[I]t may yet befall a discreet man to be mistak’n in his choice … and who knows not that the bashful muteness of a virgin may oft-times hide all the unlivelyness and natural slothe which is really unfit for conversation.
—from The Doctrine and Discipline of Divorce, by John Milton, August 1643
On the Southwark side of the river clouds piled high, portent of a simmering summer storm. Water from the Thames sloshed against her silver-buckled shoes as, right hand holding up her lace-edged hem, left hand holding down her high-crowned hat, Lucy Hay ascended the water stairs to Westminster. A puff of wind climbed with her carrying the stench from the river. Why had she not been disgusted by that rotten odor when she was at Whitehall with the court? Maybe it was because she was now accustomed to breathing the untainted air of Syon Park. Then as she thought about it, she remembered the court had seldom been at Whitehall during the summer, and when it was Inigo Jones created a world apart for them; a kind of pretend Eden—when Henrietta was in the mood for Eden.
Lucy’s hold on the little copatain kept it securely on her head, but she watched in dismay as its dislodged feather swirled away on a current of wind. A pity. Lucy had chosen the little black sugar-loaf hat because its saucy adornment, perching above her right ear, shivered and teased when she tilted her head in the mirror. Probably just as well it was gone. The feather would be an ostentation amongst so many prim Puritans.
She paused on the top stair long enough to watch the feather float toward the opposite shore where detritus washed up. God forbid the innocent little avian plume should snare on the corpse of some poor woman from the Southwark stews. In her hair maybe, or on her sodden bodice, wet and gleaming like a ruby brooch, a bizarre adornment celebrating a life unmarked by any other. She tried to banish the unwelcome image, but her imagination continued its conjuring—the crimson feather pinned by the current in a water-logged mass of brown hair, hair the color of her own. Was that a body floating face-down on the tide? Foolishness, woman. It is only a bit of flotsam stuck on a rotting log. You have been too long alone in the company of children.
She turned back to her own, more respectable, shore and strode across the yard, heading toward the first door she saw. Her determined gait was only partially prompted by storm threats to her ensemble. Lucy Hay was a woman with a purpose. Due to the press of ‘Parliamentary business’ (or so he pleaded), John Pym’s visits had become less frequent and of unsatisfactory duration and substance, so Lucy approached the door to St. Stephen’s Chapel determined to confront her friend and lover concerning his neglect. Well, maybe confront was too strong a word. Gentle persuasion was more her style. Sometimes a distracted man didn’t realize he was starving until his eyes settled on a feast.
She had dressed carefully, choosing a gown of deep crimson that he’d once said suited her, except this time, not to offend his godly colleagues, she had prudently laced the bodice higher and covered her cleavage with a broad collar of white lawn. An appropriate choice, she thought, for a good Presbyterian woman. But her hair smelled of rose water, the same scent with which she perfumed her bed, and she had rubbed Spanish paper on her cheeks and reddened her lips with a brush of cochineal paste. Beneath the collar, a strategically placed crescent-moon patch concealed the pock mark above her left breast, upon which the light of day could be counted to shed no mercy. Lucy was confident that when she took off the collar John would remember the crimson dress—and the occasion upon which he’d last removed it from her body.
As she stepped inside the cooler, dim interior, she looked around uncertainly. Somewhere within the warren of rooms that made up Westminster Palace was a closet where John had taken her—literally—and on more than one occasion. But which way? She had come in by another door the last time, meeting him at the visitors’ entrance. The first time she had sought him out at Westminster Palace to petition for Wentworth’s life she had snared him as he came out this same door to hail a waterman. This must be the members’ entrance, and the Commons not in session. That was the reason it was deserted. The large room at the end of the hall must be where they convened. Her steps echoed as she walked toward the room that had once been the King Edward III’s Royal Chapel.
She listened at the door. The chamber was as silent as the hall. Tentatively she pushed on the right side of the double doors. The room was empty; the members’ seats unoccupied. Curious, she entered, thinking how few women had ever stood where she stood and how it didn’t look much like a royal chapel with its whitewashed walls and plain wooden chair where the altar used to be. But of course. Under old King Henry, the Protestants would have long ago stripped the paintings and changed out the Catholic stained-glass windows. All those beautiful paintings. All that jeweled glass. All those golden vessels melted down to fund schemes of war.
She was thinking about Henrietta’s gilded chapel and how it had so recently been looted when she heard the door open. Startled she whirled around to see whether friend or foe, though these days it was becoming harder to tell the difference.
The voice was blessedly familiar. ‘Cousin. This is a surprise. Why have you decided to invade this unhallowed chapel?’
