Love's Pursuit (11 page)

15

WE WALKED, ALL OF us, into the wood. The captain at the lead, Simeon Wright at the end, and John Prescotte in the middle. Next to me. “Good day, John Prescotte.”

“Good day, Susannah Phillips.”

“Do you—”

“Would you—”

John laughed. “You first.”

I shifted Abigail’s babe away from us to my other hip so that I could speak to him more easily. “How is your father’s health?”

“ ’Tis . . . not what we had hoped for.”

Oh.

“But I am convinced that he shall soon regain his strength.”

Then he had more confidence than I.

Around us, the children scampered up and over a rocky rise.

John climbed a few steps, sliding a bit on fallen leaves, then turned and offered me his hand. I took it, noticing its strength and its warmth. But when the climb was over, I let it go. We walked on together into the wood, John, the babe, and I. I could not help but hope that John was right—that next year, the scene would be real, and John and I might be joined by our own babe. That the next time I went a-leafing, it would be for baking biscuits at my own hearth.

Once we arrived at the captain’s grove, he stood in the middle of it and put the children to work picking up leaves. It was easy work and the leaves, still glossy brown, slipped underfoot, but this year there was no singing and little talking. The children picked, but as they did, they looked round the wood with wide eyes. Their actions were hasty, flustered, and most of them pulled twigs and other debris into their bags along with the leaves.

“You do us a disservice.”

The captain turned his head toward me, though he kept his glance trained on the wood before us. “How so?”

“There will be twice as much work to do once the children are home. They are putting every kind of thing into their sacks just to get the task done. They go about it with no discernment, no skill.”

He grabbed me by the elbow and turned us both around, eyes sweeping the wood that had formerly been behind us. “I should think I am doing you a favor. Such sorting would be better accomplished in the safety of a home rather than the treachery of the wood.”

“Have you seen something, then?”

“Just because I see nothing does not mean something is not there. And make no mistake: there is something.”

“But—”

“I do not yet know what it is. But have no fear. God brought me here for you; of that I have no doubt. And if ever I cannot protect you, He will.”

A blush stained my cheeks before I could remind myself that by
me
, he meant
we
. Us. All of us in Stoneybrooke. And the curious thing is that I had known no fear until he had mentioned reason to have it, but even as a terror rose up inside of me it vanished, leaving only the warmth of certain surety behind.

“You would do better to transfer your attentions to the children. To help them fill their sacks so we might leave more quickly.”

His words had an air of gravity that his demeanor usually belied. I scanned the group for Abigail. When I located her, I set her child at her feet.

“Wait—why—?”

“The captain wishes to return us all to safety. Sooner rather than later.”

“But—”

“I shall return for the babe once I have helped some of the younger children.”

I moved away from her protests even as I wondered at her persistence. Surely she could not deny the younger ones the benefit of my help? Locating the slowest among them, I helped to fill first one sack and then two. Filling the third led me a bit farther away from the center of the grove. And filling the fourth led me farther still.

“Come away here. There are plenty of leaves just there past the gully.”

I started at Simeon Wright’s voice so close to my shoulder. “There are plenty here.” Or there had been.

“Too few to bother with. I have just come from the gully. The place is littered with them.”

I looked back over my shoulder and could barely see the captain through the brush. “ ’Tis too far.”

“ ’Tisn’t far at all. I am going even if you are not.”

“But you’re to be one of the watch.”

“I am watching. And I will do it from over there.” His eyes, a chilling blue, bored into mine. Then, suddenly, he smiled. And I could see, for a moment, why the girls in town admired him so. It was breathtaking, that smile. “I would never let anything happen to you.”

The words were right, but the tone was wrong. He said them not with chivalry, but rather as if he owned me. As if I were some coveted possession.

He took a step toward me.

And there was something in the way he did it that made me take a step back.

He reached out and took hold of my arm, but he did it rather familiarly and much too tightly.

I tried to free myself from his grasp. “If you would—”

“Susannah?” It was John.

Anger flared in Simeon Wright’s eyes, sending ice into my veins. As he released me, he turned to speak to John. “We had just realized that we had come too far. I was trying to get Susannah to turn back.”

As Susannah and John moved away from Simeon Wright, I breathed deep in relief. I had been standing against a tree, unseen, unnoticed. Had Simeon managed to move her down into the gully, I do not know what I would have done.

