He laughed. “I suppose it was unavoidable. Until tonight, little one,” he said with a kiss and left.
Cedric and a group of men did arrive later that day to begin construction by the lake at the Grand Portal. The weather was unpredictable in the Massachusetts Bay Colony in late autumn, so they had to work around the clock. Cedric thought it prudent to blend in with a more traditional structure, so they erected a house similar to Dr. Lumpkin’s residence, a dark clapboard dwelling. It was complete within several weeks.
Circe was invited for a visit shortly thereafter. She was surprised to find The Grand Portal was closer to Boston than she had realized, not far from the hamlet of Lyndon. Nevertheless, its location was still secluded.
“Come in, come in,” Cedric said. “We will make you tea.”
“Thank you,” she replied, stepping inside and looking around the room. It was far from a modest country cottage, and she remembered that Cedric was the wealthiest man in Glendower. Although not yet complete, the walls were being lined with rich paneling, and there were diamond-patterned windows with heavy drapes. A chunky candelabrum hung over his long, Cherrywood trestle table.
“Welcome, Widow Swinburne,” Constance said, emerging from the larder. “Let me take your wrap and come warm yourself by the fire.”
Circe was surprised to see her. But then, of course, she would live here with her father. She had never seen Constance without her coif; she was stunning with thick, saffron-colored waves framing her face. She hadn’t realized how petite she was and graceful. And when she smiled, the tiny part between her two front teeth was charming. She couldn’t help but like her. She was so forthright and gregarious.
Circe walked over to one of the windows. “Where ever did you obtain these in such a short amount of time?”
“I took them from the Glendower house,” Cedric replied. “As you can see, we are still finishing up,” and he pointed to the half-done paneling. “We are almost ready to start welcoming followers of the Goddess. But not until the trouble with the Indians dies down. You mustn’t ride alone anymore, Circe. Things have turned deadly ever since they hanged three Wampanoags in Plymouth Colony. There are raids everywhere.”
“No wonder you came this far on the house in such a short amount of time,” she said.
“Indeed.”
When Circe sat down, Constance poured her a cup of tea. “I am so glad to see you again. Glendower was very welcoming, but I am glad to be starting fresh in a new place.”
“Any news from home?”
“Saffir asked me to tell you that everything is going well with your sister who is with child. Your father was sick for a while but is recovered now.”
“My father was ill?”
Constance nodded. “It was the fever that strikes this time of year. Nothing more,” She leaned forward to touch her knee. “Please do not fret. I saw him before I left, and he was back to full health.”
Circe sighed. “My most fervent wish is to be done with my placement in Boston and return home.”
“It may be sooner than you think, Circe,” Cedric replied. “With Duncan on this side of the Atlantic doing his dirty work, no one would be foolish enough to seek refuge here. We may have you return home.”
“It is an unfortunate reason to go back. A feeling of doom pervades everything.”
After tea, Cedric asked Circe if she wanted to walk down to the lake.
“May I?” she said eagerly. She needed to cleanse her mind after talking of Joseph Duncan.
When Cedric stood up, Constance said, “Let her be alone with her thoughts, Father. We can watch her from here.”
“Thank you,” Circe said, swinging on her cloak. Pulling up the hood, she stepped outside and started for the lake. A light snow was falling, and she felt anticipation build as she approached the water. The snow crunched under her feet; the newly frozen lake was a cloudy blue. Circe stopped on the shore and looked. Although the branches on the oaks and maples were skeletal, a multitude of evergreens lined the water.
She took a deep breath of the cool, pine-scented air and waited. She changed her position on shore and waited again. There was no heady rush of energy, no river of life pushing through her. While it was peaceful and serene, Circe felt only the faint pulse of the earth that she always channeled this time of year.
She stood for a long time, appreciating the tranquility, watching the squirrels, the birds, and the snow falling. But at last, with a sigh, she returned to the house.
“How was it?” Constance asked.
“Different from last time, but the peace of the place calmed me.”