She smiled, a genuine smile of relief that she was not confronted with an angry sergeant-at-arms to whom she would have to plead sweet innocence. ‘And you, my lord Essex? Have you deserted your troops in the field for Parliament’s austere halls?’
He entered the chamber and looked at her thoughtfully.
‘Ah, my dear Lucy. The true battles are fought here.’ He waved at the rows of benches facing each other. ‘Where monks once intoned their prayers in unison from these opposing choir stalls, now MPs sit on these same wooden benches, and with shouts and argument quibble over the fates of men—much as the devil and his demons are thought to quibble over souls,’ he said.
‘And what of your voice, cousin Devereux? Does yours quibble too? What have you to argue about? Come to think of it, why are you here at all? If your voice is to be raised should it not be in the White Chamber?’
‘The Lords’ Chamber is becoming—’ he paused for the right words—’increasingly irrelevant. So many are in exile or have gone with the King. As Captain-General of the army, Parliament’s army now, I have come to deliver a petition for back payment to John to be read out in Parliament. If my men are to be expected to fight, then they must be paid. They have not been paid in three months and they are growing restless.’
‘If you handed the army over to Parliament could you not as easily hand it back to the King—if you should choose?’
‘I could but I won’t. Charles Stuart, I hear, is no better paymaster for his troops. Besides my place is gone. His Majesty has given the commission of Lord General to another. I shall remain chief commander for Parliament’s troops. Though I think Waller is angling for my place. He blames me for his defeat at Oxford, says I did not support him with troops.’
‘Why did you not support him?’
‘We were otherwise engaged,’ he said sharply.
‘But you and John are friends. Surely he sees your side.’
‘John has cooled towards me of late. He does not like that I and Algernon and others are pressing Parliament to try another round of negotiations.’
All were names among the original five whom she had warned of the King’s plan of arrest. It was a little surprising they still would want to sue for peace in spite of the recent failure of negotiations. ‘John says Charles will never accept any agreement that cedes even a grain of power to the Parliament. You must know how hard he has tried, Robert; he told me he even wrote conciliatory messages to the Queen, pleading for her intercession with the King.’
‘John is wrong,’ he said. ‘If we do not negotiate, this conflict will bring only more death and destruction. It will tear England apart.’
‘The Puritans are dead set against sharing power with the King as long as he has a Catholic queen. They say too much blood has been shed to turn back now. They say we have crossed the Rubicon, that any concessions will make Charles into a more perfect tyrant, and the Queen will restore the tyranny of the old religion. How do you answer that, Robert?’
Distant thunder rolled—or was it the roar of cannon? Hard to tell these days.
‘I say one more try. Let us try some new negotiation tactic. We might even have more leverage now that the Queen has been charged with treason.’
‘They have charged the Queen of England with treason? That will only make Charles Stuart more resolute, less inclined to give an inch.’
He shrugged carelessly, ‘Whether she lives or dies—could be part of the new negotiations.’ His tone was as casual as if he were discussing the price of beef.
She was suddenly looking at him as though she had never seen this Robert Devereux before. But she had. She remembered how, though he had not been as certain as John, he had lent his voice to the decision to condemn Wentworth with damning words. ‘Stone dead hath no fellow,’ he had said in agreement, even though he had been friend to Wentworth. She had tried to put that behind her, told herself she had to put it behind her to survive and blamed Charles Stuart’s cowardice for Thomas Wentworth’s death.
‘This is not some King’s advisor whose fate you treated so lightly, Robert Devereux. This is an anointed Queen, for God’s sake, even Parliament would not threaten to harm her person.’
‘Lower your voice, please, cousin,’ he said. ‘I understand your reference to the King’s advisor. I see you still harbor a grudge though you have forgiven John Pym for his part apparently. Further, Henrietta de Medici is not an anointed queen. Remember. She refused to be crowned or anointed by an Anglican archbishop.’
‘She is the sister of the King of France, Robert. Do you think Louis would not seek total revenge?’
Another of his casual shrugs and a wave of his hand as if war with France was some small matter, he said, ‘We could negotiate her exile if she turned herself over. Charles is not a brave man. He would give her up with maybe more tears and mea culpa than he gave up his dearest and most loyal friend, but he would give her up.’
Lucy could not refute the possibility of that. She had decided long ago that stubborn though he might be, Charles Stuart was a weak man.
‘The Queen is back on English soil, holed up in York for several months now, and she has brought back with her an army of three thousand men. An army raised with money from her Catholic alliance, which our spies say is on their way to Oxford. This is our last chance to sue for peace before the inevitable.’
‘And that is?’
