The Monmouth Summer (5 page)

But if Adam was prepared to wait a little before disturbing the peace with the news he had heard from the small boys, Simon was not. It was not the only piece of disturbing news he had heard that day, and he could not bear to keep quiet and wait for his father to speak.

"I hear you've had some fancy company this afternoon, then," he said loudly, as Ann walked past him.

Ann stiffened, and stopped in her walk to put the wooden plates on the table. "You talking to me?"

"Yes, you. Just as you was out talking to Robert Pole, I hear."

"And where did you hear that?"

"A little bird. 'Tis true, isn't it?"

The little boys, Ann thought. It would be foolish to deny it; that would make things worse. She forced herself to relax, and carried on laying out the flat wooden plates.

"And if it is true, what of it? I only met him on the road, and spoke of the weather."

"Spoke of the weather indeed! And did yer fine lord tell 'ee where 'e was to last Wednesday evening, then?" Simon deliberately broadened his accent, knowing how it irritated her.

"No, he didn't. Should he have?"

"'Tidn't much to brag of. Only that 'e was over to Throckmorton's house, in Farway, ransacking it in the King's name in search of arms. And Judith Throckmorton nearly come to bed with child, too — 'twas a wonder 'er didn't lose it, with your fine friends all stomping round the place with their pistols and swords in their hands."

"That's not true! Who told you such lies?" Ann tossed her head back and looked at her brother for the first time, haughty, defiant. A wisp of hair escaped from her bonnet and she pushed it back, irritably, out of sight.

"'Tis true enough, Ann," broke in their father, his voice firm and serious. "We had it straight from Will Stapley, the head groom over there, who was in Taunton to see the saddler."

Ann felt a shiver along her spine. The story was likely enough. Robert's father was a magistrate, and there had been many such stories in the past month in the West Country. The magistrates were afraid that the Duke of Monmouth might land, and were searching the houses of those they suspected of being ready to support him against the King. Only she had not thought of Robert, pistol in hand, hammering on the door of someone's house in the evening.

Her mother was indignant. "'Tis proper shameful, to fright a poor maid so! Her first child, too! She didn't miscarry, did she, Adam?"

"Not by the time Will left, anyhow," replied her father. "No thanks to her visitors, though. Will says they even poked under her bed with their swords — though what they found there wasn't worth seeking for!"

Little Sarah giggled, but Ann did not.

"How do you know 'twas Robert Pole, then? I'm sure he wouldn't do such a thing."

"'Course he would!" Simon burst out. "He's a soldier, isn't he? Or do you know him better than that?"

"No, of course not. Only — he seemed a nice gentleman enough."

"Nice gentleman, indeed!" Simon pursued his advantage. "Anyways, Will saw him. He'll be around here one evening next! Come on, Ann — what did you tell him about us? What was he asking? Didn't he ask a lot of questions about Colyton folk?"

Ann smiled. That at least she was sure about. "Of course he didn't, Simon. What would he want to know about us for?"

Her smile infuriated Simon. "About our being ready to rise and arm and throw out idolaters like him, that's what! About ..."

"Simon!" Their father's voice snapped sharply, like a whipcrack. His gaze subdued his son, who looked sullenly down at the table. Ann looked from one to the other of them, seeking the reason for the outburst and its sudden end. Was it that Simon had insulted Robert, or ... the look had seemed to carry more than that, as though Simon had been about to betray a secret known only to the men.

She had heard some of the rumours that had been abroad in the past few weeks. The militia had been called out in Taunton and Exeter because it was feared that King Charles's illegitimate son, the Duke of Monmouth, would return to England with an army from Holland to oppose his uncle, King James; but there had been such rumours many times over the past few years, which had come to nothing. They did have a gun in the house, of course, but only her grandfather's old  matchlock  musket, which had been there all her life without being used. So was there more, this time, that she did not know? The sudden, unexpected silence upset her. Did they really believe she could not be trusted, that she would betray them - her family - to Robert Pole?

Her mother looked as surprised and upset as she was. "What's this about arms? Simon? Adam? For the love of God, you're not involved in any plot, are you?"

