Forged in the Fire by Ann Turnbull Page A

sisters, who danced gravely, like court ladies.
    Before long their mother came in.
    â€œEnough of this now, girls,” she said. “You had your fill of dancing, I should think, at your cousins’ house.” She turned to me. “I’m sure you don’t dance, Will?”
    â€œNot any more.”
    â€œAnd don’t approve?”
    â€œI … don’t think about it a great deal.” I hoped this was diplomatic.
    She smiled, and I saw her daughters’ prettiness in her face. “It creates laughter and exercise, which is innocent enough, I believe; but too much of it leads to frivolous thoughts, and to licence.”
    â€œI have no opportunity to dance,” I said, “but I love music – and I have a flute that I play sometimes. It’s good to keep in practice.”
    â€œOh, yes!” agreed Catherine warmly – and blushed as she caught her mother’s eye.
    After her mother had gone out, Catherine said to me, “We used to play and sing every evening before Father was led to the truth. Our cousins in Essex are not Friends and it was like old times.”
    â€œMother enjoyed it too,” remarked Jane.
    I felt pulled by different factions in the family and said, “Perhaps I should leave you…”
    â€œNo. Play for us,” said Catherine. “Mother will not mind at all if it is something instrumental.”
    I found a piece by Orlando Gibbons.
    Catherine stood up and let me take her place. The seat was warm from her body, and I was aware of her closeness as she stood beside me. She turned the pages, and the other two drew near.
    As I finished the piece, Catherine said, “Thou hast grown up with music.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAnd miss it?” She was looking at me with sympathy.
    â€œMore than I’d realized. But thy parents? Have they both given it up?”
    â€œAlmost. I think Father feels the loss greatly, but that only makes him more certain that he should resist it.”
    â€œBecause it is a distraction?”
    â€œYes. He doesn’t forbid
us
to play, but he doesn’t like it to take up too much of our time. He believes we will give it up ourselves when we are ready.”
    â€œAnd will thou?”
    I spoke teasingly, and was rewarded with a smile.
    â€œI know I should hope so.”
    The next day was first-day. The family did not go out to Meeting, but gathered in their own dining room, joined by two of their servants and six neighbouring Friends, among them the physician who had attended to me, and his wife and brother. Since the law allowed for only five to meet in addition to the household, we were now an illegal meeting. I found it difficult to see it as such, for here there was none of the tension and excitement of a large meeting like that at the Bull and Mouth, where one after another would stand up to preach, and which was constantly under siege. It seemed unlikely, unless Edmund Ramsey caused trouble for the authorities, that his house would be targeted.
    The silence was deep, and I felt its intensity, and afterwards marvelled that such power could be created between so few people. I remarked on this to Catherine as we left, and asked her, “Did you go to Meeting in Essex?”
    â€œNo.” She glanced up at me shyly. She had a demure manner, not like Susanna with her straight gaze. “We went to church with Uncle and Aunt and the cousins. Mother would not seek out Friends with Father not there.”
    â€œAnd which dost thou prefer?” For it was clear that she had not yet chosen for herself.
    â€œChurch is easier,” she said. “It’s expected of us. And more sociable – all society is there. And at St Leonard’s they have a good minister – his sermons are not dull, like some. But I have never been to an outside Friends’ meeting such as thou go to. Father forbids it because I am old enough now to be sent to prison.”
    She looked, I thought, so