by Ann Turnbull
When I left, after supper, Susanna came to the door with me. Deb, who had resisted all attempts to send her to bed, clung to her sister’s hand, still chattering.
Susanna’s eyes were sombre. “Thou’ll go to London, I suppose, with Nat?”
“I’d like to,” I said. And added impulsively – for surely Nat would not mind? – “Thou could come too.” I knew Quaker women travelled, sometimes alone, to preach and visit friends in prison. It would be impossible for a girl like my sister, but perhaps not for Susanna?
“I am promised to Mary for a year.”
“A servant’s bond can be broken. It happens all the time.” And yet I knew I would not want to do it myself.
“I gave my word,” she said. “And besides” – she looked at me straight, unblushing – “I can’t take to the road with two young men.”
“If we could be married…”
I went to put my arms around her, but she stepped back, glancing at the child, whose eyes flicked from one to another of us.
“We can’t talk now.”
“I’ll find a way,” I promised. “I won’t desert thee.”
But her face was downcast. When we said goodnight she kissed me briefly, as friends do in greeting, and I knew it was not only the presence of Deb that held her back; my enthusiastic response to Nat’s suggestion had hurt her.
I walked home, feeling stirred and unhappy. I meant to go straight to my room to think, but my father appeared as soon as I opened the hall door.
“Where have you been all day?”
I took a breath and answered, “Waiting on the Lord.”
“Waiting on that whore!”
My fists clenched. But he was my father; I must give him respect. “Don’t call her that.”
“What else can I call a girl who walks about the streets with men? A girl who stands up on a mounting block and shouts her opinions to the marketplace, and distributes this – this package of filth and lies.” He thrust one of our pamphlets at me. “And you – consorting with her openly. I heard all about it after church. People were eager to tell us: how they had seen Alderman Heywood’s son yesterday, walking through the town with blood on his face, and a brazen slut hanging on his arm.”
“It was not—” I began, and stopped in exasperation. What point was there in trying to explain?
“You shame me, and endanger my position in the town,” he went on. “You shame my wife and your sister—”
“How?” I cried. “How can what I do shame any of you?”
“Because we are your family! You reflect on us. You are part of us.”
“Then I will sunder from you!” I said, and saw him recoil in shock. “I will give up my family” – I heard my voice break – “and if they wish it I’ll never see them again. But I will not give up my faith and I will not give up Susanna.”
“Will…” He stepped forward, hands extended. “Will, you’re young. You see everything in black and white. You know, many people have doubts about religion, or ideas that don’t suit. Your own mother: I know she worshipped in secret. And no harm done. As for the girl, if you want her, take her. No harm there, either. But don’t think to marry her. You must come to live in the world as it is.”
“I won’t live in your world,” I said. “It disgusts me. There must be a better way to live.”
And I bade him goodnight, and went up to my room.
There, I paced up and down the short space between door and window, going over all the conflict of the day. I could break with my family, go to London with Nat; but I saw no way that Susanna, being so young and bound to Mary, could travel with us – or any way that we could be married.
I heard the family come upstairs to bed, voices on the landing, doors closing. When all was quiet I slipped out of my room and went down to the kitchen to get a drink.
Joan was there, scouring the cutlery ready for morning.
“Oh, Master Will!” she exclaimed. “You’ll be wanting beer? And something to eat? There’s venison pasty left over from dinner…”
“No, Joan. I’ve eaten. A mug of beer will be enough.”
She poured it for me, regarding me critically as she set it down. “You look a ruffian with that cut on your face!” Joan had been with us since I was eight years old and spoke to me sometimes as if I were still a child. “And what’s that shirt you’re wearing?” She looked closer. “Poor, coarse stitching on it.”
“It’s a friend’s.”
“One of those Quakers?”
“Yes.”
“I saw you in the marketplace on Saturday with your Quaker girl. Pretty lass. Oh, come, Master Will, you don’t look very cheerful tonight! What’s amiss? Some new trouble with your father? I heard the two of you shouting.”
She sat down opposite me, broad and motherly, her eyes sympathetic.
I sighed and put my head in my hands.
“I want to marry Susanna,” I said, “but my father will not have it. Well, thou’ll know that already; this house must shake with our quarrels. But the Quakers will not agree either; and Susanna’s parents don’t know yet but are sure to say she’s too young. Everyone is against us. And I don’t know what to do.”
Joan regarded me shrewdly. “Folks can always make a vow of marriage between them if they want to,” she said. “They need only find witnesses.”
I ran a hand through my hair. “I know. But I don’t want that sort of marriage. It doesn’t seem right and proper. And my father would probably declare it void.”
Joan nodded in agreement. “I have heard,” she said, “that there’s a priest in Hog Lane, on the edge of town, who performs marriages out of church. Quick and secret. No banns.”
I looked up. “A priest?”
She nodded. “Anglican.”
“But … is it legal? Would we be properly wed?”
“Oh, you’d be wed safe enough, before witnesses. And you’d have your certificate.” She looked at me anxiously, as if half regretting what she’d said. “If you’re sure that’s what you want? It’s a big step, to break with your family. The master’s a hot-tempered man. He’d be furious; might disinherit you. And what would your girl bring?”
