"Tell him—" said Elizabeth, "that I have forgot." She put the filled trenchers on the table, and began to cut snippets from a block of maple sugar.
"Cold message, my dear, for a man who seems to have your welfare at heart," said Underhill shrugging. "Spoke very earnest about you, he did. I almost thought—" He looked at Elizabeth's shut, pale face. Underhill had almost thought there'd been some love passage between them, from the way Hallet spoke. Now it didn't seem possible. "Well, I'm off," he said. He glanced at the lean-to door. Robert could be heard babbling softly inside. "I wish ye luck and a better future, my dear. At least you've many fine children to comfort you. Ye can be glad of that."
"Aye," she said, pulling the crane off the fire. "'Tis true, Captain Underhill, I can be glad of that."
In March, Toby put his shallop in the water again, and sailed to Stamford where he signed one of the Finch boys as crew before setting out for New Amsterdam and the resumption of his coastal trading.
When he returned to Greenwich Cove he carried to Elizabeth a letter from George Baxter.
"Ye've been given all the land here to administer as you see fit, haven't you?" said Toby watching Elizabeth read the letter. "'Twas what Baxter told me."
"Yes," she said slowly. "That's what he writes—that Governor Kieft agrees too, in view of Robert's complete incompetence and as long as he shall remain distracted. I'm to do as I think best with the land, for our greatest benefit, and the children."
"Makes ye a rich woman in your own right, Aunt," said Toby with respect. "In a manner o' speaking. Land-rich. And ye can sell off parcels. Several Stamford men're ready to buy."
Elizabeth turned somber eyes to the window where she could glimpse the tree line of Monakewaygo, her own particular purchase four years ago. And now she had a hundred times that acreage to do with as she pleased, to dower the girls, to educate the little boys, to buy what she liked. Power. Everything else has failed me, she thought. But there is this.
"I'll be careful how I sell," she said. "Land values are going up fast, I've been talking with Angell Husted. He wants more good pasturage. But I'll wait until I get four shillings an acre for my best. Now that the Indians are—are gone, the back country'll open up, settlers will be clamoring from all over. Dutchmen too. I shall be canny."
Toby's little eyes opened wide. He had never heard her speak like this, nor, he thought, actually looking at her with attention, had she ever seemed hard and purposeful before.
"That's sense you're talking, Aunt, at last," he said. "Anneke too, though she's not got as much as you, still'll realize a tidy sum, in time. We'll start by selling some o' the salt marsh."
"'We'?" said Elizabeth, raising her eyebrows.
"To be sure," said Toby in an offhand way, his stout freckled face reddening slightly. "When the year o' mourning for Patrick's up, Anneke and me'll ran down to New Amsterdam and get wed. She's a mite old for me," said Toby, "but she suits me. Besides her cooking and her goodly property offset the age."
"I see," said Elizabeth. "And can't say I'm surprised. No doubt you'll content each other very well."
Oh Dan, Dan—she thought with a twisting sorrow. But she would not allow herself to continue into memory.
She sat down and read Baxter's letter again, turned the paper over, and fetching her quill and sumac ink, began to draw as best she could a map of all the Feake lands.
That night she had a strange dream about William Hallet. In the dream she was furiously angry with him, she hated him. Hated him so that she struck at him with Baxter's rolled up letter, which had grown hard like a club. She hit Hallet in the face with it, but it did not injure him, for he laughed and jeered at her. And then in the dream she wept, pleading his forgiveness, but the face was no longer his. It was Jack's, it was Harry's, it was at last John Winthrop's.
She awoke to a bleak and steely determination.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
ON AN EXTREMELY hot Saturday in June of 1646, the six Greenwich families performed an unprecedented act. They trudged along the four miles of shore trail to Stamford with a view to attending Sabbath services at the Stamford Meetinghouse. And this they did in honor of little Joan Winthrop who was to be married today. Joan's betrothed, Thomas Lyon, had asked that the Greenwich residents with whom he was allying himself should show due decorum and godliness as an accompaniment to his marriage. And Elizabeth had agreed. It was a reasonable request, and she had sometimes felt guilt about her family's lack of religious observance.
