by Susan Page Davis, Darlene Franklin, Pamela Griffin, Lisa Harris
Stoddard escorted her down the dim passageway to the felons’ cells.
“ ‘Ey, now, missy!” a man cried as they passed the door to another cell. Lucy jumped and crowded against the opposite wall.
“Hush,” Stoddard shouted. To Lucy he said, “Sorry, ma’am. We got a couple of new prisoners in today. A cut-purse and a public drunkard.” The jailer shook his head. “Ladies oughtn’t to come here, that’s certain.”
Lucy inhaled deeply and followed him to the door of Jack’s cell.
“Hunter!” Stoddard called. He nodded at Lucy, then ambled away down the hall.
She stood on tiptoe to see through the window. Jack rose from his straw pallet and ambled toward the door. His face was thin, almost gaunt. “Hello, Lucy.”
She forced a smile. “Good day! I’ve brought you a raisin bun and some fresh peas from the garden. Goodwife Stoddard will bring them in with your supper. She promised.”
“Thank you.” He slumped against the doorframe, his eyes nearly closed. His melancholy demeanor made her spirits plummet.
“I’m going to Mother’s this afternoon,” she went on. “Richard Trent wants me to weave him some linen, and I need to use the big loom.”
Jack looked at her with dull gray eyes. “He’s still here?”
“Yes. He’s decided to give up the sea and work his father’s land.”
“Odd,” said Jack. “Ten years ago he couldn’t leave fast enough.”
“Perhaps he’s had enough sailing,” Lucy said, trying to keep a lightness in her tone.
“His father used to beat him, you know.”
“No! Really?”
“It’s why he ran off.”
Lucy tried to fit that with gossip she’d heard in the past. “He did say he hadn’t been back home for a long time. Yet when his father died, he received the news within days. Said he’d been living in Portsmouth.”
“So he wasn’t across the sea,” Jack said. “He was just down the coast a ways.”
“You don’t think …”
“What?” Jack’s gaze met hers.
She followed the thought to its logical conclusion, but she didn’t like it. “That he’s been around close when he says he hasn’t?”
Jack’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the bars. “You mean, he could have come around and seen his father a month ago?”
“Jack, we mustn’t say such things. It’s evil.”
“Someone did evil the day Trent was murdered. I don’t want you having anything to do with him.”
“But … he wants me to weave him enough yardage for a pair of breeches. He says he’ll trade me firewood for it.”
“You don’t need firewood, at least not for this year. I stacked plenty.”
“I could sell it, or keep it against next year’s supply.”
He shook his head grudgingly. “Don’t you be alone with him for a second.” Lucy noted that a spark lit his eyes for the first time in weeks.
“He seems a decent man. A bit crude, but I suppose that’s how sailors are.”
“I don’t trust him. I wish you hadn’t made a bargain with him.”
“I’m sorry.” She looked down. The last thing she wanted was to give Jack something to worry about. She’d thought bartering for firewood and other commodities would make her more independent and let Jack see that she could take care of herself. Still, this development seemed to have prodded him out of his listlessness.
“Don’t fret about it,” he said. “Just be careful.”
She bit her lip. “I will.”
“How is school going?” he asked.
“Fairly well. I lost two pupils, though. It’s too far for the Howard children, their mother says.” Again, she was glad he showed an interest. Lately it had seemed he didn’t want to think about anything outside the jail. She’d wondered if he was deliberately shutting out life and preparing himself to leave it. “That little Betsy Ellis is a quick one,” she said with a smile. “I’m proud of her reading, and she helps the younger ones learn their letters.”
“And the farm?”
“The sheep are all sheared. Goodman Carver took the wool to the mill for me. And the garden is coming along splendidly. The corn is up to my waist!”
“It sounds as though you’re faring well, Lucy. I’m glad.”
“You made good provision.” They were silent for a long minute, and she wondered if Jack had thought about her at all as he planted the garden and cut next winter’s firewood. Or was it all done just because those were the things a farmer did? Everything seemed well planned. Of course, he’d done things for his mother for years, but there were things that seemed to go beyond that.
