Forged in the Fire (14 page)

I put away the broom, and went to fetch my cloak.

Nat approached. “Ready to go?”

I looked up at him and nodded without speaking.

He must have seen my unhappiness in my face, for he stepped quickly towards me and put his arms around me and said, “Oh, Su!” I clung to him, burying my face in his shoulder, and he lowered his head so that our faces were touching. We stayed like that, unmoving, for several moments. I could smell the printer's ink on him, and feel the roughness of his chin against my cheek; and I knew for certain that if I turned my face even a little towards him my mouth would meet his, and we would kiss each other, and nothing would ever be the same between us again.

I was tempted, for I wanted love; and I saw now that it would, after all, be possible to love someone other than Will. But I did nothing; and it was Nat who moved, putting me gently away from him, and saying, “Let's get thee home.”

I
found a succession of jobs: swilling pots and unloading barrels at a waterfront tavern; running errands for a baker whose boy had died of the plague; packing orders, two days a week, for a hat-maker, a Friend, in King Street. There was plenty of work of a casual kind to be had as the plague retreated. By Christmas I had combined the daytime packing and the evening tavern work and was only at home three nights a week. It provided scarcely enough to live on, but left me free to search for something better.

Nat and I spent little time together. He was making plans to set up in business on his own and had a friend, a typesetter, whom he visited in Whitechapel some evenings. We would pass each other as we came in and out and, when we did meet, were often too tired to talk. I felt jealous of his good prospects and disappointed in my own efforts.

“It's not thy fault,” he said. “There's a prejudice against incomers, especially Dissenters. When more businesses reopen thou'll find something.”

He put a hand on my shoulder. “Let's go to the Crown tonight. It'll cheer thee. And it's warmer than this place.”

So we went out, and ate and talked.

There had been much anxiety in the city of late about the new year that was coming: 1666. It was the date itself that was feared: the numbers 666, the mark of the Beast, the Devil. Our Friend Elizabeth Wright had seen visions of the city laid waste, Paul's steeple-house ruined and open to the stars. And there had been reports of strange-shaped clouds, a monstrous birth in Aldgate, a comet…

“But the comet was a year ago,” said Nat. “And I reckon we've had our calamity already, with the plague.”

“I've been reading,” I said. “William Lilly, and others; Friends' writings…”

It seemed to me that there must be some pattern to these things, some meaning to be found, and I had been reading whatever books and pamphlets I could find and marking passages that particularly struck me.

Nat was not much of a reader and found such matters dark and not to his liking.

“But we've been printing plenty of such stuff,” he said. “The shop's busy – uncommonly so. Lucky we took on Susanna.”

Usually he was careful – we both were – not to mention Susanna, though I knew he must see her every day, and that he walked back with her to Rachel's each evening. He had told me, when the Shropshire Friends went home, that Susanna had not gone with them; but that was all.

“She is staying, then?” I said.

“Oh, yes. She will not leave now.”

He spoke with certainty, and I thought: He knows her mind; she confides in him. I remembered a time in Hemsbury, years ago, when I'd glimpsed Nat and Susanna chatting, easy together – and I felt again a flicker of the jealousy I'd experienced that day. Then, it was easily dismissed; but now, Susanna and I were estranged.

I
looked at Nat differently now; I could not help it, even though nothing had happened; and I felt that he was aware of me in a new way. I noticed also that the men in the print shop seemed to regard us as a pair. Perhaps they always had, and I had been too caught up in my longing for Will to notice.

Nat treated me the same as ever. He tactfully avoided any mention of Will, but talked to me about work, mostly, or his plans to move out to east London.

“The towns there are thriving,” he said. “Stepney has its own market. And there are gardens and orchards, some common land.”

“I miss the countryside,” I said. “Hemsbury was town enough for me.”

He looked at me and smiled. “The sky was bigger in Shropshire.”

“Yes. It was.”

