Abiding Peace (16 page)

“She did, if you mean Miss Hardin,” Samuel said. “But that is not why I’m here.”

“Why are you here then? Come to save me?”

Samuel sat down on the straw opposite the prisoner. The dim light gave him a poor view of McDowell’s face, but the man was watching him warily. “I couldn’t do that if I wanted to,” Samuel said. “Only Jesus Christ has the power to do that.”

McDowell looked away and raised his hands, with a clanking of the chains, in a gesture of futility. “I suppose they’re going to hang me t’morra. Sent you to tell me to repent.”

“I hope you
will
repent. But no one sent me. No one but the Almighty.”

“They’re saying I killed a woman.”

“Yes, they are.”

They sat in silence for long time.

“Thought I was in here for thieving,” McDowell said at last.

Samuel peered at him. “Only that?”

“When you all came after me, I thought she’d told, and you were going to drive me out of your township.” The man ducked his head and changed his position again. “That girl they call Christine—she brought me food, you know.”

“I know.”

“That weren’t stealing. She gave me things.”

“Because you threatened her and those she loves.”

“Not I.”

Samuel stood. It was no use trying to reason with him.

“Wait, Parson!”

He turned back. “Well?”

McDowell raised his hands in supplication. “I never meant it. I only said it so she’d bring me enough victuals to keep me alive, and I wouldn’t have to go and rob someone. I were desperate, you know.”

“You could have asked the elders of the village for help. You could have come openly to the parsonage when I was at home. I would have given you sustenance.”

“We can’t undo what is done, now, can we?”

“Nay, we cannot. But you can still have forgiveness. Even the vilest can repent and experience God’s mercy.”

“I didn’t kill no one.”

Samuel sighed. Lord, show me what to do
.

He sat down again. “You say you didn’t kill the woman we found murdered.”

“Not I.” The prisoner’s eyes narrowed. “It weren’t the homely girl, were it? She treated me nice, mostly. She got mean at the end and said she wouldn’t bring me no more. But she’d given me enough to get by on for a week or two.”

Samuel stared at him in disbelief. Was it possible he didn’t know who the victim was, or was he cleverly seeking to gain Samuel’s trust? “Nay, it was not Miss Hardin. But …”

“What?” McDowell asked.

“She wasn’t nearly so tall as Christine, and she’d darker hair.” That at least was true when Mahalia Ackley was younger; he did not mention that her raven hair had lately been cloaked in gray. “She’d been to the trader, and she carried her purchases home. Are you sure you didn’t attack her and steal the bundles that she carried?”

“Nay, sir. I’d remember that, surely I would.” His furtive, dark eyes skewered Samuel, and his upper lip curled. “Were she pretty?”

Samuel felt ill. He wanted to flee the felon’s presence, but he felt the Lord’s leading to stay put. “McDowell, you need Christ, whether you killed that woman or nay.”

“You think God Almighty would forgive the likes of me?”

“I know He would.”

Again they sat without speaking.

Samuel felt drained of energy and emotion. Did he really want the man who had said he would mutilate his precious little daughters to repent? If he were honest, he would have to admit he wanted the man to hang. But would he wish to see even such an evil person condemned for eternity?

Three days later, Christine sat at the loom, throwing the shuttle back and forth through the threads of the warp. Ben and John had both hired out to help with the corn harvest at the Gardners’, and John was excited to leave that morning with the prospect of earning half a shilling. She had packed lunch for both of them in a tin pail, which John carried, and Ben took a jug of water for them to share. Samuel had seen the boys off and then gone to the meetinghouse, as usual, to study for his next sermon.

Christine went about her tasks methodically, but her thoughts flitted here and there. She knew that later in the day, Samuel would go to the garrison to visit McDowell. He had gone every day since Sunday. He told her almost nothing about these visits, but Abby had confided to her that in the evening, after she had left, when he read scripture to the children, he instructed them to pray for the prisoner.

