The Honorable Imposter (House of Winslow Book #1)

by Gilbert, Morris

  When he didn’t answer, she suddenly struck his chest with her fist, crying out, “You think you’re better than Peter, don’t you?”

  Catching her hand, he held it, shook his head. There was a sadness in his lean face as he said slowly, “No, I don’t. I don’t think that at all.”

  She stared at him. “Then what is it, Gilbert? Why do you look at me like you do?” A bitterness ran through her tone, and she flushed as she said, “You didn’t want me—but you don’t want another man to have me, is that it?”

  He was unhappy with the scene, and could not answer her question. She was not the woman he’d imagined in his own life, but he could not dislodge the pictures of her that kept coming back to his mind.

  “I’ve made a ruin of my own life, Humility,” he said finally. “I hate to see you do the same.”

  She stared at him, her cheeks suddenly still. He was not the same man she’d known in Holland; not even the same as when they’d landed in Plymouth. The soft lines of his face, the easy laugh, and the confident manner had faded. Now he looked older, and there was a maturity in his face that had been lacking. He smiled often, but it was not the same, for now beneath the smile there was a knowledge of the razor-sharp edge of life that can cut a man down in one instant.

  She shook her head, then asked without warning, “You’re still in love with that woman, Cecily.”

  He stared at her, then shook his head. “That’s over. She’s in England. Probably married to some Count by now.”

  “You called her name when you were sick. You wouldn’t have done that if you’d forgotten her.”

  He shrugged, saying quietly, “We don’t forget anybody. But . . .”

  Whatever he was going to say was cut off by the boom of the cannon, followed by another.

  “Both guns,” he said looking toward the town. “Something’s happened!”

  They began to run, and she was as fast as he was. When they got to the edge of the woods, they saw a crowd gathered around the rampart that Standish had built for the weapons. The captain was standing beside one of the cannons, pointing with his sword out toward the sea.

  Gilbert looked that way, and saw a tiny flash of white, a sail catching the sun.

  “It’s a ship.” He stared at it steadily, then felt her touch on his arm.

  “Run away!”

  “What?”

  “You can go stay with Squanto and the Indians,” she said, and there was an urgency in her manner. “Don’t go back to England!”

  He stood there, caught by her intense manner, but then he shook his head. “I can’t run like a frightened rabbit every time a ship appears.” He left her and started to walk down toward the beach, then turned and said with a warmth in his blue eyes, “Humility, whatever happens, I’ll always have one thing.”

  “One thing? What will you have?” she asked.

  He grinned and lifted his hand as if he held his sword in a salute.

  “I’ll always remember that once at least, I loved a real woman!”

  As he walked away, her lips trembled, and she whispered, You fool! You fool! You’re throwing yourself away!

  She could not bear to see the straight set of his back as he went to meet whatever fate had for him. Blindly she turned and walked slowly away from the beach and the ship that came closer with every gust of wind.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  OUT OF THE PAST

  Every man, woman, and child in Plymouth gathered at the beach to welcome the longboat from the ship. Standing slightly apart from the main body, Gilbert ran his eyes over familiar faces, and was swept with a wave of regret; there was little doubt in his mind that he was seeing the last of them.

  The prow of the boat grated on the beach, then two seamen jumped out and made her fast, while the passengers disembarked.

  “Elder Brewster!” a smallish man cried out, and he was greeted warmly by Brewster and many others. Gilbert heard the name Cushman, and looked with interest at the man whom he had met at Southampton.

  There was a swirl of people talking and moving, but Gilbert’s attention was riveted on William Brewster. He stood there in the midst of the crowd like a statue, his eyes fixed on a man who got off the longboat last. Gilbert had never seen him, but he thought at once, This is Brewster’s son. He was in his late twenties, and was in size and appearance what William Brewster must have been like as a young man. The older man’s face was moved with emotion, and then he held out his arms and his son stepped into them.

  There was much confusion as Cushman began introducing the newcomers to the settlers, but one by one all were made known.

