by Ann Turnbull
When I first arrived I’d had no idea of where the house was. My host told me later that we were in Throgmorton Street, not far from the Exchange, and that he lived, at present, alone except for the servants, his wife and children having gone, for their safety, to relations in Essex. I had never met his family. When I saw him at the Bull and Mouth meeting he had always been alone.
“I dare not bring them into danger from the authorities,” he admitted. “I am newly come to Friends, only this past two years. I have attended several different meetings – most often the one in Gracechurch Street, which is nearest. But my wife and daughters worship at home. I have such fear for them. It is hard, when there is a family to consider.”
I told him about my own family, which it seemed I had lost for good. “That first evening,” I said, “when I came from Newgate, I thought I heard someone playing a virginal.”
“Ah.” He gave a wry smile. “I have not yet severed myself entirely from my former life.”
“It made me think of home,” I said. “I miss music.”
“Thou used to play?”
“Yes. We had a virginal.”
“Then thou must try our instrument – when Dr Waterford releases thee from this room! I used to play often, but now I try to use that time in prayer and silence. I have talked to Friends – it’s what most of them advise. But I cannot deny music to my girls. My eldest, Catherine, is especially accomplished and would be loath to give it up. Thou’ll find sheet music of hers, if thou wish to play.”
“Thou’rt kind,” I said, wondering if he would prefer me to resist the temptation. I sank back on the pillows.
I loved the peace of Edmund Ramsey’s house, his quiet but stimulating company, and the books he brought me from his library. We talked about religion, the laws against Dissenters, about London, trade, and travel. He had been to Venice in his youth, and worked in Antwerp and Brussels – as I might have done had I not rejected my father’s plans for me. When I told him about Nicholas Barron, the silk merchant I should have been apprenticed to, he exclaimed, “But I know him well! He lives a few streets away. He’s been hard hit by the effects of the pestilence. Foreign ports won’t allow our ships to unload. We can only hope the sickness soon abates.”
Although we talked frequently, I spent much of my time alone, reading, or sleeping. Edmund was often out of the house, or busy about his work. Sometimes, when I was free of the fever, I walked in the garden. An almond tree grew there, and there were beds of salad herbs, and rosemary and lavender. But I was not well enough to go out, even if it had been safe to do so. Few people went out, unless they must. I heard that there was grass growing in the street in Cheapside – a thing I found difficult to imagine. I felt anxious, adrift, cut off from my work and plans, and from Susanna.
In the distant reaches of the house I would hear voices, footsteps, the clatter of pots and pans. Nat came to see me every few days, though I sensed he did not come eagerly. He always looked a little ill at ease, as if he found the surroundings too grand for his comfort. He brought me letters, and news of the meeting. I had been there about a month when he told me that the Black Spread-Eagle had still not left London, and that plague had broken out on the ship.
“It’s nearly eleven weeks since the prisoners went aboard,” he said. “The women are allowed some freedom, but the men are kept below decks all the time. They can never stand upright. Friends are petitioning continually for their release.”
“And Rachel?”
“She has the love of the meeting. As thou dost. We all pray for thy recovery.”
I had a sense that he was holding something back.
“I must get strong again,” I said. “Edmund tells me the plague has begun to retreat this last fortnight. People will return to the city and I’ll be needed at the shop.”
That look – of something withheld – had come into Nat’s face again.
“What is it?” I asked. And fear clutched at me. “Susanna…?”
“Not Susanna,” Nat said at once. He looked at me pityingly. “It is James Martell.”
“James has the sickness?”
I realized then that Nat had not mentioned my employer for some time; and I, with my recurring fever and lethargy, had not thought to enquire of him.
“He has died,” said Nat. “Cecily died first—”
“Cecily too?” A sense of horror and disbelief swept over me. “But – but the children? And the maid – Dorcas?”
“They are all dead. Ten days ago. I would have told thee, only we – the meeting – agreed to wait till thou wert stronger…”
He put an arm about my shoulders as I began to weep. I could imagine only too well the agony of the family’s last days.
“The children?” I said. “Were they left? Did they die alone?”
“No one was ever alone. Cecily and James died first, then Dorcas. But Jane Catlin was there, and stayed with the children until the end.”
Jane Catlin. A good woman, but not their mother. How Agnes and Stephen must have screamed for their mother! I tried not to think of it.
Nat was crying with me now. “I didn’t want to tell thee yet. They are with God, Will; all of them. We must take comfort from that.”
We sat in silence awhile.
It was not until the next day that the thought came to me that I had lost not only my friend but my employment and future prospects. I had no work to return to. How could I offer marriage to Susanna now? I was little better off than when I had left Hemsbury.
I must write, I thought, as soon as it’s safe. Air the letter well over vinegar and take all precautions. Tell her everything. And yet I dreaded the thought of writing down all the trouble that had befallen us; it would be a catalogue of horrors. A short letter must suffice.
Susanna
At last, about the time of the feast folk call All Hallows, came a letter from Will.
