She looked down at the book thoughtfully. It would be wonderful to learn about the Winslows. Raising her eyes, she said, “I’d like to read it.”
He smiled and said, “Consider it a gift, then. That’s my book, not the library’s.” Ignoring her protests, he bustled off, leaving her alone. She read all morning; when he checked on her at noon she thanked him again, her eyes shining. “It’s the most interesting thing I’ve ever read in my life!”
“Ah!” he said approvingly, “I knew you’d like it. Who knows—you may meet one of his descendants someday. There are quite a few Winslows around—most of them in Boston, I think. Their family goes back to Gilbert Winslow. The Winslow Fur Company was quite a successful business in its day, I believe.”
He insisted on taking her to the restaurant across the street for lunch. “I hate to eat alone! Come along, now. You must humor a grumpy old man!”
They had a pleasant meal; then they went back to the library and she read until nearly four. When she left, he waved her thanks away. “Come again tomorrow. We’ll have tea—and talk some more about the Winslows!”
The snow had not melted, and there was a hint of more in the steely skies above her as she made her way back to the room. She stopped and spent the money Tyler had given her for a few groceries and wood, then hurried to get home before dark. He was not there, so she built a small fire and read until the flame burned down. As the embers died away, the chill soon penetrated the room, and having no more means of heat, she crawled into bed for warmth.
For a long time she could not sleep. An unsettled feeling gnawed at her, worse than the icy cold that gripped the room. She tried to pray, but the words seemed to flow into empty air as though she were talking to herself. Are you a Christian? Mr. Mayberry had asked. She had always taken her religion for granted; it had been good enough for her when things were going well, but now it seemed thin and ineffectual. She thought of Winslow’s journal, and of the Pilgrims who had fled in a small boat on the open seas, risking their lives for the privilege of worship; she knew they’d had something she did not possess.
She drifted off to sleep, awakening when Tyler came in. He did not speak, but took off his shoes and came to bed, smelling of tobacco and whiskey—and Rebekah thought she could detect the stale odor of cheap perfume.
The next morning they were aroused by a loud knocking on the door, and as Tyler scrambled out of the bed, fumbling for his shoes, Rebekah managed to rise and put on her shoes and robe. The knocking was insistent, and Tyler angrily flung the door open. “What the . . . !” He halted abruptly as a man pushed by him and strode inside the room.
He was a man of middle height, thin but well dressed. He wore a plum-colored square-cut coat that reached to his knees and flared out from the waist downward. His knee breeches were made of black broadcloth, and his vest was dark yellow silk with a floral design on it, with lace ruffles on his shirt front and at his wrists. The sword buckled around his waist was barely visible beneath his open coat.
Pulling off a three-cornered hat, the stranger regarded Rebekah with obvious distaste, then whirled to confront her husband, who was still standing by the door. “Well, Tyler?”
Carefully Tyler shut the door, his face as pale as paper. Turning to face the man again, his voice wavered slightly as he spoke. “Phil—what are you doing here!”
“I might ask you the same.” His thin brown face had an authoritative expression as he shook his head, saying wearily, “How many times is this, Tyler? Three?—Four?”
Angrily, Tyler approached the man, who was much smaller than he. “Get out of here, Phil! Nobody sent for you.”
Phil gave him a direct look that seemed to halt Tyler in his tracks. “Let’s not go through any more of your stories,” the smaller man said. “Angela wants you back—God only knows why! You’ll have to go.”
“I’ll do what I please, Phil!”
“No, you’ll do what I please, Tyler, just like the last time—and the time before that.”
Rebekah had enough. “Tyler, who is this man?”
Tyler stared at her, opened his mouth, but no words came out. With a look of sick helplessness in his eyes, Tyler lowered his gaze to the floor and let the other answer for him. “I’m Philip Moore, his brother-in-law. And who are you?”
“I’m his wife!” she retorted.
Moore’s hard expression softened perceptively at her answer. He looked at her closely, paused, then said gently, “My apologies, ma’am. I thought—” He broke off, then shot a bitter look at Tyler. “I’m sorry, but you are not legally married to this man,” he informed her quietly. “He’s married to my sister Angela. They have two children, and he’s deserted her twice before.”
