Rebels and traitors

by Lindsey Davis

  Once he recalled her circumstances, Impey became all kindness. He reminisced of Mr Gadd, so tellingly he caused Juliana to wipe away tears on the lace-edged handkerchief that she carried on formal occasions. To remedy her sadness, a glass of shrub was produced. Its bottle was kept handy on a long shelf, among the unused parchment. An opener hung on a piece of string Mr Impey could reach from his desk chair. Weeping women must be a regular hazard.

  Juliana apologised for whimpering, swallowed a good slug of shrub — then belatedly remembered that shrub was composed by putting two quarts of brandy to the juice and peel of five lemons, with nutmeg, a pound and half of sugar and added white wine. It might seem like harmless sweet cordial for distressed ladies, but they needed to be ladies with hard heads. It had a kick like a dyspeptic dray-horse. The good thing was that by the time you realised how strong it was, you didn't care.

  Mr Impey knuckled down to business. Mr Gadd had had two extremely elderly sisters to whom he bequeathed legacies, sufficient to see them kept in comfort for their remaining years. He left a large amount to charities, mostly in Somerset. 'You were his ward, I understand. He regarded you with immense affection.' Further touched, Juliana had more recourse to shrub. 'He has bequeathed you a London property.'

  Without waiting to see how Juliana took it, Mr Impey poured her more shrub. Dispensing joy brought him so much satisfaction, he prepared a tot for himself too. It went without saying, the drinking vessels used by Middle Temple lawyers were gilded glass, of great beauty and considerable age. They were not small. A gift from a grateful client, Mr Impey hinted flagrantly. Juliana nodded non-committally.

  'The house has been empty for a year — because we received no instructions from you as to tenanting — ' He could have apologised for not actually asking her wishes, but did not wish recriminations to spoil the cheerful ambience. 'The shop was let until three weeks ago, when the tenant died — nothing infectious, I believe — and the premises have been cleared. A new tenant can be found as soon as convenient — '

  'Let me think about that!' Bolstered by shrub, Juliana hardly needed to think. She had enough haberdashery, collected from Colchester, to start a shop herself.

  Mr Impey delved in a drawer of his magnificent desk, managing to conceal an uneaten pie and a pair of holed stockings. After much huffing, he produced a large doorkey. 'There!'

  Juliana did not immediately take it but asked him, 'As a married woman, I assume this property will belong to my husband?'

  Abdiel Impey never gave an answer until he had ascertained full circumstances. Young wives who visited the Temple without their husbands were usually married to scamps; besides, Mr Gadd had left him private instructions which mentioned certain suspicions of Orlando Lovell. Mr Impey leaned forwards and posed potent questions. He learned from Juliana that Lovell, now a Delinquent colonel, had gone overseas several years ago and had not been heard of since. Apart from one letter I received in late 1649, though it was written earlier… I believed he sailed with Prince Maurice of the Palatine, supposed now to be lost in a tempest at sea.'

  Gulping more shrub, Mr Impey made an expansive gesture that knocked law reports and almanacs to the floor. 'Count him dead, ma'am! Call the bounder defunct! Are you hoping to take a lover? You may do it with impunity'

  'Oh I cannot countenance adultery!' fluttered Juliana, with the heat of one who had once considered it extremely keenly. She too wished she had gone more slowly with the shrub. In fact, from that or some other cause, she was feeling slightly sick.

  'Rush to it, my dear.'

  'But the penalty is death!' Juliana knew adultery was a felony; both guilty parties would be condemned to death, death without benefit of clergy.

  'Not in your case!'

  Mr Impey took down from a shelf the Act of 10 May 1650 for suppressing the detestable sins of Incest, Adultery and Fornication. It showed signs of frequent use. 'There are not one but two provisos, for the preservation of persons in your position: one! "Provided, That this shall not extend to any man. who, at the time of such Offence committed, is not knowing that such woman with whom such Offence is committed, is then married." Many of my masculine clients have felt much relieved by that! "Oh no, sir! I had absolutely no idea!" And two! "Proviso: Provided, That the said penalty in case of Adultery shall not extend to any woman whose Husband shall be continually remaining beyond the Seas by the space of three years" — the Rumpers discussed five in committee, but they are charitable men — "or shall by common fame be reputed to be dead; nor to any woman whose husband shall absent himself from his said wife by the space of three years together, so as the said wife shall not know her said husband to be living within that time"!

