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Promise of Purity

By Marguerite Martin Gray

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East Molesey, England
March 1661
Chapter One
Kate Sinclair shuddered as she saw another soldier walk down the street. The uniform alone caused her heart to pound and her palms to sweat. Would this be the one to arrest her father, maybe her mother, or even Kate? Her position at the counter allowed her to gaze through the bakery window, hopefully giving her plenty of notice of any unusual activity.
For the past ten months her father had stayed in the back of the establishment during most of the day, in case royal guards saw him and wanted to question him. Many in her small village of East Molesey wandered in and out of secret rooms when rumors of officials abounded. In a few weeks the new king would be crowned, solidifying his hold and place of authority in England.
Anticipation accompanied bouts of anxiety. Would the king finally come to the palace? With the spring weather, the bakery saw more traffic and participated in its fair share of the gossip in the town. This Tuesday morning was no exception.
The Sinclair Bakery remained the most renowned bakery, located in the center of town, even though her father was a Cromwell supporter and a Puritan. In the recent past many in the town shared his political and religious bent. It wasn’t such a good thing now.
Today was slow since yesterday was the major delivery day. All that remained on the shelves were pastries, meat pies, and a few round loaves of bread. Slim pickings for the few customers or curious children peering through the window.
At the tinkling ring from the bell above the door, Kate turned her head in time to see Jane Washburn, her best friend, trip into the store catching herself with the support of the door knob.
“Are you all right? You could have hurt yourself.” Kate leaned over the counter as Jane whirled around, pointing behind her in the direction of the closed door.
“A cavalier is in the village with a petition,” Jane said, the strain of her news burning her cheeks red. “He’s already come to Father’s shop. He signed immediately.”
Jane’s father was the local butcher and had no problem relating to royalists, unlike Kate’s father. Immediately, Kate understood Jane’s staccato, breathless announcement pertained to Kate’s father.
“Well of course he did. He never blatantly served Cromwell.” Kate shook her head and frowned. No reason to hide her disappointment from her friend. “I don’t know what Father will do. And if he doesn’t sign, will he go to jail?”
Kate let her concern spill freely with her friend, the only one who listened without repeating or spreading Kate’s deepest fear.
“I haven’t heard of anyone who hasn’t signed.” Jane rounded the corner of the counter and glanced into the kitchen behind Kate. “Maybe he’ll get a warning.”
“Or perhaps he’ll sign to protect his family.”
Jane grasped Kate by the shoulders and made her look at her. Kate’s thoughts spun. Her family without her father around? In Kate’s twenty-two years she didn’t remember being so unsure of her family’s future, except perhaps about ten years ago when her father threatened to leave for America.
“I’ll warn him. Thank you, Jane.”
The girl hugged her and darted out the door, her bonnet hiding her flushed cheeks and wandering eyes.
So, the time had come. Kate tired of wondering what and when it would happen. Would the next few hours determine her family’s fate?
Kate peeked around the corner into the kitchen. Her father kneaded the dough, preparing for deliveries on Wednesday. He pounded the mound in an exact rhythm as flour, combined with water and salt, produced a sticky, yeasty concoction all the way up to his elbows. She whiffed the hot buttery topped bread in the huge iron oven. She’d never tire of the aroma hovering over the room, in her hair and clothes. A few feet away her mother chopped mutton and prepared spices in a sauce for pies for local deliveries.
“Father, you might want to know there’s a king’s man in the village with a petition.” She leaned closer to her father and whispered, “He’s a few doors down.”
He stared straight ahead and pounded his fist into the innocent mound of dough. She’d heard his tirades about the rule of Charles I and his problem with his son, the new king. Would her father voice his comments to the ambassador of the king?
Please, no. God give him wise words not heated ones. Can’t he try to live in peace?
The middle-aged man with gray hair, stooped from the years of bending over a table, tried to straighten to his medium height.
“Clifford, what will you do?” Mother asked, the spoon dripping thick liquid into the pan.
Silence reigned, except for the fire roaring in the oven and a faint drip, drip from the stove top.
“I will know when the time comes. I won’t be running or avoiding the talk.”
“Father, please be careful and think about Robert and Margaret.” Kate wanted to shake some sense into his stubborn being. He glanced at her through squinted eyes. Had she overstepped the line into his role of father? She didn’t want him to forget her siblings’ innocence. Margaret, twelve, and Robert, ten, had missed the turmoil of the Civil War, the devastating war between Cromwell and the Royalists. Kate wanted them to remain oblivious to hardships, and right now life without a father would be devastating.
Kate bowed her head and closed her eyes to the reprimand from his wrinkled brow and intense frown. His command to be quiet soared in her direction. She turned and bumped into the door frame as she exited, sending a jolt of fire through her body.
Although humility was taught in the church, Father lacked a godly share. Perhaps remembering the four other members of his family would startle some sense into him.
~~~
How many shop bells had he heard today? Peter Reresby disliked this part of his job. Surely, he wasn’t as imposing as the townspeople’s faces revealed. Big eyes, dropped jaws, and flushed cheeks accompanied fidgeting hands, slurred speech, and frozen stances.
