After the second day, Florence saw enough to admire Pru. Her bravery was remarkable because the consequences for being caught were unthinkable. They’d been thrown together at the hands of that vile man, but Florence wondered, had the roles been reversed, whether she’d have risked herself to help Prudence and was rather ashamed of even asking the question. She’d made some bad choices this past year which she wasn’t proud of. She should have been stronger, been less afraid. Here was Pru, cruelly used by Denzil, with no hesitation in helping Florence towards the sanctuary of her family home.
On a practical level, she admired her for knowing where she was going. In her own century, it had been many years since people had relied on anything but Sat-Nav to direct them. These people, who walked or rode everywhere by horse, understood landmarks and directions so much better. Their paths were sometimes well-trodden animal runs and other times, wheel rutted roads where they always took care to dive into the hedgerow if they heard carts, horses or voices coming towards them. They didn’t know whether Denzil would give Florence up easily but they thought not. Both were made nervous by the fact that they’d heard no sounds of pursuit.
Prudence paused, sniffing in where she was and nodding to herself as she gained her bearings. In the distance, a thatched village, just across the stubbled fields, had smoke rising into the air from slender chimneys. Here was warmth and dry feet but as Florence stepped out enthusiastically into the open space, Pru pulled her back. Snitterfield was not yet within reach.
‘No. We must wait until dark. The fewer eyes, the better, and the fewer tongues will wag.’
Florence managed a wan but tired smile.
‘I have been thinking, Florence. It would be better for my parents — and for us — if we be just two lasses who’ve run from a cruel master. They do not need to be burdened with the details of my . . . our mistreatment. Do you think that you can become that again — a simple maid?’ A wry smile.
‘I was never anything but, was I?’
Pru squeezed Florence’s scratched hand and passed her some dock leaves to rub into the itchy marks of the bramble scratches.
They whiled away the hours until darkness, concocting a story about their flight. It couldn’t disguise the heavy rumblings from their empty stomachs, made worse by the odd whiff of cooking food from the village chimneys. Prudence told Florence how she was a much-loved daughter from a small family who had been suggested for a place in Denzil’s household by an aunt who worked in the area. Times had been hard, and the family needed their daughter to be housed and fed elsewhere — it was sad but common. Both of her brothers had gone to war, tempted by offers of shillings not pennies. It had been a painful parting and a familiar one for many families. Business had slowed with the increasing uncertainty of the times and people cut costs and made-do where they could — protection against siege or famine; both very real possibilities. For all of that, Pru knew that she would be welcomed back into loving parents’ arms, even when she told them that her master had tried to ‘shame’ her. That occurrence was not uncommon either and that was the story they would tell. A powerful and wealthy man was hard to fight!
Neither did Florence want to tell the whole sordid truth and so they agreed that she was to be a new girl at the Hall to whom the master had also taken a shine and, in mutual terror for the preservation of their virtue and their immortal souls, they had plotted to escape. It wasn’t so very far from the truth and after their trudge through the woods, Florence certainly looked the part in her soiled and torn linen shift.
Although Prudence asked no questions, the space between them was heavy. It seemed only right to Florence to try to offer some explanation of her own story. Not the truth of course. That was out of the question. Prudence had risked her life for her friend but it was doubtful that she could accept the truth of Florence’s life. And Florence needed Pru’s protection. She told Pru that she had come from a gentle family and that the war had divided them. She had needed the protection of a husband and had accepted Denzil’s offer. She was, in fact, an educated woman and that she could read and write — she stopped short of university — to which Prudence expressed her surprise and interrupted with her own question.
‘But why? What use has a woman in knowing more than is required for home and family — and to study the Lord’s word, of course?’ she added as a hasty and pious afterthought.
Florence was irked. She said something about education for its own sake and heard herself defending women’s brains against men’s.
