The Glovemaker's Daughter Read online

  ‘I’m done in,’ Mother gasped as a pain gripped her belly. ‘Go and fetch help, I’m so tired.’

  ‘Nay, lass, the last mile is always the longest. I go nowhere without you if I’ve to carry you myself. Come on . . . “He will not suffer thy foot to be moved, He that keepeth thee will not slumber.” ’ In his fear my father often forgot to use the ‘thou’ as have I for many a year now.

  ‘Behold, He that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber or sleep,’ she mouthed, breathless.

  ‘The Lord is Thy keeper . . .’

  ‘The Lord is thy shade upon thy right hand.’

  Then they saw the wisps of smoke out of the hearth chimney, the smell of a wood fire burning somewhere close by. Familiar buildings huddled together into the hillside and soon the stone house was visible where Roger and Margery would give them lodging.

  They were safe. They were home. Tonight would be hard travail but there would be joy in the morning.

  It was past dusk and the farmstead was shut up for the night when the barn hounds started up, waking the house with their racket. Nan, the maid, was quaking at the unexpected noise and reached for her broomstick, afeared for her life. Uncle Roger Windebank stumbled out of the drapes of the bedstead cursing, stubbing his toes and forgetting his holy ways in the search for a cudgel and his britches, too mean to light a candle stub.

  ‘Who calls at such an ungodly hour,’ cried my aunt Margery as she hid under the counterpane with a pillow over her head as if to drown out the banging. No one would blame her anxiety after years of alarums and unsettled sleep when Roundheads and Malignants roamed over the moors at all hours, skirmishes with swords and pistols bringing the wounded to their door seeking quarter. Now since the restoration of the King she hoped such disturbances were past.

  She could hear Roger bellowing behind the door with the great oak studs and the bar secure across it. Curious, she lifted a sheep fleece over her shoulders and crept onto the upper landing.

  ‘Open in the name of mercy, Roger . . . ’Tis thy brother-in-law, Matthew Moorside, and Alice. Her time is come and we can go no further in this storm!’

  Margery shot down the stairs, ‘Mercy on us! Get them inside . . . Nan, to the fire and the bellows . . . Blessed Saviour, open that door . . .’

  The two of them stumbled in like drowned rats, ashen-faced and soaked to the skin, standing in a puddle of water on the stone flags. They trailed drips through the fresh strewn rushes as she hurried them into the houseplace where Nan was doing her best to beat up some flames and warmth.

  ‘My waters have broken,’ whispered Mother. ‘And I have nothing but a few rags in this bundle.’ She was trying not to cry with fear and exhaustion.

  This was no time for sermons or questions. Father was coughing fit to burst and both of them looked like a bunch of bones covered with rags. Was this the handsome couple that had stood before the congregation and pledged their troth barely ten months ago?

  Alice’s delicate beauty was ruined, her skin grey from lack of sunlight, her eyes sunken into her cheeks but still with that glint of steely purpose that had brought her safe to the door. There was no gainsaying her when she had that look in her eye.

  Margery had no time to dress with so much to be prepared. The front parlour would have to do for a lying in, but there was no bed in there yet and there was no fire. If only she had some notice of such a startling event.

  Mother collapsed onto the flags in a faint and needed a warm restorative; a cordial of liquorice with honey must suffice. Old Dame Emmott’s herb box was summoned from its shelf by the inglenook. Nan opened the blanket box and brought out an armful of spun sheets. Margery put back the finest in favour of patched ones. There was going to be a mess and Alice would not mind second best. She drew the tapestry screen to hide her modesty as they stripped her and Matthew went with the master to find dry clothes. Alice’s shift was in holes and she smelt worse than the privy midden. A tub wash would have to wait. They must have hot water to bath the newborn.

  Dame Emmott, Margery’s old mother, now awakened by the noise, fussed and got in everyone’s way but for once Margery was glad of her mother’s counsel, being not yet blessed with children of her own, nor had she seen a human birthing before.

  Being a Seeker barred her from such women’s gatherings in the village, with all their birthings, up-sittings and gossipings. There was no point in sending for Goodwife Ketley, for she was in the pay of the local priest and dared not gainsay his will. They would have to manage as best they could and pray for the skills to see Alice safely through the delivery.

