Salem's Daughter

by Maggie Osborne

  Perhaps he understated his condition. Bristol stared at Lord Hathaway’s arthritic hands and swollen foot with a sympathetic glance; victims of gout suffered excruciating pain. Advancing carefully, she avoided any accidental brush against his leg. “I’m pleased to meet you, Lord Hathaway.”

  He reached for Bristol’s hand and brushed dry lips across her fingers, managing to give the impression of a bow though remaining seated. “The honor is mine. It isn’t often I have the pleasure of dining with two lovely women.” Clear gray eyes smiled at Bristol. “And please, call me Uncle Robert. I’ve never before been an uncle, and I rather relish the idea.” He waved Bristol into a seat across from him and studied her with an open smile of pleasure. “Pumpkin, you didn’t tell me she was so beautiful!”

  Bristol blinked. Her aunt qualified in shape and hair color for Lord Hathaway’s endearment, but it was startling to hear the term used in the presence of a stranger. With a sudden flash of understanding, Bristol looked into Lord Hathaway’s oddly familiar thin face and gentle gray eyes. Lord and Lady Hathaway were doing everything possible to help Bristol feel comfortable and accepted in this strange new world.

  Shyly Bristol smiled into Lord Hathaway’s aristocratic face, beginning to relax and shed her apprehensions. Though temporarily crippled, her new uncle had a remarkably strong face, and Bristol sensed Lord Hathaway’s strength was without malice, a force to be used in the pursuit of quality and decency. She guessed she would grow to like Lord Hathaway very much.

  Aunt Prudence returned from a sideboard with a silver tray of glasses and a bottle of ruby wine. She served her husband, then Bristol. “Now, Hathaway,” she said, her eyes twinkling over the rim of her glass, “when have you ever heard me rave over another woman’s beauty?”

  “Never, Pumpkin, never!” He laughed. “But then, next to your loveliness, few women can be considered beauties. He added gallantly, “Miss Bristol comes close, no doubt because of the family resemblance.” He lifted his glass in a toast to Bristol. Laughing, Aunt Prudence nodded and raised her wine.

  Watching and listening, Bristol could scarcely contain an amused astonishment. Her aunt and uncle flirted with each other like youngsters in the throes of first passion. Aunt Pru continually leaned to pat her husband’s arm, or straighten his shawl, or inquire how he felt; and a flirtatious sparkle danced in her eyes. In the firelight, the rolls of dyed hair looked silky and natural, and Aunt Pru seemed several years younger than she had appeared just hours ago.

  In response, Lord Hathaway delighted in his wife. He watched her with pride of possession lighting his gray eyes, and he never overlooked an opportunity to press her hand or offer a compliment that carried a heartfelt tremor of sincerity.

  They maintained a running chatter throughout dinner, which was served on lap trays by a number of green-and-white-clad servants overseen by Bridey Winkle. Bridey directed the servants with a dark, tight-lipped expression.

  “Cheer up, Mistress Winkle,” Lord Hathaway said with a smile “If you’re fortunate, things will get worse. Perhaps the roof will crash in around us.”

  “Hathaway, now don’t tease Bridey. She’s had a long, trying day on the docks,” Aunt Pru chided him, but her eyes sparkled.

  When dinner was finished and dour Mistress Winkle led away the flock of serving girls, Aunt Pru rose and Bristol hastened to follow. But Lord Hathaway waved them to their chairs. “Sit down, sit down. I won’t allow you to abandon me,” he commanded with a good-natured smile. “Dr. Weede brought my medicine today, and I feel quite up to more wine and conversation.” He shrugged off Aunt Pru’s frown of concern. “Did you know they make gout medicine from an autumn crocus?” he asked Bristol. “Amazing.” He shook a head of graying hair. “Such a small flower can offer such great relief.” Aunt Pru sat down, watching him critically, not totally convinced. “But never mind that, tell us about the colonies.”

  When Bristol had talked for an hour, warming to her subject, she noticed her aunt and uncle exchange a glance of understanding. Lord Hathaway shrugged an apology. He smiled. “Forgive the interruption, Miss Bristol.” He patted his wife’s hand. “Have your pipe, Pumpkin, we won’t shock this young lady more than we have already.” Kindly gray eyes crinkled. “Listening to your descriptions, I imagine England seems as different from the colonies as night from day. And I suspect it will continue so for a time.”

