by Angela Hunt
Eleanor stared out the window, one hand on her bulging stomach. “Surely nothing but evil came out of the storm,” she said, her voice toneless and flat. “So much sorrow—”
“Where there is sorrow, one can find good,” John interrupted, forcing a smile as he rose from his stool. ‘Twouldn’t do to have Eleanor spreading melancholy among the women. “God kept his hand on us, for we did not lose a single soul aboard the Lion. One seaman broke his leg when a yard fell on him, but he will mend.”
As he spoke, he surveyed the deck from his small window. Washed by the storm, the air shimmered with brilliant sunlight under a canopy of clean blue sky. ‘Twas difficult to believe that an hour ago the same sky had threatened their lives . . .
From out of the companionway, Jocelyn and Thomas Colman walked together, her dark head inclined toward his in deep conversation. White smiled.
“They say the ways of God are hard to comprehend,” he said, turning back to Eleanor and Ananias. “Yonder walks your cousin with the minister. I have arranged that he should marry Jocelyn, but hesitated to force my will upon her. But look how God has brought them together . . .”
“Jocelyn—marry the minister?” A horrified expression of disapproval flitted across Eleanor’s face. “But he’s a common man, and a strange one—”
“Let me remind you, daughter, than you married a common bricklayer with more than one mark against him,” White interrupted. Ananias squirmed uncomfortably, but White did not pause. “Your bricklayer is now a gentleman, due to his participation in this venture, and the same can be said of Thomas Colman. So say nothing of this, Eleanor, ‘till all is come to pass. I have promised my departed brother to find a good husband for Jocelyn, and God has shown me how I must do it.”
‘Twas odd, Jocelyn noticed, but despite its terrors, the storm melded the ship’s passengers into a corporate body. Having experienced what they were sure was the worst nature could offer, the colonists thanked God for their survival, laughed at the memory of havoc in the lower decks, and fell into a gentle sort of camaraderie that pleased everyone but Simon Fernandes.
The general mood of relaxation especially pleased Jocelyn, for since the storm she had felt free to talk to Thomas Colman. He had sheltered and defended her, subjecting his own body to the battering of the storm in order to spare her own. How could she refuse to speak to him? The crystal brightness of the cleansed and clear sky seemed to signal a new day, one in which the old restrictions of class and convention were relaxed.
Audrey eased herself away from Jocelyn’s side and began to spend time with William Clement, the servant to Roger Bailie. Jocelyn didn’t mind the girl’s absence for it gave her more time to spend in private conversation with Thomas.
She was so preoccupied with her newfound friend that she did not notice or care when the winds stopped blowing altogether. Though the tempers of the seamen and her uncle grew shorter with each day the sails hung limply from the masts, she retreated with the minister to a quiet spot near the bow of the ship where Jocelyn concentrated on understanding the enigma known as Thomas Colman.
Although he seemed to enjoy her company and often sought her out, at first he was reticent, preferring to watch the sea or walk about the deck by her side. They discussed the writings of Marcus Aurelius, and Jocelyn was impressed that Thomas did not always agree with the famous Roman’s opinions. They also talked of the Indians, and Jocelyn was flattered when Thomas listened carefully to all she had learned from her uncle.
But in all their conversations, though she often mentioned her father and her life in London, Thomas Colman never unwrapped the details of his past or present life. Burning to understand more about him, Jocelyn determined that she would ask all she wanted to know.
One afternoon they stood near the bowsprit on the upper deck. ‘Twas a glorious day, warmly washed by brilliant sunlight and canopied by a clean blue sky. Like a swimmer about to dive into cold water, Jocelyn took a breath and asked Thomas about his childhood.
He did not rebuke her gentle questions, and in time she learned that Thomas was the son of a reasonably prosperous Lincolnshire farmer. He had attended a village school until the age of fifteen, then had been apprenticed to a merchant with shipping interests at King’s Lynn. His future had seemed assured until he ran away.
