No Shame, No Fear

by Ann Turnbull

  At last we stepped out into the fresh air of early evening, arms around each other, still laughing. I’d enjoyed their company, and yet, as I bade them goodnight with promises to meet again, I knew that I had little in common with these two, less than we’d had as boys. And even then I’d been an outsider.

  Susanna

  I was homesick at first. I’d been used to sharing a mattress in the loft with Deb, and I missed her warm little body beside me. Mary slept in a four-poster bed with curtains. My bed, a smaller one, was open to the room, but Mary had put a cloth-covered screen around it – “In case a naked bed feels strange to thee.” I was grateful for her kindness but still stifled tears in my pillow that night.

  Mornings in town were all noise and clatter. I’d wake early to the rattle of cartwheels over cobbles, the shouts of traders, and the sounds of counters being let down and shutters opened.

  My chamberpot had to be emptied into the cesspit in the cellar. The first morning, on my way down the narrow stairs, I met Nathaniel Lacon also carrying a chamberpot, and was overcome with embarrassment until he made a joke of it.

  I’d never before lived among people who were not family. But Nat (as I soon learned to call him) lived in; he had the room next to ours. He was a young man of twenty or so, short, curly-haired, and with a teasing way about him that unsettled me, for I had been brought up soberly.

  The other men arrived around six thirty and did an hour and a half’s work before breakfast, and then we’d eat together, the five of us.

  My first task in the morning was to fetch water from the conduit while Mary laid the fire.

  All the maids from Broad Street gathered at the conduit to gossip while they queued for water. I’d always drawn water from a well in the backyard, but this was a building, open-sided, with a roof, and in the centre the water flowed from pipes. The first time I used it the girl next to me in the queue began talking to me. Her name was Em, and she was one of a group of maidservants who all worked in shops near by. They seemed friendly enough, even when I told them I worked for Mary Faulkner and they realized I was a Quaker. They giggled a lot, and chattered in what seemed to me an idle way about their mistresses and their dealings with them. One of them told how she’d been beaten and locked in the cellar, accused of laziness. Another boasted of keeping back a coin or two from the change every time she went shopping. “My mistress never notices,” she said. The others rolled their eyes in amazement, spoke of coins counted out one by one.

  “What’s your mistress like?” Em asked me. “I heard she’s hard on her servants.”

  “I only came yesterday,” I said, “but I know she is a good woman; and she’s been kind to me.”

  Even so, I hurried back, anxious not to keep Mary waiting. She had a sharp tongue, I’d noticed, in her dealings with the men, and I feared to anger her. I saw that she had opened up the shop and was busy inside. The shop had its own front entrance, but I went through the doorway into the long passage that ran down one side of the building, leading past shop and print works and into the back room, where I set down the pails of water.

  Nat was there, teasing one of the cats. From the print room I heard men’s voices and the thump of the press.

  Nat switched his teasing from the cat to me. “Good morning, pretty maid.”

  I didn’t know what to say, so said nothing.

  “Kitty, she ignores me,” he told the cat. “I shall die of grief.”

  I smiled then. “Should thou not be at work?”

  “I was on my way back to the workshop when I saw Kitty had a mouse.”

  “Ugh! Is it alive?”

  He held the draggled thing up by its tail. “Not now. Art thou frightened of them?”

  “Of mice? No!”

  “Cockroaches? Spiders?”

  I laughed; shook my head.

  “Thou’rt fearless, then.”

  “No. I fear displeasing Mary.”

  “Thou need not. She’s sharp, but just.”

  “But … why did the other maid leave?”

  “Sarah? Idleness. She was always gossiping with the apprentice.”

  “Thou’rt teasing me again!” But I began to busy myself; took down plates from the shelves and set them on the board, ready for breakfast.

  “No. She was lazy. And dull-witted. Mary doesn’t suffer fools gladly.” He grinned. “It’s most often me in trouble.”

  “And the others? What are they like?”

