A Far Horizon

by Brenda Rickman Vantrease

  ‘We are. Patience wouldn’t stand for anything less. But James thought you would prefer a Church of England service.’

  ‘He sounds quite sure of himself.’

  Ben laughed. ‘Hardly. I have never seen him so anxious about anything. He really wants this, Caroline.’

  ‘What are your plans for today? Will you be seeing Patience?’

  ‘No, Mr Milton has hired a new girl and Patience is tasked with giving her instructions. She has agreed to keep cooking for him, but the new girl will take on the housekeeping duties. Under Patience’s supervision, of course. Then Patience said something that surprised me. She said Mr Milton was expecting his wife to return when it was safe to travel, and could Patience teach her some of his favorite dishes?’

  Milton had believed her lie. ‘Patience might not be available by then. Could be a long wait. But, for now, you and I have some work to do. We need to make this place more welcoming for your bride. Let’s set up William’s bed where the press was.’

  His grin spread into a big old toothy smile. ‘I am tired of sleeping on a mat on the floor. I must keep an appointment at the Stationers’ Guild this afternoon, but the morning is young. So, let’s do this.’

  ‘We need to air out the linens. Open that chest in the corner. And place that sideboard underneath the window. That other chest has some pewter ware and a pair of candlesticks.’

  After they had finished setting up the bed, beating and airing its feather mattress, hanging a pair of damask panels over the window, Caroline surveyed the print shop transformed. It was now an efficient and almost pretty bedchamber.

  ‘Did we save enough in those chests for you to have something? Have you decided what you are going to keep?’

  ‘I have. There is a second set of decent linens and some of the pewter ware. It should all fit into one chest. You and Patience can use the other. Place it at the foot of the bed. With a pretty bolster it can double as a bench. Patience will probably have a few things she will want to bring. What’s in that sturdy chest against the back wall?’

  ‘That’s my printer tools and some tin-type. I am a journeyman now,’ he said with pride. ‘Won’t need my own press, just my own tools and type. James and I divided them. He’s going to take a set with him if he … Have you made your decision, Caroline?’

  She looked toward the window where dust motes floated in a sunbeam and thought she should get some vinegar and clean that window.

  ‘I guess it depends on which moment you ask, Ben. I do really enjoy his company. He makes me feel protected and cared for: not in the cherishing way your father did, in a more personal way. But he frightens me sometimes too. I can’t explain it. I do trust him, I think – but enough to follow him into the unknown? Enough to leave you and the Powells, the only family I have known these twenty-plus years? Maybe forever, not knowing if I will ever see you or see England again. I am just not sure.’

  ‘You can’t be sure about everything, Caroline. Sometimes you just need to step out on faith. Do you love him? I mean are you in love with him? You know you don’t have to go to America with him. He wants this enough to give that up.’

  ‘I know that’s what he said. But if I love him enough to marry him, I should love him enough not to ask that of him.’

  The Mermaid Inn only had only one pie left, but it looked fresh enough and there was no time to go anywhere else. James wanted to get back to the print shop while Ben was still away. His ‘printer’s devil’ had been offered a print job by one of the Stationers’ Guild masters and was meeting with him this afternoon to learn exactly what the job entailed. He might have to turn it down, he had said with a nervous frown, because to botch his first freelance job would be a very bad beginning. But James had confidence in him and had advised him not to turn it down. He would do just fine on his own.

  The timing for Ben’s errand was good for James too, since he needed to find Caroline alone. In the bright light of day, he had felt his own self-confidence thinning. What if she turned him down outright? What then? Or what if she offered to marry him per his promise to stay? He had made that bargain on impulse, overcome by her presence and Ben’s probing. Had he been rash? But he had only to think of life without her to know he really had no choice and would do whatever it took. A foolish move, telling her about the highway robbery. He’d been close until then – he could feel it. But he had wanted nothing false between them. Not in the beginning. Not ever; unless the keeping of some secret enterprise was for her protection, then maybe. On his way down Cheapside he’d even thought about stopping at one of the goldsmith’s shops to buy a wedding ring, but decided that might jinx his chances.

