Abiding Peace

by Susan Page Davis

  “To bed, boys.”

  “Father,” Ben said, “people can’t accuse Stephen of stealing like that, can they? He wouldn’t do such a thing.”

  “Nay. There’s no evidence of such a thing. Goody Ackley is a malicious gossip, that is all. No one puts store in what she says. I say that to you in private, however. It is not something I would wish you to say among others.”

  “Even if it’s true?” John asked.

  “There be times, John, when we ought to keep silence—especially young people. I perhaps should not have spoken out tonight. There were others present who could have done the job better than I, and as pastor, I must be particularly careful.”

  Ben nodded, but his face still held a troubled expression.

  Samuel walked over to him and touched his arm. “Don’t brood on it, son.” He gave John a quick hug. “Good night, John.”

  The boys climbed the ladder to the loft just as Christine came from the girls’ bedchamber.

  “Thank you, Christine. Allow me to escort you home.”

  “There’s no need.”

  “I don’t like you to go about alone at night, especially with all this talk of thievery.”

  He thought her cheeks flushed, but in the poor candlelight he might be mistaken.

  “Thank you, sir,” she said softly. They walked across the way together.

  “I hope Goody Deane feels better tomorrow,” Samuel said. Christine had made the widow’s excuses earlier, telling him she had a catarrh.

  “She thought it best to stay away from the children for a few days, and I agreed. She’ll be better off to stay home and rest than to come over to the parsonage and wear herself out with scrubbing and cooking when she’s ill.”

  They reached the cottage door, and she paused. “Thank you, sir.”

  He looked down at her plain face in the moonlight. A year ago she would have averted her eyes in his presence and tried to avoid his notice at all cost. How far she had come in a year. She was still markedly reserved, but no vestige of fear remained. What a blessing she had been to his family.

  “Christine, I appreciate all you’ve done for the children. For myself, as well.”

  After a moment, she looked away. “I enjoy doing for your family.”

  He nodded. “I thank God for you every day. Good night now.”

  She put her hand to the latch, and he turned away.

  Christine stood inside the little cottage, her back to the door, listening. Goody Deane’s labored breathing broke the stillness. The poor woman’s nose was clogged, no doubt, which made her snoring more pronounced.

  Christine had not encountered the outlaw tonight. Perhaps that was due to Pastor Jewett’s presence. If she stayed with other people and didn’t give him the opportunity to catch her alone, perhaps she could avoid ever talking to him again.

  Or maybe he had left the area. She didn’t really believe that, with all the reports in the village. And if he left Cochecho, he would work his evil somewhere else. Did she really want him to go about threatening other people and stealing from them?

  The old blanket she’d left at the edge of the woods had disappeared. He had at least taken that last night.

  She walked to the kitchen window and pushed the muslin curtain aside. A bank of clouds obscured the moon, and she thought it likely to rain before morning. The wind stirred the branches.

  Was he out there, even now, watching the cottage? She shivered and turned away.

  five

  Friday was the scheduled workday at the meetinghouse, and Samuel planned carefully so that he could spend the day with the men of the parish, who would give of their time to make improvements on the building.

  For years the church folk had talked about building better pews inside—enclosed seating for each family, rather than the rows of plain benches they now used. Constructing a fireplace at one side of the building had also been bandied about, with the conclusion that they could get along as they always had in winter—with their foot warmers and soapstones and hot bricks wrapped in sacking. Some members even brought their dogs to church in winter and persuaded the animals to lie on their feet and keep them warm, but this sometimes resulted in disruption of the service.

  Samuel had tried not to take sides in the debate, though in his mind a fireplace would have done them all good. As it was, they retired to nearby houses at noon to get warm on winter Sundays, returning to the frigid meetinghouse for the second sermon. Of course, attempting to heat such a large, open building would take a lot of fuel, which meant the men would have to give more labor toward providing wood. As it was, the parsonage sometimes went short of fuel in winter. He didn’t like to ask them to do more, especially as the nearby supply of firewood was dwindling and the settlers went farther each year to furnish their woodpiles.

  But the pews were another thing. The elders had agreed that the boxlike pews with four-foot partition walls were what they needed. These would give each family privacy and prevent the churchgoers from the distraction of eyeing their neighbors during the service. These enclosures would be built around the edge of the room, and William Heard’s plan allowed for six more in the middle. The pulpit would be raised on a small platform, enabling all the people to see the minister while they were seated.

  James Dudley arrived early, while the grass was still wet from the rain, with his cart loaded with lumber. Samuel heard the cart creaking up the street and called to Ben and John to join him. James and his son Stephen walked beside the cart, and Samuel hurried to help them unload.

  “My brother and Charles Gardner be coming, too,” Stephen told the pastor. “Richard and Charles are carrying the babies, so that the ladies can take them to visit at the parsonage today.”

  “Splendid,” Samuel said. He looked back down the street and saw the two young men, their wives, the elder Mrs. Dudley, and her eighteen-year-old daughter, Catherine, approaching along the track that led to their outlying farms. “The ladies will have a good day together, and I’m sure they’ll put on a toothsome luncheon for us.”

