Cucklett Delf at Sundown. Yours Forever. P
She held the daisy to her lips and kissed each of the ivory colored petals. Paul had plucked it from the grassy meadow basin of Cucklett Delf, their secret meeting place on the outskirts of town. No matter what her father said, she refused to marry Ethan Cromwell. She would run away with Paul if she had to. In all her seventeen years, she had never traveled further than the outskirts of Eyam, and she did not own a valet or a knapsack. Improvising, she selected a very particular dress from her standing wardrobe and knotted it at the waist. She opened the skirt bottom to form a compartment and started packing those items she estimated to be essential for travel— a change of undergarments, socks, a heavy woolen sweater, her hair brush, a necklace given to her by her mother, her favorite dress, her diary—and threw them all inside. She then cut the ribbon that was sewn into loops along the bottom of the dress and pulled both ends. The ribbon worked like a drawstring and cinched the skirt part of the dress closed, forming a pouch. She then knotted the ribbon, and flung the loose arms of the dress over her shoulders and around her neck. She tied the ends of the sleeves together and walked around her tiny room with the impromptu knapsack bouncing between her shoulder blades.
She surveyed her bedroom one final time, climbed out the open back window, and as quietly as she could, crept down the sloping shingled roof. She lowered herself down carefully from the eave onto the lawn and set off at a brisk pace toward Cucklett Delf.
• • •
IN THE TAILOR shop below, Vicars paced. He made two approaches toward the attic stairs, but aborted both times before his foot connected with the first step. He chastised himself for being such a coward. A coward for not standing up to Cromwell. A coward for not marching up those stairs and comforting his daughter. Kathryn had been right about one thing. If Mary Vicars were still alive, she would not permit her daughter to marry Ethan Cromwell, not for all the wealth of England. His wife had been a believer in what she called the five principles of life: Love, Honor, Truth, Courage, and Faith. The most important of these principles was Love, she said. Nowhere on her list were Ethan Cromwell’s defining attributes: Wealth, Title, and Power. What attributes young Paul Foster possessed, he did not know, for he had never given the boy a chance. Since the day Ethan Cromwell had informed him he intended to take his daughter’s hand in marriage, Vicars had paid little mind to anything other than Ethan Cromwell.
He put on some water for tea.
After a nice cup of tea, he would talk with Kathryn. With a clear head, he was certain she would come to see the merits of marrying Cromwell.
And so, George Vicars sat alone.
Waiting.
Incubating.
CHAPTER 3
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KATHRYN WADED THROUGH the knee-high wild grasses of Cucklett Delf, alternately humming and singing a simple song and verse of her own composition. Earlier that day, when she had been out gallivanting with Paul, the late August sun had been uncomfortably hot. Now that the sun had fallen to the horizon, its long rays had lost their intensity. A northeast breeze kissed her cheeks and flowed in and around the V-shaped neckline of her dress, cooling her skin. She felt emboldened, and for the first time in her life, she was a woman in control of her own destiny.
She did not care if her father was worried or angry. She was angry with him. Furious, in fact. She would do whatever was necessary to escape Ethan Cromwell, even if that meant running away. With or without her father’s blessing, she would marry Paul Foster.
Eventually, she grew tired of traipsing through the tall, scratchy grass and decided to sit and wait for Paul. Cucklett Delf was a natural bowl-shaped amphitheater formed by the intersection of a meadow and a semicircular tree-lined ridge. She marched up the western sloping hill and settled in under the stout branches of an ancient English elm where she and Paul would regularly come to kiss and cuddle. She doffed her improvised knapsack and set it on the grass beside her. She sighed. Where was Paul? The sun was setting, and in thirty minutes it would be dark. In her haste to run away, she had forgotten to bring a lantern. Her stomach growled. She had forgotten food as well! Not to worry, Paul would arrive soon and that was all that mattered. Together, they could face any obstacle.
