Convict Queen

by Marina Oliver

  'You'll 'ave to watch that one,' she told Molly quietly. 'She's got a busy tongue on her.'

  'I know,' Molly sighed. 'But I can't keep it quiet much longer. Soon the whole of Corvedale will know.'

  *

  By early spring it was clear to Molly that William had no intention of marrying her. Nothing had been said so she determined to leave before the child was born. If she stayed everyone would assume she was content with the situation. She wasn't. She wanted to marry and bring up her child or children in her own home.

  'What do you mean to do?' she'd asked William some time after she'd told him about the baby, and he'd never again mentioned it.

  He'd frowned. 'Molly, I've got so much on my mind at the moment. Let's wait and see.'

  'Will you send me away?'

  'Of course not. I'll look after you, pay for the child, of course.'

  So that was all. At least she would not have to apply for parish relief.

  'I'll go away at Easter, then.'

  'Away?' He looked surprised. 'Away where?'

  'Home. There's only Edward there now, the others are working, and he'll soon be gone too.'

  'But – how about Will and little Ann? You'd leave them?'

  Molly shrugged. 'Will's eight, well able to look after himself, and Ann's five, she can go to school with him. All you need is someone to cook and clean. If I stayed you'd expect me to farm out my own – your – bastard. That I won't do. I'll bring him up myself.'

  That was all they'd said until she was about to leave, two days after Easter. Then she demanded to know how much he'd be giving her each week until she was able to work again. He'd treated her as a convenience. She'd been there in the house when he wanted a woman, and she'd felt sorry for him. As well, she admitted, as being fond of him. In the end he was no better than Richard Lewis or Johnny Cound. All men, she decided, were the same, but from now on she would look after herself and never depend on one.

  'I'll have to reduce that when you can get another job,' William said. 'Say six months from now.'

  'And what sort of job do you expect me to get, William Gough? Once you said you'd give me a reference to get another job as a maid. That's not possible now, and I won't leave my baby for my mother to look after while I live in Shrewsbury. Would you give me a character as a whore?' she asked, and grinned at his discomfiture.

  'Well, obviously not. But surely there are other jobs. Sewing, perhaps.'

  'There's little enough to keep Ma busy. I'd have to take odd jobs, but what? I'll not work at the Sun, where every randy fellow'll think I'm his for a few coppers. Gleaning? Picking taters? And when harvest's over, there's little enough work to go round. Who'd employ a woman with a babe strapped to her back, needing to stop and suckle every little while, when there's strong men willing to work for a miserable few pence? No, I want enough to keep us both till next Easter, then maybe I'll get something. You can well afford it.'

  William sighed, but agreed, and Molly went back to the cottage in Radnor Yard determined to make him keep his word.

  *

  For over a year Molly rarely saw William Gough. He gave money to her father when they met at the Sun. She helped her mother, whose hands were becoming stiff and arthritic, with the sewing, but made little effort to find other jobs. Gough had landed her in this pickle, and he would pay for it. He had never, as far as she knew, seen her daughter Mary, whose bright red hair was so exactly like his. Was he ashamed of her, or did he hope to keep the fact that he had fathered the child from the rest of the village?

  Then she heard he was going to marry Mary Pearce, whose husband had died a short while before. Molly fumed, but could do nothing. It wasn't that she wanted him, his behaviour had ended any affection she'd felt for him, but the woman would crow over her. She'd been after William even when Elizabeth was alive, and her own husband.

  'She owns land,' her mother said. 'That's all 'e cares about. But we 'ave ter make sure he goes on paying for your Mary. She'll put a stop to that if she can.'

  It was the day after she heard the news that Molly gave in to William Morgan's invitation to walk with him. She refused to go down towards Christmas Cross, as that would mean passing Gough's house, but there were plenty of other ways where courting couples often spent their evenings.

