, “This conversation is not over.”
Sarah, however, did not seem to care that the servants were all in attendance. “Father,” she said, tears in her voice. Once again she resumed her Quaker speech. “I love thee, but I obey only the will of God.”
The magistrate was about to say more, but thankfully they were interrupted by an insistent knocking at the door. As he was closest, John pulled the door open, revealing a man dressed in somber clothes.
“I am here for Sarah Hargrave,” the man said, without offering any greeting.
Lucy caught Cook’s eye. She could tell by her scandalized expression that Cook was as taken aback as she. How odd that someone of Sarah’s acquaintance would call at the servants’ and tradesmen’s entrance.
With silent decorum, John stepped aside, allowing the man to step into the room. In the brightness, Lucy could see the man was panting heavily, as though he’d just been running. He was perhaps in his thirties; his face was long and drawn, and his cheeks slumped a bit, as if he did not smile very often. At a middling height, his frame was lean. His clothes were worn and heavily mended. Another Quaker.
Lucy looked at the magistrate nervously. She could tell by the tightening of her former master’s jaw that he had reached the same conclusion.
The Quaker’s eyes immediately fell upon Sarah. “I must speak to thee,” he said, without offering any greeting.
“Sam?” Sarah asked. “Why ever hast thou come to my father’s home?” She emphasized the last three words, nodding in the direction of her father. The magistrate was sternly regarding the man as if he were a criminal awaiting his judgment.
Sam’s eyes widened when he saw Master Hargrave, and Lucy could tell that the man had come to the servants’ entrance with the hopes of avoiding the magistrate.
Apparently catching Sarah’s intonation, Sam moved his hand to his head, as if to remove his hat. His hand hovered near the brim before he let it drop back to his side, his hat still squarely on his head. ’Twas the Quaker way, Lucy knew, to show no deference to earthly authority. Still, that deliberate breach of etiquette had not come easily to him. Though he kept his eyes steadily on Sarah, Lucy could see that he had flushed deeply and that his hand was trembling.
Nor had the slight gone unnoticed by the magistrate. Lucy could see that his jaw had tightened as he rose from his bench. “Pray tell us, sir,” he said, coldly emphasizing the word “sir.” “Who are you, and why have you come to see my daughter?” Though he was civil, Lucy could hear the taut anger beneath his words.
“I am Sam Leighton,” the man said, regaining his sense of purpose. Again, Lucy could tell, he very nearly added “sir” at the end, but caught himself in time. “’Tis Jacob Whitby,” he said softly, looking again toward Sarah. “Last night he was struck by a great ailment, and I fear he has little time left on this earth.”
Sarah drew her breath in sharply. “No!” she exclaimed. All color drained from her already pale face. “Not Jacob!”
Lucy dimly recalled Jacob Whitby. A friend of Adam’s from Cambridge, Mr. Whitby had been one of the several handsome young men who had on occasion dined at the magistrate’s table. Other than this vague recollection, she could not remember any details of the man’s countenance or character, having not seen him in several years. She did remember, though, that the Whitbys were people of means. Not the sort one would expect to become a Quaker. Still, one could say the same of Sarah.
Sam Leighton continued. “I’m afraid ’tis true. He said he knew thy daughter. Thy son, too.”
The magistrate looked sorrowful. “Jacob Whitby. His is a name I’ve not heard for some time.” Sighing, he added, “This is a tragedy indeed. I thank you for letting us know. I will inform my son when next I see him.” He moved toward the man, as if to escort him out.
To their surprise, Sam did not move. “His wife, Esther Whitby, I fear, is in great need of womanly solace and a spiritual outpouring of strength and love. Jacob asked for our Sister Sarah to attend to her.”
The magistrate stiffened. “Absolutely not,” he said. “I will not permit my daughter to attend a sickbed.”
On this, Lucy heartily agreed with the magistrate. She did not want Sarah venturing into a house of sickness. They’d both seen firsthand the horrible effects of the plague. Lucy had some knowledge of the physick and the healing, having read several of Nicholas Culpeper’s household remedies.
Although it was not her place to speak, Lucy did anyway. “What is wrong with Mr. Whitby?” she asked. “From what ailment does he suffer?”
The man smiled down at her in a grave, kindly way. “No need to be a-frightened,” he said. “Brother Jacob was run over by a cart. The two horses did stomp upon him greatly. I am aggriev
ed to say that his injuries are within his internal organs. The physician was called in, but assured us that there is too much damage, too much bleeding inside his body. There is nothing more that can be done for his physical body. Soon he will be in heaven, flooded with the love and light of God.”
“Sarah!” the magistrate said sharply. “What are you doing?”
His daughter had retrieved a heavy, nondescript gray cloak from a hook by the door. “’Tis the Quaker way, Father. To give solace to those in need.”
“How well do you even know this man?” her father asked, in his quiet dignified way. Because Lucy knew the magistrate so well, she could hear the deep anger—or was it fear?—in his voice as well. “I cannot allow you to accompany a man with whom I have no previous acquaintance to visit the deathbed of another.”
“Please, Father,” Sarah said. She then repeated what she had said before, with more urgency this time. “’Tis the Quaker way!”
Seeing that her father had not relented, Sarah turned to Lucy, her eyes pleading and serious. “Lucy could accompany me, could she not? Wouldst thou, Lucy?” In an instant, Lucy was thrown back three years, when Sarah pleaded with her father to see the wondrous sites at Bartholomew Fair. This time she had none of her wheedling ways.
Lucy glanced at the magistrate but remained silent. She had no wish to step in between father and daughter.
The magistrate studied his daughter’s now-resolute face. “All right,” he consented. “So long as Lucy does not mind.”
“Indeed, sir, I do not,” Lucy said, despite her mouth watering for the last few bites she had left on her plate. Tugging her cloak into place, she followed Sam and Sarah into the unpleasant winter sleet.
The Masque of a Murderer Page 2