She did not however much like her prospective son-in-law. He was pleasant enough, even ingratiating, big and handsome with fresh cheeks and curly hair, but she thought his close-set eyes had a calculating look, and she knew him to be conventional and very much impressed with the Winthrop name, since he had recently come from Boston. Still the sixteen-year-old Joan was in love with him in her own passive way. And being a plain-featured brown little thing with no hint of coquetry, Elizabeth recognized that they might have to wait a long time for another good offer. Thomas Lyon was twenty-six, well enough educated by a Suffolk grammar school, and was also connected with the Winthrops' distant English kin—Sir Henry Mildmay. Thomas had little cash and was sparing with that, but he was very strong and seemed ambitious.
So there was no valid objection to the marriage. Indeed, as Thomas frequently pointed out, it should greatly increase Elizabeth's comfort, since the young couple were to live with the Feakes at Greenwich Cove.
"You have room in that fine house of yours and 'twill save me building my own," said Thomas in proposing this. "And you need a man to help with your affairs, and with Mr. Feake's care."
Which was true enough perhaps—and yet, thought Elizabeth proudly as she walked on the shore path towards Totomack Creek, I've done quite well alone these two yean. She had made a few judicious sales, and had invested in pigs which needed little tending; by thrift she had managed not to encroach on the few remaining pounds of her jointure.
Also Robert was better. He stumbled along beside her now, clutching a fold of her violet tiffany skirt. His head was bowed, he stared at the ground, occasionally murmuring to himself, but he was not utterly lost to his surroundings any more. He knew that Joan was to be married today, and had wanted to be part of the occasion. Or at least he had not wanted to be left alone without Elizabeth.
Their children were, of course, part of the expedition. The fastidious Lisbet, thirteen now and very conscious of her flowerlike prettiness; Hannah, a sweet and chubby redhead, who kept near her parents; the little boys, Johnny and Robin, scampering on and off the path.
As they all passed the Husted homestall near the Sound, Angell and his wife came out to join them. "Why, good day, Mr. Feake!" said the young farmer, trying to hide his astonishment. "I didn't think you could—that is—how well you look—doesn't he?" he finished awkwardly to Elizabeth as Robert made a vague motion with his free hand, and did not look up.
"Aye," she said, smiling faintly. Robert had put on weight in his years of inactivity. His delicate bones had vanished into plump flesh which was suitably garbed today in a new fawn-colored doublet and breeches trimmed with silk braid and made in New Amsterdam. Elizabeth had provided new clothes for all her family, who were dressed in the latest Dutch fashions.
Bright spots of color they made along the leafy path; not only the Feakes, but their new neighbors, the Richard Crabs, John Coes, the Sherwoods, and Robert Husted—Angell's father—who had moved his homestall across the boundary from Stamford to Greenwich, preferring the latter's independence and lack of restriction, as had all these new settlers.
"Och—" said Anneke suddenly, mopping her flushed face with a small lawn kerchief. "'Tis varm. Ve'll be melted ven ve get to Stamford. I hope if Toby makes a good price on this voyage of his, he can buy a horse. I cannot valk as I used to."
"Well," said Elizabeth. "'Tis in a good cause. The child didn't want a Dutch marriage, even if we could have found a minister. And Thomas is a thorough-going Puritan." She sighed and Anneke glan
ced ahead at the young couple who headed the procession. Joan's short figure was dressed in dark green sarcenet, Thomas Lyon wore a sober gray suit and black hat. His curly hair was cut very short in the manner of the Roundheads, which seemed to be a name given to the Parliamentary forces in England who were commanded by a man called Oliver Cromwell. This Cromwell was fighting King Charles in a civil war which had arisen in the homeland. Thomas Lyon had brought the tidings from Boston. In Greenwich they had heard rumors before about the war, but dismissed them as negligible, the sort of unrest and rebellion they had all grown up with in the old country, nor wholly escaped in the new.
But now Thomas brought the incredible news that the King was losing—that his Queen and children had fled abroad—that Charles himself had surrendered to the Scots. Elizabeth and her neighbors had been astonished and concerned for a day or two, until they had decided it must be only a temporary defeat. It was impossible for the throne of England to be overturned by a commoner. Moreover it was all happening so far away, and the news six months stale, and doubtless exaggerated. When a violent northeaster blew off most of Angell Husted's roof shingles and flattened all the tender new greens in Elizabeth's garden, English affairs dropped from interest.
