The Glovemaker's Daughter Page 8

  There was no portrait of my father within the house, on the walls of the hall or stairs. When I made a comment to Dame Priscilla she snorted with contempt.

  ‘Your father, Master Matthew, lost his place in this household when he defied his father so his portrait was removed I know not where. That is why you should kneel down in gratitude to this gracious man who’s shown such preference to an inferior. Not many men would be so generous. It is up to you to find a gift to honour his kindness,’ she added.

  How many times was I to be reminded of this? What could I give a man who had everything, a man who had lost his sons and his future name? What could I give that would make him notice me? Perhaps I would find inspiration in Scarperton.

  ‘You’re not leaving this house in that attire!’ shouted Dame Priscilla as she eyed me up and down. ‘Take off that ridiculous black hat. You look like a farmer’s wife up from the country with her butter.’

  ‘It’s what I wear when the weather is rough,’ I explained, seeing the sleet blowing from the windowpane. It was wet and slushy outside after a fall of snow. What better than my plain cloak and felt hat to protect my clean linen cap.

  ‘No Moorside lady goes out looking like a servant. Have we not taught you anything these past few days? What will Goodwife Ackroyd think when you go for your fitting? There is a fine hood you can borrow and pattens for your shoes. Take off those old boots too.’ She was in no mood to hear my plea but perhaps I could appeal to her thrift.

  ‘I would dearly love to display my finery but it is wet and I would not want to spoil them or make more laundry work when there’s so much work to be done.’ I smiled meekly, hoping she would be placated. ‘A tall hat with a brim makes good sense.’

  ‘Take it off and there’s an end on t’ matter. We are the main folk in these parts and you will dress accordingly, sleet or no.’

  I was not used to wearing pattens for I preferred thick leather boots with strong soles to grip the rough earth. What a fuss and palaver for a trip into the market town. The streets of Scarperton were thronged with folk, heads bent about their business. No one would notice what I was wearing in this driving sleet, I smarted, trying to edge my way down the slippery path in my pattens.

  In my head was a list of ribbons to buy. I would have preferred to give the girls a broadsheet or tract, something to stir their souls rather than their vanity, but few of them could read. Besides, they would look askance at such a plain gift. I was not intending to buy Mistress Foxup anything. I scarce knew her.

  We lingered over the trinket stalls and the packmen with open cases full of a rainbow of dangling ribbons. Costermongers were shouting their wares across the street above the cackle of geese and fowls in their pens. There was no one to greet in this crowd, not one known face to wave to but my eyes caught the tower of the church at the top of the street. It would be my fate to stand within that building in the pew to hear the windy doctrines and incantations of some hireling priest. There was no escape from attending service with my grandfather. It was expected of me.

  A panic of breathlessness flooded over me at the thought of such a betrayal. I turned my eyes skyward and prayed for deliverance as I turned to catch up the Mistress as she strode ahead. It was with a mind full of anxieties that I stepped forward and slipped on the slush sending my legs one way and my body the other, landing in an ungainly heap on the wet ground. There was a burning pain in my ankle as I tried to rise, blushing to have caused a spectacle of myself. The Dame turned round to see what the fuss was about and stormed to my side.

  ‘What now! Can’t I leave you two minutes and you get into trouble. Get up,’ she said, yanking me to my feet, but the pain was fierce.

  ‘I can’t . . . it hurts so.’ I cried, hoping no one thought I was some drunken drab. The crowd gathered round us to gawp at my plight.

  ‘Let me through,’ boomed a deep voice. ‘I will see to the maid.’ A man in a long black cloak and cavalier hat with a tattered feather knelt down to examine me.

  ‘Fear not, I am Doctor Titus Cranke, at your service, ladies. I will make a full examination and see what ails it.’ He smiled with the brightest coal black eyes as he fingered my ankle carefully.

  ‘Alas, ’tis a rupture of the membranes. But the angels were hovering over you, for I have just the appliance awaiting in my caravan to see you home. Dora!’ he yelled. ‘Beloved, fetch the splints for this poor creature. Give her comfort in her hour of need . . .’

  A woman’s face peered out from the tattered flap of a caravan wagon dripping with pots and pans and wooden boxes. A tired black mule was feeding from a nose bag and two ragged children peeped out of the flap as she hurried to his side.