  'No one has informed me that Orlando is dead,' faltered Juliana.

  'Pish! He was in Prince Maurice's ship; the common fame says it sank and vanished. Besides, you have not had a line from him for four years. Lamentable lady, this could be written just for you. You can lie gladly with your lover.'

  'Oh, I do not have a lover!' Juliana believed Gideon Jukes was just a bothersome complication. She put him out of her mind. Generally.

  'If you are of the inclination, madam, feel free to get one. Get him at your earliest convenience.'

  Juliana Lovell showed the pinched look many women acquired when talking to lawyers about husbands who had caused them years of difficulty. Mr Impey glared sternly. He implied that obtaining this hypothetical lover was almost her duty; resistance was feeble.

  So charged with enthusiasm for this glorious idea was Mr Impey that, but for the existence of Mrs Abigail Impey, he would have flung himself at Juliana's feet. Previous experience of Mrs Abigail's retribution when she suspected he wandered (or knew of it for certain from his back-stabbing colleagues) gently held him back.

  'Of course I must warn you, Mistress Lovell, that fornication will be punished with three months' imprisonment without bail, for a first offence… So once you identify your lover, you are obliged to marry him.'

  Let her enjoy herself, poor pretty little mite, he thought. If the man, Lovell, ever turned up again, there would be fees for someone in it.

  It seemed kindest not to mention that in disputes when this happened, English courts always decreed 'that the woman should be given back to her first husband'.

  Accompanied by Mr Impey's mournful, knock-kneed clerk, a youth so devoid of any pretensions that he kept quiet and studied the gutter, Juliana tripped out to take possession of her property. The clerk was to show her the way, save her from falling down as the effect of the shrub took hold and help overcome any trepidation she felt about entering empty premises. Also, he was to check around surreptitiously, in case damage had occurred due to Mr Impey's neglect. Not that a lawyer would ever use the term 'neglect' apropos of his duty to a client.

  It was not far. The house and shop were in the same ward as the Middle Temple, Farringdon Ward Without, off Shoe Lane, in one of several narrow alleyways in London that were called Fountain Court. Of course there was no fountain. It was not particularly courtly, though public scavengers had cleared away most recent rubbish and there were no beggars sleeping in doorways at that moment.

  Juliana was led to an old door in a modest doorcase, beside a large square shop window with murky, cobwebbed glass. After passing through the shop, bare now of all but a long counter and a few battered racks, Juliana discovered a store for goods, then a scullery with a range, and a tiny paved yard outside. That had a pantry with stone shelves, a coal-store and an anonymous shed.

  'Is there a privy?' The clerk nodded, too shy to show her. Juliana identified it herself. 'Does it work?'

  'Most of the time.'

  Indoors again, a steep little stair led up to three storeys of dusty domestic accommodation. First a well-lit best room and snug little parlour, then bedchambers. Under the eaves lay a low garret. There were adequate fireplaces. The floors were only slightly askew; the windows fitted decently. No rooms were furnished.

  'There is no furniture, linen or crocker
y; the tenants were obliged to bring their own.'

  'Tenants?'

  'Mr Impey has the past rent waiting for you. You must pay him a fee for the managing of it though.'

  'I imagined I would,' remarked Juliana gravely. She had no quibbles. After her years of struggle, this wondrous bequest brought incredible relief. If there really was rent to come as well, that would help her equip the house.

  Mr Impey had been unable to tell her whether her guardian ever lived here himself. Juliana wondered if possibly her grandmother visited this place with Mr Gadd… Delicacy made her content to respect their privacy.

