Abiding Peace (9 page)

Christine caught a glimpse of color through a slit between the upright posts of the palisade. “I should love to, but I see young Mrs. Dudley coming along the path. Shall we go meet her? We can help her carry some of baby Hannah’s things, perhaps.”

“I’m so glad to see you,” Sarah called as they approached. “Richard doesn’t like me to walk even this far alone, but I could see him and Charles working almost as soon as I left my own doorstep, so I knew he wouldn’t mind.” She handed a basket to Abby and a small sack to Constance. “Thank you, my dears. Hannah is eager to play with you.”

Sarah provided not only a store of anecdotes to entertain them but a pudding for the dinner she and Richard would share with the Gardners and their guests. Jane and Sarah set about preparing the noon meal while Christine took out her mending, and the little girls settled to play with Hannah and John on a blanket on the floor.

“Richard’s mother paid a call on Goody Ackley yesterday.” Sarah chopped scallions while Jane punched down her bread dough and set it to rise a second time. “Mahalia had asked her if she had any rye flour left, so Mother Dudley took over a small sack. She found Alice Stevens rather put upon.”

“Oh?” said Jane. “Isn’t that a maid’s lot?”

“Aye. But Mother thought Mahalia treated her ill. Whatever the girl did, the goodwife complained in front of Mother until Alice was so nervous she dropped the plate of biscuits she was serving.”

“Oh, dear.”

“What did she do?” Christine asked.

“Mahalia screamed at her and told her to go and finish the washing. Mother Dudley said Alice was crying when she left the house.”

“It’s too bad.” Christine knotted her thread and broke it off.

“Aye,” Sarah said. “Alice was always a pretty and pleasant girl, if a bit timid. I fear she’ll turn into a cowering ninny if she stays long at the Ackleys’. After she went out, her mistress told Mother Dudley she was a sly, sniveling girl and not nearly so good at cleaning as the last one.”

“Well, I’m glad it’s not me.” Christine took out one of Ben’s socks and her darning egg.

“You did well not to go there.” Sarah wiped her hands on her apron and sat down on a bench. From her basket, she took a hank of soft lavender woolen yarn.

“Oh, how lovely,” Christine said.

“How did you ever get it that color?” Jane came around the table to peer at it more closely.

“Mother Dudley did it. She’s a clever one. Boiled it with the paper that came wrapped around a sugar cone. Isn’t it the prettiest color? I thought to knit a wrap for Hannah to wear when the cooler weather sets in.”

“She’ll look darling in it.” Jane set her bread pans on a shelf. “Come, Christine, let’s lay out that cotton and cut it. We’ve time before dinner.”

As they walked home later, Ben carried his littlest sister, Ruth, on his shoulders, and Constance held tight to Christine’s hand. Abby walked alongside, carrying her diminutive basket with her rag doll and sampler tucked inside.

Christine let her thoughts wander to the late afternoon conversation she and Jane had held, after Sarah left them.

“How do you know you can trust a man?” It was the closest she dared come to asking Jane’s opinion about the outlaw. But Jane had jumped to the wrong conclusion.

“Who is he?” Her face had lit with excitement. “Christine, don’t tell me that at last you’re in love!”

“No! Not that. I was only asking. You know I’ve never lived around men much.”

“Until the reverend.”

“Well … yes, but I wasn’t thinking of him. Truly.”

“Ah.” Jane turned sober then, bouncing the baby on her lap. “Well then, I suppose you must spend time with him and talk to him, until you feel you know him quite well.”

Christine wanted to protest. Spending time with the shadowy thief was the last thing she would do. But looking across the room at the three little girls playing so placidly with Hannah, she knew she couldn’t reveal the truth. No palisade surrounded the parsonage in Cochecho. Samuel Jewett had bought a musket only when he felt it absolutely necessary because of the frequent Indian raids. If the outlaw struck at his children, he would be hard pressed to protect them. Let Jane think what she may, Christine must keep her secret.