  The woman’s purple cloak, splattered and stained, smelt of many roads travelled and nights spent under the stars as a blanket. Her hair was the colour of sea coal, twisted into a tiny cap that had never seen a tub of lye soap.

  The Mistress took one look at the pair of them and jumped to my rescue. ‘We have no need of your splints or any such service. There is no need for fuss. The groom will get her home. Really, Miss. Can I not take you anywhere?’

  ‘But it hurts and I can’t move my leg,’ I croaked, not wanting to bear any weight on my foot, hoping for sympathy where there was none.

  ‘Your daughter’s had a fright, Mistress. What she needs is a tincture of herbs to soothe the pain, a restorative. It is our good fortune to have many such in our boxes to sell on the stall. Titus, dear heart, fetch the jug and the liniment oil to wrap a poultice on the swelling. Of just such a restorative did my Lord Busby of Brackenfoot partake, he who was bed-ridden and laid low for weeks. One drop on his lips and he was up and dancing. Come try before you buy,’ she smiled with a crinkly wild-eyed sweetness, offering me the liquid to my lips.

  I hesitated, already feeling dizzy with the pain and the crowd and the foul air of body odours around me, odours not yet familiar to me. The doctor in his swirling cloak hovered over me like a great crow, with fire-water breath as he brought the splints with straps. ‘You’re in luck, for these are my very last pair. Truly the angels must protect you, young lady.’

  ‘And who might you be, offering poisons and restraints to a silly lass?’ snapped Priscilla in my defence.

  ‘Fret not, madam,’ said the doctor. ‘I studied medicinal arts for many years and have travelled far and near with my beloved here, offering my services to high and low as the Good Lord doth present.’ The Mistress sniffed, unconvinced.

  ‘He speaks the truth, for he is known throughout the length and breadth of the north country. Hal will testify here,’ said the woman, pointing to a little boy who bowed his head. ‘And Holderness; his name testifies to his birthplace and who knows where the next will be named,’ she laughed, patting her swollen belly for all to see. ‘The girl looks pale and needs to be indoors before the chill aggravates her bones further.’

  ‘Never you mind what she looks like. Miss Moorside has no further need of your services. We can strap up her ankle easy enough with a kerchief. Be on your way.’ The Dame was all for dismissing them. The splints did look sturdier though. How would I find the cart home without strong arms and support?

  ‘A comfrey poultice is what she needs, hot and cold bathing to stir the blood.’ The doctor was not so easily shaken off. Then the church bell boomed for the noon hour.

  ‘Look at the time, and not a step nearer your fitting,’ sighed my Mistress. ‘No point in dawdling . . . Where to find young John but the ale house, if I’m not mistaken.’

  ‘Let us do the honour of at least escorting you back. The splint will hold her up if I strap it tight,’ the doctor said as he made to put it on.

  ‘Don’t you dare touch a hair of her without the Master’s say-so,’ my defender cried. ‘I’ll do it myself to save time and money. I’m sure you mean well but we have our own physician.’

  ‘And might I be acquainted with his name?’ asked Doctor Cranke, turning those burning black eyes in my direction.

  ‘That’
s none of your business,’ replied my guardian. ‘There, that’ll do for now.’

  ‘Might I suggest,’ said his wife, bending down to examine the straps, ‘a little tighter might be more efficacious.’ She pulled on the buckles and patted the leg, making me wince but it did feel firmer.

  ‘The little miss has such neat ankles and firm bones. They will heal soon enough. But a powder would lessen the shock,’ she insisted.

  ‘How much?’ said the Dame.

  ‘Three pence a dose,’ Dora Cranke smiled, holding out her hand.

  ‘That’s a mighty price for a little powder,’ sniffed the Dame but she dipped in her hand in her leather pouch just the same.

  ‘The splints will be a shilling,’ smiled the wife.

  ‘Oh, no! That’s all you’re getting from us. You can collect the splints. I’m not foiling out for them and all,’ came her swift response.

  ‘In that case, Mistress, we’ll follow you back in our caravan,’ said the man, swishing off his hat into a mocking bow.

