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The Seasoning of Elizabella: A Jamestown Bride Story

By Tamera Lynn Kraft

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London, England
November 1619

Elizabella Clark gave her sister the fiercest look she could conjure. “Why didn’t you inform me about this earlier?”

“Because I knew you would try to stop me.” Honesty didn’t even offer a glance as she escorted the burly cart driver to where her trunk sat in front of the large loom in the center of the room.

“You speak truly.” Elizabella shivered, but ’twas nothing to do with the cold. The main room used as their seamstress shop contained a fire blazing so exceedingly well, she sometimes longed to open a window, no matter how frigid the outside air.

She glanced at the nearest wall where unused bolts of satin, silk, and embroidered linen cloth she’d ordered from a costly weaver lined the shelves. When she first opened the shop, Honesty and she had spent more time weaving than sewing to make ends meet. Tightly woven cloth sheets and blankets went for a fine price, and she’d learned to make short work of them. Now, they had more sewing jobs than they could handle, and the loom often sat idle.

Her stomach knotted into a tight ball. Without Honesty by her side, how could she hope to fill all the orders in a timely fashion?

Two rocking chairs sat empty in front of the hearth, a sewing basket beside each chair. They’d been hired to sew at least a half dozen gowns for the royal ball, and only one was finished. They should have been laboring over the dresses instead of wasting time on this folly. If only her sister would listen to reason.

“I can’t stay.” Honesty’s voice cracked. “After my heartbreak with Sir Robert, it would be too painful. Come with me.”

“Nay, I could never leave our home.” Elizabella turned so her sister wouldn’t see her watery eyes. “Wounds heal. You’ll see. You’re so young, barely old enough to wed at fifteen. Once word is out that you no longer have a suitor, gentlemen and tradesmen will flock around here like pigeons at the marketplace. Time enough to acquire a husband more suited to your station.”

“My station. I tire of hearing I’m not worthy of the mighty Weathersby family.” A tear rolled down Honesty’s cheek, and she swiped at it.

The carter leaned under the weight of the trunk, seemingly unsure of what to do.
“Fiddlesticks. They’re not good enough for you.” Elizabella desired nothing more than to give the eldest son of Lord Weathersby a scolding he’d never forget.

Asking for Honesty’s hand in marriage, then retracting the offer when his father disapproved of the union, was reprehensible. If he hadn’t been a nobleman, she would have had him arrested for breach of contract.

“Every one of them lives in leisure while doing nothing to help those they consider their inferiors. You’re well rid of Sir Robert.”

“He isn’t that sort. He just… His parents are concerned about our upcoming nuptials. He desires to honor them.”

“He should have upheld your honor.” A lump rose in Elizabella’s throat. He wouldn’t defend her sister any more than her father protected her. “He lacks the courage to be a good husband.”

Honesty dried her eyes with her pink embroidered handkerchief made of scraps from one of the gowns she’d sewn. “All the more reason to start a new life in a new land.” She turned to the carter and handed him a coin. “I’ll need it delivered to the London Merchant at Saint Katherine’s Wharf.”

The man readjusted the trunk on his back and carried it to where Elizabella blocked the door, then let out a gusty sigh. She threw up her hands and stepped to the side. He hauled her sister’s belongings to his cart parked on the narrow cobblestone road in front of their brick home. It looked out of place in the affluent neighborhood near the Royal Exchange in Central London.

Elizabella stood at the door, biting her lower lip, and watched him drive away. She turned to her sister. “Consider the consequences of this foolishness. You’ll move away from everyone you hold dear, and for what? You’ve heard the stories. Savages attacks in the middle of the night!” A shudder went through her. “What about disease and starvation? When Mary Cartier sailed back to London after her husband died, she said most who travel to Jamestown don’t even survive the first year.” She took hold of her sister’s hand. “I won’t be there to protect you.”

Honesty pulled her hand away. “I’m a grown woman. I have no need of you hovering over me like a mother hen.”

“We have a good life here. Don’t discard it so easily.”

“Without a husband and children? That’s no life.”

“How could you say I have no life?” Elizabella’s chin trembled. Her sister couldn’t have wounded her more if she had plunged a knife into her heart. “I’ve done everything I could to take care of you, and now that we’ve created a gown for Queen Anne, our shop will become even more lucrative among the rich and titled. We might even need apprentices.”

