The New England: ROMANCE Collection

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

  “Richard does wear a blue jacket,” she mused. “You’re thinking he might have returned to the family farm before his father’s death?”

  Jack ran a hand through his hair. “Richard could have come back here without anyone in the village seeing him. If he had a fight with his father—say, over the property—killed him, and went away again …”

  “And then, after the constables notified him of Barnabas’s death, he resurfaced to claim the estate.” Lucy nodded. “It’s possible. I’m not saying I believe it.”

  “Not yet,” Jack agreed. “It’s only a theory, but I intend to put it to the test.”

  “How?”

  “Have you finished weaving Trent’s linen?”

  “Nearly. I could be done with it tomorrow if I get to my mother’s early.”

  “That’s fine.” Jack frowned. “Though it occurs to me you need a large loom here so you don’t have to leave home to ply your trade.”

  “Mother says I can bring it here if I wish. She spins some, but she has no time to weave.”

  “Do you want it here?”

  Lucy’s eyes shone with eagerness. “I’d like that very much. I could help you more if I could weave here. It’s a fine old loom, Jack, and more folks ask for my linen than I can supply. I enjoy making it, and if I didn’t have to leave home to do so, I could accomplish so much more.”

  He smiled. “Then you shall have it. Now that I have the oxen back, there’s no reason I can’t haul the loom over here.”

  She clasped her hands together. “Where shall we put it?”

  He hesitated. “In the loft?” Would there be room enough under the eaves for his pallet with the bulky loom up there?

  “I suppose so,” Lucy said. “It would take up too much floor space elsewhere.”

  “Fine.” He would worry about where he would sleep later. Seeing her pleasure was worth being a bit crowded. “I’ll move it as soon as I can. But finish Trent’s order first.”

  “And then what?”

  “Then Simon and I shall deliver his cloth.”

  When Jack came knocking at the door of Richard Trent’s cottage, the young man stood back in surprise. “Goodman Hunter. How may I help you?”

  Jack held up the bundle of cloth. “My wife is finished with your linen, sir. I believe this squares us.”

  Trent took the material with a nod. “Thank you. I’m sadly in need of new clothing. My father’s few garments were threadbare. I don’t suppose your wife sews for people?”

  “No, she doesn’t.” Jack tried not to let his ire at the thought of Lucy stitching for this man show on his face.

  “Good day, then.” Trent started to close the door, and Jack realized that Simon, who had hung back behind him, might not have had a good look at the man yet.

  “Oh, I say!” He reached out, and Trent paused, then opened the door wide again. “I hear you’re keeping the property and taking up a farmer’s life.” Jack moved down off the doorstep, and Trent came forward into the doorway, just as he’d hoped. Jack glanced toward Simon and said, “By the way, this be my hired boy.”

  Trent nodded in Simon’s direction without showing interest in the boy. “Yes, I’ve decided I’ve had enough sailing.”

  “Your father left you the farm, then.”

  “Oh, yes. I am his only heir. My sisters and brother were killed in the Indian raid of ‘98, and my mother, as well.”

  Jack frowned in sympathy. “I’ve heard tell about that year, but it was before my family moved here.”

  “My father took me with him that day into the village. We were one of the outlying farms then, and folks told him it was dangerous to live so far from the fort.”

  “Someone has to make a beginning, or this wild country would never be settled.”

  “Exactly,” said Trent. “But after my mother died, Father wasn’t the same man. He’d got this land for back taxes and hoped to build it up into a grand place, but …” He shook his head.

  Jack eyed Richard with speculation. He recalled the many times his father had groused about his boundary disputes with the Trents, but Jack had never bothered to learn the details. Hesitantly he said, “There was bad blood between your father and mine.”

  “It’s too bad they could never agree. My father had planned to buy the adjoining land. But while he was grieving my mother’s death, Isaac Hunter bought the land he’d been wanting, and he couldn’t expand the farm.”

  “So that was what caused the rift,” Jack said.