  Were they courting? For months Molly wasn't sure, and would permit William only a few chaste kisses, despite his pleas for more. She almost despised him for weakness, feeling that a real man might persist rather than give way at once to her denials. Not that she wanted to have to fight him off, but everyone knew she had not always kept men at a distance. Then William proposed. Molly considered the advantages. William had been remarkably faithful for years. It might still the wagging tongues if she were respectably married, and it would show Gough and his new wife that she didn't care.

  A year after Gough had wed the Pearce widow she and William Morgan were married in Diddlebury church. They stayed with the Joneses in Radnor Yard, and Molly's son James was born there, late enough after the wedding to still the wagging tongues. Soon afterwards William had a new job offered him at Cold Weston, a few miles to the south, and would be able to rent a cottage.

  It was a poor, mud-built, one-room affair, but close enough for her to come and visit her parents, closer to Ludlow, and fewer people there would know much about her. She looked forward to a new start.

  *

  The next two years passed peacefully. Molly enjoyed having her own house where she was neither a servant nor a daughter, subject to others. William didn't count, he almost always agreed with her and did as she bade him. When Gough was late sending her money for little Mary, she made William go and ask for it.

  Sometimes he took a friend, James Blockley, with him. They came back one day boasting of how they had forced Gough to hand over the money, and to increase it because Mary was growing fast and needed more shoes and clothes.

  'Johnny Cound were there,' William said, laughing. 'Gough dain't know where to turn, especially as 'is Missus was standing in the kitchen doorway.'

  'He looked proper green when you said if he dain't pay up you'd tek the kid for 'im ter look after,' Blockley said.

  William chuckled. 'Well, 'e paid up. An' we got a bonus,' he added. 'I left 'em in the yard.'

  'What do you mean?' Molly asked, apprehensive.

  'Just an old 'oe and sickle that were lyin' in a field,' William said. 'Abandoned, they were. No one wanted 'em.'

  It wasn't the first time William had brought home things he'd claimed to have found. Usually she had no idea whether they had been or not, but the good condition of many of them made her suspect they had not been abandoned by their owners. As she was never able to find out who did actually own them, there was nothing she could do. She tried to convince William what he was doing was theft, and he ought to return them, but he laughed at her.

  'If folks leave things lyin' about, what can they expect?' he asked.

  This time, though, the things probably belonged to Gough. They'd been in one of the fields he rented. For a long time that night Molly lay awake trying to devise ways she might return the hoe and sickle without having either to meet Gough or confess how she had obtained them. They were hardly the sort of things she could carry across the fields when going to visit her parents.

  She gave up. Her mother was ill, unable to work, confined to bed for much of the time, and she was more worried about her than trying to stop William filching things. Almost every day that winter she left the children with Ann Hughes, her neighbour, and tramped across the fields, the ground hard with frost or covered with thick falls of snow, to do what she could. It was little enough. Her father was dependent on the few shillings he could earn doing odd jobs at the Sun, but Maebury's wife had died in November, and he was less concerned than she had been to repair broken stools or replace shelves which had fallen down. David's pig died and the hens stopped laying. Some of them were taken by hungry foxes, and despite his skill David Jones was unable to catch them. They had grown
wily with hunger.

  Molly's older brothers, Samuel and John, both shoemakers, lived near her at Sutton Hill, and sent her a few coppers each week to add to what she could spare for her parents, but it was little enough. She could not buy the good food her mother needed, and as the harsh winter went on she could see her mother getting weaker until she could scarcely talk. If she could grub up a few turnips on her way to Corfton, Molly felt no guilt. With them, and nettles from the hedgerows, she could make some sort of soup. When she became desperate as the weather grew worse in January, she managed to steal a few turnips stored in barns for the cattle. They could do without an occasional one, she told herself, and her mother could not.

  More than once she had to drop her booty and run, or throw it into a ditch. When found in a barn she had to explain to an angry farmer that she had just been seeking shelter for a short while against the snow or the wind.

  It was not enough. In March, when the ground was still too hard for graves to be dug, Margaret died.