“Tis your dream, not mine.”

“I did this all for you.”

“I never asked for any of this. I only desire a husband and a brood of offspring.” Honesty draped her dark blue cloak around her shoulders, one of the matching capes Elizabella had made them for Christmas last.

This Yuletide, her sister would be in a savage land all alone. She couldn’t let her leave. “Why can’t you pursue matrimony here?”

Honest fiddled with tying the string at her neck into a bow, then gazed at her, brow furrowed and pity showing in her eyes. “I know what you sacrificed for me, but I’m a grown woman now. You’re still young. At twenty-three, there’s still time to marry and have a family.”

“I do have a family. You! Only you’d rather traipse off to some unknown land and leave me here alone with all these gowns to sew. I’ll never complete them in time.”

“You just spoke of hiring apprentices.”

“I don’t want an apprentice!” Elizabella blinked to keep tears from forming. “You’re the only kin I have left.”

Honesty stood erect, her shoulders back, unmoving. “Please. We may never see each other again.” Her tone was calm, as if she soothed a crying baby. “Do you want our parting to end in a quarrel?”

Elizabella clenched her jaw, unsure of what to do. She couldn’t lose the only person in the world who didn’t blame her for the fire. She could trust no one else, at least no one who loved her.

“Walk with me to the wharf so we can say a proper farewell.”

Heat assaulted Elizabella’s eyelids. “Nay, I won’t permit this folly. I shan’t let you go.”

Honesty kissed her cheek and swept past her out the door.

A sob rose in her throat, but she tamped it down. She sat in her rocker and grabbed the expensive silk she was sewing into a gown for Lady Bedford.

Honesty could do whatever she like. If she wanted to travel to a distant land to marry some uncultured farmer, so be it. Elizabella certainly didn’t have to approve of it by going to the wharf with her.

She poked the needle through the fabric, tears obscuring her vision. She’d tried to keep her vow to take care of Honesty. ’Twas not her doing that she’d never see her again.

Two stitches later, she tossed the bodice in the basket, wiped her eyes, and threw on her dark cloak. No matter how devastated she was, she couldn’t let her only sister depart with angry words between them.

She stepped outside, and cold, crisp air burned her cheeks. Pulling up her hood, she headed toward the docks on the east side of the River Thames. She hurried through central London toward the bridge separating it from the east side. As soon as she crossed London Bridge, the air turned rancid with the stench of rubbish.

She hurried past the butchers’ shops. Hog dung mixed with decaying animal carcasses, and she tried not to breathe through her nose. It did no good. The stink assaulted her.

Damp clothing hung on lines, but they never smelled fresh airing in this filthy place. Men lay drunk in the narrow alleys formed by the run-down wattle and daub buildings. Shops took up the first floors, and they crammed as many as ten families into the upper rooms.

She turned the corner onto Pudding Lane and gasped. There it was. Another house had been built to replace the one she had lived in most of her childhood – the one that had burned to the ground. She almost tripped over a man in an inebriated state and stepped over his legs to keep herself from toppling.

This was the area of the city she’d worked hard to escape after Father had died. She’d sewn gowns by candlelight long into the night and saved every halfpenny. Forgoing any comfort, she had been able to purchase a home in Central London for them.

Why couldn’t her sister appreciate all she had done to keep her safe? Even though they resembled each other in appearance, they were nothing alike. Honesty cared more about adventure and romance than about the sacrifices she’d made. Her sister never considered the danger her recklessness could cause.

Elizabella swallowed at the lump in the back of her throat. Perhaps they were too much alike, after all. One careless act. One foolish moment leading to a lifetime of remorse.

She’d been overprotective since the fire, but she couldn’t lose another sibling. Honesty was all she had left. She would have found her sister the right husband, given a little time, somebody to cherish and protect her, someone Elizabella could trust. Not a coward like Sir Robert Weathersby.

They were good enough to make Lady Weathersby’s dresses, but the stench of Pudding Lane still hung around their necks like nooses when it came to matrimony. Sir Robert wasn’t any better than his father. If it wasn’t for him, Honesty would have stayed in England where she belonged.

A groan escaped her lips. ’Twas her fault. She could have stopped this romance between her sister and a titled man, but Honesty had seemed so happy.

