"Hannah." His voice was stricken, but she did not look up from the laundry tub. "If we marry," he said fervently, "we will only be guilty of fornication. I will find a way to pay the fines. I promise you there will be no whipping."
"Mayhap if we sell the ring you gave to me." She wrung out the clouts, then plunged them into the tub again, scrubbing until her skin was raw.
"We must leave this place," he said. "We shall go away together where they will never find us. We shall change our names and begin anew. God willing, Hannah, we might still be happy."
It seemed a marvel to her that he could still feel love after all this. Everything inside her was dead. Her heart had become an empty chamber.
"Come spring," she said, "we shall quit this place." There was no use setting off now, with winter only a month or so away. "But not together."
His mouth went slack. "You wish to part ways?"
"I do." Her eyes followed the patterns in the soap scum as though she might read her future there. She had no idea where she would go. She wondered if Elizabeth Sharpe, from the ship, would welcome her. If everything else failed, she would be a servant to the Banhams. Her own happiness and pride didn't matter anymore—they were of the past. As long as the Banhams were kind to Daniel, she would scrub their chamber pots if they asked her.
"Then it will be as you say." Gabriel walked out the door.
***
Though they went on living in the same room, he was already beginning to fade. She saw him through a haze, which grew thicker and thicker until he appeared to be little more than a wraith. He spent nearly every waking hour out of sight and earshot—a thing for which she was grateful. It was easier to bear her burden alone, without his eyes on her, his sorrow filling the house. Each evening he brought home the animals he had trapped or shot with his musket. He seemed eager to make up for the time he had lain ill in bed. Perhaps bringing home the dead animals was the only way to banish his memory of May's body. Hannah did not pretend to understand the secrets of his heart. He tanned the hides and nailed up the furs in the old tobacco shed. She had never seen him bring in so many beaver pelts. It seemed he was trapping them up and down the river. Before, the beavers had been his allies, their dams and obstructions keeping the outer world at bay, but this year he killed as many as he could. Beaver pelts sold for a handsome price. Part of her still wanted to tell him to spare himself the effort—all the beavers in the river couldn't redeem their debts. But she said nothing.
Sometimes she took the rolled-up maps from the chest of drawers and spread them out on the trestle table. How far would she have to go to escape her reputation as Gabriel Washbrook's whore, the woman who had fornicated with her own sister's widower? If she traveled south to Virginia or the Carolinas, or north to Pennsylvania, could she finally live in peace? Change her name, pass as a widow, meet another man? She would have given anything to have Joan read the cards for her, lay out her future on the table beside the map. What a comfort it would be to know for certain, even if the cards said her fortune would be full of woe. Anything would be better than the awful blank she saw before her.
***
Gabriel loaded the furs in his canoe and left to do his trading. Watching from the dock, she didn't wave goodbye. She knew that on his journey he would be furtive, not telling anyone his real name. A man could escape between the cracks so much easier than a woman, especially a woman with a child. It passed her mind that he might not return. The dogs seemed to sense this, too. Rufus kept mournful watch, always looking downriver. He hardly touched the food Hannah gave him.
In Gabriel's absence, she expected Richard Banham to pay a visit. She had avoided the graves by the river since the day she had pried the lid off the empty coffin. The box still lay open to the sun and wind. She had left May's ruined wedding dress on the grass, just couldn't bear to go back and dispose of it. If Banham came riding, that spectacle would greet him. She was too deadened to care what he thought; let him make what he would of the opened grave. But he did not come.
Days slipped by in silence. Hannah counted them on her fingers, and when she ran out of fingers, she cut notches on the doorframe. If Gabriel did not return in a fortnight, she would put Daniel in his packsack, fill a basket with provisions, and set off for the Banhams'.
She picked a gourd from her garden and shook it so Daniel would hear the dry seeds rattling inside. "Look," she told him, "you have a new toy." Waving the gourd, he toddled through the long grass. Laughing, he trotted into her arms and let her sweep him in a circle. If only she could be as easily pleased as Daniel, who took delight in the simplest things. They threw a stick for Ruby to fetch until the dog flopped down exhausted at their feet. Sometimes when she fed him his supper, her son looked around and inquired, "Da-da?" But it didn't take long to distract him again.
