by Ann Turnbull
He looked at me, and I knew he wanted to touch me again, and I felt a longing to touch him. But a shyness had come between us.
He picked up one of the scraps of paper I had been using for my writing practice.
“What’s this?” He read aloud: “‘Susanna … Susanna Thorn…’”
“Oh! Don’t look!” I snatched it away. “I was practising my signature.” I felt suddenly bold, and said, “Write thy name. I want to see it.”
He took the paper back, laid it flat, and wrote “William Heywood”, plainly the first time, and then again, signed with a flourish and many twists and curls, so that we both laughed.
I wrote to my mother next day, with help from Mary. It was easy to think of the words, much harder to turn them into written forms. In the end, I said little. I told my mother I was well, sent love to my brother and sister, and to my father in prison.
I realized what a great leap of understanding lay between my reading and writing and Will’s. And yet I was determined to bridge it. I read all the Friends’ newsletters and commentaries that Mary printed. I read of Mary Fisher’s journey to Constantinople to take the Word of God to the Sultan; how he received her kindly and listened to her. And I read of the recent executions by hanging of English Friends in Massachusetts, and of the news that Charles Stuart, the King, had sent an order to the American colony that no more Quakers were to be executed by them; that if they were accused they must be sent home to England for trial. I asked Mary to show me the English colonies on a map. I was amazed at the vastness of America and the great expanse of sea that Friends had travelled across.
One day Will came in and found me reading my little book, The Pious Prentice.
“What have you there?”
I handed it to him. “It’s advice on how to behave in thy master’s house.”
He opened it, grinned, and read, mock-solemn: “‘From thievish pilfering let thy hands be free.’”
I started to laugh. “Thou’rt disrespectful.”
“Disrespectful? Me? Listen to this” – he put on a fierce face – “‘…the threatenings terrifying them if they walk not according to these precepts.’”
“Give it to me!” I pounced and seized the book, and darted away; he chased me, I squealed, and we wrestled for it, laughing. They must have heard us in the print room.
“You should read poetry,” he said, “not this stuff.”
“Poetry?”
We stood, not touching now, but still breathless, aware of each other’s bodies.
“Poetry.” He mimicked my suspicious tone. “Have you never read any? Is it frowned upon?”
“I think my father would feel it might … lead to unsuitable thought. It’s a thing for scholars and gentlemen, is it not?”
“I’ll lend you some,” he said, “and you shall see for yourself. John Donne – no, George Herbert. Herbert was a godly man, a parish priest, much revered.”
A priest. I felt I was entering dangerous lands. And yet I had been taught that the light was within everyone; that I should seek it and respond to it. Perhaps I should hear what this priest had to say.
Later that day Mary called me to her. I went, expecting a scolding for my noisy behaviour with Will. I knew she liked Will, and did not mind him coming to the shop, and indeed would sometimes talk with him herself about religion, and answer his questions. But now I sensed trouble.
“Thy month’s trial is almost up,” she said.
I began to tremble. It was worse than I’d feared. I had angered her; she would dismiss me.
“I’ll be pleased to keep thee on, if thou’rt willing.”
“Oh, yes!”
I think she saw how relieved I was, for her mouth twitched in a smile. “Good. Then shall we agree a year’s service?”
I thanked her, and turned to go, but she stopped me.
“When thou’rt minding the shop I expect thy behaviour to be seemly.”
I hung my head. “I’m sorry. It was a game.”
“Oh, I know these games. But the shop is not the place for them. I see thou’rt much taken with young Will. No need to blush. It’s natural enough. But – have a care.”
“Will means me no dishonour.”
“I know that. It was thy heart I was thinking of. You are both very young, and Will’s father is a man of wealth and position.”
I lifted my chin. “Will cares nothing for that.”
“Then thou must have a care,” said Mary.
But I could not. Will began seeking me out when I was about town. My heart would leap whenever I saw him, and my feelings must have shown in my face. I read the poems he gave me, and talked to him about their meaning, and found light in them. Alone, in the shop, I copied out his name and mine. I thought of his face, his eyes, the sound of his voice. At work around the house, and especially in my bed at night, I imagined being kissed by him, imagined his arms around me. I tried to stop these thoughts, remembering Mary’s warning, and my mother’s too, but could not. It was like being swept away in a fast river.
William
I thought about her all the time; imagined being alone with her, being free to touch, to kiss. The strength of my feelings took me by surprise; I had known nothing like it before.
But I had to keep her secret. I knew my father would see any connection with a servant girl as beneath me, and if he found out she was a Quaker he would be furious. And yet I sought her out, not just in the safety of Mary’s shop, but around the town.
In the street I was at risk of being seen by our servants, by my father’s friends and workpeople, by Anne and my stepmother, who were often about town, shopping and visiting, and would be much quicker to notice what was going on than my father.
And yet somehow the fear of discovery added to my excitement. I soon began to know where I might catch sight of her: at the baker’s, the butcher’s, around the stalls on market days. And sometimes, dangerously and enticingly, near my home, at the Mintons’, the glover’s. The Mintons were Quakers, and she had become friendly with the eldest daughter, Judith. There was another girl I saw her with a few times: a sharp-eyed maidservant with a worldly-wise air about her. I kept well away from that one.