  Feeling as jittery as a whore in church, he entered what used to be the main print room. Caroline was standing on a three-legged stool trying to fasten a bit of blue drapery above the shop window. ‘Here, let me help,’ he said, setting the pie on the kitchen table. Placing his arms around her, he reached up and pushed in the pin, but overcome with the sensation of her body so close to his, he did not let go immediately. He was struggling to control the impulse to bury his face in the hollow of her neck when he felt her shoulders tense.

  ‘Thank you. I believe that will hold. You can let go now.’

  ‘Must I?’

  ‘You must. I expect Ben back any moment.’

  He removed his arms, holding only her hand as she stepped down. He stepped back then and suddenly looked around at his improved surroundings. With a low whistle of appreciation, he said, ‘What have you done with our print shop?’

  ‘I just finished what you started. You were the one who did away with the print shop and offered the space to Ben and his bride.’

  ‘See how well we complement each other. The room looks wonderful. It just required a woman’s touch.’ And then he thought about the way that sounded. ‘Not any woman’s touch. Your touch.’

  ‘Did you bring the pie?’

  ‘The pie? Yes. The pie. Pigeon. I think. It was the only choice and the last one.’

  ‘I will put it on the hob to keep it warm. Too bad the boys are not here to share it.’

  ‘Just as well. This conversation calls for privacy.’

  She sat down at the table across from him. ‘Is Ben to be included in our private conversation? I mean, you were quick to involve him yesterday.’ He noted the edge in her voice. Maybe not a good sign.

  ‘Only because I needed support,’ he pleaded. ‘I was sure he would approve and thought his approval might influence you.’

  ‘It did. As did your promise.’

  The abruptness of her answer startled him. Did that answer imply that she was going to accept him? Was he really going to be a farmer on that desolate pile on the moor with only pigs and sheep for company? A thought that incited panic in his soul. And then came his second thought. She would be there too.

  Getting up from the table, she went over to the mantle, swept it with her hands as though scooping up dust, then sat back down across from him, back straight, shoulders square. She inhaled deeply, as if she were giving a rehearsed speech. ‘I am honored by your proposal, Lord Whittier. If you have not changed your mind, I will marry you. But first I have two things to give you. I wish to return this to you so that you can give it back to me. It shall be my wedding ring.’

  She opened her palm and handed him the pearl ring. He felt hot with shame.

  ‘No, Caroline. No. I can afford to buy you a wedding ring. I even thought about it today, but I wasn’t sure—’

  ‘I … I want this one,’ she said, the catch in her voice belying her rigid posture, but he recognized the steel in her tone – not sharp but firm. He knew he could not counter it, but he had to try. ‘For God’s sake, Caroline. Every time you look at it you will be reminded of—’

  ‘William? As well I should be. I can honor his memory and remember how blessed I am that two good men have loved me. It does not mean I will love you less or grieve him more.’ The old teasing smile returned, ‘After all, James, it was this ring that f
irst brought us together.’

  ‘Every time I look at it, I will remember that, and how much I came to regret that deed.’

  ‘Don’t you see? It has meaning for both of us. It will be a caution. Not to be guided by foolish impulse, but when we are, to know that sometimes our mistakes and our losses can be redeemed. It will remind us how fleeting and changeable life can be and to embrace the moments we have. Here. Take it. You took it from me by force and gave it back out of conscience. I am giving it freely to you now to give back to me out of love. It is not the same ring.’

  With both hands, she reached for his and folded the ring into his palm. He could feel the pulse in her wrist. How could he deny her anything?

  ‘Put it on my finger when we stand at the altar in St Bride’s.’

  ‘Ben told you.’

  ‘He did. And I thought it presumptuous of you. But when are you ever not presumptuous, my lord? It seems to serve you well.’

  He kissed the hand that handed him the ring. ‘You are a complicated and exceptional woman, Caroline Pendleton soon to be Caroline Whittier. You never fail to surprise me.’

