'Major William Rainborough,' Lambert answered, lowering his voice, 'the brother of our poor murdered colonel. He paid for the pamphlet by one Laurence Clarkson, the Ranters' creed. It is all filthiness,' he informed Juliana furtively. 'They believe God is in every man, therefore all scripture is false and even the Bible cannot be the Word of God. They say there is no sin; sin was invented by the rulers of the earth to keep the poor in order. Therefore, anything is permitted!'
'Anything?' chuckled Juliana, raising her eyebrows. 'I have a good idea what that entails — and it is more than fidget pie!'
'Anything a man wants!' muttered Anne. 'With second helpings on the plate… To facilitate their freedoms, they throw off their clothes and run about the streets surprising people.'
'Ah, they are casting away their worldly goods! You did not go so far with the Diggers, dear Anne?'
Anne remained calm. At Cobham I found that a stout skirt and a broad hat to defend me against the weather made tending my seedlings more comfortable. I was too tired at the end of the day to rant — or to startle anyone with discarding my shift to preach.'
'I am glad to hear it!' growled Lambert with feeling. He still suspected that unspeakable numbers of lascivious male Diggers must have lain with his wife in the communal house at Cobham.
Anne's return would not go all smoothly, Juliana surmised. It may have shown in her expression. She found herself sharing a wise look with Lambert's younger brother. Acting in tandem, they moved the conversation along to less controversial subjects.
Soon after they had eaten, Gideon excused himself and left for Eltham. No explanation was offered for his errand.
A short time later, Lambert and Anne drove off as well. Tom and Val, released from their pledge of good behaviour while there were guests, rushed to see the sow, which Anne had left them, taking a bowl of scraps to feed it. They would be happy for hours scratching its head with a rake while the sow wheezed in delight. Juliana was left in the house alone.
She went into the parlour to sew, but soon put her work down and roamed about, feeling lost. She must be missing Anne's company. She could not settle.
Two hours later, Gideon Jukes came back.
Hearing a man's voice unexpectedly, Juliana feared an intruder. When he opened the door without knocking, the point of a sword right against his chest stopped him in his tracks.
Gideon went pale, but raised his blond eyebrows in a sarcastic gesture. 'You may put down your weapon, Mistress Lovell.' Juliana stayed put. 'Is this, "Sword, pike, knife, gun, or need of any engine, Would I not have'? — Kill me if you must, but pray do not nick a hole in my best suit.'
Juliana lowered the sword-tip to the floor, yet kept both hands tight upon the hilt. 'Be calm, sir. I know it breaches the rules of war to kill an unarmed man — or harm his coat.'
'Thank the Lord you are so professional!'
Gideon eyed her weapon: a plain tuck, as basic infantry swords were called, probably made cheaply in the Midlands. It was the old sword that Lovell had brought away from Birmingham. Gideon had noticed this rusty beast earlier, skew-whiff on a nail behind the door. She would be safer not producing a weapon against intruders, but that was up to her. In case she had been taught how to run a man through, he stayed motionless and did not irritate her with advice.
'What do you want, Captain?'
'A favour, if you will.'
Juliana gave him a brusque nod to take a seat. She repositioned the sword on its nail.
'I have brought back with me,' said Gideon, more awkward now, 'a thirteen-year-old girl called Catherine Keevil, whom I found, with very great difficulty, living in the poorhouse, bereft of all friends and relatives. She is a sad creature. Her parents, John and Harriet Keevil, were good people in Eltham but both died in the last hard winter, as have all their other children.' Gideon did wonder now whether Elizabeth Bevan had known more about Catherine's situation than she told him. 'Thomas and Valentine have led her off to see their pig while I talk to you.'
'What is she to you?' asked Juliana, fascinated.
He showed a moment's hesitation, then stated, 'My wife's young sister.'
Juliana flashed a glance to his left hand and saw no wedding ring. A man of Independent religious beliefs would not wear one, however.
