This Loving Torment

by Valerie Sherwood

  But having filled the bucket, she still could not bring herself to carry it back in. How could she intrude upon this homecoming that should have in it nothing but joy?

  She sat with her chin in her hands staring into the thicket of tamarack and red mulberry and black willow that lay on the other side of the stream. She felt drained of all emotion.

  Rachel’s return had rent her own world apart.

  It was a long time before she realized that Ben had come up and was standing silently behind her.

  “Charity,” he ventured in a timid voice. And when she did not respond, more urgently he said, “Charity, turn thou and look at me.”

  With a sigh, Charity rose and faced him.

  “I am glad for you, Ben,” she said simply. “And I am glad for Rachel too. Her child will grow up knowing its own mother, and you will grow old with your real wife beside you. You are a man of conscience, Ben, and I—I might have trod on it.” She thought of Bart’s body hidden in the cave and heaped with stones.

  “I—I have wronged thee,” he said thickly.

  “No.” She patted his arm. “You never wronged me, Ben. It is best what happened. You must see that.” She smiled up at him a little bleakly. “You could never have forgotten Rachel in your heart anyway, Ben.”

  “That is true,” he muttered. “I thought it a miracle when I didst see her across the clearing. I could not believe it.”

  Charity watched him with a little sad smile. Finally she fetched a sigh. “I will go now and return Rachel’s dress, which is the finest she owns and to which I have no right.”

  “Nay,” he said thickly. “Rachel bids thee keep the dress.”

  “No,” said Charity firmly. Not the dress, nor the man, she told herself fiercely, although both had been hers for a season.

  She faced him with determination. “I must go now, Ben,” she said in a sober voice. “Can’t you see I must leave? It isn’t right that I should be here to ... to spoil things for her, to make her wonder . . . about us. Don’t you see, this is her homecoming. She’s dreamed of it so long, during all the terrible days and nights she’s been through—it wouldn’t be right to rob her of a second of it.”

  Ben looked upset. “But what of thee, Charity? Whither wilt thou go? Canst wait but a day or two until I can take thee to the river and see thee safely on a boat? Rachel is too weak to make a further journey and I—I cannot leave her here by herself.”

  “Of course you can’t, Ben,” said Charity briskly, keeping her voice firm. “And it’s high time I started before my—my lover in Virginia finds another woman.”

  Ben looked at her doubtfully. “Thou didst not tell me before of any lover.”

  Charity sighed. “Ah, but I am fickle, Ben. I was not so sure then that I loved him. But he waits for me and I must go to him.”

  He looked down. “Then . . . thou will forgive me for not being able to offer you more?”

  She touched his arm gently and her voice grew husky. “Ben, you saved my life—twice. First from the fever and then from a man I detested.”

  He looked sharply up at that. “But he may be out there!” he cried. “I did not think of that! His wounds may have mended!” He frowned. “Nay, I cannot let thee go alone, Charity.”

  “Bart will be long gone by now, Ben,” she said impatiently. “He’ll have found someone else by now. I told you I’d hid a boat there at the river. But I’ll need some food for my journey.”

  “And a horse. Thou mayst leave him at the river. Turn him back upon the path, give him a slap on the flank and he will find his own way home where there is food waiting.”

  “I’ll do that.” Having made her decision, Charity was anxious to be gone. She wanted to get away before the light faded—and before her own spirits failed and she crept back to the safety of that small rude attic where she had known peace and a wistful unselfish love.

  “Thou’lt start at dawn,” decided Ben. “I’ll not have thee riding by night more than is necessary. Nay.” He held up his hand at her protest. “I’ll brook no more argument. That’s my last word on the subject.”

  So Charity spent one more night in the tiny attic, hearing soft murmured endearments from the room below as Rachel was enfolded in her husbands arms. Covering her head with her pillow, Charity pressed her hands to her mouth to keep from sobbing.

  She had come to love this tiny farm in the wilderness, and in a peaceful way to love the honest, forthright young Quaker who had carved it from the wilds....

  And now it was lost to her.

