The New England: ROMANCE Collection
Page 10
The next morning, she moved the pallet to the outer room and left the house for short periods to tend to the garden but kept checking on Jack every few minutes. At noon she stopped working and ate a light meal, then carried her flax wheel into the bedchamber and spun an impressive pile of flax fibers into thread.
Her mother stopped in before sunset, on her way home from overseeing the prolonged labor and difficult birth at the Woodbury house.
“There’s no change in Jack’s condition,” Lucy said. “Isn’t there something more I can do for him?”
Alice examined the patient. “You’re doing fine. Just keep on as you have, child. I can stay if you like.”
“Nay,” Lucy said. “You need a good rest. Go on home, Marm.”
Again that night she slept on the floor near the bed, but she lay awake a long time, praying silently and listening to Jack’s even breathing and Sir Walter’s sighs and snuffles.
She woke to the sound of Tryphenia’s lowing and heard a man’s voice in the barnyard. Lowering the shutter, she saw one of the captain’s men leading the cow to the pasture gate.
Lucy reached for her stays. She must dress quickly, for the man would soon bring her the pail of morning milk. She laced them on over her shift, then seized her pockets, tied them about her waist, and grabbed her bodice. Her gaze lit on Jack, and she gasped, then clutched the bodice to her chest.
He was awake.
She took a faltering step toward him, then held back, glancing at her skirt that still hung on the peg by the door.
Jack started to raise his hand, then moaned and looked down at his splinted and swathed arm. “What …” His gaze met hers once more, and he whispered, “Am I really home?”
Lucy laughed with joy. “Yes! Let me get you some water. Your throat must be parched.”
She started toward the stool that held the basin and water pitcher, then halted once more and looked at the bodice in her hands. She felt her face go scarlet.
“Please excuse me for just an instant.” Snatching up her skirt, she ran with the garments into the kitchen. Lord, don’t let him lose consciousness while I make myself decent. She glanced toward the front door, hoping the militiaman would not choose this moment to bring her the milk.
At last she was covered by both bodice and skirt. Her hair was uncombed, her feet were bare, but she didn’t delay another moment. She raced back to the bedroom doorway and stood panting as she eyed her husband.
He lay watching her, and his lips seemed to hold a hint of amusement.
Lucy stepped forward. “I’m pleased to see you awake. May I bring you something to eat?”
“Water first,” Jack said, his voice gravelly.
“Aye.” She scurried to the bedside and poured water into a tin cup, then offered it to him. Jack struggled to elevate his head. “Let me help you.” She hastened around to the other side of the bed, where she could get her arm under his head and lift him.
Jack drank the entire cup of water, then lay back. “What’s wrong with my arm?” he asked.
“You broke it.”
“How did I manage that?”
She opened her mouth, at a loss for an explanation. “I should have said it was done for you. Rather thoroughly.”
He barked a short laugh, then winced and gritted his teeth. “I don’t seem to remember yesterday. Was I flogged?”
“Nay, Jack.” Lucy bit her lip and carefully removed her arm from beneath his head. Being so close to him hadn’t agitated her while he was unconscious, but now that he was awake, she found it disconcerting in the extreme. She stood back a pace and looked down at him. “It wasn’t yesterday, though. This be the third day since Captain Murray brought you here.”
“Aye?” He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. “I don’t think they hung me. My neck is the only thing that doesn’t hurt.”
She stifled a laugh, but it came out as a low sob. “Nay, it wasn’t done at the jail. The captain said some wicked men caught you and … and beat you afterward.” She swallowed hard, wondering if she’d just added to his misery by recounting what he might perceive as a humiliation. “Anyway, he brought you here, and … and Mother said you would live, so I’ve been keeping care of you.”
He stared at her with solemn gray eyes, then lowered his eyelids. “Thank you.”
Lucy waited, fearful that his eyes would stay closed. Should she rouse him? He needed nourishment if he was to regain his strength. She cleared her throat, and his eyes opened. He looked at her from beneath the thick lashes.
“Do you have much pain?” she asked.
He ran his tongue over his lips. “Aye.”
“Where? I mean, what’s the worst?”
“My … stomach, and my arm.”
“Could you take some broth?”
“Perhaps.”
She nodded. “I’ll fetch it and some comfrey tea.”
As she hurried to the kitchen, a knock came at the door. She opened it to find Murray’s man there, holding a bucket more than half full of warm milk.
“Here you go, ma’am, and I’ve four eggs in my pockets.”
“Bless you,” Lucy said. “Would you like some of the milk? It’s too much for me to use today.”
“I expect we could use a drop.”
She poured half of it into a jug for him, wondering how she could get word to her mother and Captain Murray. “Will you see the captain?”
“I doubt it. He were going out to fish the morn.”
“That’s all right, then. Thank you very kindly.”
He put his hand to his brow in salute. “I’ll send the jug back to ye.”
When her husband regained consciousness, Lucy began sleeping in the kitchen once more. Two days later she told Samuel Ellis and the militiaman who came to do chores that day that they need not continue.
