London (115 page)

He could not. A week later, Jane returned.

“Gideon has had Bocton searched,” she told him. “The chest was never there. What have you done with it?” His assurance that he knew nothing more about it drew only an angry snort. “You will hear more,” she promised.

She was as good as her word. She challenged him again and again. She had a lawyer write to him. She demanded to search the house, which he indignantly refused. A year passed. And another. And still she was not satisfied.

1652

Yes, Martha reflected, she had been blessed with a joyous homecoming. How sweet it was to be reunited with Gideon and his family, with dear Mrs Wheeler, and with her husband too, of course. She wished indeed that she had paid heed to Gideon’s urgent letters, and come sooner. But most important of all, it was clear to her now, just as Gideon had told her, that in old England after all – perhaps even more than in Massachusetts – there was a chance to realize her lifelong dream.

Truth to tell, Martha had grown a little disappointed in Massachusetts. She had hardly liked to admit it even to herself while she was there; but as she confided to her friend Mrs Wheeler: “There has been some backsliding in New England.” In Boston and Plymouth, even. And when Mrs Wheeler gently enquired what it was that had tempted some of the colony from the path of righteousness, Martha did not hesitate. “Cod. It’s fish that have taken men from the Lord.”

The catch off the New England coast had been phenomenal, past all the settlers’ wildest dreams. “There are so many fish,” they declared, “you can almost walk on the waters.” Every year the Massachusetts fishermen were sending between a third and half a million barrels of fish across the ocean to England. “God has granted them such abundance they do not think they need Him,” Martha complained. “They are laying up treasure on earth instead of in heaven.” Indeed, the growing riches of the men by the coast, and the promise of wealth for the farmers and for trappers who were staking out great land claims in the interior, had so insidiously worked upon men’s hearts that there was hardly a church in the colony that had not been affected. “They speak of God, but they think of money,” Martha admitted sadly. And some of the fishermen did not even trouble to do that; Martha could never forget, or quite forgive, the terrible occasion when the eldest Dogget son, now a sea captain of some wealth, had turned on her and shouted: “Damn it, woman, I came here to fish, not to pray.”

It was not Governor Winthrop’s fault, it was not the fault of the good men and women of the congregations, but subtly the character of the Massachusetts colony was taking on the duality it was never to lose: Protestantism and money would walk together henceforth, hand in hand, in New England’s promised land.

It was therefore in an uncertain frame of mind that Martha had received Gideon’s urgent summons three years before. With the death of the king, he promised her, Cromwell’s saints would build a new order, worthy of her. “We need you here,” his letter declared. “And your husband too,” he had continued, “is greatly in need of your moral guidance.” For a year and a half, all the same, she had hesitated before finally, and after much prayer, deciding to return. With her she brought Dogget’s younger son, who had failed to achieve citizenship in Massachusetts and thought to try his luck in London, and her own daughter, who Martha feared might be in danger of receiving a tempting offer of marriage from a man who, though godly, was not, she assured her daughter, godly enough.

The England that awaited her was an unfamiliar country. With the execution of the king, the constitution had abruptly changed. The House of Lords was abolished. England was no longer called a kingdom, but the Commonwealth of England, governed by the House of Commons. Nor did anything seem likely to shake the new order. Cromwell, the new state’s great general, grew mightier every year. When the eldest son of the executed king, who proclaimed himself Charles II, had tried to enter his English kingdom with an army of Scots, he and the Scots had been utterly crushed. He was living uselessly abroad now. Cromwell had crushed the troublesome Irish too and completely subdued them. It was said he had shed much Irish blood. “But they are papists,” Martha said, “so perhaps it was necessary.” Even the Levellers in his own army had been brought to heel. The Commonwealth of England was in good order, ready to receive God’s law.

Of course, there was much to do. The shining city would not be built in a day. Thanks to Cromwell’s one weakness, his religious tolerance, Martha was sad to see that the churches of London remained in some confusion. “Many of these would probably be just as content whether they served a bishop, a Presbyterian assembly or any other form of authority,” she shrewdly judged. Nor were the people all as well-behaved as she would have wished. It was hard to promote perfect order in so large a city as London. What mattered was whether a society was striving to improve its morals, whether things were getting gradually better, or worse.