Was he wooing me, I wondered, with a promise of orchards and fields? He'd said he wanted a wife. He was twenty-five, and would be settled enough, soon, to marry. And I'd be able to help him run his printing business; I knew the work well enough.

I
could
love him, I thought; if he wants me, I believe I could.

We were finishing work one afternoon when Nat told me, “I'm going out east tonight. There's a place in Bethnal Green I want to see: a shop and workroom, with living quarters above.”

It was seventh-day, early in February. We'd had to light candles to work by, the day was so dark, and the fire seemed to give out no heat. We all wore hats and heavy woollen jackets, and as Nat and I talked our breath clouded the air.

“They say it'll snow tonight,” I said.

Joel had already reported seeing a few flakes when he went out to the yard.

“Oh, I won't come back till tomorrow,” said Nat. “I'll lie at Laurence Elvin's, in Whitechapel. I want to see this place; it'll mean waiting till next week, else.”

I could see he was excited and hopeful.

We left and walked back together to Foster Lane. Nat was quiet. At first I assumed he was thinking about the premises in Bethnal Green; but several times he glanced at me and seemed as if he might say something, then changed his mind.

He is about to speak of love – of marriage, I thought.

My heart began to race, and by the time we arrived at Rachel's door I was as uncertain and nervous as he. What would he say? What would
I
say?

“Susanna” – he reached inside his cloak and pulled out a letter – “this came for thee this morning.”

“This?” I was confused, my expectations overturned.

“Yes. By rights I should have given it to Will, but he'd already left for work, and – well, it's addressed to thee…”

I took the letter. It had been sealed and posted, that much I could see, but in the dark street I couldn't make out the writing.

“What—?” I began.

But Nat said, “Take it. I'm off to the Elvins'.” He paused, then stooped and kissed me briefly on the lips. “Read thy letter. I'll see thee on second-day.”

And he turned down the alley, out of sight.

I hurried inside, and joined Rachel by the fire, where she was stirring stew in a pot. I felt bewildered, taken by surprise. And the letter… When I looked at the writing on it I began to tremble with anticipation. It was from Will, addressed to me at Mary Faulkner's shop; but that address had been crossed out, and Mary had replaced it with Will's address in Creed Lane. Rachel watched as I opened it.

“It must have arrived in Hemsbury after I left,” I said, “and been all this time on the road…”

My hands were shaking as I unfolded the letter. It was dated the fifteenth of November: a week before I arrived in London and saw Will at Edmund Ramsey's house.

Rachel touched my arm. “I've lit the fire in the parlour. Go and read it in private.”

“I will.”

I took a candle, hurried upstairs, and pulled a stool close to the fire. There were several pages, densely written, and as I read them I began at last to have a sense of all that had befallen Will since the summer.

He spoke briefly of his suffering in prison, for he was not seeking sympathy but offering explanation. From the hints he gave I saw that he had endured cruel, bestial treatment, meted out over many weeks, and the thought of it filled me with anger and horror and made me weep. He blamed himself for the deaths of his two friends, and had been still weak from his own illness when he heard of the deaths of the Martell family, and with them the loss of all his hopes of partnership in the business and marriage to me. Edmund Ramsey had rescued him, probably saved his life, and cared for him at his own expense, so it was no wonder that he had been happy in that house – so clean and kind and comforting – which reminded him of his parents' home.

He said nothing of Catherine Ramsey, except that she and her sisters were
pleasant girls, and good-natured, but with little knowledge of the world and the hardships many Friends experience
. If he has any affection for Catherine, I realized, it is no more than I have felt for Nat – and probably less. He should have equal cause for jealousy. But I knew now that I need have no doubt of him; his love for me shone through every word.

I saw that I had been wrong. I had acted on nothing but my own hurt feelings and had never thought of his. He had made no plans to travel to Hemsbury because he was unable to offer me a home and an income, and felt he could no longer expect me to marry him.