A wave of fear crashed over Rebekah, and she felt sick. “Tyler? His story . . . it’s not true, is it?”
He met her eyes wordlessly, confirming her worst fears. Her legs suddenly gave out, and she sat down hard on the bed, horrified.
Moore broke the shocked silence when his hand shot out and caught Tyler’s face with a sharp crack. “You dog! Why didn’t you just pick up a loose woman as you always did before?” Moore’s face was livid, and he cursed Tyler with unbridled rage. Tyler touched the print of Moore’s hand on his cheek, but made no attempt to defend himself. “I don’t know! God help me—I don’t know!” he whispered.
Disgusted, Moore turned away from him and spoke to Rebekah. “I’ve come to take him back to Baltimore. He’ll go, of course.” He looked around the tawdry room. “He always does when he gets to this point.”
With a quick movement he whipped out his sword and had it at Tyler’s throat before the larger man could move. Moore held him there, his eyes deadly. “I don’t make vows as a rule, Tyler, but I’m making one now. I’m taking you back to Angela—but if you mistreat her one more time, I’ll kill you. I swear I will. Do you believe me?”
“Yes! Yes, Phil!” Fear raked Tyler’s face, and he began to weep. “I’ll never hurt her again, Phil! I swear it!”
Moore shrugged and sheathed his blade. “I think you will. And when you do, I’ll kill you—and hang for it, probably.” Then he said to Rebekah, “I’ll leave you two for now. I’ll try to help you if I can.”
He wheeled and left the room, and Tyler staggered blindly to the window and stared out at the world.
“Why did you do it, Tyler?” Rebekah asked in a dead voice. Her face was white and her eyes stricken. “You said you loved me.”
He wheeled and said in a tortured voice, “Rebekah—you must see that I—I’m not capable of loving anyone!” He moved toward her and would have put his arms around her, but she stood up and backed away. “I’m sorry, Rebekah,” he uttered hoarsely. “Phil’s probably right. I’ll go back to Angela, and I’ll be good for a while. But it never lasts. I’ll never change—I can’t.”
She ignored his excuses. “What does your family think of all this? Or are they like that, too?”
“No!” he said, and held her gaze. “I’m the only rotter, Rebekah! My father died in the Revolution, but Mom always held the family together. I’m the only bad seed. But why do you want to know . . .” He looked up, startled. “You’re thinking of the baby!”
“Yes. I have to.”
“But, Rebekah!” he pleaded. “You can’t have the child! How will you—”
She cut him off mid-sentence. “Tyler, don’t say any more.” Turning away, she added, “And I wish you’d leave now.”
He stared at her, unbelieving. When he saw she was serious, he gathered his few belongings and put them in a bag. Trying to ease the weight of his guilty conscience, he remarked weakly, “At least there’ll be no money problem now. Angela’s family is filthy rich. I’ll send you—”
“Tyler,” she interrupted, “I want you to go. Now.”
He ducked his head, then shuffled to the door. Opening it, he paused to speak, but one look at her face silenced him. After he had gone, she sat down on the bed, trembling so hard that she finally had to lie down.
She wept t
hen, wept until no more tears came. Getting up, she washed her face in the basin and went to the window, thinking of everything—and nothing—all at the same time. She was still there an hour later when a cab drew up in front of the building, and Moore got out and entered the hotel. She saw Tyler slumped in the carriage, his face in his hands.
She opened the door at Moore’s knock, stepping back to let him into the small room.
Moore’s face showed strain, but his manner was composed, his voice even. “There’s no easy way here, Miss Jackson, but I want to help as much as I can.” Taking an envelope from his coat pocket, he extended it to her. “Go home,” he said gently. “It will be difficult—but you have the child to think of.”
She did not move. “Thank you, Mr. Moore, but I wouldn’t feel right.”
“Please,” he insisted. “You must take it. It’s not much, really. Just enough for your fare and lodging on the way back to Virginia. Tyler tells me your family is from there, though he couldn’t tell me which part. Send me your address, and I’ll see to it that Tyler does the right thing—financially, I mean.”