  All but one. A tall, thick-bodied man with inquiring brown eyes had stood slightly apart from the group. He was well dressed in a gray suit, over which he wore a black greatcoat with a beaver collar turned up. There was an air of authority about him, and at first Gilbert thought he might be the captain of the ship, yet he did not seem to fit in that role.

  Bradford raised his voice above the babble of talk. “Friends, let us go to the Common House. You must be hungry for fresh food after your long voyage.” He led them up the hill, but Gilbert noted that the tall man in the brown suit stopped John Alden to ask a question. Alden paused, looked surprised, then looked around. Finding Gilbert with his eyes, he nodded his head, said something briefly, then with a long look at the man, turned and followed the others up the hill.

  The man came at once to stand before Gilbert. For all his size he was light on his feet, and paused slightly before saying, “Mr. Gilbert Winslow?” His voice was deep and resonant, giving the impression that if he cared to raise it, the volume would overcome all other sounds.

  “That is my name.”

  A light of interest stirred in the man’s quick glance, eyes running over Gilbert as though taking inventory. Then he said, “My name is Wellington. Caleb Wellington of London.”

  Gilbert nodded but made no reply. Everything about the man signaled power and authority. His hands were strong but well cared for, and the diamond on the ring finger of his right hand would have fed the colonists for six months. His lips were broad with deep creases running along the corners, and the cleft chin was like the prow of a ship, invincible, daring anyone to get in its way. The eyes were set in deep sockets and shadowed by heavy brows, and his forehead was broad, with a mane of thick brown hair that sometimes fell over it in the brisk breeze.

  “We have some business to discuss, Mr. Winslow,” Wellington said finally. “Would you come aboard to my cabin?”

  His manner puzzled Gilbert. There was no question of his mission, since he had asked by name for Gilbert Winslow. He’s not one of the new colonists, Gilbert thought swiftly. He’s come for me—but why this smooth approach? Why not a brace of armed guards and a pair of manacles for me?

  “Why not here, Mr. Wellington?” Gilbert was curious to see what effect resistance would have on him. This was obviously a man accustomed to being obeyed, but he was surprised at the reaction.

  “Why, if you please, but this air is chilly and our business may take a little time.”

  “Very well.” Gilbert followed him to the longboat and they seated themselves. The six sailors manning the oars put about quickly.

  “What ship is this?” Gilbert asked.

  “The Fortune—fifty-five-ton, Robert Logan, captain. Four months out of Southampton.” Wellington rattled the facts off in a practiced manner, then asked, “Has your plantation here been successful, Mr. Winslow?”

  Gilbert gave him a direct stare, then shrugged. “Half our number are dead. I’m sure most would say that’s a high price to pay for a dozen huts and a few acres of Indian corn.”

  The blunt speech jarred the big man out of his smooth manner. “Half dead! Did the savages attack?”

  “Sickness.”

  Wellington shook his head. “I spent quite a few hours playing chess with Mr. Cushman. He talked quite a bit about his people here. Must say he’s not what I expected, Mr. Winslow.” His direct brown eyes searched G
ilbert’s face, and he asked curiously, “I’ve been wondering how you fit in with these people—different in so many ways from yourself.”

  “How am I different, Mr. Wellington?”

  Gilbert’s instant question broke through the man’s calm. He blinked, and there was a trace of irritation in his manner as he realized he’d said more than he meant to. He was not a man to endure much pressure, so he turned to face Gilbert squarely, and a hard-edged streak surfaced, breaking the smoothness of his face. “You’re not of the Brownist persuasion, Mr. Winslow—or you were not a year ago.”

  “Who are you, Mr. Wellington?” Gilbert asked. “Are you an agent of the Crown?”

  “We’re almost to the ship,” Wellington said. He looked up at the red and white cross of St. George flying from the mast. “Our business can wait until we are alone.”

