No Shame, No Fear (22 page)

We stumbled into the yard. I ached all over from the stone-breaking. The children were assembling there, along with other people who were to be released. I looked around for Susanna – at first casually, expecting to see her, then with increasing concern. I scanned the crowd, the yard, the entrances to workrooms. My heart began to beat faster. Susanna was not there.

I found Abigail. “Abby! Where is Susanna?”

“Oh, Will!” She turned a stricken face to me. “The sheriff’s men came in the morning and took her away. They said she was to be put in the stocks.”

“The stocks?” I looked around wildly. The stocks were empty.

“Not here,” said Abigail. “The public stocks. In the marketplace. They say she is our leader and a troublemaker and must be punished.”

Susanna

T
hey didn’t tell me till the morning what was to happen. The first I knew was when the constables summoned me. When I was told that I was to suffer three hours in the stocks, I heard my voice rise in a wail as I cried out, “Why? What have I done?”

The constable in charge held an official-looking paper. “You are charged with holding an illegal meeting and with encouraging and leading others into defiance of the law.”

The children pressed forward to support me.

“You must take us all!” said Abigail – and I loved her for that, for I knew she was not brave by nature. A clamour of voices broke out, the children protesting, the jailers forcing them back as the two constables seized me, one holding each arm, and marched me out.

Isaac broke free and ran after us. “Take me instead!”

The jailers dragged him back, and he called out, “Su, don’t fear, we will come and stand beside thee!”

But the constable in charge told me, “Your friends are to remain here till noon.”

I looked around, desperate, for Will, but he was nowhere to be seen. I was set apart, alone, and thought I would faint from fear. The stocks are the punishment I have always most dreaded – more than beating, or even prison. To be shamed in public, jeered at, pelted with rubbish… I shan’t be able to bear it, I thought. I’m not like my parents, not like Mary; my faith is not strong enough. And I began to sob as they led me away.

Before, when I had been marched through the streets, it had been with friends. We had walked together boldly, proudly, and let the taunts pass over us. This time it was different. I saw people stop and stare, a child point and look up to question his mother. And I knew how thieves and whores and other outcasts must feel as they are dragged to punishment, alone and friendless.

The market was busy when we arrived: maids and housewives out with their baskets; awnings flapping in the breeze; stalls laden with bread, fish, cabbages, onions. We moved through it all and came to the open space where the stocks stood. There were three sets, all empty; so I was to be alone.

They took me to an end set, unlocked the bars, pushed me down on the cobbles.

“I will sit,” I said, struggling to regain some dignity. “You need not force me.”

And I sat and put my legs obediently into the two curved spaces. Even so, they manhandled me, one of them putting his hands on my legs and pushing up my skirts so that my calves and the tops of my stockings were exposed, before bringing down the bar and locking it. My arms were put into the top section and that too was locked in place. Then, as if attention enough had not been drawn to me, one of them shouted a proclamation of my crime so that all knew of it. And then they left me there, a prisoner.

I had stopped crying. The tears were all inside me but I knew I must not show them. I was a witness for the truth and would have them think I suffered gladly. All around, people had heard the proclamation, and faces turned to look: curious, mostly; some cruel, some sympathetic, but many indifferent – for after all this was nothing much as far as they were concerned, a minor punishment, something to be seen every day. I tried to look back at them without flinching.

I thought of Will, of how we had planned to be married this evening. And I thought: He will be released at noon, and come straight here, and see me like this; and the thought was unbearable.

At first no one threw anything. Then some children appeared, little grinning boys of seven or eight years. They didn’t care who I was or what I’d done. I’d been put there for their amusement, and they soon found the means. A spatter of fish-heads came first, smacking into my face and slithering down. Then cabbage leaves, mud, horse dung, that hit me full in the face so that I had to shake my head and blink to see, causing them much merriment. After a while they became a nuisance to traders and were chased away; and a man came and wiped the dung from my face and took the opportunity to slip a hand inside my bodice. Instinctively I moved my right arm, but it was trapped, and he laughed.