With this admission, Thomas fell silent and studied his hands. “What caused you to run away?” Jocelyn asked, wondering what thoughts lay behind his handsomely sculpted brow. “Mayhap your master was too severe?”
“You are young,” he said, changing the subject. “How old are you, Miss White?”
“Seventeen,” she answered, feeling herself blush. Though seventeen was a perfectly adult age, next to his maturity she felt as awkward as a five-year-old.
“I am nearly thirty,” he said, looking past her at the gently roiling waves. “I have lived a lifetime before this, and there is much in my life that I cannot tell you.”
“Is it so terrible?” she whispered, resisting the impulse to place her hand on his. “I am known, Reverend Colman, as a trustworthy and understanding confidante. My father told me everything, and my cousin Eleanor trusts my ability to maintain a confidence—”
“I do not doubt you, my—Miss White. There are things I have buried, with God’s help, and they must stay buried if I am to serve God in the future.”
His eyes brooded over the surface of the water, and Jocelyn wondered if ‘twas safe to urge him to continue his story. After a moment of hesitation she asked, “So you ran away from your master—what then did you do?”
His cheek muscles stood out as he clenched his jaw. “I entered the ministry. I studied. I devoted my life to the service of God and his people. In due time, I married. We had a son. My wife died. I relinquished my son to her sister’s care. I surrendered my church and chose to enlist as a colonist in the City of Raleigh.”
His abrupt statement was laced with pain, and Jocelyn could not look at him when he had finished speaking. She felt her cheeks burning as her conscience smote her. The brittle reality of his words made the romantic dreams she had harbored seem as insubstantial as mists on water. This man was not interested in love, for he still grieved for his wife. Mayhap he sought her out because he saw her as a lost child, a lonely girl who stood in need of ministry and a scrap of Scripture.
‘Twas now painfully obvious that Thomas Colman had signed onto this voyage to escape the memory of his dead wife. He had been so in love that he could not even bring himself to raise their son, so in love that he could not remain in his village, even in England . . .
“Pray pardon me,” she said, biting her lip. “I didn’t mean to pry.”
“I don’t like to talk about it.”
“I cry you mercy, I will never speak of it again.”
He made no answer, but continued looking out to sea. Embarrassed, Jocelyn slipped away. When she had reached the lower deck and knew for sure that he had not followed, she went to a private corner, wrapped herself in a blanket, and watered it with tears.
The ship lay becalmed for two days, and Jocelyn sat in her corner for the same length of time, rising only to eat and partake of the dark liquid that now sufficed for water. Eleanor, steady and at home on the becalmed ship, urged Jocelyn to join her and the other women in conversation, but Jocelyn turned a deaf ear to the entreaties of her cousin. Even Audrey tried to prod her mistress out of her depression by inviting her to play gleek, primero, or noddy with a group of gamers, but Jocelyn was not in the mood for cards.
She had read about lovesickness, but had no idea it could be so physical. She had no appetite or desire to fill her empty stomach, no strength to pretend that all was well. She had lost her father and her first love in one month, and never in her life had she been so emotionally spent.
She did not want to talk to anyone, and for the first time she understood the reason behind Thomas’ guarded silence. Eleanor thought Jocelyn genuinely sick and would laugh if she knew the real cause of her cousin’s sulkiness. She cou
ld not confide in Audrey, for the maid would only devise silly games to win Thomas Colman’s attention or spread the story of Jocelyn’s broken heart to every listening ear aboard the ship.
Jocelyn especially did not want to pray. If she opened her heart and feelings to God, how could she hide the anger that churned in her soul? She had found a man she could love, an intelligent, learned, and devout minister, but clearly he didn’t love her. The slight beginnings of affection she thought she had seen had evaporated the moment she pried into the past he did not want to remember or discuss.
Thomas Colman’s great love had left him in eternal pain. Somehow he had found the strength to begin a new life, but in her selfish quest to know him completely, she had torn open the scar and wounded him further.