“Ah, the great mystery of the Goddess,” Cedric said. “She is different every time.”
* * *
Dante had a good deal of work to do, but at the stroke of ten he closed his book and tossed down his quill. He was going to see Circe. Every night at the same time, he rode into town, ducked into the back alley and knocked on her door.
Tonight, it was a cold, snowy evening. He dressed warmly, saddled his mare and headed to her shop on Market Street. He put his horse in the livery and turned on foot down the alley. He couldn’t wait to pull her into his arms and kiss her.
Dante was so preoccupied with thoughts of Circe that he didn’t hear a man step up behind him. When he felt cold steel at his throat, he jumped. Years of practice with the Libertines made his reflexes sharp, so he twisted around swiftly driving a knee into the man’s groin.
The assassin grunted and stumbled back. Again, the man lunged and slashed at his stomach. Dante blocked his arm and punched him in the face. Once Dante pulled a dagger out of his boot, the man stumbled out of sight.
Panting, Dante stumbled into Circe’s lodgings and turned the lock behind him.
“What’s wrong?” she gasped, wide-eyed.
“I have to sit down.”
Circe helped him to a chair. He was clutching his neck. “Let me see,” she said, gently pulling his hand away. Blood oozed onto his collar. “You’re bleeding! What happened?”
“A man in the alley. He had a knife.”
“What!”
Putting his hand back to stop the bleeding, he said. “Get some clean cloths and honey to dress it.”
She returned in a flash. “Thank God it is only on the surface. He could have cut your throat. Was he trying to rob you?”
He shrugged. “Perhaps.”
When she finished applying a coating of honey and a bandage, Dante slumped back into the chair. “Yet another scar.”
Circe was sitting at his feet, and she hugged his knees. “I am so glad you are safe.”
At last, Circe stood up and poured them each some rum. “I think we need this.”
“Gracias, pequeño.”
They were on edge the rest of the night. Dante was reluctant to leave Circe alone, so he stayed with her the entire night leaving only when he could hear Levi stirring in his room. As he rode home, Dante had a dark suspicion that the man who attacked him was not after his money. He was after his life.
* * *
Later that morning, the bell rang on the door of the shop. Circe looked up from her loom. It was Mr. Cheeseborough accompanied by two other gentlemen. One was Reverend Fawcett, a tiny man with a full beard and the other was the towering figure of the Witchfinder General.
“Widow Swinburne, you know Reverend Fawcett,” Cheeseborough said.
“Good day,” the preacher said, taking his hat off.
“And may I present Mr. Joseph Duncan of Suffolk.”
“How do you do?” Duncan asked, bowing slightly.
When he removed his hat, Circe noticed once more the pronounced forehead bordered by thin, auburn colored hair.
“How may I be of assistance?”
“Mr. Duncan is in need of wool for winter garments,” Reverend Fawcett explained.
Circe swallowed hard and showed them some cloth. When Duncan walked over to examine the fabric, the floor creaked loudly under his weight. Running his hands over the material, h
e started rocking with his whole body, as if nodding. “This will do. This will do,” he said and then looked at Levi who was at the spinning wheel, treadling with his head lowered.
Cheeseborough said excitedly, “I encouraged Mr. Duncan to come and meet you himself rather than send Goodwife Fawcett.”
“I have heard your weaving skills are exceptional, Widow Swinburne,” Duncan commented. “Almost supernatural.” He ran his bulbous eyes over the red curls spilling out of her coif.
“But as you can see, our weaving here is adequate - nothing more,” she replied.
He did not answer, just rocked and stared at her.
“My wife will be over tomorrow to make the purchase,” Reverend Fawcett explained. “She will give you the specifics on quantities.”
“Very good,” Circe said.
“A woman running a business without her husband is quite unusual,” Duncan observed with a raised eyebrow.
Before she could respond, Cheeseborough interrupted. “She will not be alone for long. I can assure you of that, sir.”
“Good day to you, Widow Swinburne,” Reverend Fawcett said putting his hat back on his head.