"No, Mary, calm yourself." Adam bent his head and tickled little Oliver in the tummy, to distract him from the tension in the room. "'Tis only the boy's tongue running away with him, from hearing 'prentices talk of the pride of the militia in Taunton. No more." He turned sternly to Simon. "And I would not have my son abusing other men as idolaters, unless he has proof that they follow the church of Rome."

"Robert Pole is no Papist!" said Ann, indignantly. "You know that, Simon. You saw him in Colyton church last Sunday. And ..."

"That proves nothing. So do many Papists go to church, to stay within the law and keep their offices. But what he does at home's another matter."

"Why, that's no different to us, then," said Ann. "For all you know, he might as well be a Baptist or a Presbyterian like us, and go to a conventicle in secret!"

"Simon, I have said before that I will not have you abuse other men without proof," said Adam, from the chair where he sat with Oliver. "Do you have any reason, other than the malice in your heart, to accuse any member of the Pole family of Papacy?"

Simon looked less abashed than hurt, as though his father was betraying him by his blind refusal to admit the obvious.

"What would he be searching honest folk's houses for then, looking for arms that might help the Duke of Monmouth rid us of a Papist King? What if the Poles came here?"

Adam was silent - only for a moment, for the time it took for Ann to realise that the thrush outside had stopped singing, and for her younger sister Rachel to take the fish off the fire because they were burning; but it was long enough for Mary Carter to feel fear turn like a knife in her stomach.

"Adam Carter! What is the truth behind all this talk?" She moved forward suddenly, to look closely into her husband's face, and almost knocked over Rachel, who was carrying the pan from the fire. "What arms could Robert Pole find here, if he did come to search this house?"

"My father's old musket, that he used against the King in his time. No more. You know that as well as I do, woman." Adam looked back at her for a long moment, his lined face tense, determined, defiant. He felt his hand trembling, and gripped the edge of the chair to stop it.

Mary searched his face for the safety of her family. It was an answer about more than muskets.

“Mummy! I'm hungry! Can we have the fish now?" Little Sarah broke the silence by banging her knife on the table. Mary Carter sighed, and the tension eased slightly.

"Yes, if your father will thank God for what He has given us."

The family sat on the long wooden benches around the table and bowed their heads as Adam said grace, and then for a while they ate in silence, cutting the mackerel off the bone with their knives and putting the slippery pieces on slices of bread to eat. Rachel boned the fish for Oliver, and pushed away the cat which had crept up under him, hoping for pieces to fall to the floor. Then Ann lit the tallow dips, and Sarah began a story about a pedlar who had spilt a sackful of candles at the top of Market Street, so that people had had to jump and skip to get out of the way as they came rolling down the hill, and for a while the family atmosphere eased.

When the table had been cleared, their father read to them from the Bible. They prayed together, as they always did, and then the younger girls and little Oliver went up to bed. Mary went upstairs to see to them, and after a moment Adam Carter turned to his son.

"Simon, if you would forgive me, I feel I must speak to your sister alone. There is my study, if you wish to read."

Simon looked surprised, but got to his feet. "No, thank you father. I had thought to take a walk down to the bridge, before sleeping."

Ann watched him go out, and then turned her eyes to her father, with a bold, innocent curiosity, quite at odds with the nervous flutter in her stomach. How much did he really know? Her father was thought of as a kind man, yet few in the stern village community would have blamed him taking his belt to her, had they known of her behaviour with Robert that afternoon.

He glanced at her, then lit his long clay pipe with a spill from the fire, frowning as he sought for words.

“Ann, I would not have you set too much store by what your brother said tonight, but yet there was a grain of sense in it. I trust you did not speak to Robert Pole about our religion, nor about what you may have heard said in this house, and others, concerning the King.”

“Why no, father, of course not.” She blushed furiously, taken by surprise. “We did not speak of such things. And if he were to try to use me as a spy, as Simon said, I think I should have enough sense to see it.”

"I hope you would." Adam paused, the ruddy firelight flickering on his lean, solemn face. His eyes sought hers, and held them. "I hope too, that no more has passed between you, but honest talk on the highway."