Her thoughts meandered from Paul in the present, to the future they would make together. She subconsciously laid a hand on her belly. How many children would they have? She contemplated baby names. For a daughter, she favored Elizabeth, and also Francine. For a boy, William was her first choice. Maybe George. Both were proud and kingly names. Papa would be so honored to have a namesake! A sudden and surprising pang of guilt washed over her. Since her mother died, not a day had passed without a kiss goodnight from her Papa. This night would be the first of many, and the thought suddenly made her sad. She loved her father, and despite his clumsy attempts to express himself, it was obvious his love for her was unconditional. She knew that in his heart, he believed that arranging her marriage to Cromwell was his duty. It was a father’s way to elevate and safeguard his only child. This was the cool and pragmatic logic of a middle-aged tailor, long since widowed, with no dowry to speak of. The more she thought on the matter, the more she began to understand his point of view. Nonetheless, Kathryn was not in the same place as her father. She was young, and vibrant, and hopelessly romantic. Like a cold metal candlesnuffer lowered onto a glowing flame, marriage to Cromwell would extinguish her spirit. She would wither and die inside. She would miss her Papa. Terribly. But she knew what she must do.
Hugging her knees tightly, she began to cry.
A warm, heavy arm enveloped her upper back and shoulders, and she heard the grass shift as Paul settled in beside her. She looked up at him, and met his gaze. He flashed her an easy, confident smile. With his other hand, he wiped the tears from her cheeks. Her composure returned in his presence, and she wondered how she could manage a life without him.
“Did you miss me so much, Lady Kathryn?” he teased.
“Oh Paul,” she gushed, and then kissed his mouth fiercely.
After their embrace, he nudged her makeshift knapsack with his foot. “What is this?”
“All my worldly possessions.”
He took both her hands in his. “Kathryn, what’s going on?”
“I’m running away.”
“Running away? What are you talking about, Kathryn?” For an instant, Paul looked at her bewildered and confused, before the obvious dawned on him. “It’s Cromwell … isn’t it?”
“Yes. The rumors are true. It’s been arranged; I am to wed Mr. Cromwell. Papa said Mr. Cromwell intends to propose to me in three days, when he returns from London. So, I must leave now.”
“Where will you go?”
“I don’t know. But … I was hoping you would come with me.”
“Of course I’m coming with you.”
She blushed, but he could not see this because the sun had dipped below the horizon, and the gloaming had taken them.
“Oh, Paul. I knew you’d say yes.”
Then, epiphany struck him. “Wait a minute. We don’t need to run away. You can stay with me, at the farm. We have plenty of room.”
Her brow furrowed. “No, Paul. Papa and Mr. Cromwell are not stupid. The first place they’ll look for me is at your house. I must altogether leave Eyam.”
“You’re right,” he said, rubbing his chin. “So we leave Eyam tonight?”
She nodded.
She had been thinking about running away for hours, but Paul had just begun to consider the implications. She knew that in the passion of the moment, he was forgetting something, something so important that he might resent her later if she did not mention it to him now. She did not want to do it, but if they were going to be together, then they needed to trust and support each other.
“What about the harvest? You’ve been talking about it for weeks,” she said, tentatively. “Are you sure you can leave?”
His mind raced. The harvest! He had completely forgotten abo
ut that. Paul was the eldest son in a family of seven. The mantra of duty and responsibility had been pounded into his head by his father from the time he was six years old. If he ran away with Kathryn, he would feel like a traitor to his family. On the other hand, if he abandoned her, he would feel like a traitor to love. His heart pounded. His feelings for Kathryn were ferocious. All-consuming. He knew the answer before the question was even posed.
“I will die if you marry Cromwell,” he said, his voice cracking, “and I will die if you leave Eyam without me. Father will be angry at my leaving, but my brothers will help him bring in the harvest. My duty is to you now.”
“And my devotion is to you.”
He dropped down on one knee. He plucked a wildflower from the grass and stripped off the leaves. With care, he bent the taut stem into a loop, and then wove the remainder repeatedly around itself, creating a rope-like twist. When he was finished, a violet flower sat atop an impromptu engagement ring.
