by Leah Fleming
I should be used to the amused titterings by now. Worldly folk have no concept of name-giving, preferring always to name their offspring after relatives. Seekers do things always for a purpose, but it would be casting bread before swine to explain.
‘I am called Joy, for short,’ I replied, trying to bob a curtsey without success.
‘Well that’s not much better, is it?’ cackled Aunty Kitty, looking at me as if I was a prize heifer. ‘These Dissenters and their terrible names . . . I knew a servant once called Humility and she was the most cussed girl I knew! They make fools of themselves, giving their sproutings such ghastly names.’
‘Shush, my dear. I’m sure Joy had no choice in the matter,’ said Royston, looking at me with concern but his wife was having none of it.
‘I hope when you are wed, Thomas, you will not make a fool of us but name your children from the family vault: Edward, Millicent or even Katherine,’ she grinned, pleased with herself. Her voice was loud and rough on the ears.
Thomas blushed to his roots, staring at me, then dropping his eyes with embarrassment.
Such taunts slid from me like raindrops down window panes.
Well, I thought meanly, whatever Moorside good looks there were, I was the recipient of them. These cousins may have had family names but they all had horse features: bulging eyes and wide mouths with forward teeth.
Poor Thomas had the build of a carthorse, lumbering and slow, plump-breasted like a stuffed fowl and his fair eyebrows melted into his sandy face. His thighs bulged over his chair like cushions. We were placed side by side and the dinner was brought forth in all its wanton waste: guinea fowl and perch, a stuffed bird and raised pie, custards and a bowl of medlars with ripe cheese.
I sat straight, recalling the Dame’s instructions not to slouch and to use my knife neatly, to pick daintily and say thank you for such a delicious meal as if I meant it; but it was all sticking in my throat. It was wearisome listening to the talk of people I didn’t know, nodding and smiling where it was appropriate whilst Thomas wolfed down everything on his plate with a noisy relish and slurped his sack. He talked with his mouth full about horses and guns and the land they owned to the east across the great Pennine hills. When I smiled at him he blushed and stammered.
‘It’s grand to see the young ones getting on so well,’ said my grandfather, pointing in our direction. ‘Perhaps we’ll have some singing and dancing this evening. I don’t suppose Quakers do much of that,’ he added. ‘It’s all trembling and theeing and thouing. You should have heard her at it, but we put a stop to that, didn’t we, young Trouble?’ He was drunk with wine and high spirits to have what was left of his family around him, I supposed. I made no reply to his teasing. If only it was possible just to sit out this agony without a yawn or a belch, hiding out of view and letting them get on with their card games like some stranger in a foreign country who knew not the language.
Later Aunt Kitty made for the spinet so the young girls could jig about to the music. Thomas joined in to please them, clumping about like a dobbin horse without any sense of the timing. Grandfather was snoring in his chair, oblivious to the noise and I wanted to creep out of the room unnoticed. This was the longest I’d been in his company since my arrival and still we had not had one profitable conversation, one nod of friendship between us. Why had he brought me under his roof? Twelve whole days of this to endure; how would my spirit survive such an attack?
I thought of the Crankes holed up in some barn with those poor children, Hal and his brother. I imagined Master Miles Foxup riding through the storm to be with his mother. I prayed that all travellers would come safely through this night to their loved ones and that the Lord in His Mercy would look on my righteous deception for a few days more.
On the eve of Christmas there was a heaving of cartloads of greenery into the hall and the setting up of a huge hoop wrapped around with ivy, yew and holly berries to be hung from the rafters. ‘What’s this for?’ I said from my perch at the top of the wide oak stairs. I was in all innocence of such a custom.
‘It’s the kissin’ bunch, Miss,’ giggled Mary, bobbing a curtsey.
‘I don’t understand, what kissing?’ I was puzzled.
‘Every house has one, for dancing with the lads, for forfeits and games. We kiss until there’s no berries left. It’s a right laugh when all the boys come in to the hall for their Christmas boxes. You’ll see what giddy times we have, laikin’ about.’
