The New England: ROMANCE Collection

by Susan Page Davis, Darlene Franklin, Pamela Griffin, Lisa Harris

  He shook his head. “There’s no hope for me, Lucy. I’ll swing before sunset tomorrow.”

  “Don’t say that!”

  “We have to face it. That’s why you agreed to this, you remember?”

  “Yes,” she whispered, blinking back tears.

  She was doing the noble thing, giving a dying man peace of mind. Was that the only reason she had made her vows? He knew it wasn’t his only motive. Warm, tender feelings transcended his desperation. Should he tell her how much he loved her, or would that only distress her more when he was dead?

  “We haven’t much time,” she said. “Tell me what I should do with the farm.”

  “Do as you wish. If you want to keep it, do so. Move your mother there if you like. If it’s of no use to you, then sell it, but for my sake, don’t sell to anyone who witnessed our nuptials, unless Murray offers. Sell it, dear, and enjoy every penny you receive.”

  She smiled through tears. “Have no fear. But I shan’t take any action until I’ve received word of your … on the outcome of your trial.”

  “Dear Lucy! Don’t cling to false hope.” He squeezed her hands and smiled at her, wishing he dared pull her into his arms. But the reserve of four years’ estrangement between them restricted his movements beyond what the shackles did.

  “Tell me about the livestock,” she said.

  “The sheep can stay out to pasture. In the morning you’ll want to feed the oxen. Since I won’t be plowing, they ought to be turned out. Can you manage?”

  “I think so.” Her doubtful expression belied her words. “I’ll do my best anyway. They’re not fierce, are they?”

  “Nay. And if you have any trouble, ask Sam to help you. And be sure to give Tryphenia a little extra corn.”

  “That be your milch cow?”

  “Aye. You may as well let the calf stay on her, unless you be needing the milk. I was going to wean it this week.”

  He felt suddenly that he was in danger of losing control of his emotions. He sat down hard on the bench beside the wall and buried his face in his hands.

  “Jack?” He felt Lucy’s hand, warm and gentle on his shoulder.

  “It doesn’t matter now, does it? Do whatever you want with the stock. Sell the oxen right away. Keeping them would be too much for you.”

  She bit her lip. He knew the enormity of his situation was settling in on her heart, as well.

  “We could use a bit of milk,” she said softly.

  “Then take it. The cattle are yours, Lucy.” He looked up, forcing a smile. “Take them to your place if that’s easier.”

  “I can stay at your house tonight.”

  “Your mother—”

  “She went to Goody Ellis this morning.”

  “Ah, number ten.”

  “Yes.” The chuckle that escaped her was more of a sob. “She may not be home at all tonight.”

  “Sam might be busy the next few days, tending the young ‘uns while his wife is confined.” He stood and reached for her hands once more. “All right, then, stay at my place tonight and feed the livestock on the morn.” He searched her face intently, looking for the strength she would need over the next few days. He thought he saw it there, in the resolute set of her chin and the earnest fire in her blue eyes. “One more thing.”

  “What is it?”

  “You ought to stay at my house tomorrow, too, just to be sure….” He broke off and stared at his boots. “I don’t know what they would do to my place, and my things, if no one were there. But if you are in residence as my wife …” He drew her hands up to his chest and caressed them with his thumbs. “It comforts me to know you’ll be there to take possession and keep the vultures away.”

  “I will, Jack. I’ll see that your estate is settled.”

  Tears spilled over her eyelids and ran down her cheeks. Jack reached out and caught one on his finger. “Don’t weep for me, Lucy.”

  “It’s not the first time.”

  A bittersweet craving washed through him. He lightly stroked her jawline with his fingertips. “Don’t tell me I broke your heart.”

  “Into tiny slivers.”

  “You never showed it. All this time, you never once gave me an indication that you cared.”

  She looked past him toward the pierced tin lantern that hung beside the cell door. He wished she would tell him her thoughts. He would be dead tomorrow. Would it hurt her to tell him how she felt? If she were agonizing over losing him again, she would say so, wouldn’t she? It must be that she didn’t care beyond friendship and fond memories, or else she would speak.