  We were a slow lumbering trail of wagons homeward bound; John the carter with Priscilla, her face set tight with fury and I, sitting bolt upright, soaked through, with the clanking caravan jingling behind us. Not only was the excursion a disaster but someone had stolen all the ribbons I purchased whilst I was prostrate on the ground. And now there was nothing but an empty purse and nothing to show for it.

  ‘You don’t move until the swelling goes down,’ said my escort as he helped me down. ‘I am not called Doctor Marvel’s Miracles for nothing. Rest costs nothing but it is hard to come by in this busy age we live in. Comings and goings, comings and goings is the ruination of many a constitution, I say and I should know for I would be martyr to the ague if it were not for Dora’s wonderful physicks.’

  On arrival in the yard I was carried off into the kitchen with much fussing, sat on a bench with my splints for all to see. All I wanted was to get out of the sodden skirt and petticoats and silly hood that soaked through into my braided hair. My head was throbbing and my ankle heavy and sore with the tight strapping.

  ‘Can we give them some broth for their troubles?’ I whispered. ‘The children look frozen through.’

  ‘Master Elliot does not encourage callers and bog trotters to the kitchen door,’ the Dame replied. ‘We’ll never get rid of them touting cure-alls and pills to the silly girls. They are not slow to make profit from your misfortune.’

  ‘But the splint does help, I’m sure,’ I pleaded. ‘I’ll pay for it myself, and for soup.’

  ‘So there’s money in your purse after all?’ she snapped.

  ‘A little gift from my uncle, Roger,’ I replied, knowing I had wasted one full coin already.

  ‘Suit yourself. If you want go encouraging mountebanks and quacks; all pills and potions and nonsense. Anyone can see he’s no more than a rogue in a cloak, all airs and no graces . . . give them an inch and they’ll be back for more.’

  I brought out the last of my coins and offered payment for the loan of the splint but Dora shook her head.

  ‘For the season’s sake, from you we ask no payment but the broth for the poor children. It will warm their bones.’

  ‘Where do you sleep on such sharp nights as these?’ It would be cold in the wagon, with few comforts.

  ‘There is always a barn or a room. We do the Lord’s work. He is merciful and there are friends . . .’ Dora smiled, taking the wooden bowls.

  My ears pricked up at the word, friend. ‘You are Seekers, Friends of the Truth,’ I whispered.

  ‘All the world’s our friend,’ winked the Doctor, sniffing the broth with relish, not understanding my hint, sadly. ‘We set up our stall at Scarperton each Yuletide, Halifax at Easter and all the feasts between. Doctor Cranke’s Marvellous Miracle Medicines: nothing too small or large for us to cure. I have testimonies for all to see. You must all come and visit, bring your friends. We have remedies for warts and skin itches, stomach pain and back ache and things that worry pretty maids . . .’ he was looking at Bess and Mary who were flushing scarlet at his attention.

  ‘Take the broth to Halifax and Holderness before it goes cold and some oatcake too,’ I said.

  ‘A merry Yule to one and all,’ he replied, doffing his hat again. ‘And to you, young Mistress, a speedy healing of your bones. Send the man with the splint when you are finished. May all your wishes be granted . . .’

  ‘Are they still hanging around?’ The Dame bustled back. ‘See them off with the dogs if they are not gone in half an hour and rinse those bowls when they are finished,’ she ordered. ‘This jaunt hath set us back a whole day and nothing to show but expense!’ she added.

  How quick I was to seize the moment. Praise be to God for those Crankes and the rough streets of Scarperton. Now I couldn’t walk nor venture forth to the church or partake in any of the junketings of Yule. I would spend the season untrammelled by all the frivolity, secure in my chamber out of harm’s way, sure of my piety and proud of my strength. Oh, that life was so simple. Does not pride come before a fall?

  8

  It seemed forever dark on those days when I was confined to my chamber. The sky was heavy with snow feathers, the light poor and the wind rattled down the fireplace chimney, moaning as if catching the gloom of my mood.

  The Yule preparations below stairs went on apace without my reluctant efforts. Bess brought up a bowl of water and comfrey oil to bathe the swollen ankle. There were no broken bones and in truth I could bear a little weight but nothing would induce me to endure their festive ceremonies even if I must feign discomfort and act a cripple.