His eyes were cold when he answered. ‘This is a hard world, Lucy. When the fighting is over the victor will totally vanquish the loser. You once warned me and four others of our impending arrest, so I am warning you now. Use your influence with Pym. Try to talk him into this last chance at negotiations. Do not try to contact the Queen or warn her in any way—or offer comfort to her even for the sake of your past friendship.’
Another roll of thunder, closer this time. Lucy suddenly felt the chill of the approaching storm, chill like a fever, as she remembered how Henrietta had risked her own life to offer her favorite lady-in-waiting comfort by visiting her in her pox-contaminated chamber. Rain beat against the courtyard windows. Footfalls echoed outside the chamber. Essex waited for them to subside.
‘Since Wentworth’s death you have managed to walk a fine line. Others who were at court with you are now in exile, confined within the perimeters, or killed on the battlefield. Do not make public your relationship with John Pym. There are those who suspect, but they can prove nothing. Stop frequenting the Puritan services—yes, there is some notice of your sudden piety. Do what you can to keep the younger children safe. If the two older boys flee to the Continent, then young Henry will become valuable to them. They can set him up as a puppet king with a Parliament-controlled regent.’
‘Like who? The Earl of Pembroke?’ There was derision in her voice.
Her memory conjured the little boy who only this morning had pointed to her and said maman when his sister Elizabeth had asked about their mother. She had not corrected him but caressed him. ‘Henry is not even three years old.’
‘All the better. Controlled by a regent—a fine English precedent: under-age king, a magnate for the machinations of the greedy and power-hungry—and this regent appointed by Parliament.’
‘John truly believes the only way England will ever be relieved of the tyranny of ‘divine right’ is the King’s removal.’
‘The King’s removal? Think what that might look like, cousin. Charles in exile? Raising a Catholic army. Do we want another endless war on English soil like the one on the Continent?’ He glanced away then, lowered his voice to a whisper, then led her by the hand to a bench with a clear view of the door. ‘It will not end in the King’s exile. If all negotiations fail, exile is not the solution they will seek.’
She could not suppress the little gasp that escaped from her lips.
He continued with urgency in his voice, ‘Use your influence, Lucy. Try to persuade John to join with us. They are already calling us the Peace Party. The factions are lining up. John is the bridge between. We need him on our side.’
‘But what if the King wins?’
‘What do you think will happen if Charles Stuart wins? At court you saw: Charles the good father; Charles, the loving husband; Charles the sovereign, gracious King who rewards those who serve him—as long as it’s convenient. But have you ever known him to blink at the shedding of blood.’ He had not let go of her hand and gave it a slight squeeze. ‘Think on it, Lucy. If he let Thomas Wentworth lose his head what do you think he will do to the rest of us. If he wins.’
For all his lack of masculine swagger, Essex was a cunning general. He argued strategy. He argued common sense. And he knew how to reach Lucy by invoking Thomas Wentworth. He let go her hand and stood up, then pointing toward the empty benches said, ‘If you could sit in this place and listen to both arguments, you would see that Pym’s insistence on cutting off negotiations is madness. If you love him, if you love England, you will try to persuade him to reason. I only succeeded in angering him. This madness is eating at him from the inside. He is not the reasonable man he was in the beginning. Make him see that re-opening negotiations would be to his benefit and England’s. Make him see it is the only way.’
‘I will try. Truly, Robert, I will. I also am sick to death of this war. But I doubt that I can make him understand. You said you just left him. Where can I find him?’
‘Just cross the courtyard, first door,’ he said. He smiled at her then, an old teasing look she remembered from so long ago, before his first wife had ruined his reputation by publicly divorcing him on the grounds that he was incapable of consummating the marriage. ‘I am sure you’ll recognize his hidey-hole at the end of the hall.’
He stood up and departed with the same quiet with which he had entered. Lucy sat there for a few more minutes, trying to sort out all that he had said to her. Taking out her expensive little pocket mirror—a gift from her husband? Or was it her first lover, George Villiers, the Duke of Buckingham? She had been married to Jamie then. Hardly more than a girl. But James Hay hadn’t really minded. Yes, she thought, looking at the mirror, it was Buckingham. He’d given it to her before he went to France to fetch Charles Stuart’s bride—so many years, so many admirers.
In the mirror she practiced her coquette’s smile, but today the smile did not come easily. Maybe it was the absence of the quivering little feather flirting back at her.
When the rain outside stopped, she crossed the courtyard to go in search of John Pym. Her mission had changed; her tactic had not. She had only one kind of coin. It suddenly occurred to her that in that regard she was not so very different from the poor unfortunate women of Southwark, one of whom who lay at the river’s edge, face down, with a weeping red feather in her hair. But apparently Lucy’s resources, like the currency of England, had been debased by war. She failed to accomplish either her initial purpose or the newly adopted one. John was far too worn out with the affairs of state to care about the affairs of the heart. When she mentioned that she met Robert Devereux on his way out, he frowned and said, ‘He wants new taxes on London, money for the troops.’