  “Aye, that and general bitterness on my father’s part.” Richard gave him a rueful smile. “It didn’t help that all the men in town ragged him for losing out to a ne’er-do-well. No offense to you, Jack.”

  Jack smiled. “We’ve both had our family problems, eh?” He looked around the yard and noticed that the bushes had been trimmed back and the roof mended with new shingles that stood out bright against the weathered ones.

  “My father never forgave yours. Made his life difficult whenever he had the chance.”

  “I’m guessing he didn’t make your life easy, either.”

  Trent’s face darkened. “It’s no secret Father and I didn’t get along.” He sighed. “Ten years I stayed away. Perhaps I should have come back; I don’t know.”

  “You never made up your differences, then?”

  “Nay, we were both stubborn.”

  Jack wondered if Richard was telling him the truth. He glanced at Simon, but the boy had wandered away a few steps and was watching a chipmunk scurry over the stone wall that bordered Trent’s pasture.

  “Funny, I thought my father hated yours because the old man got this land ahead of him,” Jack said.

  Richard came down the steps into the sunlight. “It were the other way around. My father was one of the first settlers. He was here a good many years afore you folk came.”

  Jack scratched his cheek. “I guess that’s right, now that I think on it. Then it wasn’t my father who defaulted on the taxes here.”

  Trent laughed and took a clay pipe from his pocket. “Nay, it was another fellow. But I doubt your father paid his taxes promptly, either.”

  “True enough. His creditors had him confined for debt more than once.”

  “Yes, and I recall my father had yours taken up for slander once, too.” He pulled out a tobacco pouch and began to fill his pipe.

  “Aye, he spent a day in the stocks for it,” Jack said.

  “That must have been hard for your mother. I was sorry to hear she passed on. She was a good woman.”

  “Thank you.” Jack extended his hand to Trent with mixed feelings. “Well then, we’re neighbors once again, Richard. And I haven’t welcomed you back properly.”

  Trent took his hand. “Thank you. I know what they’re saying about you, Jack, but I don’t believe it.”

  Jack looked into Richard’s eyes, searching for a hint of shiftiness but not finding it. Still, the man had been abroad ten years and could have learned to lie smoothly in order to protect himself. “Good day,” Jack said.

  He called to Simon, and the two headed down the path. As soon as they were out of sight of the cottage, Jack looked closely at the boy. “Well, was that the man who took my ax?”

  “Oh, no, sir. Not him. He’s too young.”

  “You said it wasn’t an old man.”

  “Well …” Simon cocked his head. “Not all gray-haired like the one you say was him’s father. But older than he, I’m sure, and not so leggy.”

  “All right. That’s helpful.”

  “I’m glad it wasn’t Trent’s son,” Lucy said when Jack told her what had transpired.

  “So am I,” Jack admitted, “but I’d hoped we could find out the truth and be done with this.” He sank onto a stool by the kitchen table.

  Lucy walked over to him and gently touched his shoulder. “This is wearing on you.”

  “Aye.” Jack looked up at her, his eyes sparking. “And if Richard Trent asks you to sew for him, don’t you do it!”

  She
stepped back, puzzled at his sudden animation. “Of course not. I’ve enough to do as it is.”

  “Good. Because if my wife makes breeches for any man, it should be me.”

  “Of course, Jack.”

  He turned back to the table, sinking his face into his hands. “Oh, Lucy, I’m so tired of this.”

  It tore her heart to see him in such low spirits. “Mayhap we should tell the constables Simon saw the ax taken.”

  “I don’t trust Rutledge or Dole. They’d think I told the boy to say it in order to help my own cause.”

  Lucy sat on the stool opposite him.

  Jack raised his head and gave her a melancholy smile. “We’ll get on, wife.”

  “We must keep praying about this. I’m sure God will set things right in time.”

  Jack’s gaze flew to the chest against the wall, where the Bible lay, then looked back at her. “I’ve been praying, but I’ve not been reading the scriptures as I ought.”

  “You can change that.”