“Nothing. I don’t care about that!”
“You can’t live on love, Master Will.”
“Then I’ll work. What would the licence cost?”
“A few shillings more than usual, you can be sure.”
“I have a little money… Hog Lane? Near the Stonegate? What’s his name? When could I see him?”
“I don’t know, sir. But I’ll find out for you.”
“Soon?”
“Soon as I can. Leave it with me.”
She got up and began putting away the knives and spoons, the sand box and the cleaning cloths. “Take your beer up to bed with you, sir. It’s time I snuffed this candle.”
Susanna
I was eager to see Will next day, but in the afternoon Tom came with a message that he was gone with his father on business to Ludlow and would be away all week.
All week! And we had parted last night with a sense of misunderstanding. I had been longing to see him again, to make everything right between us. Now the week stretched before me, empty; I could not reach him and didn’t know what he was thinking about me, what changes of heart he might have had. I felt abandoned, angry with Nat, angry with Henry Heywood for taking Will away from me, and angry with Will for being so quick to obey his father.
Mary soon noticed my mood and guessed the cause of it.
“Will does right to obey his father in every way he can,” she said. “It is his duty. And thine is to obey me. So get that yoke over thy shoulders and fetch some clean water. And when thou hast done that, there’s the meat to be bought for the men’s dinner, and the passage to be swept…”
“I know,” I said sulkily.
“And don’t use that manner with me! Keep busy,” she added, more kindly, “and the week will fly by. Nat and I plan to get another pamphlet on the streets. Thou can help,
if thou’rt willing?”
I bit my lip, and nodded. “Yes. I am.”
Later that day, she came to me with an idea.
“Thou hast time owing to thee,” she said, “and Friends say there is no fever at Norton jail. Why not go there one day and visit thy parents?”
“Oh, yes!”
I felt a mixture of pleasure and guilt – guilt because I had pushed my parents to the back of my mind. I’d been unable to visit them when Nat was ill with the fever and there was a fear of contagion, but now I remembered that they had been several weeks in prison and I’d given little thought to their suffering; they must long to hear news of Isaac and Deb. And I would tell them about Will, and how much I loved him. Perhaps they would disagree with Mary and allow us to marry.
When I thought of this, I wanted to go straight away, but the weather was thundery most of the week, with great bursts of rain that bounced off the cobbles and sent everyone scurrying for doorways and overhangs. I went to see Judith in the Stonegate prison instead. In the end it was sixth-day before I left for Norton.
It’s a day’s walk there and back, so I rose at dawn. I took some bread and cheese, tied in a cloth, and a flask of beer, and a straw hat of Mary’s to keep off the sun, and set off early.
I remember little of the journey there. I reached Norton and found my parents well, though greatly crowded in prison, and my father in pain from his joints. I told them Isaac had found work and that Deb was with Hester, who thought her a poppet. They were glad to see me looking well.
When I spoke of Will, and our wish to be married, they said I was too young, and must be patient; that Will must make his way in the world; that if we truly loved each other we would wait – all such talk as I did not want to hear. And I saw that they would neither challenge Mary nor give their consent. But I could not plead with them in that place, surrounded by other people.
And so we parted, and I set off home. The day was warmer now, and I was tired and walked more slowly. In the fields on either side of the road, rows of men and women were at work, hoeing around onions and turnips, or harvesting cabbages. Sometimes I’d see one stand and arch backwards to ease stiffness. Children crouched, pulling weeds with quick small hands. I remembered, in lean years when my father was in prison, working alongside my mother in just such fields, hour after hour. A day’s work is long in summertime.
I met a few people on the road: farmers, mostly, or women coming home from market. I was perhaps halfway to Hemsbury when I saw coming towards me on foot a man in a white shirt and a high-crowned black hat – a man whose very walk I knew and loved…
“Susanna!” he shouted, and people in the field near by looked up. He ran towards me, and I ran too, and he caught me in his arms and swung me off my feet.
I squealed and fell laughing against him. There was no one to see us, only the field workers, who didn’t know us and didn’t care. All the gloom of the last week lifted from me in a moment. We stood with our arms around each other and I breathed in the smell of him, warm from the sun, and felt his heart beating.
“When did thou get back?” I spoke into his shirt and had to look up and repeat the question.
“Yesterday. Late. And then today I had news to tell thee, and hurried to the shop, and found thee gone.”
“What news?”
He looked down at me, his face bright with his discovery. “I have found a way for us to be married.”
I felt a surge of hope, of delight. In an instant I saw the London project dropped, the two of us staying together. “How? Has Mary changed her mind?”
“No. It is a priest. I went to see him this morning—”
“A priest?” I let go of him and took a step back. “We’d be married in a steeple-house?”
“Not in a steeple-house.” He caught my hands. “A room in an inn – or anywhere else we wish. But he’ll marry us without banns. No one need know till it’s done. He could marry us on Mon— second-day.”