‘That seems a reasonable request.’
‘The House will comply. But there are many in the Lords who wish to sue yet again for peace. Your brother is among them. Parliament is splintering. Percy has absented himself from the parliamentary councils and is at his estate at Petworth.’
‘Plotting or pouting?’
John shrugged. She had never seen him so on edge. Or so haggard looking. ‘The former, I would guess. Considering his options if the peace party, as they are calling themselves, fails.’
‘Will it?’
‘As I draw breath.’
He turned back to his writing. Lucy read dismissal in the gesture. ‘I miss you, John,’ she said. And then a thought occurred to her. ‘Is Mistress Pym back from Ulster?’
‘No. And with both my daughters married and gone, Derby House is quiet now. But I spend most of my time in this little cell sending and receiving, petitioning and planning.’
‘A visit from you would be a diversion for the children.’
‘Are they well?’
‘They are well. Henry hardly misses his mother at all. And Elizabeth fills her days with study. Bathshua Makin is turning her into a formidable scholar.’
‘Good. Keep them safe. They are a valuable commodity.’
She let herself out then, wondering if that compassionate man who’d first brought the children to her had departed or was merely in hiding.
‘I miss you too, Lucy,’ he said without looking up. ‘This will all be over soon.’
But she feared that time was not soon enough.
The printer’s devil was so intent he scarcely noticed the muscle strain in his working arm. It was the first time Lord Whittier had allowed him to print a project from typeset to finished broadsheet. Thirty times he pulled the press down onto the type bed until finally he lifted the lever to remove the last page. Maybe a bit paler than the one before. He would mop more ink before doing the next batch, but no faint spots or blotches. Good job, Ben, if I do say so. Funny how one could get used to things—even a new name, he thought, as he hung the papers on the line to dry. Like putting on a new skin, a spur of the moment whim, not wanting to be Arthur Pendleton, not wanting to be a disappointing son, an unfit soldier, a cripple. He rather liked it. It was a good, solid name.
This thought process of self-congratulation and reinvention was interrupted as a whirl of dusty energy disturbed the quiet of the shop. Ben didn’t even have to look in the direction of the door to know the source; Ralphie’s signature arrival. Everything the boy did vibrated with noisy enthusiasm. That was why he sold more papers than the other newsboys. Still squinting at the drying sheets to catch any missing line or distorted margins, Arthur acknowledged his arrival. ‘Surely you haven’t sold out already. It’s scarcely midday.’
‘Sold out my lot by ten bells,’ the cocky lad said. ‘I been helpin’ Little John with his. I keep telling him he just needs to speak up more. The customers don’t know they want to buy until he tells them they do. If one of them looks at him, he don’t even look back, just shuffles his feet and mumbles in his little-boy squeak, “You wouldn’t want to buy a paper today, would you, sir?”’
Ben stifled a smile at the almost-hitting-the-mark mockery. The boy did not need to be encouraged in his merciless teasing.
Ralphie wiped the sweat from a freckled face with the crook of his arm. ‘I swear he couldn’t give away free guineas. But I’m teaching him. You can count on me, Master Ben.’
The newsboys had taken to calling him Master Ben. They didn’t exactly know what Master Ben’s status was in the shop’s hierarchy, but they had an instinctive knowledge of their place in the chain of things. Arthur, less certain of his own, would have envied them that surety. Ben did not.
‘Haven’t had time to get you rascals any victuals. Been a mite busy.’ He nodded at the printed papers hanging around the room’s perimeter.
Ralphie showed his appreciation by pursing his lips and delivering a low whistle. He’d just lately learned to whistle and practiced it at every opportunity—some more appropriate than others. Ben laughed, his spirit lighter than it had been in a while. It did a man good to work.
‘You’ll be taking over milord’s place afore long, to my reckoning. Anyways, I didn’t come back to eat. I just left my partner long enough to bring this customer who was asking about the whereabouts of a free printer.’
The boy stepped aside to reveal the outline of a woman silhouetted in the open door. ‘Why didn’t you say right away we had a visitor? Step inside, madam. It is somewhat cooler in here.’
As the visitor stepped beyond the light and into the room, he saw that she was a young woman—tall, with an upright posture and a high forehead. One black curl had escaped her bonnet to paste itself above dark brows.
‘The printer and owner of this shop has gone down to the docks to see about a shipment of metal type. I expect him back soon,’ he said.
Beside him, Ralphie piped up, ‘I told her milord wasn’t free but he was cheap.’