We never spoke for long when we met outside. Often no more than a look passed between us. I felt this secretiveness was wrong, that it demeaned her, that I should acknowledge her in public. And yet, if truth be told, I enjoyed the snatched meetings and glances; it made her more alluring.
One day I saw her when I was on my way to a sitting for the family portrait. Some musicians were playing in the street, and a crowd had gathered around them. There was a fiddler, two or three men with flutes and a drum, someone singing, and another taking a hat around. They played a lively tune, and people began to beat time and clap.
Susanna was with her servant friend, on the fringe of the crowd, both of them peering to see between the heads. The singer’s voice was bold and strong, the words bawdy. The onlookers roared out the choruses. I saw the other girl laugh, and turn to Susanna; and Susanna shake her head and move away.
Later, in the shop, we talked about it.
“My parents would not approve of such songs,” she said.
“Because of the words?”
“Yes, that. But the music, too. Music excites the passions, leads to licentiousness. So they say.”
Her colour rose, but she held my gaze. It was one of the things that had first drawn me to her, this mixture of modesty and straightforwardness. She was innocent, but not ignorant; and I knew she was thinking, as I was, of the words of the song we had heard, and their meaning.
“But not all music is so base,” I said. “There is much fine music in the world. I don’t think I could bear to give it up. Are Quakers entirely against it?”
I felt so much drawn to these people that I longed to reconcile the two.
“Many are,” she said. “Thou should talk to Mary. She was brought up with music, like thee.”
“But does she play it now?”
&
nbsp; “She has no instrument that I know of. And little time.”
“I think I would always have time for music,” I said.
She nodded. “Sometimes when I hear music playing I long to dance, and I do wonder whether it is such a wrong thing to do…”
For the next two weeks I did not return to the Seven Stars. I wanted to know whether the power of the silent meeting had been a true experience, and I knew the presence of Susanna would be a distraction. So I found another meeting.
One day I rode out alone to Haydon Green, a village to the north of Hemsbury, where meetings were held in the parlour of a large farmhouse. Strangely, it was my father who told me of it, mentioning the place, in a voice of outrage, as a “nest of fanatics” where some Quakers had recently taken a stand against church tithes.
I found no fanatics, only silence and a sense of rightness, and people of goodwill. I began to feel that I had not been mistaken; that this was where I belonged.
My father asked me once where I had been, and I said, “Out riding in the countryside,” and spoke of the spring air, the lambs in the fields. I was deceiving him with half-truths, but I knew I needed to become clear in my own mind before I challenged him.
The days were lengthening. Sometimes I saw couples – servants and young working people – walking together by the river or about the town; and I longed to go out with Susanna in the easy way that they did, walking hand in hand and sidling off into a copse or a disused barn to kiss and caress. But they were equals; in time, if they loved each other, or the girl was got with child, they would marry. My father would never allow me to marry Susanna, so I must rein in my feelings and take care not to compromise her. We could not be seen out alone together.
But I saw her on first-days. I began going to the meetings at the Seven Stars, and talked to the elders and made friends with the young ones, Nat Lacon, Daniel Kite, Tom Minton. From them I heard that the new act outlawing religious gatherings was due to come into force in May. I saw that soon I must give up my new secret life or confront my father, but the thought of such a confrontation made me afraid. He was a man of powerful will, and I had never before disobeyed him in any important matter.
Susanna
“I see you’ve hooked yourself a fine young gentleman,” said Em.
The two of us were making our way up Broad Street with our pails of water on yokes over our shoulders. I stopped – and it was more than the weight of water making me breathless. I stared at her. How could she know about Will?
She burst out laughing. “Did you think it was a secret? I’ve seen him ogling you in the street. And he comes to your shop, doesn’t he?”
“He’s a scholar,” I said. “He buys books and paper…”
“Is that all he buys?” She shot me a sly look. “He’s wealthy, that one. Don’t sell yourself cheap, Su.”
“What do you mean?” My heart beat fast.
“You know,” she said.
I did. Em seemed to run a system of barter with her own young man. If he bought her some lace or a bunch of silk ribbons she’d reward him by allowing his hand to go a bit further than usual. I knew because she told me all about her courtship, the bargains and quarrels and makings-up. It was something I would never have dreamed of talking about myself, but I was fascinated by the day-to-day ebb and flow of her romance and its matter-of-fact details. They would marry in due course, once he was settled in business and could afford to do so; and, since she was good-natured and practical, no doubt they’d be happy enough. But it was not for me. I wanted love.
“He’ll never marry you,” said Em, “so you might as well get what you can out of him now. Ask for a love token; something gold. I would.” She gave me a sharp look. “Or did you imagine you’d be wed?”
I was silent. I would not lie to her.