  *

  Molly was devastated. Mary, now almost six years old, clung to her mother, and Molly was terrified of losing her too. Throughout that harsh winter both children had suffered continuous coughs and colds, their feet and hands were covered in chilblains, and they lost weight, becoming pale and listless. There were no casual jobs for Molly, and only her continuing theft of the occasional turnip enabled her to vary their normal diet of coarse bread and potatoes, flavoured by the herbs she had managed to dry during the summer. Often she sank into despair, wanting only to forget the misery in sleep, but the need to care for the children forced her to keep going.

  She knew she had to pull herself together for everyone's sake. She didn't complain when William brought home his 'finds', or when he sold them for cash, or exchanged them for food. Now, she reasoned, it was up to them to survive however they could.

  When spring came, it was a relief to them all. The children recovered and began to show rosy cheeks once more. There was more work in the fields, and Molly's father was able to earn enough to support himself. That was one burden less. Molly had even been able to borrow a few books from Dinah Green, and was teaching Mary to read, though the girl was slow and resented the time she was not able to play with her dolly. She tried to interest William too, but he said he didn't need book learning to do his job. He could figure in his head, and that was all he needed, to be able to charge his customers and make sure they paid him the right amount.

  Molly took the children out one afternoon early in May, picking cowslips to make wine, and beginning to hope life was improving along with the weather. Mary picked industriously, filling her small rush basket, but James, a lively three-year-old, was more interested in gambolling and rolling down the side of the hill, shouting gleefully as the lambs scattered out of his way. Molly smiled at him. There had been little enjoyment in their lives of late, she was glad to see him happy and carefree.

  When her own basket was full they set off back home. There was smoke coming from the chimney, and William was sitting on the bench outside the doorway, smoking a pipe, something he rarely did, saying they could not afford the tobacco except in special times when there was cause to celebrate.

  'Ah, I see we'll soon be 'aving some of that wine you make,' he said, jumping up to kiss her soundly.

  Molly laughed, pushing him away. 'Careful, don't spill these. Why are you so cheerful?'

  'I'm about to mek a few shillin's,' he said.

  Molly's heart sank. Whenever he said this she knew he'd been thieving again.

  'What is it this time?' she asked.

  'Oh, just a few sippings of hemp,' he said.

  'Hemp? That hasn't been left abandoned in a field!' She was horrified. 'It's left out to bleach, or don't you know that?'

  'Well, it's on'y a bit, they won't miss it,' he replied, beginning to sound sulky as he almost always did when she objected to his thieving.

  'You have to take it back,' she said, and shrugged away from him as he tried to pull her to him.

  'Don't be daft, 'ow can I? If I was seen they'd know who'd took it in the first place.'

  'Tell them you found it, saw someone drop it and thought you could return it. Where did you get it from?'

  'Corfton Bach,' he said. 'Edward Yapp's field.'

  'Then you take it back, tonight, when it gets dark. Or I swear I'll tell the Constable.'

  'But, that 'uld mean the gallows!' he said, aghast. 'Molly, you couldn't do that to me!'

  'You've brought it on yourself! Why should I care? If you're thieving to keep us alive,' she went on, recalling her own thefts of a few turnips, 'that's different, but not this. Take it back.'

  She turned away and went into the kitchen. The hemp was piled up in the corner, so much of it she wondered how on earth he had carried it all the way home. Trying to ignore it she began to prepare the cowslips, and heat the stew they were having for supper.

  Half an hour later William came running into the kitchen. 'Quick, help me! We mun 'ide the yarn!'

  'What's happening?'

  'They're comin'. I can see two men crossing the field. Help me, Molly,' he was pleading as he began stuffing the yarn under the bed where they slept.

  Molly hesitated. Despite her threat she didn't want William to go to prison, and probably hang. She began to help him, sweeping up the shreds he'd left behind, and then, her face flushed from the effort, returning to her cooking.

  *

  'Mistress Morgan? Molly?'

  Molly turned round, and tried to smile. It was Francis Clinton, a man she knew well, from Peaton, not Constable William Rowlands, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Then she saw Johnny Cound standing behind him, smirking, and her heart leapt with fear. If he were here it was bad news. He'd never forgiven her early rebuffs, and had sworn to get even with her.

