“What, afraid of me?”
“Should I not be?”
“I’ll not hurt ye, Christine.”
She shuddered. He had never used her name before. Had he asked someone in the village the name of the young woman who worked at the parsonage? More likely he’d heard the children call out to her weeks ago. Or perhaps he’d heard Goody Deane use her name the night she called out when she’d heard his voice. Christine couldn’t remember, but it disturbed her that he acted so familiar.
“Leave us alone.” She swallowed, hoping she could keep her voice steady. “This be the last time I will bring you anything.”
“What? Ye cannot let me starve.”
“Oh, but you can make us all live in fear.”
He laughed. “I don’t see anyone acting fearful. Anyone but you, that is.”
Her anger simmered. In the darkness she thought he smiled. “You say you’ll stop stealing, but you don’t. I’ve given you food and clothing and a blanket that were not mine to give. You’ve made me steal for you. Do you hear me? You’ve made a thief of me. This must stop.”
“Can you help me stop?”
“How would I do that?” she asked. He was toying with her, she thought, keeping her here in the shadows for his own purposes.
“You could speak for me to one of the gentlemen of the village. Tell them to hire me.”
“Whom could you work for?”
“Anyone.”
“The master at the brickyard?”
“Perhaps, though it’s sorry work.”
“Have you sought to hire on with the fishing captains?”
He flexed his shoulders. “Seasick, I fear. Debilitating.”
She nodded. He would make excuses for any real job possibility, she calculated. “Harvest will soon be upon us. I know farmers who could use a hand at haying and grain harvest. Shall I speak to them for you?”
His momentary silence confirmed her assessment. He didn’t want to work. Not really. At least, not hard, sweat-inducing, energy-sapping work.
“Certainly. But I shall need decent shoes and more food than you’ve been bringing me if I’m to slave all day in the sun.”
“You new employer can feed and clothe you. I’ll spread the word tomorrow. What is your name? How shall they find you?”
“Well, I …”
Again his hesitation emboldened her. She stepped toward him. “Speak, sir. Shall I put it about the village that a strong laborer will go to the ordinary at noon seeking employment?”
“Ye’re a bit hasty, miss. I’ve not eaten well for many a week. I’ve not the strength you seem to think I have.”
“Oh, haven’t you? I’ve been kind to you. You know I have. Leave us. Just leave us. I won’t tell anyone you were here.”
“Nay, I think not.” He stepped forward, and his face became clearer in the moonlight.
“I tell you now, sir, I cannot provide for you any longer.”
He moved swiftly, another step forward. Suddenly they were toe-to-toe, with a glinting knife blade between them.
“You’ll do as I say,” he spat out in a low, raspy tone. “If you don’t, you’ll be nursing one of those little dark-haired girls tomorrow. See if one of them don’t meet with an accident.”
“Christine?” Goody Deane’s sharp voice startled them both.
The man glanced toward the house, over Christine’s shoulder, and melted back into the shadows beneath the tree.
Christine drew in a ragged breath and turned around. “I’m coming, Tabitha.”
“Who was that man?” The widow peered toward the garden. “Shall I run for the parson?”
Christine reached her side. “Nay. He is …” She struggled to pull breath in past the heavy weight on her chest. “Oh, Tabitha, you cannot tell Reverend Jewett.”
Goody Deane’s eyes glittered as she frowned up at Christine. “What are you saying, girl? You’ve formed an attachment you’re ashamed of.”
“Nay. Oh please, don’t think that!” Christine let out her breath and reached for Tabitha’s hand. “I see I must tell you all.”
“And about time, I’d say. Come inside. I’ll stir up the fire, and we shall have blackberry tea and a bit of that Indian pudding you put by.”
Christine stared at her. “You saw that?”
“Of course I did. You think I don’t notice what goes on at my own hearth?”
Glancing behind her, Christine realized that the outlaw had managed to grab the dish of food as he retreated. “Then you’ll soon realize we won’t be eating any pudding. And we may be out one dish as well, if he doesn’t return it. But I expect I’ll find it on the window ledge at dawn.” Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she felt the absurd urge to laugh. “I’m relieved, actually, that you know.”