'Since my wife is dead,' explained Gideon quickly, after spotting her glance, 'I feel bound to take care of the wench. I have been asked to bring her to London to look after children where my wife was in service before we married, but — '
He faltered. Juliana interpreted: 'Some unhappy situation?'
She was quick! But Gideon ignored the question. 'Will you take her, Mistress Lovell? Teach her to be a maidservant, or whatever you find she is suited for that will help her make her way in life. Keep her honest. Give her skills.'
Juliana was astonished. 'Explain yourself. Why are you doing this?'
In staccato sentences, he answered, 'Conscience. Obligation. Something befell my wife. I cannot be certain…' He had asked Catherine about Lacy, but the young girl could hardly remember her older sister — or so she claimed.
'You could take her to Anne, your sister-in-law,' suggested Juliana, looking at him oddly. Keep her honest? She made a rapid interpretation of that.
'Anne has her own servants. Anne does not need her. You do!' said Gideon forcefully.
'You are very forward! Why me — a stranger?'
'I trust you.' Juliana remained silent at this compliment. 'I have talked with her, Mistress Lovell. She seems sweet-natured, docile and willing. You have no servants — and it is not good for you to live here, out in the country, all alone.' When there was still no answer, Gideon used unfair pressure. It surprised Juliana, who had thought him a fair man. He dropped his voice. 'What if you fell ill? Who would take care of you? What would happen to your boys?'
'I have no servants,' Juliana admitted frankly, shuddering at the fears he had played on, 'because I cannot afford wages.'
Gideon thought about that. 'Tell me what it costs and I will pay the wages.'
'A maid earns two pounds a year, less for an untrained child — '
Gideon thought she was haggling, so offered, 'Also, I will pay you for her keep.' He was already on his feet, leaving. A widower had to protect himself from the wiles of married women. 'I will bring you the money in a few days.'
'Payment is made at the end of the twelvemonth,' argued Juliana weakly.
'To the servant. You need finances now, I think.'
Gideon Jukes bent over her hand and kissed it like a gallant. A gallant, full of etiquette, would take up a lady's right hand; he chose the left. He placed his kiss particularly on her middle finger, avoiding the fourth, where Juliana Lovell did, of course, wear her gold wedding ring. He tapped it. The roughened end of one of his lost digits rasped slightly.
'You could sell that!' he grinned. 'There would be a few good white puddings and Hackney turnips there!'
Captain Jukes had promised to return very soon. He did not come. That was annoying. Juliana felt cheated.
Still, the little maid was friendly, cheery, a good worker, excellent with children.
A carrier brought letters, three of them.
The first, clearly the oldest, was from Orlando. Juliana found herself almost leaving it to last, but dutifully opened it before the rest. As she expected, it had travelled around the country for many months before it found her. Orlando said very little. For reasons of safety, he used veiled language, omitting real details of where he had been and what doing. The letter's battered condition showed it had been opened by others, perhaps more than once, and it may have lain for long periods in some Parliamentary committee file. This had been written at The Hague, a year ago. He told her not to come to Holland, for reasons he failed to supply. She already knew Orlando was not there now, but gone to sea.
He sent love to her and to his sons. That was impeccable, and nicely put.
Following instructions that he had given her at Pelham Hall, Juliana burned the letter. She had no scope fo
r sentimentality. A Royalist wife could not put her husband at risk.
The second letter looked mysterious. A stranger, whose name was Abdiel Impey, wrote to her from the Middle Temple with the news that William Gadd had died. She was invited to visit, should she be passing, when she would be given further information. Juliana shed tears for her guardian, even though she had long feared that he must have passed away. She had liked him, and knew he tried to do his best for her. He was a link with her grandmother; she had precious few family connections now.
The third letter was in a black, squiggledy hand which she did not recognise. Yet she guessed it. She held the document between her hands, almost afraid to break the untidy blob of sealing wax. She had saved it, like the juiciest plum in the basket. She had to admit that.
Madam.
What can I say to you?
