"You say nothing..." he said at last, with a sigh. "Do you know something to my discredit? Have I offended?"
"Aye," she said, smiling faintly. "You had no right to speak of—to speak intimately about me to Governor Winthrop, nor give him to think that I knew you."
He swallowed; pink stained his fair skin. "I didn't. Mistress, I but said I admired you and grieved to hear of your widowhood. I wouldn't have presumed to say more. It was he who mentioned that you must marry again after landing, since women need protectors in this wild place. It was he who hinted subtly, and then as I still dared not think—he asked me straight out if—"
"Aye. No doubt he did," she cut in dryly. "But I believe you will understand my displeasure at being told I had no choice, that my marriage had been arranged."
"I do," he said humbly. "I never meant it like that, nor will I thrust myself on you. I know nothing of women. With none have I aspired to be a husband, nor would have now—much as I've cherished you in memory—except the Governor..."
"Yes. Yes. I know," said Elizabeth with exasperation.
He stooped and picked up the glove he had dropped. "I see you can't abide me," he said turning away. "I expected nothing else."
"Oh, fiddle!" cried Elizabeth, half laughing, so harmless had this opponent turned out to be. "How do I know whether I can abide you or not, Mr. Feake? I don't know anything about you, yet admit to some curiosity—but we must hurry back and dine, it's never well to keep the Governor waiting."
"You are even lovelier than I remembered," said Feake in a muffled voice as they began to walk, "and I've thought of you so often." She did not answer, being much perplexed, and conscious chiefly of respite.
His compliment and the devotion in his eyes were naturally not unwelcome; more welcome yet was a sense of power, a sweet she had never tasted with Harry—or Jack. The thought of Jack brought its customary miserable pang, and she hastened to efface it by asking questions of Robert Feake.
By the time they reached the Governor's house she had learned the outward facts of his life. He was twenty-nine years old, and had been born in Norfolk, but apprenticed at thirteen to his father, James Feake, who had been a wealthy goldsmith in London. Robert inherited from his father not only the business, but Puritan leanings, which brought him in contact with Emmanuel Downing, and eventually John Winthrop. He had loaned them money from time to time, and eventually bought shares in the Massachusetts Bay Company.
"I marvel, Mr. Feake," she said, "In view of what you tell me, that you left England for this raw, uncomfortable land—was it conscience' sake?" Not a yearning for adventure surely, she thought, nor for gain, nor did he seem the type of man to have been galled by religious oppression.
He was silent so long that she turned to look at him, and saw confusion in his face, almost fear. He glanced sideways at her, and spoke hurriedly, "Conscience, aye—There was some trouble. It—I wasn't well, an ague, I think—yes—that was it, it must have been an ague. My memory is clouded of that time. Forgive me."
"What for?" she said, pitying his confusion. "I didn't mean to pry. And agues with their fevers often haze the memory."
"London air is unhealthy," he said in the same harsh hurried voice. "'Tis better here. I feel better. I was too confined in London."
As he spoke, they passed the man in pillory, and Elizabeth glancing at the prisoner, shook her head. "I trust Boston'll not grow too confining also."
"Nay," he said eagerly and his face cleared. "If you would, Mistress—if you should ever think to join your lot with mine, it need not be in Boston. I have fair land at Watertown. I've started a house by the river, and 'tis freer there in Watertown. Tire minister, Mr. Phillips, rules with a gentle hand."
"In neither Groton nor London where I've lived, did the ministers rule at all," said Elizabeth, "but I see that you understand certain things about me very well."
They had turned down the lane and were in front of Winthrop's door before he murmured in answer. "I understand, I think, because I love you," he spoke so low that she barely heard, then she stopped and stared at his averted face.