Pru looked sceptical but smiled indulgently at the answer which she felt was clearly nonsense. Her curiosity had fermented for a long time. She was thoughtful, ‘You can read and write then and you know numbers,’ she paused and then asked quite pointedly, ‘and yet you know nothing of linens and possets and the like.’ She shook her head. ‘Much of the running of a household is a mystery to you. ‘Tis strange, is it not? Some woman in your family should surely have instructed you in the proper duties of a woman and a wife?’
‘I . . . my mother died when I was very young and my father preferred to educate me through book learning . . .’
‘No, Florence. This cannot be true. No father would prevent his daughter from such necessary learning. I see that you do not yet trust me. We will draw a veil over it — for now.’
Florence didn’t know what to say. It was an uncomfortable moment.
Pru broke the silence, ‘Besides, I cannot think that the insides of any dry book would draw me in,’ she mused and then she corrected herself, ‘except the Holy Book, of course!’
‘Really Pru! Do you not long to read what is set before you? Wouldn’t you like to know more about the world beyond your small place? Doesn’t the mystery of the human body and the workings of the universe fascinate you? Will you always be shackled by what you are told by churchmen!’ she wanted to scream at the girl — but she didn’t. She did say, ‘If you would like, I will teach you to read and in return, you could teach me about . . . possets! You’d be able to read the Bible for yourself. It is written in English now.’ It was the first step of a revolution which was offered.
‘Aye. Mayhap. It would be a fair exchange I think,’ she grinned at her friend.
They still had hours to wait and Pru, in the absence of reading material to hand, began to explain about the storing of fine linen. ‘The first thing a fine house needs is a tally board to note which linens have been sent for starching or repair. ‘Tis very easy to lose track of these — and they’ll not be returned by the greedy laundry-woman if not claimed. Now, as for the washing of them . . .’
‘That, I know!’ thought Florence but an explanation would have been complex so she kept silent.
Soon after dark, Prudence deemed it was sufficiently quiet for them to head towards her family home. And not before time, grumbled Florence’s stomach. They spent a few moments brushing one another down and tidying themselves up.
‘Your wedding band,’ Pru said, having appraised Florence’s plausibility.
It was no hardship for Florence to work it off her finger and she would have thrown it into the bushes but Pru stopped her.
‘Nay! ‘Tis gold! We may have need of it.’ They threaded it onto a cord which Pru liberated from her skirt, and tied it around Florence’s neck, well out of sight.
The local girl had timed it well and they didn’t encounter anyone who paid any attention to them until they arrived at the frontage of what was recognisably a small shop on the high street. Its frontage had a large aperture, making it recognisable and distinguishing it from a house or a blacksmith’s forge. The closed shutters, would be opened up during the day to provide the shop window and through the chinks, light could be seen in the downstairs room. Prudence took Florence around to the back, tapped on the door and moments later was in the arms of a small, rotund man who only released her to an even rounder woman who hugged her with equal vigour, both of them in delighted shock.
‘Dear girl. My dear Pru,’ the man repeated breathlessly unt
il she was finally able to extricate herself from his arms and reveal Florence behind her, ‘Pa, this is my friend, Florence.’
The two parents blinked for a moment like owls in the smoky tallow before looking towards one another and in an unspoken understanding through long marriage and some wisdom, the woman moved towards the hearth, ‘Supper, I think.’ And the man ushered them towards the warmth of the fire which he began to encourage back into life again, adding new kindling on to the recently smoored embers.
‘Well, I expect there’s a tale to tell my girl,’ he gave a little smile, ‘but, since I see that you are whole and healthy, it will wait until you’ve supped.’ He patted her shoulder showing his concern as to what that story might be. As much as he was delighted to see his daughter, she was a very unexpected arrival and in a dishevelled condition, arriving in the dark of the night. Such things did not bode well.
Florence was very grateful for the large bowl of pottage with rough bread that was placed before her. There was pale yellow butter and a jug of cold, sharp cider which she gulped down. Delicious. Somehow, Prudence’s parents kept themselves busy, bustling around the small room — although there seemed nothing out of place there — and found the patience to wait until both girls sat back from the table, replete.
