Forged in the Fire by Ann Turnbull

daughters’ covert glances at me. The servants brought in spiced wine to warm the travellers, and Edmund invited me to sit down and join them. The girls sat in silence, upright and stiff in their boned bodices. Although they wore nothing ostentatious, they were richly dressed in silk gowns and their hair was bunched at the sides in curls in the current fashion, their caps arranged to display it to advantage.
    Margaret Ramsey enquired politely after my health, and listened with pity in her face when I told her of the deaths of the Martell family. She asked about my own family in Shropshire, and I explained that I was estranged from my father. As I spoke I could not help but be aware of the eldest girl, Catherine, listening and watching me from under her lowered gaze.
    â€œIt is a great pity when religion divides a family,” said Margaret Ramsey.
    I knew her husband had become convinced of the truth only recently. She seemed to share his conviction – perhaps she felt that was her duty as his wife – but what had the girls thought about the changes this had brought to their lives? I had no chance that day to find out, for the supper which followed was a quiet meal, preceded by a silent wait upon God; and, in the manner of Friends, we spoke little.
    I spent the following day in the library, as usual. I was determined to please Edmund Ramsey, and worked hard, making lists of all the books in the various categories. He owned many old and valuable books, some in French or Latin; also Camden, Holinshed, Hobbes, Robert Boyle, the Greeks and Romans. Most were bound in fine leather, the titles and decoration embossed in gold leaf, and the edges of the pages finished in gold. I came upon Plutarch, and remembered, with a pang of sorrow, Agnes Martell. “I shall learn to read it,” she had said, imagining a future that would never be.
    Edmund had asked me to put to one side any plays, anything that smacked of popery or superstition, anything I was doubtful about. I glanced at the plays: by Middleton, Shakespeare, Webster, Rowley. I sat on the floor some while, engrossed in a tale of two young lovers, parted by their warring families. I had never been to a playhouse, although when I was a child we had watched travelling players and enjoyed their performances. But play-acting was untruth – and certainly playhouses were known to be bawdy places, full of lewd jokes, the actresses whores.
    I put
Romeo and Juliet
on the pile to be removed, along with Rowley’s
All’s Lost by Lust
.
    The afternoon light was fading, and I began to think of finishing for the day. From the drawing room, below, I heard the sound of someone playing the virginal: awkward, stilted playing – young Dorothy, I guessed. The sound, mercifully, stopped; and then someone else took over. This time the music – a country dance tune – was light and sprightly, perfectly judged.
    I left the library and went downstairs to the landing, where a maid was lighting a candle in a sconce on the wall.
    The drawing-room door was open. I stood in the entrance and saw that the player was Catherine. She was absorbed in the music, her hands sure and quick, blonde ringlets bouncing gently against her cheek.
    The other two were dancing. They had joined hands and were tripping down the length of the room.
    Catherine finished with a flourish, looked up, and saw me.
    â€œThou play well,” I said.
    She blushed. “It’s a simple piece.”
    Her sisters stood pink and breathless.
    â€œPlay a jig, Kate,” said Dorothy.
    â€œOh, Dorothy! Thou know Father does not like us to dance.”
    â€œBut he’s not home yet.”
    â€œI shall play a pavane. That is more seemly.” She turned to me. “Would thou like to play something, Will?”
    â€œI’ll hear thy pavane first.”
    She began to play. “Look through the music on the table, there.”
    The stately sound of the pavane subdued her