The ensuing dinner was pleasant. Winthrop had favored Elizabeth with one startled approving glance when she came in with Robert Feake, and he placed the two side by side at table. He asked the blessing on their meal, and forgot all domestic matters, in the larger interests of listening to Captain Peirce's news from England, and discussing letters the Lyon had brought. Margaret had prevailed upon her John to serve canary wine at least for this reunion, and as their great pewter tankard was passed from hand to hand and the lavish feast was consumed, Winthrop relaxed into geniality. He enjoyed being a host, and his ever-anxious conscience produced no conflict between the ingrained traditions of the English squire and Biblical injunctions—which approved hospitality. His eyes moistened proudly as he glanced at Margaret beside him, and down the long trestle table at his children and his guests. These included besides Captain Peirce and Robert Feake, his colony assistants—Sir Richard Saltonstall who had come down river from Watertown and was returning to England on the Lyon, Mr. Increase Nowell, Mr. William Pynchon, and Simon Bradstreet, Dudley's young son-in-law. Mirabelle also contributed to the general glow. She was charming and told tactfully edited anecdotes of her life in London and Paris. She flattered all the men, and got her own way as usual.
Winthrop had decided to board Lady Gardiner with the Aspinwalls, whom he considered the most suitable family in Boston for her reception. Mirabelle had other ideas. She too had been out walking that afternoon and she too had encountered a young man. Hers happened to be Captain Underhill. They had come, as she later told Elizabeth, to an instant understanding. "I like soldiers," Mirabelle said with her throaty chuckle. "I like thees one. He is big and strong, he has a naughty eye. Also he like me. So I decide to board with him while I stay in Boston."
"But he has a wife, hasn't he?" asked Elizabeth, slightly dazed as always by Mirabelle.
"Of course. Or it would not be comme il faut. A fat Dutch cow of a wife, but a good cook. I am comfortable. And I amuse myself."
The two young women had met by chance on the Common where the train bands were drilling to the pleasing tootle and thump of the fife and drum corps. It was Friday, November 11, a week after the Lyon had landed, and a holiday, since the Governor had proclaimed it a Day of General Thanksgiving. In the morning Eliot had prayed and lectured in the church, thus much edifying Boston folk, and now relaxation was permitted. The weather was warm and misty; most of the town had taken to strolling around the Common. Aside from the marching train bands there wasn't much to look at but the cattle which had been driven onto the Neck for wintering and a little pond on which children were poking at chip boats with birchbark sails; but Elizabeth was relieved to be outside.
There had been a great deal of work to do this week in the Governor's crowded house. The servants were so few compared to Groton and three of the maids they had brought were sick. Sally had collapsed the day they landed. It was obvious that she had scurvy, her teeth were loose, her breath fetid. She lay on her pallet in the garret and moaned for Suffolk. Elizabeth had brewed scurvy grass for her but she was not yet improved. Mary too was sickly, and on Margaret, Elizabeth, and Martha had devolved much manual labor to which they were unaccustomed. They had had to help the one remaining maid with the work, roasting venison on the spit, steeping porridge made from the unfamiliar and—to the newcomers—extremely unpalatable Indian corn meal. Worst of all they had had to launder the mountains of filthy linen which had accumulated on the passage over.
"I wish I could amuse myself," said Elizabeth wistfully, as she and Mirabelle paused to watch a group of lads playing at stool-ball. "And this place is so dreary." She looked around the muddy, treeless Common with the great three-crested hill lowering against a dun sky. "Mirabelle, why do you stay? You don't have to."
Mirabelle glanced at the helmeted figure of Captain Underhill who was cursing his raw recruits in fluent Dutch fortunately not intelligible to the
godly spectators. "The Captain makes love very well, for an Englishman," said Mirabelle shrugging, "but I think you are right. I leave soon to find my Christophe. Underhill say I shall find him at Piscataqua, and that he has married off his doxy to someone else; that means he is tired of her."
"But how can you go to that wild northland alone?" Elizabeth cried.
"It's only about two days sail, chérie—and Underhill know of a trading shallop which will take me."
Elizabeth was smitten with envy and a sense of loss. Without the gaudy shameless Mirabelle, Boston would be dreary indeed. "Couldn't you take me too?" she whispered hopelessly.
"Non, non—ma pauvre. One must be practique. You could not bring your baby, and you would be miserable running away from your family like that—the good Margaret, your sister, and Monsieur Jack—ah, but THAT is finished, isn't it? At least the little sister has won, though she never knew she was fighting, and you would not. It will be a marriage now for them—comme les autres—not very good, not very bad. And for you too there must be marriage. I see no other way."
