In England, Juliana Lovell consulted a lawyer.
It came about by accident. Juliana did not go to the Middle Temple in order to enquire about her personal position. She thought she knew that all too well: a married woman, with two children to support, having no money — but a fixed intent to lead a life of the utmost simplicity. What else could she do? Since Edmund Treves first said her husband had sailed with Prince Maurice, she had had no news. The princes’ movements were sporadically mentioned in news-sheets, so as the years passed, Juliana became familiar with foreign affairs as she scanned reports from France, Holland, Spain, Naples and anywhere else that might be relevant. Early in 1653 she saw mention that Prince Rupert and perhaps ten ships had been glimpsed carrying out repairs at Guadeloupe, then she read of a rumour he had been shipwrecked. In mid-February the Weekly Intelligencer gave her dark news:
It was this day confirmed by letters from Paris that Prince Rupert landing a few days before at Brest in Brittany, did take his journey from thence to Paris. Some letters make mention that he came only with two ships, some say three, the only relics of the storm. There is nothing yet certain of his brother Maurice, but some say that both he and his ship were devoured by the sea in the great tempest.
Juliana went to the Middle Temple because she was invited. Mr Abdiel Impey who had already informed her of her guardian’s death, was searching for a document one day in spring 1653 and came upon the long-forgotten papers of Mr William Gadd, deceased — deceased, in fact, in 1649. Mr Impey kept an extremely cluttered office, where his rule was the good one that whenever he wrote a letter he placed a copy handy in a mountainous document tray; if nobody replied within two years, or when the pile grew so tall it toppled over, he dropped the copy into the basket of papers which his clerk was allowed to use to light the fire.
However, Mr Impey had known and liked William Gadd.
Extensive exploration among pleas, draft wills, receipts for embroidered waistcoats and vintners’ price lists revealed that Mistress Juliana Lovell had answered his first letter with a polite acknowledgement; at the time she had said she would come to discuss matters as soon as it was convenient. This phrase either meant the party would turn up within three days, hoping money had been willed to them, or if they were frightened off by officialdom they would never come at all. Being in a kindly mood the day he found the papers, Mr Impey had his clerk dispatch a reminder.
This time, Juliana came. She worked on the principle that one invitation was mere etiquette, but two indicated something important.
Besides, she needed to cling to this last link with the people she had known during her marriage. Now Lovell was permanently missing. Mr Gadd was dead. So too, killed in 1651 at the battle of Worcester, was poor Edmund Treves. One of his sisters had sent Juliana a locket with his portrait, which apparently Edmund had wished her to have, and a jewelled watch for his godson Valentine; there was mention of a small legacy, though it had not arrived. Worcester had been the most desperate of battles. The young King’s troops were outnumbered almost three to one and despite successful cavalry sallies in the early stages, they ended up bottled in, short of ammunition, lacking support from the Scots, and completely overwhelmed. It was thought that Edmund Treves had died below the castle during the last courageous struggle, when cover was being provided for the King’s dramatic escape through the one city gate that remained open. True details of Treves’s fate would never be known.
His sister railed bitterly in her letter about the waste of his life. He had spent the ten years when he could be called an adult fighting for the royal cause. He never finished university, never married nor had children. His family had barely seen him. When he finally went home in 1649, his mother was so ill she took no pleasure from his presence. She died, two years later, just before Edmund answered the call and went west to join Charles II’s army as it marched down from Scotland to the Midlands. At least his mother never knew he was killed, though Juliana thought Alice Treves may have guessed what would happen.
Juliana herself was seriously depressed by losing him. His honest heart and unchanging affection had always given her comfort. He was her only real link to Lovell.
She had scanned the list of Royalists killed at Worcester, just in case, but found no Colonel Lovell named. A year later, in September 1652, came the hurricane. The following March she read that Prince Rupert had returned to France, depleted in spirit though more glamorous than ever: tall, handsome, honed, dark, weather-beaten, fashionably morose and tragic. He had lost eleven ships, including his brother’s Defiance. Now thirty-three, Rupert had an exotic household of richly liveried Negro servants, parrots and monkeys — and exotic debts to match. Juliana would have liked to imagine Lovell in the same state, but she could not do it.