  Feeling a useless onlooker, she watched Nan making sure her sister-in-law was dry and comfortable as she lay on the hearth rug, the thick pegged rag mat given as a bridal gift by friends in the faith. She tried to slide sips of berry tea through Alice’s lips to warm her innards for the long work ahead. Praise the Lord, Nan, the maid, had seen some of her six brothers and sisters both in and out of this world. She was not afraid to examine Alice’s private parts and feel her belly for signs of the birthing.

  ‘Not long now, Mistress,’ she smiled, but her eyes shone too bright, looking at Margery with concern.

  ‘Take the rings from her fingers and loosen her laces to aid the passage,’ offered the old dame. She was so forgetful these days.

  ‘Nay, Mother, we Seekers wear no wedding bands or fancy lacings. She should deliver with ease.’ Margery spoke more in hope than confidence, for Alice was far spent with travelling and chill. There was a fire on her brow as she began to moan, twisting her way through her pains while the onlookers banked up the fire and sponged her forehead.

  ‘Where is Matthew?’ Alice groaned, looking to the doorway in distress. ‘He must not see my shame.’ She need not have worried, for everyone knows birthing is women’s work. My father was busy helping Roger secure the house against the storm. I have often wondered whether it is better men witness birthing for the labour that it is.

  From somewhere deep inside herself my mother drew up her strength for one long last effort which saw my head crowned before she sank back again in exhaustion.

  ‘Push on, Mistress! ’Tis nearly born . . . Push one more time and you shall see the bairn,’ Nan shouted to raise her flagging spirit. There was a scream and a flurry as I burst forth all of a rush onto the waiting cloth, plump and purple like a newborn pup turning pink before their eyes. Margery felt the tears welling up, tears of relief and shock and envy as the storm raged outside and the thunder clapped over their heads.

  They all took it well that I was a girl child, not male. Nan cleansed me in the warm water bowl, examining my body with care, cutting the cord with one of the meat knives and pressing the wound to stem the flow.

  Dame Emmott bound my stomach with a binder and swaddled me with the torn sheet, lifting me up so my mother could see her trophy. Her eyes were glazed with tiredness and fever. I like to think she smiled at me but the effort of holding me was too much for her.

  ‘Fetch the Masters! She needs physick,’ said Nan sternly, reading the signs with alarm. Margery called through to the side door where the men were huddled waiting for news and Matthew limped to her side, kneeling down and whispering such affections in her ears as they all stood praying that the Lord would revive her shallow breathing.

  I howled with such a lusty screeching that there was no fear of my early demise. It was as if I knew I would be robbed of her milk and comfort before the dawn rose, angry purple above the hillside.

  There was no joy in Windebank that morning after all the night’s turmoil but the storm abated and the ling thatch held on the old barn rooftops. The farm hands crept about their chores and Nan flushed the bathwater out of the door by mistake.

  ‘Now you look what you’ve done,’ shouted Dame Emmott. ‘Now this lass’ll roam far from the hearth . . . You must allus put girl washings into the fire to keep them at home.’

  ‘But Mistress, we need the fire to warm the lady inside,’ Nan protested, her cheeks flushed with sha
me.

  ‘There’s no warming Alice now,’ whispered Margery, watching as the new mother slipped from them. It was as if all the stuffing so rudely pulled out of her left her body like an empty sack.

  Roger wept, pacing outside while my poor father clung to the hearth, praying for a miracle. ‘ ’Tis all my fault for putting her through such an ordeal,’ Matthew whispered. ‘The jail was cold even in the summer heat and full of pestilence.’

  ‘But the bairn is bonny and strong. Shall you name her after Alice?’ said Margery.

  ‘If it were a lad, it should have been called Joshua,’ Roger interrupted. ‘Have you seen the state of the walls outside? There’re gaps enough to drive a coach and horses through. The drought has shrunk the stones and now the flood has swollen them, pushed them over. That lass’ll be trouble and no mistake. Walls falling down’s a bad omen, is that.’

