by Angela Hunt
“No, miss,” Audrey answered, taking a seat on the stool by the cold hearth. What a silly grin the girl wore!
“Well, I’ll be right to work, should anyone ask where I am,” Jocelyn said, searching for her bonnet. “I just want to have a word with Thomas—”
Still smiling, Audrey retrieved her bonnet from the floor and held it up with a flourish. “‘Tis a bit strange, don’t you think, that the bride should be asking about the bridegroom?” Audrey asked as Jocelyn took the bonnet and tied it under her chin. “Lost him so soon, have ye?”
“He was up and out early this morning,” Jocelyn answered, stepping into her slippers. She paused at the door and turned to her maid. “I’ll be working in the maize field again today, Audrey, so I’d be pleased if you’d join me there later.”
“Yes, miss.” Audrey looked as though she would burst out laughing at any moment, and Jocelyn hurried out of the house and slammed the door behind her. ‘Twas bad enough she had to face her maid after her first night alone with her husband, but how could she modestly explain Thomas’ handcrafted bed?
“Would that this island were not so small,” Jocelyn muttered, heading toward the beach where Thomas was likely to be working. “A man and his wife must needs have their privacy.”
She found her husband in a brigade line moving casks of supplies from the shallop to the fort. He wore dark work breeches and the same white shirt, open in the heat, and moved with masculine power and ease as he worked. Jocelyn thought him more handsome and appealing than ever, and she felt like a silly schoolgirl as she hid behind a tree and whispered, “Thomas!”
One of the seamen heard her, spied her hiding place, and came forward to gallantly take Thomas’ place in line. “There’s a pretty wench that wants to speak with you, Reverend,” the seaman said, winking as the other men roared in laughter. “Hiding in the trees, she is.”
Thomas’ smile faded slightly as he came toward her, but she took his hand and led him deeper into the woods, out of sight and away from the others. He moved stiffly now, reluctantly, and for a moment she wondered if she had made a mistake.
She stopped in a clearing and whirled to face him. “You left this morning without saying goodbye,” she said, struggling to contain her emotions. Was he not glad to see her? With all they had shared in the past hours . . .
“I am your husband, I will return tonight.” His dark eyes swept her face. “Is it necessary for me to bid you farewell every time I leave my house?”
“No,” she whispered, turning away. Dear God, will I never stop making mistakes? The man does not love me, not in the least, but how is it possible that he could be one man by night and another by day?
“Do you have something else to say?” he asked, his eyes searching her face like a lantern. His voice was cool, distant.
“Nothing of importance,” she answered, her heart sinking.
She forced herself to meet his gaze, and for a moment she caught tiny twin reflections of herself in his dark eyes: a wide-eyed girl in work dress and bonnet with silvery tears upon her cheeks.
“Yes,” he said, nodding grimly at the sight of her tears. “Now you are sorry that you married me.”
Bewildered at the change in his attitude, she could not answer. Last night he had been strong and sure, he had felt something for her, she knew it, but now he stood locked away from her, his heart imprisoned in some glacial palace where she was not allowed.
“I am sorry for yesternight, Jocelyn,” he whispered gruffly, his hand lifting her face to his. Suddenly the veil behind his eyes lifted, and she saw compassion—as if he had failed her somehow, had done her a great injustice . . .
He had not.
“I am not sorry,” she said, mustering all her pride. She lifted her chin and clenched her fists at her side. “I regret nothing but the sins that I have done and marrying you was no sin, Thomas Colman.”
His lips parted in a reluctant smile, and before she knew what had happened, he slipped his arm about her waist. Her heart fluttered as his breath whispered on her cheek. “You are a delightful girl,” he said, crushing her to him as she trembled in his arms. “That God should see fit to bring you to me—”
She interrupted him with a bold kiss and he returned it, knocking her bonnet from her head in his ardor. Laughing, she pulled away and bent to retrieve her bonnet, and he knelt beside her in the grass, pulling her into his arms again. Smiling against her mouth, he kissed her slowly as insects buzzed in the trees and birds twittered in the bush, and Jocelyn’s mind idly drifted to thoughts of the first man and woman who celebrated their life and love in a similar garden . . .