No, I won’t be a party to such flummery and wickedness, I decided. No wonder it was said at meeting that more maids were undone in the twelve days of Christmas than at any other time of the year. When men and maids met in darkness there came mischief and I wanted no part of it.
The very thought of Thomas’s blubbery lips seeking my own to kiss made me feel sick. I was too young for such silliness and yet in my new blue gown with my hair down and the pretty ribbons I had not stopped my good foot from tapping up and down to the spinet music. Temptation was nigh and I must be strong.
It was time to take myself off to my chamber with a quill to write a long letter to Windebank. How I missed the simple warmth of their fireside, the gentle Nan and even Aunt Margery’s nagging tongue. I must explain away this new life here. How I had not been sent for correction and how I was doing my best to uphold their teachings. I was confined to my room and would take no further part in the Yuletide frivolities but sit in quietness. In my mind everything was planned. Hah, how are the mighty fallen!
I told them about the kindness of Titus Cranke and how they travelled from town to town and could they furnish me with the names of good Friends who might help them find lodgings? I scratched in tiny letters all round the precious page, not wasting an inch and sealed it with borrowed wax that was warmed up for me. It would be sent when the post boy next called.
To Aunt Margery and Nan I said that so far there was not one tar stain on my conscience. They need have no worries for my honour or my steadfast hold of true doctrine. Little did I know that temptation was already standing in the yard; my cruel fate was close by ready to laugh away all my pious intentions.
From the window perch I could see there was a horse, tired and sweating, a mudstained rider wrapped in a riding cloak, his head covered in a broad-brimmed hat. Miles Foxup was home for Yule at last and I was curious, putting away my quill pen to inspect this new arrival for myself.
No words can describe the sight of him standing at the bottom of the stairs, nor the effect his presence stirred within me. He was not what I expected from so plain a mother. It was the eyes I noticed first, deep set, fierce as flint. I’d never seen such eyes on a man. The power of such a gaze burned like a dart of fire in my belly.
He was like no other man I had ever seen at the meeting house. There was nothing gentle or sacred in his appraisal of me. He whipped off his hat and bowed to reveal a mop of chestnut curls looped with leather into a bunch at his neck.
‘Ah, so this is Troublesome Moorside, the Quakerling . . . at your service. I’ve heard you were brought here under sufferance to be the new mistress of Scarperton Hall. Miles Foxup bids you a merry Yule!’ he laughed, throwing down his riding gauntlets with a flourish. There was no witty riposte in my mouth, only a silly girl’s tongue-tied confusion, saved by Dame Priscilla rushing in to greet her son.
‘Miles, at last! Praise be, you are returned to me in safety. The girl said you would be,’ she smiled, looking up at me puzzled. He eyed me again with one brow raised in a question. ‘But I see you two have already met. Let me give you a hug, son.’
‘Don’t touch me yet, my arse is still glued to the saddle. I must smell of a dozen inns and stable yards not fit to house a dog. I’ll not be seen until I am scrubbed clean of the mud in a tub. Let me look at you, mother . . . a little rounder in the rump, I see. Let’s boil some water for the tub and you can scrub my back,’ he laughed again as all the women fluttered around him like chattering pigeons.
‘Nay lad, bathing’s dangerous in this weather. ’T
is not the season for such risk taking. I have clean linen prepared and a warm fire in the grate. Come and tell me all your news . . . It’s so grand to have you by my side.’ Her face melted with delight, flushed with joy at the sight of her own flesh and blood.
Suddenly envy consumed me, raw envy that I had never known such a loving of father and son or mother and daughter. I limped back to my chamber flushed and stirred by the handsome man who mocked me with his quizzical interest.
How could just one look from a stranger’s countenance make me feel homespun and plain, a silly maid with no refinements or learning to match his own? I wanted to throw the letter on the fire but could not waste paper or sealing wax.
