by Angela Hunt
Jocelyn noticed that her own body had thickened as if to fortify itself for the winter, but she knew it struggled to shelter and preserve the small life that grew inside her. It had been four months since the time the child had been conceived, and she yearned to share her secret with Audrey or Eleanor. But each time she looked to Thomas to see if she ought to tell, his stony glance stilled the question on her lips.
She had thought him distant after his confrontation with Beth Glane and John Jones, but since the hot September day when he had explained that she would bear a child, he had been even more so. Every afternoon he came home late from his work, ate his supper silently by the hearth, then climbed the ladder to the upper floor where he slept and studied. He had not touched her, indeed, he had scarcely even looked at her during the past weeks. If Audrey thought the situation strange, she said nothing.
Jocelyn’s teeth chattered as she pressed through the whirling air to Eleanor’s house. Mayhap Audrey said nothing because she profited from the couple’s odd arrangement. By all rights, she should have been sleeping upstairs in the drafty attic, so she did not complain that Jocelyn allowed Audrey to share the pleasant and comfortable mattress downstairs. “Just like sisters,” Audrey often said as she slipped on her nightgown and climbed into the tall bed.
Jocelyn knew little of proper behavior between husbands and their wives, but she knew ‘twas unusual for her husband to chose to sleep in the attic. Even if he did not love her, why would he not do the simple things other married couples took for granted?
Mayhap he felt guilty for betraying the first love of his life, or the child he had left behind in England. Certainly the reason, whatever it was, lay behind the horrified look on his face when he told her she would have his child.
Surely, Father God, there is a way to convince him to begin life anew! Jocelyn prayed, standing still in the bawling winds. We have all begun new lives here, so why can’t Thomas leave the past behind? I love him, Lord, and have love enough for both of us, but if my presence reminds him of the wife he lost, how am I to show my love? How can he love our child if our baby reminds him of the son he can no longer see? Help me to understand him, Lord. Love him through me.
“Is that you, Miss Jocelyn?”
Agnes Wood’s voice cut through Jocelyn’s concentration, and she opened her eyes and gave the maid a smile. Agnes had apparently just returned from the community woodpile, for she carried a bundle of logs in a leather sling.
“I’ve come for a little visit,” Jocelyn said, rubbing her hands together to keep warm.
“Why, come on in, dear, Miss Eleanor will be glad to see you.” Agnes led the way to the house and opened the door, and Eleanor looked up from her stool with a smile. Three-month-old Virginia nursed greedily at her mother’s breast.
“What brings you here, cousin?” Eleanor asked pleasantly as Jocelyn came in and Agnes latched the door behind her. “Surely your husband would rather you spent the Sabbath with him.”
Abruptly, Jocelyn told Eleanor she was going to have a baby.
Eleanor read the worry and fear in her young cousin’s eyes and told Agnes to tend the mending and leave them alone. When the servant had left the room and Jocelyn had removed her cloak and taken a seat on a low stool, Eleanor leaned forward and lightly ran her finger down Jocelyn’s cheek. “I know what you must be feeling, coz. Myself, I was frightened to death when I first realized I would have a baby. But God will keep you in his care. How proud Thomas must be!”
A flood of tears sprang to Jocelyn’s eyes, and Eleanor was wholly taken aback when the younger girl covered her face with her hands and began to weep. Surely this news alone could not be so upsetting! Every married woman expected a child sooner or later, ‘twas God’s plan and only natural.
“Softly now,” Eleanor said, smoothing Jocelyn’s windblown hair. “I understand how frightened you must feel. ‘Tis a daunting prospect, giving birth in the wilderness, but I’ll be here for you, cousin. You will have a lovely baby. Thomas will be thrilled, no doubt, and baptize the babe in front of the entire village—”
“Thomas does not want a baby,” Jocelyn said, choking on her tears. “He told me he was sorry for it, that God was tormenting him. He said the baby was—”
“Ofttimes men don’t know what they say,” Eleanor interrupted, placing her own infant in a rough-hewn cradle near the fire. She turned and knelt at Jocelyn’s feet. “Dear coz, all men feel differently when they hold their babes in their arms. I believe even Ananias was discomfited when he learned we would have a baby in America, but see how he dotes on Virginia now!”
Jocelyn sniffed. “Thomas says the baby is God’s way of punishing him,” she said, wiping her tears on her sleeve.
“Faith, the man’s lost his mind,” Eleanor cried, taking Jocelyn’s hands. “Perhaps he thinks a baby would make him feel old or some such thing, that is all. You mark my words, coz, he will change.”
She lowered her voice and gave Jocelyn a secret smile. “When the babe is old enough to kick, place your hand over his and guide it to your belly. The babe will kick him, and then, dear cousin, he will change his way of thinking!”
She flashed Jocelyn a triumphant smile, but the younger girl blushed deeply and shook her head. She shuddered, as if parting with a secret too terrible to be borne, then confessed: “Eleanor, he sleeps in the attic.”
