Free Forged in the Fire by Ann Turnbull

realized then that Nat had not mentioned my employer for some time; and I, with my recurring fever and lethargy, had not thought to enquire of him.
    â€œHe has died,” said Nat. “Cecily died first—”
    â€œCecily too?” A sense of horror and disbelief swept over me. “But – but the children? And the maid – Dorcas?”
    â€œThey are all dead. Ten days ago. I would have told thee, only we – the meeting – agreed to wait till thou wert stronger…”
    He put an arm about my shoulders as I began to weep. I could imagine only too well the agony of the family’s last days.
    â€œThe children?” I said. “Were they left? Did they die alone?”
    â€œNo one was ever alone. Cecily and James died first, then Dorcas. But Jane Catlin was there, and stayed with the children until the end.”
    Jane Catlin. A good woman, but not their mother. How Agnes and Stephen must have screamed for their mother! I tried not to think of it.
    Nat was crying with me now. “I didn’t want to tell thee yet. They are with God, Will; all of them. We must take comfort from that.”
    We sat in silence awhile.
    It was not until the next day that the thought came to me that I had lost not only my friend but my employment and future prospects. I had no work to return to. How could I offer marriage to Susanna now? I was little better off than when I had left Hemsbury.
    I must write, I thought, as soon as it’s safe. Air the letter well over vinegar and take all precautions. Tell her everything. And yet I dreaded the thought of writing down all the trouble that had befallen us; it would be a catalogue of horrors. A short letter must suffice.

Susanna
    A t last, about the time of the feast folk call All Hallows, came a letter from Will.
    When I saw his handwriting, I felt such relief and happiness that I could not break the seal fast enough. The letter trembled in my hands.
    It was brief, written in a shaky script that frightened me more than any news it contained. He had been in prison, he said, and had been left weak from an ague which would not let go of him; but not to fear – he was recovering and being cared for by Friends.
    Such terrible things have happened, more than I have strength or courage to tell thee now; only that my circumstances are quite changed. I will write thee more when I am able. Till then, dear love, I pray God keep thee safe…
    This letter left me with more questions than answers. I scanned it again and again. How ill was he? Was he out of danger? What terrible events had occurred? What change? And when would I see him? He’d said nothing of our marriage, nothing of coming to Shropshire, nor of whether the ban on travel had been lifted.
    I remembered my promise to Henry Heywood, and sent Antony with a note. It said simply that Will was alive and had written to me; and I received a brief acknowledgement in reply.
    A few days later Mary had a letter from Nat which reassured us that both he and Will were safe. Nat was never one for long letters, but this was briefer than most and hinted, like Will’s, at more news to come. A great fear began to grow in me that something had happened to prevent my marriage to Will.
    At our next meeting for worship we heard that those London Friends sentenced to transportation were still on the prison ship, the
Black Spread-Eagle
, holed up at Woolwich, unable to sail because the master had been arrested for debt. The pestilence had come among them, and was taking their lives one by one. Despite the plague, it seemed, the persecution of our people in the city continued. Many of them suffered also from the loss of their livelihood – for almost nothing could be exported, seamen and porters were out of work, and the trade in goods such as wigs and used clothes had ceased almost entirely. Alice Betts, a shoemaker’s widow and a woman of much simplicity and goodness, said she felt a concern