  In the first light of false dawn she got up and crept down the rude ladder that led to the dirt floor below, pausing for a moment to look at the pair who lay, their legs entwined, beneath a bit of thin coverlet. Her heart wrenched at the sight of Rachel’s thin face, ravaged from her terrible journey, lying exhausted in the crook of Ben’s arm.

  Charity-smiled sadly at them, lying thus ... so right for each other. She stood for a moment beside the crib and smiled wistfully down at Rachel’s little Letty—the baby that she had, for a little while, pretended was her own—just as she had pretended for a little while that Rachel’s strong young husband was her own. Then she found a piece of hard brown bread and a bit of smoked venison and put them in a small reed basket Ben had woven for her.

  Making her way softly into the lean-to that formed a stable against the house, she climbed bareback upon the horse, patted his head and stroked his mane and walked him over the soft sod into the vast expanse of trees beyond the clearing. Charity rode down the trail toward the river, ducking to keep low branches from brushing her off her horse’s back, lifting her legs warily to avoid brambles, trying to discern the vague trail that lay ahead.

  Sometimes she gently touched the little reed basket that Ben had given her, and which she had affixed to a ribbon around her slender waist. It was in its way a keepsake, a token of the—not love perhaps—but affection that he had borne her.

  Charity rode for a long time, her horse willing enough to follow this path he knew led toward the succulent riverside grasses. But her heart was heavy in her chest as she thought of her situation—without friends, with not even a change of clothes—although she did have Bart’s pouch of gold coins in her pocket—sought, perhaps, by the angry patroon who would find a way to bring her back to a life of shame and fury at Daarkenwyck.

  What had she done fix deserve all this trouble? It wasn’t fair! Two tears fell on her hand as she leaned forward, jogging along. She did not know what would become of her.

  Her tears were falling thick and fast, as she stopped to water her horse at a small stream that wound through the forest, a place of mossy rocks and cool air and rustling leaves from giant trees that rose straight and true amid girdles and ruffs of dogwood. She got off and drank the icy cold water from a clear little pool between big dark rocks where tiny silvery trout darted. And washed her hot face and streaming eyes. But she could not stop weeping.

  She covered her wet face with her hands and rocked with misery. There was no future for her. She was accursed!

  A tiny sound roused her and she dropped her hands from her face.

  She was looking into the dark-golden eyes of a full-grown mountain lioness not three feet from her. Charity sat frozen, staring at that great tawny head, those wicked-looking dark gold eyes so near her own. Her horse, upwind from the lioness, continued to drink the cold water greedily, unaware of the big cat’s existence as Charity stared into the face of death.

  For a long time neither the lioness nor Charity moved, the girl held spellbound by that hypnotic gaze. Then the lioness made a light growling sound in her throat and plunged away into the underbrush. The horse snorted in fear and Charity sprang up, trembling, to stroke his mane and try, in a shaky voice, to calm him.

  She had thought the big cats killers all, but now she knew better. Unlike man, they did not kill senselessly, and now she knew why the lioness had come up to look her in the face, for in the underbrush Charity had glimpsed two pretty young cubs, rolling
over each other playfully. From the noise of breaking twigs, she knew that the lioness was moving her precious little ones to a less threatening environment, one unpeopled by crying women and agitated horses.

  The golden-eyed lioness had only been trying to defend her lair and her cubs.

  Unbidden in Charity’s mind rose the sight of Rachel, her thin face streaming tears, hurling her emaciated frame across the little “patch” and staggering into Ben’s waiting arms.

  She saw them again, embracing, holding each other as if all the world had stopped and time stood still while they were reunited.

  Charity’s throat ached, remembering. She swallowed.

  She had done the right thing.

  Resolutely she climbed back on her nervous horse and guided him down toward the Hudson.

  When she reached the river bank, she had not long to wait. One of the flyboats that plied the river trade, bringing goods from the ships for sale to the upriver people, came by on its way downstream and Charity hailed it. She had little doubt that it would stop for her, for she had loosened her long gold hair so that it glistened in the sun and had thrown her skirts back with studied carelessness so that one long white leg was exposed to view.