“Reverend Colman!”
The horrified trumpeting of disapproval poured like ice water over Jocelyn’s soul. Thomas must have felt the same sensation, for he tensed and stared toward the interloper with fire in his eyes.
Not knowing whether to blush or giggle, Jocelyn turned around. Beth Glane stood behind a screen of leafy shrubbery, a pillar of black from her boots to the bonnet tied securely under her condemning chin. Behind Beth stood Ananias Dare and the doctor, John Jones.
Thomas stood without a word while the trio of visitors came forward. Beth Glane shook her head in shock and dismay.
Jocelyn quickly replaced her bonnet.
“I wouldn’t fault a man for sporting with his own wife, Reverend,” Ananias said quietly, “but we have need of you. The boy William Wythers has stolen an apple from the storeroom, and Governor White has called for you. The Council must convene and decide what must be done.”
“An apple?” Jocelyn felt the words slip from her tongue before she could stop them. The council found it necessary to convene over a stolen apple?
“There is more,” Beth Glane said, pressing her lips together in a thin line. “Joyce Archard’s son Thomas is ill and prayers must be said. But you, Reverend Colman . . .”
Her words died away, but ‘twas clear from her tone that Beth Glane didn’t believe the prayers of a man who kissed in public would avail to much.
“I’ll come at once,” Thomas said, moving away from Jocelyn. The mask had again settled over his dark features, and Jocelyn felt her hope slip away as her husband moved toward the invading trio.
“Sirrah, I must have a word with you before we go,” John Jones spoke up. The doctor pulled back his shoulders and lifted his heavy jaw. “Know you not the scriptures which command the clergy to remain sober, temperate, and to exercise self-control at all times? You have forgotten that Scripture today, sir. And this young girl here—” the finger he pointed at Jocelyn shook with anger, “—this girl is of an age to be your daughter, albeit she’s the second wife you’ve taken.”
Beth Glane’s homely face rearranged itself into a grim smile. “I’ve had my doubts about you all along, Reverend,” she said, folding her hands primly, “and will talk to the Governor and our council about removing you at once. What I’ve seen here today leads me to believe that you are not fit to lead the flock of God in this colony, and I’ll stand with Doctor Jones to give witness to the questionable character of this girl and you, reverend sir!”
Thomas’ face darkened. “The character of my wife is not at issue here,” he snapped, all goodwill gone from his voice. “If you have anything against me, you may speak your mind before the council. Until then, I trust you will keep your peace and hold your tongues, lest your lives be as rigorously examined as mine.”
Without a further word, Thomas passed through the group of inquisitors, leaving Jocelyn to stand helpless before them until Beth Glane dismissed her with a contemptuous glance.
Jocelyn learned the results of the council meeting later that afternoon. William Wythers, the freckle-faced, red-haired four-year-old nephew of Edward and Wenefrid Powell, was pronounced guilty of thievery and sentenced to ten lashes with a switch. And since the boy had no father, Thomas Colman, as spiritual leader of the colony, was directed to administer the whipping.
Audrey brought the news as Jocelyn worked in the fields,
and Jocelyn dropped her basket of corn kernels and ran toward the fort where the whipping was to take place. Colony discipline wasted no time and invited no mercy, for by the time Jocelyn reached the village, the circle of assistants stood as a dark circle inside the fort, ready to administer and observe the enforcement of justice.
Jocelyn felt her heart pound as she slipped through the circle of curious colonists. The child’s sobbing reached her ears long before she saw his tear-streaked face. His guardians, Edward and Wenefrid Powell, stood to the side, sober-faced as John White handed a limber green branch to the minister.
Thomas nodded to two assistants who picked the child up and lay him upon a rough table. The boy’s breeches were pulled down, exposing the fair skin, and Jocelyn felt herself shudder at the sight of the boy’s terrified face.
