Free Forged in the Fire by Ann Turnbull Page A

to go to London and visit our Friends in that afflicted city.
    That night I came to a decision. I could not live with my fears any longer. Since news had not come to me, I must seek it myself. I would go to London and find out what had happened to Will. As soon as I had made this decision, hope sprang up again in my heart. I began to believe that all would be well, as Judith had said.
    I knew all manner of sensible arguments would be used by friends and family to keep me at home, but I resolved then and there not to listen to them. I’d travel with Alice Betts, if she’d have me; I reckoned I’d find an ally in her. I had told Will, long ago, that when the time was right I would go to him; that no one should prevent me. I believed that time had come now.

William
    T owards the end of October the Ramseys’ physician decided I was no longer a plague risk, and Edmund allowed me out of my confinement. It was a great joy for me to be able to join him that evening at dinner and to feel that I had re-entered the world. When I went into prison it had been full summer. Now the leaves of the almond tree in the garden were yellow and falling; winter would soon be here.
    I was still alone most days, since Edmund was out and about with his business, but now I had access to other parts of the house. It was a much grander establishment than my father’s, where we lived over the warehouse, and yet Edmund Ramsey was a merchant like my father, if a wealthier one, and the way of life was familiar to me. My father had his closet with a globe and maps and several shelves of books; but here there was a library – a room filled from floor to ceiling with books of all kinds. In the drawing room were gilt-framed mirrors, oriental vases, a small cabinet inlaid in ivory with birds and flowers, polished wood underfoot. Also in that room was the virginal: a pretty instrument painted with landscape scenes; my sister would have loved it, I thought, and I felt a stirring of homesickness.
    Music had left my life almost completely since I became a Friend. I still had the flute I’d brought with me from Shropshire, and sometimes, at home with Nat, I would play a few tunes; but most Friends had come to disapprove of music-making, so there was no place for it in our social lives.
    However, Edmund had said I might play if I wished. I opened the lid of the virginal, revealing another rural scene painted on the inside. There was sheet music on a low table near by. I leafed through it, noting several songs, a book of dances, but mostly instrumental music. I chose a piece by Byrd, one I knew from my schooldays at Oxford.
    I began to play – and almost at once stopped. The stiffness of my fingers after so many years of disuse was unendurable. I flexed and stretched them, and tried again.
    Still my performance did not please me, though a little of the stiffness gradually wore off. But Byrd’s music woke in me memories of playing the harpsichord and flute at school in Oxford, and of singing in the church choir. A whole world had been closed to me since I turned my back on the Anglican Church. I found myself longing for my father’s house, for the music we used to play, the songs and rounds we’d sing together.
    I played on, absorbed in the music, and felt the horrors of Newgate begin, at last, to fall away from me. Surely, I thought, a world in which such beauty existed could not be lost to God?
    That evening, as we sat in the dining room, I thanked Edmund for his kindness and for the solace the music had brought me.
    â€œBut I must find work,” I said. “I have imposed on thy generosity for too long.”
    â€œThou might work for
me
for a while, if thou wish,” he replied.
    â€œFor thee?” I was surprised.
    â€œNot in my business. Here, in my library.” Evidently this was something he had been considering. “I wish to sort and catalogue the books; remove some I no longer think suitable