  They sighted her and stopped and a rowboat came over to pick her up.

  Charity smoothed down her skirts, gave the horse’s head a last affectionate pat and a brisk slap on the flank. With a goodbye whinny, he trotted away from her, back down the path that led toward home and grain. Charity studied the men in the small boat who had come to pick her up.

  They were most admiring as they took her aboard the flyboat, where an even more admiring middle-aged Dutch captain said they’d be glad to give the lady passage downriver.

  Then a woman came up on deck and glared at Charity.

  She was middle-aged, like her captain husband, and somewhat frowzily dressed. After a moment’s staring at Charity she looked puzzled. Charity calmly passed herself off as “a daughter of Sebastian Eelkens of New York, who’d been visiting her sister upriver and was now returning early and alone due to a disagreement over some ribbons.” No one questioned it.

  But later that night, when they thought her asleep curled up on deck, she heard a low-voiced argument in the cabin below and crept closer to listen. She had not liked the way that woman had looked at her earlier.

  The captain and his wife were speaking vehemently in Dutch.

  “I tell you she is the same,” insisted the woman. “I saw her once on the lawn at Daarkenwyck. She’s dressed different today and wears her hair different, but it’s the same woman. And Mynheer van Daarken will pay a good price for her return! He has offered a reward for any knowledge as to her whereabouts.”

  “It may be, but we cannot be sure.”

  “We should turn this boat around and take her upriver to him.”

  Charity’s heart sank. She pressed forward, listening.

  “No,” demurred the captain, “that I will not do. Suppose we are wrong? She would have a good case against us. This man, this Sebastian Eelkens she claims is her father, may have some influence in New York and might charge us with kidnapping his daughter.”

  “Bah! Hast ever heard of a Sebastian Eelkens in New York?”

  “Nay, but there might well be such a one. New people arrive every week. I’ll not turn the boat around. When we reach New York, we’ll make inquiries.”

  “Ask yourself, does she sound like a Dutch girl? No. We should not let her disembark—we should keep her aboard.”

  “Nay, she has no trunk, no baggage. Odds are she’ll have no money either. We’ll inquire if there’s a Sebastian Eelkens in New York, and if there is none, we’ll send word to the patroon upriver by the next flyboat that we’ve found his missing cousin, and claim the reward.”

  “She’ll escape you,” warned his wife sourly.

  “Tis not such a large place that we can’t find her again,” he said comfortably.

  Charity crept back and huddled into her place, but sleep was now impossible. That sharp-eyed woman remembered her. And would send word upriver to Killian.

  Her days in New York were surely numbered.

  By morning she was still undecided as to what to do.

  As they passed the palisades, Charity, leaning on the rail deep in thought, hardly noticed the awesome sight. Then, she noticed that the little basket, which had been affixed to the ribbon tied round her waist, had come loose and, as she made a grasp for it, it fell into the water. She watched as it floated away and finally, caught in a swirling eddy, sank from view. She gazed back at the spot where it had disappeared with a bittersweet pang. The little basket, like the part of her life it had represented, was gone.

  When they docked in New York, amid a great bustle and din, for several ships were loading and unloading, and fishwives and others were hawking their wares, Charity made a great show of winsomely thanking the flyboat captain for conveying her here. She promised that her father, Sebastian Eelkens, who had not been very well, would come down in person either today or tomorrow with a gift for the captain’s wife. Explaining that she wished to purchase some fruit for her ailing father, she waved another goodbye and was off briskly along the dock.

  Standing once again with the sea breeze blowing her fair hair and surveying the ships riding at anchor in New York harbor, Charity looked around her at a mass of scurrying humanity, hoping an opportunity would present itself.

  Near her a man was selling oranges, fresh from the Indies, and people were crowded around to buy the ripe orange fruit. While Charity mingled with that crowd, her sharp eyes noted a gaunt rat-faced urchin surreptitiously stealing oranges and edging out of the crowd to stuff them into a small leather casket shoved against some barrels and then returning for some more. He looked dock-wise enough for her purposes.