And so she left embarrassed and confused. Jane had automatically assumed that her affections were set on the minister. Given the circumstances, the entire village probably thought as much. But Samuel … Christine shifted the heavy basket on her arm. What
were
her feelings for Samuel?

Two nights later, by sitting up and sewing by candlelight, Christine finished making the new work trousers for the pastor. She put the last stitch in the hem late. As she stood and folded them, every muscle ached. Somehow she had to rid herself of this anxiety.

Her prayers seemed to have become vain repetitions—
Father, show me what to do. Lord, keep the children safe
. Mindlessly, she went about her daily work to make them comfortable. And every night she took their potential assailant sustenance so he could come back again tomorrow and threaten them again.

Something thunked against the side of the house, just below the window. She blew out the candle and stood in the dark, her heart racing.

Plink
.

It sounded like a pebble had hit the boards outside. He had returned. He expected her to bring him food, and she hadn’t gone out yet tonight. If she didn’t go, he would keep up the racket, possibly awakening Tabitha.

With shaking hands, she carried the candle to the fireplace and relit it from the dying embers. She hastened to gather a scanty meal for him. There wasn’t much, but she had deliberately put aside a small portion of dried fish, not admitting to herself at the time that it was for the lurker. And she had left half of her Indian pudding uneaten to sneak it into a covered dish when Tabitha looked the other way.

Another pebble hit the side of the house as she lifted the latch. Carefully balancing the earthenware dish, she slipped outside and closed the door behind her.

“Thought you’d forgotten me.”

She jumped, almost dropping the dish. “Hush! You mustn’t come so near the house.”

He edged away, into the herb garden.

She still held the dish, and so she followed.

He went to the shadows beneath a large maple and turned toward her. “Well, lass, bring it here.”

She hesitated. Why had she even bothered to ask Jane about trust? She didn’t trust this miscreant one whit. “Nay. I’ll leave it here.” She stooped to set the dish on the ground.

“What, afraid of me?”

“Should I not be?”

“I’ll not hurt ye, Christine.”

She shuddered. He had never used her name before. Had he asked someone in the village the name of the young woman who worked at the parsonage? More likely he’d heard the children call out to her weeks ago. Or perhaps he’d heard Goody Deane use her name the night she called out when she’d heard his voice. Christine couldn’t remember, but it disturbed her that he acted so familiar.

“Leave us alone.” She swallowed, hoping she could keep her voice steady. “This be the last time I will bring you anything.”

“What? Ye cannot let me starve.”

“Oh, but you can make us all live in fear.”

He laughed. “I don’t see anyone acting fearful. Anyone but you, that is.”

Her anger simmered. In the darkness she thought he smiled. “You say you’ll stop stealing, but you don’t. I’ve given you food and clothing and a blanket that were not mine to give. You’ve made me steal for you. Do you hear me? You’ve made a thief of me. This must stop.”

“Can you help me stop?”

“How would I do that?” she asked. He was toying with her, she thought, keeping her here in the shadows for his own purposes.

“You could speak for me to one of the gentlemen of the village. Tell them to hire me.”

“Whom could you work for?”

“Anyone.”

“The master at the brickyard?”

“Perhaps, though it’s sorry work.”

“Have you sought to hire on with the fishing captains?”

He flexed his shoulders. “Seasick, I fear. Debilitating.”

She nodded. He would make excuses for any real job possibility, she calculated. “Harvest will soon be upon us. I know farmers who could use a hand at haying and grain harvest. Shall I speak to them for you?”

His momentary silence confirmed her assessment. He didn’t want to work. Not really. At least, not hard, sweat-inducing, energy-sapping work.

“Certainly. But I shall need decent shoes and more food than you’ve been bringing me if I’m to slave all day in the sun.”

“You new employer can feed and clothe you. I’ll spread the word tomorrow. What is your name? How shall they find you?”

“Well, I …”

Again his hesitation emboldened her. She stepped toward him. “Speak, sir. Shall I put it about the village that a strong laborer will go to the ordinary at noon seeking employment?”

“Ye’re a bit hasty, miss. I’ve not eaten well for many a week. I’ve not the strength you seem to think I have.”

