The Glovemaker's Daughter

by Leah Fleming

  This was the only way I could manage our leave-taking. Don’t look back, whispered the voice in my heart. Forward is the only way now. Yet with each step I could feel the tug of pain at such a forced departure.

  At the far crossroads it was time for us all to part company, to dismount for one last embrace. It was here that Uncle Roger, his eyes brim-full of tears, pressed a purse of coins into my palm with a smile. ‘To pay the fines, if the need arises,’ he whispered. ‘Write us a letter to say how it goes. May you always walk in the light of truth and be a beacon in the darkness, Joy. Fare thee well wherever the good Lord takes thee.’ That got us blubbering all over again.

  ‘Tell Dilly I will dress her a new babby out of scraps,’ I said. My little cousin had run away from us as we mounted, refusing to make a fare-thee-well, only too aware that our world was topsy turvy. She would be hiding up in the loft out of sight.

  Young Will Carr, ruddy cheeked and fresh faced rode to the fore and led us slowly down the track, out of the wide open dale with the stone walls stretching like ropes across the hills, one behind the other, trudging along in silence. My heart was thumping with terror at the thought of what lay before us, dark woods and bridges, unfamiliar faces and the old man waiting in fury at Scarperton Hall. What would I say to him? What would he make of me? Would I be confined to the dungeons like my parents?

  Yet as I rode forth, there was a surge of curiosity as I gazed across the unfamiliar territory, past clumps of stone houses and byres, over the packhorse bridges, moving ever southwards towards our destination. My new life was about to begin, and with it the certainty that however far I travelled, part of my heart would ever be buried by the rosemary bush in the orchard croft at Windebank Farm. One day, I vowed, I would return and I prayed it would be soon.

  GOOD HOPE

  2014

  Sam was pleased to report a welcome email from Rachel Moorside in Yorkshire which arrived in time to be shared at the scheduled monthly progress meeting for the renovations. He had also heard from the paper conservator in Philadelphia, who’d been recommended to them by the Foundation of the American Institute for Conservation online. She was as excited as they were at this find but urged caution in trying to read through any more before the pages were prepared and restored fully.

  ‘It’s a miracle it was as well preserved as it was, given it was at the mercy of damp, stone, changes in temperature and humidity. The binding has taken most of the punishment but the pages are cockled with dampness and needed straightening,’ she advised.

  Sam was impatient to read more from this mysterious woman’s feathery handwriting but he knew they must be patient as her story was revealed. He read out the email from Rachel and printed off the photos to hand round.

  Dear Dr Storer

  Thank you for your intriguing letter which was passed to me by the Curator of our local museum. I’m afraid I know very little about the Quaker connection to our family, if indeed there is one.

  My distant cousin, Marcus, assures me that the Moorsides have been in Yorkshire ‘since Adam were a lad’ and held some positions of importance during the Stuart reigns in the 1600s. He is looking into a connection in the Judiciary as he once saw a pair of fine white gloves that were said to belong to a judge in the family.

  Your letter was most opportune as I have recently retired and will have more time for further researches on your behalf. It all sounds very interesting and it would be helpful for me to have more copies of your discovery so I can follow up any leads when they become available.

  I have made a visit to Windebank. The layout is little changed from Joy’s time but I was disappointed to see that the village mostly consists of empty holiday cottages and the old meeting house is now a private home.

  A Quaker friend of mine lent me Besse’s Book of Sufferings for the Yorkshire District, written in the time of persecution, where I found the names of Matthew Moorside and his wife, Alice. This confirms that they were sent to York jail for four years for marrying outside the church but were released and later died. The early parish records were lost.

  Please feel free to email me at the above address if you have any further leads for me to follow. I have attached some photos of Windebank Chapel and local scenes. It is a beautiful part of our county and was filmed many years ago in the drama series All Creatures Great and Small which I know is popular all over the world. The Quaker movement was born out of such a territory as ours.