Elizabeth drew a sharp breath. "You talk like the Governor!"
"Yes, I know. But you will be out from under his thumb. Take this Monsieur Feake who looks at you with the eyes of a faithful dog. I told you on the ship you need a man you can manage, and now here is one, surely."
"I don't love him," said Elizabeth dully, staring at the ground. "Though I don't find him exactly displeasing—but there's something strange about him, so pale and meek—yet sometimes I feel that—"
"Sacré nom!" cried Mirabelle, interrupting with vehemence. "How hard you make everything for yourself, you and all these Puritans! You look behind, you look before, you ask the moon, then think it wicked. Here is a man who is in love with you. And me, I find him interesting—these frail silvery types are sometimes piquant—there was a young Swede in Paris— enfin, no matter. This Feake is rich enough and he also pleases your father-uncle—whatever you call Monsieur Winthrop. You can certainly tolerate the young man, and if he bores you, distract yourself elsewhere, voilà tout."
Elizabeth gave a small bitter laugh, and did not answer. But her resistance to Robert was ebbing. She longed for a place of her own, and to be out of Boston. Nor was she impervious to the joy that she could apparently confer on Robert if she consented. She had seen him twice since the first meeting, and always he was gentle and mutely adoring. Sometimes he attracted her, yet sometimes she felt a subtle shrinking, and heard a warning toll, far off and meaningless as church bells in a distant town. I don't know what to do, she thought, and the lifetime instinct of her heart prompted the only solution. She would consult Jack.
Privacy was nearly as impossible in the Governor's house as it had been on shipboard, and Elizabeth waited several days before she realized her wish. It was not only their tacit avoidance of each other, but also that Jack was constantly riding out on his horse, investigating the other plantations, or surveying the probable sites of the fort and windmill, or conferring with Captain Peirce who was shortly to leave for England via Virginia.
Her chance came at last on the night that Governor Bradford of the Plymouth Colony sailed into the harbor and came ashore to pay his fellow governor a visit.
Winthrop, much pleased, conducted Bradford around Boston that afternoon, and Jack remained in the Hall to write letters at his father's desk.
Elizabeth escaped from the kitchen where the other women were bustling to prepare a special dinner for Bradford and walked resolutely down the other room towards Jack.
"I wanted to speak to you, alone," she said, "To consult you." She saw the stiffening of his dark mobile face, and a veiled look cloud his brown eyes as she came up to the table, and knew that she showed the same constraint.
"But, of course, Bess," he said quickly. "Is it about the sickness? Your maid still ails, I understand. Why not try a laudanum clyster? I have some laudanum in my surgery chest. Has she been bled properly?"
"Aye," said Elizabeth. "And Sally mends, now. 'Tis not that."
"What then?" he asked, as she paused. She disturbed him as she stood there looking her prettiest. All the Winthrops wore their finest clothes in honor of Governor Bradford. She was dressed in a maroon taffeta gown, looped back to show a quilted yellow petticoat. Her sheer lawn collar and cuffs were trimmed with a fine edging of gold lace. Her hair fell in black ringlets on her forehead and shoulders and the rest was pinned into a high glossy knot. She was still thin, but the vivid rose had returned to her cheeks, and the luster to her long hazel eyes. He had not truly looked at her in weeks, and did not wish to now, though the sensations she had used to arouse in him, he believed entirely conquered. He cast sand on the letter he was writing, and jabbed his pen sharply into the little noggin of shot. "Whatever is it?" he repeated.
"It's about Robert Feake," she answered at last. "Didn't you guess?"
His restless hand stilled. The sudden pain he felt dismayed him. "You are going to wed him?" he asked in a toneless voice.
"I don't know. Your father orders it. What do YOU think?"
Unwillingly he raised his eyes again and they looked at each other. The thought of the last evening in England on the beach at Sandwich cut down between them like a sword, and they both turned away. She walked to the fire and stood gazing at the crackling pine logs. He sat on at the table staring at his half-written letter.