When I saw his handwriting, I felt such relief and happiness that I could not break the seal fast enough. The letter trembled in my hands.
It was brief, written in a shaky script that frightened me more than any news it contained. He had been in prison, he said, and had been left weak from an ague which would not let go of him; but not to fear – he was recovering and being cared for by Friends.
Such terrible things have happened, more than I have strength or courage to tell thee now; only that my circumstances are quite changed. I will write thee more when I am able. Till then, dear love, I pray God keep thee safe…
This letter left me with more questions than answers. I scanned it again and again. How ill was he? Was he out of danger? What terrible events had occurred? What change? And when would I see him? He’d said nothing of our marriage, nothing of coming to Shropshire, nor of whether the ban on travel had been lifted.
I remembered my promise to Henry Heywood, and sent Antony with a note. It said simply that Will was alive and had written to me; and I received a brief acknowledgement in reply.
A few days later Mary had a letter from Nat which reassured us that both he and Will were safe. Nat was never one for long letters, but this was briefer than most and hinted, like Will’s, at more news to come. A great fear began to grow in me that something had happened to prevent my marriage to Will.
At our next meeting for worship we heard that those London Friends sentenced to transportation were still on the prison ship, the Black Spread-Eagle, holed up at Woolwich, unable to sail because the master had been arrested for debt. The pestilence had come among them, and was taking their lives one by one. Despite the plague, it seemed, the persecution of our people in the city continued. Many of them suffered also from the loss of their livelihood – for almost nothing could be exported, seamen and porters were out of work, and the trade in goods such as wigs and used clothes had ceased almost entirely. Alice Betts, a shoemaker’s widow and a woman of much simplicity and goodness, said she felt a concern to go to London and visit our Friends in that afflicted city.
That night I came to a
decision. I could not live with my fears any longer. Since news had not come to me, I must seek it myself. I would go to London and find out what had happened to Will. As soon as I had made this decision, hope sprang up again in my heart. I began to believe that all would be well, as Judith had said.
I knew all manner of sensible arguments would be used by friends and family to keep me at home, but I resolved then and there not to listen to them. I’d travel with Alice Betts, if she’d have me; I reckoned I’d find an ally in her. I had told Will, long ago, that when the time was right I would go to him; that no one should prevent me. I believed that time had come now.
William
Towards the end of October the Ramseys’ physician decided I was no longer a plague risk, and Edmund allowed me out of my confinement. It was a great joy for me to be able to join him that evening at dinner and to feel that I had re-entered the world. When I went into prison it had been full summer. Now the leaves of the almond tree in the garden were yellow and falling; winter would soon be here.
I was still alone most days, since Edmund was out and about with his business, but now I had access to other parts of the house. It was a much grander establishment than my father’s, where we lived over the warehouse, and yet Edmund Ramsey was a merchant like my father, if a wealthier one, and the way of life was familiar to me. My father had his closet with a globe and maps and several shelves of books; but here there was a library – a room filled from floor to ceiling with books of all kinds. In the drawing room were gilt-framed mirrors, oriental vases, a small cabinet inlaid in ivory with birds and flowers, polished wood underfoot. Also in that room was the virginal: a pretty instrument painted with landscape scenes; my sister would have loved it, I thought, and I felt a stirring of homesickness.
Music had left my life almost completely since I became a Friend. I still had the flute I’d brought with me from Shropshire, and sometimes, at home with Nat, I would play a few tunes; but most Friends had come to disapprove of music-making, so there was no place for it in our social lives.
However, Edmund had said I might play if I wished. I opened the lid of the virginal, revealing another rural scene painted on the inside. There was sheet music on a low table near by. I leafed through it, noting several songs, a book of dances, but mostly instrumental music. I chose a piece by Byrd, one I knew from my schooldays at Oxford.
I began to play – and almost at once stopped. The stiffness of my fingers after so many years of disuse was unendurable. I flexed and stretched them, and tried again.
Still my performance did not please me, though a little of the stiffness gradually wore off. But Byrd’s music woke in me memories of playing the harpsichord and flute at school in Oxford, and of singing in the church choir. A whole world had been closed to me since I turned my back on the Anglican Church. I found myself longing for my father’s house, for the music we used to play, the songs and rounds we’d sing together.
I played on, absorbed in the music, and felt the horrors of Newgate begin, at last, to fall away from me. Surely, I thought, a world in which such beauty existed could not be lost to God?
That evening, as we sat in the dining room, I thanked Edmund for his kindness and for the solace the music had brought me.
“But I must find work,” I said. “I have imposed on thy generosity for too long.”
“Thou might work for me for a while, if thou wish,” he replied.
“For thee?” I was surprised.
“Not in my business. Here, in my library.” Evidently this was something he had been considering. “I wish to sort and catalogue the books; remove some I no longer think suitable since coming to Friends; reorganize the remainder. Thou could help. It would provide some small paid employment for thee for a few weeks – if thou’rt willing.”
