The Glovemaker's Daughter

by Leah Fleming

  Everyone pushed and jostled for their share of the feast, high and low together for a change. Then they pushed back the table for the fiddler to strike up his tunes as a thunder of stamping, dancing feet beat out the drum in the dancing jigs.

  There was no time to slide away and soon I was caught up in the circle of the carolling dance. ‘Here we come a wassailing . . .’ round and round we swung, under and over, linking arms; girls in one circle and the men in the other, swinging round and moving on.

  I have to admit I kept Miles Foxup in view. I knew where he was in the circle and the point where we must link arms but the music stopped just in time and I didn’t know whether to be relieved or furious. To my surprise I did not step out of the ring but waited as eagerly as the next for the next jig to begin, breathless and defiant.

  I sensed poor Thomas watching from the doorway knowing I preferred servants’ company to his own.

  The kitchen was where I felt most at home. Since Elliot had made plain I was no longer his protégée and Aunt Kitty said there was no taking the farmyard out of me, I might as well be true to form. Tonight I would do as I pleased.

  To my chagrin it was a dance in pairs and I had no knowledge of such steps so I made to leave the circle but a hand grabbed my own. I turned in protest to see Miles smiling down at me. Something inside made me stand and return to the circle, seeing the pained look on Bess’s face as she was making for him too.

  Who was this stranger within myself; this headstrong lass with feet like wings, shaking hair like a wanton and forgetting her half-way rank within this household? It was Yule and a time for all to be equal after all.

  Dancing did strange things to my resolve when the measure was fast and strong arms whirled me round like a top. My eyes grew bolder as I stared at my partner when he swung me round. My heart was thundering in my chest, not with exertion but with a curious wilder beat that I didn’t understand. My bosoms rose and fell as my kerchief slid away. I hardly noticed how much of my flesh I was exposing. It was the touch of his jacket on my bare arm, the warmth of his fingers gripping mine; all I cared for was the very moment I was living now.

  There was laughter bubbling up from my throat. In that moment there was joy and youth. I was pretty and desired, the centre of attention and envied for my partner; this wonderful adventure was so new. How could I know that it was only the potent brew in the wassail cup that was altering my understanding, firing me up with strange lustful thoughts of being kissed and caressed, or was there more? I danced like a silly wanton whose befuddled wits did not see where such danger might lie.

  Miles whispered in my ear, ‘The young mistress is not so straight-laced now, I see. She shows promise and gives permission. Is it time she be taught a lesson in the ways of love, in the ways a maid should be obedient to a man?’

  ‘You talk gibberish,’ I laughed, too proud to show my ignorance of his meaning. ‘I have had lessons enough in obedience in this house.’ The room was spinning now.

  ‘Then let me teach you other delights that your grandfather, the Justice, will never speak of, nor that clodhopping cousin who dribbles with desire at the sight of you. Come away into the yard and I will show you ways to please a man.’ Those flinty eyes sparkled, his eyebrow raised and at last I fumbled through the hazy fug to his real meaning.

  ‘Stop there!’ My voice was raised enough to cause a stir. ‘Don’t insult me any further. I’m not one of your taproom drabs to use as you please. You forget yourself, Miles Foxup!’ I pulled myself away, shocked to have raised my voice so others could hear. Suddenly the place was chilly.

  ‘There you go again, Miss Sobersides. I meant no offence, just testing the thickness of the ice for cracks,’ he smirked, turning round for support. ‘I see the Quakers have frozen thee well enough. Thine honour is safe with me.’ He was mocking our speech.

  ‘Thy conversation was not that of a scholar, sir. The maids’ stories of thee are true enough,’ I replied. Two can play at that game.

  ‘Take no notice of gossips. They are all far gone in lewd boasting,’ he snapped. ‘I don’t have to force myself on anyone, but I’m sorry to trouble you.’ He was looking discomforted, especially as his mother came into the room to search him out. ‘Shall we start again?’

  I shook my head. ‘It’s late, my leg aches, people are staring at us, staring at me, thinking I am one of your Yuletide conquests. You’ve done me a great service in reminding me of my calling,’ I bowed stiffly. ‘I bid thee goodnight.’