“Good day,” she replied.
The moment they left the shop, Circe sighed and collapsed back onto the door.
Levi stopped treadling. “That was frightening.”
She nodded. “The man is so suspicious of everyone and everything.”
“Someone is saying your cloth is supernatural, Mistress. I like it not.”
She shook her head. “I have done everything in my power to smother my ability. If I could make it any more mundane, I would. To one whose mind is so narrow,” Circe said, walking back to the loom. “Anything different seems otherworldly and threatening.”
* * *
The winter solstice was approaching and, since there were no ships arriving, Circe thought it would be a good time to visit home. Cedric was not opposed to her leaving; Levi would watch the shop. He would tell customers that she was visiting her sister in Newtowne.
Circe couldn’t get away fast enough. A funereal air hung over the city. There had been three hangings that week in Boston, two women and one man. They had all been accused of witchcraft. So Circe made preparations to return home when the monthly courier came from Glendower.
It was a two-day trip, so the first night they stayed in Salem with one of Cedric’s friends. The next day they continued on to Ipswich. The snow and cold had been minimal, and by afternoon they were on the trail for Glendower. The path was still open although it was infrequently traveled.
Circe was getting cold and tired, sick of trudging along the slushy trail. She thought of Dante to keep her mind off her weariness. It had only been a few days since she left Boston, but already she missed him. True, his prowess at love-making was outstanding. Their passion was intense, but it was more than carnal longing. He made her laugh and calmed her fears.
She wished that he was not so guarded. It seemed as if he had so many secrets. Refusing to speak of his past, in many ways Dante was still a mystery to her. At least she understood now that he was sentimental at heart underneath his façade of arrogant cynicism. Why should that please her? Why should she care? Circe was determined to keep it in check. She must not fall in love. I am just a passing fancy for him. He will love me and leave me in the end.
When, at last, she arrived in Glendower, she was met with hearty greetings. It was a relief to be back. The atmosphere was entirely different here. Boston was charged with fear and suspicion. Everyone was stiff postured and grim-faced. But here, in spite of the illness winter brought and the meager food, people seemed content. The roundhouses looked cozy and warm, smoke curling up from the roofs. There was the smell of bread baking, and Circe could hear children playing. Geese scattered as dogs loped up to greet her.
Saffir and the children were overjoyed with her return. After hugs and tears, Saffir gave her dry clothes, food and something hot to drink.
“Ewan, run and tell your father Circe is home,” she said, and he dashed out the door.
“You look well,” Saffir said, pouring her some mead. “We’ve missed you terribly.”
“And I have missed you more than you know,” Circe said, sitting down on a bench by the fire. Mari nestled up next to her. “And how are you, my little sister?”
Mari held up the Brideog doll Dante had made for her. “She kept me company when you were gone.”
“What’s her name?”
“Circe.”
“Thank you, Mari,” she said, stroking her hair. “You are so dear to me. You have gotten bigger since I left.”
Mari nodded. She was indeed taller and her hair was longer, trailing down her back in an auburn braid.
“How long can you stay?” Saffir asked.
“Only a fortnight, but Cedric is talking about sending us home permanently if this Joseph Duncan stays in the colony.”
“I’m glad you’re coming home. I’ve been so worried.”
Circe noticed that although her stepmother was still beautiful, there were dark rings under her green eyes and gray streaks in her dark spiraled hair.
“How does Ruith fare?” she asked.
“I have not seen her in over a week, but she seems tired.”
“Will she come back here to give birth?”
“Most definitely.”
“Well, look who is here!” Rhun boomed, walking in the door. When Circe jumped up to hug him, he twirled her. “As beautiful as ever.”
“You look well, Father. I received news you had the fever.”
“The usual malady this time of year. I am back to full health now.”
“Good.”
They sat up late sharing news after supper.
“Father,” Circe asked as she started up the loft to bed. “Could you take me down in one of the cutters to see Ruith and Bullfrog in the next few days?”