  At last she whispered, “Jack, I’m so sorry. I wish I could do something to change this.”

  He was quiet for a moment, trying not to grieve over the fact that she did not speak of love. He raised his chin. “It’s all right. I don’t understand why God let this happen, but I suspect He knows what He’s doing.”

  She eyed him sharply. “The Jack Hunter I knew wouldn’t accept such an unjust blow with resignation.”

  “The Jack Hunter you knew wasn’t certain God was always wise in His dealings. I know better now. If this is His time for my end, then so be it.”

  She brushed the wet streaks from her cheeks, and he felt the sting that preceded tears in his own eyes. “I’ve made you feel horrid. I’m sorry.”

  She flung herself at him, throwing her arms about his neck. He stood in shock for a moment, then slowly pushed her away far enough so he could raise his manacled hands and lower his arms around her. She was so warm and soft. He held her, breathing in the scent of her hair and reveling in her nearness.

  “Don’t be coming around here in the morning, Lucy,” he whispered.

  She leaned back to look at him in question.

  “I don’t want you here. You understand, don’t you? As my wife, grant me this wish.”

  “All right.”

  “Good. Now, the sheep. They’ll need shearing soon. You ought to be able to hire William Carver to do that. Sell what wool you won’t use yourself. And take what you want to weave to the carding mill.”

  “That costs money. I can comb my own wool.”

  “It will save you a lot of time to have it done, and you’ll be able to afford it.” He glanced toward the door and leaned down toward her until his lips were close to her dainty ear. “Under the clothespress, I’ve hidden some coins. You’ll have to tip it over—”

  She looked at him and frowned. “What—”

  The door at the end of the passage swung open, and he raised his arms quickly, allowing her to duck outside their circle.

  Stoddard marched toward them with his keys in hand. “Time’s up, ma’am.”

  She looked at Jack. He squeezed her hand with a smile that he hoped would give her courage. He tried to fix her lovely face in his mind. Her delicate features, framed by golden hair, sent a dart of wonder through him. He’d married the most beautiful woman in the village. Her lustrous blue eyes tugged at his heart, causing a dull ache beneath his breastbone.

  “Good-bye, Lucy.” He didn’t move to touch her again.

  She raised her chin. “Good-bye, Jack.”

  She turned and hurried down the dim passage.

  When Lucy stepped out the front door of the jail, Captain Murray rose from the step and sheathed his whittling knife. The smile he bestowed on her looked rather mournful.

  “I’ll escort you home, Goody Hunter.”

  “Thank you. I’ll be going to my husband’s farm, if you don’t mind.”

  “Why should I mind? It’s closer than your mother’s house.”

  “Indeed.” Lucy took a deep breath and smelled turned earth, salt water, lush June vegetation, and a hint of manure. She wished Jack could get his lungs full of that air instead of the damp, foul atmosphere of the dungeon. She tried to match her steps to Murray’s, but his long legs forced her to scurry to keep up. When she skipped a few steps, he slowed his pace.

  “Congratulations,” he said.

  “Thank you.”

&n
bsp; His thick eyebrows nearly met as he frowned.

  “Captain Murray,” she asked, “why have you been so kind to me and Jack tonight?”

  He sighed. “It’s six or eight years now since the lad started drilling with my company.” He glanced at her and shrugged. “His mother made a mistake in marrying that wretch Isaac Hunter. It’s not Jack’s fault. Whatever he’s done, I just want to see that he gets a fair shake.”

  “Do you think he will?” Lucy asked.

  Murray took his clay pipe from one of the pockets of his voluminous jacket and placed it between his teeth but made no move to light it. “If he’s guilty, he will.”

  “But he’s not.”

  “So say you and your husband.”

  “If you don’t believe he’s innocent, why are you helping him?”

  “I believe in the law, ma’am. I was afraid things would get wild tonight. A lot of folk have smelled blood and are thirsty for a hanging.”

