South Ormsby
South Ormsby
Her name was Molly, too, but she bore absolutely no resemblance to the Molly who had rapped on the door of Susanna’s flat in London. Well, there was perhaps one thing alike; her knock was almost as timid.
She was as wide as two London Mollys and twice as old. She sat now at Susanna’s little table—her face raw and weatherworn like the Lincolnshire Wolds themselves—and sipped tea from one of those delicate little cups the other Molly had liked so well. The coarse, burly hands contrasted curiously with the fragile white pottery. Daintily she wiped her mouth on the hem of her apron.
“Thank you, Miz Wezzley, mum, for inviting me in like this. We be naught more than simple rural folk here, as ye know; don’t know quite how to greet elegant city people. I mean, when they comes to live amongst us. Now the marquis, he just makes himself to home down to the pub. But that’s different, of course.”
“The Marquis of Normanby. I understand he has a summer home out here in South Ormsby.”
“Aye, up behind the glen there. Huge place. My cousin’s niece works as a chambermaid there, and my husband’s brother’s uncle—on his wife’s side—does the gardening. Got three helpers, he does.”
“Comes up often?”
“In summer, aye. Not when the roads are bad. Big house, likely quite chill in winter despite its great fireplaces.” She snickered. “There’s good advantage to living humble in a country croft, eh, Miz Wezzley? So warm and cozy when the wind comes howling.”
“Indeed. Have you met his wife?”
“No, mum.” A great block of winter ice seemed to come crashing down upon the voice and manner. Perhaps there were hard feelings there; Susanna quickly shifted topics.
“You mentioned gardening. The vegetable patches here seem to be less advanced than the ones we saw in London. Of course, that was nearly two months ago now.”
“Eh, y’re right. We’re a bit behind London, I hear; cooler here, little later getting the good weather of spring. But we can still enjoy our mustard greens and broadbeans after yours are all gone. And our chard comes earlier. And ye see how well the cabbage is doing this year! Good hard heads; they’ll store well. Less sickness in the winter when it’s been a good cabbage year.”
Already Susanna had heard more about gardening than she cared to know, but Molly was waxing enthusiastic on what was obviously a favorite subject—how the hamlet’s general health seemed to be influenced by the kinds of vegetables grown in plenty. “Ye see, Miz Wezzley, different things grow better some years than others, it seems.”
Susanna really wished the garrulous lady would leave. She felt bad and was beginning to feel worse. Her headache and her nausea, which had never really left her today, fought each other for control. Little Sam snuffled, fussed a moment, and began to wail.
“Awake already. His naps get shorter and shorter.” Susanna started to lurch to her feet, but a brawny hand gripped her arm.
“Ye sit now, Miz Wezzley. I haven’t bounced a baby in years, and I’d love the chance this once, if I mought.” Agile as a ten-year-old, the hefty woman bounded to her feet and crossed to Sammy’s cradle. With coos and giggles and happy faces she scooped him up and brought him to the table. “Eight months old now, I ken.”
“Almost exactly. You’ve a good eye.”
“Better’n ye know.” The lady’s whole face twinkled. “If I might be so bold, I’d judge y’r next one’s due in spring.”
Susanna wagged her head. “I didn’t realize I showed yet.”
“Shows early on slim and pretty girls, such as y’rself. Y’re city bred, mum, and may not ken. But here in the country, everyone knows everything about everyone, maybe even before they knows it themselves. Courtships and babies and who’s slipping around on the sly. It’s all known. ‘Tis the way of it out here.”
“I’m sure when I learn people’s names and become more familiar with the area that I’ll get to know everyone better.”
Molly nodded and wiped Sammy’s droolly chin with the hem of her apron. “More or less. But gossip usually ain’t fitting for the ears of the preacher’s wife, so you may be the last to know. How it’s been in the past, anyway.”
“Gossip’s not fitting for anyone’s ears, Molly. St. James specifically warns about the damage the tongue can do.”
“Umph. I ‘spect St. James never lived in South Ormsby.”
Winter treats some parts of the world kindly, Susanna had heard. In tropical climes, no harsh north winds claw at one’s cheeks and bring tears to the eyes. Biting cold never seeps through the window cracks or shoulders its way in under the loose thatching. But she was not in a tropical clime.
Sam really was going to have to get their place rethatched. Susanna curled up in bed with the comforters piled high and watched rainwater drip from between two loose boards in the loft. The drips missed the bed by inches.