“Oh, haven’t you? I’ve been kind to you. You know I have. Leave us. Just leave us. I won’t tell anyone you were here.”

“Nay, I think not.” He stepped forward, and his face became clearer in the moonlight.

“I tell you now, sir, I cannot provide for you any longer.”

He moved swiftly, another step forward. Suddenly they were toe-to-toe, with a glinting knife blade between them.

“You’ll do as I say,” he spat out in a low, raspy tone. “If you don’t, you’ll be nursing one of those little dark-haired girls tomorrow. See if one of them don’t meet with an accident.”

“Christine?” Goody Deane’s sharp voice startled them both.

The man glanced toward the house, over Christine’s shoulder, and melted back into the shadows beneath the tree.

Christine drew in a ragged breath and turned around. “I’m coming, Tabitha.”

“Who was that man?” The widow peered toward the garden. “Shall I run for the parson?”

Christine reached her side. “Nay. He is …” She struggled to pull breath in past the heavy weight on her chest. “Oh, Tabitha, you cannot tell Reverend Jewett.”

Goody Deane’s eyes glittered as she frowned up at Christine. “What are you saying, girl? You’ve formed an attachment you’re ashamed of.”

“Nay. Oh please, don’t think that!” Christine let out her breath and reached for Tabitha’s hand. “I see I must tell you all.”

“And about time, I’d say. Come inside. I’ll stir up the fire, and we shall have blackberry tea and a bit of that Indian pudding you put by.”

Christine stared at her. “You saw that?”

“Of course I did. You think I don’t notice what goes on at my own hearth?”

Glancing behind her, Christine realized that the outlaw had managed to grab the dish of food as he retreated. “Then you’ll soon realize we won’t be eating any pudding. And we may be out one dish as well, if he doesn’t return it. But I expect I’ll find it on the window ledge at dawn.” Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she felt the absurd urge to laugh. “I’m relieved, actually, that you know.”

Tabitha squinted toward the dark expanse of the garden. A breeze ruffled the maple tree’s leaves. “Come inside, my dear. I think this is a night to bar the door and bare your soul to God and a human friend.”

Samuel set four math problems for John on his slate Wednesday morning and immersed himself in the scripture for the Thursday evening sermon. So many distractions in summer. Ben was off working for James Dudley today, and John fidgeted. Every sound that reached them through the oiled paper window of the meetinghouse called to the ten-year-old boy. The oppressive heat found them, even inside the big building, though it was cooler inside than out in the scalding sun. It was a wonder the boy learned anything at all.

He thought of Christine and the girls, no doubt baking today, poor things. He’d told Christine she needn’t build the fire this morning, but she insisted that if she didn’t, they’d have no bread tomorrow and their fish would be presented raw at supper. He would keep himself and John away from the house all day so that she and the girls could work in their shifts. Even so, they were likely to swelter in the little house. Did they have plenty of water for their cooking and washing needs?

It took determination to put his household out of his mind. He had only another thirty hours before evening worship, and he had much work to do on Sunday’s two sermons as well.

“Father.”

Samuel looked up.

John stood beside him with his slate ready.

“Ah. Finished your problems, have you?”

“Aye.”

“Good lad. Let me check them.” He took the slate from his son and put his mind to work on the arithmetic. “Excellent. Now, study your Latin.”

“Father, be we going home for dinner soon?”

“I told Miss Christine she could send Abby over with a cold luncheon for us. I don’t wish to add to her work in this heat.”

John nodded and wiped his brow with a kerchief. They had both stripped off their jackets and vests hours since, but even so, the back of Samuel’s linen shirt stuck to his skin.

“May I get a drink now, Father?”

“Aye. Let us both.” Samuel stood and set his Bible on the pew next to his ink bottle, quill pen, and two sheets of thin birch bark on which he’d been jotting notes for the sermon. Parchment was too expensive, and his scant supply of locally made paper was nearly gone. Perhaps he could replenish it when he received his quarterly salary, though many other needs seemed more pressing.