  “Aye.” He rubbed his right arm as he spoke, and Lucy got up to put some willow bark to steep. Her husband was growing strong again, but she knew that pain was never far from him.

  “Perhaps …” Jack stopped.

  She waited for a moment, then asked, “Perhaps what?”

  “I thought we might read together. I always planned, if I had a family, to have devotion and family prayer.”

  Hope welled inside her. Such a course could only draw them closer. “I think that would be wonderful.”

  “I used to read Mother’s Bible a lot, before …”

  “I should have brought it to you at the jail.”

  “Nay. I asked Stoddard once, and he said they wouldn’t let me have it. They allow the debtors books and all sorts of comfort, but not the felons.”

  “I read it sometimes, in the evening,” she confided, pouring the tea into Jack’s cup.

  “Then we’ll hold family worship after supper,” he said.

  A sudden thought came to Lucy. “Simon should hear the scripture, too.”

  “Yes, he should. I think the lad fears God the way he fears his father.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  Jack stretched his long legs out before him. “Simon is afraid to go home. He’s certain his father will thrash him for running away and beat him even worse for not being there to help with the farm work this summer.”

  “And you feel his fear is justified?”

  “He thinks his father is harder on him than on the younger children. Maybe it’s true. He begged me not to tell his family he’s here.”

  “Well then, we won’t.”

  Lucy went about her work singing that afternoon. She could scarcely wait for supper to be over. When at last the three of them sat by the hearth and Jack took the Bible on his lap to read, her heart rejoiced.

  He offered prayer and then read from Genesis, beginning with the Creation story. Simon paid close attention, and Lucy settled back in her chair. Jack had insisted she sit in the best one—his mother’s ladder-back chair—and she reveled in comfort and contentment beyond any she’d ever felt.

  When Jack reached the point where God created Eve for Adam, she felt her cheeks flush and studiously avoided looking at him.

  “ ‘Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother, and shall cleave unto his wife,’ ” Jack read.

  He paused, and Lucy wondered if he was too embarrassed to go on. She knew the chapter ended, “And they shall be one flesh. And they were both naked, the man and his wife, and were not ashamed.” He hadn’t even read the words yet, but she felt blood suffuse her face, and she knew her cheeks were scarlet.

  “ ‘Tis the best reason for a man to leave home,” Jack said.

  Simon looked up at him, his eyes troubled. “I left home, but not to marry.”

  “Aye,” said Jack. “You be a bit young to think of taking a wife. But maybe you should think of sticking with your folks a mite longer.”

  Simon drew up his knees and wrapped his arms around them, resting his chin on them. “I miss Mam and Father.”

  “Are they so very cruel?” Jack asked.

  Simon pressed his lips tight together. “Likely I’d be whipped, but …”

  “I’m sure they miss you,” Lucy said. “And what about those little brothers and sisters of yours?”

  Simon blinked, then hid his face in his arms.

  “Perhaps we’ve read enough for tonight,” said Jack, glancing at the book in his lap.

  Lucy stood. “Off to bed with you, Simon. I shall pray that God will soften your father’s heart.”

  The boy stared up at her. “Would He do that?”

  “I think He would, especially if you repent of your disobedience.”

  Simon took a candle and headed for the door.

  “Douse the flame outside the barn,” Jack reminded him.

  “Aye. Good night, sir. Ma’am.”

  “Good night, Simon.” Lucy smiled at him.

  “Well,” Jack said when the door was closed, “I expect we should turn in. The days grow shorter now.”

  Lucy nodded. “I must bank the fire.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  She stepped aside to let him. When Jack had spread ashes over the hot coals, he stood and eyed her. Lucy wondered what he was thinking.

  At last he said softly, “It comes to my mind that I’ve been remiss in our courtship, Goody Hunter.”

  Lucy pulled in a shaky breath. Her heart pounded and her lungs ached. “A married woman doesn’t expect to be courted.”

  “Nay, but she ought to have had that before the wedding.”

  “It’s hard for a man in jail to court a woman,” she whispered.