The Lord was not mocked and I must humble myself in asking for strength to withstand such strange lustful thoughts. If only I could walk back up the dale, but for once the ache in my leg was real. There was another wound in my spirit that defied my understanding. Something was happening to me and I needed a safe corner to hide in, something to busy my unquiet mind. Now was a time for spinning, feeling the soothing oils of the rolls of wool in my fingers, the treadle to rock my restless foot. Sorrow and doubt always fled my heart when my fingers were busy.
I burrowed in my kist to find a needle stick and some spun wool. My fingers found the package tucked away and I lifted out the precious gloves, sniffed the scent of lavender oil, fingered the silver lace and pearly beads and rubbed them against my cheeks.
These gloves were mementos of a bygone age. I hoped my grandfather would receive them with pleasure, knowing the love in which they had once been given to his wife and to her daughter-in-law, my mother.
I peered out of my window only to see Miles striding across the yard to his mother’s cottage. Something made him turn round and catch my eye. He smiled and bowed mockingly as I darted back, puce-faced with fury to have been caught spying.
If only I could pace through the park and sniff the wind off the moors, ride on horseback and get myself back to Windebank to the world I knew. I would be safe there. This was Satan’s country and I was afraid.
The next morning I hid in my chamber, making a fuss that my ankle had flared up again and could not bear any weight. All the household made for the stone church as was their custom on a holy day. I laced up the splints to convince myself that the injury was still painful.
The Master was put out that I was not making an effort and no doubt suspected my disobedience but such was the bustle and excitement of the little cousins that I was soon forgotten. Only the servants in the kitchen hall were allowed to stay at home to prepare the feast day pies and roasts and I was determined to offer help. I felt more at home there than among the fine glasses and pewter plates, the napkins and finger bowls of the dining table.
There was enough food on the boards to feed the whole of Windebank for a sevennight. I sat myself to help with some herb chopping, happy to be doing something useful.
There was a fluttering in the dovecote at Miles Foxup’s return. The girls were blethering on and on about his fine manners and university ways. ‘I can’t wait to get him under the kissin’ bough,’ whispered Bess.
‘The old Dame’ll box your ears if you carry on wi’ him,’ warned Mary. ‘Beg pardon, Miss,’ she said, thinking I might tell tales on them. I moved the stool closer to hear more.
‘She has great plans for him. They say he will go abroad as a tutor to some young gentleman or go into the church, but not before I’ve had a go at him,’ Bess chuckled again.
‘Shut yer gob, Bessie Bullock, what’ll our Joy think of such smutty talk?’
She turned in my direction but I pretended to be absorbed in my chore, reciting a psalm.
‘I’d watch yer step. The old Dame means a good match for him. He’s her golden egg that must hatch forth some shiny brass to keep her in her old age,’ Mary warned.
‘She’s not old,’ snapped Bess.
‘She’s well above forty summers,’ Mary replied.
‘Who cares? Yule is but once a year and I mean to get me a taste of him.’ Bess was still yammering, trying to draw me into their gossip. ‘Don’t you think he’s a tasty dish to set before the king, Miss Joy?’ Both pairs of eyes flashed in my direction, hoping for a response.
‘I had not noticed,’ I lied, hoping they would not see my neck flush red.
‘Look, she’s got a pink rash at the thought of him!’ they teased. ‘Now you just watch your step with the likes of him. He likes to pick the first apple off the tree, I’ve heard,’ said Mary, staring at me which only made things worse.
‘You have to watch his hands, Miss, they do roam where they should not, given a pretty smile,’ Bess added. ‘Over hills and dales and in between,’ she mouthed but her hands made plain just where such places on the body might be. It was hard not to be shocked and curious at the same time.
‘Now stop that, our Bessie. This poor lass knows nought of the ways of men. A pretty girl like you must not be alone with such a black rover. He’ll be all over you like the pox, making inroads up your petticoats in no time,’ Mary warned, lifting her skirts lewdly. ‘Don’t let him storm your ramparts, put the drawbridge up on his ardour if you see his battering ram ready for action or there’ll be trouble swelling in your belly.’
‘Stop this! This is filthy talk not fit for such a holy day,’ I stood up to leave. ‘You do Master Miles an injustice to be so lewd. He is a scholar and will be a man of the cloth in no time or a schoolmaster . . . I will not hear another word.’