  Bristol nodded and admitted that many of her experiences since leaving home had been startling. She tried not to stare as Aunt Pru prepared two pipes, lit them, and handed one to her husband. Leaning back, Lady Hathaway drew on the second pipe with a noisy sigh of pleasure.

  Noticing Bristol’s wide eyes, Aunt Pru exhaled a circle of smoke and laughed. “Ah, yes, I’m fond of tobacco. I’m afraid we’re exposing our vices.” She winked wickedly. “Perhaps you’ll acquire a few of your own, living here. I’ve always thought people really aren’t very interesting until they accumulate a few vices.”

  “Pumpkin!” Lord Hathaway laughed. He turned to Bristol and added seriously, “Pumpkin and I discussed this before you arrived, and decided not to alter our way of life. We come late to the idea of family, but we both feel family is not to be excluded from our lives or treated as guests. We hope you’ll come to accept us as we are—blemishes and all.”

  Bristol’s eyes filled with gratitude. While she’d worried about them accepting her, they’d experienced similar thoughts.

  She drew a breath and looked at Aunt Pru’s little pipe. “Could... could I try it?” Inside, Bristol felt no overwhelming urge to sample the effects of tobacco, but she did feel a compelling need for a gesture showing her willingness to accept and be accepted. Ignoring Aunt Pru’s wide grin, Bristol accepted the dainty painted pipe and hoped with all her heart that Hannah never learned of this experiment.

  Placing the stem between her lips, she breathed fiery air into her lungs, erupting in choking coughs and beating frantically on her chest with one hand and waving at a cloud of smoke with the other. If Aunt Pru hadn’t grabbed the pipe, hot ashes would have spilled to the rug. Bristol gulped a swallow of wine and wiped at the tears stinging her eyes.

  “Remember... remember when Robbie tried his first pipe?” Lord Hathaway hooted, trying desperately not to jiggle his tortured foot.

  “Yes, oh, yes,” Aunt Prudence wheezed, wiping her eyes. “I thought the dear boy would choke to death, like Bristol. What was he then? Sixteen?” She caught her breath and patted Bristol’s knee. “I don’t believe tobacco is your vice, dear.” She chuckled.

  Bristol blinked and hiccuped. In the shared laughter, she began to feel a part of them, to feel the beginnings of belonging. “When will I meet Robbie?” she asked, glad of an opportunity to turn the conversation from herself.

  Lord Hathaway’s eyes lit. “He’ll be home... when is it, Pumpkin?” Bristol had an idea Uncle Robert knew to the exact minute when his son would walk through the door of Hathaway House.

  “Friday. Hathaway, your mind is going, along with your fingers and toes!” Aunt Pru grinned at her husband. “Robbie will be here for the ball, and several weeks afterward.” She explained, “Robbie is spending this week with his fiancée’s family.” A dark cloud crossed her plump cheeks, and the light dimmed in Lord Hathaway’s eyes.

  Tactfully Bristol looked into her wineglass.

  Aunt Pru sighed heavily. “Next month Robbie will marry Lady Diana Thorne.” A silence followed her words, broken only by the crackling fire in the grate.

  “You may as well explain, Pumpkin, she’ll hear it somewhere.” Lord Hathaway delivered the advice in a strained voice, tossing off his wine.

  As she heaved another great sigh, Aunt Pru’s ample bosom rose and fell like a barrel. “Yes, I suppose so. Well. Diana Thorne is a distant cousin of Queen Mary’s. And at the moment the queen treasures any family connection—her family is dwindling. I imagine you know Mary overthrew her father for the throne, and she isn’t on the best of terms with her only sister, Anne.” Aunt Prudence exhale
d a furious stream of smoke and waved her wineglass. “These circumstances make Mary particularly vulnerable to requests from anyone claiming a blood relationship, however far removed.”

  Bristol didn’t immediately see how this court intrigue had a bearing on young Robert Hathaway.

  Aunt Pru poured more wine and continued the story. “Thus, when Diana decided she wanted to marry our Robbie, and none other, Mary and William summoned Robbie to an audience and...”—she exchanged a pained glance with her husband—“and they applied certain pressures to force Robbie into an agreement to marry Lady Thorne.”

  Bristol’s forehead creased in a puzzled frown. “Wouldn’t an alliance with the royal house be a privilege?”