And the rule of the saints astonished her. Never before, in its entire history, had the old city seen anything like it. Even if, as usually happens, the changes were pushed through by an active minority, this godly few had broad support. The Londoners in the street were for the most part so soberly dressed that she might have been in Boston. The Sabbath was strictly observed: no sports were allowed; even going for a walk, unless to church, was frowned upon. No maypoles were permitted. The moral code was strictly enforced by the courts, too, with severe penalties for acts of gross immorality and fines for minor infringements. Her own husband had been fined a shilling, just before her arrival, for swearing a blasphemous oath. “You were rightly reproved, husband,” she told him with satisfaction. But best of all, for Martha, was the fact that the playhouses, closed at the opening of the Civil War, had now been boarded up and ordered never to open again. “Not a single play in all London,” she smiled. “The Lord be praised.”

How blessed she was too, she thought humbly, that her own family should be in such a healthy and godly condition. All Gideon’s were safely married now – for even Perseverance had been found a worthy, if silent husband. As for young O Be Joyful, his serious but loving nature was an inspiration to her. “You will be a fine carver of wood,” she told him, “because you will carve for the Lord.”

The one matter that puzzled her a little was the welfare of her husband. Gideon had been so insistent when he wrote that Dogget needed her moral guidance that, the day after her return, she had taken him aside and asked him what he meant. Whatever it was, Gideon had seemed embarrassed, reluctant to be explicit. “Is it drink?” she asked, “or swearing?” She knew that Dogget was not as strong a soul as she, but he was not a bad fellow and she reminded Gideon: “We must show compassion and forgiveness to our weaker brother, nephew Gideon. All will be well.”

It was her duty to love Dogget, but also to help him, she told herself. The first night they spent together he had put his arm round her, which she thought proper; but when, the second night, his hands tentatively started to roam, she had gently though kindly reproved him. “Those things are done for the begetting of children,” she said. “But God gives us no cause for such things now.” And she had been glad to see that he meekly obeyed.

She had to confess though, she was glad of the presence of dear Mrs Wheeler who would take him off her hands for an hour or two. What a sensible and kindly woman the widow was. If she could not quite approve of her long-standing feud with Sir Julius Ducket – “You should not think of money so much,” she felt it her duty to tell her – she did not doubt that Sir Julius was at fault and deserved to be called to account. So she did not often reprove the widow and instead would say to Dogget, “Why don’t you go to see Mrs Wheeler for a while?”

If she had taken Meredith’s advice, Jane would have given the business up long ago. “Sooner or later it will come out that Barnikel was a blackamoor and a pirate,” he warned. “Then you lose your own reputation, and even the Roundheads would take Sir Julius’s word over a pirate’s.” But Jane knew Julius was lying; the businesswoman in her resented being made a fool of. “I don’t care,” she told Meredith. “I want my money.”

It was not easy to know what to do. She did not scruple to harass him every time she saw him in the street, and she would loudly call: “What have you done with my money?” Her lawyers continued to write him letters, but nothing much came of it, and he politely ignored her. Then, in December of that year, seeing the baronet’s wife buying meat in the market, Jane suddenly had an idea for a new and ingenious offensive. It was a long shot, but worth a try. She would also need help; but she knew where to get it. She went to see Martha.

It still surprised her that the earnest Puritan had never realized she was having an affair with her husband. Though, she thought with a smile, at their age she would hardly describe it in terms of illicit passion. It was, strictly speaking, a betrayal of their friendship of course, yet even on that count, Jane could not feel very guilty. For years they had lived three thousand miles apart. In her view, the affair was, as much as anything, an act of friendship for a lonely man. And since Martha’s return? Well, she had supposed it would end; but a few days after Martha and he were living together Dogget sadly informed her: “She says we’re too old for it. God wouldn’t approve.” And Jane, with a laugh, had given him a kiss. “What are we to do then?” she had smiled.