One more inquiry at this bakery before he would retire for the noon meal. He’d go to the inn as a customer instead of a king’s man on business.
“Excuse me, miss.” A pair of dark amber eyes looked up from the counter, as the young woman closed a record book.
“Yes, sir.” She recovered her dropped jaw quickly. Her scared rabbit stare revealed she’d guessed who he was. He gave himself away with his cavalier attire—crisp white jacket, red vest, shiny black boots, and the king’s insignia on his shoulder. It begged authority but not anonymity.
“I want to speak to Mr. Clifford Sinclair, the owner of this bakery. Is he available?”
She tilted her head, nodded, and left. Her hair reached to her waist in a single braid. Was it the same shiny reddish-brown amber as her eyes? Even in the dim light her head glowed from the reflection from distant sun rays.
He shook his head. If he let his mind wander to a pretty girl, he must really need a break. He prided himself on being able to give wholly to his mission while on duty. Anyway, her attire showed the theme of puritanical staleness he’d seen in England over the last ten months. Peter caught his chuckle before he had to explain himself to any curious listener. The last thing he needed in his organized life was an interest in any Puritan. His mission for the king brought him close enough to the remaining rebels.
The scowl of the man entering the front of the shop dripped mistrust, anger, and annoyance. Peter had seen many of these today. He wasn’t here for the man’s story, only a signature.
“Mr. Sinclair, I’m here on behalf of His Royal Majesty, King Charles with the King’s Petition. He desires to determine which citizens are willing to state their loyalty to his reign. Sign here if he can be assured of your support.” Peter stood at attention hoping for an easy end to his morning.
The young woman, standing beside her father, and two customers behind him all sucked in their breaths emptying the room of fresh air. Was Peter in for trouble? In reality, nothing would happen to the man if he didn’t sign. Peter wasn’t here to arrest the village citizens, although he knew some like Mr. Sinclair clung to the old ways of Cromwell’s rule. The man would probably rather be saying his prayers night and day in his dismal, dull prayer room or church pew.
Peter unfurled the scroll and laid it on the counter making sure the man could view the signatures of fellow East Molesey citizens. Each village wasn’t subject to the same petition. But with the court moving to Hampton Court Palace soon, a heightened sense of loyalty seemed appropriate.
Mr. Sinclair grunted a “humph” and penned his name, adding a deliberate scratch on the page. It wasn’t the first disgruntled Englishman he’d seen. Each one Peter found reminded him of his father, a powerful family man turned rebel. His own father died serving Cromwell in the Civil War.
“Anything else?” The short round man bore a hole in Peter’s chest with his direct menacing stare.
Peter could think of a few warnings but chose silence. He glanced at the doorway to the kitchen and found a gentler pair of eyes staring at him. For a second his heart skipped a beat. Mistrust ran deep in Puritan families but her eyes held unanswered questions. A furrowed brow begged to be smoothed with his fingertips.
Oh no. I don’t have the desire or time to spend straightening out an obvious Roundhead, Puritan girl. That could probably be as dangerous and unsuccessful as if she was a lady of the court. The extremes posed difficult and massive problems. Why couldn’t he find someone to meet him in the middle? Were the only women left in England demure, unintellectual, and colorless?
Although amber eyes and rosy cheeks added natural warmth, color, and beauty to this girl’s face, the fact remained no one like her would fit in the new England, not the one Charles planned to create.
The plume, jabbing into his hand, jolted Peter’s attention to the man in front of him. Peter’s six-inch height difference forced him to step back a foot to regain eye contact with Mr. Sinclair.
“I asked if there was anything else.”
“No, sir. Thank you for your time. Good day.”
After blotting the ink, Peter rolled up the scroll, watched Mr. Sinclair’s retreating form, and nodded at the woman posing in the door frame.
She smiled and let air escape her tense cheeks. A sigh? “Thank you, sir.”
“For what?”
“For being patient and kind with my father,” she whispered. “He’s not…”
Peter raised a hand for her to stop. “I don’t need to know any details.”
She lowered her head and fidgeted with the end of her braid hanging over her shoulder down the front of her stiff white apron. What horrors had she seen? While Peter had tramped all over Europe with the exiled heir to the throne, this woman stayed in a war-torn country. Like my mother and sister.
He wanted to touch this woman’s cheek as he would his sister. “What is your name?”
“Kate.”
“Miss Kate Sinclair.” Pretty. His own sister, Rebecca, would be eighteen years old now and as pretty as Miss Sinclair.
“I’m Peter Reresby. Perhaps we’ll meet again.” Unlikely, but not so unpleasant.
He turned and listened to the bell punctuate his exit. His stomach warned him of the hour. The fresh, steamy, yeasty aroma from the breads at the bakery spurred him to relieve his hunger. He planned to focus on a hot meal instead of the plight of village girls. Yet, as he walked to the public house, the Crooked Inn, he tried to imagine his sister somewhere in this country, lost to him but hopefully safe and happy. Three years was a long time with no word. A seamstress in Cromwell’s household, and then after his death, she had disappeared.
God, if You are still present, give me hope that Rebecca is still alive and whole.

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