  Lord Hathaway snorted, and Lady Hathaway erupted in bitter laughter. “Indeed it might under different circumstances. However, not in this case. Diana’s relationship to the throne is a distant one. And Diana Thorne is quite insane.”

  Bristol started, spilling a few drops of wine. She saw the pain in her aunt and uncle’s eyes. “I... I’m terribly sorry. But isn’t there any alternative? Must your Robbie marry Lady Thorne?”

  Lord Hathaway stared at his knotted hands, and Aunt Pru leaned to pat his arm. “Robbie insists. The sovereign’s promised to strip Hathaway’s title and lands if Robbie refuses. And Robbie won’t allow that. We’ve explained to him that these things are of no importance to us, compared to his happiness.” Aunt Pru shrugged heavy shoulders. “We have more than we need to live the rest of our lives in comfort. And any disgrace to the name would certainly be balanced by Hathaway’s lifetime of service to the realm.” She touched her husband’s cheek proudly. “We’d prefer to see Robbie marry a woman he could love and sire children by... but Robbie agreed to the royal terms.”

  Lord Hathaway cleared his throat and directed his gaze toward the flames. “Politically, the marriage is a godsend for William and Mary.” He smiled weakly. “Having been in politics all my life, I can see the advantages. It’s awkward for the royal family to have a mad cousin on the edges of society no matter how well they obscure the family ties. Once Diana is married, she’ll no longer be of such grave concern.”

  Bristol leaned forward, interested in the story.

  In a level voice, Lord Hathaway continued, “William and Mary are new to the English throne, and the crown doesn’t rest easy. They have their detractors. And at this moment, there is no heir to inherit, should either of them die. If something happened to William—and it could, as even now he’s preparing to sail to Ireland and engage against our deposed King James, Mary’s father—Mary would be left to rule alone.” His troubled gray eyes met Bristol’s. “In that event, claimants would spring forth like mushrooms, fighting to be Mary’s heir. Family ties would be minutely examined. At the moment, Diana’s relationship is a quiet one, but in the aftermath of tragedy”—he shrugged—“any hint of insanity in Mary’s family would rock the British Empire. Those opposed to Mary, and there are many, would use Diana’s insanity to cloud Mary’s own stability. Such a scandal could topple the throne.”

  Bristol began to understand. “So the king and queen want Diana married and forgotten? Her ties to the royal house even further diluted?”

  “Exactly!” Aunt Pru agreed angrily. “They can’t themselves place Diana in an asylum; if word got out, the gossip would be murderous. First Mary takes her father’s throne and exiles him; then, if she places another relative in an asylum... well, you can imagine what the gossips would make of that. Mary would appear a monster. All of England would fear for Anne’s safety, and the country would divide its support between the two sisters. The situation would be explosive.” Aunt Pru knocked out her pipe with an expression of hopelessness. “William and Mary seized on Diana’s demand for Robbie with an eagerness that would make your head spin! If he commits her, that is a different thing entirely—and her connection to the throne can be muddied considerably, once she’s married. So... in less than a month, Diana becomes Robbie’s problem, and she’s removed from the monarchy.”

  ‘Bristol didn’t know what to say. Their faces told her nothing would offer consolation.

  Lord Hathaway drew a breath. “What a pity Robbie didn’t find a lovely girl like Miss Bristol before Lady Thorne set her eye on him,” he said with a courtly gesture. “Pumpkin, look at the hair on that girl!” He leaned toward Prudence, adroitly changing the subject. “I recall the first time I saw you, Pumpkin, you wore your hair a lot like Miss Bristol wears hers tonight.” His gray eyes swung to Bristol with a faraway smile. “Pumpkin was the loveliest girl I’d ever seen. She was standing in a char of rubble and looking as if she’d lost everything in the world.”

  Aunt Pru’s laugh boomed, and she patted his arm with a coquettish touch. “Hathaway, you old fool, I did lose everything in the world! Along with thousands of other Londoners.”

  “And her eyes were as blue as a spring sky. One look into those bold sad eyes, and I was undone.”

  Bristol smiled in secret understanding. Suddenly she realized that Lord Hathaway continued to see his wife as Prudence had been when first he met her. He didn’t see the mounds of flesh, or dyed hair, or the wrinkles beneath Aunt Pru’s coating of rice powder. When he looked at his wife, Lord Hathaway saw a slender young girl of striking beauty, standing amid the smoking ruin of London Town.