Screamed to bring the captain running? Run to get the captain myself? But for what? To bring shame down upon Susannah’s head for allowing herself to be caught in an indiscretion? In what I assumed would have been an indiscretion.

I do not know what I would have done.

Prayed, surely.

I slumped against the tree, weak with relief. But a small movement in the brush caught my eye.

“Susannah? I do not mean to doubt you, but—” John’s words were overcome by a scream.

We stood, staring at each other for one short moment, and then he grabbed my hand and ran with me toward the grove. I am sure his thoughts were the same as mine: Savages!

Simeon Wright wasted no time in passing us, musket gripped between his hands.

As soon as we reached the grove, John moved to gather the children. I set myself to work in aiding him. The captain motioned

Simeon to stand watch over all of us as he moved off to squelch the screaming.

It was coming from Abigail, and she would not be quieted.

The captain grabbed at her elbow and pulled her to her feet. “Speak, woman!”

“ ’Tis my babe—my babe is gone!” She clawed at his hand, trying to free herself from his grasp.

“Shut your mouth or you will bring the savages down upon us all!”

“My babe—”

The captain dragged Abigail toward Simeon and thrust her into his hands. “Keep them safe. I shall go look for the child. Where was it last seen?”

My friend held up a trembling finger. Pointed to the spot where she had been gathering leaves. “Just there.”

As the captain disappeared into the wood, all my feelings of security and safety went with him. Though I longed for nothing so much as to be where he was, I went to Simeon and took Abigail’s hand in my own. “Perhaps I could . . . ?”

He nodded and pushed her toward me.

I took her within the crook of my arm and turned her away from the direction the captain had gone. Her hand was sodden and clammy. It turned within mine as if searching for something more substantial to cling to. “He was there . . . and then he wasn’t. How could he . . . how could . . .”

I did not dare to utter the only word that made any sense. How could it be anything other than savages?

John came then, musket in his hands, to stand beside Simeon. I saw him mouth the same word I was thinking.

Simeon scowled and shook his head.

I only wished the captain would return. Then I might begin, once more, to feel safe.

John ushered the children toward Simeon and took up a position in front of them, Simeon guarding them from the rear. The oldest children stood, faces pale, eyes looking every which way. The youngest began to sniffle. At that sound, the few women among us took the youngest ones and placed them behind their skirts.

I turned my attention back to Abigail. “Why did you not leave the child with your mother?”

“But why would I? Because I cannot be trusted to look after him myself?”

“Nay! I only meant—”

“Why should I not be able to gather my leaves and keep the child as well? Do I not keep just as fine a house as before I had him? Is our food not as well prepared? Our affairs as well managed?”

Though I knew for a fact that they were not, I tried to soothe her. “I did not mean to say—”

“I can do it. I can do everything. Why does everyone think that I cannot?”

“ ’Tis no shame to ask for help, Abigail.”

“Why should I have any need for help? I am a good wife.”

“Of course you are.”

The defiance in her face crumbled, and her chin began to quiver. “Then why does it always feel as if I am not?” She let go my hand and slipped from my embrace to her knees. She lowered her head toward the ground and began to pray.

And as she did, I prayed my own prayers. If anyone could understand how she felt, it was I. I thought back through the years of our friendship. Years of shared hopes and dreams. Years of shared love and laughter. She was a year older than I, and so I had lived and learned of life while watching her. We had both set out to become good women, good wives, and she had achieved both ends. At least, I thought she had. She had become everything I hoped to emulate. We shared both a past and a future. But if Abigail, my friend and example in all things, should feel so inept, so wretched, so despicable, how could there be any hope at all for me?

16

LIKE JOHN AND ABIGAIL and Simeon, I, too, heard the scream. But that movement in the brush gave me pause. Was it . . . could it be . . . ?

Using trees to shield myself, I crept as close as I dared.

And then one last step closer.

It was then the thing saw me. He grinned a big toothless grin gone black with dirt and leaves that he had shoved into his mouth.And then he burbled.

“And to think I thought you a savage!” I nearly laughed at my own fancies.

The mite stretched out an arm toward my face.

“How did you get here?” I put out a hand and touched his own.

He clasped on to it and then pulled into a sit and, from there, gained his feet.

“Did you walk?”

The child bent and picked up an acorn. Put it to its mouth.

“Nay. You will not like it.”

He spat the thing out and screwed up his face.

“See? ’Tis nastiness, just as I told you.”

He dropped my finger and took a few tottering steps before falling back onto his bottom and then pouncing forward into a surprisingly fast crawl.