Ben wanted to shake the grin off his face. ‘I don’t think that’s exactly what she meant by free, Ralphie,’ he scolded as he noticed the light flush on the young woman’s face. ‘Please excuse this rogue’s cheekiness, madam.’
The boy hung his head in mock shame, but the grin on his face remained.
‘Best you be getting back to work, Ralphie.’
Reluctantly, he headed toward the door, but before he was out of earshot, his momentary scolding forgotten, he was whistling again, a tavern song about old barley corn, a tune he was way too young to know.
‘I fear these boys get their learning and manners from the streets. It’s hard to keep them out of mischief. I am assuming that by free you mean independent, and yes we are in some respects an independent shop. We provide the content for most of what we print. We sell it ourselves.’
When she spoke, her voice was low and gentler than her bearing and manner presaged. ‘Might thou be open to printing someone else’s work? For hire, I mean.’
‘I can’t make a contract on the owner’s behalf, but if you would like to, you may wait for him.’
‘Thou art very kind, sir. I have had a difficult time, trying to find an ‘independent’ printer. I will sit for a bit, and I thank thee for the offer.’
‘Please,’ he said, looking for a surface that wasn’t covered with drying papers and then, in the absence of same, indicated the high stool beside the press. As she stepped closer, he could see her more clearly. The blush had started to fade, revealing a creamy complexion. She was younger than he was by a couple of years, scrupulously neat in her appearance, her plain dress suggesting she was a servant. Perched on the stool like an uncertain bird who might take flight at the slightest shadow, she looked around the room, nodding as if she approved the evidence of industry. With a small graceful movement of her hand, she untied the strings to her bonnet, then reaching up and removing it, fanned herself before placing it primly on top of the leather folder in her lap. This she clutched as though it held some treasure.
‘Please, sir. Do not let me keep thee from thy labor.’
He picked up a rag and wiped at the edges of the type where it had collected and would smudge the next lot, if it were not removed. ‘I was just finishing up,’ he said. ‘Is it a big project you wish printed?’
‘Not me—my master. It is several pages.’ Tucking her brown skirt around her legs, she hooked her shoes onto a brace at the bottom of the stool and straightened her back—as if it could get any straighter. ‘I hope the printer will agree to print it. What is his name?’
‘Whittier. James, Lord Whittier.’
Her eyes widened as she muttered, each word more laden with breath than before, ‘I’ve never asked a favor of a lord before.’ One brow furrowed as if she was wondering if this day could get any worse. ‘I’ve never met a lord before.’
‘Don’t be put off by the title. He barely claims it. He is nice enough, sometimes a little abrupt. But he means nothing by it. Don’t let that alarm you. He scratches out a living just like me and you. Anyway, think of it like this, you are not asking him for a favor. You are offering a mutually beneficial arrangement. He prints what’s in that pouch, and in return you pay him. Simple as that. Although I’m guessing that the content might be a little of a sticking point. That’s why you’re asking for a ‘free’ printer.
A lift of her expressive brow told him he’d hit the mark. ‘Don’t let that stop you asking,’ he said. ‘There’s a reason why Lord Whittier is an independent printer.’
After an awkward silence in which he pretended to be studying the print bed she said, ‘I heard thee mention feeding a meal to thy newsboys. I hope Lord Whittier returns soon. I too have boys that need feeding. How many dost thou feed?’
Her old-fashioned language had distracted him at first. Many of the working class—especially the Puritans—still clung to the language of the old King James Bible even though some had scorned it as old-fashioned even at the time of the translation. Usually, he found it irritating, as though the people who clung to it were trying to call attention to their holiness. But suddenly, he was finding the cadence and the archaic pronouns not off-putting at all.
‘We have two regulars,’ he said, ‘they sleep here too. But for the midday meal the number sometimes grows. They find hungry friends.’
He swapped his inky apron for a cook’s smock, hanging from a hook beside the stove, and began to chop, with one practiced hand, while holding the vegetables in place with the stub of his upper arm. He could feel her staring at him. Why didn’t she just ask like everybody else? He had a ready answer, a muttered, Lost it in a skirmish in the Midlands; at least it wasn’t my leg like so many poor devils. But she said nothing. Just sat there silently, clutching her package. He reached for an onion and fastening it against the chopping block with the point of a thin knife peeled its papery skin.
‘We make the porridge a little thinner,’ he said. ‘The boys seem to find hospitality extended to their friends well worth the trade-off. I try to feed them heartier for dinner, since they’ve been hawking their wares since soon after daybreak. Supper will be a light ale and some cheese. I found some cherries in the marketplace yesterday. I still have a few of those.’
Should he offer her some cherries? Or a drink? He didn’t really have anything except some ale or cider. The barrel of sweet rain water he strained through a cheese cloth had been empty for a week.