Little Sam crawled lickety-split across the floor, like a racehorse in the homestretch. He stopped at the table, flipped to sitting but a moment, then pulled himself to standing with the table leg. He’d be walking shortly; then Susanna would really have her hands full!
Beside her in the bed, huddled against her breast, baby Sukey squirmed. Quickly Susanna offered her dinner, but the baby hardly seemed interested. A few moments of nursing and she drifted off to sleep again. So tiny. The child was so tiny. Born much too early, little Sukey. She wasn’t due until April at least, and here she was already with spring not even in the air yet.
The mud-hut rectory felt even smaller now, with the last gasps of winter ravaging it, as cramped and confining as the little pantry back home in Spital Yard. No, Susanna mustn’t think that. This was home now, the place where God had put her. Spital Yard was past. Gone.
Little Sam headed straight for the chamber pot, and Susanna was nowhere near quick enough to catch him in time. Saved! Big Sam came charging in the door amid a swirl of wind and cold rain. Instantly distracted, Sammy Junior rotated onto his bottom, altered direction, and crawled to Papa in that four-legged lope.
Sam shed his cloak, gathered up his son, and plumped down on the edge of the bed. “Mrs. Wickham missed church last week because her three were down with the croup and the mister’s working up in Grimsby until May. Hiram Haye claims there’s smallpox and typhoid both in Lincoln, but he’s not heard of any closer. That little blonde girl—married the pig farmer, you remember?—finally bore her child; a boy, named William for the king.” He leaned over to rub Susanna’s shoulder. “Feel any better?”
“No stronger. Spending most of the winter abed didn’t do a thing for me.”
“And how is Sukey?”
“She’s so listless. Not bright, like Sam was. And very hard to keep warm. Her little hands and feet turn cold the instant I move her away from my own body warmth.”
Sam’s features melted further, from concern to sadness. “The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.”
“And in all this Job sinned not, nor charged God foolishly.” Susanna completed the thought from the book of Job.
“I’ve read that passage a score of times and never until now realized how strong a man Job was.” Sam pushed aside the blanket and ran a huge, stocky finger down the tiny cheek. “She’s so delicate. And beautiful. Like you.”
Never quite full-size, never quite fully active, frail baby Sukey died. Emilia came along, though, in 1692, and made up in robustness all her sister had lacked. Twins arrived the next year, and both died. In December beloved Queen Mary died, too—of smallpox. She was only eight years older than Susanna.
When Susanna bore a baby girl in 1695 she named it Susanna and petitioned the Lord especially to spare this one. He did so.
Susanna herself was feeling stronger, too. The first Susanna had drained her, the twins even more so, both physically and emotionally. In her six years of marriage so far she had borne six children. But now, for the first time in a very long time, she could work the day through without having to lie down.
Today she leaned in her open doorway and watched five-year-old Sammy build an elaborate castle out of mud from the roadside ditch. Her pride and her sorrow, little Sammy.
Here came Papa Sam down the road, and Susanna could tell from a quarter mile away that his visitations had not gone well. A thick cloud seemed to hang above his head to cast darkness on that expressive face.
Little Sam came popping out of the ditch to greet his father. He froze in place, uncertain; he could read faces as well as anyone.
“Greet your papa later, Sammy. Go play now. Besides, you don’t want to get mud all over Papa’s frock.”
The boy’s eyes shifted from face to face a moment. Then he submerged himself again in the ditch, hauling building materials, watching every movement from a safe distance.
“I’ll make you a pot of tea while you tell me what has gone wrong with your day.” Susanna brought herself erect and stepped into the darkness of her home.
“What’s that baker woman’s name?”
“Matty Billings, or Emma Dorsett.”
“Billings. That one.” Sam threw his hat onto the bed and almost woke both Emilia and little Sukey. “She stopped me on the street and commented on the fact that our Samuel has never once spoken a word.”
“It’s common knowledge. Nothing goes unknown in this village.” Little Sammy, her pride and her sorrow.
“First she asked me if he can hear.”
“Of course he can hear. You speak to him and he obeys. Sharp sounds startle him.”
“She decided that as well; delightful woman that she is, for much the same reasons. She tells me she even clapped her hands once when he passed her gate, just to see if he’d turn.”
Susanna dropped leaves into the teapot and clapped the lid down. “If this were London I’d say it’s none of her concern, but this being Ormsby, such things are apparently everyone’s concern. You didn’t explode again, did you?”
“Not just then. When she compared our Sam to the Holletts’ idiot child, that’s when I got angry.”
“And you forgot all those prayers you offered God regarding your temper and caused an ugly public scene again.”
“He’s not an idiot!”