I lunged at his trailing leading strings to halt his escape. “Your mother must be missing you by now.”

He stopped at that thought. Sat upon his bum and put two fingers into his mouth. “Mam, mam.”

“Aye. Let’s go find your mam-mam, shall we?” I picked him up.

He put a hand to my collar and clutched at it, smearing it with dirt.

I leaned down to kiss its pudgy cheek.

“Mam, mam.”

“Nay. I am not your mam.” I was no child’s mam. Perhaps would never be.

As I held him close, I chose a careful path over roots and around bushes. But in the going, I came to discern the approach of a sharp snapping and cracking of twigs. Placing a hand over the child’s mouth, I paused, both to determine what it was and to look for some place to hide. ’Twas only Captain Holcombe who came into view, a knife clutched in his hand.

“You found him, then!”

“The babe? I did not know it had been missed.”

“Then you are the only one not to have heard his mother screaming.”

“ ’Twas Abigail?”

“The same.”

“Then she must be frightened.”

“As are we all. With savages about.” The captain made a quick search of the area before gesturing me to lead out the way he had come.

As we broke out into the grove, I spied Abigail Clarke and started her direction.

She was kneeling upon the ground, rocking forward and backward, hands clasped beneath her chin, eyes closed, lips moving.

I had almost reached her when her eyes sprung open. She fixed them fast upon me and then let out a shriek. Scrambling to her knees, she launched herself at me and wrested her child from my arms.

“ ’Twas you who stole my child?” Her voice rose to a precarious pitch.

“I did nothing—”

“Why would you do it?” She had sheltered the head of the babe within her arm but he beat at her in protest.

“I did not—”

She glanced around wildly, then locked her gaze on the captain.

“She stole my babe!”

“She did nothing of the—”

“Why would you do it? Because you have none of your own?”

The captain had reached her, grabbed hold of her shoulders, and shook her. “Cease your accusations!”

“She stole my babe.”

“She did nothing of the sort.”

“Then where was he found?”

The captain looked toward me.

I could do naught but answer. “In the wood. Toward the gully.”

“Liar! How could he get there? He cannot walk.”

“But he can.” Perhaps not very far, but he could crawl like a serpent.

“He cannot!” Abigail set the babe on the ground and pushed him off her leg with a foot when he would try to cling to her.

He swayed once, twice, then landed upon his bottom and collapsed in a fit of tears.

“Look there! He cannot stand. You lie!”

I moved to pick the child up and give it comfort.

His mother intercepted me. “Do you dare?” She held out a quak–Love'sPursuit_ ing finger to stay me. “I know about you. I know everything. Henry told me about . . . about your
father
. . . all about how he—”

The captain stepped between us, his back toward me. “There is no need to be ungracious. The woman found the babe and was on her way to return it when I happened upon them. No one has done you wrong.”

Abigail stepped around the captain and fixed her eyes upon me. “Stay away from my child!”

The captain bent to pluck the bawling babe from the ground, thrusting it into Abigail’s hands. “Then take care of him yourself!” He stood for a moment, weight shifting from foot to foot, then turned toward Susannah Phillips. “And you—take care of her!”

Putting a hand to Abigail’s shoulder, I guided her to the shade of a tree and bid her sit. And she did for some time, babe clutched to her chest. But then, once he had wriggled and fussed and cried, she released him from her lap. From there, he crawled out past her feet and over to a bush. Quite quickly.

“The babe is fine.”

“No thanks to her.”

“Perhaps it was as the captain said. Perhaps she meant to return him.”

“You do not know her, or you would not think it.”

Together, we watched the child. He grabbed a stick, patted it upon his thighs. Let it drop. Clasped the limber trunk of a bush. Pushed to his knees. Wobbled there a moment before gaining his feet. He chortled, triumphant as he took several steps. Then he dropped to his knees and shot away in a crawl.

“The little—!” Abigail flew into the wood after it and soon reappeared, child toddling along at her side.

“It appears that he can walk. So you were wrong, then.”

She settled herself back on the ground. “About what?”

“About Small-hope.”

“Her? Nay. She is not one to be trusted. ’Tis true, all those things Henry told me.”

What things Henry had told her I did not know, but I did not like her insinuations. Pushing to my feet, I looked round to find Small-hope, but she had disappeared.

As quick as I could, I filled up my sack with leaves and then fell back into the wood and went home. Only the captain noticed my leaving.