  Lucy clamped her lips together to keep them from trembling.

  He took the pipe from his mouth. “Jack asked for my advice. I knew I couldn’t save him, but it seemed reasonable to help him do what he could to go with an easy mind.” He waved the pipe toward the common area they were passing. Only a few pedestrians lingered in the evening air. “The townsfolk seem to have settled down for the night. I expect Rutledge let it out that the trial will take place tomorrow, and they’re satisfied for now.”

  “All is quiet,” she agreed, peering at the citizens from the corner of her eye.

  “There was some concern earlier that a mob might form.”

  Her heart skipped a beat. “They wouldn’t break a man out of the king’s prison to lynch him, would they?”

  “I’ve seen men do some strange things.”

  She shivered.

  Murray walked in silence for a moment. “I hope word of your marriage doesn’t get out tonight, or there may be some who feel the need to go to the jail and protest. Then again, I guess things can’t get much worse for Jack. If they hang him now or hang him at dawn, what’s the difference?”

  She shuddered, and he took her elbow.

  “Forgive me, Goody Hunter. I shouldn’t have shared that sentiment.”

  “Do you know much about oxen, sir?”

  He chatted amiably about farming for the rest of their walk to Jack’s doorstep.

  “Would you like me to step in and build your fire up, ma’am?”

  “I can do it. Thank you. For everything.”

  Chapter 7

  The light was fading as Lucy mounted the stoop. It didn’t creak and give when she stepped onto it, the way the one at home did. The door was set into the low, thatched part of the house. This was the original cottage Jack’s father threw together hastily twenty years ago. The addition Jack had built later looked more substantial, with its roof shingled in cedar strips. The chimneys of the house’s two sections rose back to back in the center of the building.

  She tried to picture the room that lay beyond the door. Three years ago she’d come here with her mother and several other neighbor women to lay out the body of Goodwife Hunter. Jack had kept away while they performed the ritual washing of the body and dressed her in her best gown.

  Lucy recalled the simple, dark wool dress Jack’s mother was buried in. She could still picture the delicate features of Abigail Hunter’s thin face. Jack had his mother’s kind eyes, but his hair was thick and unruly. It must be like his father’s, for his mother’s tresses were fine and limp. Lucy didn’t remember Jack’s father; the notorious Isaac Hunter had died when she was only seven, and she was sure her parents had done whatever was necessary to keep her from seeing much of him.

  This is my new home if I want it to be, she told herself. She took a deep breath and lifted the latch, then pushed open the door of sturdy pine planks. It didn’t make a sound. Jack must have greased the strong, black iron hinges. She sniffed. The air inside felt cool and fresh, though it carried faint whiffs of wood smoke, cooked meat, and balsam.

  Suddenly she felt an unexplained dread. It seemed that someone or something was watching her from the darkness.

  She whipped around and stared toward the barn then the fence of the sheep’s pasture, then down the path to the lane. All was still. Too still. The crickets had quit chirping. An old ram had lifted his head from grazing and was staring toward the woods.

  Lucy fought down the panic that assailed her and stumbled into the house. She closed the door, then stood gasping in the darkness. There was no glow from the fireplace, though the smoky smell of the hearth was stronger now.

  After a long moment she could make out the pale rectangle of the one window in the room. Soon she would be able to see well enough to find a candle and a tinderbox. They would be on the mantel, of course.

  She fingered the inside of the door and found the strong crossbar. With trembling hands, she eased it into its cradle then tested the latch to make sure it was secure.

  Taking a deep breath, she turned to the fireplace. No time to stand about imagining phantoms when there was work to do. She felt along the edge of the stonework and jumped when a poker clattered from its peg to the hearth.

  “Lord, give me Your peace,” she whispered. Her heart hammered, and her breath came in short spurts, but she knelt and cast about until she located the poker, then used it to delve deep in the ashes. She was rewarded by a faint orange glow from a tiny coal that still smoldered.