Suddenly he felt her beside him. ‘It will go faster with three hands,’ she said. ‘You chop, and I’ll scoop. If I can keep up with your flying hand with my two.’ Her laugh was soft and rhythmic like her accent.
The forthrightness of her manner distracted him from an immediate response. No condescension in her offer and not a spark of pity or curiosity in her eyes, a gaze so still and blue it must have sprung from a crack in a frozen lake. ‘Well, I suppose three hands are better than one,’ he said nodding.
‘Or even two,’ she said.
‘How many children do you have? Are they all boys? You look too young to have many,’ he asked.
‘I also have four. But they’re not mine. I have no husband. The gentleman I work for is a schoolmaster, scholar, and a famous poet.’
Chop. Chop.
Scoop.
‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘Why is it that a schoolmaster, scholar, and poet has need of a free printer?’
Chop. Chop.
‘I’m sure I don’t know. I cannot read well enough to read his handwriting.’
Scoop.
‘Not that it is not a perfect script. Everything he does—well almost everything—is to a very high standard.’ With a question in her eyes she nodded toward a pot of herbs in a window.
He nodded.
Snip. Snip. ‘And I would not presume, even if I dared ask. It is not my place.’
The fragrance of parsley and thyme and rosemary filled the room. ‘And what is your place?’
‘I am his housekeeper.’
‘Would it not make your task easier if you could read his scrawl? Do you know your letters?’ Wiping his hand on his smock with more than usual industry and trying to appear as nonchalant as she had when she offered help, he did not look at her, as he added like an afterthought, ‘I could teach you all your letters. Both the block and the cursive. I deal in letters every day. Only if you would like of course? I don’t mean to presume.’
Gazing out the window above the herbs on the ledge, she said, ‘It is a long way for me to come.’
He wiped at the cutting board without looking at her. ‘I understand—’
‘But I will think on it. Especially if we could come to an arrangement that could be, how didst thou put it?—“mutually beneficial.” If there is some way my two hands can assist with some of thy chores.’
‘We can come to some arrangement. Three hands are better than one. And it will be good to have a friend in London—besides my employer, of course,’ he smiled and looked up, the tone in his voice going up an octave, ‘who is just coming in the door.’
‘My lord, this is—I am sorry, mistress—I don’t think I remember your name.’
‘I don’t think I told thee my name. I am called Patience, my lord.’ She turned her direct blue gaze on Whittier who seemed too preoccupied with the boxes he was carrying to notice. ‘Patience Trapford, housekeeper to Mr. John Milton. I have come at his request. He asked me to seek out an—’ she paused and smiled shyly at the man who had suddenly just appeared to become aware of her presence—‘an independent printer.’
Lord Whittier only nodded at her, then turned back to his cartons and motioned for Ben to unpack them. ‘The new type is lighter weight than the old and more finely chiseled. I think you’ll approve the simpler font: it would print cleaner than the old lead type, which was worn.’
When he stood up, he scarcely looked at Patience, before reaching abruptly for the folder, extracting the document, and handing the leather packet back to her. He quickly scanned the title page. ‘John Milton. I know that name. Some ecclesiastical and political opinions. Some poetry. Is he in search of a new printer?’ he asked, surprise in his voice.
‘If it pleases thee, my lord, he requests thy services for this particular document. Because of the unorthodox content his usual printer has refused to print it,’ Patience said. ‘He asked that thou read the first two pages, and then if thou shall agree, to please write down thy price. I will deliver thine offer to him.’
Ben watched as his employer scanned the pages, the expression on his face unreadable. ‘You may tell Mr. Milton that I will print his unorthodox opinion.’
Relief showed on the young woman’s face.
‘Mr. Milton has asked that thou putst thy terms in writing, if thou pleases, sir.’
Ben was offering him a paper and pen before he asked.
As he wrote Lord Whittier said, ‘These are my terms: I will not print it for money. I will print and publish Mr. Milton’s piece on shares. That is to say, I will print one hundred for Mr. Milton at no charge, to use and distribute as he sees fit, and in return he will grant me the right to publish one hundred copies of the Doctrine and Discipline of Divorce to be distributed by me, profit to accrue to me as the publisher.’
Ben was taken aback. Doctrine of Divorce? Was that what he said? There was no doctrine of divorce. The Church forbade it and the Puritans abhorred it. No wonder the man could not find a printer. Certainly not in Puritan London.
When he had finished writing, Whittier handed the offer to Patience, but did not return the manuscript.
‘Mr. Milton asks that I not leave the manuscript with anyone, my lord.’ And then she added almost apologetically, ‘He is very particular.’