  “I’m not in jail now.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  Jack reached toward her face with his left hand. Lucy closed her eyes. When his fingers touched her cheek and glided down her chin, she felt a jolt of anticipation.

  “I believe I should court you properly,” he said.

  She gazed at him from under her lashes. How long had she waited for this moment? She wanted to throw herself into his arms, but that wouldn’t be ladylike, and he’d just said he wanted things done properly.

  “Perhaps tomorrow evening we can take a stroll together,” he said. “There’ll likely be a pretty moon to look at.”

  She swallowed hard, afraid that if he kept on she would soon be unable to breathe at all. “I should like that,” she squeaked out.

  He smiled and let his hand fall to his side.

  “But you and Simon will be haying all day if the weather is fine,” she protested. “You’ll need your rest.” At once she regretted having said it. Would he think she was trying to talk him out of paying attention to her?

  Jack grinned. “I’ll be sure not to tire myself too much so that my nurse will not object.”

  “In that case,” she said, “I shall look forward to it.” She turned toward the bedchamber with a pleasant fluttering in her stomach.

  Chapter 17

  You stay here and churn for Goody Hunter this afternoon,” Jack told Simon over dinner the next day. Simon scowled. “I thought to help with the haying again.”

  “Nay. The field needs to dry one more day. And my wife has more need of you than I this afternoon. She must make butter, and you are just the lad to help her.”

  Lucy opened her mouth to speak, but Jack threw her a glance that silenced her. “You’ve got that special weaving order to do,” he reminded her. “Set the boy up at the churn. He can do it.”

  Lucy nodded. Jack and Simon had gone to her mother’s with the oxcart that morning, brought the big loom back, and set it up in the loft. Jack knew her fingers were itching to begin warping it for the new job they’d discussed—linsey-woolsey for a new jacket and breeches for Simon. The boy was outgrowing the clothes he’d come in, and they were getting ragged. Lucy had patched the breeches and given him an old shirt of Jack’s, but he needed new clothes, there was no questio
n.

  When he went to the barn for his pitchfork, Jack looked toward the pasture. Clumps of evening primrose grew wild near the fence, and the sight of the bright yellow flowers made him smile. He wondered if Lucy had seen them. He paused only a moment, then hurried to pick a bunch. Feeling a bit silly, he carried them back to the house. When he opened the door, Simon was beating away with the churn dasher, up and down, up and down. His eyes widened as he spotted his master, but Jack put one finger to his lips, and Simon kept churning.

  Jack raised his eyebrows in question, and Simon jerked his head toward the ladder. When Jack looked up, he saw Lucy, her back to them, working at her loom above, near the window in the little loft.

  Sneaking forward, Jack laid the bouquet on the table and fetched a small jug. He dipped water into it from the bucket Lucy kept full near the hearth, then stood the flower stems in it.

  Simon watched him, laughing silently. Jack shrugged and smiled, then hurried out to the barn. Let the boy laugh. If it were up to Jack to raise him, he wanted to show Simon that a man wasn’t afraid to bring his wife a posy. Yes, and there were more things he wanted to do for Lucy, if she would let him. Tonight would perhaps clear the air on some things. He hoped he wouldn’t be too nervous to speak freely with her.

  He hurried to the hayfield that bordered the lane and began turning the swaths of hay with his long fork. He winced as he lifted a clump and flipped it. His arm was sound now, but he still felt a twinge of pain with each sideways movement. Well, Simon would help him put the hay up tomorrow. He’d wanted to save Lucy the drudgery of churning, and it wouldn’t hurt the boy the way it would Jack to plunge the dasher up and down.

  “Ho there, Hunter!”

  Jack turned toward the voice and saw Charles Dole approaching him. The constable left the lane and walked across the hayfield, stepping through the drying grasses.

  Jack lifted his hat and wiped his brow. What could Dole be wanting with him? Nothing good, he surmised. “Good day,” he said.

  Dole stopped a few feet from him, frowning. “I see you’re back at your work now.”