Cromwell’s Blessing. Peter Ransley

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       10

      Jane kept saying there was no time, no time. She had a Hackney outside and I scrambled into it with her, leaving Richard at The Pot. We travelled down Fleet Street, and were in Newgate before I pieced together what had happened. Jane told me Anne had called Dr Latchford when Liz’s breathing had become more and more laboured. What little milk Liz took from the wet-nurse, she vomited up. Before the doctor arrived the baby was in such distress that Anne put her on her breast even though she could not suckle. This seemed to revive her, but the doctor said he could do nothing more for her and advised Anne to send for the minister to baptise her.

      ‘Mr Tooley baptised her?’

      ‘No, no. Mr Tooley has gone.’

      ‘Gone?’

      ‘Lost his living. George broke into a cupboard, found his old surplice, prayer books and pictures, and accused him of practising the old religion.’

      A chill ran through me. I was sure I had locked everything back in the cupboard. Then I thought of the old prayer book I had taken out to read. Had I put it back? I could not remember.

      ‘What is going to happen to her?’ Jane sobbed. ‘No one to baptise her. What will happen to her poor little soul?’

      ‘Where is she? Where are we going?’

      ‘Anne took her to your old church to find the new minister. I tried to tell her Liz was too ill, but she is half crazy. She got it in her head she must have Liz baptised, and in that church.’

      It was almost dark when we got to the church. No candles were lit. I could just pick out the figures of a small congregation in the gloom. I stumbled a few steps before I picked out Anne at the font. She was as still as the stone it was carved from. She neither acknowledged me nor spoke. Her whole being was concentrated on the baby, folded in swaddling clothes at her breast.

      ‘Is she …?’

      Anne did not answer. The only movement came from the rise and fall of her breast. The bundle stirred and the smallest, driest cough echoed round the dank church. Anne kissed her and rocked her gently. All the love she had never given Liz after the disappointment of her not being a boy was lavished on her now. Luke ran to me. I took him by the hand, motioned him to be quiet, and asked Jane what was happening.

      ‘The minister has been sent for,’ Jane whispered.

      ‘Mr Tooley?’

      ‘The new Presbyterian minister, Samuel Burke.’

      Anne shivered, it seemed as much from the name as from the cold seeping into her from the damp stones. Her shawl had slipped from her shoulders and I wrapped it round her, alarmed at her ghost-like pallor.

      ‘Is there nowhere warmer you can wait?’ I asked. She did not answer me. ‘Anne?’

      ‘She will not leave the font,’ Jane said.

      I begged Anne to let me take her somewhere warm. She turned to me for the first time, as if she was she was staring at a stranger. Luke seemed to appear from nowhere and went to tug at his mother’s skirts. I snatched him up in my arms. He struggled for a moment, protesting, then twisted round to gaze down at his sister with black, darting eyes, deep-set aside the sharp aquiline crescent of the Stonehouse nose. He rammed a thumb in his mouth. He had sensed from the moment he was born he was special, with the undivided love from Anne and the visits and presents from Lord Stonehouse. His manner suggested he could not understand why this insignificant scrap, who had been nothing but a nuisance from the moment she arrived, was getting all the attention.

      ‘She will go to hell if she is not baptised,’ he said, with a mixture of awe and satisfaction.

      Anne rounded on him furiously. ‘Go to your place!’

      Luke burst into tears at the unexpected ferocity of her attack. I struggled to comfort him but he wriggled and jumped away. My eyes were more accustomed to the dimness now and I saw Mr Black, holding out his arms to Luke. Before Luke reached them, he turned, his voice ringing with injustice.

      ‘He said so. He said she would go to hell.’

      ‘Who did?’

      ‘He did.’

      Luke pointed to a figure crouched in a pew, before flinging himself into his grandfather’s arms in a fresh burst of sobs.

      ‘Who?’ I repeated, reluctant to approach the man, who was deep in prayers.

      ‘Who does tha’ think?’ Sarah’s voice came from the shadows of a pillar, cast by moonlight СКАЧАТЬ