Forged in the Fire

by Ann Turnbull

  Nat was not much of a reader and found such matters dark and not to his liking.

  “But we’ve been printing plenty of such stuff,” he said. “The shop’s busy – uncommonly so. Lucky we took on Susanna.”

  Usually he was careful – we both were – not to mention Susanna, though I knew he must see her every day, and that he walked back with her to Rachel’s each evening. He had told me, when the Shropshire Friends went home, that Susanna had not gone with them; but that was all.

  “She is staying, then?” I said.

  “Oh, yes. She will not leave now.”

  He spoke with certainty, and I thought: He knows her mind; she confides in him. I remembered a time in Hemsbury, years ago, when I’d glimpsed Nat and Susanna chatting, easy together – and I felt again a flicker of the jealousy I’d experienced that day. Then, it was easily dismissed; but now, Susanna and I were estranged.

  Susanna

  I looked at Nat differently now; I could not help it, even though nothing had happened; and I felt that he was aware of me in a new way. I noticed also that the men in the print shop seemed to regard us as a pair. Perhaps they always had, and I had been too caught up in my longing for Will to notice.

  Nat treated me the same as ever. He tactfully avoided any mention of Will, but talked to me about work, mostly, or his plans to move out to east London.

  “The towns there are thriving,” he said. “Stepney has its own market. And there are gardens and orchards, some common land.”

  “I miss the countryside,” I said. “Hemsbury was town enough for me.”

  He looked at me and smiled. “The sky was bigger in Shropshire.”

  “Yes. It was.”

  Was he wooing me, I wondered, with a promise of orchards and fields? He’d said he wanted a wife. He was twenty-five, and would be settled enough, soon, to marry. And I’d be able to help him run his printing business; I knew the work well enough.

  I could love him, I thought; if he wants me, I believe I could.

  We were finishing work one afternoon when Nat told me, “I’m going out east tonight. There’s a place in Bethnal Green I want to see: a shop and workroom, with living quarters above.”

  It was seventh-day, early in February. We’d had to light candles to work by, the day was so dark, and the fire seemed to give out no heat. We all wore hats and heavy woollen jackets, and as Nat and I talked our breath clouded the air.

  “They say it’ll snow tonight,” I said.

  Joel had already reported seeing a few flakes when he went out to the yard.

  “Oh, I won’t come back till tomorrow,” said Nat. “I’ll lie at Laurence Elvin’s, in Whitechapel. I want to see this place; it’ll mean waiting till next week, else.”

  I could see he was excited and hopeful.

  We left and walked back together to Foster Lane. Nat was quiet. At first I assumed he was thinking about the premises in Bethnal Green; but several times he glanced at me and seemed as if he might say something, then changed his mind.

  He is about to speak of love – of marriage, I thought.

  My heart began to race, and by the time we arrived at Rachel’s door I was as uncertain and nervous as he. What would he say? What would I say?

  “Susanna” – he reached inside his cloak and pulled out a letter – “this came for thee this morning.”

  “This?” I was confused, my expectations overturned.

  “Yes. By rights I should have given it to Will, but he’d already left for work, and – well, it’s addressed to thee…”

  I took the letter. It had been sealed and posted, that much I could see, but in the dark street I couldn’t make out the writing.

  “What—?” I began.

  But Nat said, “Take it. I’m off to the Elvins’.” He paused, then stooped and kissed me briefly on the lips. “Read thy letter. I’ll see thee on second-day.”

  And he turned down the alley, out of sight.

  I hurried inside, and joined Rachel by the fire, where she was stirring stew in a pot. I felt bewildered, taken by surprise. And the letter… When I looked at the writing on it I began to tremble with anticipation. It was from Will, addressed to me at Mary Faulkner’s shop; but that address had been crossed out, and Mary had replaced it with Will’s address in Creed Lane. Rachel watched as I opened it.