There was a moment when all had been cleared away and when Pru’s parents had taken seats at the table, when all was ready for the tale to be told. Florence let Pru take the lead, but listened closely to the story, nodding when Prudence began to tell of the prurience of their master. They both lowered their heads in genuine embarrassment and shame and Florence’s hand rising to the fading bruises on her neck. Walter Southey huffed with mounting outrage. At one point he shot up from the table with an energy that belied his portliness, pacing about the small room in his own fury at the treatment they had received. Pru told them of his violence and cruelty. She managed to convey the vileness of Denzil without sharing graphic details which were not for her parents’ ears. Dorcas Southey was more sanguine. With pursed lips and brimming eyes, she listened intently to her daughter, looking occasionally at Florence with equal sympathy but not flinching from the horrid details. She held her hand toward Walter, ‘Husband.’ And he reached towards her like an anchor in rough seas.
‘Husband, our daughter — and her friend — have been wronged, as have we. We must harbour them from his wickedness and consider what’s to do.’ All the while, the man nodded and held more tightly to his wife, barely able to stand still. She steadied him.
‘Aye, aye. Just so. Just so. I am blessed to have such a wife — and a daughter returned to me safe and untouched by this creature – I call him no gentleman!’
‘Wise words, husband. Might you now dampen the fire once more whilst I find mattresses for these two angels,’ she smiled at him, pleased that he was soothed by her words. His wife knew him well. ‘And then, husband why not take a pipe outside to calm yourself or you’ll not sleep this night.’ He managed to smile at her and did exactly as she recommended.
The girls were found stuffed hay mattresses which were placed close-by the hearth and, after much reassurance and affection from Prudence’s parents, the household went to bed, leaving the tired girls by the softly glowing fire.
‘Prudence?’
‘Mmm?’
‘I like your mother and father. They’re very kind. I think that we’re safe now?’ Florence needed some reassurance.
‘Aye, Florence. They are good people, so rest easy. My father is a good man, and my mother a wise wife. Do you sleep most well and safe. Time enough in the morning to explain to her how I’m with child — which she already suspects, of course.’ And by the time that Florence had thought of a response, Prudence had turned over and was snoring.
42
A Pregnant Pause
Florence awoke abruptly and then relaxed, knowing that she was safe. She smiled at the relief of it and she might have sunk back into her dreams but that the sharp hurt of Nat’s absence gnawed at her and she groaned. Then her eyes flew open as she recalled Prudence’s bombshell announcement of the night before. She turned but Pru was already up and busy.
Mistress Dorcas Southey was also about her business in the house and she fully expected others to be too, so much was clear from the level of noise which she was making. The tender indulgence of the previous night was over and there were jobs to do for which she’d be glad of the help. Florence was sent out to the well to draw a bucket to bring fresh water into the house.
Privacy was difficult to achieve in this busy household and although Florence looked pointedly at her frequently, Pru was not about to elaborate on last night’s revelation. Dorcas was clearly itching to speak to her daughter alone and Florence had the tact to leave them to it. She discovered that the rear of the house held a large yard with a central well and a flock of curious and friendly chickens, keen for their morning feed. They clucked and fluffed around her, pecking at her ankles and shoes. ‘Shoo!’ she wafted them away and they flapped and then regrouped at her feet in a more determined fashion. A spray of seed and chaff sprayed from Walter Southey’s hand and the chickens lost interest in her. She smiled gratefully at him.
‘Fat and lazy hens all of them. Overfed by my wife but very juicy on the platter!’ he patted his belly and chuckled. ‘Florence, is it then?’ she nodded. ‘Then I’m sorry, girl, for your troubles but right glad that you are preserved.’ His smile melted at the thought of what might have happened.
Florence smiled ruefully and lowered her eyes.
‘Tell me true, girl, did he . . . harm my lass?’ An ambush! Florence opened her mouth but the words didn’t emerge. What could she say to this good man about his beloved, abused and pregnant daughter? She was saved by a door being flung open and Dorcas bursting out, wiping her hands vigorously on her apron rescuing Florence from an answer to Walter’s question. She was afraid that Prudence’s news would have them both evicted.