He put the envelope down on the small table, then bowed slightly. “I must go.” He hesitated, his hand on the doorknob. “Perhaps in a strange sense, you’re fortunate it has turned out this way. He’s made my sister’s life a living hell. But you’re young, Miss Jackson. Don’t let this destroy you!”
He waited for her to speak: when he saw that she did not intend to, he nodded understandingly. “I’m very sorry,” he repeated, then turned and left the room. His steps echoed loudly on the stairway, and at last she heard the carriage drive away.
She was alone.
CHAPTER FOUR
A NEW FRIEND
“Sorry, lady—but I got to have the money or you’ll have to move out!”
The large man wearing a buffalo coat stood in the doorway. “Mr. Sandford,” Rebekah pleaded, “if you’ll just give me a little more time . . . !”
“Like to help you, miss, but business is business, see?” The owner of the hotel had heard so many hard-luck stories that Rebekah’s words made no impression on him. He owned several run-down hotels and a number of houses in the low-rent district; several times a week he made the rounds, evicting people who could not pay their rent. He was not a cruel man, or so he told himself, but as he had said to his pastor: “Look at it my way, Rev’rend—if I let folks stay without paying, I’d fall behind on my own payments and lose my property. Who’d pay your salary then, I ask you?”
Rebekah’s wan face and large eyes filled with fear tugged at him momentarily, but he was long past the stage of being influenced by such things. The story was plain enough. Her husband had left her and she’d have to go home to her people.
“You’ll have to be out by tomorrow. I’m sorry for it—but I got others who want the room. You can leave the key next door with the Kellys.” He felt a twinge of regret as he stared down at the young woman. But I gave her a month! he thought indignantly. What more could she ask? Nodding shortly, he turned and left before his good nature got the better of him.
Rebekah closed the door behind him, then went to sit down on the bed. Her throat was dry and there was a tight feeling in her chest. She knew the sensation well, for in the weeks since Tyler had left, it had come to her again and again: panic. Her hands were trembling, and as she squeezed them tightly together, she thought of the past six weeks.
Moore had left $50, which was a great deal of money, but Tyler had not paid the rent for October. After paying that and the rent for November, she had only twenty dollars left. Not once did she consider going back home; the only solution was to find work. Still, the search for a job had been a disaster, for she had no skills and not the vaguest idea of how to find a job. Sitting on the bed now, she recalled her conversation with Mr. Klein.
Going into the first shop she came to, she hesitantly inquired whether they had any work. The storekeeper, a short Jewish man, had compassion enough not to laugh. “Oy, miss, you want work? There ain’t no work to be had in this city!” She turned to go, but he had stopped her.
“Wait! Miss, let me tell you something. I’ve got two daughters—nice girls, beautiful girls—just like you. Now, my eyes they tell me you’ve got troubles, right? Of course I’m right. And, if my daughters had troubles—God forbid—I would want that someone help them. So you will let me help you, yes?”
She could not refuse such kindness, and so she took the chair he offered her. His name, he said, was Sol Klein. Seating himself across from her, he had rubbed his balding head thoughtfully.
“I see all kinds and I can see quality!” he had said. “You’re a nice young lady, but I think maybe you don’t know what you’re up against—trying to make it all alone. You got no help, am I right? Of course I’m right!” His eyes narrowed. “But there ain’t no work, not even for them that got skills, and I don’t think you’ve ever worked, have you?”
Warming up to his subject, he went on. “It was Andrew Jackson that started it all. He was a good man, a brave man—but a financial genius, he was not. Look at it—we got depression and thousands of banks closing all over the country! And if Van Buren is elected, is he gonna fix it somehow? No! No! There’s millions out of work now, and it’s gonna get worse!”
Now, sitting in the cold room, Rebekah heard all over again his well-meaning advice. “Miss, there ain’t no work for a nice lady like you. Only a few schoolteachers work. So maybe you got a family? Go to them! This is no place for a nice young girl—there are plenty of bad men who’d like to take advantage of you! Listen to me, as a father. Your father will thank me. Go home, miss!”