  “Simon Race is a pleasant man, easy to work with. He’s skilled; Mary values him. He’s a widower with a young child that his sister in Castle Street cares for. John Pardoe – the big man who operates the press – I like him well. He’s a Quaker.”

  “And Simon too?”

  “No.”

  “He goes to the steeple-house?”

  Nat must have seen my disapproval, for he smiled and said, “Yes. As many good people do.”

  I felt myself reproved, and was silent.

  “Mary’s a good mistress,” said Nat. “She took me from the orphanage when I was a boy, to work as her printer’s devil—”

  “Devil?” I was shocked again.

  He laughed. “Servant boys who work for printers end up covered in ink and look like devils. Mary taught me everything about the trade – and she taught me to read and write; gave me books to read. She took me on as her apprentice, and treated me as if I’d been her own. I turned Quaker because of her.”

  “Thy term will be up soon, surely?”

  “This summer.”

  “And will thou leave?”

  “Yes.” His face brightened. “London. That’s where I’m bound for.”

  I wanted to ask him more, but someone called “Nat?” and the print-room door began to open; he sprang towards it guiltily and went in.

  We served the men breakfast at eight o’clock: bread, butter, beer and slices of venison pie from the shop a few doors down.

  I would not join the men at table as Mary did, but took some bread and beer and sat slightly apart, near the fire. One of the cats – a little striped one – jumped up on my lap and began to turn round and round.

  Thou’d best not settle, cat, I thought: I’ve work to do. But I stroked it, and it purred.

  The men ate heartily. I served more venison pie, and poured more beer. They all acknowledged me, and Simon Race asked me about my family and said he hoped I’d take to town life. He’s kind, I thought, and I knew I should not have prejudged him.

  I finished eating before the others and went out to sweep the long passage.

  Mary had promised me that one evening we would sit down together and she would show me how to write the letters of the alphabet. Meantime, I spent the rest of that week learning what had to be done around house and shop: the pewter and cutlery scoured with sand, the rooms swept and dusted, water drawn, fires tended; milk, beer, meat and pies bought. I spent much of my time shopping, and that pleased me. There were different markets most days, for corn, leather, vegetables or butter; one day there was a cattle market and the streets filled with slowly moving herds and the smell of manure. I would move among the crowds with my basket on my arm and the housekeeping money in my pocket, and when I’d bought the things Mary asked for, I’d go home along different streets, discovering a sweetmeats shop, a stay-maker’s, a tailor’s and a glove-maker’s, all with their counters on the street and maids and apprentices serving.

  Mary had told me that the glovers in the High Street, the Minton family, were Friends of Truth. On fifth-day, when I paused there, a tall fair girl of about eighteen was serving. She smiled, and spoke to me, and I told her I worked at the stationer’s.

  “Then thou must be Mary Faulkner’s new girl?”

  “Yes. I started this week.”

  “And a Friend, I heard?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s good. We are too few our age in Meeting.”

  I felt flattered to be included in her age, for she seemed a woman grown to me.

  “I’m Judith Minton,”
she said. “I have a sister, Abigail, and two brothers, Thomas and Joseph. Thou’ll meet them on first-day; and the other young ones.”

  “Is it a big meeting?”

  “Sixty or so.”

  My eyes must have widened, for she said, “But not all come every time. Thou’ll come?”

  “Yes. I will.”

  Perhaps I went to morning meeting that first-day. If I did, I don’t remember. But I shan’t forget the meeting in the afternoon.

  I went with Mary and Nat. The meeting was held in Cross Street, at the Seven Stars, an alehouse owned by Friends. The room was behind the inn, with an entrance from the yard.

  I stayed close to Mary at first, but then Judith came and drew me away to sit with the other older girls. Her sister, Abigail, with fair hair curling from under her cap, was about twelve; Bridie Hughes was Abigail’s friend; Martha Jevons was a solemn-looking girl of fourteen; Kezia, her sister, walked crooked with a withered leg.