She should have known better. She, more than most people on the ship, knew the face of grief intimately. Even now the thought of her father’s voice or the memory of his hand on her head could reduce her to sobbing in the dead of night. On such nights, when she had exhausted her tears, she lay awake in the bowels of the ship and studied the creaking beams above her. How much time would have to pass before she could join her father in heaven?
Jocelyn knew the pain of grief. Her grief was fresh and acute, but Thomas Colman’s was deeply rooted. She had lost a father, but he had lost a wife and lover, the mother of his son.
Sitting in her corner, she drew her stiff blanket more closely to her and rested her head on her arms. She knew little of the physical love between a man and woman, but Eleanor glowed when she spoke of her husband and their soon-coming child, and her father’s voice had always grown tender when recalling his wife. Surely ‘twas a hundred times more tragic to lose a love than to lose a parent. God, after all, designed that parents give birth to children and precede them into heaven, but surely ‘twas not part of his plan that husbands lose their wives and young children lose their mothers.
Her eyes filled up again. She had but faint memories of her own mother, yet her father had never recovered from her loss. Thomas Colman must certainly feel a pain akin to her father’s, and she had done him a great injustice.
Eleanor followed Agnes carefully through the men’s section of the passenger deck, remembering to keep her head well beneath the low roof while watching the floor lest she trip over a rope or a folded blanket. The child within her womb stirred, and for the first time in days she felt strong and active. ‘Twas a miracle she had survived the journey thus far! There had been times in the past few weeks when she wondered if she would survive the night.
A group of men sat huddled together, and snatches of a ribald conversation caught her ear as she and Agnes approached. She continued forward, though, secure in her role as an assistant’s wife and the governor’s daughter, and every man in the group fell silent as the ladies drew near.
“Excuse me, sirs,” she called, stepping out from behind Agnes’ forbidding back, “but I am looking for the minister.”
“Colman?” She recognized William Clement, the rakishly good-looking servant who often played cards with Audrey.
“Yes.”
William jerked his thumb upward and gave her a slow smile. “Up there, Mistress Dare. The minister is too holy to join us.”
The other men exploded in laughter at his remark, and Eleanor nodded her thanks without comment. Agnes frowned and pushed her mistress away from the men like a mother duck propelling her young from the jaws of crocodiles.
“And they call themselves Englishmen!” Agnes muttered under her breath as they climbed the narrow steps of the companionway. “The Englishmen I know don’t spend their time idly repeating the vile tales of rank seamen.”
“Soft, hold your tongue,” Eleanor advised, recognizing the spare form of the reverend Colman on the deck ahead. “I would speak to this man in private.”
Agnes obediently hung back while Eleanor advanced and tactfully cleared her throat. Turning from the rail, Thomas Colman seemed startled by the sight of the governor’s daughter, but he bowed respectfully.
“I give you good day, Mistress Dare.”
“Well met, Reverend.” She gestured toward the calm sea. “A lovely day, is it not?”
He gave her a wry smile. “I doubt the seamen and the captain would agree with you, madam. A calm sea is not a sailor’s delight. This mirror-like ocean is the opposite of the stormy sea that caused the seamen to dump the rebellious Jonah, but if there is a sinner aboard—”
Eleanor waved his comments away. “‘Tis not the sea, but my cousin I have come to discuss with you, Reverend Colman.”
His smile vanished. “Your cousin?”
“Jocelyn White.” When he did not answer, she stepped closer and placed her hands on the railing. “Surely you are aware that she has come to harbor tender feelings toward you. And my father has told my husband and me of your arrangement.”
His dark brow shot up.
“Of course, we agree with Father’s plan,” she added quickly. “You would make a very suitable husband for Jocelyn. You are educated, as is she, you are both devoted to God, and Jocelyn has spent considerable time in your company and found you agreeable.”
“Then she has misled you, madam. She has not spoken to me in several days.”