  William Heard and two of his sons arrived next, bearing tools and a small keg of sweet cider. “Richard Otis be bringing plenty of nails,” Heard reported. On top of the stack of wide boards, he unrolled the plan he had drawn to guide them in their work.

  “Do you plan to have a boys’ pew?” James Dudley looked over Heard’s shoulder at the meticulous diagram.

  Heard glanced at Samuel. “What say ye, pastor? Methinks we decided not.”

  “That’s right, Brother William. I know they do it some places, but in my opinion, boys will behave better if they sit with their own families. Let the fathers keep them in line.”

  Heard nodded. “So be it. The deacons will have their places here, and the pews we have planned will accommodate all of the regular parishioners and visitors, with room for a few new families.”

  “Aye, our village is growing.” Samuel made a mental note to visit a new family that had taken up residence within the township, upriver toward the falls. “But we shall leave it to the deacons to assign the pews.”

  He could picture his five children, with Christine Hardin and Tabitha Deane, of course, in the front, center pew, sitting straight and listening attentively as he spoke. What would he have done without those two ladies this past year? The thought of Christine moving to another family’s pew—whether as a maid to one of the church ladies or as the wife of another man—disturbed him. He shook off the thought and picked up his hammer.

  At the parsonage, the women gathered with great joy. A day together was a treat for all, though they would spend it working hard. Christine especially enjoyed cuddling her friends’ babies and helping Constance and Abigail take turns holding the little ones.

  “You shall have to come out to the farm again soon, Christine,” Jane Gardner said. “Charles has finally finished my loom, and I wish you would help me to warp it the first time.”

  “I’d love to.”

  “Good,” said Sarah Dudley. “Richar
d says the sheep have grown their wool back prodigious-fast, and he plans to shear them again next week. We’ll have an abundance of wool this year.”

  Goody Dudley set a heavy basket on the table. “I brought extra dishes, and I’d like to leave a few here for the pastor. You have church folk to feed fairly often, Christine, and with all the children … well, I thought giving the parson a few extra plates would not be amiss, and I put in a couple of tin cups the children can use.”

  “Bless you,” Christine said. “Those will be most welcome.”

  She directed her guests in preparing a huge pot of bean soup and another of mutton stew for the workmen. Goody Dudley and Catherine had brought the ingredients for a prune pudding, and they started it cooking. As the morning waned, Goody Deane offered to bake a batch of biscuits on her own hearth across the street, and Goody Dudley went with her. The younger women contributed to the preparation of another batch of biscuits and a large pan of corn bread at the parsonage.

  While Jane’s baby boy napped, Abby and Constance played with Hannah Dudley and Ruth.

  With the little ones out of earshot, Jane turned the talk to a more sensitive matter. “You know the Wales wedding is Sunday.”

  “Aye.” Christine shaped the biscuits with a round cutter and laid them in the Dutch oven. “Pastor Jewett is performing the rites at noon. If the weather is fine, we’re to take food and eat in the churchyard. Parthenia’s family is providing cake for everyone afterward.”

  “It will be strange to call her Goody Wales,” Catherine said. “But since Goodman Jones died, I suppose she is taking the best course for herself and her children.”

  “I don’t know about that,” said Jane. “The second Mrs. Wales didn’t live long after she married him. Only five years or so.”

  Sarah shrugged. “And the first one less than ten. Are you saying the Wales women are short-lived?”

  “If I were her, I’d be cautious,” Jane said.

  Sarah chuckled. “Really, Jane, you’re so droll.”

  Jane, who had experienced an unhappy marriage and widowhood, shrugged and went on with her task of measuring the ground corn. Christine felt that Jane took the matter more seriously than Sarah did but saw no profit in pursuing the topic.

  The urge to tell them about the threatening stranger rose in Christine’s mind, but she checked the impulse. What good would telling them do? And she had heard nothing from him in two days, nor any fresh stories of thievery. Better to forget it and let others forget it, too.

  “I’m giving Parthenia a set of two linen towels,” she said.

  “I’m embroidering an apron for her.” Catherine cracked two eggs into her mixing bowl while Sarah greased a large pan for her.

  The baby began to cry, and Jane hurried to fetch him.

  “So, Christine,” Catherine said as she stirred the batter for the corn pone, “I heard Goody Ackley asked you to work for her.”

  “I declined.”

  “Which was probably your best choice,” Catherine admitted, “though I’d love to have you closer. If you were at the Ackleys’ farm, I’d doubtless get to see you more often.”

  “I would like that, too,” Christine said, “but I am happy with my position here. I’ve grown to love the children dearly, and I think the Jewetts really need me.” She felt her face flushing and feared the others would misconstrue her words. “That is, they need someone, and … well, the Lord put me here.”

  “That’s right.” Sarah smiled at her. “The Lord put all of us here two years ago—you, Jane, and me. I know you’re a blessing to Pastor Jewett and his family.”

  Jane’s eyes twinkled as she returned with little John Gardner held against her shoulder. “So perhaps you’ll be best off to stay here, as Sarah and I did, until the Lord brings along a husband for you.”

  “Oh nay,” Christine returned with a laugh. “No husband for me. I’m content in the state I’m in. My employer may not be so well fixed as Goodman Ackley, but I believe the atmosphere here to be more congenial.”