“Oh, Su! Don’t look so downhearted!” She stopped and turned to face me. “I only meant to warn you; you’re such an innocent. These grand folk, they’ll take anything that’s offered, but they don’t marry girls like us. Truly, they don’t.”
Will is different, I thought. But would he marry me? For a girl there is only marriage or dishonour. Or parting – but I couldn’t bear to think of that. I tried to disregard Em’s words, but she had made me see the world as a mercenary place in which love counted for little.
Later that morning, stepping out of the baker’s with a basket of fresh-baked loaves, I came face to face with Will and two gallants who seemed to be his friends. Very fine they were: lace on their shirts, feathers in their hats, and their shoes tied with ribbon. Will gave me a nod, so slight that only I could see it, and they passed on, taking up the whole width of the pavement, and talking loudly and laughing.
I felt a pang then, for I saw that here was a whole part of his life that I knew nothing of, in which he would not include me. I should have been grateful to him for not speaking, for it would have shamed me; and yet I resented it, the more so because of what Em had said.
When he came into the shop that afternoon I was in low spirits. I treated him like a customer and kept a distance from him. He was puzzled and hurt, I could see, but I felt unable to hide my feelings.
“How have I offended you?” he asked.
“Thou hast not.”
“Then what…?”
I had turned away from him and he stepped in front to face me.
I could not explain to him what was on my mind, so I told him about another thing that had begun to trouble me these last few days.
“In May they will pass the new act…”
“The Quaker Act? Yes.” He frowned. “My father knows nothing yet of my going to meetings. Or of you. But – it shan’t stop me.”
“Will! It means breaking the law. No more than five people over sixteen years old may assemble for non-Anglican worship. That’s what it will say. Only five. They mean to outlaw us altogether. Thou could be arrested.”
“I’m not afraid of that.”
“Thou’rt afraid to tell thy father!”
“I’m not!” But he wouldn’t meet my eye.
“We will become an illegal people,” I said. “It will not be wise for thee to associate with us.”
I had not thought much about all this before, but now it became clear to me: the gulf that was opening between us. I felt the inevitability of it, and tears stood in my eyes, ready to fall.
“Susanna.” He put his arms around me, kissed my hair and then my face. I swung between delight and terror that someone would come in. The tears ran down my face and he kissed them away and pulled me close.
“Don’t cry,” he said. “We won’t be parted. I promise. Don’t cry.”
I felt his lips touch mine, feather-soft at first, then firmer, warmer, with an eagerness that made me respond and kiss him back. I wondered, fleetingly, if I should do this. Was it wrong if we were not promised in marriage? But I could not bring myself to stop.
The shop door opened, and we sprang apart. He turned away, as if to seek a book, and I went to serve my customer.
Later, when I was alone, I touched my lips with my fingertips and thought about the kiss.
He had said, “We won’t be parted.” Surely that must mean he loved me?
But he had not dared tell his father about me, or about meeting with Friends. And I knew his father planned for him to become apprenticed to a silk merchant who would take him away to London. It was his duty to obey his father, and he had all the power.
The next day Mary gave me a gold crown coin – my wages for the month. I turned it in my hand; I’d never earned so much before.
“Thou’ll be wanting to go home and see thy family,” she said.
“Oh, yes!” I felt a rush of longing. My parents, Deb, Isaac – so much had happened since I had seen them last. And my father was out of prison. A Friend from Eaton Bellamy Meeting had brought that news a few days ago, along with a letter in response to the one I had sent my mother; this, written by my father, spoke of their surprise and pleasure at my new skill.
But I would not be away for long.
“Go on sixth-day,” Mary suggested. “Stay the night and return next day.”
When I told Will he asked, “How will you get there?”
“I’ll walk.”
“Ten miles? Alone?” He looked shocked.
“We always walk. There are plenty of folk on the road. I’ll likely get a lift in a farm cart.”
“My sister would never go anywhere unaccompanied,” he said; and I saw once again how different our lives were.
I liked being on the road, alone and independent. And now it was springtime, the blackthorn was out, and there were primroses and violets by the wayside. The hedges were green and high, and by midsummer they’d be arching over with the pink blossoms of sweetbrier. It was a joy to be out in the clean air and to hear birds singing and see new lambs in the fields. I realized how much I’d missed it. But not the drudgery, I reminded myself; not the heavy work and the loneliness and the narrow-minded neighbours.
I took my wages, hidden in a pocket under my skirt. My parents were glad to see me, and to have the money. My father was at work again, but he had suffered a loss of trade. They wanted to know all about my new life. I must have spoken Will’s name more than I meant to, for they soon guessed; and when they heard he was an alderman’s son they were worried.
“I hope Mary takes good care of thee,” my mother said.
I knew what sort of care she meant. “Mary is strict,” I assured her. “But, Mam, Will is a seeker; he comes to Meeting. He is not out to…” I stumbled for words, embarrassed. “He sees me as an equal.”
My mother nodded approval, but she was still concerned. “Keep thy heart free,” she counselled. “Thou’rt too young for courtship.”
“Thou wast young,” I said, “when thou met my father. And married him.” I knew she’d been less than twenty.