Love's Pursuit (12 page)

Father frowned. “Bold words . . . for a king’s man. But what I meant to say is that you have come to believe as we do about the threat? That our times are in God’s hands?”

“I already know of my end. It has been decreed from the beginning. Do you not know what our savior said? All they that take the sword shall perish by the sword.” He smiled then, but it was a smile without mirth. “You cannot blame a man for trying to delay a destiny such as mine a while longer.” He clamped his pipe between his lips and let himself out the door.

And I do not know but that a sword pierced my own heart at his words.

17

I AWOKE TO HEAR a scrabbling near the fireplace. Parting the curtains, I saw my mother kneeling before the hearth, tapping at the cinders with a stick. As I perceived a change in the tone of the stick upon the stones of the hearth, she pounced with a pair of tongs, pulling first one of my father’s handles and then another from their beds of ashes.

My father appeared beside her, scratching first his head and then his belly. “I thought they had two more weeks. . . .”

“You placed them here on the first day of July and ’tis today that they are seasoned.” Holding the tongs well before her, she stepped outside.

My father trailed her to the door. “Are you certain? Because I thought—”

She must have deposited them somewhere, for when she entered, they did not come with her.

Mary and I rousted Nathaniel from bed and raced to pull on our clothes.

After a breakfast of cheese and porridge, Father and Nathaniel went out to the shop.

The captain took his musket to hand and began to rummage through his bag.

Mother raised her head from her mending. “I’m of a mind to have Mary read a bit of Sibbes to us as we work.”

Mary? Mary was always given the easy work!

“Captain? Before you leave us, could you get
The Bruised Reed
there, just above your head?”The captain looked up from his bag and pushed to his feet. Standing in front of the shelf, he cocked his head first this way and then that. He put his finger to the spine of one book, and then let it trail to the base of another.

I glanced at Mother. She frowned and nodded toward the captain.

I went to stand beside him. Cleared my throat when he took no notice of me.

“Oh. I beg your pardon.”

“If I might just . . . ?” I reached up toward the volume.

He moved his hand at just the same time and it came to rest upon mine, his fingers curling in upon my palm. “Ah. The Sibbes. Of course.”

His touch was both hot and tender. I withdrew my hand.

He took the book from the shelf and handed it to me. He left soon after, and we did not see him until supper. Afterward, before taking to bed, I went to do the necessary. As I walked back toward the house, I found him leaning against the wall, face lit by the glow of his pipe.

“Good night, Susannah Phillips.”

“Good night, Captain.”

I moved to open the door, but I could not do it. I had to speak to him about what I had been thinking all day. “I could teach you to read.”

He nodded. Exhaled. “I know how to read. Perhaps not with as much ease as you, but I can do it when I must.”

“To read with ease, you must read at length.”

“And ’tis that which I lack. The time.”

“But how can you hope to gain knowledge of God’s Word if you do not read it?”

“I am certain that He is God enough to tell me what it is that I need to know when I need to know it. The printed page is not the only path to knowledge.”

I gasped at his arrogance. “You think that God would lower himself to speak directly to you? When He has already gone to the trouble to give us His Word within the Bible?”

“If He is God, then surely that is the least of what He can do.”He was not mocking me.

“I tremble for your soul, Captain.”

“Then you must pray for me.”

“Why?”

“You must have a very special place in God’s heart, being so upright. So righteous.”

Righteous? Me? “You err. We are none of us righteous. Not one.”But that did not stop me from trying to be.

“Perhaps not. But still, you have one advantage over me.”

“And what is that?”

“You are so much better looking.”

My cheeks flamed before I could think of anything to say.He thought me . . . he’d said . . . “You have no right to say such things!”

“Then perhaps you should pluck out my eyes as you promised to do some months ago.”

I moved swiftly to open the door and this time, I did it.

The next day Mary came back from the miller’s, eyes dancing with excitement. “Simeon Wright is having a husking bee!”

A husking bee? “For corn?”

“For what else?”

“He works with wood.”

“Which does not mean that others are not welcome to use his space to their benefit.”

There was something in her tone that made me look at her more closely. Something almost . . . proprietary. “Have you set your cap for Simeon Wright?”

She shrugged.

“Have you?”

“What if I have?”

“He is . . . old.”

“Old-
er
. ’Tis not a crime last time I checked.”

“I know, but . . .”

“But what? Am I not of an age?”

“You are. Of course you are.”

Her mouth dipped down into a frown. “Ah. I see how it is.”

“How what is?”

“You want to be the first.”

“If you think this is about me—”

“Isn’t it? Isn’t it always about you?” Her eyes were bright with challenge.

“Nay. ’Tis not about me at all. ’Tis about you and whether you would be happy with such a man.”

“With such a—oh! You mean with such a handsome man? With such a respectable man?”

“Nay. With such a . . . such an . . .” I could not think of the word I wanted.

“I cannot say that he is indifferent . . . at least not to me.”

“Mary!”

“You have your fun with John Prescotte and I’ll have mine with Simeon Wright.” She whirled on her heel and walked past me.

The captain almost ran into her on his way around the corner.

