Forged in the Fire (11 page)

She directed me, and was also able to describe Edmund Ramsey's house, so that as I came into the street I knew it at once.

Despite what I'd said to Nat, the sight of the great door did somewhat intimidate me. But I was no servant, and these were Friends; so I stepped up boldly and knocked.

A maid answered the door. She was simply but more finely dressed than I, and I half feared she might direct me to the back entrance. But she was pleasant spoken, and when I asked for Will she let me into the hall, which was panelled with a woven wall covering – green, with a damask pattern of birds and flowers.

From upstairs I heard music being played – and that surprised me.

The stairs were wide and polished to a deep shine. She led me up them, saying, over her shoulder, “He'll be in the drawing room, with the family.”

We reached the landing. Now we were outside the room the music was coming from.

The door was open. She knocked, but was not heard: the music – a fast, merry tune – continued. I came to stand beside her and looked in and saw a grand bright room hung with damask fabric and lit by candles, and a group of people gathered around a keyboard instrument. There were several girls, one of them seated and playing; and Will stood among them, turning the pages for the player, who was a fair, pretty girl – the prettiest girl I had ever seen. She was playing fast. Her small white hands flew about the keys, and as she played she glanced up at Will, and the two of them laughed together. Will looked healthy, and well cared for, and the girls were like butterflies in their wide-skirted silk gowns: one gold, one green, and the musician in yellow as bright as her hair.

I stared at this scene – and suddenly one of the girls saw me, and said something, and they all looked up, startled. The music stopped.

Will gazed at me for an instant without recognition; and I knew he was seeing a country Friend come visiting in her heavy woollen skirts and black hat and sturdy shoes – one who meant nothing to him.

And then he knew me. A look of utter astonishment crossed his face. “Susanna!” he exclaimed – and he broke through the group and hastened towards me.

I turned and fled. I didn't want to be reunited with him in front of these girls. I'd had my answer. He was not ill. He did not need me. All I wanted now was to be gone, out of this house.

The maid had left. I ran down the stairs, reached the door, and grappled with the latch.

“Susanna! Don't go!” He was close behind me.

But the door was open. I was free. I plunged out into the street, and began running back the way I had come, towards the Exchange.

He followed me, shouting, “Su! Wait! It's dark…”

It
was
growing dark now, and that helped me escape. I darted behind a sedan chair carried by two serving men with link boys holding torches, and then around a group of maids laden with baskets. When I glanced back I could no longer see him.

I hurried on, head down, choking with tears. In my mind, I still saw him standing beside the yellow-haired girl, the two of them laughing together, the keys giving up their sparkling music under her hands. That's where he belongs, I thought; not with me. That's what he meant when he wrote:
my circumstances are quite changed
. And I knew I should never have come.

I
ran after her as far as the Exchange, but she had gone. It was almost dark. Lamps had begun to appear above doorways all around, and the candlelit shops in the Exchange glimmered enticingly. Could she have run in there, I wondered? No. She'd have darted down some alley.

I stared about me, desperate. The streets were still busy; people were hurrying home from work and shops. I looked down several side streets and stopped passers-by and asked if they had seen a country girl in a high black hat, but Londoners walk fast and take no heed of others; no one had noticed her.

What to do now? I felt angry and helpless: furious with her for rushing out into the darkness of a strange city, and with myself for causing her distress.

I had no choice but to go back to the house. As I walked there – still in my indoor shoes, which were now soiled from the street – I saw the encounter as it must have appeared to her: the grand, intimidating house; myself, not ill as she'd perhaps imagined, but playing unseemly music and surrounded by fashionably dressed girls.

And yet Susanna wasn't one to be in awe of grand folk. I'd always thought she'd face anyone – the King himself – and not be daunted. Why had she run from me?

At the back of my mind, where I would have preferred to avoid it, lay the answer: Catherine Ramsey. I'd been looking at Catherine. The piece she was playing had been approaching its crescendo and she, delighting in her skill and control, had caught my eye and we had both laughed with the sheer joy of it. Nothing more. I knew there was nothing more. And if I'd ever had any doubts, the appearance of Susanna in the doorway had instantly dissolved them.