  Her first thought had been that she could sell this property and have enough money to survive in Lewisham for the foreseeable future. But why Lewisham? Mr Gadd had given her a wonderful gift, and its best feature was that she now possessed a bolt-hole. She decided Gadd probably knew that, and indeed intended it. She could vanish here. Nobody — meaning her husband — nobody would be aware she had this house. It gave Juliana a sense of independence that she found almost shocking.

  She moved to London at once. She brought Tom, Val, and the little maid Catherine; she was able to hire a daily woman and occasional handyman too. She cleaned and aired the building, gradually providing simple furnishings and good utensils.

  She did not lease out the shop. She had it fitted with drawers and cupboards, turning it into a haberdashery which she ran herself. She brought her own braids, ribbons and tassels, to which she soon added more — cords, silk and woollen threads for sewing and embroidery, needles, thimbles, darning mushrooms. She developed links with suppliers and weavers of what were called narrow wares — braid, bobbin lace, ribbon, tapes and gimps. She sold buttons, both fully finished and the wooden cores over which embroidery could be worked to match or contrast with particular material. Women of the gentrified classes learned of her shop, and although plain styles were worn by many nowadays, many others who could afford it wore decoration whatever their religion and politics. Everyone needed britches' hooks and apron strings. Juliana became known for her sound advice on dressmakers and hatters. She also sold patterns. Starting with her grandmother's traditional embroidery emblems, she went on to offer designs of her own, either on printed paper or ready sketched out on outfit pieces. She could prepare patterns to order.

  Her natural talents were those necessary to a businesswoman: she was bright, energetic, courageous and dogged. She had a pleasant manner, but had learned to stand up for herself. Her buying mistakes were few; her debtors fewer. If her premises were the wrong end of the city for the Royal Exchange where grand silks, satins and velvets were sold, at least she had an untapped market. Lawyers, jewellers and their wives had money and the wish to deck themselves out. She did well.

  It was hard work, and left her little time for herself in the first years, but as she became established and her boys grew older and less demanding, at last she was able to enjoy a quiet life, mostly free from anxiety. The boys went to school. Catherine Keevil assisted in the shop. Juliana had told Tom and Val that they had to assume that their father was dead. She did not remarry. She did not expect to. She was lonely, but she had been lonely ever since her marriage when she was seventeen. She made the best of it. At least she was free from anxiety, which brought her close to contentedness.

  By the time she took possession of the Fountain Court premises, she had lost contact with her friend Anne Jukes. Anne had had wearing experiences with her husband, which Juliana heard about. She thought Anne might wish to remain private temporarily. Besides, Juliana felt a reluctance to be involved with that family. Of course she had been promised wages for her maid, Catherine Keevil, but after the first year which Gideon Jukes had paid for, Juliana found the money herself. She was proud to do so. It avoided obligation. It avoided awkwardness.

  Some months after she set up in her new premises, Juliana did take herself nervously to Basinghall Street, however. She had a genuine commercial reason. She wanted to explore whether ready-designed embroidery patterns could be printed on paper sheets to sell. She believed there was a market, but was uncertain whether her idea was viable or how expensive it would be to have her drawings produced. To advise her, she wanted a printer, one who could be relied upon to deal fairly with a woman client.

  She was dismayed to find that the print shop she knew, Robert Allibone's, was locked up. It looked deserted. When she tried again a few weeks later, still hopeful, it had become a confectionery shop. The new proprietors said the previous occupants had died or gone away. She felt her enquiries met with odd looks, so she wondered whether the shop had closed because of some problem with the authorities.

  She could have asked Anne Jukes. After so long out of touch, she did not know how to make an approach. Then someone told her there was a new printer not far away from her house, just off Holborn. Hers was a business venture; with no moment for sentiment, Juliana packed up her designs and went there.

  A young man was working the press. He had a vague air, but he was slowly doing the job, without supervision. A bell had tinkled briskly on Juliana's entry, but the apprentice or journeyman barely looked up. The shop seemed to stock mainly sermons and schoolbooks. Juliana, who could never resist new works, spotted on a shelf A Treasury of English Wit, nudging a Latin grammar and books on mathematics; against Practical Remedies for Gout and Sciatica, her eye lingered on a handbook of Women's Diseases..