His vegetable crop would be far larger than one person would need, for instance. Of course, he might have thought to trade some of his produce. Then there were the bunches of dried herbs that hung from the beams in the great room. He’d harvested them last fall, she was certain, and this spring he’d tended the kitchen garden and the wide selection of herbs his mother had used. Had he kept up the herb bed hoping another woman would use it one day?
“Remember, if you ever need hard money, you’ve only to retrieve it,” he said softly.
She glanced down the hallway to be sure no one was within earshot. “I remember where you told me to look.”
Jack hung his head. “Lucy, I’m sorry I’ve put you in this position.”
“What?”
“I never expected you to have to wait so long to be rid of me.”
“Stop it!”
“You’re working too hard, trying to do everything. The chores, the school, your weaving. You don’t have to keep up the farm.”
“Our farm.”
Exasperation sparked in his eyes. “Your farm.”
“Maybe someday, but for now it is ours, and I’ll not abandon it or sell it, so hush.”
“The work is too hard for you.”
“I’ll get someone to help with haying and harvesting the wheat field. Don’t worry about that.”
He sighed. “I don’t want you to wear yourself out trying to keep things going for my sake.”
“What do you want me to do, Jack?”
She thought she saw the ghost of a smile on his lips.
“Would you have me close the school?”
“Nay.” He shuffled his feet. “Do exactly as you wish, Lucy. I mean it. Now and … after. Just … take care of yourself.”
She squeezed her eyelids shut for a moment, determined not to cry. They’d had a month’s grace. Now Jack was falling back into despair and hopelessness. For a minute, she had routed his gloom, but it sat heavy on him once more. She feared his thoughts were even blacker when he was alone in the cell.
“Listen, Goodman Hunter, you stop feeling sorry for yourself.”
He cocked his head toward his shoulder. “How should I feel, then?”
Lucy pulled in a breath. “I can only tell you how I feel.”
“Which is?”
“Terrified, and … blessed.”
“Both?”
“Aye. I keep thinking God should take away my fear. But it’s always there. Still, I’m grateful. To Him … to you. Thank you, Jack.”
She heard Stoddard unlock the door to the passageway. Jack gazed at her with mournful gray eyes.
“Good day, husband,” she whispered.
The next day, Lucy had just started out for the jail when Gideon Rutledge came running toward her from the village.
“What is it?” she called as he approached.
“Father says you aren’t to come to the jail.” The boy stopped a few feet away and bent over with his hands on his knees, panting.
“Whyever not?” She bristled at the idea that Ezekiel Rutledge was interfering in her life once more.
“The magistrate is come.”
Her anger gave way to a sick apprehension. “Be they holding court today, then?”
“Aye. Father says it is likely they’ll hear Goodman Hunter’s case later.”
“But … the barrister.” She stared at the boy. “Did your father say anything about my husband’s attorney?”
“I don’t know, ma’am. But he said you’re to stay away, at Goodman Hunter’s order.”
Lucy opened her mouth, then closed it. What would be the good of defying Jack now? If she appeared, her presence would only distress him. Yes, and humiliate him, since the entire town would know she had come against his express wishes.
She stood facing Gideon Rutledge in the lane, weighing her course of action. “Will you take a message to my husband for me?”
His eyes widened. “I be not permitted to speak to the felons, ma’am.”
“All right, then, your father. Will you deliver a message to Constable Rutledge for me?”
“Aye.”
She nodded. “Tell him, please, that I wish my husband to know I am at home praying for him.”
Lucy sat in the ladder-back chair, unable to stop picturing Jack’s handsome face wreathed in sorrow. She wrenched out fractured prayers as she stared into the fire. Suddenly a hand touched her shoulder, and she jumped, whirling to see her mother.
“Ah, Marm, you startled me.”