  “It must have arrived in Hemsbury after I left,” I said, “and been all this time on the road…”

  My hands were shaking as I unfolded the letter. It was dated the fifteenth of November: a week before I arrived in London and saw Will at Edmund Ramsey’s house.

  Dearest love,

  I should have written to thee more fully before, but I am only now sufficiently removed from all that has happened to be able to speak of these things…

  Rachel touched my arm. “I’ve lit the fire in the parlour. Go and read it in private.”

  “I will.”

  I took a candle, hurried upstairs, and pulled a stool close to the fire. There were several pages, densely written, and as I read them I began at last to have a sense of all that had befallen Will since the summer.

  He spoke briefly of his suffering in prison, for he was not seeking sympathy but offering explanation. From the hints he gave I saw that he had endured cruel, bestial treatment, meted out over many weeks, and the thought of it filled me with anger and horror and made me weep. He blamed himself for the deaths of his two friends, and had been still weak from his own illness when he heard of the deaths of the Martell family, and with them the loss of all his hopes of partnership in the business and marriage to me. Edmund Ramsey had rescued him, probably saved his life, and cared for him at his own expense, so it was no wonder that he had been happy in that house – so clean and kind and comforting – which reminded him of his parents’ home.

  He said nothing of Catherine Ramsey, except that she and her sisters were pleasant girls, and good-natured, but with little knowledge of the world and the hardships many Friends experience. If he has any affection for Catherine, I realized, it is no more than I have felt for Nat – and probably less. He should have equal cause for jealousy. But I knew now that I need have no doubt of him; his love for me shone through every word.

  I saw that I had been wrong. I had acted on nothing but my own hurt feelings and had never thought of his. He had made no plans to travel to Hemsbury because he was unable to offer me a home and an income, and felt he could no longer expect me to marry him.

  And yet, there is nothing I desire more.

  I folded the letter and put it in a pocket under my skirt. I must go to him, I decided. And I would not wait till morning. We had both waited long enough.

  I ran downstairs and found my cloak and hat.

  “I have to see Will,” I said to Rachel. I hesitated, thinking of the likely consequences of my action. “Don’t stay up for me.”

  She was rocking the sleepy child on her lap. She did not seem surprised, or shocked; merely asked, “Won’t thou eat first?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Well, it’ll keep.”

  I opened the door and stepped out into the cold night. Snow was beginning to fall. I had never been out alone in London so late before, but I was not afraid; I had too much on my mind. My desire to reach Will gave me speed, and I hurried down Foster Lane, then along Paternoster Row, around the great dark mass of Paul’s steeple-house. Few people were about: a nightwatchman, beggars huddled in doorways. By the time I reached Creed Lane the snow was falling faster and the cobbles glistened where pools of lamplight caught them. I ran till I came to Thomas Corder’s house.

  I never stopped to ask myself if Will would want me, whether I might have offended and hurt him too much. I saw a light within, and knocked at the outer door. A man opened it; I asked for Will, and he looked me over, no doubt wondering what sort of woman I was. He let me in and knocked on Will’s door, calling, “Mr Heywood!”

  And then Will was standing there, startled, his hair rumpled, an old coat thrown around his
shoulders. He stared at me, and I saw his look change from astonishment to joy.

  “I had to come—” I began.

  His arms went round me, and he pulled me into the room and shut the door and held me close against his heart.

  “Su!” he said. “Su…” And then: “Thy hands are cold! Thou’rt wet from the snow. Come and get warm. This fire’s not much.”

  He seized a poker and jabbed at the sulky coals, causing a brief crackle of flame; sparks flew up the chimney. A small black and white cat on the hearthrug coiled itself into a tighter knot.

  “It’s a cold, miserable room, this,” Will said, as I began taking off my hat and hood. “I often get into bed to keep warm—”

  He broke off and reddened. Both of us glanced at the beds.

  “Nat will stay in Whitechapel tonight,” he said.

  “I know. He told me.”

  I saw him absorb the significance of this remark. Would he think me brazen? I had surprised myself, coming here when I knew he’d be alone. I trembled as I said, “Thy letter came,” and brought it out of my pocket.