She'd be alone out there now in the darkening streets. I
had
to find her. Where had she come from? Some inn, I supposed. I thought about what I'd said in my last letter; then counted the days and realized it could not have reached Hemsbury before she left. So she hadn't read it – couldn't have known when she set out from Shropshire that I was with the Ramseys. Someone else had told her that. She must have spoken to Nat.

Back at the house, the door had been closed, and I had to knock to be readmitted. The maid, Sarah, looked at me with undisguised curiosity, but said nothing, except to enquire whether she should take my shoes for cleaning.

I gave her my shoes, asked her to tell the family I would not be home for supper, and raced upstairs in stockinged feet. The drawing-room door was, mercifully, shut, and there was no sign of any of the Ramsey girls – probably on their mother's orders. I'd have to face them – but not now. Now I must find Susanna. I flung on coat, hat, outdoor shoes, and left the house.

I'd go to Creed Lane. See Nat. He must know where she was.

I
hurried the length of Cheapside, but when I reached the dark bulk of Paul's I stopped and, for the first time, wondered where I was going. I could not remember the way to the Three Tuns, or to Creed Lane, or even Alum Court. Panic grew in me. People walked by so fast that I feared to stop them – and no one asked me if I needed help, as folk would at home on seeing a stranger who looked lost.

As I stood there, bewildered and afraid, a familiar figure emerged from a side street.

“Nat!” I cried. I flew into his arms and foolishly burst into a torrent of tears.

“Su! What's happened? Don't cry. Thou'rt safe now.” He patted me, making soothing noises, while I gulped great sobs that kept rising up in my throat so that I could not speak.

He led me back to Creed Lane, to his lodgings, and asked if I wanted to come in, or would I rather sit with him in the Blue Boar, next door?

I knew it would be more seemly for us to go to the Blue Boar, but I could not bear the thought of folk looking at me, and said, in a small choked voice, “I'll come in.”

Back home in Shropshire, I'd never have gone into a young man's lodgings with him, nor embraced him in the street; but London seemed to be a place of strangers where no one watched or cared. Nevertheless, the woman I'd spoken to earlier glanced at me, I thought, with mild interest as I followed Nat into his room.

It was a while before I stopped gulping and crying. Nat left me to it, and began trying to revive the fire, which had sunk to embers.

The room was cold. It was a low, cheerless, cramped space, the window overlooking a muddy yard. Out there I could see a midden and a privy, the smell of which drifted in, even though the window was closed. I sat on the only chair. There was a stool, and two beds – Nat's unmade, with a cat and kittens asleep in it, the other covered with a counterpane and several more kittens. A bowl of scummy water stood on the washstand.

The fire came to life, and smoke billowed briefly into the room. Nat poured me a mug of beer and picked up a kitten and gave it to me to hold.

I managed to laugh in spite of myself. “Is this thy cure for heartache?”

“Maybe.”

I stroked the kitten and it kneaded my skirt with its tiny claws. A small purring came from it. Nat squatted beside me. “So what is this heartache? Didst thou find him? Thou weren't there long.”

The tears spilled over again, and I brushed them away. “I made such a fool of myself. I shall never be able to meet those people again…” I raised my head and looked at him directly. “Nat, Will is in love with someone else.”

“I don't think so.”

He sounded so certain that my hopes were raised. But then he had not seen Will lately.

“There is a girl there,” I said. “A daughter, I suppose?”

He nodded. “I believe there are several daughters.”

“They were playing music on one of those keyboard instruments: a virginal, or harpsichord. He didn't see me at first.” My throat was closing up; it was hard to talk. “They were looking into each other's eyes and laughing together.”

Nat allowed the kitten to climb onto his knee. “It's not a crime to laugh,” he said. “I do it myself, quite often.”

“Don't mock me.”