Taking her by the hand, he said, “Kathryn Vicars, I love you, and I want to be your husband. Will you marry me?”
“Yes. Most positively, definitely yes!”
He slipped the wildflower ring onto her finger. She lifted his hand, motioning him to stand. They kissed in the twilight, held each other tight, and then kissed some more. It was Kathryn who broke away first.
“What do we do next?”
“We leave tonight, and we don’t look back. You wait here. I’m going back to the farm to fetch some clothes and ‘borrow’ one of father’s mares. We’ll take the road to Chesterfield; I know it well enough to travel in the dark. I have kin there, a bachelor uncle on my mother’s side who has no love for my father. Hopefully, he will let us stay a couple of days and not report our elopement to my mother. If we’re lucky, I can work for him in his tavern. If not, I can travel to Sheffield and look for an apprenticeship there. The rector in Sheffield can make our union legal, as well.”
She buried her face in his chest and squeezed him hard.
“Hurry, my love. Don’t make me wait one second extra to start our life together.”
“Not one extra second,” he replied, blowing her a kiss.
“Don’t forget to bring a lantern,” she called after him as he set off. “It’s dark.”
“I will.”
“And some food. I’m famished.”
“Yes, I’ll bring food.”
“Money, Paul. Don’t forget money,” she added, giggling.
“And shoes, and britches, and a saddle for the horse … Not to worry. I’ll pack everything we need. I love you, my bride.”
“I love you … husband.”
CHAPTER 4
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Eyam, England
September 1665
RECTOR WILLIAM MOMPESSON knocked on the door to George Vicars’ cottage. After hearing no reply, he knocked again. No reply. Something strange was afoot, the young clergyman thought. The tailor had come to him three nights ago, reporting that his seventeen-year-old daughter, Kathryn, had gone missing. But in the days since, he had neither seen nor heard from Vicars. It was Mompesson who had organized the search party the night of Kathryn’s disappearance, calling upon eight of the town’s most able-bodied and reliable young men. Using lanterns and horses, they had combed the village and surrounding countryside for Kathryn. To Mompesson’s chagrin, and Vicars’ dismay, they had returned from the mission empty-handed. It was not until the next afternoon that the mystery of Katherine’s disappearance had been solved. Henry Foster had ridden into town to report that his eldest son, Paul, had disappeared the previous night as well. Foster had also divulged that one of his grey mares had gone missing—a mare that Paul was particularly fond of. Having witnessed the two young lovers together many a summer afternoon, it had taken the young rector all of five seconds to put the pieces together.
Henry Foster’s reaction to the news of the elopement had been to smirk, shake the rector’s hand, and request that if any word of the children’s whereabouts reached Mompesson, to please send for him at the Foster farm. George Vicars’ reaction had been to take the Lord’s name in vain, curse the name Paul Foster, and then offer a flustered and dismal apology to the rector for his expletives. Vicars then beseeched Mompesson to send the previous night’s search party further afield and to continue searching until his daughter was found and brought home safely to him. Vicars went on to say that Ethan Cromwell would be none too pleased, and the entire foolish business needed to be resolved before Cromwell returned from London in two days’ time. At least, this is what Vicars attempted to communicate amidst a furious and frothy coughing fit that spanned their entire conversation. The tailor’s hair was drenched with sweat and plastered to his forehead. The freckles on his normally cheerful face were drowned by a fever-red complexion. Mompesson pardoned the tailor’s ill temper without taking offense. Clearly the man was under considerable stress; everyone in town was aware of Ethan Cromwell’s intention to marry Kathryn Vicars. Everyone in town was equally aware of Cromwell’s hot and venomous temper. Evidently, the previous night’s search had taken its toll on Vicars, because he had come down with what appeared to be a dreadful case of flu. Mompesson had instructed Vicars to strip down to his knickers, drink a large glass of water, and go straight to bed. Vicars had nodded, turned, and dragged himself toward his bedroom, without bothering to shut the door to his cottage. The rector had wished him a good night’s sleep and told him not to worry—they would find Kathryn and bring her home to him before the morrow.