No! I won’t go back! Stubbornly, Rebekah rose and paced the floor, struggling against the fear that gripped her. Her mind flew back and forth as she sought desperately for some solution. Many nights she had lain awake, trying to think of a way to support herself. But even if she found work, what about the baby? More than once she thought of writing to Tyler, but could not bring herself to do it.
All morning she stayed in the room, and in the afternoon she went outside. Her clothes were too thin for the bitter weather, but she hoped for something to happen—anything! She had eaten nothing at noon, for she had no more money. When she got back to the room late that afternoon, she finished the last of the food she had in store: two pieces of stale bread and a spoonful of jam. There was enough tea left to make one more pot, and she sat down to drink it as she watched the sunset from her window.
There was now not even a stick of wood left; even the cooking wood was gone, so she wrapped a blanket around herself and shivered. The street outside was almost empty as the darkness fell. One old man pushing a cart went by, then later two young girls passed, bundled up against the bitter cold.
The room darkened, and she stirred herself enough to light the stub of a candle. Her eyes fell on the book Mr. Mayberry had given her, and she picked it up listlessly. Settling back in the chair with the blanket around her, she opened it and began to read. Her hands grew numb, but as she read she forgot them. She had gotten to the section of the journal where Gilbert Winslow told of what was called The General Sickness, and as she read, she tried to imagine it. She read the section dated January fourteenth.
Follows in order of deaths since landing: Edward Thompson, the first to die in the New World; Jasper Moore, James Chilton, and Dorothy Bradford, 11th December; Richard Brittermore, Christopher Martin, 8th January. Mrs. Martin the following day. Weather continues cold with snow and ice in abundance.
No two deaths are alike: Some of them rage and some slip away, like a child slumbering. Twenty dead already; less than twenty men and boys left to stand guard, build houses and hunt food.
Standish says we must bury the next ones at night, so the Indians won’t know how few we are—but they must know already.
February 26. Seventeen have died this month. Unless God helps us, we will all perish. Do I believe He will come? Everywhere I look I see the gaps death has made in our ranks. Those of us st
ill alive are sick and probably dying. The Indians wait, knowing we will soon be too weak to resist. There is almost no food. Will God come? My faith is small, for the circumstances are grim—yet I will believe God! He will intervene!”
A strange feeling came over Rebekah as she read the words: “Unless God helps us, we will all perish. . . . Do I believe He will come? . . . I will believe God! He will intervene!”
The room was dark and the bitter cold had numbed her fingers and her face—but now a peace flooded her heart. She had lived in the grip of fear and worry so long that she had almost forgotten what such peace was like. Nothing had changed, she knew. She still had no money, and no friends. On the next day she would leave the room with no place to sleep. No one to help with the baby.
But something had changed in her heart. The fears that had racked her mind faded, and she relaxed in the chair and closed her eyes, letting the book fall to her lap. For a long time she sat there, simply resting and allowing that peace to wash over her like a healing balm. There was a sense of security that could not be expressed in words—although when she thought of it later, if there could have been words, they would have been: “I have not forgotten you, Rebekah.”
Finally she got up and blew out the candle, crawled into bed, and was asleep almost at once.
The next morning she rose in the cold and cracked the ice in the basin to wash her face. She dressed as warmly as she could; her few belongings went into one suitcase—she would ask Mrs. Kelly to keep the blankets until she could come back for them. There was no wood for fire, and no tea to make in any case, so she cleaned the room and took a last look around. The bitter memory of her last scene with Tyler tried to rise, but she shook her head and bent to take her suitcase, then paused.
Impulsively, she dropped to her knees beside the bed. Not so much to pray as to wait. Once again she felt the peace that had swept over her the previous night, and again she was certain that she had not been forgotten. Finally she rose, took the blankets and the room key to Mrs. Kelly, then came back and picked up her suitcase, leaving the room without a backward look. She went down the stairs and out into the street; there she wavered for an instant. Right or left? It didn’t matter. She turned left and walked away with firm steps.
The Reluctant Bridegroom Page 4