  The firm set of Wellington’s jaw told Gilbert that it would do no good to protest. He had the feeling that he was caught up in some force that was pulling him closer to a dangerous end, but there was no fear as the longboat made fast, and he followed Wellington up the ladder to stand on deck.

  “This way.” Gilbert followed Wellington as he walked toward the stern, and entered the oak door under the poop deck. Ordinarily there would be a single door inside leading to the captain’s Great Cabin, but there were two, one of them old and one obviously new. Removing a key from his vest pocket, Wellington unlocked the one on the left, stepped back to wave Gilbert inside, then followed him.

  The room was not large, not more than ten feet wide and twelve feet long. A new partition had been built, Gilbert saw, taking space from the Great Cabin. Most of the space was taken up by a bed, a large oak cabinet that almost touched the low ceiling, two upholstered chairs, a small desk and a small table by the bed. The only decoration was a colorful blanket or shawl on the newly built wall. It looked Oriental and was made of some fine material.

  “You must have a very hospitable captain.”

  “Ah?”

  “To allow you to take part of his space.” Gilbert nodded at the wall to his left. “You had that put in just before you sailed, I take it.”

  Wellington was surprised; then he smiled. “You have sharp eyes, Mr. Winslow.”

  Gilbert didn’t respond to that, but said, “About our business?”

  “Ah, yes. Well, sit down, Mr. Winslow. Perhaps a glass of wine?”

  Gilbert stared at him, then sat down with a smile and took the glass of wine that Wellington poured from a small glass decanter on the table, and tasted it.

  “Very fine, sir.” He took another swallow and said with a smile, “Probably the best wine I’ve ever shared with a man who’s taking me to the gallows.”

  He had expected to catch Wellington off guard with the statement, but the big man merely looked at him, then sipped his own wine.

  Gilbert grew angry then, and put the glass down before saying, “You like to torment the mouse a little before the kill—is that it?”

  “Is it?”

  Gilbert leaned forward, his cornflower blue eyes snapping, and he raised his voice. “You’re a policeman—but you must be a lawyer too, judging from the way you hate plain speech!”

  “Are you married, Mr. Winslow?”

  It was the last question Gilbert expected. He blinked and stared blankly at Wellington, who returned the stare with bland attention. “No, I’m not married. Why do you ask—don’t you arrest married men?”

  “You expect to be arrested?”

  “Another question!” Gilbert said. He stood up and his voice was hard as he said, “I won’t play your game, Wellington. Put me in irons, but I’ll not be questioned!”

  Wellington leaned back in his chair, laced his strong fingers, and said coolly, “A year of hard labor hasn’t done much for your temper, has it now? Hasn’t it gotten you into enough trouble?”

  “The death of Lord Roth was not a matter of temper!”

  “Was it not? As I understand the thing, you were employed to run William Brewster to earth and then turn him over to the authorities. Why did you turn on Roth and Johnson?”

  “It’s—very personal,” Gilbert said.

  “Murder is usually a personal business, Mr. Winslow!” Wellington’s voice was sharp, but he moderated it at once. “Look now, I know you have no reason to trust me . . .”

  “That is true!”

  “. . . but we are alone here, and I may be more of a friend to you than you now believe.”

  “A friend? How can that be? I don’t know you.”

  “But I know you—or to put it more literally, I know about you,” Wellington smiled. “Now, I have a proposition to make you, sir. In short, I may be able to help you to some degree. . . .” He put up his hand to ward off Gilbert’s question. “Now I said may be able to help you, and I said to some degree.”

  “Why should you?” Gilbert knew he was no match for the wits of the man across from him, but he could not for the life of him think of any reason why Wellington or anyone else should help him.

  “That question I will answer—after you have done one thing for me.”

  “Which is?”

  “I want a complete and thorough report of your activities from the time you entered the service of Lord North until this day.”

  Gilbert stared at him. “You must think me quite a fool, sir, to think that I would give such a thing to a stranger.”