***
The grass was brittle and dry underfoot on the thirteenth day of Gabriel's absence. It hadn't rained in weeks. The soil in her garden was cakey and dry. If there had to be a drought, at least it had come late in the year, when the harvest was already in. Edging close to the creek, she looked at the huge trees on the other side with their dead leaves lying in a thick carpet over their roots. The forest resembled a giant tinderbox. If the drought went on, one bolt of lightning or one careless cooking fire could set the whole woodland ablaze.
She hadn't dared set foot in that forest since May's burial. The place was haunted and cursed, the trees arrayed like an enemy army. She remembered the sense of futility when she had arrived here—the homestead was so fragile compared to the living wilderness, which waited for its chance to strike out and take back everything they had wrested from it.
***
Her heart raced at the noise of barking. Banham had come after all.
Why did the dogs sound so ecstatic? Their excitement proved contagious. Daniel, who had been sleeping in his packsack, awoke and kicked his legs back and forth. His weight slowed her down. When she reached the dock, tears pricked at her eyes. Gabriel stood surrounded by the leaping, joyous dogs. Rufus, paws on Gabriel's chest, licked his master slavishly. After stroking each of the dogs in turn, Gabriel took parcels out of the canoe. He didn't seem to notice her until Daniel cried, "Da-da."
She took the boy out of the packsack, passed him into his father's arms. Daniel shyly patted his beard. As Gabriel kissed the top of the child's head, his eyes locked with hers. Gabriel's deep blue eyes still had the power to undo her.
Clutching herself, she turned away. "You must be hungry." She picked up one of the parcels and carried it to the house, along with the empty packsack. Then she went to the hen house to butcher a chicken.
***
While she fried the chicken, he unpacked the parcels and laid out their contents on the table. Two cones of sugar, a box of gunpowder for his musket, a bolt of sober, dark blue linsey-woolsey, and a bolt of plain white linen.
"You chose well," she said. If she intended to pass as a widow, she couldn't have picked out better fabric herself. There was nothing fancy like last year's lover's gifts—the ruby ring and beautifully printed cotton. The ring was hidden in the Bible box for safekeeping, and the lovely dress was faded and worn. She bent her head over the skillet so he wouldn't see her tears.
"Was Banham here?" he asked in a weary voice.
"Not a sign of him." It occurred to her that she might ask him why he had been away so long this time, but the words eluded her.
He slumped on the bench with Daniel in his lap. The boy kept gazing at him as though afraid he might vanish again. Watching Gabriel ruffle their son's hair, Hannah saw how blistered his hands were from the oars. Leaving the skillet for a moment, she took the jar of bear grease from the pantry. After setting Daniel on the floor, she knelt at Gabriel's feet and gently rubbed the grease into his broken hands.
"Hannah." His eyes moved over her face. She flushed and concentrated on his blisters. His lips moved, as if he were about to say something more. But then, at the smell of burning chicken, Hannah scrambled
to her feet and snatched the skillet from the fire.
She split the chicken breast with a knife. Though the skin was blackened on one side, the flesh still looked white, juicy, and tender. Taking one drumstick for herself, she put the rest on Gabriel's trencher, then brought out the cornbread she had made that morning. While Gabriel ate, she prepared Daniel's mush. She stole glances at Gabriel, who devoured his meat in silence, leaving a pile of clean bones on the trencher. He was thinner and hungrier than ever before. If possible, he looked more ghost-ridden.
Could it be salvaged? He was not beyond comforting. A small voice inside her said that she still had the power to break the spell, banish the estrangement. She only had to kiss him. Let him hold her. Call him to her bed this night. She only had to tell him he was forgiven. But she just kept spooning mush into Daniel's mouth. The words she might have said clogged in her throat. After finishing his meal, Gabriel lay down on his bed of furs and fell asleep at once.