“Yes, that would please them immensely.”
After the Yule log was lit and the solstice activities complete, Circe and her father started for the Great Marsh. The wind was cold as they glided down the frozen river early one morning in a cutter, but they barely noticed. They were tucked snugly under furs. Circe was back to her old self. The Great Marsh always lifted her spirits, and her heart was light once more.
She was surprised when she saw Bullfrog and Ruith’s roundhouse. “It’s so big,” she exclaimed as she followed her father up the path.
Rhun laughed. “No, Circe, you’re just used to his tiny dwellings.”
The roundhouse was tucked back in a wooded area along a stream not far from Bullfrog’s first home. There was a shed and there were several pens for livestock and chickens, a small kiln and a beehive oven. Laundry was boiling in a large crucible near the door, and hides were tanning on racks.
“Do you like it?” her father asked.
“I do,” Circe replied, petting Bullfrog’s faithful, old, yellow dog. “It feels like home.”
Rhun knocked on the door. There was no answer. He called Ruith’s name, but still, there was no answer. Pushing the door open slowly, he stepped inside with Circe. The hearth was in the middle of the room, and Ruith was sitting in front of it in a low chair; she was wrapped in a blanket. She had been dozing.
She raised her head and turned in their direction. “Am I dreaming?” she said. “Can that be you, Circe?”
“It is!” she exclaimed, running over and hugging her.
Tears filled Ruith’s eyes. “I’ve been calling for you.”
“Oh, Ruith. I didn’t know.”
She shook her head. “My powers aren’t as strong as they used to be.”
Brushing the hair from her forehead, Circe asked, “Whatever do you mean?”
“I’m just so tired. Everything seems to be such an effort lately.”
Circe noticed that Ruith was pale and the scar on her face was more pronounced. When she spoke, it was slow as if it were an effort.
“Hello, Father,” Ruith said. “I’m sorry
I didn’t greet you.”
“I understand,” he replied, pulling his gloves off. “I am an afterthought today.”
“Let me see you,” Circe said, stepping back.
Ruith opened the blanket so Circe could see her swollen stomach. Although her belly was large, she was alarmingly thin.
Circe frowned. “Will it be soon?”
“I think so.”
“Where’s Bullfrog?” Rhun asked.
“I think he’s hunting. He should be back soon.”
“I’ll tend to some things outside and let you two talk.” His eyes lingered a moment on Ruith. Before he left, he exchanged a look of grim concern with Circe.
“I must look at your new home,” she announced, walking around the room. Bullfrog and Ruith’s house was a working residence; it was no longer a whimsical tree house or tiny dugout. The fire pit was in the center of the room, littered with cooking utensils and gourds. Their bed was against the wall covered by a four-poster framework with drapes which could be pulled for privacy and warmth. On top of the structure were clothes and linens. There was a cupboard for food and dishes, a table, and some benches and barrels.
Ruith had placed dried wildflowers in little crocks around the room as well as bowls of pine cones. Circe knew it was about fragrance for her sister, not visual appeal.
“Your home is beautiful, Ruith. It has your touch.”
She smiled weakly. “Come here, Circe.”
She walked over, sat down at Ruith’s feet and hugged her knees.
“Before Father returns, I must tell you something,” she said, stroking Circe’s hair. “The baby is strong. But I am not.”
“You must eat more, Ruith. You are too thin.”
“My appetite has disappeared. What I do eat goes to the child which is as it should be. He is very strong. I am so grateful for that. I can feel him move and kick.” Then she grimaced. “But I am growing weaker every day, every day since that monster Joseph Duncan stepped onto our shores.”
A bolt of terror shot through Circe. “No, Ruith! You can feel his presence?”
“Yes, he is dark, Circe; so very dark. And there are other malevolent forces gathering too, especially around you. And these forces are more dangerous than the Witchfinder General. It is a violent thunderstorm about to burst.”
The Firefly Witch (Bold Women of the 17th Century Series, Book 1) Page 19