  He was puzzled. “Letter?” And then, seeing it: “Thou read this? I thought it lost…”

  “Seems it was, until today. Nat brought it to me.”

  “If it had come while I was here, I’d probably have thrown it on the fire. I’d almost given up hope of thee, Su.”

  I put my arms around him, told him how wrong I’d been, how sorry I was.

  “I should have come after thee,” he said. “I was too proud.”

  There was only one chair in the room, so we sat on the bed, and then lay upon it, and forgave each other with kisses and caresses. His body hardened against mine and I trembled with feelings so strong they took me by surprise. We had been separated for more than three years, but any strangeness that had come between us in that time melted away. We’ve been mad, I thought, to stay apart these last long weeks. I wanted never to let go of him again.

  But even as we kissed I felt him holding back somewhat, and at last, to my disappointment, he pulled away. We sat up, both of us hot and flushed, and he took hold of my hands and looked at me with that serious look I remembered and loved, and said, “Su, we should not… I have no proper employment now, only what work I can find here and there; not sufficient to marry on. And no home to take thee to. Thy parents would not be willing—”

  “Oh! They would!” I said. “They are. I have their permission to marry.”

  “But that was last summer, when my prospects were good.”

  “Thou’ll find something else.”

  “It’s not easy, without training, and with few skills.”

  “But thou hast some work. And I do, too.”

  “That’s different!” he said. And I saw that I had hurt his pride.

  “I trust thee to care for me,” I said. “And as for my parents, they married without money or permission. My mother ran away from home.” I laughed. “They lived ‘like the birds of the air’, she says, and trusted in God, who has held them in his love ever since.”

  “The birds of the air.” He smiled, and pulled me closer, till our noses bumped together.

  “Or the lilies of the field,” I said. “Though we did toil much, and my mother spins for a living.”

  “I should like to know thy mother better. Thy father too.”

  “So thou shall, if thou marry me.”

  “Did they name thee for the lilies of the field? Susanna: it means ‘lily’.”

  “Does it? They found it in the Bible; I doubt they knew its meaning. I did not.”

  He’d lost me again, with his books and learning. But I felt pleased to be a lily.

  The serious look in his eyes had been replaced with expectancy. “Then thou hast no fears? We’ll marry, shall we? Here in London? Without prospects? Without a home?”

  “I want a home!” I said. “Thou needn’t think I’d live here, not even with thee.”

  He laughed. “We’ll find somewhere. There are plenty of places – and all must be better than this.” His eyes brightened at the prospect. Then he said, “Su, I’m hungry. I bought a pie in Pudding Lane on my way home. Shall we share it?”

  The pie was a poor thing, but it staved off hunger. After we had eaten, we sat on his bed, close together, and drank warm ale, and kissed, and talked. What we talked about, I don’t remember, but I know that all the time I was thinking, as he must have been, of what might come next.

  Gradually we talked less, and kissed more, and the feel and smell of him made me want to gather him in to me, as if we could never be close enough; and I knew he felt the same.

  We heard faintly, from a neighbouring street, the nightwatchman’s call: “Nine o’clock, and all’s well!”

  I broke free then. I went to the window and stood with my back to Will, looking out at the yard and passageway. Snow lay thick on the ground, and big soft flakes fell steadily against the window and built up on the ledge, cocooning us.

  “If I’m to get home…” I began.

  He came and stood behind me, put his hands on my arms, kissed the nape of my neck.

  “Don’t go,” he said. “Stay with me, Susanna. Please.”

  I woke in the night when some revellers went by outside, shouting. For an instant I did not know where I was, and then I remembered, and felt his arm under my shoulders, the heat of his body against mine, his steady breathing. From the edge of the bed came an icy draught, and I pulled the blankets close and snuggled against him and felt his other arm reach around me as he slept.