It seemed reasonable to suppose that any of Rupert’s men who had families in England would, on returning to France, communicate with them. If no word came, presumably the man was dead. Juliana still heard nothing from Lovell, so had to face this thought. She hardly dared to address a letter to Prince Rupert and she knew no other Royalists from whom she could beg for news. Lovell congenitally managed without friends. Edmund Treves was the only one she ever knew him to have.
She presumed Lovell drowned with Prince Maurice. She became haunted by bad dreams in which the man she had married, and believed she loved, was a lost soul who spun helplessly in surging waves, caught up amidst a tangle of ropes, perhaps wounded by a fallen spar, until his strength failed and he drifted in the merciless cold water … She did not know if Orlando could even swim. She had heard that drowning was better — quicker and easier — for those who could not.
If this was what had happened, Juliana pitied Orlando and genuinely grieved. The only other alternative was bitter for her: that whatever had befallen him, he had now deliberately chosen to abandon his wife and children.
It happened. It had happened throughout history. However, Juliana knew there was a long tradition in European folklore of soldiers who had been away for decades returning unexpectedly to startled wives who barely recognised them … Losses like hers were in fact so frequent, the situation was recognised by Parliament in compassionate legislation. Juliana discovered this, during her visit to the lawyer.
Mr Impey inhabited a ramshackle first-storey chamber above Middle Temple Lane. He was of lizard-like appearance, completely bald, with a great nose and deep-cut lines to a receding chin. At first he appeared to have no idea who she was or what she wanted, but Juliana patiently accepted that lawyers were overwhelmed by the volume of business they had to remember (only privately thinking, the man was an idiot; the clerk had written his reminder, but Impey had himself signed it, and only last Wednesday …).
Once he recalled her circumstances, Impey became all kindness. He reminisced of Mr Gadd, so tellingly he caused Juliana to wipe away tears on the lace-edged handkerchief that she carried on formal occasions. To remedy her sadness, a glass of shrub was produced. Its bottle was kept handy on a long shelf, among the unused parchment. An opener hung on a piece of string Mr Impey could reach from his desk chair. Weeping women must be a regular hazard.
Juliana apologised for whimpering, swallowed a good slug of shrub — then belatedly remembered that shrub was composed by putting two quarts of brandy to the juice and peel of five lemons, with nutmeg, a pound and half of sugar and added white wine. It might seem like harmless sweet cordial for distressed ladies, but they needed to be ladies with hard heads. It had a kick like a dyspeptic dray-horse. The good thing was that by the time you realised how strong it was, you didn’t care.
Mr Impey knuckled down to business. Mr Gadd had had two extremely elderly sisters to whom he bequeathed legacies, sufficient to see them kept in comfort for their remaining years. He left a large amount to charities, mostly in Somerset. ‘You were his ward, I understand. He regarded you with immense affection.’ Further touched, Juliana had more recourse to shrub. ‘He has bequeathed you a London property.’
Without waiting to see how Juliana took it, Mr Impey poured her more shrub. Dispensing joy brought him so much satisfaction, he prepared a tot for himself too. It went without saying, the drinking vessels used by Middle Temple lawyers were gilded glass, of great beauty and considerable age. They were not small. A gift from a grateful client, Mr Impey hinted flagrantly. Juliana nodded non-committally.
‘The house has been empty for a year — because we received no instructions from you as to tenanting —’ He could have apologised for not actually asking her wishes, but did not wish recriminations to spoil the cheerful ambience. ‘The shop was let until three weeks ago, when the tenant died — nothing infectious, I believe — and the premises have been cleared. A new tenant can be found as soon as convenient —’
‘Let me think about that!’ Bolstered by shrub, Juliana hardly needed to think. She had enough haberdashery, collected from Colchester, to start a shop herself.