I promised to come shortly, but I dally here on urgent printing business, which I must attend to, for it is my livelihood. Probably you think yourself well rid of me — or would do, save I owe you money. That will make me welcome, naturally. Not that I think you mercenary — but a debt paid is a great relief between friends, obliterating any occasion for broody thoughts to fester in the creditor.
I promised to come to you; come I shall. Pray you, send me a word of forgiveness and say if the little maid suits.
Yr servant, GJ
Juliana made up her mind not to answer it.
A day later she wrote back. Only to give him news of the maid, Catherine.
By return — it was difficult to tell, with the meanderings of carriers — Gideon Jukes scrawled off at her again.
Oh madam, madam, madam, madam!
Now I have had your letter, the one which begins, 'Captain Jukes, we are obliged to you for remembering us.'
Pish, what is this 'we'? Do you include yr children, yr household in general — cook, groom, bootboy, maid (lady's), maid (kitchen), maid (parlour, the one with the fabulously turned ankles), yr fat sow in the outhouse, and the little frowsty dog, Tousle, who lies by the hearth? Or, if he can climb up there unobserved, he lies in the good chair, with the leather back and brass studs, upon one of your fine stumpwork cushions.
I did not write to them (though I cherish your children, for your sake, and am glad that the little maid does well with you).
Now I have you. (I can hear you squealing 'But I have no dog — and if I did, I would not call him Tousle!') Fortunate for me, since that blackguard Tousle nips legs and rolls in all the muck that he can find, yet I would be compelled — were he yours, madam — to ingratiate myself by praising him.
You have written too little. I am afraid that if I leave your black jot upon a table, I shall mistake it for a beetle and squash it with my thumb.
I for my part have written too much. ('And a great nonsensical ramble!' niggles My Lady). You must think it was a lie, when I claimed my work detained me. Well, here I am in the print shop, where my apprentice Miles is turning the great press, while I must supervise in case he mis-orders the pages or nips his fingers. That can be done with harsh words and the occasional smart biff, in between the natural kindliness with which he is cajoled every five minutes. This leaves me four minutes now and then for correspondence. ('Faugh! Love letters!' cries Miles in disgust — 'Receipts for our ink and paper,' reply I, with noble patience. I have been fifteen, his age, with all its faults.)
Enough, fool! I shall come to you on Thursday.
Tr servant, GJ
Post script. Written two hours later. I am sending you by a separate package Golden Eye Ointment for Valentine, since you wrote that he was troubled with red eyes. This is the best ocular salve, according to regular advertisements in the Public Corranto, the News Letter to Trust. The advertisements are extremely expensive, so you know these claims must be true. If the packet survives robbery and the pot survives shattering and the unction survives heat, cold, jolts upward, circular motions, and downward thrusts of the carrier's satchel, then if Val does not screw up his eyes and go blue when you advance on him bearing ointment upon your maternal finger, the medicament may do him some good.
Juliana would burn this mad letter too. Well, she would once she had read it again and smiled over its foolishness a few more times. A wife should never keep letters that might annoy her husband.
That Thursday, Gideon Jukes came to her, true to his word.
The boys had been taken by Catherine Keevil over to the farm, where it was said that a foal had just been born. Juliana was alone in her parlour. She heard Gideon arrive, but did not run out eagerly. He came politely into the parlour, guessing where to find her.
'I have put your money on the table.'
Let us hope no foul-minded churchwarden hears that! 'Thank you.'
'No, I must thank you.' He seemed subdued. If it were Tom or Val, Juliana would be suspicious he was sickening. His face looked drawn. He seemed like a man who had been thinking too much; Juliana recognised it, for so had she. 'This is a good solution, I am glad I thought of it. I am under a very great obligation..'
When he tailed off, Juliana provided a succinct report on how she found the girl, Catherine. 'She is bright, helpful, easy to instruct, without needing harsh words or biffs — ' She had not meant to allude to his silly letter. She cast down her eyes. 'She sleeps on Mistress Anne's truckle bed in the garret; she eats and prays with us. I am happy to have her in my household; she is glad to have been given a home. Be easy in your mind, Captain. I shall treat her kindly.'