Jack still slept most of each day, but his periods of wakefulness grew longer, and he advanced from broth and medicinal teas to gruel, then solid food.
Lucy rejoiced inwardly as he grew stronger. She saw his embarrassment at having her tend to his most intimate needs, but she persevered, trying to accomplish the more distasteful tasks, such as removing the chamber pot, while he slept. They managed to go on in this way, avoiding direct mention of the menial chores she performed.
By the fourth day, Jack was well enough to sit up and debate with her the wisdom of hiring someone to harvest the flax field and lay the plants to dry.
“I can do it,” Lucy insisted.
“It’s too heavy labor for you.”
“I’ve done worse.”
“I won’t have my wife pulling flax.”
In the end she hired Richard Trent to do it, a solution that irritated Jack.
“He’s close by, and he’s willing,” Lucy said.
“I don’t want you to deal with him.”
“I’m already weaving him a length of linen. He said if I’ll double it, he’ll pull my flax and clean it.”
“Don’t do more for him. Let him do the flax for the cloth you first said you’d weave him. Take his work instead of the firewood he promised.”
Lucy grudgingly agreed to revise the bargain the next time she saw Goodman Trent.
“Do you be weaving his cloth on my mother’s little loom?” Jack asked.
“Nay. I went a few times to my mother’s house to start it on the large loom, but I haven’t been back there in a week.”
Jack frowned.
He’s angry with me, Lucy thought. She wished she hadn’t implied that his injuries kept her from her routine. Being married was going to be different from being unwed—she could see that. She could no longer make decisions or take on barters without consulting her husband.
Her prayers became convoluted. Instead of simple pleas for Jack’s life and health, she begged for wisdom and discretion, but it came down to one thing in the end. Lord, teach me to be a good wife. She knew it would be the hardest lesson she had ever set herself to learn.
Chapter 13
He pulled in a deep breath and braced himself, then pushed his body upward and swung his legs over the side of the bed. An involuntary groan escaped him, and he clutched his side with his good arm. The pain was so intense he thought he might retch. His arm ached, his ribs throbbed, and the searing in his belly was agony. He was shaking, and beads of sweat dripped from his brow.
He pushed harder on his side, and that seemed to help a bit. His breeches … where were they? He looked about the room but couldn’t spot them. They must be in the clothespress. It was at least two steps from the end of the bed. He bit his lip and measured the distance in his mind. Lucy wouldn’t like it—that was certain—but it was time he stopped being a burden to her.
He gathered what strength he could muster and pushed himself up off the bed. Immediately his knees buckled, and he fell back with a stifled cry, landing half on and half off the bed.
“And just what are you doing?” Lucy’s eyes snapped in anger as she surveyed him from the doorway.
Jack groaned and covered his eyes with his good arm.
“Ah, Jack.” She hurried to him and grasped his shoulder. “Come on, now. Back in bed.”
“It’s time for me to be up and about.”
“Oh, yes, surely.” She scowled at him. “Maybe in a fortnight.”
He set his teeth and let her help him ease back up toward the pillow, then lay gasping, staring up at the ceiling.
To his surprise, Lucy sat on the edge of the bed. He continued to stare upward.
“Healing takes time. I know this is difficult for you, but let me do what I must, and don’t make things harder. If you overdo now, you’ll have a setback, and then I shall be longer getting you well.”
He nodded.
“Jack.”
It was a whisper as soft as lamb’s wool, and he couldn’t help looking at her. She was so beautiful! She oughtn’t to be worked like a servant. She squeezed up her face for an instant, and he was afraid she would cry, but instead she reached for the pitcher and cup.
“Drink this.” After he complied, she said, “I’ll have your supper soon.” She rose, straightened the coverlet, and turned away.
“Wait,” he said.
She looked back, and Jack hesitated.
“I recollect the court now.”
“Do you?”
He nodded. “Lucy, they didn’t acquit me.”
“So the captain told me. The magistrate said the evidence was insufficient to try you on.”
“But they could arrest me again. Did he tell you that?”
Fear leaped into her eyes. “Nay, but … if there’s not enough evidence …”
“We can’t count on anything,” he said. “I wasn’t tried for the crime, but many still suspect me.”
She came a step nearer. “What does this mean, Jack?”
“I don’t know.”
The sheen in her eyes told him tears were near.
“We keep on, I guess, and hope the sentiments in town die down.” Even to him it sounded inadequate. What if some other bit of trumped-up evidence surfaced? Would he have to go through the accusations and abuse again?
Lucy licked her lips and wadded her apron between her hands. “Jack, there’s something else. I didn’t want to worry you, but …”
“What?” Her hesitance and unsteady voice alarmed him.
“It may be nothing, but … well, sometimes I think someone’s been about the barn.”
“Is anything missing?” he asked, thinking of the way his ax had been taken and used.
“Nothing except a few eggs and a little milk. And one day last week the beans were stripped and the turnips thinned, but I didn’t do it, and I certainly didn’t eat the vegetables.” She shrugged. “This evening, as I was milking … I felt as though I was being watched.”