Mr Impey delved in a drawer of his magnificent desk, managing to conceal an uneaten pie and a pair of holed stockings. After much huffing, he produced a large doorkey ‘There!’
Juliana did not immediately take it but asked him, As a married woman, I assume this property will belong to my husband?’
Abdiel Impey never gave an answer until he had ascertained full circumstances. Young wives who visited the Temple without their husbands were usually married to scamps; besides, Mr Gadd had left him private instructions which mentioned certain suspicions of Orlando Lovell. Mr Impey leaned forwards and posed potent questions. He learned from Juliana that Lovell, now a Delinquent colonel, had gone overseas several years ago and had not been heard of since. Apart from one letter I received in late 1649, though it was written earlier … I believed he sailed with Prince Maurice of the Palatine, supposed now to be lost in a tempest at sea.’
Gulping more shrub, Mr Impey made an expansive gesture that knocked law reports and almanacs to the floor. ‘Count him dead, ma’am! Call the bounder defunct! Are you hoping to take a lover? You may do it with impunity.’
‘Oh I cannot countenance adultery!’ fluttered Juliana, with the heat of one who had once considered it extremely keenly. She too wished she had gone more slowly with the shrub. In fact, from that or some other cause, she was feeling slightly sick.
‘Rush to it, my dear.’
‘But the penalty is death!’ Juliana knew adultery was a felony; both guilty parties would be condemned to death, death without benefit of clergy.
‘Not in your case!’
Mr Impey took down from a shelf the Act of 10 May 1650 for suppressing the detestable sins of Incest, Adultery and Fornication. It showed signs of frequent use. There are not one but two provisos, for the preservation of persons in your position: one! “Provided, That this shall not extend to any man who, at the time of such Offence committed, is not knowing that such woman with whom such Offence is committed, is then married.” Many of my masculine clients have felt much relieved by that! “Oh no, sir! I had absolutely no idea!” And two! “Proviso: Provided, That the said penalty in case of Adultery shall not extend to any woman whose Husband shall be continually remaining beyond the Seas by the space of three years” - the Rumpers discussed five in committee, but they are charitable men — “or shall by common fame be reputed to be dead; nor to any woman whose husband shall absent himself from his said wife by the space of three years together, so as the said wife shall not know her said husband to be living within that time”.’
‘No one has informed me that Orlando is dead,’ faltered Juliana.
‘Pish! He was in Prince Maurice’s ship; the common fame says it sank and vanished. Besides, you have not had a line from him for four years. Lamentable lady, this could be written just for you. You can lie gladly with your lover.’
‘Oh, I do not have a lover!’ Juliana believed Gideon Jukes was just a bothersome complication. She put him out of her mind. Generally.
‘If you are of the inclination, madam, feel free to get one. Get him at your earliest convenience.’
Juliana Lovell showed the pinched look many women acquired when talking to lawyers about husbands who had caused them years of difficulty. Mr Impey glared sternly. He implied that obtaining this hypothetical lover was almost her duty; resistance was feeble.
So charged with enthusiasm for this glorious idea was Mr Impey that, but for the existence of Mrs Abigail Impey, he would have flung himself at Juliana’s feet. Previous experience of Mrs Abigail’s retribution when she suspected he wandered (or knew of it for certain from his back-stabbing colleagues) gently held him back.
‘Of course I must warn you, Mistress Lovell, that fornication will be punished with three months’ imprisonment without bail, for a first offence … So once you identify your lover, you are obliged to marry him.’
Let her enjoy herself, poor pretty little mite, he thought. If the man, Lovell, ever turned up again, there would be fees for someone in it.
It seemed kindest not to mention that in disputes when this happened, English courts always decreed ‘that the woman should be given back to her first husband’.
Accompanied by Mr Impey’s mournful, knock-kneed clerk, a youth so devoid of any pretensions that he kept quiet and studied the gutter, Juliana tripped out to take possession of her property. The clerk was to show her the way, save her from falling down as the effect of the shrub took hold and help overcome any trepidation she felt about entering empty premises. Also, he was to check around surreptitiously, in case damage had occurred due to Mr Impey’s neglect. Not that a lawyer would ever use the term neglect’ apropos of his duty to a client.
