The Glovemaker's Daughter Read online

  Reader, whether young or old. Think it not too soon or too late to turn over the leaves of thy past life. And be sure to fold down where any passage of it may affect thee . . .

  William Penn

  The preface to Some Fruits of Solitude, 1718

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Anyone who knows Quaker history will be surprised that I have not used thee and thou as was common among Friends at that time.

  For the purposes of clarity I have chosen to replace and reduce what would be their everyday parlance with the universal you except where its usage makes a significant point.

  GOOD HOPE TOWNSHIP, PENNSYLVANIA

  2014

  He thought at first it was a trick of the light. It was far too early to be on site but sleep didn’t come easy these past months since his retirement, so leaving his truck down the street to get some fresh air, Sam Storer made his way to the old chapel. That’s when he saw the shadowy outline of someone in a long cloak which firmed up into a woman in one of those Amish bonnets, standing staring at the chapel walls, hugging a book or ledger close to her chest.

  He called out, thinking she might be one of the volunteers from the Heritage Centre who liked dressing up in colonial costume, come to inspect the renovations to one of the oldest buildings in the township. He blinked again and she vanished.

  What the hell was that? His instinct was to turn tail and head back down. He could feel the hairs on his neck rising, his heart thudding. Had he dreamed her up? What was it about this old place that drew her to be standing as if on guard? It was a face neither old nor young, just weary, with such burning eyes. Had he witnessed some strange slip of time into another era?

  One thing was for certain: he’d tell no one, or there would be ghostbusters and cranks and it might slow up the job in hand. There had been enough debate about these renovations already. No one wanted the old place compromised. This Meeting House was not the original, but it was at least three hundred years old. The records were accurate enough and an extension was needed to accommodate their growing community. The team of willing volunteers was under his supervision, him being a bit of an expert on early colonial architecture. Each stone would be numbered and removed and then replaced carefully so as to keep the building authentic. It was going to be a tedious labour of love.

  Sam smiled, thinking if only these walls could talk: all those years of meetings in silence, Quarterly and Preparatory gatherings, tearful confessions, joyful weddings and sad farewells.

  It was later in the morning that a discovery was made that would change the whole nature of their alterations.

  ‘Boss! Come and look at this,’ called Dean, a volunteer, pointing at something in his hand that was wrapped in what looked like oilskin. ‘It was hidden in the wall, tucked into these stones.’

  Everyone gathered around to examine the outer surface covered in grit. Sam knew it was old and lifted it gently onto the bench. There was a leather thong around the cloth but one touch and it broke as he unwrapped the parcel, revealing a leather-bound book, foxed with age. His fingers trembled in case it fell to pieces in his hands.

  ‘This will have to be preserved,’ he said.

  ‘Aren’t we going to see what’s inside?’

  ‘No, better let some expert deal with it. It’s as old as the building, I reckon.’

  ‘How can you know that?’

  Sam shrugged. ‘Whoever it was wanted it to be kept for the future. Why take so much trouble to keep it safe within the wall?’

  ‘It could be a treasure map or a time capsule,’ Dean offered.

  ‘Not in a Quaker church. They didn’t go in for that sort of thing. It’s probably an account book. It must go to the museum.’

  ‘Suppose so.’ Dean turned back to the task in hand. ‘I wonder who put it there?’

  ‘I wonder,’ Sam replied, feeling protective of their find. Now was not the time to confess he’d seen it once already that morning, clasped in the arms of a ghost in a bonnet and cloak.

  YORKSHIRE

  2014

  The forwarded letter was intriguing. Rachel Moorside picked up the outer envelope, curious as to why the local museum had re-addressed this to her. Who did she know in Pennsylvania?

  To whom it may concern:

  From The Historical Society of Good Hope.

  During recent renovations to the Good Hope Friends Meeting House, a document was discovered within the walls, quite well preserved and dating from 1724. It is signed by one ‘RT’ and the early part of this account takes place in the West Riding of Yorkshire around the village of Windebank.

  It is a unique insight for us into early colonial settlements, but it could also be important in tracing the families who came here from England to escape persecution. We would very much value any further information you may have on the Moorsides of Scarperton and their Quaker connection. If there are members of this family still extant perhaps they would be kind enough to shed light upon this person in order to add to her story. I enclose a copy of the journal for your perusal.

  We look forward to hearing from you.

  Yours

  Dr Samuel Storer

  Rachel sat back, shaking her head. Who was this Moorside, and how could they be connected to her? It was a common enough surname. There were no Quakers in her family as far as she knew; they were C of E to the core. She wasn’t even sure where Windebank was; somewhere further up the dale.

  There had been no time for delving into family history, being single with a business to run and having no immediate relatives with whom to share any finds. She was the end of the branch line but now, newly retired, she had to admit she was curious to know if this was indeed an ancestor.

  Her parents were dead and her father’s cousin was somewhere near York. They’d never been a close bunch, preferring to send cards at Christmas and turn up at funerals. But there was nothing like a bit of intriguing mystery to brighten up a dull Yorkshire day. She opened up the package and began to read.

  An account of my journey from Yorkshire to the province of Pennsylvania.