  The room had benches and stools arranged in a rough circle several rows deep, and an upturned tub on which I supposed someone might stand to speak if the spirit moved them. It seemed a proper place to me after the barn at Eaton Bellamy, though I missed the high-ceilinged space and the scent of hay that for me was always linked to worship. Everyone seemed to have their own regular place and moved towards it, including an elderly dog which settled at its master’s feet. Judith made space for me on a bench where the girls sat in a line, several rows back, under the eye of a fierce-looking older woman who frowned when Abigail and Bridie began whispering together. The boys sat, as I’d guessed they would, at the back, where they could fidget and tussle and scrape benches until the meeting began to gather and they slowly settled.

  The door was still ajar. A few more people arrived and sat down. As the last one came in I noted that it was a man, tall and slim, that he wore a black hat with a grey plume in it – my heart was beating fast even before he sat down on the bench nearest the door, and then I saw that I was right: it was the young man I had met on the road near Eaton Bellamy.

  I looked away in confusion, feeling colour flood into my face, wondering if Judith could hear the thumping of my heart.

  The other girls had noticed him too. From where we sat, a space between people’s heads gave us a window in which his profile was framed: straight nose, downcast eyes, dark hair falling to his shoulders. Abigail nudged her sister, and Judith frowned, but I knew we were all watching him.

  Slowly the meeting began to draw together in silence. As one or another felt moved to speak, the silence deepened. But I was not part of it and gave nothing to it. All I could think about was the young man who sat so still by the door, his hands clasped in his lap.

  As the meeting drew to a close there was a rustling and stirring, the dog woke up, and scratched, and we began to move. The young man rose quickly and made for the door.

  I was already standing. I had jumped up, unthinking, not wanting to lose him. And at that moment he glanced across the room, and saw me, and I knew he had recognized me.

  William

  I walked fast, away from Cross Street, before the first of the Quakers began coming out. I didn’t want to meet and talk to them, or give anyone my name. No one except her. And I would not shame her by approaching her there.

  I knew she had recognized me, and that set a little pulse of excitement beating in my blood. She had stood up, and the colour had risen in her face, as I knew it must have done in mine.

  I walked along by the river, circled round, and came back into town up Spout Lane. At the top of the lane I saw her, walking towards Broad Street with an older woman. They didn’t notice me as I followed some way behind.

  Halfway up Broad Street they stopped outside a shop I knew well: Faulkner’s bookshop and stationer’s; and I realized then that the woman was the Widow Faulkner. She opened the side door and they both disappeared inside.

  The stationer’s was a familiar place to me, one I had often visited. It would be easy for me to find an excuse to call in.

  I’ll go there tomorrow, I thought. See her. And speak to her.

  Susanna

  I was in the shop when he came in.

  My morning chores were done, and Mary and Nat were busy in the print room, dealing with a big order.

  “Thou can mind the shop,” Mary had said to me. “It won’t be busy, so take the slate and practise thy letters.”

  She had already begun teaching me to write. She had written out all the letters of the alphabet on a piece of paper and fixed it to a board, and whenever I had a moment I would copy some onto my slate. My efforts were shaky; it was difficult to control the movement and make the smooth clear shapes that Mary drew so easily.

  “Practise,” she said. “One day it will come.”

  “And then may I have pen and paper?” I longed to write with a quill.

  “Perhaps the backs of spoiled print runs,” she said, and smiled.

  I was sitting at the table at the back of the shop, making a careful row of capital Ts along my slate, when I heard someone come in, and looked up.

  When I saw him I was so startled that I dropped the chalk and then trod on it as I jumped to my feet.

  “Good morning, mistress.”

  I was still holding the slate. Hastily I put it down and came forward.

  “May I help thee?”

  “Perhaps.” He seemed ill at ease. I saw that his eyes were a clear grey-green, the lashes dark. “Do you have Playford’s music collection?” he asked. “The dance music?”