Tabitha squinted toward the dark expanse of the garden. A breeze ruffled the maple tree’s leaves. “Come inside, my dear. I think this is a night to bar the door and bare your soul to God and a human friend.”
eight
Samuel set four math problems for John on his slate Wednesday morning and immersed himself in the scripture for the Thursday evening sermon. So many distractions in summer. Ben was off working for James Dudley today, and John fidgeted. Every sound that reached them through the oiled paper window of the meetinghouse called to the ten-year-old boy. The oppressive heat found them, even inside the big building, though it was cooler inside than out in the scalding sun. It was a wonder the boy learned anything at all.
He thought of Christine and the girls, no doubt baking today, poor things. He’d told Christine she needn’t build the fire this morning, but she insisted that if she didn’t, they’d have no bread tomorrow and their fish would be presented raw at supper. He would keep himself and John away from the house all day so that she and the girls could work in their shifts. Even so, they were likely to swelter in the little house. Did they have plenty of water for their cooking and washing needs?
It took determination to put his household out of his mind. He had only another thirty hours before evening worship, and he had much work to do on Sunday’s two sermons as well.
“Father.”
Samuel looked up.
John stood beside him with his slate ready.
“Ah. Finished your problems, have you?”
“Aye.”
“Good lad. Let me check them.” He took the slate from his son and put his mind to work on the arithmetic. “Excellent. Now, study your Latin.”
“Father, be we going home for dinner soon?”
“I told Miss Christine she could send Abby over with a cold luncheon for us. I don’t wish to add to her work in this heat.”
John nodded and wiped his brow with a kerchief. They had both stripped off their jackets and vests hours since, but even so, the back of Samuel’s linen shirt stuck to his skin.
“May I get a drink now, Father?”
“Aye. Let us both.” Samuel stood and set his Bible on the pew next to his ink bottle, quill pen, and two sheets of thin birch bark on which he’d been jotting notes for the sermon. Parchment was too expensive, and his scant supply of locally made paper was nearly gone. Perhaps he could replenish it when he received his quarterly salary, though many other needs seemed more pressing.
The door of the meetinghouse flew open, and Roger Ackley stood blinking in the doorway, panting for breath. He held his shabby coat in one hand, and his clay pipe was stuck in the band of his shapeless hat of beaver felt. “Reverend?”
“Aye, Brother Roger. How may I help you?” Samuel walked down the aisle between the new box pews.
“Ah, there ye be.” Ackley stepped inside. “It’s cool in here.”
“Is it?” Samuel asked.
“Sir, I’ve come about my wife. Goody Ackley left for the trader this morning. She said she wished to go while the air was still bearable. She ought to have been back by half past nine, but she weren’t. I sent Alice, the girl what be our maid now, to see if she were coming, but Alice didn’t meet her. She went al
l the way to the trading post, and Paine said she came in early, just as she planned.” He pulled in a deep breath and shook his head. “But it’s past noon now, sir, and she never came back. I’m on my way to see Paine, and I thought you might be of help.”
Samuel laid his hand on the older man’s sleeve. “I’m sorry, Roger. We’ll find her, I’m sure. I’ll send word around the village. Perhaps she decided to visit one of the other women while she was in town.”
“Perchance you’re right, Parson, and I wouldn’t fret most days, but you know we’ve had Indian trouble already this summer. This time of year, they come down out of Canada and worry us. You were there, sir, when they came at us after meeting last month, and Richard Otis was shot before we ran them off.”
“Yes, I understand.” Samuel turned to look at his son. “John, get Goodman Ackley a dipper of water. Then I want you to run home and tell Christine—oh, never mind! Here’s Christine with our dinner. I’ll tell her myself. Then we’ll walk over to the trading post and speak to Mr. Paine.”
“Can I go?” John asked eagerly. He scooped water out of the bucket near the door and handed the dripping dipper to Goodman Ackley.