And yet, there is nothing I desire more
.

I folded the letter and put it in a pocket under my skirt. I must go to him, I decided. And I would not wait till morning. We had both waited long enough.

I ran downstairs and found my cloak and hat.

“I have to see Will,” I said to Rachel. I hesitated, thinking of the likely consequences of my action. “Don't stay up for me.”

She was rocking the sleepy child on her lap. She did not seem surprised, or shocked; merely asked, “Won't thou eat first?”

“I'm not hungry.”

“Well, it'll keep.”

I opened the door and stepped out into the cold night. Snow was beginning to fall. I had never been out alone in London so late before, but I was not afraid; I had too much on my mind. My desire to reach Will gave me speed, and I hurried down Foster Lane, then along Paternoster Row, around the great dark mass of Paul's steeple-house. Few people were about: a nightwatchman, beggars huddled in doorways. By the time I reached Creed Lane the snow was falling faster and the cobbles glistened where pools of lamplight caught them. I ran till I came to Thomas Corder's house.

I never stopped to ask myself if Will would want me, whether I might have offended and hurt him too much. I saw a light within, and knocked at the outer door. A man opened it; I asked for Will, and he looked me over, no doubt wondering what sort of woman I was. He let me in and knocked on Will's door, calling, “Mr Heywood!”

And then Will was standing there, startled, his hair rumpled, an old coat thrown around his shoulders. He stared at me, and I saw his look change from astonishment to joy.

“I had to come—” I began.

His arms went round me, and he pulled me into the room and shut the door and held me close against his heart.

“Su!” he said. “Su…” And then: “Thy hands are cold! Thou'rt wet from the snow. Come and get warm. This fire's not much.”

He seized a poker and jabbed at the sulky coals, causing a brief crackle of flame; sparks flew up the chimney. A small black and white cat on the hearthrug coiled itself into a tighter knot.

“It's a cold, miserable room, this,” Will said, as I began taking off my hat and hood. “I often get into bed to keep warm—”

He broke off and reddened. Both of us glanced at the beds.

“Nat will stay in Whitechapel tonight,” he said.

“I know. He told me.”

I saw him absorb the significance of this remark. Would he think me brazen? I had surprised myself, coming here when I knew he'd be alone. I trembled as I said, “Thy letter came,” and brought it out of my pocket.

He was puzzled. “Letter?” And then, seeing it: “Thou read
this
? I thought it lost…”

“Seems it was, until today. Nat brought it to me.”

“If it had come while I was here, I'd probably have thrown it on the fire. I'd almost given up hope of thee, Su.”

I put my arms around him, told him how wrong I'd been, how sorry I was.

“I should have come after thee,” he said. “I was too proud.”

There was only one chair in the room, so we sat on the bed, and then lay upon it, and forgave each other with kisses and caresses. His body hardened against mine and I trembled with feelings so strong they took me by surprise. We had been separated for more than three years, but any strangeness that had come between us in that time melted away. We've been mad, I thought, to stay apart these last long weeks. I wanted never to let go of him again.

But even as we kissed I felt him holding back somewhat, and at last, to my disappointment, he pulled away. We sat up, both of us hot and flushed, and he took hold of my hands and looked at me with that serious look I remembered and loved, and said, “Su, we should not… I have no proper employment now, only what work I can find here and there; not sufficient to marry on. And no home to take thee to. Thy parents would not be willing—”

“Oh! They would!” I said. “They
are
. I have their permission to marry.”

“But that was last summer, when my prospects were good.”

“Thou'll find something else.”

“It's not easy, without training, and with few skills.”

“But thou hast
some
work. And I do, too.”

“That's different!” he said. And I saw that I had hurt his pride.

“I trust thee to care for me,” I said. “And as for my parents, they married without money or permission. My mother ran away from home.” I laughed. “They lived ‘like the birds of the air', she says, and trusted in God, who has held them in his love ever since.”