  “You would be exactly that, Mr. Winslow, if you spoke so freely to anyone else—but you would be foolish not to speak to me. For believe me, I am one of the very few who have the means of getting you out of this snare you have gotten yourself into. But I will not beg. This is my final offer, if you will do as I ask, and give me a complete and thorough account of the period I mentioned, I shall—if I am convinced that you are honest—let you know my reasons for being here. Now, I will not add to that. What is your decision?”

  Wellington settled back, laced his fingers, and there was an adamant set to his face that told Gilbert he meant exactly what he said. The thought flashed through Gilbert’s mind, It’s a trap—say nothing! But the more he considered the man, the more inclined he was to comply with his strange request. Finally he shrugged, “You realize that what I say here, I will not repeat in a court of law?”

  “Of course.” Wellington got up and pulled his chair around to the small desk. He picked up a pen, trimmed it with a silver knife from his vest pocket, dipped it into the ink well. Then he pulled a sheet of paper close and with his pen poised, said, “Proceed, Mr. Winslow. I may interrupt you from time to time for fine details. It would save time if you give them on your own. I must ask you to give me—insofar as possible—not only what you did, but why you did it. In other words, lay your soul bare.” He looked up with a slight smile on his heavy mouth and added, “I have seen a bit of the world, Winslow, so do not fear you’ll shock me with your confession.”

  Gilbert turned his head to stare out of the mullioned windows cut into the high stern of the Fortune. The ship was anchored with the bow facing away from the shore, thus he could see the harbor and the main street of Plymouth plainly. For months he had worked on the small houses that mounted up the slope, but only now as he sat across from the man who might take him away from the small group of people he had been tied to, only then did it strike him forcibly that he might be taking his last look at Plymouth.

  He thought of how he’d come to revere Brewster and Carver—and even Bradford, though he’d disliked the man at first. He thought of the young men he’d worked beside—John Alden, John Howland, Thomas Fletcher. Of the children who had stood the trip better than most of the adults. He thought of those now buried in shallow graves or in the sea. He thought of Humility.

  Then he said, “I’ve done many foolish things in my life, Mr. Wellington. Putting my confidence in you will probably wind up at the top of that list . . .” He watched Wellington’s face closely, but there was not a break in the smooth countenance of the man. Gilbert smiled grimly, then went over to stand be
side the window.

  “I hated my brother Edward because I thought he had robbed me of my inheritance . . .” he began, and for the next hour he went over the whole thing, beginning with his first meeting with Lord North down to the time the sails of Fortune had appeared over the horizon.

  He began awkwardly, embarrassed to lay his memories before a stranger. But Wellington never looked up from his writing desk. He sat there motionless, making a note from time to time, but he spoke only to ask a few questions.

  The questions were not the ones Gilbert had expected. He was prepared for snares concerning the death of Lord Roth, but Wellington seemed to have more appetite for other things.

  “This young woman—Humility Cooper,” he asked quietly. “Did you find her attractive?”

  “Very much.”

  “So that made your task easier?”

  “No, sir, it did not!” Gilbert shot back at once.

  “You did have relations with her, of course.” There was no rebuke in the smooth voice; Wellington might have been stating that it was a pleasant day.

  Gilbert turned from the window, his face flushed; he took one step toward Wellington, then stopped.

  The big man did not even look up from his notes. “Did you hear me, Mr. Winslow? I asked if you had intimate relations with the woman.”

  Gilbert forced himself to be as calm as Wellington, at least outwardly. “No, I did not.”

  That brought Wellington’s head up, and his dark piercing eyes met Gilbert’s. “Why not?” he asked.

  “It’s not a question I care to answer, sir. If you insist on one, the interrogation is over.”

  Wellington stared at the young man as if he were an interesting specimen he had discovered, then smiled slightly, turned back to his notes, and said calmly, “Proceed with the account.”

  Gilbert went on with his story, and Wellington stopped him at one point with a question about his relationship with Lord North.

  “I admire him very much.”