But there was far more between them than forbidden passion, or even the compelling ties of kinship. Beyond these were the golden memories of their childhood's affectionate trust, and in them both was bred loyalty and decency.
Jack rose and walked over to her. "Do you dislike Mr. Feake, Bess?"
She shook her head. "But I feel some singularity—some mystery about him. Do you know why he left England?"
"Why, for the same reasons we all did, no doubt," answered Jack thinking this foolish question an evasion. He went on anxiously. "Is there someone else you wish to many? Are you unhappy here? Remember Edward Howes still loves you. He told me so in London. Would you go back to him?"
Elizabeth laughed on a weary note. "Oh, Jack—spare me Edward Howes again, I beg. Don't you remember how you urged him on me before you sailed to the Levant?"
"Aye, I remember." He picked up the poker and turned a log. "I was a fool, Bess. If I had thought—if I had spoken then—if I had stayed—or asked you—"
"Hush," she said. "What use is that?"
"None." He put the poker in the great fieldstone hearth. "Yes, my little coz, I think you should marry Robert Feake. My father knows what's best."
She sighed. "So everyone says—Jack, what has happened to my jointure? My four hundred pounds. I know your father had it, but now he says my portion is so small that Mr. Feake is amiable to want me."
Jack started and frowned. "But, my dear, the greatest part went to pay Harry's debts, long ago. Didn't you know?"
"No, though I've wondered. Do I have nothing?"
"A little," said Jack uncomfortably. "My father will give you some settlement, I'm sure, he is never ungenerous." Never ungenerous, but often muddleheaded when it came to money. Jack seldom permitted himself criticism of his father, but there was no doubt that financial matters might be better handled. Already Jack had discovered that the Governor had poured his own scanty funds into colony finances, and was considerably embarrassed for cash. Perhaps what remained of Elizabeth's portion had vanished in the same way. But this he would not tell her, and now the four thousand pounds from the sale of Groton Manor would certainly ease the situation.
"I wanted something of my own," Elizabeth said bitterly. "Not always to be beholden, a chattel like the maids and kine. Taking board and house room upon sufferance—"
"Bess! Bess!" he cried. "My father doesn't grudge you house room! You know that. You heard how in the starving time last winter here he gave his last handful of meal to a stranger!"
"It is easier to love a stranger," she said, "and your father has never loved me."
Jack was silent, kno
wing she spoke truth, and sensing from the conflict in himself something of what might lie deep hidden under his father's enmity towards this luscious, forceful woman of his own blood.
Elizabeth answered part of his thoughts as though she had read them. "You all think me strong-willed and rebellious. I've been so at times, I may be so again. But it seems I'm not now. For I will marry Robert Feake, since you desire it too."
"Oh, Bessie, dear—not like that. Not because I ask it. Not unless you feel it is God's Will. Have you asked Him?"
"No," she said, "and if I did, and He should hear, I cannot think He would answer in any voice different from your father's."
Jack stood gazing at her sadly before he leaned down and kissed her on the forehead. "If you should ever need me, Bess—my help—no matter where I am—and I shall travel widely—send me as token—" He paused thinking. He had no ring but the gold one his grandfather had given him; a button might be lost, and he wished to give her nothing trivial. He walked over to the chest where lay his hat and sword and gloves. He picked up one of his London-made doeskin gloves. The Winthrop crest had been embroidered on the cuff, "A hare proper, running on a mount vert set upon a helmet."
"Keep this, dear," he said, handing her the glove. "And swift as this hare which is our crest, I'll answer your need, if you send me the glove. I'll keep the other in memory of what might have—but has never been between us—and God bless you."
She took the glove and put it in the bosom of her dress, beneath the brooch Harry had given her. She pulled her collar down to hide the bulge it made, and ran from the room upstairs to her cold bedroom. She shivered, and crouching by her chest under the window, took the glove and brooch in her band and stared at them. Tokens from both brothers who had loved her in varying degrees, and she them. And this was the end. This was the turning of a page, the shutting of a door. It is finished, she thought, and soon I shall not even be a Winthrop any more. She put the brooch and glove in a little casket at the bottom of her bride chest, under her piles of linen.