  ‘Shush, Roger,’ said his wife as my father lifted me to the light and tried to smile.

  ‘Her name is Rejoice. For all must face trials in this life before they find true joy. Rejoice in the Lord always . . .’ he whispered.

  ‘That’s a mighty burden of a name for a tiny mite,’ sniffed Dame Emmott unimpressed, hoping her own name would be forthcoming.

  ‘It must be so. Robbed as I am of my helpmeet, I will find comfort in this little soul. She’ll be my companion in life now,’ he sighed, kissing my mother’s cold brow for the last time.

  But it was not to be, for no sooner had her spirit departed through the open door than Matthew took such a fit of coughing and choking and being so swallowed up in his sorrow that no breath came from him, they lay together side by side in the cold parlour awaiting burial in the orchard croft among the apple trees.

  Friends gathered to honour the martyrs and place them unmarked into the earth as was their custom. For this act of defiance was Roger fined one pound and ten shillings which he chose not to pay. The constable took away two fine milk cows to the value of three pounds ten shillings but Roger swallowed his fury at such self-seeking distraint.

  I howled night and day until a wet nurse was found in the village, one that would feed a Seeker child. I waxed strong as the warmth of summer returned, unaware of my loss.

  To her surprise, Aunt Margery found grace and comfort in looking after me, I am told, so much so that she found herself at last with child and brought forth a son, Mallory, quickly followed by a daughter, Diligence. The once silent house was alive with the sounds of childish prattle and awash with swaddling bands and baby linen.

  The Lord gives and the Lord takes. Blessed be the name of the Lord.

  This is as true an account as I know, for I have no recollection of this, my first journey into the world, but it has affected all of my life. To be the child of a storm when all the walls fell down, a child born to sorrow, doomed to wander afar, whose coming robbed her parents of life, was a weary burden at times. Never to have known the comfort of a mother’s arms has been a great sorrow to me.

  Over the years I have pieced this account together from scraps gleaned from Roger, Margery, Nan and others. Each fragment is stitched with loving thread into a patchwork quilt of memories to treasure. In the bad times of my life I have wrapped these memories around me for comfort. They have warmed many a dungeon and dark place of the soul.

  2

  I was in my tenth year when the persecution of our people drew ever closer to home. The realisation that we were different from many of our neighbours in the village below was not some blinding flash of understanding but a gradual revelation, like the mist rolling up the hillside after rain to reveal a perfect day.

  Windebank Farm lay hidden from view two miles from the township, set high on the fell facing south to catch the best of the weather. We were quite complete; our stone house was newly extended with rooms upstairs instead of a loft and a sturdy stone roof, a fine chimney breast that kept us warm in winter and a tall barn with great rafters that had stood for over a hundred years.

  On the slopes facing south-west was a walled patch where Aunt Margery grew the herbs necessary for our survival: mint, tansy, rue, comfrey and many more green vegetables and sweet-smelling flowers to feed our bees. Our sheep grew long coats that were clipped in summer and we cleaned the fleece and spun the wool to knit into stockings and warm gloves. There were candles to be dipped and butter to be churned, fresh rushes to be gathered and little time for laiking about in the pastures but on the First Day of the week, which the worldly call Sunday, work was put aside for a meeting of believers, where we sat in silence until someone was moved to address the assembly.

  Sometimes we sat a whole hour or more and nothing was said so it was hard to keep my mind from wandering or to stop Dilly from fidgeting. None of us had ever attended the church down in the village. Uncle Roger said there was nothing that the priest said that would speak to our spiritual condition.

  I learnt then that every absence must be paid for and that is why Joseph Swinstey, the constable, came often to our door to collect a fine. When I saw his brown felt hat flapping up the track I hid up a tree out of sight. He never went away empty-handed, and that put Aunt Margery in a bad mood for days afterwards.

  ‘Why does he have to take our cow?’ I asked at the table.

  ‘Because the Lord wills it,’ she snapped, shutting her eyes as she spoke as if to rid the sight of it all.

  ‘But why?’ It has always been a fault of mine that I never know when to speak and when to be silent.