It was not far. The house and shop were in the same ward as the Middle Temple, Farringdon Ward Without, off Shoe Lane, in one of several narrow alleyways in London that were called Fountain Court. Of course there was no fountain. It was not particularly courtly, though public scavengers had cleared away most recent rubbish and there were no beggars sleeping in doorways at that moment.
Juliana was led to an old door in a modest doorcase, beside a large square shop window with murky, cobwebbed glass. After passing through the shop, bare now of all but a long counter and a few battered racks, Juliana discovered a store for goods, then a scullery with a range, and a tiny paved yard outside. That had a pantry with stone shelves, a coal-store and an anonymous shed.
‘Is there a privy?’ The clerk nodded, too shy to show her. Juliana identified it herself. ‘Does it work?’
‘Most of the time.’
Indoors again, a steep little stair led up to three storeys of dusty domestic accommodation. First a well-lit best room and snug little parlour, then bedchambers. Under the eaves lay a low garret. There were adequate fireplaces. The floors were only slightly askew; the windows fitted decently. No rooms were furnished.
‘There is no furniture, linen or crockery; the tenants were obliged to bring their own.’
‘Tenants?’
‘Mr Impey has the past rent waiting for you. You must pay him a fee for the managing of it though.’
‘I imagined I would,’ remarked Juliana gravely. She had no quibbles. After her years of struggle, this wondrous bequest brought incredible relief. If there really was rent to come as well, that would help her equip the house.
Mr Impey had been unable to tell her whether her guardian ever lived here himself. Juliana wondered if possibly her grandmother visited this place with Mr Gadd … Delicacy made her content to respect their privacy.
Her first thought had been that she could sell this property and have enough money to survive in Lewisham for the foreseeable future. But why Lewisham? Mr Gadd had given her a wonderful gift, and its best feature was that she now possessed a bolt-hole. She decided Gadd probably knew that, and indeed intended it. She could vanish here. Nobody — meaning her husband — nobody would be aware she had this house. It gave Juliana a sense of independence that she found almost shocking.
She moved to London at once. She brought Tom, Val, and the little maid Catherine; she was able to hire a daily woman and occasional handyman too. She cleaned and aired the building, gradually providing simple furnishings and good utensils.
She did not lease out the shop. She had it fitted with drawers and cupboards, turning it into a haberdashery which she ran herself. She brought her own braids, ribbons and tassels, to which she soon added more — cords, silk and woollen threads for sewing and embroidery, needles, thimbles, darning mushrooms. She developed links with suppliers and weavers of what were called narrow wares — braid, bobbin lace, ribbon, tapes and gimps. She sold buttons, both fully finished and the wooden cores over which embroidery could be worked to match or contrast with particular material. Women of the gentrified classes learned of her shop, and although plain styles were worn by many nowadays, many others who could afford it wore decoration whatever their religion and politics. Everyone needed britches’ hooks and apron strings. Juliana became known for her sound advice on dressmakers and hatters. She also sold patterns. Starting with her grandmother’s traditional embroidery emblems, she went on to offer designs of her own, either on printed paper or ready sketched out on outfit pieces. She could prepare patterns to order.
Her natural talents were those necessary to a businesswoman: she was bright, energetic, courageous and dogged. She had a pleasant manner, but had learned to stand up for herself. Her buying mistakes were few; her debtors fewer. If her premises were the wrong end of the city for the Royal Exchange where grand silks, satins and velvets were sold, at least she had an untapped market. Lawyers, jewellers and their wives had money and the wish to deck themselves out. She did well.
It was hard work, and left her little time for herself in the first years, but as she became established and her boys grew older and less demanding, at last she was able to enjoy a quiet life, mostly free from anxiety. The boys went to school. Catherine Keevil assisted in the shop. Juliana had told Tom and Val that they had to assume that their father was dead. She did not remarry. She did not expect to. She was lonely, but she had been lonely ever since her marriage when she was seventeen. She made the best of it. At least she was free from anxiety, which brought her close to contentedness.