Alice set her basket on the kitchen table and sat on one of the stools. “I’m sorry, daughter. I thought perchance you could use some company.”
Lucy nodded. “Thank you.”
“Have you eaten anything?”
Lucy brushed her hair back from her forehead. “Not since breakfast. I was going to eat dinner after … after I took Jack some blackberry pudding.”
“Well then, we shall partake together.” Her mother lifted a small covered crock and a pottery bowl from the basket, then took out a linen towel and folded it back to reveal fresh corn pone. “It’s not fancy, but good, hearty food. Stew and such.”
“Thank you, but …” Lucy turned away with a tremulous sigh.
“It could take days, you know,” Alice said.
“Do you think so?”
Alice waved one hand through the air in dismissal. “You know how men are.”
“Do I?”
“Goody Walter says they’ve sent to Falmouth for your husband’s lawyer, and the magistrate is hearing other cases today.”
“What if the lawyer doesn’t come?”
Alice hesitated only a moment. “We shall see. Sit up here and eat with me.”
Lucy fetched pewter plates and forks for both of them, and a dish of butter. After her mother offered a prayer of thanks for the food and a brief supplication for Jack, they began to eat.
Alice attacked her meal eagerly. “Ah, that’s good stew. I was out all night, sitting up with Granny Sewall, and I was afraid my kettle would go dry, but not so.”
Lucy made herself take a bite of the cornbread. It crumbled in her mouth, flavorless. “How is Goody Sewall?”
“She’ll recover. Let’s have some of that maple sweetening of yours.”
Lucy jumped up, grateful for the excuse to escape her mother’s eye for a moment.
“Goody Walter says the magistrate took a room at the tavern and paid for three nights,” Alice said.
“Three?”
“But you know how things get exaggerated. Likely she got it wrong.”
“Yes.” Lucy sat again, setting the jug on the table. Staying at home and trying to analyze the meager scraps of information that came her way was maddening. If only Jack had not forbidden her to attend court.
Alice sighed. “That’s not the maple syrup, child. That’s treacle.”
“Oh.” Lucy hopped up again.
“Never mind,” said Alice, but Lucy went to the larder again and came back with the small jug that held the syrup.
“I’d tell you not to fret, girl, but I know my breath would be wasted.”
“He is my husband. You wish me to be indifferent?” Lucy looked at her plate.
“Pining for him will change nothing.”
Lucy felt an unwelcome flush in her cheeks. “I’m not pining. I know what to expect.”
Alice nodded. “Perhaps we’ll hear something this evening.”
But there was no word that evening. Alice stayed the night, and Lucy lay awake beside her on the rope bed, staring into the darkness while her mother and Sir Walter snored.
The morning dragged after the chores were done. By noon Lucy was beside herself, pacing the front room from the door to the fireplace to the east window and back to the door.
“Put your hands to something, child,” her mother said. Alice had made better use of the morning, pounding a sack full of dried corn in Lucy’s samp mortar, then sifting the meal and storing it away in a big crock.
Lucy sighed and wrung her hands. “I suppose I should be about the garden.”
“Yes,” said Alice. “Your turnip patch is full of weeds. Bring me some beans to snip, and pick a few beet greens for supper.”
The sound of steps on the path caught Lucy’s ear, and she rushed to the door. She saw Goodman Bemis walking toward the house.
“What news, sir?” Lucy called.
He swept off his hat. “I was told I could find Goody Hamblin here.”
Lucy sagged against the lintel. “Mother, you are needed.”
Alice bustled toward them. “Is it the wee one?”
“Aye. He’s feverish again. Can you come?”
“Of course.” Alice untied her apron. “Have you heard anything about my son-in-law’s case?”
Bemis glanced toward Lucy. “No, ma’am. But I hear they fined Solomon Whittier for letting his dog savage his neighbor’s chickens.”
At dusk Lucy was still alone. No one had brought her news or comfort. She fed the livestock and laid in wood and water for the night, then called the dog to her and barred the door.