Gideon had remained standing. Now his chin came up. He looked at Juliana very directly, then asked without preamble, 'Will you be kind to me?'
She made no false pretence of misunderstanding. 'You know that cannot be.'
'When did you last see your husband?' Unbeknown to Gideon, the wording of that question took Juliana straight back to her unpleasant examination at Haberdashers Hall. It changed her willingness to answer. Automatically she was reduced to pinching her lips like a stubborn prisoner. 'Will he not come to you?' demanded Gideon, bitterly. 'Will he not summon you to him?'
Juliana stayed silent, caught in her need to protect Lovell and his whereabouts. This was the result of war: she could never risk anyone on the opposite side knowing too much and making further accusations against him.
'Nothing to say?'
It was hard enough to bear feeling forgotten and abandoned by Orlando; now she had an offer of friendship from a man to whom she was attracted, but she could not accept. Juliana's position was impossible. 'I am a married woman. Do not chastise me for my constancy'
'Oh I can never do that.' Gideon flayed himself. 'Not when, if it were ever my place to deserve it, I should hope for the same constancy towards me.'
Juliana smiled sadly. 'I think that would not be hard to give.' Gideon huffed. She rose from her chair. They were extremely still now. 'You must not write to me.'
'No.' Gideon knew what he had been trying to do in his letters. He feared what he had indeed done. He did not repent, though he would not repeat it.
'You must leave now, Captain Jukes.' Gideon looked rebellious. Juliana nearly panicked. 'You must! Merely to be here could cause comment. We live in a world of renewed morality. Indeed, I hear there is a new Act against Adultery, Incest and Fornication.'
'I am not planning incest!' snarled Gideon.
'Nor I adultery — it is a felony; the penalty is death!'
'For both parties.'
'I see you read it too.'
'I keep up with the news.'
'Ah, you are a good citizen.'
'You do not care for this putrid Act of Parliament, madam? Plenty of people ignore it.'
'And in doing so, they cause misery — to themselves and those around them. I have to take care for my children as well as myself — and since you will not, Captain Jukes, it seems I must care for you too.'
He seemed to accept this. With painful formality, they moved from the parlour and across the kitchen to the door. Juliana stepped outside first, looking for space in case an a
ttempt was made to touch her. But Gideon left a clear yard of air between them.
'Is this what you want, Juliana?'
Despite the intimacy of their previous conversation, she felt oddly shocked. 'You may not call me Juliana!'
'Oh I think I may!' replied Gideon, his voice low with open recognition of their mutual yearning.
He turned from her. His horse was waiting. He threw himself into the saddle in one strong movement — a dragoon mount in time of crisis — kicked his heels and rode. He refused to look back.
Juliana stepped quickly into the house, closing the door fast, lest she accept temptation.
Gideon reached the road, then halted.
Rumour, Robert's eccentric horse, was always glad to stop and stand still. Gideon turned the beast, and sat for long minutes, staring at the house. Eventually, he could not help himself and he went back.
There was no answer when he knocked. He knocked and waited, knocked and waited.
At last, he accepted that his obsession with Colonel Lovell's wife had been rebuffed. He still believed she was stricken with as much attraction to him as he felt for her. He could only admire her resolution. He rode away. He knew his pain was permanent. He was a lost man.
He did not know that nobody had heard him knocking. No one was there. The house stood quite empty. In panic at her emotions, Juliana had slipped out by a back door which she rarely used, a door hidden behind a curtain in the parlour. Half blind with tears, she went striding along a field path to the farm where she would find her children.
Had she been at home and heard Gideon return, her strength of will would have certainly dissolved.
Chapter Sixty-Four — Ireland and Scotland: 1650
They would not see each other. That must help. They would recover. Each of them tried to believe that.
If they had been asked to analyse what had just happened to them, she would have blamed lust, and would not have supposed it could possibly be love, or if so, not lasting love, nor true. She lacked faith, he would have said. He would already have called it love — though at the same time honestly acknowledging his lust. In this, they would both have been right, and both wrong.
Rebels and traitors Page 64