‘Of course. I completely understand,’ he said, handing the paper to her. ‘Tell Mr. Milton I shall look forward to hearing from him at his earliest convenience,’ and he returned immediately to examining the contents of his boxes.
Patience Trapford started to leave but turned back at the door, smiling at Ben. ‘Good luck to thee then and I thank thee for letting me wait.’
‘You are welcome any time. And by the way, Mistress Patience, my name is Ben.’
Ben watched her walk away thinking he hoped he would see her again, but he didn’t have long to linger on that thought. Outside he heard the boys coming back. And it sounded like their numbers had multiplied.
‘Don’t worry, printer’s devil—’ that was the nickname recently assigned to him, his employer’s way of letting Ben know that though they had no real apprenticeship agreement, he regarded him as such—‘I stopped at the bakery and picked up some fresh bread and a round of cheese to go with your savory smelling porridge. Now let’s look at your completed task.’
But he was already looking at the sheets Ben had printed. And to Ben’s great relief he was smiling.
There was still no word of William, but Caroline could not fault Squire Powell. He had scouted out the garrison himself, confirming that Sir William Pendleton, Knight Bachelor, had volunteered to accompany relief supplies for Reading, suggesting that perhaps the wagons might be less conspicuous if they did not have a large escort. They would stay off the main road; he knew a way to go around. The commander had apologized saying that at the time he had thought this decision made sense: the two accompanying officers were well armed, and all possible troops were needed at the front. But the supplies had never arrived, nor had they been turned back.
The commander also confirmed that after Lady Pendleton had come looking for her husband, he had made diligent inquiries and sent out a recovery party. They had found only one empty, wrecked wagon and one body, a youth who worked in the scullery as an orderly. The commander’s assumption was that William and the two other officers had either been taken captive or they had deserted.
‘I set him straight in that,’ the squire had said, his face reddening in anger at the very thought. ‘I let him know straight on that if any man is loyal it is William Pendleton, and he has never lacked for courage.’
Caroline remembered then how William’s hand shook when he opened his orders. How he’d had to get drunk just to face the truth of what he had to do. But she was sure in her heart that he would have faced a volley of bullets before he deserted. He was dead, or he was captured. Though some small part of her wished he had deserted—he could join the community of the many who had fled to the Continent—and one day, if Parliament gained the day, he would return to her none the worse for having chosen the wrong side. But she knew her husband. Caroline’s only real hope was that he’d been taken prisoner.
One of the soldiers quartered with them, a Captain Potter from Nottingham, had become overly fond of Mary Powell—Mary Milton, Caroline mentally corrected herself. The winsome young soldier followed after her like a lovesick puppy.
‘Simon—Captain Potter will help us find William. He is such a kind man,’ Mary said as they went about the endless chores that war had visited upon them.
The young captain did try, making the trek the few miles back to the garrison every day to check the roster for the dead and injured. But every day it was the same. It was as though William had vanished into thin air. Until one day when Caroline had come upon Captain Potter strolling with Mary in the orchard, he had told her reluctantly that her husband’s name had appeared on the missing list. No other information could be gleaned but, he assured her, he would keep making inquiries.
‘Simon is not the sort to give up, Caroline,’ Mary said as they opened the door to the henhouse. This was a chore that was becoming shorter each day. The layers who occupied the Forest Hill henhouse had no liking for the noise and confusion of the new tenants who, Caroline suspected, raided the chicken yard with impunity. They didn’t even bother to give a reckoning to pay for the pilferage with the worthless promissory notes the King gave for their billeting. At least their presence offered some protection from Parliamentary forces and opportunistic outlaws. That was something, she supposed.
The squire had said it was Roundheads that had raided William’s holdings, and that in her absence he had sublet the farm to the Cavaliers, lest the Roundheads come back and burn it to the ground. She’d started to protest that he should have at least consulted her, but in all fairness, she had been gone, so how could she gainsay his decision. But of course, that meant she could not go back home. Indeed, he forbade her to go unescorted. Mistress Powell had packed a trunk for her when they came looking for her and found the destruction and her note. Thinking of the box in the cellar, the silver plate and her personal items, she protested. Squire said he would go back with her when he had time. So far, he had not had time.
‘Don’t worry, my dear. The court provost has assured me they will do no harm to furnishings and personal items. We’ve not let the whole house, only the outbuildings for stables. I have allowed a small contingent of soldiers to shelter in the main hall and kitchen. The library and study and your bedroom are all boarded up.’