Baby Sukey scrunched her face. Emilia opened her eyes.
Susanna sighed. “No, Sam, he’s not an idiot. Neither does he speak. Mute or talkative, he’s the Lord’s servant. Let the neighbors think what they wish.”
Sam sat scowling at his teacup.
“Did you get another letter from John Dunton?”
He looked at her. “Now you read minds. Yes.”
“I do wish you two would patch up your differences, for my sake and Elizabeth’s if not for your own. You do enough squabbling with near strangers. You shouldn’t be at odds with one of your best friends. It’s hard on you. You’re not that kind of person to take it lightly.”
“The Athenian’s folded.”
“What?”
“The Athenian Mercury. The periodical I’ve been writing articles for all these years. John closed it down.”
“This was supposed to be a three-man enterprise; you, John Dunton, and Richard Sault. What has Richard to say about it?”
“The letter didn’t mention Richard’s opinion.” Sam rubbed his face and nearly tipped his tea. “John said circulation was down, and the chore was becoming burdensome. Sukey, I wrote a third of that paper every week. My poetry—sure, there was some doggerel, but there was some very good stuff, too.”
“I see. And John wrote that he didn’t want to edit your doggerel any more.”
Sam’s cheeks were getting red. They only did that when he was worried as well as angry. “This living pays fifty pounds a year.”
“I know.”
“There’s no way we can live on fifty pounds a year; I’m already in debt more than that amount. I need the money the Athenian was bringing in. I mean, we need the money.”
“The Lord feeds the ravens of the field.”
“Not on fifty pounds a year, He doesn’t.”
“You’re bordering on blasphemy.”
“And I don’t need a lecture on religion right now.”
“You’ve already awakened the children. I suggest you take a long walk—down to the fens, perhaps; the wildland there seems to soothe your nerves as well as any place—until you’ve brought your ire under better control. I married you for better or for worse, but I would just as soon the worse not take place in my presence.”
He glared at her hotly, then bolted upright, snatched his hat from the bed, and stormed out. She closed her eyes a few moments and wished the children’s were still closed as well. She knew the pattern Sam’s actions would take. He would huff and puff and walk and snap at people. Like a porridge taken from the fire he would simmer and wane until, like porridge, he would be cool enough to endure. In a few hours he would be back at the door, contrite and looking for his next rainbow.
Susanna gave Emilia a bit of bread for herself and one for brother and sent her out to play. She changed Sukey and was just about to feed her when someone rapped at the doorjamb.
A very nicely dressed woman stood there. The hat was correct for this season. Her lace collar lay just to the points of her shoulders. She was somewhat older than Susanna and really quite pretty. Susanna’s first impression was that this might be the marquis’s wife, for in the five years they had been at South Ormsby, Susanna had never once met the lady.
“Do come in, madam. Tea is made. May I serve you?”
“That’s very nice of you. Thank you.” The woman stepped forward. “You’re Susanna Wesley, the rector’s wife?”
“Yes. Am I—”
Little Sukey got tired of waiting. She tied herself in a tight knot, knees pulled up, and let go with her “Now!” wail. What should Susanna do? One does not nurse a child in front of a marchioness.
“Oh, I’m sorry to have disturbed one of the most urgent things in life.” The woman smiled kindly. “If you don’t care to feed the child in front of a stranger, I’ll return later.”
“I would enjoy your company.” Susanna let Sukey howl until she had offered the lady a chair and poured tea. Then, at last, the squirming and the screaming stopped.
The woman sipped in the sudden silence a moment, as if uncertain what to say. But then, what does her ladyship say to a simple rector’s wife? “I have increasingly felt the urge to come call. To—uh—talk to someone about, well, you know—Then I thought it best to wait until after your newborn was a bit bigger.”
“And I, too, would have come calling, but I never quite know when you’ll be at your summer place. The marquis seems to come and go at odd times.”
Huge limpid eyes snapped up to look at Susanna. They drifted down to the teacup again. “Lovely cups.”
“Thank you.”
“Now I understand the warmth of your greeting. You seem to think I’m John Sheffield’s wife.”
“Your elegance suggested that.”
“Thank you.” Her eyes clung to Susanna’s, the expression of a child who has just erred badly and hopes to avoid a beating. “But I’m the marquis’s widow.”
Susanna gasped. “He’s died? Oh, no!”
“No, no! He’s alive and well. You mean you haven’t heard about me? I’m not a lady. I’m just simple rural folk, and a widow. Ask any gossip: the marquis’s widow is the woman who shares his bed when his wife is back home in London.”