***
Days slid by like slippery necklace beads falling from her hands. Then one day, no different from the ones that had preceded it, Hannah came back from gathering walnuts to find a map spread out on the trestle table. Her writing quill, inkpot, and blotter lay beside it. An X had been made to mark their house, then a line had been drawn, following the river down to the Bay and across it, to a place called Cleeve Hill on the Eastern Shore. The words Quaker Village were written in an unfamiliar hand. Hannah traced the sloping letters. At last she got to see Gabriel's handwriting.
Beaver pelts were piled high on his father's carved chair. She could not resist stroking the soft dark fur. But why were they still here? She thought he had traded all the furs for provisions. Then she noticed the message in the top right corner of the map.
Get you to the Quaker Village. They will give you Shelter and Protection. I have spokken to them already and said you are a good and honourable Widdow in need of Refuge. Take the Canu downstream. I have cleared the Waterway. When you reach Gardiners Point, await the Ferry to bring you to Cleeve Hill. When you arrive, ask for Mrs. Martha Nuttall. She is the Daughter of Father's old Housekeepper when we lived in Anne Arundel Town. She will look after you and Daniel. God go with you Hannah Powers.
"Gabriel?" She stepped out on the porch and called his name until she was hoarse. It was nearly sunset. He should be coming in for supper.
The day before, he had butchered a pig. The pork loin roasted in its pan over the fire, with carrots, turnips, and potatoes, and the rosemary and thyme she had added. Surely the smell must be enough to draw him back to the house. She fried corncakes on the griddle. Still he did not appear. When she went out with scrap meat to feed the dogs, only Ruby came to eat. Though she whistled three times, the other dogs did not come. Back in the house, she made Daniel his porridge. It grew dark. Leaping flames cast shadows over the walls. When she couldn't bear to wait any longer, she ate the overcooked pork and griddle cakes alone.
The map, the message, the pile of beaver pelts. He had left her. He was well and truly gone. He had grown fainter and fainter until he had vanished altogether. Even his dogs had disappeared. God go with you Hannah Powers. He hadn't signed his name.
That night, she left the door unbolted in case he returned. Lying in bed, she started at every noise—the wind whistling down the chimney, the straw rustling beneath Daniel as he moved in his sleep. In the morning, she got up and combed every corner of the house, every outbuilding, looking for signs. As indicated in his message, he had left the canoe in the boathouse. He had taken only his musket, his hunting knife, his traps, and his dogs. He hadn't taken a blanket or a change of clothing. When she opened the chest of drawers, she saw his second pair of buckskins, his old wool breeches, his linen shirts, and the waistcoat she had never seen him wear. She kept hoping he would return for his clothes. She knelt down and prayed, Dear God, bring him back.
He had left her the canoe, beaver pelts, and provisions. He had cleared the waterway for her. There was still time to make her way to the Quaker village before winter set in. With the beaver pelts she could pay for her passage on the ferry and have more than enough left over to purchase a small cottage with a plot around it for growing vegetables. She could keep a pig and chickens. She could take the salt pork and cornmeal along, the cones of sugar, the barrel of raspberry wine. Gabriel wouldn't have wanted her and Daniel to winter here alone. It was time to return to society. But she couldn't leave this place if there was any chance he might come back. Gathering her courage, she crossed the creek into the forest where he had carved his name on the trees. One day faded into the next until the first snow came.
Cutting patterns in the linsey-woolsey, she made new gowns for Daniel. She sewed them with generous seams, to let out as he grew. Instead of sewing a new dress for herself, she stitched a new pair of breeches and a jacket for Gabriel. Sewing was a prayer to call him back. She wondered if he expected her to wait for him in the Quaker village. If she went there in spring, would he come looking for her?
As the days slid toward midwinter, each day darker than the one before, she forced herself to accept the truth. He had melted away into the forest, as he said he would all along. He was that fey, like one of the faeries, the vanishing people. Once they lived amongst us like ordinary folk, Joan had told her when she was little. Long ago, before the reign of King Henry VIII, but then, one by one, they faded away, and now they can only be glimpsed at twilight and in dreams.