“Obey them that have the rule over you, and submit yourselves: for they watch for your soul, as they that must give account, that they may do it with joy, and not with grief: for that is unprofitable for you,” Thomas quoted, his stentorian voice echoing in the stillness of the fort. The news of this first public chastisement had travelled rapidly; mothers and fathers widened the circle and pushed their children to the fore to witness the example another child would set. “You, William Wythers, have stolen from the common storehouse, a grievous offense. We will discipline you today, and spare your soul for tomorrow.”
Thomas paused and seem to search through the crowd until his eyes met Jocelyn’s. Spare him, be gentle, she begged silently, knowing that her countenance revealed the revulsion she felt toward this harsh act. Surely he could voice his opinion that ten lashes were too much for a small, hungry boy . . .
“Chasten thy son while there is hope, and let not thy soul spare for his crying,” Thomas said abruptly, denying her unspoken plea. His arm rose and fell sharply, William Wythers screamed, the crowd emitted a collective gasp. Jocelyn clenched her fists and hurried away from the unbearable sight and sound.
The elder George Howe grimaced with each blow, thankful that, thus far, his son had brought him no reason for shame. When the whipping was done, the gathering dispersed and the Powells took their nephew home. “A bad business, this,” Howe said, nodding politely to the minister. “But it set a fine example to the other young ones, don’t you think?”
“Certainly,” the minister replied, his dark eyes squinting toward the cloudless sky in the east. “‘Twill be an example to all of us. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Master Howe, I must needs meditate on some matters. I thought I’d walk down by the tidal pools.” He nodded and moved away, but Howe kept pace with the younger man.
“Then I’ll be good company, for that’s where I’m headed,” Howe answered, hurrying to catch up. He fell easily into Thomas Colman’s long stride. “I’m set for crabbing. The governor told me of an old Indian trick—if you check the rocks along the beaches after low tide, you’ll find snails, limpets, and crabs. In the tidal pools you can find mollusks just under the sand. You only need a long stick to stir things up a bit.”
“Mayhap we’ll have a feast tonight with your catch,” Colman answered, glancing absently toward the ring of houses as they walked along the trail that led to the beach.
“Aye.” Howe studied his younger companion. The minister was preoccupied, but with what? Since their landing, George Howe had never felt freer. Sure, there was that disagreeable business with the Wythers boy and that reprimand given the minister in the council meeting, but no one but John Jones and Beth Glane was truly offended that the minister had been seen kissing his wife. Surely the man had not let their narrow-minded accusations upset him! Such trivial annoyances had no place in this island paradise. On Roanoke there were no orphans in the streets, no tax collectors to contend with, and no cursed ruffs around their necks, by heaven—
He remembered the minister’s absent glance toward the houses and laughed. Of course, the man worried about his pretty new wife.
“Excuse my lack of manners, Reverend,” Howe said, feeling a surge of fatherly affection for the minister. “But I should have inquired after your lovely wife. My son thinks the world of her, you know. How is Mistress Colman enjoying our new island home?”
“She enjoys it well enough,” the minister answered, seeming to study the sand as they walked.
“And her house? What did she think of her first night on the island?”
The minister stopped abruptly and placed his hands behind his back. “My wife is well, Master Howe,” he said, an oddly distant tone in his voice.
Howe ignored the man’s aloofness and continued walking. “I’m only asking because my son has taken quite a liking to her, his own mother being yet in England, you know. If there is ever anything I or my boy can do for you and Mistress Colman, you won’t hesitate to let me know, will you, Reverend?”
Colman had not moved. Surprised, Howe turned and lifted a questioning brow toward the sober minister. “If you please, Master Howe,” the minister said, nodding sharply, “I am not inclined to talk with my fellow man while God calls me to talk with him.”
Howe grinned and turned away, his eyes on the tidal pools that shimmered in the distance. Surely he had once been as transparent as the minister, worried about his new wife but hiding his concern under a cloak of proud indifference. “Go ahead, my young friend, and tell God everything you must,” he answered, not caring if the minister heard or not. “But whatever ‘tis you are running from will be waiting when you come back.”
