Cromwell’s Blessing. Peter Ransley
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Название: Cromwell’s Blessing
Автор: Peter Ransley
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Историческая литература
isbn: 9780007463596
isbn:
By the time Mr Tooley had sprinkled water and made the sign of the cross, christening the baby Elizabeth Neave Stonehouse, she was not coughing or moving, but Anne swore she could feel Liz’s heart beating and Mr Tooley said he felt her breath on his hand.
Sarah built up the fire at Half Moon Court, which revived Anne, who was chilled to the bone, but nothing could revive little Liz. When Anne’s eyes jerked closed I took the baby and whispered to her as I used to do, chafing her limbs and kissing her, feeling sure that I saw a finger unclench, or the tiny eyelids tremble, until I felt overcome and Anne took her. I scarcely noticed people passing or heard what they said, but I did see that Kate had brought the simnel cake that she used to make for my birthday. She had made it for a happier baptism and tried to conceal it. But Mr Tooley told her to cut it and divide it with a piece for everyone, for it was a resurrection cake.
It was still dark when Matthew stirred us. From one of the parishioners he had found the wood to make a small coffin. Mr Tooley roused the gravediggers early to prepare a grave on the patch of ground that Mr Black had bought for his family. The tears came then and I kept feeling Liz was alive, and would not let them have her until, as the first glimmers of light appeared in the sky, Mr Tooley warned me the Presbyterians would not let him carry out the ceremony if we left it too late.
More like grave robbers than mourners, we hurried to the churchyard. A thin, mean wind whipped around us. It was still more night than day and we could scarcely see to pick up soil to throw. It took only a few handfuls to cover the coffin.
But, as the earth rattled on the lid, grief was followed by lacerating guilt. I could never forgive myself for my delay in returning home with the syrup. It might have made a difference. I might have found Mr Tooley, might have prevented Anne in her distraught state from taking Liz into that cold, damp church. Might, might, might.
Guilt was overcome by anger. If Mr Tooley had never been driven from the church in the first place, Liz might have lived. At least she would have had a more peaceful end and we could have mourned her loss. I had too much anger to mourn. More than Liz was buried that cold morning. For me, peace was buried with her.
What peace could there be with intolerant men like George, Sir Lewis Challoner and Burke? As we left the churchyard, Mr Tooley was being taken by the pewterer to a safe house in another parish. Did it never occur to the Presbyterians that the rising discord and unrest among Baptists and other sects came, not so much from them, as from the Presbyterians’ intolerance to them?
What if Lord Stonehouse was right and the Presbyterians took control? If they put Charles back on the throne without safeguards or a strong man like Cromwell to keep him in check? Lord Stonehouse’s bleak words rang in my head.
‘I would be executed. So would you. What would happen to Luke, I do not know.’
I stopped at the lych gate, turning to see Luke struggling to keep up as he held on to his mother’s hand. I held out my arms to him and he ran towards me, hurling himself into them. Anne gave me an eloquent look, a mixture of approval and surprise that he had run to me so readily, and I realised that, as much as anything, it was my aloofness that had kept him away.
He wriggled, pulling at a lock of my red hair as if he did not believe it was real. He had black hair, like a proper Stonehouse. ‘Is Liz in heaven?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then why did the man say she was going to hell?’
‘Because he’s a bad man.’
‘Are you going to kill him?’
I hushed him, pulling him close as he snuggled against me, wrapping my cloak round him against the biting wind.
Lord Stonehouse was as unpredictable as the weather which, cruelly, two days after the funeral, became not just spring but summer, so warm that the front doors of the house in Queen Street were wide open. I thought I had missed him, for his carriage shot out of the yard as I approached, but he was not in it. The sole occupant was a lady. Her face was veiled so I could see none of her features, except the greenish glitter of her eyes.
When Mr Cole showed me in, Lord Stonehouse’s whole stance at the window, a slight smile on his face as he stared in the direction the carriage had taken, suggested to me, improbable as it may seem, that he was in love.
Love, however, had not made him notice summer. The windows were shut and the coal fire burning as usual. It was so stifling that sweat trickled down my back as I stood on the patch of carpet. When he eventually turned to acknowledge my existence there was no smile on his face. He gave me the same cold look of distaste as he gave the flask of cordial, which had replaced the usual wine on his desk.
‘Come to your senses?’
I felt I had no senses to come to. They had been buried with Liz. I wanted to mourn, to weep, to pray, but I could not. Once, when I went up to the nursery where her crib was, and rocked it, just for a moment, I saw her turn and it was so real I found myself holding out my finger for her to grasp before she vanished. But I could not weep. Curiously, it was Anne, who had never seemed to care for her while she was alive, who wept and mourned. At least I could meet Lord Stonehouse’s gaze with a look as dead and cold as his.
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