  Best Wishes

  Rachel Moorside

  6

  My nostrils told me we were coming into habitation; the air smelt foul, not like a farmyard hum. On the outskirts of Scarperton I could just see the ruins of the old castle with broken walls and turrets from the bombardments of the Royalist army. The street was cluttered with wagons, beasts and stalls, crowded with strangers about their business, not even looking up to watch us pass by.

  I had never seen so many people in one place except at prayer in one of the mountain worship meetings when Friends from near and far gathered to see George Fox who came into our district to preach the New Way.

  Nor had I seen such gaudy apparel: soldiers in uniform, women in bright cloaks and hoods whose scarlet petticoats swished in the mud, carrying baskets full of trimmings and lace while flags and signs fluttered over the doorways. Children were running barefoot in the chill and mire, wild like puppies in the wind.

  It was as if the whole world was gathering in noisome chatter, yelling their wares across the banter of costermongers and the clack of wheels, the snorting of horses in the frosty air. The sounds of a town were indeed strange to my ears and the speed of men rushing hither and thither, faces down, was most unfriendly.

  I was glad that Nan rode close by me as we followed Will Carr who was waving and nodding to strangers in a fashion that surprised me. Had he been introduced to so many unknown faces? He was pretending that we were none of his charge, embarrassed to be in the company of such plain folk as us.

  Then we crossed yet another river bridge and came out above the town on the other side. Would this journey ever end? I thought of my poor mother and their sixty-mile trek home. No wonder I was born all of a rush after such an experience. My seat was sore and bruised, my stomach rumbling with hunger, for the oatcake and cheese were long eaten up.

  Then we turned through a great gate and up a long lane lined with trees towards a house standing set back in a park, the size of which I had never seen before; a house of grey stone with many windows with small panes, a buttressed tower in the corner like an old keep.

  Will pointed to the path leading round the back by the side of the building to the cobbled stone yard and stables. This was an entrance more in keeping with our station.

  ‘In my Father’s house are many mansions,’ said the Bible. Was Heaven full of such dwellings? Windebank Farm would fit many times into this stone palace. Was this my grandfather’s house? Suddenly I felt so small and afraid, so out of place in such a vastness while men in livery rushed to take the horses from us. Would Justice Elliott Moorside see a likeness of his son in me?

  ‘We’ll report to the court house,’ said Will as he dismounted, leaving us to get down as best we could. The tired little steed, muddy and sweating, was led away by a groom.

  Just the name ‘court house’ made me shiver. The very words were fearful to me. Was I to follow in my parents’ footsteps and on to York Castle Goal? Nan stepped quickly to my side, seeing the look of terror in my eyes.

  ‘Fret not, Joy, you’ve done nought wrong in the eye of the Lord but worship in thine own way,’ she whispered. ‘All shall be well.’

  I wished that I had her confidence. There was no comfort in her words for me.

  We were ushered towards a large barn door that opened into a stone-walled room with arching rafters and a stone floor upon which stood a table of oak, the biggest I had ever seen, and a carved chair with a high back all coiled with wooden leaves. The arms were scrolled, the ends like knotted fists that frightened me. The room was empt
y. I felt like a small pea in a cask.

  We stood clutching each other for comfort, not knowing what to expect. ‘Wait there,’ said Will Carr, who looked as flummoxed as we.

  This was a sorrowful place and in my mind’s eye there were flashes of frightened men and women dragged before that awesome chair in fear of their lives. Was this where my own mother and father were brought to hear the charges of their Mittimus and know their fate?

  Yet it was but an old barn, plain as many in the district, plain like our meeting house at Windebank where we worshipped each First Day, with the rough stones, bare walls and benches I knew so well.

  Suddenly it was no longer so fearsome to me, for the Lord was tempering the wind to the shorn lamb. Now there was only Justice Moorside to face and his mighty voice calling me to account for my stubbornness. How should I, a mere maid, answer his accusations? What would he look like?

  We waited and waited, sitting huddled on the bench with the chest of possessions close by my feet. My stomach was rumbling with hunger and Nan fished into her skirts to bring out a fresh apple from the apple loft. It smelt of home comforts and the morning picking them from the apple orchard where I was always so content, knowing my parents were lying close by. I was far from their protection now.