Jack frowned. It was probably nothing. Normal edginess for a woman who has been forced to rely on herself. But he had approved her dismissal of the men who had come to do the farm chores. He was glad they’d helped and shown their support, but he didn’t want it to go on to the point of the Hunters being beholden to others.
“Keep the dog with you when you go outside,” he said.
“I shall.”
Jack’s mind raced as she left to start supper. It was his place to protect his wife and to perform the heavy work about the farm, not lie here weak and helpless.
The dog came and laid his chin on the edge of the bed, staring up at Jack with huge brown eyes. Even that mongrel dog was a help to Lucy. But her husband was useless—no, worse than that. He was a hindrance and the cause of extra work for her. Did she regret the marriage? It crossed his mind that an honorable man would offer to let her put the marriage aside and return to her mother’s home if she wished, but that was the last thing he wanted.
Sir Walter whined, and Jack scowled at him.
“Go away.”
The next Sunday, Lucy rose early to do her chores and fix breakfast. Jack had insisted the evening before that she go to church. The fact that he wasn’t able to attend didn’t mean she should neglect public worship. She looked forward to mingling with the other parishioners, but at the same time was nervous as to what their attitudes would be. Before Jack’s release, many of the church members had offered their pity to the soon-to-be widow. But would they accept her as the wife of Jack Hunter, accused but walking free?
She put cornmeal, salt, and water to simmer over the fire and headed for the barn with her milk pail. She was nearly there when she saw that the barn door was open several inches.
“Sir Walter,” she called.
The dog trotted out of the sheep pen.
Lucy stroked his broad forehead. “Good dog.”
She stepped toward the barn door and pushed it open. “Go in,” she told Sir Walter. He looked up at her, then scrambled through the doorway. She stepped in cautiously and watched him sniff about. He snuffled a pile of straw, then crossed to the calf’s stall and exchanged stares with Tryphenia’s young one. The calf bawled, and Sir Walter moved on to sniff the oxen’s empty stalls, then stopped before the cow’s tie-up and yipped. Tryphenia turned a large eye toward the dog and mooed. Sir Walter pranced back toward Lucy.
“If anything was wrong, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?”
Just to be sure, she latched the door and shook it. The latch stayed in place; it wasn’t likely the wind had blown the door open.
She shook her head and went about feeding the animals. After milking Tryphenia, she led her to the pasture, then took the calf out and released the sheep from their small pen into the larger fenced field.
At last she was able to gather the eggs. She found only one. She took it and her milk into the kitchen.
When she was ready to leave for church, she peeked into the bedroom. Jack lay drowsing against his pillow but opened his eyes and smiled when he saw her.
“Good,” she said. “You finished your breakfast.” She picked up his empty dishes, knowing he was watching her and feeling inordinately pleased.
“You’re going with the Ellises?” he asked.
“Yes, they said they would stop for me. I’ll be going out to the lane to see if they’re coming now.”
He smiled. “You look fine.”
Disconcerted, she shrugged. “I look as I always do on the Lord’s Day.” She felt her cheeks redden under his scrutiny.
“I hope …” He frowned and adjusted the sling that kept his fractured arm immobile.
“What?” she asked.
“I hope folks won’t turn against you because you married me.”
“No one has been unkind. In fact, several families have helpe
d me and inquired about your health.”
“I’m glad. Lucy, I …” She waited, but he just smiled and waved his hand. “You should go. Don’t keep the Ellises waiting.”
The next week flew by as Lucy settled into her new activities. She soon found that she could no longer keep Jack confined to bed. Ten days after the captain hauled him home in the oxcart, Jack limped to the outhouse while leaning on her shoulder. After that, he insisted on dressing every morning and joining her in the kitchen for meals. Before long he was shelling peas for her and casting bullets, though he still could not lift more than a trifle or perform strenuous work.
“I believe I shall be able to milk the cow soon,” he said one morning. He sat on a stool in the kitchen while she clipped his hair.
“Perhaps,” Lucy said. She tried to maintain a balance between encouragement and restraint. So far his wounds were healing well, but his tendency to attempt harder labor each day concerned her. “We don’t want you doing much with that arm until the bones have knit.”
His ribs worried her, too. She saw him grimace when he shifted his weight, and he became short of breath whenever he expended any effort.
Jack put his good hand up to feel how short she was trimming his unruly locks. “I’ve gotten rather shaggy, haven’t I?”
She chuckled. “I didn’t want to say so, but I hardly recognized my husband.” She ran her hand through his hair, holding out the strands she would cut next. Jack sat very still, and suddenly the intimacy of the moment struck her. She finished the job as quickly as she could, not looking into his eyes as she worked around the front, where the hair wanted to fall over his eyebrows.
“Perhaps you should take up barbering,” he said.
“Nay, I don’t think I would like that.”
“Oh? I was hoping you would, and I’d have you trim my beard, as well.”
“Surely you can do that better than I.” She put the handles of the scissors in his hand.
“Don’t you think you’d be ashamed to have anyone see me after I trimmed my own beard left-handed?”
She hesitated, then took the scissors back. “I’ve never done this before, you know. Perhaps I shall do a worse job than you would with either hand.”