She kept praying for McDowell as well, though she had not been told to do so. She prayed for his soul and the magistrate’s speedy arrival, and she persisted in asking that justice be done.

While the girls sat on the front step—Abby and Constance with their samplers and Ruth with her doll—Christine wove. The length of gray wool grew daily. Most afternoons, she let Abby put in an hour or two. But the cloth must be finished soon so that she would have time to make all of the clothes the men of the family needed before winter. Her hands flew, and in comparison to Abby’s pace, Christine produced material at lightning speed.

While she wove, she brooded. She knew she shouldn’t do that, but her thoughts drifted often to Samuel and his somber mood. Was he sorrowful because of the evil McDowell had done or because the man would not repent? Or perhaps it was because of her own part in the drama.

Christine wished she knew what she could do to lighten his heart and take things back to where they had been a month ago, before the outlaw first appeared, before she had accommodated his demands, and before Samuel had ever called her “my dear.”

That was it, she realized with a start. Not once, but twice, the minister had spoken thus to her, and each time her pulse had raced. She had allowed herself to imagine that he was conscious of his choice of words, not accidentally using in those moments of tension an endearment that he formerly had bestowed on his wife.

Of course, he called his daughters that as well. He might call any female acquaintance “my dear” in a moment of affection or even out of respect, she supposed. Aye, she had heard him call Tabitha “dear lady.” So why should she have felt so giddy when he used the term toward her? But she had.

For the last week, he had gone about with a grave face, never laughing and hardly even playing with the children, something he’d always loved to do. It was almost as if they’d regressed to the weeks after Elizabeth died, when Christine feared Samuel’s heart would break with sorrow.

She had been at the loom an hour and was beginning to think she should stop and begin supper preparations, when the girls rushed inside.

“Miss Christine, we have company,” Abby called.

“Oh?” Christine rose and hurried to the door.

“It’s Miss Catherine,” Constance said.

Stephen and Richard Dudley’s sister was always a welcome guest. Her youth and enthusiasm couldn’t help but lift Christine’s spirits.

As she and the little girls spilled out onto the doorstone to meet the caller, Christine saw that Ruth had not stood on ceremony but had run to fling herself into Catherine’s arms at the edge of the street. Catherine laughed and stooped to hug her, while juggling her parcels.

Christine walked out with the two older girls to meet her and carry Ruth back. “I’m glad to see you, Catherine! Surely you didn’t come into town alone?”

“No, Richard was coming on an errand, and I begged him to bring me to see you. Ever since you told me Abigail was learning to weave, I’ve been meaning to give her this.” She held out a wooden frame about a foot square, laced with heavy thread, which Christine recognized at once as a small hand loom.

“Oh, that’s perfect for Abby!” Christine took it and placed it in Abby’s hands. “You can weave belts and kerchiefs and all sorts of things on this, my love. Not a large piece of cloth, but small lengths big enough for doll clothes, or towels, or … well, anything, if you piece them together.”

“Yes, I made pockets and dolly skirts and all sorts of things with that when I was your age,” Catherine said. “But I never use it now, and I thought perhaps you would like it.”

Abby looked up at Christine, her eyebrows raised so high that the skin of her forehead wrinkled like rows in a plowed field.

Christine laughed. “Yes, you may accept it. I doubt your father will object, and if he does, we’ll explain that you are merely borrowing the loom.”

“Well, you needn’t give it back, so far as I’m concerned,” Catherine said as they walked toward the house. “When you outgrow it, Abby, you can pass it on to Constance or Ruth. And this”—she patted the basket that hung from her arm—”is our refreshment. Seed cakes and a packet of chocolate. Father bought the chocolate, but mother doesn’t like it. She says it is too bitter to drink. She prefers her sassafras or raspberry tea. Anyway, I wanted you to try it.”