I became aware of pain, which grew worse. Under my buttocks the cobbles were hard, and no matter how I shifted about I could not find ease. My shoulders ached, and there was pain all along the backs of my legs, which were fixed and unable to bend.

But the worst pain was the humiliation. A dog came nosing around, stopped, and urinated against my trapped left leg. Some youths laughed at the sight, and I thought I would die of shame. I knew I must take my attention away from my plight if I was to endure it. I remembered the time when I saw the scars on Mary’s back and asked her, “How can thou bear to be shamed like that in public?” And Mary had said, “I wait upon God.”

So I closed my eyes and shut out the faces and with it my shame; I tried also to shut out the physical pain. Thoughts crowded in and clamoured to be heard: thoughts of Will, of our marriage, of London, of what my parents would say, of what dangers might be to come. But I knew I should not dwell on them now. I let them go. I turned towards the inward light and withdrew into it. A long way off, it seemed, there was mocking laughter. Someone spat in my face; a woman’s voice hissed, “You people should be hanged!” I kept my eyes closed, and imagined the light expanding within me. And at last I reached a state of peace; I knew that I could overcome all things and that nothing devised by man could hurt or shame me while I was held in the love of God.

Three hours I stayed there. Mostly folk ignored me, though a few could not resist making taunts or throwing rubbish. I tried to remain in that place where such things could not reach me.

It was perhaps two hours into my ordeal that I opened my eyes and saw Mary and Nat making their way towards me through the crowd. They had only just heard that I was there. They came and squatted on either side of me and we endured the mockery and rubbish together.

After a long time Mary’s hand touched my cheek. “They come to release thee,” she said.

I looked up and saw the constables coming – and then, behind them, Will, pushing through the crowd, his face a mask of distress. He arrived as they began to free me, and Nat hurried to calm and restrain him. The top bar was lifted and my arms freed, and then the lower one. My legs were so stiff I could scarcely move. I got onto my hands and knees and Mary helped me to stand.

Will cried out, “Susanna!” and came towards me, but I shrank from him, unable to bear that he should touch me in my besmirched condition. I hid my face in Mary’s shoulder.

Mary began to lead me away. Behind me I heard Will protesting, and Nat urging him to wait. “We’ll go to the Mintons’, Will, get washed and decent, help the children…” And I heard Isaac’s voice too, and Abigail’s.

“Nat will see to them,” said Mary. “Let’s get thee home; then all will be better.”

I nodded, unable to speak. I felt suddenly too weak to do anything for myself.

Back in our kitchen, Mary heated water and found clean clothes for me while I sat by the fire, trembling with shock. The little striped cat jumped on my lap and I stroked it and let its purring comfort me.

When there was enough warm water, Mary filled a tub and put a bag of lavender in to scent it; she brought a wash-ball and a jug, and hung a clean linen towel to warm by the fire. She helped me to undress, for I was still shaking and could hardly bear to touch my soiled clothes. Then she went upstairs for her own wash while I took off my shift and stepped into the tub. I crouched and scooped up water with the jug and poured it over my head and washed my hair, rinsing it clean again and again. I washed all over and then sat in the water with my knees bent, releasing the stiffness and letting the scented steam warm me. Gradually I stopped shaking.

When I stepped out the towel warmed me more, and I rubbed myself briskly and turned a rosy pink. I was sitting in a clean shift, drying my feet, when Mary came down.

“Thank thee for the bath,” I said. It was a rare pleasure for me to wash in that way; a bowl on the washstand was all I usually had.

“Did it help thee feel better?”

I managed a smile. “Like a lady.”

“Well, be a lady. Thou need not work this afternoon.”

“I’ll empty this tub!”

“No. I’ll do that. Dry thy hair; don’t catch cold.”

She went into the print room, and I sat by the fire with my head dropped forward and spread out my hair with my fingers, trying to smooth out the many tangles caused by the washing. And all the time I was thinking: about the ordeal I had endured, and the discovery that had come out of it, of the love of God and the power of the spirit. And I thought about Will, and what I must find the strength to do.