“Aye, I’ll let you go along, but you must stay with me.” Samuel smiled at Christine as she mounted the steps, and he took the basket from her. He lifted the corner of the linen napkin to peek inside. “Thank you, Christine. That looks delicious. Are you suffering from the heat?”
“Prodigiously, sir.”
He chuckled. “Well, we’re thankful for the repast.”
“I thought to speak to you, sir, if you’ve a moment.”
Samuel wondered what her errand was. Probably something about household affairs. He stepped to one side, so she could see that he was not alone. “I’m afraid John and I must go straightway to the trading post to speak to Mr. Paine. And I want you to keep the little girls close. Mrs. Ackley is missing, and until we find her, I want to know you are all safe at home.”
Christine’s hazel eyes widened, but she nodded without comment.
“Is Goody Deane with you at my house?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That is well. Go now. I’ll watch to be sure you get home safe.”
He handed the basket of lunch to John and stood on the step until he saw Christine enter the parsonage next door.
“Here, Father. Biscuits, cheese, and baked fish.”
“Ah. Loaves and fishes, as Christ gave to the five thousand. We must give extra thanks for the cheese.” Samuel smiled. “Have you eaten, Brother Roger?”
“Nay.”
“Then you must share what we have. Let us ask God’s blessing, and we shall eat as we go, for I know your wife’s well-being lies heavy on your heart just now and we must not delay.”
“What is your plan, sir?” Ackley asked.
“Constable Paine first. I expect he’ll start an organized inquiry throughout the town.”
“And if we do not find her?”
“Why, then I suppose we must search elsewhere. But let us not borrow trouble.”
As men arrived on the common before the meetinghouse, Christine stood in the parsonage doorway and watched.
Joseph Paine had taken charge. He assigned each new cluster of arrivals an area to canvass.
“Surely they’ll find she stopped to have dinner at a friend’s house,” Christine said.
Tabitha sat in the late Goody Jewett’s chair, playing cat’s cradle with Constance. “I don’t know about that. Would you invite her to stay for a meal if she came by your house?”
Christine gritted her teeth together. She couldn’t deny the truth—not many women in Cochecho liked Mahalia Ackley. Her venomous gossip had long since put her on the outs with all of her neighbors. Even the most tolerant ladies of the church avoided her. “Mayhap she felt ill because of the heat and took refuge at some house,” Christine suggested.
“Aye, that could happen. Should we bake this afternoon?”
“I hate to. It’s so hot. But if the men are kept searching all day, they will need to be fed this even.” Christine turned from the doorway and assessed their staples. “We’ve plenty of ground corn but not much rye flour. The wheat flour is gone.”
“Be there any meat left?” Tabitha asked.
“Nay. And we used up the fish Ben caught yesterday at luncheon.”
“I’ve a strip of bacon in my root cellar, if that ne’er-do-well didn’t get it.”
Christine caught her breath and glanced at the widow, then looked pointedly toward Abby and Constance.
“Don’t fuss at me,” Tabitha muttered. “You should have told their father first thing this morning.”
“I wanted to, but he was all in a hurry to get Ben off to the Dudleys’. He and the boys were going out the door when I arrived. And when I took his luncheon to the meetinghouse, Goodman Ackley was with him and I couldn’t say anything.”
Tabitha sighed and pushed herself slowly up from the chair. “Well, I’ll go raid my own larder and bring over anything I think would be useful. I know there be plenty of dried beans. The Jewetts have fed me often enough this past year that I can contribute to their offering.”
“Probably the other women will help as well,” Christine said. “I don’t like you to go over there alone.”
Tabitha leaned in close. “Well now, you can’t leave the children alone with that ruffian lurking about, can you?”
“Nay.” Christine shuddered. She had told the outlaw she wouldn’t provide for him. Leaving the Jewett girls unsupervised would be just what he needed—an opportunity for retaliation.
“Well, I know one thing, it ain’t Indians has got Mahalia Ackley.”