As Elizabella turned the corner at the baker’s shop, she caught a glimpse of her sister’s light brown curly hair sticking out of the hood of her cloak and hastened to catch up. When she reached the corner, Honesty was nowhere in sight. She slowed her stride and watched for some sight of that blue cape.

A crash sounded near the livery. She hurried toward the noise and turned onto a narrow road.

“We want our money,” a tall fellow shouted. He and a stout chap hovered over a man cowering in the corner. They both wore dirty, shapeless woolen shirts with sleeveless leather jerkins.

She drew the back of her hand over her mouth to keep from crying out.

“I know nothing of it,” the third man rasped out. He had a brown woolen blanket draped around him, and he pulled it tighter as if it would protect him.

Without daring to turn around, she silently took a few steps backward. She had to get out of here before they discovered her.

The stout brute punched the man wrapped in the cover. He staggered back, but remained standing.

She managed to slink back a bit more.

The tall one grabbed the cowering man’s shirt. “You took it. I know you did.”

“Nay, ‘t wasn’t me.”

Everything in her wanted to turn and flee, but they’d hear. She dared another footstep toward the road.

The tall man growled and stabbed him in the stomach.

She stopped, sluggish, unable to move. Everything slowed.

The stabbed man gazed at where blood stained his blanket. His mouth opened. He let out a slight gasp. His blanket dropped to the ground. Then slowly, as if somebody stood behind guiding him, he fell. Blood oozed from his middle and made a puddle in the dirt.

Elizabella screamed, then clamped her hand over her mouth. Too late to stop it from escaping.

The men jerked around and rushed toward her.

Panic rose from her gut. She hoisted up her skirts and ran down the road as fast as her legs could carry her. She heard their pounding feet chase, but she didn’t dare look back. She surveyed the road ahead. Where could she hide? What store offered refuge? A cart drove in front of her and blocked her way. She almost ran straight into it but turned a corner just in time.

A small courtyard with no passageway through. She perused the area for a doorway or someplace to hide. A barrel squatted in the corner with a haystack and pitchfork nearby. Clothes hung to dry in the other corner. She ducked behind the barrel.

Footfalls rushed closer. She dared not breathe, fearing they’d find her. Her heart beat boisterously, perchance loudly enough for them to hear. Nay. Nay. Nay. They couldn’t find her. They couldn’t.

“Elizabella, is that you?” Honesty’s voice.

She raised her head a little and glanced over the barrel.
Before she could speak, the murderers rushed in behind her sister. With dread rising in her, she stood. “Honesty!”

The stout ruffian grabbed her sister. Honesty jerked, and he tossed her to the ground, a bloodied knife in hand.

“Stop!” A weight dropped onto Elizabella’s chest. “Leave her be.”

“We got the wrong girl.” The tall man pointed to her. “She’s the one what saw us.”

A rage rose out of her. Spittle formed in the corners of her mouth, and she grabbed the pitchfork.

A roar from deep inside escaped her lips, and she charged toward the men, jabbing at them, wanting to stab them as they had plunged that knife into her sister. “Get away from her!”

The men backed away to avoid the weapon.

“You crazy wench.” The stout man tried to grab for the handle, but she stabbed at his hand, drawing blood, and he pulled back. “What are you about with that thing?”

She tried to thrust the pitchfork into his stomach, but he brushed to the side, and she missed. Grasping the handle, she ran toward them, determined not to miss the mark again.

The tall man grabbed the stout man’s arm. “Let’s get out of here.”
She rushed toward them until they scurried out of the courtyard. Reaching where her sister lay, Elizabella ceased the pursuit, but she kept the pitchfork firmly gripped in her hands. If they came back, she’d be ready. Footsteps faded, then scuffling noises.

Shouts. “You there. Stop in the name of the king.”

All of the anger drained out of her. She dropped the weapon. Her knees gave out, and she collapsed in the mud beside her sister.

Honesty moaned.

Tears welled up behind Elizabella’s eyes. “You’re alive.”
Blood seeped from the wound in Honesty’s shoulder. Elizabella’s stomach roiled as she pushed her hand against the gash.

A constable entered the alley, sword drawn. He viewed the area, gazing both ways down the road, then sheathed his weapon. “Looks like you’ve had some trouble here. What happened? Did those two ruffians waylay you?”

“Help me.” Elizabella tried to lift her sister. A flood of emotions threatened to swallow her. “She’s been stabbed.”

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