“I didn't mean to.” The kitten moved between the two of us, purring. “I know he loves thee, Su. All this plague-time he has been desperate to go to thee.”

“But thou knew
something
. Thou tried to warn me.”

“Only because of the house. They are such fine folk, and live in grand style. It's a house that makes me feel out of place.”

“But not Will.
He's
not out of place there. He belongs.”

“Aye – he's settled in easily enough.” He gave a little shrug and a rueful smile, and I wondered if he too felt rejected. He and Will had shared life and lodgings since they arrived in London together, but now, it seemed, a separation had come about.

“If it hadn't been for me,” I said, “he'd have been living in a house like that these last three years. He'd expect to marry a girl like her.”

“Su, he chose thee, and a different way—”

At that moment there was a knock on the door and Will's voice, raised and urgent, called out, “Nat? Art thou home?”

I sprang up. “I can't see him!”

But he was already in the room. His gaze alighted on me at once, and I saw relief flood his face. “Thank God!” he said.

“I must go.” I had begun to tremble. “I'll be missed at the inn.”

But he stood in my way, his face full of hurt and bewilderment. “Thou can't go! Talk to me, Susanna! It's been three years. I've worked and waited for thee. Thou can't refuse me even a word.”

His voice had grown louder and I quailed before him.

Nat intervened. “Will, she's distressed. No good will come of this. You can talk tomorrow. Let her go now.”

“And run out into the night again? Alone?”

“I'll walk with her.”

They faced each other, and I felt caught between them. Will – hot, angry and thwarted – at last backed down.

He turned to me. “Will thou see me tomorrow?”

I nodded.

“Where is the inn?”

Nat replied, “Martin's Lane. The Three Tuns.”

“I know it.” He approached the door, then looked back at me, his eyes pleading. “Goodnight, Su.”

Nat and I left soon after he had gone. I was subdued now, and felt an extraordinary tiredness sweeping over me. Nat delivered me safely to the inn door. Alice tactfully asked no questions, but I saw that she was concerned at my appearance. I went to the mirror and looked at my face. It was blotched pink, with swollen eyelids. Yet only a short time ago I'd been teasing out tendrils of hair, eager to appear at my best for Will. I thought about how he'd looked when he turned back to bid me goodnight. His was the face I'd carried in my heart and memory all this time, and had longed to see. I love him, I thought; but my mother was right: long ago she'd said to me, “He's not for thee, Susanna.” I saw now that he had always been destined for someone like Edmund Ramsey's daughter.

My eyes were heavy. Alice ordered us a light supper in our room, but I scarcely touched the food. I went to bed early. All I wanted was to sleep.

It was as well I did sleep, for he came soon after six next morning. I was already dressed and sitting with Alice in silent prayer when a knock came on the chamber door and a serving girl told me there was a young man asking for me.

I followed the gleam of her candle as she led the way downstairs and into the main room of the inn. This too was lit with candles, for it was still dark outside. Several tables and benches were full with people eating breakfast. A fire of logs blazed and crackled in the hearth, and a party of newly arrived travellers stood around it, red-faced from the cold and blowing on their hands.

Will was sitting alone at a small table near a window, wrapped in a dark cloak and wearing a plain black hat. He rose at once to greet me.

“Susanna! It's early – I'm sorry – I could not wait…”

He reached instinctively towards me, and I knew that if we had not been in a public place all my resolve would have left me and I would have moved straight into his arms.

“Come. Sit down,” he said.

The girl hovered. “Will you take breakfast, sir? We have an excellent pottage.” She was looking at him with interest; he had those dark, lean looks that many girls like. And I thought of the Ramsey daughter.

We both declined the pottage, and asked for beer and bread. I sat down, determined not to be swayed from the decision I had made on waking. I looked directly at him and said, with difficulty, “Will, I release thee from thy promise to me. Thou need not feel bound by it.”

He looked bewildered. “But I
wish
to feel bound! There are difficulties – I wrote to thee, but thou won't have had the letter…”