‘Hark to the preacher. They are the worst, believe me,’ said Bess with a stern face. ‘Ask little Prudence Billing why she can no longer call herself a maid but sells her milk as a wet nurse. Scholars come and go and sew their seeds in byres, hedgerows, lofts and alehouses. Master Miles will be no different from the rest, I reckon.
‘They like to take their pleasure from silly misses foolish enough to believe their pretty words and lies. Don’t take on so, we mean no harm, just a bit of fun for the season. There’s no wrong in that nor in giving Master Thomas a bit of encouragement. He looks as if he could pack a few acres into his trousers.’
I would hear no more of this ribaldry. ‘You forget yourselves. I was taught to judge by the fruits of the spirit alone; kindness of heart, courage, joy and not outward appearance,’ I snapped back.
‘There she goes again on her tub stool! Who cares a fig for such virtues when there is Yuletide fun and games. ’Tis only for twelve days and then it’s back to the grindstone and the gruel. Once a year we’re all equals in singing and dancing . . . Loosen your laces, young lady, before you are old and withered on the branch. Then you can be as sober and pious as you like for no one heeds a crone. You’re only young the once, the bloom on those cheeks won’t last forever in these harsh hills. Tomorrow we may be stricken with plague boils or the pox but tonight is for kissing and dancing. ’Tis not much to ask of life, a few days of feasting . . .’ Bess turned to her spit and Mary rushed into the cold buttery leaving me standing there, confused, humiliated and uncertain.
Why did they call me pretty and in bloom? How hard it was to see myself as others saw me. I caught my reflection in the silver platter that graced the table on special occasions. My eyes were bright, my lips rose pink and cheeks flushed with anger. No one had called me pretty before.
Seekers never looked for outward beauty but for sacredness within. The true spirit of man or woman lay in their deeds and in the goodness of a heart, that piece of our bodies divinely touch by the hand of God.
I hobbled up the stairs to view the portrait of Millicent Moorside with renewed interest. She wore a silvery grey gown that caressed her shoulders. Her face was fringed with ringlets. Her features were firm with bold eyes that followed me as I tried to walk away. Did I really look like this lady? If only I had a mirror glass . . .
Vanity, vanity, all is vanity, saith the Lord. The warning rang in my head like a bell. This was temptation and I must resist, a time of testing to see if my convincement was real. Now was the tim
e to stand firm against the enemy within.
9
Once again I found myself seated at the feast table next to Thomas, finding his conversation dull and stilted. The parson had preached too long a sermon for the day and Uncle Royston had fallen asleep which amused the little girls greatly. Everyone was ravenous for the feast to begin but not before the Christmas candle was admired as it burned in the window and the smoking Yule log that graced the hearth, kindled from last year’s embers.
‘The light of the world is come unto our darkness,’ I offered but everyone looked at me as if I had said a rude word. It was a waste of good tallow, I thought but said nothing more. We feasted on a stuffed goose, partridges and chickens, thick sauces and fruits washed down with mulled ale caudle, plum porridge and frumenty. Dish after dish appeared for the table until I felt sick.
Then the servants came up one by one and I dished out fresh ribbons and trinkets from the basket Dame Priscilla had left for us. There were wooden hoops and tops for the Moorside girls, a lace kerchief and posy of herbs for Aunt Kitty who looked pleased as she took her place near the hearth. There was a bunch of fine velvet ribbon for me, much to my surprise.
I waited until everyone was occupied with their own presents before producing my own gift. I wanted to have my Grandfather to myself but he was sitting by the hearth in his big chair, smoking his tobacco pipe and staring into the flames. For the first time I saw he was an old man with lines furrowed across his brow, sleepy with a surfeit of food and wine.
‘I’ve brought these for you,’ I whispered. ‘I thought you would want them back.’
‘What’s this, more gifts?’ he said, fumbling with the purse string. He pulled out the gloves and then stared up at me as if I was someone else. ‘What the deuce!’