It sounded congenial work, of a kind I was accustomed to. And yet… “I am more than willing,” I said, “but I should do it as payment for thy hospitality.”
We were dining on excellent beef and drinking Rhenish wine.
“Will, thou need’st money – and I need help.” He smiled. “I shall not overpay thee, never fear.”
“Then I would be glad to do it. Only … thou’ll remember I told thee I was to have been married this summer? I need to find permanent work, an income, a home…”
He nodded. “I understand. But because so many businesses are closed, there is not much work to be had. And thou’rt not strong enough yet.”
I knew he was right. I had eaten scarcely anything for weeks; my clothes were loose on me, and my face in the mirror that morning had looked gaunt. But I could walk and take fresh air and begin to regain my strength. The colder weather had caused a steep drop in deaths from plague; it was considered safer now to go about the streets.
“Stay here, and work for me for a short while,” Edmund suggested, “and in the meantime look about for other employment. My family are to come home on sixth-day. They’ll be young company for thee. I wish, having taken themselves to safety, they would remain there somewhat longer, but my wife is anxious to return.”
And so I stayed. I missed Nat’s easy companionship, and yet it was a pleasure to be living once again in the sort of home in which I had grown up. The library work absorbed what little physical energy I had. The combination of lifting, climbing steps to the top shelves and moving armfuls of books from one place to another made me breathless at first, but in a day or two I was able to do it without difficulty. I also went out into the streets and saw how sadly empty they were: rows of shops still closed, and the Exchange with only a scattering of customers, very few of them gentry. I walked almost as far as Paul’s Churchyard, but stopped short, and retraced my steps. It was not so much physical weakness: I could not bear, yet, to go there and see James Martell’s closed-up shop. It would make the Martells’ deaths too real. I still found it hard to believe that I would never see any of them again. For the same reason I had not yet written more fully to Susanna; that, and the feeling that I was now without prospects and had little to recommend me as a husband. I would write to her when I found permanent employment, I decided; then I could begin, at least, with some good news.
When the Ramsey family returned I was at work in the library. I heard the coach arrive, the sudden clamour of voices, a dog barking, and felt a draught through the house as the side door was flung open and the servants brought in bags and boxes. The voices spread around the house; footsteps creaked on the floorboards of the room overhead; doors opened and shut. I did not venture out, being unsure of my status here. But at last I heard everyone gathering in the region of the drawing room, and then Edmund opened the library door and said, “Come and meet my family.”
The drawing room seemed full of billowing silk skirts. With the mother were three girls aged between about twelve and seventeen. All were blue-eyed, fair and comely, though the youngest had been somewhat scarred by smallpox. Their little dog, a terrier, ran and barked at me, and the youngest girl stifled a giggle as she caught and subdued it.
Her father introduced them all. “My wife, Margaret; my daughters, Catherine, Jane and Dorothy.”
“Thou’rt welcome, Will,” said Margaret Ramsey.
I thanked her, and saw her taking in my appearance (shabby, I feared), my thinness, my way of speaking. I also felt her daughters’ covert glances at me. The servants brought in spiced wine to warm the travellers, and Edmund invited me to sit down and join them. The girls sat in silence, upright and stiff in their boned bodices. Although they wore nothing ostentatious, they were richly dressed in silk gowns and their hair was bunched at the sides in curls in the current fashion, their caps arranged to display it to advantage.
Margaret Ramsey enquired politely after my health, and listened with pity in her face when I told her of the deaths of the Martell family. She asked about my own family in Shropshire, and I explained that I was estranged from my father. As I spoke I could not help but be aware of the eldest girl, Catherine, listening and watching me from under her lowered gaze.
“It is a great pity when religion divides a family,” said Margaret Ramsey.
I knew her husband had become convinced of the truth only recently. She seemed to share his conviction – perhaps she felt that was her duty as his wife – but what had the girls thought about the changes this had brought to their lives? I had no chance that day to find out, for the supper which followed was a quiet meal, preceded by a silent wait upon God; and, in the manner of Friends, we spoke little.
I spent the following day in the library, as usual. I was determined to please Edmund Ramsey, and worked hard, making lists of all the books in the various categories. He owned many old and valuable books, some in French or Latin; also Camden, Holinshed, Hobbes, Robert Boyle, the Greeks and Romans. Most were bound in fine leather, the titles and decoration embossed in gold leaf, and the edges of the pages finished in gold. I came upon Plutarch, and remembered, with a pang of sorrow, Agnes Martell. “I shall learn to read it,” she had said, imagining a future that would never be.
Edmund had asked me to put to one side any plays, anything that smacked of popery or superstition, anything I was doubtful about. I glanced at the plays: by Middleton, Shakespeare, Webster, Rowley. I sat on the floor some while, engrossed in a tale of two young lovers, parted by their warring families. I had never been to a playhouse, although when I was a child we had watched travelling players and enjoyed their performances. But play-acting was untruth – and certainly playhouses were known to be bawdy places, full of lewd jokes, the actresses whores.