  Nan could always be relied upon for treats with a little something to soothe my endless hunger. She had been forced to leave her place just to hold my apron strings and see me settled safely.

  Never was I more grateful than now for her thoughtful gesture; dear Nan who was fitted for Heaven early in a way I would never be. This journey would not have helped her cough that brought her low each year before spring came again. Why did I spell trouble for everyone I met?

  Suddenly we heard the barking of dogs and horses’ hooves, the bustle of servants outside and the rattle of wheels as if the whole courtyard was alive with the entrance of soldiers, huntsmen and coachmen all at the same time.

  My right foot jumped up and down as it does when I am afeared. I shivered in my thick cloak as if there was a chill wind blowing through the hall. The Justice was here, and punishment was at hand.

  ‘Stop your chittering, Joy Moorside,’ I muttered, summoning all my strength to sit calm and upright opposite the chair, my eyes following its carved curvings like a river. Remember who you are: daughter of martyrs, maid of the high dales. What was it Nan had said? All shall be well with you. I bent my head in prayer and refused to budge when the door was flung open and a gruff voice barked above me.

  ‘Well, bring forth the culprit.’ It was a rich northern voice, deep with phlegm. ‘Rejoice Moorside . . . what a damn silly name for a wench.’

  I sat forward, not moving, not wanting to face my foe.

  ‘Stand up, lass, when you’re spoken to. Let’s have a look at this dissenting baggage.’

  All he could see were the backs of our large hats and hunched shoulders. ‘Look at me, damn it!’ he yelled.

  I turned to face the voice, expecting a tall figure to dwarf me, a man built like a barn door just like my uncle Roger. To my shock he was but a barrel on legs with white hair tied back; a man not a foot above my head, dressed in hunting leathers and high boots, who smelled of horses and sweat, splashed with mud. I could scarce contain my surprise and bowed my head.

  ‘So this is the slip of a missy, the house creeper who defied the constables and the priest to hold conventicles in the barn!’ he laughed, staring at me closely.

  ‘I didn’t hold services, sir. We don’t hold with chantings and steeple-house prayer books. I was just teaching . . .’ Out the words spilled like peas from a sack: me and my big mouth holding forth as usual.

  ‘So it speaks at last! Bold and forward like all of these ranting Quakers. And not above thirteen by the size of her,’ he added.

  ‘Fifteen come fifth month,’ I replied, looking straight above his head with defiance.

  ‘Look at me when I am speaking, the cheek of it! Rejoice indeed . . . whoever gave you such a name?’ he said.

  ‘My father, Matthew Moorside, on his death bed.’ I stared up at him, watching his expressionless eyes blink as that blessed name reached his ears. There was no mistaking those same slate-grey eyes as mine own.

  His cheeks flushed as if I had spoken of a curse. There was hesitation now in his guarded reply. ‘So it’s true what I was told, then.’ He turned to his henchman. ‘This is my own flesh and blood before me. I thought never to see such in my lifetime. Why, even in death these people chose to make an exhibition of their faith by picking such pious outbursts for their offspring’s names. It beats me why they make show of stubbornness. I wager this maid is not baptised either. Getting children to defy the authorities, indeed!’

  ‘No one made me teach school. If the priest had not let his men kill our teacher Friend Sampson there would have been no necessity for anyone to take up his primers and horn books. I bore witness to their devilment and how they cracked his head with cudgels when we were taken to the steeple-house—’

  ‘Enough of the theeing and thouing . . . Do you know to whom you speak?’

  ‘Aye, to Justice Moorside, my grandfather as I am told, and I must tell you that the priest Protheroe did not stop those evil men from their deed.’

  I was not going to be distracted from my witness by his interruption. I was afire with indignation but Nan was quivering and tugging at my sleeve end.

  ‘The priest did not assault the man, I am told. Do not bear false witness,’ said my judge.