  'Mr Clinton? What can I do for you?' she asked, pleased that her voice sounded normal and did not waver.

  'Molly, I'm sorry, but I have a warrant to search your house.'

  'Search? Here? What for?'

  Where was William, she wondered. It was just like him to leave her here alone to face whatever was coming.

  'Hempen yarn belonging to my father and John Maebury has been stolen from the whitening field,' Johnny Cound interrupted. 'Let's get on with it. Everyone knows your William 'as light fingers, and he was seen in Corfton Bach this morning.'

  'That doesn't prove anything,' she tried, but knew that if they searched they would find the hemp. 'Why are you here?' she asked Mr Clinton.

  'The constable was not at home, and in such a matter haste is important. Before you could dispose of the yarn,' he added apologetically.

  She watched, trying to appear calm, while they searched. It didn't take long to unearth the hemp. William was discovered hiding in a shed nearby, and dragged out protesting vehemently that he knew nothing about any theft.

  'Then why did you hide?' Mr Clinton asked.

  'I wern't 'iding! I were lookin' for something in the shed.'

  His protests made no difference. 'We have to arrest you both,' Mr Clinton told them. 'I'm sorry, Molly, but there's nothing else we can do.'

  'Serve 'em right,' Johnny Cound said, beaming triumphantly. 'Tie 'em up, Francis. They're felons, heading for the gallows.'

  'Not until they have been tried, and fairly.'

  Ann Hughes was asked to look after the crying children. 'Take them to my brothers,' Molly said, weeping as she kissed them goodbye, trying to tell Mary it was all a terrible mistake and she'd be back at home with them soon. Would she? She hadn't stolen the hemp, but she had tried to help William conceal it. Would that be considered the same crime? She didn't know, but once more life looked bleak.

  *

  At the time Molly thought that walk back to Corfton was one of the worse experiences of her life. Johnny Cound had had his way and both she and William were tethered like animals. Their hands had been tied together behind their backs, and ropes from there held by Cound, who marched ahead, whistling.
He frequently tugged on the ropes, so that they had to break into a stumbling run to avoid being thrown to the ground. Men and women working in the fields looked up and stared, calling out to know what was amiss.

  'Thieves, being taken for punishment,' Cound told them. He told them even when they did not ask.

  Molly could have died from shame. If she could have hidden her face, covered it up, it would not have been so bad, she thought, but Johnny Cound had not permitted them to catch up even neckerchiefs.

  They were about half way back to Corfton when William made a break for it. Somehow he had loosened the ropes about his wrists, and while they were passing through a small copse he started to run.

  'Get after him,' Mr Clinton ordered, and after a moment during which he swore in fury Johnny Cound set off in pursuit, dropping the rope tethering Molly. Briefly she wondered whether to run for it, then abandoned the idea. Where could she hide?

  Cound was fat with soft living, and William was lean and hard from years of manual work. Cound came back after fifteen minutes saying it was no use, he could not see any signs of William, by now he could have crept along the hedgerows and be anywhere within a mile. It would take several men to search properly.

  'But let's get the wench put away first.'

  They took her to the Sun, telling her she would be locked up in a room there until she could be taken to Shrewsbury for the next assizes. John Maebury tutted and shook his head as he led the way up the stairs, panting, for of late years he had acquired substantial extra bulk.

  'Molly, what will your poor father say? You must be thankful your mother's not alive to see this day.'

  Molly refused to answer him. She was too shocked. How could William have deserted her like that? What had he been thinking of? Would he come back and rescue her? Had that been his idea? But she knew it was unlikely. William's was not a heroic nature.

  There was a small bed in the room, and when they left her she sank down on it and gave way to despair. She hadn't stolen the yarn, but unless William came back and confessed, who would believe her? She would be convicted, and perhaps she deserved it for even helping him. All she could look forward to was utter disgrace and the gallows tree.