Bone-tired from the extra duty they’d had to pull in the brew house because Ann Powell was down in her back—and no wonder—Caroline sat down on one of the empty nesting benches in the henhouse. Mary ran a practiced hand under the first hen, who jerked her beak suspiciously even at this familiar groping. ‘Tsk, tsk. For shame, Prissy, you lazy girl. Just one,’ Mary said, handing the lone egg to Caroline, who placed it in the large breast pocket of her apron.
Mary moved on to the next hen. She smiled. ‘Two eggs this time,’ she said as though she had just plucked a prize from some secret hiding place.
How beautiful the girl looked, how fragile; the fine white curve of her neck, the gold of her hair highlighted in a dusty sunbeam. That little smile, glimmering with a soft hope that belied the circumstances of the world around them.
Suddenly Caroline felt very old.
‘Does Captain Potter know you are a married woman, Mary?’ Caroline asked as she cupped her hands to receive the eggs.
The girl quickly looked away, but her face flushed crimson. Her gaze deliberately not engaging Caroline’s, she demanded, ‘Why ever would you ask me that, Caroline? It is cruel of you to remind me. What does it matter anyway?’
‘What does it matter? How can you say that? Don’t you see the moon-eyed way he follows you about?’
Mary tossed her head as if she was shaking off a gnat. Maybe she was. There were plenty swirling around the chicken-feed bucket, but Caroline thought she was shaking off something she didn’t want to face—as she herself didn’t want to face the fact that William might never come back.
‘Why are you scolding so?’ the girl primped. ‘It is just a harmless flirtation.’
‘Harmless?’ Caroline heard the harshness in her voice, lowered it to a gentler tone. ‘My dear, innocent girl. It is a wonder to me how you can be so unaware of the effect you have on men. They fall in love—or think they do—so easily. Think what effect on Captain Potter when he learns you are married, Mary.’
‘Oh, Caroline, I don’t know what I am going to do. I can’t go back. I think he hates me. He thinks me stupid,’ she wailed.
The eggs that Mary was still holding fell to the earthen floor, thudded and split apart, their yellow centers spilling out. The alarmed hens cackled and fluttered, nest to roost, pole to floor, and back to roost, stirring up feathers and dust and droppings.
Caroline jumped to her feet and took the girl in her arms and hugged her to her, ignoring the crackle of eggshell against her breast pocket and the yellow mess running down the front of her apron.
‘Oh please, don’t cry. I cannot bear it.’ She buried her face in the top of Mary’s head. Her hair smelled of dust and straw and the faintest odor of decaying chicken shit. The girl’s shaking subsided into muffled sobs. Caroline held her out at arm’s length.
‘If you don’t stop crying, I’m going to cry too,’ she said, wiping at Mary’s cheek with the skirt of her apron. ‘I’m sorry. I was too harsh. Just look at the pair of us,’ she said, then she swiped at the dripping egg yolk and wiped her hands on her apron, leaving another yellow stain. Picking a feather out of Mary’s hair, she said, ‘Haven’t we made a fine mess. Let’s forget about the eggs. Let’s forget about John Milton. What we need is a good soak with some sweet-smelling soap in a tub of hot water. You can go first.’
‘We’d have to heat the water. Cook wouldn’t have time. She’s helping Mother.’
‘Come on. I’ll heat enough water to break the chill.’
‘Maybe we can get Captain Potter to carry it for us,’ Mary said sheepishly. ‘But you’ll have to ask him, Caroline. I heard what you said. I’ll be more … circumspect. Is that the right word?’
It felt good to laugh. ‘That’s exactly the right word, Mary.’
But in the end neither of them had the energy to heat more than a little water, and Captain Potter was nowhere in sight to carry it for them if they had. So, settling for a wet rag and a basin of water, her body aching with fatigue, she fell into bed.
But sleep did not come. She stared into the darkness, listening to Mary’s deep, even breathing, and wondered if she would ever see her husband again. Fatigue and hopelessness tore at hope like a hungry dog. Numb in body and spirit, she lay unmoving on her bed. Despair is a sin, she reminded herself. Our Father who aren’t in heaven, hallowed be thy name. The darkness in the little attic room was so close it took her breath. Darkest before the dawn. Was He there? Did He even hear? Was He asleep? Lead us not into temptation.
St. Peter’s rooster crowed again. Three times.
Deliver us from evil?
She could not even remember the rest. She tried to breathe. The Power. The Glory. The Creator God would return with the morning to fix His broken world. Tomorrow she would go to the church of St. Nicholas and light a candle. Kneel at the altar. Put a coin in the poor box on the altar. If she could find a coin. Tomorrow she would be kinder to Mary and she would help Ann more with the chores. If she could find the strength. Tomorrow she would kneel at the altar and thank God for past favors, counting them for grace, and beg more grace from His well of mercy. Tomorrow, the good Lord willing, she would hear from William.