Sometimes she had even wondered if perhaps Martha did know and chose to ignore it. She clearly has no desire for him herself, she thought, and she seems glad enough to get him off her hands. But then, as she considered Martha’s earnest nature she decided: no, she does not know, but in truth she is hardly curious enough even to discover. So the affair continued. Dogget, she could see, was getting an old man now. I bring him life, she realized, and warmth. As for herself – why, the same, to be sure.

They used to meet on Sunday afternoon. Martha and the rest of the family would attend the afternoon service at St Lawrence Silversleeves or sometimes go further afield to hear a sermon. But Martha did not seem to mind if he remained behind; and then he would go round to the house of Jane Wheeler and spend an hour or two there. Even if he casually mentioned that he had called on her, Martha thought nothing of it.

When Jane outlined her plan to her friend Martha, therefore, Martha was receptive. “You are right,” she declared. “Something should be done. I shall speak to Gideon.”

On the 25 December in the year of Our Lord 1652, Sir Julius Ducket and members of his family sat down at table in the big panelled parlour, and smiled at each other conspiratorially, because they were about to commit a crime.

First however, as was his habit, before the meal began Sir Julius reverently brought out a small book. No important anniversary ever passed without his quietly reading from it and reminding his family of their duty, and he did so now.

It was an inspirational little volume. Its title,
Eikon Basilike
was taken from Greek and meant “The Image of the King”. The simple, moving text was said to be the prayers and reflections of the martyred king; and within three months of Charles’s death it had gone through thirty printings. The Roundheads had indignantly tried to censor it. Then they had engaged the great Puritan poet, John Milton, to write a pamphlet against it. But it was no good: even men who supported Parliament but had doubts about Cromwell’s new military regime might read the king’s book and, finding only sweetness and humble devotion there, begin to wonder if his execution had been just.

For the Ducket family, of course, the issue was not even in question. The book was like a little Bible; the king a holy martyr; and having read a few pages, Sir Julius quietly laid it down and reminded them: “Charles II is our true king; should he die, he is succeeded by his brother James. Remember, we have promised.” Then, with happy faces, they set out their Christmas dinner.

They did not hear the soldiers approach the house and enter the courtyard; and they were completely taken by surprise when suddenly, with a bang, the door flew open and Gideon, together with four troopers, marched in and surrounded the table.

“Sir Julius,” he announced. “You will answer to the magistrates for this.” For the crime which the baronet had committed was not the reading of the little book, which he had just had time to slip into his pocket, nor even his words about the king; the crime of Sir Julius Ducket and his family was that they were having Christmas dinner.

For this was another of the improvements that the saints had wrought. “The great holy days should be like the Sabbath,” they declared: “times for solemn prayer, not heathen festivals.” The English people must be brought closer to God. Anyone caught having Christmas dinner, in the year of Our Lord 1652, was liable to appear on a charge in court. “You have profaned the Holy Day,” Gideon said in disgust, then ordered the troops: “Search the house.”

“Search the house?” Julius demanded. “Whatever for?”

“Superstitious images. Evidence of popery,” Gideon calmly announced.

There was nothing Julius could do about it. For half an hour the Roundheads went from room to room, opening cupboards, chests, turning over mattresses; they even searched the cellar, but they found nothing. Julius was not afraid. Even for a known Malignant, the penalty for eating Christmas dinner would only be a modest fine. Furious at the violation of his home, however, he followed them round, remarking contemptuously to Gideon: “I just want to make sure none of you steals anything.”

He was in an upper room when, glancing out of the window, he noticed the two women. Martha and Jane were waiting by the outer gate, looking in expectantly. Martha he could understand. But why Jane? Why should she be concerned about his business? Then he suddenly understood; turning upon Gideon he cried: “You aren’t looking for papist images, are you? You’re looking for the Wheeler widow’s money.” And Gideon, just for a second, blushed.

Seeing Julius’s wife buy such a large joint of beef in the market had given Jane the idea. They must be planning a Christmas dinner, she had thought. What a perfect excuse. Martha had organized the rest.