  He started to pull her toward him, but she held out her hand, halting him. ‘Wait. I have one more thing for you,’ she said, reaching into her pocket. ‘This is my list of demands.’ She handed him a folded piece of paper.

  He groaned inwardly. The table between them had suddenly become a negotiating table and he was being bested. He was really going to spend his life with this indefatigable woman. Probably on a pig farm. A farmer would need that quality, he supposed.

  ‘Read it. Aloud.’

  He looked at her with a question in his eyes but did as he was told. ‘Two bolts finely woven linen. One large tub for washing. One dozen bars of soap,’ he began haltingly, thinking it a strange list for a trousseau. But what did he know of such things? ‘Three woolen blankets. Two lanterns each with a round of wicking. 150 beeswax candles. 200 tallow dips. Two large casks of vinegar?’

  ‘For preventing spread of disease.’

  ‘You must be anticipating plague.’ When she made no comment he continued, ‘Two iron skillets. Three crock jars. Three jugs. Crockery and plate. One brazier. One small cook stove with a flue if there is room.’ He was halfway down the list when he realized what it meant. He could have shouted for the pure pleasure of it, but he restrained himself.

  ‘I have a small cache of silver that I can contribute for the expense,’ she said into the pause.

  ‘Does this mean?’

  ‘It means that I am willing to try,’ she said. ‘On one condition. That we will return to England if the place is not what you expected, or if it is too savage or simply too harsh for a civilized woman to live there. Or too lonely for human habitation – you have not said if there are other women there? Or children? Is there a school? A church?’

  Her tone was less assured now. Anxious, worried. He should have told her that first. Such things were important to women. Reassuring words came out in an excited tumble. ‘There are already seven families there. The closest doctor is in Boston, but there is one aging midwife who is training Roger’s oldest daughter to be her assistant. There is a common meeting room that serves as both church and school and government administration. Not the Church of England, my darling, but not a Puritan church, either. Simple services, I am told – Roger mostly preaches – where all are welcome, but none compelled.’

  ‘No shops or markets, I suppose.’

  ‘A really large trading post just a couple hours’ sailing away, I have been assured. All sorts of goods, both local and imported. Sugar from the islands, spices, handmade goods. The colonies – Boston and New Amsterdam in particular – have made remarkable progress in a few short decades. It is not like the stories we heard from Jamestown or even when Winthrop first went out twenty years ago.’

  He saw her relax a little. This was a lot for her. Even to agree, she must love him more than he had dared hope.

  ‘But, James, it is so far. You must know, just thinking about the voyage frightens me. Will you promise me fair winds for sailing?’ She tried to smile but it quickly faded.

  ‘You know I cannot promise that.’ He tried to lighten his tone, to resurrect the smile. ‘But I will promise to hold your pretty head while you puke – if I’m not tossing my own over the side.’

  It worked. Her smile and quick laughter were two of the things he loved about her. He would do anything not to lose that, even if it meant dirt farming on a god-forsaken English moor. ‘Caroline, as God is my witness, I solemnly vow, if you are willing to go with me and give me just one year, that’s all I am asking … if you are not happy, I will bring you home and we will start over. Ships to and fro about every three months, even in winter.’ He held her face between his hands, so she would not fail to see the sincerity in his eyes. ‘My darling, my soon-to-be bride, we will come home whenever you say. On the very next ship.’

  ‘Well, then,’ she said, ‘I suppose you may kiss me, James, to seal this bargain. Quickly, before I change my mind.’

  He took her in his arms then and, from the way she responded to his kiss, tentatively at first, and then with real passion, James did not think it likely she was going to change her mind. Whatever happened with his new world plans, this new life was going to mark the beginning of the greatest adventure of his life. It was James who broke the embrace this time. He needed to bank the fire she had started, before it became unstoppable. He wanted to take her right here on the cold stone floor, but this woman was going to be his wife. She would demand, and she deserved, more.

  The door opened. Ben came in, calling cheerily, ‘I did it. I took the job.’ But he pulled up short when he saw the two of them standing there together, daylight scarcely between them.