  I went to look. Mary keeps the books in sections under their subjects: history, devotional, medical and the like. I was not sure where dance music would be, or even whether Mary would sell such stock.

  “I can ask,” I said, “if thou’ll wait.”

  “No – thank you – another time.” He looked directly at me. “We’ve met before.”

  “Yes.” My heart beat fast.

  “I did not expect to see you there, at the meeting.”

  “I had never been there before.”

  “Nor I. But you – have you moved? Do you live here now?”

  “Yes. I am Mary Faulkner’s servant.”

  There was a shelf near us with account books on it, and bottles of ink, and quill pens. He picked up a quill and fiddled with it.

  “I came in on Monday, and again yesterday,” he said. “You were not here…”

  I began to tremble with alarm and expectancy. He had been like me, I realized, watching, hoping. This was not a chance meeting. He had come here on purpose.

  I blushed again at the memory of how I had stood up and made him see me. The other girls had noticed; they teased me afterwards.

  “Yesterday was a market day,” I said. “I was about town.”

  He glanced at the table. “What were you writing?”

  I saw with dismay that my slate was there. I didn’t want him to see it, but I couldn’t lie.

  “I am learning to write,” I said, looking down in embarrassment, for it made me feel like a child. “Practising my letters.”

  He smiled. “That’s good. Few women can write much, even…”

  Even the sort of women you mix with, I thought.

  He had made me aware of the difference between us: his learning, and his obvious wealth. The dark cloth of his coat was plain but of a fine woollen weave. He wore lace on his shirt and on the edges of his linen collar. He bought books. I remembered what my mother had said: “He’s not for thee, Susanna.”

  But he likes me, I thought in defiance.

  He seemed about to say more, but at that moment the shop door opened, startling both of us. A man – a schoolmaster by the look of him – came in.

  My visitor backed away towards the door, doffed his hat to the teacher, and said to me, “I will call back then, for the book, another day.”

  As he went out, Mary appeared from the print shop. She attended to the new customer, and I retreated to the kitchen, where I began preparing vegetables for dinner. My ha
nds worked readily at chopping leeks and onions, but my mind was running ahead. He would come back; he had said so.

  Later that day Mary said, “Did I see that sprig of Henry Heywood’s in the shop? Young Will?”

  Will Heywood.

  I hugged his name to me like a gift.

  “He was looking for Playford’s book,” I said. “Dance music.”

  “Oh!” She led me into the shop again, went straight to a shelf, pulled out a book. “Here it is. Thou may show him if he comes in again.”

  I had an uncomfortable feeling that she knew what was afoot; that we were not speaking truth to one another, as honest folk should.

  “I thought thou might not sell such things,” I said.

  “Dost thou disapprove?” Her eyes, blue and worldly-wise, fixed me with a challenge.

  “No! I would not … but I thought…”

  I knew that Friends were careful what they sold or made. My mother had told me of a lace-maker, skilled in fancy work, who had changed to making simple edgings after she was convinced of the truth; for it was felt that fine lace was only for show and affectation.

  “Some Friends disapprove,” said Mary. “But I see no harm in it. Such books are for dancing masters and musicians, not for frolics around a maypole. I lived many years before I was convinced, and danced, and sang, and enjoyed making music.” She smiled. “The spirit must be allowed to expand in us, not become cramped and narrow.”

  I began turning the pages of the book. The musical notation meant nothing to me, but I could read the titles: “Cuckolds All a Row”, “Fain I Would If I Could”, “The Friar and the Nun”. They spoke of a world of frivolity far from anything I knew.

  Does Will Heywood know these dances? I wondered. And there came into my mind an image of myself dancing with him, turning towards him, our hands touching. Fain I would if I could… I asked Mary, “Who is Henry Heywood?”

  “He is a wool merchant, one of the wealthiest men in Hemsbury, and an alderman of the town.”

  And I had set my sights on his son.