  Charity approached the lad.

  “You look a bright boy,” she said in Dutch. “Canst tell me, is there a ship sailing out of the harbor this day?”

  “Aye,” he said, regarding her warily. “The Marybella. Bound for Charles Town.”

  “And where is that?”

  “Tis in a place called Carolina far to the south.”

  Carolina . .. she had heard of it. “When do they cast off?” she asked.

  “With the tide,” he said. “In about an hour, thereabouts.”

  She pulled out a shilling from the pouch she had taken from Bart and gave it to the lad. “Sell me yon little leathern casket,” she said, “and take me to the captain of the Marybella, and there’s a gold piece in it for you.”

  His eyes widened, and before the hour was out her small guide had indeed led her to the captain, where she had prettily explained that she was a maid-servant sent to bring home some luggage left behind by “one of the Merriweather sisters of Charles Town.” She paid for her passage with the rest of the gold from Bart’s pouch, and conspicuously exhibited the little leather casket as she was welcomed aboard.

  The tall ship rode out with the tide, and Charity stared back at the receding yellow brick houses with their step gables and red tiled roofs. Along about this time, the flyboat’s captain and his long-memoried wife would have completed their inquiries and learned that New York had no Sebastian Eelkens—at least none with a daughter fitting Charity’s description—and would be excitedly sending their message upriver to the patroon.

  She cast a last look at the low retreating skyline of the port. Killian van Daarken would be disappointed of his prey. . . . She stood and watched until the land had faded from view and night closed down.

  Whatever lay ahead of her, she told herself resolutely, it could be no worse than the difficulties she had encountered in these northern Colonies. And although she was not much older in age, she was infinitely older in experience.

  She would try her luck in the south.

  BOOK III

  Charles Towne 1687

  CHAPTER 26

  To Charity’s surprise, the Marybella was crowded with passengers on their way to Carolina. She fou
nd herself stuffed into a tiny cabin, hardly more than a broom closet for size, with a big yellow-haired woman named Helga, who might have stepped out of a Titian canvas. Helga seemed irritated—Charity guessed that was because she had expected to occupy the cabin alone in comfort all the way to Carolina. But after a few minutes Helga, who had a rollicking personality beneath her flounces and ruffles, warmed to her cabin mate. She confided that she was a tavern maid who’d “got into a mite of trouble” in New York and was on her way to Carolina where none knew her and she could, she added with a roaring laugh, “start out her life afresh as a virgin”!

  Charity liked Helga, and they spent some time together walking about the ship. As they strolled Helga passed along her observations about the male passengers: That one was too old—well past it, if she was any judge. Another was chasing all the women aboard but had no money—look out for the likes of him. Now there—her eyes narrowed—was exactly the right man if Charity could but nab him. See that tall blue-eyed man in the blond periwig over there? Yes, the one in the blue coat with silver braid and silver buttons. He’d taken a whole cabin to himself—the best on the Marybella. His luggage was expensive, too, and look at the rich lace of his cuffs! That ring he was wearing was an emerald, she’d be bound. Even the buckles of his shoes were a fine chased silver—see, they’d a different sheen from pewter, couldn’t Charity see it?

  Charity hardly listened. Instead her gaze was riveted on the face of the handsome passenger who occupied the Marybella’s best cabin. It was a calm face, rather broad, with chiseled features like the Roman statuary Charity had admired in Bath. He was very fair with rosy cheeks and an almost pink and white complexion. For a big man he had a leisurely way of moving, as if nothing in his life caused him any immediate hurry. His clothes, she saw, were of the latest cut and Helga was right when she said they were expensive. His brocade waistcoat of palest blue matched his knee breeches and stockings, complementing the deeper blue of his fitted, flaring coat with its silver trimmings. Even here on shipboard, where many of the land amenities were forgotten, he carried his hat—a broad hat with yellow plumes—correctly under his arm as he walked about and placed it upon his head when he sat down, exactly as the court dandies did.