  ‘But Joy . . .’ he called after me as the servants parted like the Red Sea before me in silence.

  I stumbled on up the stairs, feeling sick and silly. Once more I had shamed myself in public. Mary and Bess were staring grimfaced at the drama unfolding. The family were at cards in the hall and looked up briefly. I was trying to slide away unnoticed but Eliza and Dolly broke the tableau by rushing to greet me. ‘Come and play cards with us,’ they shouted in unison, their faces eager. How I envied their innocence, their certainty of station. ‘Joy can come and play, can’t she?’

  Aunt Kitty was quick off the mark. ‘Joy is tired. She needs her rest. There’s been enough excitement for one night. I think the Yule cup has gone to her head.’

  I curtsied and crept upstairs, with aching heart and spinning head.

  If only Miles had left me alone and not made me dance . . . It was all his fault.

  If only grandfather had accepted those precious gloves . . . It was all his fault too.

  If only Thomas would stop making eyes at me. If only my Aunt was not so superior . . . if only. I could make a hundred excuses why I behaved so shamelessly but there was one blinding truth. I was tempted and found wanting.

  ‘If you dip your fingers in pitch tar it will stain.’ I thought of Nan’s warning words. I was proud and defiant and this was what came of it. I wept into my pillow and knelt by the bedpost to beg forgiveness. ‘Lord, take this temptation from me,’ I pleaded. ‘I have learned my lesson. Show me the way out of here and I will honour thy ways forever.’

  My dreams were full of Miles’s blazing eyes and dancing with him in circles. I woke to the worst headache of my young life.

  10

  The household slept in late after all the roistering of the night before. The platters and pewter were cleared, the stone flags swept and sanded and the dogs snuffled through the rushes for the scraps. There was the smell of oven bread baking ready.

  Today was the day of the hunt so the horses were tacked and groomed ready for the chase and the stirrup cup was warming by the grate.

  At least the house would be quiet, I thought as I crept down to the kitchen to make myself useful to the household. No one looked up to greet me. Bess was clattering pots with a face on her like sore feet. The Mistress huffed and puffed, ignoring my offers of help. I dare not even ask if her son was close by, not that it was any of my business.

  There would be a house full of hunters and families; farmers and gentry folk. There would be more feasting and drinking to prepare. This Yule season was hard work for the servants. No wonder there was extra help drafted in to the kitchen. Aunt Kitty had said that the Cliffords were on the move but perhaps the Lady Anne Clifford’s former entourage and distant kin in the castle might call in for a caudle and light refreshment with the Justice as they had done when she was alive. The house must be kept in readiness for such an honour. It was made plain that I would not be welcome at such a reception.

  All I wanted to do was to find some chore to busy my fingers and keep my mind from its dizzy wanderings. Then I thought about the splints that were now cast off. It was time to return them to the Crankes; a walk in the fresh air would clear my head and strengthen my ankle.

  ‘I can’t spare anyone to escort you,’ said Dame Priscilla on hearing my suggestion. ‘But it would help if you were to take a basket of food for our old servants who live in the almshouse. They will be expecting some gifts from the hall. The Crankes can wait. I suppose I could spare one of the boys,’ she sighed, pac
king some pie and meats into a linen napkin. ‘They can have a little plum porridge. Just for our old women, mind, don’t go feeding the others. Widow Medley, Widow Robinson and Old Peg are our responsibility.’ Then we both saw Miles leaning on the doorway watching the packing. He had heard everything.

  ‘Let me escort her,’ he said. ‘I could do with a good walk.’

  ‘Nay, son, you are wanted here for the hunt,’ his mother replied, looking up at him with alarm.

  ‘What for? You know I hate all that jumping walls. The kitchen is women’s work and I have books to collect from the Parson for my studies,’ he insisted.

  I could see the look of hesitation on her face. This was the last thing she wanted, but I could not walk unescorted.

  ‘Well just there and back and be sharp about it,’ she snapped. ‘This is most irregular but needs must . . . Wrap up well, son, for the air is chilly.’