  Ten minutes later she had a candle burning and the beginnings of a cook fire. In another ten there would be a cozy blaze going, and she would make some tea. Then she would have time to think about what she had done this day.

  She raised the rough shutter that hung below the window to cover the opening from the inside. Then she turned the wood blocks along the edges that held the shutter in its frame. Feeling more secure, she reached for larger sticks of firewood from the nearly full box.

  Jack’s hands had split these maple logs and laid them here. Her husband’s hands, using his ax. The one that had killed a man.

  As the flames leaped higher, she looked around. The room was neat, with shelves built along two walls. A small table and two stools occupied the middle of the puncheon floor. She sank into the one chair with a back, which sat close to the hearth. This must be where Jack relaxed in the evening. His bullet mold rested on the mantel, alongside several other implements. His musket hung above the door—she could see it in the firelight and felt comforted. If need be, she could handle that gun.

  She spied a full wooden bucket and dipped some water from it into an iron kettle. When she had set the water to boil, she resumed her survey of her new house.

  A couple of dark, nondescript garments hung on pegs behind the door. Jack’s mother’s dishes gleamed on the shelves beside crocks and tins and sacks. It was a homey room, one where a woman could be happy while she prepared the meals for her family. But she and Jack would never have a family.

  She leaned back and closed her eyes. What would her mother say?

  She hadn’t allowed herself to think it, but now the question leaped unbidden into her mind. She gritted her teeth. “I wonder if I haven’t been foolish this day,” she said aloud.

  The water burbled in the kettle. There must be tea somewhere. Or did Jack drink tea? She didn’t even know something that simple about him.

  She checked the shelves and found a tin. Pulling off the lid, she lifted the tin to her nose to sniff its contents. Dried parsley. A larger tin sat next to it, and she opened that. Ah, good black tea. She took her mother-in-law’s teapot from the shelf with great care and went about the familiar task of making the brew.

  Her decision today was right, she decided. Whatever she and Jack once had or would never have, she’d made the only choice she could. She refused to regret it.

  Lucy awoke in darkness. Something wasn’t right. Her heart pounded, and she lay still. It came to her then. She was at Jack’s house. In Jack’s bed.

  She drew in a deep breath. Part of her
heart longed for daylight so she could see the unfamiliar room and reassure herself that all was well. The other part dreaded the dawn that would bring her husband’s execution.

  “Lord, have mercy on him,” she whispered.

  One of the logs that composed the walls creaked, and she jumped. She could make out thin fingers of grayness around the shutter. Daylight must not be far away. She rose and made her way to the fireplace in the wall that separated the bedchamber from the kitchen. She’d made a fire in both rooms last night, craving the light and extra warmth.

  After much fumbling, she located her supply of kindling and the poker then knelt on the cold stone hearth, shivering in her shift. After she had a good blaze going, she gathered the three candles in the room and lit them all.

  “Lord, I’m so frightened,” she confessed. “Please give me Your peace, and give Jack peace, as well.”

  She pulled the patchwork quilt off the bed and sat on the low stool beside the hearth, extending her bare feet toward the warmth.

  This room had been Jack’s mother’s, she was sure, but after her death Jack must have moved his things down from the loft and started sleeping here. She had begun to explore it last night but stopped after opening the clothespress. His shirts and a doublet hung there, and as the smell of him wafted to her, she had been unable to hold back her tears. She’d taken a wool flannel shirt from its peg and crushed it to her breast. It smelled like Jack did when he held her close that evening at the jail, for one fleeting moment.

  “Show me what to do, heavenly Father,” she prayed. “Should I live here now? I’m jumping at shadows. How can I be a property owner if I’m scared to live alone? And how would I keep my school if I had to care for Jack’s animals and property?”

  She sighed and bowed her head. “Please, Father, please be merciful. Do not let my husband die for this crime.”

  As dawn broke, Lucy rose and quickly donned her stays, pockets, overskirt, bodice, and cap. She sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on her stockings and shoes. It was a comfortable bed. She had slept well for several hours before waking and giving in to her sorrow and fear.