Two miles away from the fort, George Howe knelt on the rock-rimmed bank and scanned the sand below the clear water. Recalling John White’s instructions, he prodded the shallows with a forked stick. How, exactly, did a mollusk react when disturbed? The governor had not been explicit in his directions.
The rocks that rimmed the shallow pools bit into the soft flesh of his knees, and the shy shellfish hid in crevices accessible only from the water. “It must needs be done, then,” Howe said, surveying the pool. He dropped his stick onto the ground and peeled off his dark leggings, his pleated trunks, and his doublet. At least he was alone, and far away from the prying eyes of any who might take offense at his state of undress.
Standing nearly naked on the bank, the elder George Howe, assistant to the Governor, and esteemed graduate of Jesus College, Cambridge, dipped his toes into the shallow water. The warm morning sun shone bright on his pale skin, and George caught sight of his reflection in the still pool. Well, then, he had shed his dignity as well as his clothes. He felt himself laughing, and in a breathless instant of release he kicked the warm water into a towering flume. Small fish scattered at the approach of the strange pale interloper, and George forgot his mission and his propriety and splashed in the water with feckless abandon.
The water trickled gloriously down his head and arms, over his back, cooling his legs and feet. His rough skin, tormented by lice and other vermin while aboard ship, tingled beneath the cleansing droplets of water. Howe danced himself breathless, then sank in the pool and reclined upon his elbows as the water surrounded and invigorated him.
Too late, he heard the rustle of leaves. Too late, he saw shadows fall over the pool. He turned, expecting to find the accusing eyes Beth Glane or John Jones behind him, but what he saw made his blood run cold with terror. A half-circle of savages stood on the bank, their faces painted red and their bows held high. The sharpened stone tips of their arrows glinted in the late afternoon sun, and George tried his best to smile.
“I am a friend,” he said, his voice quivering despite his intention to remain steadfast. He rose , trembling, and held out his empty hands.
The most heavily painted savage gave a war cry and George heard himself screaming as the arrows flew, then he fell face first into the cleansing waters of Roanoke.
EIGHTEEN
Miss Jocelyn?” Jocelyn put aside the dark thoughts that had occupied her mind since the public whipping and listened again for the soft call as someone knocked. She smiled as she answered the door. Outside her family, only young George H
owe called her by her Christian name.
“Yes, George?”
“I wondered if you’ve seen my papa. He left to go crabbing hours ago and promised he’d be back by supper.”
“No, George, I haven’t seen him.” Jocelyn looked out into the clearing where many of the colonists bustled around in preparation for the late afternoon meal. “Have you asked everyone?”
George nodded. “I checked the fields, the armory, the place where they’re setting up the brick-making house. The governor, ma’am, told me he saw your husband and my father walking together this afternoon.”
“Well, then,” Jocelyn said, putting down her mending and taking the boy’s hand. “Let us find my husband and see if mayhap he has hidden your father.”
Jocelyn had reasons of her own for wanting to find Thomas, for she had not seen him since that awful scene in the fort. She wanted to know what the council had said to him and if he had truly thought it necessary to punish a four-year-old boy so severely. She wanted desperately to talk to him,
to plumb the meaning of his odd questions, to open her heart and honestly reveal all she felt for him. But she had the feeling he would not seek her out, so young George had provided the perfect opportunity. She’d find Thomas, send George to his father, and if God was willing, she’d have another chance to speak alone with her husband.
She saw Thomas before George did, and her heart leapt at the sight of him. He stood alone on a sandy stretch of beach, a shovel in his hand, with the sea behind him and the wind ruffling his dark hair. He had put his dark doublet over his work shirt but left it unbuttoned and that, Jocelyn thought, made him look less like a minister and more like a gentleman pirate.
“Reverend Colman!” George sprinted away from her and raced ahead as Jocelyn smoothed her expression and her untidy hair.