  “You speak truth,” said Jane.

  The day flew by. When the ladies had served dinner to the men and cleaned up the remaining food and dishes, they sat down at the parsonage to do their handwork, whether knitting, mending, or stitchery. All too soon, the Dudley men returned to take their womenfolk home. Goody Deane went to her own cottage while Christine prepared supper for the Jewett family. It was short work, with all the food left from the nooning.

  Christine stayed until sunset, straightening up the main room while John and Abby did the dishes.

  When they had finished, she carried the pan of dirty dishwater around to the garden behind the house. With the hot, dry weather, the vegetable plants could use every drop of moisture the household could give them. She sloshed the water out along a row of parsnips and was about to return to the house, when a tall, thin man appeared between the shoulder-high cornstalks.

  She gasped and stared at him, knowing at once that he was the outlaw. She had never seen him in good light before, but his lean form, unkempt beard, and ragged clothing left no doubt.

  “You’ve not brung me anything these two nights.” He stayed within the line of the nearest corn row, and his eyes flickered toward the house.

  She swallowed with difficulty. “I thought you’d gone.”

  “Nay.”

  “You’ve been eating, though.” She looked into his flinty gray eyes.

  His lips twitched. “Aye, short shrift it’s been. But you’ve cooked a great heap of food today. I saw the men eating in the churchyard. I says to myself, ‘You’ll eat tonight, you will.’ Bring me a plate. I’ll wait here.”

  “I can’t fix a plate and carry it out now that the family is done eating. Everyone would want to know what it was for.”

  “Tell them it’s for the widow.”

  Christine’s heart clenched. He knew so much about them. She could probably do that, and the Jewetts would accept her word. But she wouldn’t lie to them. How could she ever look into the reverend’s kind brown eyes knowing she’d lied to him?

  “Nay.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Be you forgettin’ what I said? You’d best bring me a plate, out back of the widow’s house, at full dark.”

  “I won’t.”

  He looked toward the house again. “Then I’ll get it myself and not care who I slash to get it.”

  “No. You mustn’t.” She gripped the tin basin tightly. “I’ll … I’ll bring you something.”

  “Good. And I need a pair of trousers.”

  Christine felt as though the breath had been pummeled out of her. “How do you expect me to come by those?”

  “The parson. I can fit his togs.”

  “Nay. He is a poor man. You can’t steal his clothing.”

  “Would you have me go about indecent? ‘Twill soon come to that.”

  Involuntarily, she glanced down at his ragged trousers. Both knees were torn through and a large tear gaped in the side of one pant leg.

  “Can’t you get them elsewhere?”

  “I’ve tried, but I have to be careful, you know.”

  She gritted her teeth. “Oh yes, I know. You’re such an honest man you must stay hidden from all the law-abiding people hereabouts.”

  His expression darkened. “Enough. Bring me food, and plenty of it, and a pair of trousers with no rips.” He disappeared into the cornfield.

  six

  Christine returned to the parsonage with a heavy heart. It was true, the man’s clothing was in tatters from his weeks of skulking about. A small part of her felt sorry for him. But his gruesome threats hardened even the most tender spots in her heart.

  I should have told Samuel!

  The thought shocked her, because she never thought of the Reverend Mr. Jewett as Samuel. He was Pastor, or Mr. Jewett. But he was also her friend, and now his family was in danger. If she followed her impulse to tell Samuel about the outlaw, what would he do? At once she knew he would organize a search for the criminal. But what i
f the man were crafty enough to elude them? He’d gone uncaught for some time now. She didn’t know where he was getting his food on nights when he didn’t demand it from her. Perhaps other women in the village were as frightened as she was and handing over rations to him, too.

  He has to be stopped, Lord!

  Her prayer seemed futile. If she revealed the man’s demands, he would know it, and he would do something horrible to the pastor’s children.

  Stealthily she took the pastor’s workday trousers from the clothespress. He had two other pairs, his best for Sunday, and the pair he wore most days, when going about the parish to visit his flock. She ran a finger over the neat patch on one knee of the oldest pair. His dear, dead wife had stitched that patch on with love.

  Forgive me, Father. I don’t know what else I can do. I must protect the children. If there is a better way, then show me.

  He was waiting when she took the food and folded trousers out that night. She sensed his presence before she saw him. Was it an odor, or an influence of evil?

  “What took you so long?”

  “I had to make sure Goody Deane was asleep.”

  He snatched the bundle. “I like to have perished waiting.”

  “Please, I don’t know how I’m going to explain to the parson about his trousers.”

  “You’ll think of something. Just remind yourself that if I get to looking decent, I can show myself and look for work. You’re helping me become an honest man, that you are. I do want to be honest.”

  She wanted to believe him, but his manner and his past actions prevented that. She had managed to get out of the parsonage undetected with a covered dish of stew. He pulled the linen napkin off and dropped it on the ground, then he tipped the bowl up to his mouth.

  “I brought you a spoon.”

  He lowered the dish, wiped his lips with the back of his hand, and reached for it.

  Christine shuddered as she put the spoon in his hand.