The Stamford-bound procession reached Totomack Creek where there was a rough footbridge, the boundary between Dutch and English territory. Elizabeth looked to the right, down the little cove towards the ruins of the Indian village which had been deserted immediately after the destruction of the Siwanoys.
"I wonder where that foul Nawthorne went after Underhill paid him off," she said to Anneke in a bitter tone. "Thank God we're quit of him and his half-wit clan."
"Ja," said Anneke, without interest. "They say all the Indians who vere frightened from here fled across the Sound. You should use this land, Bess, 'tis yours. Good fishing place. Or sell it." They both gazed at the small sheltered cove, which had once held canoes and chattering Indians. The cove, rock-bordered, was shaded by lofty elms and maples, its dark-green waters were steaming in the heat above rich oyster beds.
Robert raised his head. "Where're the Tomacs?" he said. "Where are their wigwams?"
Elizabeth and Anneke both started. They turned and gaped at Robert.
"Do you remember the Indian village, Rob?" Elizabeth said, as calmly as she could. "Do you really remember it?"
Robert blinked rapidly and let go of Elizabeth's skirt. "To be sure I do," he said with impatience. "Why shouldn't I? And Nawthorne who gave me the bone necklet I gave Lisbet."
"Hemel!" whispered Anneke. "So now vat comes! Vill it last?"
It appeared that it would. They reached the Rippowam, a tidal river, in spate so that they could not ford it. They hailed a man to ferry them over in his flatboat and as they walked up the river path on the eastern bank, Robert made several puzzled comments. "The gristmill's running," he said, looking at the great waterwheel below the millpond and dam. "I thought it burned down."
"They rebuilt it," said Elizabeth gently.
Soon, from his other remarks, about the size of the town which now had a hundred homes clustered around the green and meetinghouse, she realized that Robert remembered nothing since the day Daniel was killed nearly three years ago.
She did not enlighten him, because he seemed to accept the discrepancies. When they all trooped to Mr. Richard Lawe's house for the marriage, he greeted the men he had known before at Stamford quite naturally—nor seemed to note their astonishment.
Richard Lawe was chief magistrate, and had after some persuasion agreed to perform the ceremony. It was irregular, since Joan was a Dutch subject but her betrothed was not, and in any case, Mr. Lawe, in common with the other leading Stamford citizens, and the strict new minister, the Reverend John Bishop, felt that any hold which they could get on their unpatriotic, irreligious neighbors was eminently desirable. Greenwich with its rich arable lands, its splendid home sites should belong to New Haven Colony. How infuriating that because of Mrs. Feake's headstrong folly it did not.
The Lawes had a big bouse, almost a mansion, since they had taken over and enlarged Captain Underhill's after his departure for Manhattan and subsequently Long Island. And the Lawes had invited all Stamford gentry to be present at this function today. Many of the Stamford guests had never seen the Feakes, either Anneke who had been wife to the traitorous rogue Patrick and was now wed to a godless mariner, or Mrs. Elizabeth Feake who was reputed handsome, had been a Winthrop, and lived in mysterious seclusion with a mad husband. But the town fathers had a reason more devious than curiosity for entertaining not only the Feakes, but rebellious ex-Stamfordians like the Crabs and Husteds who had dared to cross the border. Objurgation having failed, persuasion might succeed in extending Stamford rule and Church membership.
The Lawes' Great Hall was filled as the Greenwich party entered. The Stamford ladies were all dressed in sad colors and wore plain fichus, aprons and caps. The Reverend John Bishop was very severe about such things. Elizabeth curtseyed and murmured politely, deciding that the group was very much like Watertown. Some of the women such as Mrs. Andrew Ward were pleasant and seemed to wish her well, the men on the whole were admiring, and it was agreeable to see again the look of startled interest in male eyes.
Her hostess, however, gave her the same resentful stare that Peg Warren used to in Watertown.
"This is a rare pleasure. Mistress Feake," said Mrs. Lawe as she offered Elizabeth a mug of small beer. "Stamford is indeed honoured." Almost the lady kept sarcasm from her voice, but not quite. She glanced meaningfully towards Mrs. Bishop, the minister's wife, then at Elizabeth's gown of violet tiffany, the gold chain above a very low-cut bodice edged with heirloom lace, the puffed, slashed sleeves which exposed bare rounded forearms; at the many small dark curls which framed Elizabeth's rosy face beneath the becoming wisp of winged cap.