By the time she took possession of the Fountain Court premises, she had lost contact with her friend Anne Jukes. Anne had had wearing experiences with her husband, which Juliana heard about. She thought Anne might wish to remain private temporarily. Besides, Juliana felt a reluctance to be involved with that family. Of course she had been promised wages for her maid, Catherine Keevil, but after the first year which Gideon Jukes had paid for, Juliana found the money herself. She was proud to do so. It avoided obligation. It avoided awkwardness.
Some months after she set up in her new premises, Juliana did take herself nervously to Basinghall Street, however. She had a genuine commercial reason. She wanted to explore whether ready-designed embroidery patterns could be printed on paper sheets to sell. She believed there was a market, but was uncertain whether her idea was viable or how expensive it would be to have her drawings produced. To advise her, she wanted a printer, one who could be relied upon to deal fairly with a woman client.
She was dismayed to find that the print shop she knew, Robert Allibone’s, was locked up. It looked deserted. When she tried again a few weeks later, still hopeful, it had become a confectionery shop. The new proprietors said the previous occupants had died or gone away. She felt her enquiries met with odd looks, so she wondered whether the shop had closed because of some problem with the authorities.
She could have asked Anne Jukes. After so long out of touch, she did not know how to make an approach. Then someone told her there was a new printer not far away from her house, just off Holborn. Hers was a business venture; with no moment for sentiment, Juliana packed up her designs and went there.
A young man was working the press. He had a vague air, but he was slowly doing the job, without supervision. A bell had tinkled briskly on Juliana’s entry, but the apprentice or journeyman barely looked up. The shop seemed to stock mainly sermons and schoolbooks. Juliana, who could never resist new works, spotted on a shelf A Treasury of English Wit, nudging a Latin grammar and books on mathematics; against Practical Remedies for Gout and Sciatica, her eye lingered on a handbook of Women’s Diseases …
There was a small pile of Mercurius Politicus - an edition Juliana had not seen; it would be published on Thursday — tomorrow.
‘Can I buy this already?’
‘Not supposed to,’ answered the young man. He finally turned to talk to her. ‘You can have it if you hide it.’
‘How do you obtain them so early?’
‘Our printer writes articles sometimes.’
This dismayed Juliana, who feared such a public man would not want her domestic commission. The youth assured her they undertook all work that was not obscene or seditious — though when Juliana began describing embroidery patterns, he looked affrighted. With her speech all prepared, she continued talking about her project until his eyes glazed. Stitchery patterns were something they had never attempted here; accepting strange jobs (which might have no profit) went beyond his authority … ‘You should speak to my master.’
Juliana lost faith in her pitch and faltered. ‘Maybe another day, when he is not too busy.’
‘Suit yourself The young man turned back to the press, which was rude. Juliana had not quite finished speaking and she was aware from the bell behind her that another customer must have come into the shop. ‘Of course,’ added Miles, grinning oddly over his work, ‘the correct way to commission a printer is to summon him to a tavern and ply him hard with drink — but my master is clean-living, so you may simply ask him …’
Annoyed now, Juliana crisply picked up her drawings and turned around, ready to share a disapproving frown with whoever stood behind her.
It was the printer himself. He was listening, quiet and serious, just inside the door. His tall height blocked part of the light through the glazing. She felt a shock: how blue his eyes were. He had been waiting a little wryly for her to notice him. Now that she had, he flushed faintly.
He stepped forward, offering his hand in conventional good manners. Juliana responded. As they clasped hands, he pulled hers in closer to him — an instinctive, momentary gesture. He may not have realised he did it.
The day was fine and he wore his coat fully unbuttoned. So although Gideon Jukes let go of her hand politely and her fingers slipped away through his in the same movement, Juliana had felt through his linen shirt the man’s warmth and the strong beat of his heart.