  These be my true words.

  RMT

  In the year of our Lord 1725.

  1

  I like to think that my journey into this world began at first light in the fifth month of the year of our Lord 1666. From sea to moor to city, the early morning sun bathed the towers of York Minster with a touch of scarlet, mingled with the smoke rising from hovels and houses into a purple mist. High city walls warmed by weeks of hot weather soaked in more heat like embers and the stone walls of the York Castle gaol yawned at another day’s onslaught.

  There was no fanfare as the prison gates were opened and my parents stumbled out onto the cobbles with eyes no longer used to the brightness, out to the sharp early morning air in nostrils used to foul straw soaked with the stench of human waste.

  The oatcakes and comforts pushed through the iron grilles had kept starvation from their bones but nothing more. My mother shivered, knowing there was a full sixty miles of walking to be done if they were to reach Windebank before my birthing began.

  How did I survive such privations, quickening and twisting in her womb, keeping her from precious sleep? Perhaps in her dreams she was released from those walls to roam free out onto the moors around Windebank farm. Perhaps her dreams kept her full of hope and joy, as they have me on many such occasions.

  ‘I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills,’ she sighed. After six months’ confinement, sixty miles was but a few footsteps with His help, no matter how harsh the terrain.

  ‘Greetings, Sister,’ said an old woman with a back arched like a bow, who shoved a parcel of bread and cheese into her hands. ‘May the Lord strengthen thee for the road ahead.’

>   My father smiled as a sturdy walking stick was offered from a stranger in a tall hat, one of the York Friends who made it their duty to wait each morning in case one of their own should be released.

  ‘Take these boots to guide thy steps in the right path,’ said another, looking down with compassion at his bare feet, black with scabs and sores.

  ‘Tha’s got socks in there for both on thee. Dip thee feet in the horse trough and dry with this clout. Yer soles will be tough with walking barefoot. I’m a cobbler, I’ve seen worse than them,’ offered another stranger.

  ‘How can we repay you?’ Mother said, her eyes blinking in the light.

  ‘Keep the faith and happen one day it’ll be your turn to be seeing to us in this place. Spend your first night off the road in a field barn, away from the town or you’ll be taken for beggars and bog trotters and brought back to the constables. They’s full o’ tricks to catch us out.’

  ‘Friends near Grassington will see you right. Have my cloak,’ said the old woman. ‘Yon rag’ll not see you above five mile on the tops. It may be summer but there’s rain in the air. It were a right gaudy sunrise.’

  They scurried out of the mean, narrow streets, avoiding the morning waste chucked out into the gutters from high windows, out onto the stony tracks that criss-crossed the city, turning their backs on the massive towers of the Minster, over the river bridge and westwards as the sun rose behind them.

  How different must have been that first forced march to York in winter over snowy tracks as punishment for marrying according to their conscience and not with the priest’s command in a church. How fearfully Mother must have trembled at the thought of York castle gaol awaiting them. My grandfather, Justice elliot Moorside, did not shirk his duty when his only son appeared before the local Justice. He begged him to see sense and not marry beneath his station to a lowly glove-maker. ‘You shame us by this defiance. Surely one place is as good as another in the eye of the Lord?’ he argued.

  ‘Not in our light it is not. We have no truck with vows and ceremony. We choose to stand before our peers and await the Lord’s will for both of us, not pay some hireling to babble his windy doctrines over us,’ my father replied, still full of zeal at his new calling.

  ‘I don’t understand you. Have I not given you everything: education, fine clothes and the best of society, and now you throw this in my face?’ The Justice shook his head in despair. How could a man who was not convinced of the truth ever understand why his son must abandon his Divinity studies to follow George Fox and his movement of Seekers?

  ‘For all thy care I’m truly grateful, sir, but now I must think for myself and choose another gate to open. Be glad that I’ve found this path of righteousness and a companion to tread the way alongside me. In our suffering and witness is our heavenly joy.’ With these words, father and son were parted forever.

  But the foulness of the foetid straw, the dust and deprivation of the past months was not so heavenly; despite the scorching heat outside, the chill within struck at my father’s chest causing him to shiver with fever. My mother hoped the open air would now cleanse his racking cough.

  The father I have imagined was a tall man, stooped now by confinement under a roof that scarcely contained his inches. Soon he would stride out towards the dales and hills and stretch out again in health and vigour.

  This man had walked across country for his calling, been beaten and bruised, battered and shamed but never unbowed. Prison, as I know only too well, is not for the faint-hearted.

  My parents met at the Meeting House in Windebank when my mother returned from serving her apprenticeship to a glove-maker in Scarperton, afire with zeal from listening to this new preacher’s words. Matthew Moorside was standing under a shaft of light as if pointed out to her, there and then. Their eyes met across the room and she knew that her place was by his side forever in this life. He, too was struck by the same lightning on seeing her in his congregation. The Lord had chosen well for them both. That is how it should be between Seekers.

  My uncle Roger laughed at the sight of them and always called them two turtle doves. It was in his barn they were wed and it was in his farmstead they hoped that their child would be born. It would be good to rest up awhile and gather strength before the Lord called them on the next mission. If only her back didn’t ache so much and her head was like feathers floating.