  There was a small pile of Mercurius Politicus — an edition Juliana had not seen; it would be published on Thursday — tomorrow.

  'Can I buy this already?'

  'Not supposed to,' answered the young man. He finally turned to talk to her. 'You can have it if you hide it.'

  'How do you obtain them so early?'

  'Our printer writes articles sometimes.'

  This dismayed Juliana, who feared such a public man would not want her domestic commission. The youth assured her they undertook all work that was not obscene or seditious — though when Juliana began describing embroidery patterns, he looked affrighted. With her speech all prepared, she continued talking about her project until his eyes glazed. Stitchery patterns were something they had never attempted here; accepting strange jobs (which might have no profit) went beyond his authority… 'You should speak to my master.'

  Juliana lost faith in her pitch and faltered. 'Maybe another day, when he is not too busy'

  'Suit yourself.' The young man turned back to the press, which was rude. Juliana had not quite finished speaking and she was aware from the bell behind her that another customer must have come into the shop. 'Of course,' added Miles, grinning oddly over his work, 'the correct way to commission a printer is to summon him to a tavern and ply him hard with drink — but my master is clean-living, so you may simply ask him…'

  Annoyed now, Juliana crisply picked up her drawings and turned around, ready to share a disapproving frown with whoever stood behind her.

  It was the printer himself. He was listening, quiet and serious, just inside the door. His tall height blocked part of the light through the glazing. She felt a shock: how blue his eyes were. He had been waiting a little wryly for her to notice him. Now that she had, he flushed faintly.

  He stepped forward, offering his hand in conventional good manners. Juliana responded. As they clasped hands, he pulled hers in closer to him — an instinctive, momentary gesture. He may not have realised he did it.

  The day was fine and he wore his coat fully unbuttoned. So although Gideon Jukes let go of her hand politely and her fingers slipped away through his in the same movement, Juliana had felt through his linen shirt the man's warmth and the strong beat of his heart.

  Chapter Sixty-Nine — Dunbar and London: 1650-51

  'We are in the hands of God.'

  So pronounced a surgeon after the battle of Dunbar. He assumed this would spread well-being among his patients, those who had fought for the New Model Army and who had just been vouchsafed yet another glorious indication that God favoured them as His own. It carried extra for
ce in Scotland, where the Covenanters were equally certain that God was all theirs. To worship the same God as your enemy, and to worship Him with exactly the same rigour, expecting the same signs of favour, might be unsettling. Thoughtful worshippers could be uneasy about placing God in a dilemma. But since Dunbar, the Kirkmen must know what God thought. Knowing it too, the New Model Army was once more cocksure and chipper.

  Nevertheless, patients extracted from a battlefield view everything through the prism of pain. Disfigurement had already claimed casualties. Disease lay in wait. Death was smiling at the surgeon's shoulder, with his tally-stick ready to be notched. To a man lying on a blood-soaked pallet with his energy ebbing out of him, the words 'We are in the hands of God' spoken by a surgeon meant only one thing: there was no hope. To a surgeon, it was inconceivable that anyone else could be given credit for saving a patient, even God. God fought the battles, surgeons patched up the wreckage afterwards.

  His name was Mr Nichols. He was short, stout and unspeakably abrupt. He was compassionate about his patients when addressing an audience, yet saw them as living experiments and rarely spoke directly to them. He thought explanations were wasted on woozy soldiers, who might not understand what he said, rarely answered his questions accurately, would not follow his orders and might die on him.

  The blow to Gideon Jukes's cranium had only banged him unconscious temporarily. Time on the battlefield seemed to stretch out, increased by his terror. Among the carnage, he was found early. He was stretchered off rapidly. He reached the surgeon quicker than might have happened after a less tremendous victory. If there truly were only forty wounded on the English side, his turn for diagnosis and treatment would come fast. Even though surgeons were instructed to attend the victims from both sides, regimental commanders would insist that their own were looked after first.