“How do you know that?”
“Ha. We’ve had more Indian raids than most villages, and we always know it within a short time. They’re quiet until they strike, but once they begin their perfidy, there’s no silencing their howling and whooping.”
Christine shivered, recalling her own experience six years earlier when her home had been attacked. She well remembered the bloodthirsty screams of the savages as they wrought their destruction, killing and burning all before them. Her family had lived down the coast, near the mouth of the Piscataqua River, where her father worked a saltwater farm. The Indians had attacked and plundered several farms in the neighborhood, and Christine saw her parents and three siblings hacked down. Only after many years of prayer in the quiet convent had she found herself able to give thanks for her survival.
Sometimes she still thought it might have been better if she, too, had died that night. But nowadays, Samuel Jewett in his sermons echoed what the gentle nuns had taught her. Only last Sunday he had preached on thankfulness.
Whatever my lot, whatever my position, God has placed me here. And I thank Him.
“Take Abby with you if you are going across to your house.”
Goody Deane frowned. “If you truly believe that man means to mend his ways, then you must also trust him not to carry out his threats.”
“I’ve never said that I trust him. I only spoke to him and gave him what he asked for fear he would do violence.”
The old woman nodded grudgingly. “I’d not be able to do much to protect Abby in time of need. But if I see that rascal, I’ll tell her to run back here quick, and you raise the men.”
“I shall.”
“Abby, come with me to get a few things from my house, child. Put your shoes on.”
Christine forced herself to stay away from the doorway but instead opened the barrel of parched corn and prepared to cook a mammoth kettle of samp. Goody Deane and Abby soon came back with a bit of bacon and a small sack of dried beans, which they put to soak in cold water.
“Peter Starbuck came by while we were at the cottage,” Tabitha said. “I invited him to search my property if they think it needful.”
Christine leaned against the frame of the loom. “I really thought they’d find her by now.”
Tabitha nodded grimly. “You may as well weave. I’ll wat
ch the wee ones and the kettles.”
Christine sat down and picked up her shuttle. Usually weaving brought her peace, with its monotonous movement and quiet sounds. Seeing the fabric slowly grow beneath her hands brought satisfaction. But not today. Instead she could think only of the farm wife the men searched for and the shadowy outlaw they didn’t know existed.
“Lord, give me wisdom.”
It flashed over her mind suddenly that in not telling Samuel about the outlaw, she had done the entire village a disservice. What if the man she had aided was responsible for Goody Ackley’s disappearance?
“I must tell him.” She laid her shuttle down and stood.
The doorway darkened at that moment, and Samuel Jewett entered the house. “I’m leaving John here with you, Christine. I want you all to stay inside. We fear there’s foul play been done, and I don’t want to risk anything happening.”
John came in, stiff-legged, his lips puckered in disappointment. So his father had drawn the line. The situation had turned grim, and he had decided the boy was still a boy and shouldn’t be part of this.
“Is Ben back?” she asked.
“Aye. He and the Dudley men and Charles Gardner all came into town after a runner went to ask if they’d seen Goody Ackley. I’ll keep him close to me.” He looked at Tabitha. “You stay, too, Goody Deane, though I know you be capable and fearless. Stay here with my family, won’t you, until this is resolved.” He lowered his voice. “Paine has men looking in the river now and all along the banks. The men are forming search parties. Take care, Christine. I’ll see that you get word as soon as we know anything.” He turned to go out.
“Samuel, wait!” Christine realized she had used his Christian name, but she hadn’t time to think about that. The blood rushed to her cheeks as she stepped briskly toward him. “I must speak to you alone, sir.”
His eyebrows drew together. “Is it urgent?”
“Aye. I don’t think it bears on this event, but it may, and if I don’t tell you and you find out later that it did, why, I shall be desolate.”
He eyed her carefully then nodded. “Come outside then.” He stood aside and waited for her to go out. As he followed her onto the doorstone, he closed the door behind them. “What is it? Do you know something about the goodwife’s doings?”
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