“Why no, father.” Her eyes widened slightly, in surprised innocence, and stared back at him, look for look. Yet she felt the blush prickling her cheeks, and was glad of the disguise of the firelight.

"He has made no improper suggestions then, nor met with you alone?" The words came hard and stern; Adam Carter loved his daughter dearly, but he knew her too well to fully trust those wide, innocent green eyes. Just as they had so often beguiled him to spare the rod when she was younger, so he could easily see how they might have tempted a young cavalier like Robert Pole, well used to getting what he wanted, especially from women.

“No, father, he has not.”  But she could not hold his gaze; she looked away from him into the fire, her face half-hidden by the red glow of her hair. “Well, not really improper.”

"Ann, tell me. Remember, a lie endangers your immortal soul."

She knew it, and trembled within – an icy shiver that started from her stomach and spread through all her limbs, leaving her cold and desperate and a little distant from herself, so that she watched her own seemingly nervous, blushing reply critically, as though it were a performance.

“It was … it was not really improper, father, only … he did ask if I would ride a little along with him. But I didn’t go, and he took my refusal most gentlemanlike. I … I think he meant no harm by it.”

"And that was all? You didn't go?"

"No, father."

“Then no harm’s done.” He looked at her steadily for a moment, silent. She saw herself through his eyes – calm now, no longer blushing, hands modestly clasped on her lap, able to face him again with those wide, innocent eyes, and then look away, humbly, towards the fire. The performance would do – if only this terrible flutter did not keep returning to her stomach.

“I’m glad, then. For you know, Ann, he is far above us in wealth and position, and his opinions and those of his family are not shared by most men of this village. And we live in times when men’s opinions may easily lead to blows – ‘tis not every man who will submit peaceably to having his house searched and his wife disturbed by some whipper-snapper with a magistrate’s warrant in one hand and a pistol in the other!”

“Oh, father, I can hardly believe it of him! To disturb a woman in childbed, in her own house – surely there must be some mistake?” She hesitated, realizing that the concern in her voice was too sincere. “I mean only, he seemed so gentlemanlike and fair-spoken, I couldn’t imagine it of him.”

“Fair-spoken to you perhaps, when he was trying to beguile a pretty girl by the road-side; but he is a soldier, Ann, and such rude violence is part of the everyday life of such men. Oh Ann, I do believe he has beguiled you too, with his fair words and handsome clothes – ‘tis true, isn’t it, girl?”

She looked down shyly, the picture of modesty. “Perhaps, a little, father. He did seem a fine man, and not at all unmannerly.”

“Ann, my dear, that’s how they all seem, when they want something of a maid! And you mustn’t think I’d be set against the lad, for all his Tory ways, if the Lord was to see fit to send him to me to ask permission to make my daughter a lady in Shute manor. ‘Twould be a fine thing, for the daughter of a humble mercer and carrier, with a bit of trade and a few pack-horses to his name. But that’s not what he has in mind, my girl, is it now?”

For a moment there had been a slight shy hope in his voice, far behind the firm, fatherly kindness and worldly wisdom. She looked away from him, into the embers of the fire.

"No, father, I suppose not." For a second she wished she could respond to his kindness and that shy hope, and tell him the truth about her love for Robert and his plans, and the temptation she felt … But she knew he would be appalled at their shamelessness, and certain that Robert was trying to trick her by offering even so much. And - wouldn't he be right?

“So if you should happen to see him again, give him a cool answer and pass by. ‘Twill save you a lot of trouble in the end. And in any case, there be better men nearer home.”

“Yes, father.”

“You know that Tom Goodchild came to see me, some days ago, to ask my permission to pay court to you?”

Ann did not move, but her heart began to beat hard against her ribs. To lie by showing any interest in Tom would get her out of the danger of one trap into another. And yet it was a trap that, three weeks ago, she would have longed for.

Adam persisted. "Has he spoken to you of it yet?"

“He has asked me to wear his ring.”

“Has he, by Heaven! Then you’re a lucky girl! But where is it? You aren’t wearing it.”

“I ... I told him I wasn't sure. I think ... perhaps I'm too young.”