“She would have been a menace at Newburn against the Scots.”

I shook my head.

“She’s a proud one.”

“A stubborn one. She’s set her cap for someone.”

“Simeon Wright?”

I looked at him.

He smiled. “ ’Tis not so hard to divine the bent of female ambition.”

“Then you are the first man I have known to say it.”

“She has not grown so old as she thinks.”

“And ’tis that which worries me.”

“Your parents are wise.”

“But they do not see all.”

“Oh . . . they see enough.”

I puzzled on his words as I went about my business.

The night of the husking bee came too quickly. I did not wish to go. Why would I wish to enter Simeon Wright’s lair?

I spun excuses as I worked.

Perhaps I could be feeling poorly. Perhaps I already did.

But nay, I was always the model of good health.

Perhaps I could be feeling my courses.

But nay. They had come last week and Thomas knew it.

Perhaps I could have some business, some work to attend to.

Nay. What could be left that had not already been done? The winter’s strong beer had been made. Bayberries gathered. Candles dipped.

Perhaps . . . perhaps I would just have to go.

Thomas came in for dinner as I was pulling the pottage from the fire. I heard the door open. After several moments, I heard it shut.He always moved slowly. I knew it was because he had no wish to frighten me. He was like that, was Thomas. But it infuriated me that he would think I was so fragile. And it infuriated me even more to know that I was both more and less so than he thought.

“Are you well this day?”

“Aye.” Though it pained me to say it.

“Are you . . . happy . . . this day?”

I could not keep my eyes from darting in his direction. Could he know my thoughts? I said nothing as I placed a trencher between us and sat beside him.

I kept my eyes on the table before me as I ate. But it did not stop me from knowing when Thomas had finished. I rose and took the trencher to the fire and filled it up once more from the pot. Set it before him.

He touched my hand as I took it away. “This is your home, Small-hope. Yours as well as mine. I did not bring you here to be my servant.”

My intake of breath sounded like a shout in the silence.

“I did not mean . . . I meant . . . I only wish that you would be . . .” He sighed, withdrew the napkin from his shoulder, and set it on the board. And then rose and left the house.

18

IN SPITE OF MARY ’S odd moodiness, it was a fair walk to the sawmill, made fairer still by our joining with neighbors as we walked along. We passed the Wrights’ house on the way. It had been built away from the rest of ours, made of brick rather than wood, with real glass windows rather than oiled paper, and a brick chimney rather than one of plastered logs. A testament to the wealth of its owner, it seemed to have everything most of ours did not. And servants aplenty, brought with them from Boston, to attend to their every need.

This day, the mill had been silent. No rumble of logs. No whine of blades. Though the scent of new-cut wood perfumed the air, the floor had been swept of all shavings.

Mary entered the building as if she were already its mistress.I prayed that would never be true. I just could not shake the idea that . . . that something . . . There was something about the man I could not like. Could not trust. But my sentiments were soon pushed away by the hum of the activity.

Head-high heaps of corn had been placed about the room.Benches ringed the mounds, and buckets stood at the ready to receive the husks.

Mary spied several of her friends and moved to join them at one bench.

I spotted Abigail at another and walked over to sit on a bench beside her.

She smiled as she saw me. “Susannah! Sit here.” She put her babe from her lap, adjusted his cap, and sat him on the floor. He rocked for a moment, and then rolled backward, thrusting plump legs into the air and grabbing at his toes. “Has John Prescotte—”

“Hush!”

She blinked. “Are you not—”

“Aye. But he has not yet spoken to Father . . . and may not yet be able to this autumn.”

She leaned close and spoke with a lowered voice. “And why not? Did I not just see him pacing off his land for a house?”

“Did you?”

She gripped my arm. “Aye. And just this day—” She glanced up and behind my shoulder, let go my arm, and leaned forward to draw an ear of corn from the pile.

I puzzled over her actions until I realized that Simeon Wright had taken a seat on the bench next to ours.

Next to me.

Abigail waved at our friend Rebecca, who stood at the center of the floor, bouncing an infant in her arms. She came over to sit beside Abigail, bending to pick up an ear of corn before settling the child between her jouncing thighs. “She’s got colic. I don’t know what to do. I tried Mother’s cure, but it does not work.”

Abigail frowned.

I leaned toward them. “Our child had the same. But Mother bound him round his middle and gave him an infusion of anise and fennel. It seemed to work.”

Rebecca and Abigail looked at each other. Looked at me, uncertainty in their eyes. Then they turned and looked round the building. After locating my mother, they waved her over.

Mother obliged and came at their gesture. “And what is it you’re wanting, Goody Parker?”

“The babe has got the colic.”

Mother set our own babe on the floor and bent to look into the other child’s face. She took her from Rebecca and jiggled her up and down for a bit, then put her to her shoulder and patted her back.

The child let out a great belch.

“What she needs is an infusion of anise and fennel.”

“Anise and fennel? How much of each and when will I give it to the child?”

Was that not what
I
had just recommended?

Abigail and Rebecca made a place between them for Mother to sit. Which left me with Simeon Wright to talk to. But only if I stayed there beside him. Looking round, I spied Mary clustered in conversation with her friends.

