Forged in the Fire by Ann Turnbull Page B

fair and vulnerable that it was no wonder he felt protective. I could not imagine such a girl in Newgate.
    She, in turn, was looking at me.
    â€œI can see thou hast suffered in prison,” she said. “We must take care of thee.”
    Her mother had drawn near, no doubt mindful of her daughter’s honour.
    â€œDo many merchants or gentry attend meetings?” I asked, including the mother in my question.
    â€œVery few,” said Margaret. “There is Sir William Penn’s son – also William; he must be thy age, Will, twenty or twenty-one. My husband met him once at Gracechurch Street last winter and believes it will not be long before he is convinced. A great trial to his father, who cannot tolerate his closeness to Friends; but a most vital and energetic young man… Now, girls” – she turned to gather the attention of her daughters – “no music today. Reading and sewing only.”
    We spent the rest of the day quietly. In the afternoon the women read the Bible and sat silently together, while Edmund and I went to the meeting at the Bull and Mouth. I arrived tired, for I still lacked strength, but was received with joy by my friends, most of whom had not seen me since I was sent to Newgate. It was a sad embrace I had with Hannah Palmer. All her youth and vigour seemed to have left her since her brother’s death, and I was filled with renewed grief for Francis and for John Turner.
    Jane Catlin tut-tutted at my hollow cheeks, but Nat asked me, “Will thou be going to Hemsbury soon?”
    â€œNot yet. I’ve no work – nothing to offer Susanna. I’d be ashamed to face her father now. And thee?”
    He shook his head. “Winter travel is hard. And I lost pay at the height of the plague. I’ll go in the spring, maybe.” He glanced across at Edmund, who was talking to some of the elders, and I thought I detected some feeling of rejection as he remarked, “Thou’rt settled in at Throgmorton Street, then? Seen the last of Creed Lane?”
    â€œI’ll come back soon – for a while.”
    I felt unclear about my future. When
would
Susanna and I be married? When we were, we’d need to find somewhere for the two of us to live. I remembered how excited I had felt about that, back in the spring. But now, everything had changed.

Susanna
    â€œI still say thou’rt over-hasty,” Mary said, opening the box in which she kept the print-shop money. “Thou might pass him on the road.”
    That gave me a moment’s anxiety. But I knew the wording of his letter by heart; I had read it so often. There was no hint in it that he planned to come to Hemsbury: only that he’d write again when he was able; and he had not written.
    â€œIt’s my chance to go with Friends,” I said, “before winter sets in.”
    The thought of a winter of waiting was unbearable to me.
    Mary counted the coins into my hand. They made up my final wages. Whatever I found in London, my life was about to change. I did not expect ever to work for Mary again. She knew that.
    She looked at me, and sighed. “Thou’ll be a loss to the business,” she said, “and to me.”
    For a moment I thought she was about to embrace me, but then she patted my arm and said brusquely, “Well, put that away somewhere safe. Thou’rt off to see thy parents now, I suppose?”
    â€œYes.”
    Everything was arranged for the journey to London. Several others had joined Alice Betts in her concern to visit Friends in the city, and we were now a group of eight. Collections had been made at meetings around the county for the relief of distressed London Friends; we’d take the money with us, along with what spiritual comfort we could offer. Alice and I were the only women in the group. She was pleased to have my company and understood entirely my need to go, for she is a woman who always acts promptly on what seems right to