  Funny how she was concerned for him but not for me, I mused. He was the last person I wanted for company but no matter. In His wisdom the Lord was putting us together so I would redeem myself after last night’s shaming: another test to prove my mettle.

  There was a fluster of busyness, collecting the baskets and stuffing extra food out of the sight of the Mistress. I wanted the Crankes to have some of the leftovers too.

  We walked down the pathway in silence. I wore my thick cloak and my tall hat over my cap. I wanted to look as plain as possible.

  ‘It was the ale talking last night,’ he said, breaking the chill between us. ‘I am sorry if I offended you.’

  ‘ ’Tis no matter,’ I replied, head held high. ‘It is what is expected from worldly men. That is why Seekers shun this season with such vehemence.’

  ‘That is their loss,’ he said. ‘In the darkest point of the year, we need light and fun to cheer us through the winter solstice.’

  ‘That’s just pagan superstition.’

  ‘You misunderstand. The candle is lit for the coming of Christ, the light of the world. His coming promises new light and spring. That’s the rub of the matter.’

  I watched his breath puff like smoke before him in the chill air.

  ‘Then why must we have all the excesses and foolishness? Drink makes fools of us all . . . It made a fool of me.’ I argued.

  ‘There you go again, talking from your pulpit. Why are you so priggish? No one forced you to drink so much strong punch, but merriment and bright colours suit you.’

  ‘It is so demeaning to be judged by appearance alone,’ I snapped.

  ‘You’ve a lot to learn, Joy Moorside. We’re young and need some lightness in our daily grind. The skies are grey enough here, the rain falls hard and the nights are long. That’s enough to sink anyone’s spirits. Why dress like the weather?’

  ‘Speak for yourself,’ I replied, not wanting to carry this argument further, for some of his words were reasonable enough. ‘I was taught that jesting and merriment grieves the Holy Spirit. We have a truth to proclaim.’

  ‘I don’t see that at all. Didn’t Jesus himself enjoy the wedding at Cana when he turned the water into wine? There has to be a bit of levity to balance the serious with the frivolous, heavy and light. Our drudgery needs some honey to sweeten the taste,’ he added, looking at me for some sign of agreement.

  ‘We can have our reward in heaven, there is sweetness enough then,’ I said.

  ‘There’s no arguing with you, is there? You are always so . . . so sure of the truth.’

  ‘I am a Seeker. Our way is right,’ I said, shaking my head with sadness at his words.

  ‘How can you be so certain? Have you no doubts that others may also have answers different to your own?’ He was not going to give in.

  ‘Doubts are for the faint-hearted. We are taught to believe in our convictions and see them to the end no matter what the cost. That’s why my father left this house. I have to be true to his sacrifice.’

  ‘I think you are too severe. I have many doubts,’ he confided. ‘Too many doubts ever to enter the church and that will break my mother’s heart.’

  ‘It is no loss, a hireling priest is no occupation of honour,’ I replied.

  He stopped and looked at me again. ‘You are a pious know-all. Such ugliness does not suit you . . .’

  ‘And you are a pompous unbeliever . . .’

  We walked in silence after that. There was nothing else to say but the bitterness of his words was as bile in my mouth, acid and burning and hard to swallow. There was no meeting of minds with this man. The walk had gone quickly and we were soon on the path into Scarperton where the church and the stone almshouses clustered around the top of the high street. He nodded and went toward the parsonage while I made for the gate through into the cluster of little cottages where my food could be distributed.

  ‘I shall be here at the noon bell to escort you back,’ he said raising his hat.

  I nodded and turned away. Why did people not think as we thought?

  I was greeted at the doorway by the warden of the houses who peered in my basket with interest and pointed me in the direction of the widows. Not one of them was at home so I left the gift with the warden and trusted all would be fairly distributed. Now there was time enough to go in search of the Cranke family.

  The town was bustling with stalls and shows. I was glad to be dressed like any other country girl but strode out in search of their caravan. I did not have to look far. They had set out their stall with a raised flap of cloth over a table. There were bunches of dried herbs, boxes of strange stones, pastilles and ointments. The doctor was shouting out his wares to the crowds passing by.