She sat for a long time in the chair by the hearth, staring at the flames and trying to form a coherent prayer. At last she moaned and buried her face in her hands.
“Heavenly Father … it cannot end like this. Please let them acquit my husband.” She choked on a sob. “I didn’t even get to tell him a proper good-bye, Lord. I never told him … I love him.”
Sir Walter leaped up from the floor and barked toward the door, his ears pricked and his legs stiff.
Lucy stood and listened. She heard the creak of a cart and the slow tread of oxen coming up the path.
She ran to the door, and the dog went with her, renewing his barking when she lifted the bar and flung open the door. Darkness had fallen, but the moon was near full, and she recognized the bulky forms approaching. Captain Murray walked slowly beside Jack’s oxen, and his farm cart creaked behind them.
Lucy’s heart surged with relief. Murray wouldn’t come all this way for nothing, and knowing the worst would be better than this agonizing ignorance.
“What news?” she called, lifting her skirt and running down the path toward him.
“Whoa,” Murray boomed. Snip and Bright stopped in their tracks, snuffling and twitching their tails. “Goody Hunter, I’ve brought your husband home.”
Chapter 11
So it was over. Lucy’s knees buckled and the breath whooshed out of her lungs. She reached toward the captain but grasped only a handful of the air between them. She swayed, and he caught her in his brawny arms.
“Please, sir,” she gasped, “let me down.”
He stood there uncertainly, measuring her with anxious eyes in the moonlight. “Forgive me, ma’am. I didn’t mean to shock you.”
He set her on her feet, and she grasped his arm while regaining her balance.
“Tell me where you want him, and I’ll carry him in.”
“I didn’t realize they would … send him home after.” She looked apprehensively toward the cart, wondering if her mother and Sarah Ellis would come to help her lay out her husband’s body.
After a moment’s silence, Murray seized her by the shoulders. “Dear Goody Hunter! Pardon my clumsiness. You didn’t think—dear woman, your husband yet lives.”
She stared up at him, stunned. Her mouth se
emed to have ceased working. “Jack … is alive?”
“Yes, yes! Oh, how could I have been so careless? I’ve shocked you awfully, haven’t I? Please, ma’am, accept my apology. Your husband will require some nursing, but there’s no call for the undertaker.”
Lucy stared at the oxcart. “How can this be? They … didn’t finish the job?”
Murray shook his shaggy head like a gruff but gentle bear. “They didn’t hang him, ma’am. The magistrate said the evidence was not sufficient to convict a man. They let him go two hours past.”
“Two hours? I don’t understand.” Why had she not heard? And where had Jack been in those two hours?
“Let me bring him inside, and I’ll tell you what I know.”
“Of course.”
He walked to the side of the wagon, and she followed. Murray stooped, then rose with a lank form cradled in his arms. Lucy heard a low moan, and the sound brought the reality home to her. Jack was not dead! And she, his wife, must care for him. Joy and anxiety assailed her.
“This way, Captain. Put him in his bed, in the back chamber. I’ll go turn the coverlet back.”
She raced into the house and grabbed a candlestick, then dashed to the bedroom. The captain followed close behind her.
When she had set down the candle and drawn back the bedclothes, she turned to help him. She gasped at what she saw.
The skin around Jack’s eyes was blackened and swollen, and below them were bloody lacerations. One arm hung limp as the captain lowered him to the featherbed. Murray straightened Jack’s legs, and he groaned again.
“Tell me,” she commanded, looking up at the big man. “Who did this? Surely not the jailer.”
“No.” Murray wiped a hand across his brow. “There was a lot of shouting and drinking after court was done. I asked Jack if he’d be all right getting home. He said yes, so I left him. An hour later, I passed the tavern, and …” The captain stroked his beard and paused.
“What, sir? You must tell me all.”
“I saw a form lying in the alley between the tavern and the wheelwright’s shop. I thought it was a drunkard, but when I went to see who it was … well, it was Jack.”