“I am of the impression that she fears she has insulted or offended you. ‘Tis not that she does not desire your company, for I believe I never saw her so happy as when she was with you, but now she fears you do not desire hers—”
“Truly?” For an instant the veil of reserve lifted from his eyes, but then the corner of his mouth fell and the wry smile curved again into place. “I almost believed you, madam, but surely you are mistaken. I have decided to forego your uncle’s offer and indenture myself to him in service. Your cousin is too beautiful and refined to be my wife, and I have not the words or the power to win her heart.”
“But you are wrong!” In her eagerness she leaned toward him, and a disapproving snort from Agnes reminded Eleanor that she had nearly overstepped the bounds of propriety. A visibly pregnant woman did not speak to unmarried men unless her maid were present, and she certainly did not share secrets . . .
“I am sure, sir, that if you approach Jocelyn today, you will find her of a willing, even eager, temperament,” Eleanor said, collecting her dignity and reserve. She smiled. “Do not give up hope. If you believe in the God you serve, is it not within his power to grant this favor for you?”
“God does not grant favors,” Colman answered, his dark eyes scanning the calm sea once again. “We do not deserve his grace. How then could we deserve favors?”
Eleanor shrugged lightly as she moved away. “Welladay, sir, what’s the harm in asking?”
What was the harm in asking? How dare the flippant wench suggest that God could be cajoled! He knew better, having tried long ago to bargain with the angry God who had taken his wife and demanded his son. God was a hard taskmaster, demanding all and giving nothing in this life but the promise of ease in the life to come.
And yet Mistress Dare had come to him with words he had never hoped to hear. Jocelyn White favored him! She—how had the woman phrased it? —”harbored tender feelings for him.” Would that God harbored such feelings for his minister!
Thomas left the rail and gazed distractedly around the deck. There was no private place, no room for quiet musing unless one went to the very belly of the ship where rats and roaches and insects wormed their way into the barrels and casks of next week’s victuals. Turning as if the hounds of hell nipped at his heels, he sprinted down the companionway through the lower decks until he crouched in the low-ceilinged orlop deck. Here, at least, a man could be alone to think.
As vile bilge water crept up his hose to his knees and soaked his shoes, Thomas Colman considered his options.
One decision, two choices.
Two prizes, two liabilities.
If he refused to pursue Jocelyn White, he would be required to render fifteen years of indentured service to John White. But, as an indentured servant, he w
ould not be able to lead a church. Never again would he have to subject himself to the rigors of spiritual leadership. In time, with the growth of the colony, even the knowledge of his ordination would fade, and he would become Thomas Colman, humble and ordinary servant, instead of Reverend Colman, stern judge and jury. In servitude, Thomas knew, lay the keys to personal freedom.
But if he chose not to marry Jocelyn Colman, that lovely voice might never speak to him again. Already he had silenced her by his curt answers. And when she learned from her cousin or her uncle that he had been offered her hand and had refused, mayhap those blue eyes would flash at him in anger instead of affection. She would never again blush at his approach or smile and ask his thoughts or readily interpret the Latin verse he quoted from memory. Her small hand would never rest in his, the arms that had clung to him in the storm would never seek him again, and those petal-soft lips would be claimed by another man eager for a bride . . .
Abruptly, he shifted in the murky water as a sag-bellied rat skittered across a row of barrels. Why had his traitorous heart softened under the girl’s influence? In truth, Jocelyn White had bewitched him, or else God had devised the most enticing test ever imagined by the divine mind. Would God dangle this desirable young woman before him merely to keep an errant and rebellious minister in his holy service?
“‘Tis not fair, God,” Colman muttered, squatting in the filthy water. “‘Tis not fair to the girl, for you know what I am.”
He didn’t expect an answer and heard none, save the echo of Eleanor Dare’s words: “She has come to harbor tender feelings toward you.” If he chose to ignore whatever tender feelings Jocelyn White had developed, was he not committing another wrong? As for his own emotions, he could repress his respect for her intellect, his joy in her company, the pleasure of hearing her speak his name. As a minister he was supposed to sacrifice his personal feelings on the altar of his jealous God, but his newly awakened heart would not let him hurt her . . .