  Our coming together had not been quite as I’d imagined it. First there were the cumbersome layers of winter clothes. I insisted that the candles be blown out before I began to undress. The room was cold, and I was nervous and kept my shift on as I got under the covers. It was a shock to feel him climb in beside me and to realize that he was naked. I was tense, and I knew he was anxious; the passion of only a few minutes ago had cooled: we tussled awkwardly and nothing seemed to be right. After a while he rolled away and we both apologized.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said.

  But I felt that it did; that I was to blame.

  I sat up and took off my shift, then slid back and put my arms around him, laying my body alongside his.

  That must have been what was needed, for all at once we were together again, both of us moving without thought or fear, as if we’d always known what to do. And although in the end it was clumsy, uncomfortable and too quick, I didn’t mind. I lay beneath him, feeling the thudding of his heart, with a sense of both contentment and triumph.

  We belong to each other now, I thought. We shall never be parted again, except by death.

  I’d known all along what would happen if I entered his room that night. But since we had renewed our promises to marry, there seemed no wrong in it; indeed, it seemed a right and honest thing to do. I had said to him once, of Friends: “We try to live in the truth”; and our love was the truth.

  I woke again, a little before dawn. Something was treading on the bed: I could feel feet – an animal! I opened my eyes and saw the small black cat with white whiskers peering at me over the edge of the coverlet.

  Will half woke, muttered, “Go away, cat!” and shook it off. He reached for me, and we rolled together, warm and expectant. The cat returned, pressing and purring, and I started to laugh.

  Will said, “I’ll put it out.”

  He got up, caught the cat, and darted naked to the door. I heard a muffled exclamation, and almost at once he was back beside me. “Ma Corder was outside!”

  “Oh, Will!”

  We shook with laughter; and then began to kiss and stroke each other. This time, when he moved to lie on top of me, everything seemed easier; and though I hurt a little afterwards I felt truly happy.

  Next time I woke it was full day. There was a cold, clear light in the room, and a strident sound: the bell of Paul’s steeple-house.

  “Will,” I said.

  He opened his eyes – grey-green, flecked
with gold – and smiled at me; and at once I wanted to stay there with him, wrapped in his arms, all morning. But I said, “It’s first-day.”

  I had quite forgotten, until I heard the bell.

  He came properly awake. “Then we must go to Meeting.”

  “Together?”

  Despite my determination to be truthful, it might appear unseemly, I thought, to walk boldly in like man and wife.

  “Rachel will know already,” said Will.

  We dressed quickly, both shy now, turning away from each other, and laughing as we shivered and drew on layer after layer: in my case shift, stays, bodice, jacket and two woollen skirts. I combed my hair, looking in Will’s mirror, and marvelled that I did not look any different to yesterday although I felt such momentous change in myself.

  We breakfasted on stale bread and beer, and let in the cat, which was mewing and scrabbling at the door.

  “We’ll have no cats in our home,” said Will.

  “Then we’ll have mice.”

  “And thou’ll leap on a chair.”

  “I will not!”

  We continued with such foolish talk while we ate, and then we became serious and sat in silence awhile, to prepare ourselves for Meeting.

  Corder’s wife was at her door to make me blush as we emerged together into the sound of bells from all over the city. The overnight snow had hardened to a bright frost which crunched underfoot as we walked to Aldersgate.

  We went first to Rachel’s house. She was just leaving, with Tabitha toddling alongside. I blushed again on encountering Rachel, and did not know what to say, but she merely remarked, with a smile, “We shall have a wedding, then, soon?”

  And I thought: Yes, we shall. Will and I would not, after all, wait till spring to go home and be married at Eaton Bellamy Meeting with my parents and Isaac and Deb there to wish us well. We would be married here, in London, where our new life was about to begin.

  William

  That morning, when I woke and found Susanna beside me, I experienced a wondrous, drowsy mix of happiness, pride and contentment. I wanted to stay in bed and prolong our time there, for I knew we would not be together again until we were married. But I also felt a certain guilt, and a desire to protect her, and I knew that I must set about finding somewhere for us to live.