  ‘One word from him and they would have ceased their work,’ I argued back. ‘We were about our business in peace. Why is that so wrong of us?’

  ‘Enough of this nonsense! You are a very forward lass to speak of your betters in such fashion. I take it then that they have taught you to read scripture and make letters?’ He sighed, shaking his head. ‘This is what comes of educating children above their station.’

  ‘Aye, I can read, write, cipher and make accounts. I can spin and knit, sew and make cheese,’ I replied with pride, unaware that he was mocking me. Then I recalled the gloves in my kist. ‘I have proof of my parentage, here in my box . . .’ I bent down to open the straps but his voice boomed over me.

  ‘Enough! I need no proof of your parentage. One look at you and I see my son in all his spitting arrogance; the same jutting chin and fierce eye. What are we to do with such defiance?’ he sighed again, wiping his brow with a lace-edged kerchief.

  ‘But I have something to show you. Mistress Windebank said to be sure and show—’

  ‘There you go a-prattling again, all the manners of a cottar child, not a Moorside but educated to be a ranting Quaker . . . By Jove!’ he sat down in the big carved chair with the table between us, staring at me as if I was some piece of pig muck.

  ‘We don’t rant, we preach the holy Word,’ I answered meekly.

  ‘Do you not know when to speak and when to be silent, baggage? I should have you put in the stocks for your impudence, or send you to the House of Correction to teach you obedience, but now you are here and I see you have spirit and courage with your waywardness . . . Oh heck! I suppose you know no better. What can a lass learn in a farmyard up the dale but coarseness? Perhaps it would be best to keep you close at hand for a while and see how you shape up under strict instruction. Send for Dame Priscilla this minute, she’ll happen sort you out. . .’ He wiped his forehead with a kerchief. ‘I’m too old for bothering with troublesome wenches who don’t know their place.’ He leaned back in the chair, seeming relieved with his decision.

  ‘Would you prefer that I return back from whence I came?’ I offered, smiling, hoping to charm this barrel of gunpowder who was hissing in my direction but all I did was light the fuse of his temper.

  ‘I’ve not summoned you all this way to let you meander back to that den of dissention, theeing and thouing to all and sundry. Any fool can see you are wilfully bent but now that I’ve had a gawp at you I see there’s something in there worth training up. But be it understood that I’ll n
ot stomach any Quaking nonsense from you under my roof!’ he bellowed, standing up. ‘Where’s that bloody woman got to?’

  My heart was thumping in my chest but I stood up none the less. ‘Sir, I have to follow the truth as I have been taught. I know no other way.’

  ‘Not another word, baggage, your rough voice grates on my ears. You will do as you are bid in this household or it will be beaten into you. I am sick and tired of you Quakers standing before me with hats aloft as if you were my equal. You think you alone have the right path to glory. Here you will repent of your former ways and learn that there are other paths to follow,’ he shouted, his cheeks flushed with fury. ‘I am sick of seeing sour maids dragged before me, dressed in torn rags displaying their nakedness for all to see in the streets of this town, flaunting their bodies to the whip as if they were martyrs. It’s time you were brought to heel like a disobedient hound. Where is that wretched woman?’

  He turned to the open door impatiently as a woman scurried through, dressed in black, the keys on her chatelaine clanking with the rush. ‘What ails you, Master?’ she panted.

  ‘This is Dame Priscilla Foxup, she will find you a suitable place in the household to teach you your manners.’ Turning their backs on us in a huddle of concern, they whispered out of earshot. The woman kept flashing glances over her shoulder as if she could not believe this unexpected addition to her household. Her hands were twisted with frustration. I don’t think she was pleased at all. Then she slowly walked around me like a farmer eyeing a heifer for sale.

  ‘You will shape her coat according to our cut, Mistress,’ my grandfather ordered. ‘It must be of our fashioning, not hers. She’s a Moorside when all is said and done. Let’s hope it’s not too late to undo some of the nonsense that’s been drummed into her silly head. Whatever it takes, Priscilla, whatever it takes . . .’