‘Walter! Husband!’ Dorcas flapped her hands at him, resembling nothing so much as her chubby hens, herding him towards her and off together into the sheds at the rear of the yard for a needful private conversation. Pru, who had appeared after her mother, looked flushed and tearful. Florence was very afraid that they were the tears of rejection and shame. She took her chance to ask Pru her own questions.
‘We can stay?’ Prudence’s eyes reproached her. Again! Florence thought. Again your first thought is for yourself! Look at this girl. She’s pregnant and has had to confess to rape to her own parents! Think of someone else, for God’s sake! Florence crafted her next question carefully. ‘When did it happen, Pru?’
‘Oh, well, it is difficult to know for sure. He’s a lusty lad and although we thought ourselves . . . prudent, the heat of the moment . . .’tis difficult to keep a clear mind, eh?’ She gave a knowing grin to Florence who wondered why she wasn’t far more distressed. Pru seemed to be taking it in her stride, spoke with some fondness! The girl’s mind was addled. Stockholm syndrome.
‘How far . . . ?’
‘I have missed three courses. Ethan noted it first. Had it in his mind when I would be… you know?’
‘Ethan! Not . . . ?’ and now Pru was shocked.
‘You had thought . . . that unnatural beast! Lord, no. I do thank the Almighty that the fiend has fathered no child on me. Ethan, though . . .’
Florence slumped onto the bench outside the back door. She was right then; Denzil Moorcroft could not father children. The relief was satisfying. She could not entirely comprehend how Pru remained so calm about it, now that she’d unburdened her secret to her mother.
‘Ethan began courting me a year ago — ‘twas a small household and Ethan is a lusty lad!’ She blushed even deeper. ‘He would marry me — and has asked — despite how that whoreson has besmirched me!’
Florence had never heard her speak so harshly.
‘Ethan saw the marks and he took me to him. Holless knew — and they used our care for one another to keep us silent. Such as we are at the me
rcy of such men. My Ethan was tender and loving and he wanted no more than to stride into the house and murder him as he stood. ‘Twas all I could do to hold him back and calm him. I do love him dearly and in our finding of comfort with one another, we were not as cautious as we might have been.’
Florence was impressed by her friend’s realism and honesty. ‘But Prudence, what of your parents! Will they support you . . .’ she searched for a phrase, ‘in your time of need? Couldn’t you . . . isn’t there a way to . . . ?’
‘Florence,’ Pru spoke firmly, ‘this child is my child and Ethan’s. Wise women may have their ways to rid a woman, but know you that I do love this babe. No matter what, this child will be born and I’ll be happy for it. Speak not of such matters again.’
‘I did not know if . . . not being with child was . . . possible. Forgive me.’
‘Aye. Perhaps you had a different upbringing where such things are spoken of. Let us say no more of it. Now, fear not Florence, for I see it in your eyes, we’ll not be thrown out into the night,’ Pru had gleaned immediately what Florence’s true fears were. ‘My mother is a resourceful woman and was carrying my brother before she were wedded. Dorcas Southey is no whited sepulchre and you’ll have seen that my father has joy of her — which is not simply in her cooking of a chicken.’
Yes, thought Florence. That marriage would endure any trial, ‘But surely, Pru, your family, your neighbours, will not accept as easily . . .’ She was on unsure territory in the mores of seventeenth century morality but thought that an unmarried woman was ‘in trouble’ until near the end of the twentieth century as far as she knew. ‘What will you do, then? Must you go away until the child is born?’
Prudence chuckled and shook her head, ‘You speak as though it is unheard of. These puritans rant of sinfulness but amongst the folk of field and farm, a coupling outside of the marriage bed is . . . understood when the two are to be wedded. Besides, Mother has a plan. She is very good where plans are concerned. She will arrange for Ethan to be here and then we will have the banns read and be wed within the month. I am sure of it,’ she bit her lower lip. ‘Ethan will come to me and he will wed me for sure.’
Shadow of the Savernake: Book One of the Taxane Chronicles Page 40