“Perhaps if we put sugar in it,” Christine said with a frown, though she wasn’t sure it would be a good use of the little maple sugar in the parsonage pantry.

“Well, I find it tolerable, but Father is the only one at our house who really likes it,” Catherine said. “We’ll have fresh cider in another month, and glad we’ll be to get it again.”

Christine arranged a chair near the doorway for her guest so that Catherine would not get too warm when she stirred up the coals in the hearth to heat their tea water. They spent a pleasant hour talking while Catherine showed Abby how best to thread the hand loom and Christine stirred up fresh biscuits for supper. She hadn’t felt like laughing much lately, Christine noted. But with her young guest in the house, merriment was inevitable. She even found herself humming a psalm as she stoked the fire, although perspiration dripped from her brow onto the hearth.

When they’d shared their cakes and chocolate—which they all agreed was better with a scant spoonful of sugar in it—they went to the garden and picked a few carrots, which Christine sliced and added to the stewpot. By the time Richard Dudley came to collect his sister, she realized that Samuel would soon be home for supper. He’d no doubt taken his journey to visit the prisoner, and she hadn’t thought about either of them for quite some time. With a guilty start, she sent up a quick, silent prayer as she waved good-bye to Catherine and Richard then herded the Jewett girls back inside to set the table.

Samuel returned home for dinner on Thursday. His sons were both at home that day, as a light rain that morning had put a stop to all harvest activity.

“You boys come over to the meetinghouse with me for an hour after dinner,” he said. “I fear you’ll forget your Greek and mathematics if we don’t continue lessons soon.”

“Do you plan to visit the prisoner today?” Christine asked.

He looked at her in surprise. She had not mentioned McDowell for several days, and he’d hoped her preoccupation with him had lessened. “Why, yes. Probably a brief call, after the boys do their sums and grammar. I’ll want to study a bit more before evening worship.”

“Might I go with you, sir?” Christine’s eyelashes stayed low over her expressive eyes, and he couldn’t tell from her carefully neutral voice what her mood was.

He hesitated. McDowell was still chained, so she would be in no danger if she kept her distance. William Heard saw to it that he was washed and properly clothed. But still …

If he denied her this, would she resent him? And would she find a way to see McDowell without him? Better to take her there himself, he decided. Perhaps if he witnessed the meeting, he would better understand her feelings for the man.

“Shall you come to the meetinghouse in one hour? I’ll send Ben home to mind the girls then. Or you could ask Goody Deane to come over for a bit.”

“Thank you, sir.” She did not smile, nor did she look at him, but went about gathering up the dirty dishes.

She arrived punctually an hour later with a basket on her arm. He had expected that and made no comment. Goody Deane was at the house, she reported, and since the rain had stopped, he allowed the boys to go to the river and fish until suppertime.

The gate stood open at the Heards’ garrison, and the men were preparing to go into the fields. William greeted them, eyeing Christine in surprise.

“My wife be inside, making jelly,” he told her.

“I shall be glad to see Mrs. Heard,” Christine said, “but my real errand is to visit the prisoner.”

“The lady comes on an errand of compassion?” Heard asked Samuel. “Well, go along then, but my advice to you is that you go in first and make sure the prisoner is presentable before you admit the lady. He’s a hard’un, miss, though lately he’s seemed less surly.”

“I believe his attitude has changed,” Samuel murmured.

Heard nodded. “Well, please do bar the door of the smokehouse from the outside, as usual, when you leave, Parson. I like to think he’s secure here, though we haven’t posted a guard these past two days.”

Samuel followed his suggestion and left Christine outside while he entered the small, dim building.

“Well, Parson”—McDowell sat up straighter on the straw with a crooked smile—”I wondered if you’d forgot me today.”

“On the contrary, I’ve brought someone with me.”

“Oh?” The outlaw cocked an eyebrow at him. “Be the magistrate come then?”

“Nay, not yet. This is someone from the village. Someone you’ve met before.”