"'Tis a pleasure to be here, Mistress Lawe," said Elizabeth blandly. "There are so many of us, I fear that after all we may discommode you if we spend the night in Stamford, or is there room at the ordinary?"
"Oh, Madam," cried Mrs. Bishop. "You couldn't stay there! We have place in our homes for you. I beg you and Mr. Feake will come to the parsonage." Rebecca Bishop was an anxious, gentle little woman. She was often forced to regret impulsive cordiality and she glanced nervously at her husband who deplored the heathenish Feakes.
"Nay, Rebecca," said Mrs. Lawe with hauteur. "It is arranged that the Feakes should stay here. 'Tis more fitting, though I fear my poor house isn't fine enough for Dutch patroons, so elegantly clothed. Are those the fashions in Amsterdam, Mistress?"
"I hope so," said Elizabeth sweetly. "And they are not unlike what I used to wear in England and the Bay."
"Oh, yes," chimed in Mrs. Ward. "We always used to dress according to our station. But Mr. Bishop doesn't wish us to. I think you look very charming, Mrs. Feake."
Elizabeth smiled at Mrs. Ward, while Mrs. Lawe tightened her lips and walked away.
The company regrouped themselves. The young couple stood up before Mr. Lawe's table. The magistrate pushed his spectacles down his nose and the sparse civil service commenced.
When Elizabeth heard the words, "Martha Johanna, do you take this man—" she came to attention, and tears stung her eyes. Martha Johanna, aye—that was Joan's real name, and years since she had remembered it. "Martha" for the little sister whom Joan somewhat resembled, and "Johanna" for Jack. So long ago at Groton, in the beautiful bedroom where she had birthed this baby in agony, where she had known hot reckless love with Harry, and the pain of parting, and where she had known bitter jealousy of this same Martha and Jack. Where had all these feelings gone? Drowned in Salem's river with Harry, buried with Martha in a sad little grave in the wilderness. And Jack, even remoter than the other two. Though she had heard that he was nearer geographically now. That he had moved his family into Connecticut, and meant to settle there. And was he happy with the other Elizabeth, the "intruder"? Aye, to be sure he was, though no wife and family could capture all of h
im. And herself so much like Jack in many deep ways, Elizabeth understood that once they had finally parted, he no more than she would wish to look back, or renew the discomfort of their relation.
Yet, as she watched Joan being married, she felt a formless yearning, and a bleak emptiness.
Then she heard Robert breathing hard beside her, and turned with quick apprehension. "A wedding," he said in a hurried shrill voice. "A wedding, Bess, do you remember ours? In the Governor's house in Boston? The night that I first called thee wife?"
"Sh-h—" she said, for those nearby looked at them. This was not the babbling of madness, and yet his pale blue eyes were very bright, he spoke in haste as though some force propelled the words. He quietened for a moment, but as Mr. Lawe closed his book, Robert said even louder, "Let the husband render unto the wife due benevolence, and likewise also the wife unto the husband. The wife hath not power of her own body, but the husband, and likewise also the husband hath not power of his own body but the wife."
There was a startled silence before Mr. Bishop stepped forward. "True, Mr. Feake," said the minister, nodding approval. "I see that you can quote appropriate scripture. It is well for the young couple to hear that, and I'll use it as one of my texts in the sermons tomorrow."
"Aye, thank you, sir," said Robert, "and is my wife not fair? And he that is married careth for the things of the world how he may please his wife, but still it is better to marry than to burn."
"True. True," said Mr. Bishop hastily, embarrassed yet thinking that Mr. Feake was not nearly so unsettled in his wits as rumor had it. Obviously a pious man who might be induced to join the Stamford Church, whereupon all these other unregenerate Greenwich folk should follow suit.
Robert did nothing else untoward for the rest of the day, but Elizabeth sensed his inner agitation while he kept close to her, not in the clinging childish way, but in a way she had seldom seen in him. He touched her often, her bosom, her neck. When they sat down to eat, he put his arm around her and whispered in her ear, "Wife, wife—when shall we be alone?"