I gathered my skirts and rose. Smiling in what I hoped was an apologetic way, I moved to walk past Simeon Wright.

He stared up at me for a moment, eyes bright, his knees barring my exit.

I felt my smile falter.

But then he swung his legs to the side and let me pass.

With a breath of relief, I walked toward Mary. But as the group around her jostled, I saw her face for a moment. Her eyes were throwing daggers at me. I would gain no welcome, no harbor from her.

Just as I was wondering where to go, John Prescotte called to me. “Have you nowhere to go Susannah Phillips? And no corn to husk? I’ve found a red ear.” He held it up for me to see.

A red ear. A red ear meant that he could kiss any girl he wanted.

The men seated around him looked up from their own ears at his declaration.

“Leave me a look at that, John!” One of the men sitting beside him was looking at the ear of corn with a curious expression on his face.

John tossed it to him. Then he stood and approached me, a smile playing at his lips.

’Twas not seemly to be kissed in the center of a room in the middle of a corn husking, but I leaned toward him as custom dictated and closed my eyes.

With a caress of exhaled breath, his lips found my cheek and pressed a kiss into it. My cheek marked the spot with a rapidly spreading blush.

“Did you use blackberries or beets?”

“What?” John turned his eyes from mine toward his friend.

“Did you use blackberry or beet juice to turn it red?”

“Beet.”

“He stole a kiss!” The loud protest caused heads to turn throughout the mill.

John looked at me, brow raised, and shrugged.

I wanted only to disappear. As I stood there, wishing I could vanish, Simeon Wright’s voice sounded from a corner. “A contest! For the men.”

With one last glance at me, John left to join the contest.

Relieved, I slid into the place he vacated and turned to watch. But as the contest was assembled before me, I could do nothing so much as remember John’s kiss. His lips had been . . . clammy. And his breath had been . . . unpleasant.

Though why should they not have been? Had he not just been talking to his friends? And had he not also eaten supper before coming?

And . . . he had kissed me on the
cheek
!

But why not? ’Tis not as if we were betrothed. ’Tis not as if we were even truly promised to each other. And in truth, ’twas not as if I had even wanted him to kiss me. Had I?

Had I?

Of course I had. Though if I hadn’t, ’twas only because we were not yet married. There was a time and a place for such things and they were not at a corn husking. But though I should have been shocked and shamed at such an exhibition, the devil inside me kept insisting that the captain had been wrong. John Prescotte
had
wanted to kiss me! And when no opportunity had been forthcoming, he had made an opportunity to do so. Had I been a lesser woman, I might have figured out a way to tell him.

As it was, I delighted in my knowledge.

My mother, Abigail, and Rebecca had already left their seats.They stood now, babes in arms against the far wall, watching the contest being assembled in the middle of the room.

Room was made for more benches; a pile of ears was placed in front of each man. The boys stood beside the mound at the center, ready to deliver more ears to the men who would have need of them.

Simeon lifted his arm for silence. “Half of an hour.”

The men groaned but not one of them protested.

The minister stood, holding his beloved sandglass above his head.He went nowhere without it. “I shall be keeper of the time.” Surely more than one of us wished he would volunteer to do the same of a Sunday, though I would be the first to deny it.

Simeon nodded and made a place for himself beside John.

The minister stood as tall as he was able. “Now . . . begin!”

The men worked quickly, most with the bucket between their feet. At first the women talked quietly and the children made a play at husking at one of the other mounds. But gradually, as the contest drew on, as men began to slow at their labor and the competition became more grueling, conversation ceased. Some of the men now paused with every ear, flexing their hands, or wiping sweat from their brow.

But at least two labored as if impervious to fatigue.

John worked quickly, face slick with sweat. Fingers slipping on the husks now and then, he ripped them away with something like bitter determination.

Beside him, Simeon worked with apparent ease, methodical, precise, and not a little ruthless. He snapped more than one ear in two during his efforts.

And finally, the minister called out, “Time!”

Conversations began again as the ears were counted. And the tally was given with some ceremony by the minister.

“It is Thomas Smyth, the winner!”

Thomas Smyth, the winner. Everyone seemed as if they were surprised. But why should they be? How could a blacksmith not be stronger than the strongest man among them?

But, oh! Now Simeon was looking round at him. And now the man was turning his head to look at me with his iced blue eyes.

I stepped behind the bulk of a mound of corn to hide myself.

Why could Thomas not have left well alone? It was not his contest. Not his fight. Simeon meant to show Susannah how good a man, how strong a man he was. What he had not meant to do was be humiliated at his own game.

And now Thomas had begun something.

Please, God, it would end in nothing.

Please, God?

In the silence that followed the minister’s announcement, only one person clapped. ’Twas the captain. And the sound was loud. Rhythmic. Mocking.

“Well done, Simeon Wright. Well thought. And now not a man of you can handle his musket! Whatever would happen should the Indians choose this night to come?” He had been advancing upon Simeon and finally he stopped. But not without one last word. “You might pause to think on that.”