If she had allowed it, he would have taken her with him. They would have been together forever, and no one—not the Banhams, not the debt collectors, not the judges from the Assembly—could have touched them. Now it was her lot to remain in this world while he passed into the next—that magic world deep in the forest. He would melt westward, toward those mountains he had once described for her, fleeing so far that no white man would ever lay eyes on him again. Maybe he would take an Indian name and an Indian wife. His children would be children of the forest.
As winter dragged on, a transformation befell her, too. An enchantment of sorts. To pass the lonely hours, she read her father's books of anatomy. She opened the case of surgical instruments, polished them with a clean cloth. In faith, Gabriel had once told her, I always suspected there was something uncommon about you. You have powers few possess. Come spring, she would leave this house, but not to pass as a widow in the Quaker village. And she would be no man's servant.
The dead end of the year reached its darkest point before slowly turning back to light. As the days grew longer, Hannah took in the seams of Gabriel's clothes. She shortened his buckskin breeches and cut out a new pair of boots to match her feet. She took an inventory of the physick herbs in the pantry, then wrapped them in scraps of linen and tucked them in a leather pouch. The raspberry wine was now ready for drinking. It helped steady her nerves for what she would do next.
She took one of the deerskins off the bed and cut out the pattern for a great roomy satchel, with a strap that she could wear across her shoulder and breast. Working with scissors, needle, and thread, she altered the packsack so it would accommodate Daniel's growth.
"You have to be my brave boy," she told him. "Your father has gone far away. I think we shall not see him again."
Ruby was growing up, too, in her loneliness away from the other dogs. She slept at the foot of Hannah's bed.
The winter, though cold, was dry with little snow. When spring came, she was grateful that the drought made the ground firm for walking. She sharpened her scissors. Daniel and Ruby watched while she cut her hair, the long red locks falling in a pile on the floor. She left them there. It hardly seemed worth the effort to keep the cabin tidy.
She had salt pork wrapped in cloth, a week's supply of corn-bread, a bag of walnuts. She had a tin bottle for carrying water, a sharp knife to carry in her belt. She had a cloak and a blanket to sleep in. She had the map, her pouch of herbs, her father's books and instruments, and she had two changes of clothing. She flattened her breasts with a winding cloth before stepping int
o Gabriel's buckskin breeches and shirt. Her shorn head made her neck feel bare. Daniel kept looking at her in amazement. She stroked his face and kissed him. May's voice echoed in her head. If I were a boy, I would run away to sea. I wouldn't come home until Id seen the wide world.
33. Ash
l695
DURING THE LONG DRY SUMMER, the Banham slaves spent hours dragging water from the river to the tobacco fields. In places, the creek ran dry, the bare rocks in its bed exposed to the sun like a crop of bones. The water smelled stagnant and foul. Mrs. Banham's little son fell ill with a raging fever and runny bowels. Within days, he was dead.
Weeks later, the black midday sky erupted. A jagged snake of lightning snapped down to strike a dead oak near the Washbrook Plantation. The parched forest burned, smoke billowing high as the wind blew the fire west. Orange flames licked the rotting timber of the manservants' shack, the tobacco barn, and finally the main house. The fire consumed the three crosses and the empty coffin on the riverbank.
When the wind changed direction, the fire spread east, heading toward the Banhams'. Every man, woman, and child was occupied digging fire ditches and passing buckets of water. Young Richard blindfolded the panicked horses. Smoke blackened the ivory faces of the Banham daughters as they watched their dowries go up in flames along with their home. The English spinet, the cherrywood tea table, and their gowns trimmed with Flemish lace all turned to ash.
34. The Lost Sister
May
October 1690
THAT AUTUMN DAY, the sky was blinding blue, trees shimmering with color, the leaves as red as her sister's hair. The bitter wind chilled her to the marrow, even though her forehead burned. She clutched her bundle of clothes against her breasts, hot and swollen with useless milk, as she staggered away from the house, his raised voice. She laughed under her breath so she wouldn't cry. Adele took her elbow, urging her on. The girl's spine drooped under the weight of her satchel stuffed with blankets, cooking gear, and provisions.
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