  Their first good fortune on that journey home was when a carter of wool let them sit on the back of his load, among the soft oily fleeces and the scent of fresh clippings on the high ridge track toward Skipton. He dropped them off at a crossroads not far from the turn off north where they took water in the back yard of the inn and found another ride northwards. This was the Lord’s work indeed, saving their legs for the rougher terrain.

  ‘There’s rain on the way,’ the carter warned but the sky was blue and the skylarks were joyful in the air. They sat to devour the cheese and bread given for their sustenance by strangers. Then the heat overwhelmed them and they found some shade in a copse of small oak trees to take cover and hold each other for the first time in privacy for months.

  ‘We will walk on until you tell me otherwise,’ Matthew whispered. ‘Your load is precious and the hills are high. Another day matters not after so long.’ She looked into his blue eyes and found the strength within.

  ‘Thee I love,’ she mouthed.

  ‘And likewise, Alice,’ he kissed her parched, cracked lips. That was when I kicked and made them jump apart.

  ‘I felt that too,’ he laughed. ‘What troublemaker is this who disturbs our peace?’

  ‘A treasure not a troublemaker, a comfort and consolation not a trial, Matthew. The Lord has preserved it for His glory, of that I’m certain, to bring others out of doubting to the convincement of His truth. Time to be on the move while the light lasts,’ Mother added, ever the practical one.

  We took the drover’s track, sheep scattering in all directions at the strangers’ steps over the God-forsaken moor tops, bleak even in high summer. The curlews cried their lamentations as the first drops of rain began to fall. It was as if all the grime and dust, muck and dirt of York were being washed from them in this drenching. Alice lifted her face to the shower with relief.

  No one but startled sheep watched as they stripped off their tattered clothes and let the rain soak through their shifts and wash their lice-infested hair. Three miles down the track they spied a fodder barn and crept inside to dry off their clothes and nestle in the dry dusty air, weary but content with this gift of a first day of freedom. They had the rest of their lives to enjoy together in service. No one would begrudge them a day of rest, but I was already making my bid for freedom.

  Mother woke early, trying to get comfortable. There was a searing pain in her back that would not shift. She felt hungry and sick at the same time, anxious to be on the move. Outside it was pouring with rain, heavy, thundery rain and the clouds were full of more.

  ‘We must get moving, I want to be at Windebank before nightfall,’ she tugged at my father’s sleeve but he turned on his side.

  ‘What’s the rush?’ he muttered.

  ‘I have pains,’ she answered and he sat bolt upright, which set off a fit of coughing.

  ‘We’ll stop in Scarperton with friends. You can rest up there,’ he replied, but she shook her head.

  ‘No, I want to go to Roger and Margery. If we crack on we can make there.’

  ‘Not in this rain, the path will be a quagmire.’

  ‘Once I’m in the dale I know the high path. The sheep don’t like their feet wet. They have ways to get out of the mire. Remember, you’re the town boy, I’m a farmer’s lass,’ she teased.

  There was always good humour between them; banter and teasing and good companionship, as there were always friendly arguments between Margery and her spouse, Roger. Couples had their own different ways of getting on.

  Suffering had only tied them closer together in the conviction that they were about the Lord’s work and under Hi
s protection.

  They hurried on across strange paths, sensing the right direction, until with relief they saw a milepost and a crossroads that was familiar and welcome. They took water from a thatched hovel and a woman who stared at them first with suspicion and then with pity to be abroad on such a wild wet morning.

  I fear the pain in Mother’s back was getting worse and cutting her breath but there must be no stopping. If she thought about her weariness I would have been born on the open highway. Only the thought of my safety and a warm welcome, a posset of ale, a slice of salted ham and eggs or some crow pie by the hearth place kept her sliding forward on the slippery path. Father stifled his coughing, trying to guide her footsteps down the hillside into the next dale.

  On high northern hills the weather beats hard on the rocks and grass and the wind bends the trees and flings branches into the air. This was no ordinary rain but a thunder flash that would send the becks into a spate and the rivers into swollen torrents. It was no time to be abroad but they dared not delay to take shelter.

  Suddenly a gush of warm water poured between her legs to announce my arrival. They were still a mile or two off Windebank Farm, high among the wet grass and limestone rocks that lay like pavement slabs, a mile or two from the safety of a clean feather mattress and linen sheets and the services of Goodwife Ketley, the midwife of the village. A woman treads between life and death when she is giving birth and no mistake. They must push forward and she began to sing the Psalm again to cheer her flagging spirits. ‘The Lord is My Shepherd, I shall not want . . .’ She stumbled and almost fell.

  ‘What’s amiss?’ he asked but she forced a smile. There was no point in alarming him. Pains come whether or not there was anything prepared in the way of linen and binders. There was nothing to be done but lean on Matthew’s arm as the heavens opened and the rain beat down upon them until they were sodden to the skin.

  It would be madness to ford the stream for the quickest route; nothing left but a steep climb along the banks, the long way round. To be so close and yet so far was galling.