  ‘Come buy my heart’s delight, made to ease an old man’s ticker. Up and doing for those in need of a pick-me-up! I have Balm of Gilead for sleepless nights. Don’t be shy, come buy, loosen your purse strings and try! I’ve cures for chilblains and corns, warts and all. I draw teeth so fast you don’t know they’re gone, not a thing will you feel or your coin is returned. Trust none but Titus Cranke, sometime doctor to the highest in the land!’ Then he spotted me in the throng and waved.

  ‘Behold, the tender maid who last week fell amongst you and see she walks unaided by the help of my splints. See they are in her hand, another miracle of healing. Welcome, your presence is timely,’ he added. ‘Dora, dear heart, the lady is returned. You’re good for business, everyone likes to see a pretty face.’

  ‘How now, dear heart, why it’s the lady from the hall.’ Dora sprang from the back of the caravan. I thrust the package into her hand. ‘Thank you for the loan of the splints and here is some Yule pie for the children. Where are Hal and his brother?’

  ‘No longer with us,’ she smiled.

  ‘Oh no, what’s happened?’ I could still see those pale little faces peering out of the back of their van.

  ‘They have gone home for the winter, praise God! It is too cruel a time for them to travel. After Twelfth Night we’ll be on our way. I think the good citizens are all but spent up now.’

  ‘When will you return? I can visit your children, if you like, and see that they are well cared for,’ I offered, glad to be of help.

  ‘Oh no, they are well placed. It will only disturb them to have visitors. In spring we’ll return. I see your ankle is healed but your heart is not so easily mended, I fear,’ she said, looking over my shoulder.

  How does she guess all the past day’s troubles? The woman was smiling and winked at me and I turned around to see Miles standing behind me.

  ‘There you are,’ he said, raising his hat. ‘I thought I might find you at the fair. You didn’t stay long with your old ladies.’

  ‘None of them was at home and I wanted to return these,’ I snapped at him, blushing as I spoke, showing him the splints.

  The black eyes of Dora Cranke missed nothing. ‘I see where your trouble lies, Mistress, but no matter, all will be as it will be, given time. A Merry Yule to you both,’ she called out as we walked away.

  ‘What’re you doing with those two charlatans?�
�� Miles asked, but I shrugged my shoulders.

  ‘Returning a kindness with some Christmas pie for their children,’ I replied, tired of his snide remarks. The Crankes were good people, parents who were farming their children out so they might be safe from the bad weather to come. ‘They have little ones to feed; two boys called Halifax and Holderness, not above four or five years old. I wish I knew where they were lodging them. I thought they were dead when she mentioned it first. I hope the good doctor knows what he’s doing.’

  ‘He’s no doctor, little more than a pedlar selling coloured water and hedgerow cures,’ said Miles, striding ahead as if he was finding my company awkward.

  ‘They helped me walk again,’ I argued.

  ‘They could see you coming, a well-dressed young lady with a full purse.’

  ‘That’s not fair. Why do you see the worst in their motives?’ I said, wanting to have the last word on the matter.

  ‘There are hundreds of roadside hawkers peddling their wares to the gullible and ignorant. If he were a real doctor he’d have a fine house and be settled with his family around him. It stands to reason,’ he replied.

  ‘Not to me it doesn’t. There’re hundreds of good Seekers of all ranks who roam the highways to proclaim the good news of love and forgiveness. He is doing the Lord’s work. That is reward in itself to the righteous,’ I argued. Miles Foxup was not going to dismiss the Crankes like that.

  ‘As you wish, you seem to know best on all matters spiritual. There’s no arguing with you,’ he sighed, clearly bored with the subject.

  We walked back, one in front of the other, making no more attempts at conversation. I stared up at the skeletons of bare trees arching over the paths, at the stone cottages with turf roofs and the blue smoke spiralling up into the chill morning. Then Scarperton Hall came into view.

  There was nothing more to say to Miles Foxup. I ought to feel relieved but all I felt was miserable. He could have been a friend but now he was my foe.