“A priest?” I said again. A shadow seemed to have fallen on the day. “I thought – I thought always, as a child, that one day I’d be married in Meeting, before God, and with my friends as witnesses. Not…”
“It’s not what I would wish, either,” said Will, and I saw that the joy of his news had gone out of him, and was sorry. “But God would be there, within us. God is always there. And it is marriage, legal and binding, and not to be challenged. And afterwards, we can come before God in our own way, and no harm done.”
“But this secrecy,” I said, and began to walk slowly along the road. “I don’t like it. We should act openly, in the truth.”
“It’s not right, I know.” His face was eager. “But Susanna, think: once we’re married we are free to do as we will! Thou could come to London with me and none to hinder it. Or stay here, and I’d come for thee when thy service was up. No matter what happens we’d be man and wife, and that bond would be stronger than any other, even parent or master. It’s a small wrong, but the end is the same…”
His eyes sought mine, pleading.
It did not seem a small wrong to me – marriage performed by a hireling priest who would come between us and God.
“He will not read the Anglican marriage service if we don’t want it,” Will said. “Only what’s necessary to make it legal. He is accommodating.”
Accommodating. The word did not reassure me.
“Marriage is a holy thing—” I began.
“And dost thou think it would not be holy between us, whatever the means?” He caught hold of me and began to kiss me. “I love thee, Su.”
I kissed him back, but I felt low in spirit; something had been spoiled. He sensed my lack of response, and after a while he let me go and we walked on in silence, no longer touching. My eyes filled with tears which I dashed away with my hand. Will walked a little ahead of me, looking at the ground. I was forced to scamper to keep up with him.
“Art thou angry with me?” I asked.
“No.”
“Thou seem’st angry.”
For answer he put an arm around my waist and pulled me close. It was uncomfortable walking like that, but I preferred it to our former separateness. Now and again I glanced at his face. It was shut to me, the eyes downcast. I knew I had hurt him.
I thought: He will go to London soon. And I looked back towards Norton, south-eastwards. It had taken me half a day to reach Norton; another half-day would have brought me only as far as Brentbridge. I tried to imagine the great distance between this home country of ours and the capital. Hundreds of miles – hundreds of miles of fields and woods and winding roads and villages and hamlets and towns, and great cities like Oxford. He will go to London, I thought, and I will never see him again. He’ll be caught up in his new life, make new friends, perhaps meet another girl; and he’ll forget me. If I don’t marry him now, I’ll lose him.
And I thought: After all, he’s right; what does a ceremony matter? It’s the intent behind it that counts. We can go through with it, and afterwards we can make all well again before God and our families and friends. But at least the thing will be done and no one will be able to part us.
“Will?” I said. My voice came out small. “I have decided. I will marry thee.”
He looked at me and gave a little shake of his head. “I don’t want to force thee.”
“Thou dost not. It was a shock – no more. Thou’rt right. It’s the only way. Let’s be wed – on second-day, as thou said.”
“Perhaps we should consider longer.”
“No.” I was anxious now, afraid to delay. “On second-day, in the evening, when I finish work.” I put my arms around him. “Unless thou hast changed thy mind?”
“No,” he said. “I have not.”
We walked on, hand in hand. There were grassy banks on either side of the road, stretches of woodland, hedgerows full of flowers. I remembered my daydream of the field at Long Aston. We were promised to each other now, and had we been in merrier mood we might have stopped and taken advantage of
the freedom we had out of doors and felt no shame in it. But our near quarrel had subdued our spirits, and besides, the sun was low in the sky and Mary would be expecting me. We reached the walls of Hemsbury, and dropped hands as we went through the gate and into the town.
One thing came to my mind. Where would we go, on second-day, after we were married? Not to Mary’s house or Will’s father’s.
I was too shy to ask him. But wherever we went, I thought, if I did not return soon after, I’d be missed, and explanations must be made. And when I thought of those explanations I had a sense of unease.
William
I knew as early as seventh-day morning that something was afoot. My father seemed unusually anxious that I should not go to Meeting next day. Of late he had become resigned to my absence from church and had not tried so hard to prevent me leaving the house on first-days. But now he said, “You’ll come to church tomorrow, Will. I insist on it. To see you knocked about and bleeding as you were last week—”
“That did not happen at the meeting,” I said.
He frowned at the interruption. “We worry about your safety. There may be trouble tomorrow. You could be injured, or arrested.”
I was at once alert. “Is trouble planned? Father? What dost thou know?”
“Do not ‘thou’ me!” he exclaimed; and he used this as an excuse to lecture me and avoid answering my question.
I could gain no more from him, and wondered whether I should warn my friends; and yet they would come to Meeting whether or not they were warned, and what could I tell them?
In the afternoon I visited the priest and arranged that Susanna and I would meet him at the White Hart in Hog Lane at six o’clock on second-day evening. We were committed now, and I entered a state of agitation which took everything else out of my mind. After the ceremony Susanna would be my wife. We would be left alone together in the room at the inn, free to love each other. That was something which, when I imagined it, made me feel both eager and nervous. But there was guilt, too, and unease, caused by Susanna’s misgivings and the secrecy of it all. I tried not to think of the time when we must confess what we had done.