  ‘Oh. Sorry.’ He looked away, then, relieving the awkward moment as he so often did, said, ‘I would offer to leave you two alone, and come back later – but I see there is pie.’

  ‘Let go of me, milord, so I can get this hungry lad some pie,’ Caroline said. Whether it was the flush in Caroline’s cheeks from embarrassment, or something else, James couldn’t really say, but he had never seen her look more desirable.

  She cut the pie into slices and set them on the table along with three goblets for the wine that was still waiting there.

  ‘Tell us your news first,’ James said. ‘You have probably already surmised ours.’

  ‘I’ll tell you about the job while we eat. I haven’t eaten all day. I was too nervous.’

  ‘Me, too,’ James said. ‘How about you, Caroline, have you eaten anything today?’

  ‘I can’t remember,’ she said.

  ‘If she were here, Patience would say we should say grace.’

  ‘As soon-to-be-head of our de facto family, that would be my honor,’ James said, not missing the look of shock that Ben shot Caroline. Her chin quivered with the effort to restrain her smile.

  James cleared his throat and intoned. ‘Lord, for what we are about to receive, we are truly grateful. Protect us from evil and grant us guidance for all future endeavors. Ever seeking your will and mercy, we beseech blessings on our family and fair winds and smooth seas. Please forgive us of our sins: those we have committed and those we have yet to commit. We ask these things in the Holy Name of Jesus Christ, the Son of God, and our Lord and Savior.’

  ‘Amen and well done,’ Ben said. ‘Even Patience would approve.’

  James winked, ‘I didn’t go to divinity school for nothing.’ He picked up his fork, ‘Now let’s eat.’

  The pigeon pie was savory and tasted uncommonly good. It was an auspicious beginning.

  A TIME TO MOURN

  Sweetheart, now they will cut off thy father’s head and perhaps make thee a king … Thou must not be a King so long as thy brothers Charles and James do live. For they will cut off your brothers’ heads when they can catch them and cut off thy head too at the last. And therefore, I charge you do not be made a King by them.

  Charles I to his youngest
son, Henry, Duke of Gloucester, on the eve of his execution

  29 January 1649, four years later

  The evening before the scheduled execution, Oliver Cromwell escorted the King’s youngest children into the King’s presence at St James’s Palace. Charles had lain awake all during the long night, beset with dread at what he must tell them. Now, the moment was at hand. If only he could have escaped to the Continent to raise an army, but he had been betrayed by those whom he trusted. His loyal Scots, instead of giving him succor, had given him up to Parliament, and others too, whose loyalty had proven false, like Lord Hammond, with whom he’d sought refuge on the Isle of Wight but who had become instead his gaoler at Carisbrooke Castle.

  Now Parliament was about to take their revenge and, he had to admit, if truth be told, they had little choice. After three thwarted escape attempts, one for each of the years Parliament had imprisoned him while they tried to form a government, Parliament – or the rump that was left of it after the purge – had come to understand that Charles Stuart would never surrender his kingdom. Not if he had breath.

  As eight-year-old Henry and thirteen-year-old Elizabeth entered, Elizabeth clutched her brother’s hand and whispered in his ear. The King, from his tall chair in the center of the room, motioned for them to come to him. General Cromwell stood respectfully to one side but not out of earshot.

  During his initial imprisonment at Hampton Court in 1647, Charles had been allowed frequent access to them. But after his incarceration at Carisbrooke, that access was curtailed – though he had received letters, smuggled in by Mistress Whorwood, the truest friend Charles had left. Almost all others had been exiled or kept from him, except the remarkably resourceful Jane Whorwood. The plainer his plight became, the more elevated her risk and the stronger her devotion, and if he was to be honest on this evening before he was to meet his maker, he would have to admit, at least to himself, she had brought him more than letters to ease his pain. She gave him physical comfort, mental support, and a higher respect that no one else – not even Henrietta – had given him. Charles had treasured every letter Jane smuggled in: Elizabeth’s, written sometimes in perfect Latin; her little brother’s in an undisciplined scrawl, often with a crudely sketched picture of a jousting knight with lance and helmet