  One morning my grandfather popped his head round the chamber door, muttering below his breath words I couldn’t hear. It was as if he had almost forgotten my existence and made an effort just to see if I was still in residence. ‘Rest, rest the leg or you’ll miss the dancing. . .’ was all I could catch as he sped away as quickly as he arrived.

  From my window seat I could see the comings and goings of a coach and four horses, the clatter of new arrivals racing up the stairs, the bustle of chests being lifted and faces I didn’t recognise making for the warmth of the kitchen. The laughter of children along the passageway cheered my solitary gloom. The guests had arrived, the nephew and his family from Ripon way.

  I was curious to see just who these distant cousins might resemble but nervous to be in such grand company. It was time to put down my mending and make an effort to receive them, time to braid up my hair and join the assembly at the given time. Dame Priscilla was not impressed with my efforts.

  ‘Let your hair down, lass, for a change, some curling irons would soften the edges into curls which are all the fashion, I’m told. If you can hobble to the dining chamber we can find a stool to rest the foot. Our guests will want to meet their newfound cousin. Come, shape yourself. No starched caps at Yule. It’s a time for lace and frills. You’re a maid, not a matron yet,’ she laughed. ‘I’m sure Master Thomas will be eager to meet someone of his own age. He’s quite the young man now, the same age as my Miles.’

  ‘Has your son arrived home?’ I said, seeing a look of agitation flit across her furrowed brow.

  ‘By and by . . . Tomorrow, happen. The tracks will be trodden ice and the weather’s fast closing in, poor lad: all this way to be with his mother. I’ll not settle until he is safe under my roof. He’ll travel with company, other scholars and travellers for safety’s sake, but that is no warranty on these wild highways. May the Lord deliver him who is the only joy left in my life,’ she sighed.

  ‘Indeed,’ I nodded, moved by the softening of her tight drawn features at the thought of his arrival. To be loved and waited upon, to be welcomed and gathered in was something strange to me. There was a flash on my inner eye as I saw him racing forward through the snow to be at her side and I knew he would be unharmed.

  ‘He will come safely, I know it,’ I smiled with certainty.

  ‘My but you’re a funny wench. Where do you get such notions? But thank you for your
comfort. Now wipe your hands and face, put on your new dress and smarten yourself up.’

  The moment of intimacy was past like an open door soon slammed shut. It was time to face the Moorside family for an inspection. How could I not be found wanting?

  The new gown took some putting on, layer by layer. I felt strangely changed by the feel of it around me, as if I was becoming a new creature, lifted from the air as it swirled and swished at my feet. There was no time to make a fancy lace-work collar to cover my bare neck so my best collar had been edged with threaded blue ribbon to match the material, nothing too elaborate.

  My plain cap did in fact look out of place so I unwound my braids and wound some of the same ribbon through to good enough effect, I thought. Wearing such fancy clothes did not sit easy on my soul but I steeled myself to be gracious and bow to the season as little as I could. No one would expect a cripple to dance and jest and race about. I could sit quietly and observe the proceedings from a corner.

  It was as much as I could do to hobble with a stick whilst managing the fullness of the skirt on the stairs, my feet pinched in borrowed slippers. It was like walking in a cage but I must put in an appearance for courtesy’s sake.

  The assembled group were already at table and eyed me with interest. ‘So this is Matt’s lass, the Quaker girl?’ said a tall man in fancy brocade with ribbons at the knees of his britches and long wig.

  ‘Why, she’s just like Aunt Millie’s portrait, fair with the Moorside chin,’ laughed a round lady bedecked with so much lace at neck and cuff. I feared it would be stained with gravy by the end of the dinner. I was always told I took after my mother, Alice, not my father’s side. I tried to smile and hobble and grimace all at the same time so no one would be in any doubt that I was here only to sit and be inspected.

  ‘Now then, lass, this is your Uncle Royston and his spouse, Kitty,’ shouted my grandfather from his seat at the head of the table. ‘And these are all their pups, Eliza, Ned, Dolly and big Thomas. Meet your cousin, Rejoice.’ They bobbed and guffawed at the sound of my name. Thomas towered over me and bowed.