“Hey there! ’Tis not safe. Wait for the rest of us. ’Twill not be much longer.”

I shook my head.

He stepped closer. “She did not mean it.”

Aye, but she had. She did. I turned away and he let me go. As I set my feet to walking, I put my thoughts into motion. There was only one way Abigail’s Henry could have learned of my past. Only one way word of my shame might have reached him, and it was through the one person in Stoneybrooke who knew me.

Through Thomas.

As the wood crackled and snapped beneath my feet, as I put distance between the leafing party and myself, I flung away my fear of savages. What could they possibly do to me that had not already been done? My shame turned to anger. My anger to rage.As Thomas’s house came into view, I wanted nothing more than to scream. To lash out and beat upon him, the person responsible for perpetuating my shame. But when I saw him, I could not think what to say. And so I just stood there in the door to the smithery, sacks fisted between my hands.

Thomas paused in his work, looking up toward me with sootrimmed eyes. “What is it?”

“How could you?”

He glanced from me toward a twisted mass of iron meant to hold a taper and smiled. “I know. ’Tis not a candlestick such as I would have made, but ’twas Goody Metcalf who ordered it done.” He shrugged and bent to his task once more. “What else am I to do?”

“How could you tell Henry Clarke of my . . . my father . . . and—”

His head came up sharp at mention of that name. “Henry Clarke? Why would I tell him anything at all?”

“But—Abigail knew. She said she knew everything. She mentioned my father and . . .”

He left his tongs in the fire, something I had never seen him do, and came around to stand before me, to reach out a soot-blackened finger and turn my face up toward his. “I have never said one word about you to anyone. Ever.”

His words were no surprise. They fit everything I knew to be true about him. The one thing I could not understand is why I wanted so much to believe them. “But . . .”

“Am I the only tradesman from Stoneybrooke to visit your old town of a month? It is not as you imagine, Small-hope. You were never unseen.”

Nay. His words were true. I guessed that I was not.

I had never been unseen.

But if I had been seen, then why had I not been helped? The answer was too evident. I had not been helped because I had also been despised.

And, therefore, all too easily ignored.

As Mother cleared supper from the table that evening, she placed a hand to the captain’s shoulder as she leaned forward. “I thank you for allowing the children to gather leaves this day.”

The captain glanced at me.

I looked away.

“I still think it a foolish idea.”

“No matter. There was no harm done, now, was there?”

“A child disappeared. We assumed it to be Indians.”

Mother’s head snapped from the food to him.

“He had simply wandered.”

“Whose child?” She frowned as if she wanted to berate its mother.

“Abigail . . .” The captain looked to me to supply the knowledge he lacked.

“Clarke’s.”

“Abigail Clarke’s?” Mother shook her head. “Why did she bring the child with her when she could have left him at her mother’s instead? What happened?”

It was the captain who answered her question. “He had wandered into the wood. ’Twas the sharp eye of Goody Smyth who found him.”

Mother nodded and went back round the other side of the table and sat down upon the bench with some satisfaction.

“But if it had been savages? It happened all too easily and no one noticed.” The captain had no need to labor to make his point.“It could have been all of our heads. In an instant.”

“Thank our God that it was not.” Father had pronounced his benediction. “So have you trained the militia to your tastes, Captain?”

“Nearly.”

“Then you will be leaving us soon.”

Leaving? But it seemed as if he had just arrived. And what was it he had been saying in the wood? About being here for me? For us?

His eyes never ventured from my father’s. “Aye. Though ’tis a pleasant place, Stoneybrooke.”

“ ’Tis pleasant enough. For us.”

“ ’Tis Virginia for the likes of me. I only wish I had been able to spy one of those Indians that run so rampant through this wood.One who was alive.” He collected his pipe and tobacco from the mantel, shook some tobacco into the bowl, tamped it down, and took a light from the fire.

He stepped to the door, intending no doubt to smoke outside.

Mother reached out a hand to stop him. “You can smoke in here. No sense in making yourself a target for the savages.”

He must have had no idea of the favor she had granted him, for he smiled as if her words were in jest. “I have no doubt that I will be as safe as a Frenchman at His Majesty’s court.” He bowed. “But thank you just the same.”

Father’s words halted his steps. “So you have come to believe as we do?”

The captain pulled the pipe from his lips. “I have ever believed thus. I may not think of God the same as you, but that does not mean I think of Him any less.”