  Bristol leaned back in her chair, listening with half an ear to Uncle Robert’s memories. The day had been long and packed with an array of impressions. Drowsily she watched her aunt and uncle flirt with each other. Her body felt heavy, and her mind drifted. Covering her mouth, she stifled a yawn.

  Aunt Pru’s sharp eyes noticed, and she laughed. “Hathaway, you’re boring this child to tears with ancient memories.” She tugged a velvet rope beside her chair. “Molly will take you back to your room, dear. Sleep well; we have a busy day tomorrow.” Aunt Pru lifted her face to be kissed, and Uncle Robert held his cheek at an angle suggesting he expected a good-night kiss as well.

  Bristol smiled and kissed them both, then followed Molly to her own room. The last thing she heard before leaving was Lord and Lady Hathaway gently arguing the exact color of Pumpkin’s hair twenty-odd years ago.

  In her room, Bristol stepped out of her gown and slid into the nightdress Molly had laid across the pink coverlet. It seemed an age since she’d boarded the ferry in a place called Gravesend. And a century since she’d flung herself hysterically across Hannah’s table, begging Noah not to be sent to a dried-up, juiceless old aunt.

  Bristol yawned wearily while Molly brushed out her hair. Aunt Prudence had become Pumpkin, and her aunt’s cottage, had grown into a mansion. Like visions in a dream: carriages, and servants, and good food and fine wine had appeared as if by magic. And Aunt Prudence had produced a husband and a son, and soon, a mad daughter-in-law.

  Bristol shook a head dancing with a whirr of impressions, and a tumble of gleaming curls spilled over the shoulders of her familiar coarse nightgown. She stretched and climbed into a bed as soft as pink clouds. Briefly her hand rose to touch the gold chain at her throat, and she wondered where Jean Pierre La Crosse slept tonight. Did he share a bed with another woman?

  Before her mind could respond with more than the beginnings of hurt, Bristol’s fiery head sank into the pillow, and she was instantly asleep. Molly Whitney pulled the pink coverlet under Bristol’s chin and blew out the candles, then tip-toed from the room.

  Bristol awoke feeling refreshed and eager for whatever a day at Hathaway House might bring. For a moment her eyes touched the pewter cup gleaming dully on the bedside table, and she thought about home. About how Hannah would be poking up the kitchen fire and lighting the lamps. Charity would be stretching awake, and Noah would be kneeling for morning prayer.

  A few short weeks ago, these memories would have raised a lump to constrict Bristol’s throat. But now, her strongest feeling was one of regret that she couldn’t write a full account of her experiences. Not without betraying Aunt Pru’s secrets. Bristol grinned. She coul
dn’t even mention that Aunt Prudence’s hair was as carroty as Charity’s; Noah would be astonished, she thought with a small smile.

  Padding to the window at the far end of her room, Bristol tugged open the heavy draperies. Outside stretched a manicured park of flower gardens, hedges, and formal arrangements of paths and tree-lined walkways, all part of the Hathaway grounds. And all tinted with the golden mist of dawn. A yawning boy with a mongrel dog at his heels rounded into view, carrying two steaming palls of foamy milk. He disappeared under an overhang of roof.

  To the far right, Bristol saw a multitude of outbuildings. Stables, sheds, and barns. Lifting her eyes beyond the gardens, she looked out at rows and endless rows of distant brick houses, funnels of smoke rising from their chimneys toward the dark pall overhanging the city. London—immense, dirty, exciting London Town—awoke to another day. However, it didn’t seem to Bristol that Hathaway House felt any inclination to join the waking city. Finally she pulled the velvet rope, wondering if she’d been forgotten.

  Molly pushed inside with a tray of strong English ale, coddled eggs, kidney pie, and fresh raisin buns. “You be an early riser!” She set the heavy silver tray in Bristol’s lap.

  Bristol’s brow rose in surprise. She’d waited two hours before summoning the courage to pull the rope. “What time does Aunt Pru rise?” she asked, sampling a raisin bun.

  Molly chuckled and began arranging Bristol’s hair. “English ladies prefer to think the sun rises in the middle of the sky—that’s where it is when they get up. But Lady Pru left orders to be called earlier all this week. What with the ball to see to, and young Robbie coming home, there’s a lot needing done.” She smiled. “Bridey said Lady Pru is grumbling like an old bear.”

  And Aunt Pru was still complaining when she and Bristol at last settled into the carriage and jolted toward Paternoster Row and Madame Collette.