A while later I heard voices, and jumped up as I recognized Will’s.

Mary came in, shut the door behind her, and said, with a half-smile of exasperation, “Will is here and insists on seeing thee! May I send him in?”

“I’m not dressed!”

I was still in my shift, no stays, my hair loose and damp. Mary picked up the clean skirt and I stepped into it; she fastened it while I put on my bodice.

“There! Thou’rt decent enough,” she said.

I was still lacing the bodice when he came in.

We ran and clung together without words. I wanted never to let go. With his arms around me, my head against his beating heart, I felt safe. No indignity, no punishment, could hurt me now.

When I looked up I saw that his face was wet with tears.

“Don’t cry,” I said. “I’m not hurt. No harm’s done.”

He dashed a hand across his face. “I should have been there. I should have been with thee.”

“But I have survived. See? I am strong.” I bit my lip to stop it trembling.

“Oh, Su!”

We kissed, and I tasted tears and did not know if they were mine or his.

“Thou’rt beautiful like this,” he said. “Thy hair, thy dress loose…”

He kissed my face, and then my neck, and I felt with a small shock of pleasure his warm hands on my breasts, inside my shift. There was a soft, unfolding feeling low in my belly, and as we kissed and pressed against each other I remembered that this was to have been our wedding day.

“Will…” I broke free and took his hand and drew him to sit on the bench beside me. His face was flushed and he looked more desirable than ever before. I put my arms around him and kissed him again, but as we drew apart I told him, “I can’t marry thee, Will.”

It was said.

He leaned his forehead against mine. “I know.”

But did he understand?

“Not today,” I said. “Not this year. I don’t know when. One day, if God be willing.”

He pulled me into his arms and hid his face in my hair. “I know,” he repeated. “I already knew, only I would not attend to the inward light that told me so.”

I thought of Mary, and our parents, and how we had planned to deceive them all; the priest who would bend the law for payment; and the well-used room at the inn. We were free of all that now.

“Thou’ll go to London,” I said, “and I shall stay here, with Mary, as I promised. I’m too young to marry, and I have Deb and Isaac to care for, with my parents in prison.”

“And I have no money, and no work. But I’ll find them. And I’ll write, Su – and thou must write to me. I’ll stay true to thee. And one day…”

“When the time is right,” I said, “I’ll know. And then I shall come to thee. And no one shall prevent me.”

William

I
knew I had hurt my father, perhaps beyond forgiveness.

“Who
is
he, this fellow?” he demanded when I told him I was going to London with Nat. “What’s his trade?”

“His name is Nathaniel Lacon. He’s a journeyman printer.”

“And how will the two of you travel?”

“We’ll walk. Stay with Friends – other Quakers. Perhaps get work helping with the harvest along the way.”

He made a sound of contempt. “You know nothing of the world! You’ll have no servants. How do you think you’ll manage, on the road, without clean linen every day, with no one to cook your meals or make up a fair bed for you at night?”

“I don’t care about those things.”

The truth was, the prospect of the journey filled me with a sense of adventure. I imagined sleeping in barns, lighting a fire beside the road at night, bathing in streams.

“You will come to care,” my father said, “when you are cold and hungry and the rain soaks your clothes.” He turned on me, and spoke bitterly. “I was prepared to spend eight hundred pounds on you, to set you up as an apprentice in the silk trade – and you have thrown it back in my face. You could have gone to London as a merchant, not as a vagrant. Well, you’ll get no money from me for this venture. I disown you – cut you off.”

For the three weeks or so that followed, until the day I left, we scarcely spoke. It was as if I no longer existed for him. I had one final sitting for my picture in the family portrait. He had always accompanied me before, taking much interest in the likeness, pointing out to Mr Aylmer details of clothing and background that needed to be included. But this time he would not come, and I went with my stepmother and Anne, who were always eager to see it.

When the session was over, I looked at the almost finished painting, and saw myself as I should have been: a serious-looking youth standing at his father’s side, richly but not showily dressed; dark hair to the shoulders, a collar edged with point lace, one hand holding a book. That was the image of me that would remain with him.