  ‘You know well enough. Because we are Seekers after Truth, followers of Mr George Fox whom that false priest cannot abide, nor the fact that we don’t attend sacraments or pay his tithes. He wants to make beggars of us to drive us back into his fold,’ she argued, banging the broth into my bowl.

  ‘Why does God need two houses here?’ I was curious now.

  ‘You ask too many questions for a girl, Rejoice,’ she said. ‘He bides in our barn when we wait on him, not in fancy buildings with graven images and coloured glass windows.’

  Uncle Roger sipped his broth and tore a hunk of oatcake, waiting to make his own comments. ‘I think he dwells wherever hearts are pure and simple, where love does His will. Who’s to say, Margery, that there are some even in the steeple-church who show His love . . . We cannot judge or see what He sees.’

  My uncle was like soft soap when it comes to shifting dirt, gentle in his admonitions, while my aunt was like pumice stone, scouring away at the surface until it is rubbed raw.

  ’Tis a pity my aunt and I walked together like two shoes of the wrong size. We rubbed against each other in the dairy, the kitchen and the hall. Why could I never do anything to her full satisfaction?

  ‘You’re a strange lass. May the Lord have mercy on us,’ she sighed to any who would hear, whilst pointing out the one piece of beeswax I missed, dulling the polished table; the corner where my bunch of goose feathers did not reach the dust; the loose stitches of my glovemaking, uneven in the row that must be torn back and how the butter would not churn in the tub when I was in the dairy.

  ‘Don’t go answering all her questions. It only encourages her in waywardness, Roger. She’s sharp enough as it is!’ The air was chilly with her reproof. ‘It’s for thine own good, girl. If you’re ever to make a good match with an equal then I want none to think I have shrunk from taming such a wayward nature. It would be a burden for poor Alice to have bred such a cussed child.’

  I did not understand why the asking of questions was wrong but my champion had risen from the table to see to his farm boys.

  ‘She can be as sour as the apples on the north side of the tree when the mood takes,’ she chided and I wanted to rinse out her mouth with lye at these words. No child ever wants to be reminded that they are the cause of their parent’s demise. It was hard to be the daughter of saints and to know whatever path I tread in this world I would throw only a pale shadow across it compared to them. How could I live up to their martyrdom, their holy devotion both to the higher calling as Seekers after Tr
uth and the esteem they held for each other?

  ‘Alas, there are many in this parish who cannot see the truth as it is revealed to us and prefer the old ways, both Papists and prayer-book followers at the steeple-church. They are blind to the inner light, but it costs us dear to disobey the church,’ she added as if to soften her harshness, but the damage was done.

  It has always troubled me to think about the sufferings of Friends when they are read out in Meeting and how I was robbed of a real parent’s loving kindness. It’s hard not to know of their tenderness. It is hard to be a mothered-on lamb and never to know your true kin.

  Margery felt it her duty to educate me on all these matters, especially when we were hard at the scrubbing-down of the slaughtered sow, catching the blood in a bucket as it swung on the hook, boiling water to scrape off the bristles, preparing the skin for curing with saltpetre and my hands were raw with the mixture and effort.

  This was the very time she chose to recite a litany of Friends’ sacrifices, imprisonments, torture and exile; a sorrow that I know as well as any psalm. If I was lucky there was a snippet or two about my father; how he gave up his studies to follow his beliefs, how my mother could sew such fine doeskin into embroidered gloves better than any in Christendom, her work sought after by the gentry of the district. How the lace-work and embroidery on the gauntlets was put away once she was convinced by Friends of the true light, in favour of making plainer gloves and wearing sober clothing as is our custom. For this she was dismissed and made to return to the farm.

  The mother I have imagined needed no lace or ruffles to show off her fine bones and good breeding: her hair was like ripened wheat where mine is but damp straw, her eyes the colour of pewter whereas mine are like wet slate. Her gait was upright; nor did she slump in her grey cloak as I do to hide the buds growing out of my chest.

  Sometimes I shut out my aunt’s prattle and tried to picture my mother and father holding me proudly as they walked across the open fells, lifting me on their shoulders, laughing and singing; not lying stone cold in the parlour, unaware of my howling.