That was two days ago.
Mompesson opened the cottage door and was immediately hit with a wave of rank, humid air. All the curtains inside were drawn. He crossed the threshold and stepped inside. Flies buzzed with agitation at his intrusion, but then quickly settled back on the filthy plates and cups strewn about the cottage. Mompesson shivered, despite the sweltering heat. He swallowed, and resisted the childish urge to turn and run away as fast as he could.
“Mr. Vicars?”
He pulled back one of the curtains, illuminating the main room of the cottage with a shaft of warm yellow sunlight.
“Mr. Vicars?” he called again, louder. “It’s Rector Mompesson. I’ve not seen you out and about for a couple days … I’ve come to check if you’re well … Hello?”
Silence.
The door to Vicars’ bedroom was closed. The door had no knob or latch, only a triangular iron pull. Mompesson grasped it with two fingers and tentatively pulled the door open. The stench was unbearable. Ten times the pungency of what he had smelled upon entering the main cottage. He gagged involuntarily. A bedpan, over-flowing with bloody vomit and diarrhea, sat on the floor. Dozens of flies buzzed and crawled on and about the putrid excrement. Mompesson pulled his handkerchief from his pocket, crushed it into a wad in his palm, and then pressed it tightly against his nose and mouth. Then, he saw Vicars. No, not Vicars. A monster. Sprawled in bed, eight feet away, was a thing that bore only the faintest resemblance to the tailor Mompesson knew. A pulsing bubo, the size and color of a large plum, protruded from the side of the tailor’s neck. Violet, blood-filled patches blotted his grey-yellow skin. The ends of his nose and fingertips had begun to blacken from gangrene, indicating that the bacteria concentration in Vicars’ bloodstream was so high that his system had turned septic.
“Mompes … son?” Vicars mumbled, waking from his delirium.
“Yes, Mr. Vicars. I am here,” the rector replied, making no move to approach the bed.
“What’s … happening … to me?” Vicars asked, in labored, wheezing gasps.
Although the young rector had never seen anyone infected with the bubonic plague, he was an educated man. He also made it his business to stay current with the news of the times, and the news was that plague had already claimed thirty thousand souls in London over the summer months. Now, Death had come to Eyam, and its bloodshot gaze was fixed squarely on him.
“There is no good way to say this, George, but you are dying. You have caught t
he Black Death,” Mompesson said through his handkerchief.
Vicars groaned and began to weep. This emotional upwelling triggered a horrific coughing fit that violently shook his entire body. He hacked bloody sputum haphazardly all over his chest and soiled bed sheets. The pain he felt was so menacing, so acute, that Vicars was not even aware of this repulsive display, nor the fact that he had lost control of all of his bodily functions.
Mompesson took several steps backward. He knew the disease was spread by contact, and he understood plague’s contagious nature. His mind raced, shifting from the events of the present, to a bleak and terrifying future. He had to take preventive measures. There would be panic; there would be fear. Since his tenure in Eyam as rector had not encompassed even one year’s time, there would be those who challenged his decisions, and his authority. He could not afford to worry about that now. Without swift and decisive action, the scourge would spread. Like a wildfire across dry, sun-baked earth, the Black Plague would consume everyone in its path. To save the neighboring villages of the Derbyshire, he would impose a quarantine. The citizens of Eyam must make a stand. Together and alone.
“Come closer,” Vicars whimpered.
“I cannot.”
“Help me.”
“Your fate rests in God’s hands now. Pray with me, brother,” Mompesson said. He bowed his head. “May the Lord forgive thee thy trespasses in life, and remember instead the times thou showed kindness, prudence, and generosity. May the Lord bless thee, takest thee into his arms, and welcome thee into his eternal kingdom of peace and love. Amen.”
The room was silent for several long seconds, then Vicars spoke in choking gasps.
“Tell Kathryn that … I love her. She has my blessing … to marry whom she will. Love is all that matters. On the dining table … you’ll find a letter … please give it to her.”
Tears pooled in the corners of Mompesson’s eyes.
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