Stung, Eleanor sat back, then realized with numb astonishment that her cousin spoke the truth. “What?” she whispered, taking care that Agnes shouldn’t overhead. “‘Tis not natural, Jocelyn. Why does he sleep in the attic?”
Jocelyn only shook her head while Eleanor’s mind reeled through realms of bizarre possibilities. “Is it possible he’s a Catholic?” she whispered, leaning forward. “I hear the Catholic priests have sworn not to touch women. Could he be a Spaniard? A spy? He is dark enough, there’s no gainsaying that. Think, Jocelyn, if he has ever said anything to you, or done anything to impede our cause here—”
Jocelyn wept anew, burying her face in her hands, and Eleanor bit her lip. Should she report this to her husband? Ananias had reported that the minister was frequently at odds with him, arguing over foolish ideas. Was it possible Eleanor’s own father had been duped by a Catholic Spaniard in disguise?
“I must warn Ananias,” Eleanor said, standing. She moved toward the wall where her cloak hung. “Stay here, dear, and do not go home. You and Audrey can have my father’s room, while Ananias and I—”
“No, Eleanor!” Jocelyn flew from the stool and wrapped her arms around her cousin’s shoulders. “He is not a spy. He has taken no vow. He sleeps in the attic because he loves his first wife still, a woman who died after giving him a son. He weeps for his lost love, Eleanor, and will not let me replace her in his heart.”
Shaken, Eleanor pulled herself from Jocelyn’s embrace. “How do you know this?” she whispered.
Jocelyn shrugged unhappily. “He told me the story while we were on the ship. I married him knowing full well that he still grieved for his wife, but I thought I could be his helper, a fellow worker for the cause of the gospel. I did not—I have not dared hope he would love me, but thought he might, in time, come to have affection for me.”
“Apparently he has some liking, for you carry his baby,” Eleanor pointed out.
Jocelyn’s chin quivered. “One night we were alone. He asked me if I truly wanted to be his wife and I said yea—”
“I see.” Eleanor studied her cousin’s unhappy face. Twin reflections of the fire danced in her liquid blue eyes, but behind the reflections lay bottomless pools of grief. “Perchance,” Eleanor whispered, slipping her arm around Jocelyn’s shoulders, “in time, your Thomas will come to love his child. You must trust God, Jocelyn, for this thing to come to pass. You are young, and your marriage is new. Give God time.”
A flurry of chilled autumn wind blew into the room as Ananias opened the door and came into the house. He raised an eyebrow at the sight of Jocelyn’s tear-streaked face, but said nothing as he r
emoved his cloak and hung it on a peg in the wall.
Eleanor ran her eyes over him carefully. “Are you well, my husband?” she asked.
“Very well,” he said, smiling politely at Jocelyn. He walked over to the fire, held his hands over the crackling blaze, then brushed his hands together and looked up the stairs toward the attic room. “Where’s Agnes? Is our supper almost ready?”
“‘Twill be soon enough,” Eleanor answered, giving Jocelyn an encouraging smile. The younger girl wiped her eyes and nodded her thanks, then moved to the door. “So will you be going, cousin?”
“Yes,” Jocelyn answered, taking her cloak from the wall. “Thank you for your counsel, Eleanor. I will trust all to our Lord’s hands.”
“Marry, you have spoken well,” Eleanor answered, opening the door for her cousin. After Jocelyn had slipped out of the house, Eleanor latched the door and turned to stare at her husband.
“What?” he demanded, turning to her in exasperation. “What have I done now, woman?”
“Mayhap you should tell me,” Eleanor answered, moving smoothly to stir the hanging iron pot in the hearth fire. “Where have you been, Ananias?”
TWENTY-FIVE
In the elaborately paneled drawing room of Sir Walter Raleigh’s royal apartments, John White used every glowing adjective he could remember as he described the progress of the Roanoke colony. He explained that the colony had disembarked at Roanoke only because of the treachery of Simon Fernandes, and the group had made plans to move northward in the spring to found the City of Raleigh in the Chesapeake region.
Sir Walter, as handsome and debonair as ever, stroked his manicured beard thoughtfully. “If the settlers are not on Roanoke Island when you arrive, how will you know where they have gone?” he asked, leaning forward in his chair.
“We have agreed upon a sign,” White answered, folding his hands in what he hoped was a casual gesture. “They will inscribe the location of their destination in a tree trunk, plainly visible. If they have left in distress, or under attack, they will also inscribe a Maltese cross upon the tree. When we return with the supplies, we will be able to reach the colonists in a matter of days.”
Raleigh sank back in his chair and rested his head on his hand. For a moment he neither spoke nor moved, a handsome statue resplendent in a doublet and hose of straw-colored satin and a cloak of gilded Spanish leather. Perfumed gloves lay across his knee; the perfect picture of refinement. But John White hoped that under Raleigh’s polished exterior still beat the heart of an adventurer, someone who would take a risk for the planters on Roanoke.
“So what do you suggest we do, John White?” Raleigh finally said, his brown eyes shining with interest.
John tried to curb his eagerness. He was virtually bursting with information and news he wanted to impart, but one never, ever wanted Sir Walter to feel ordered about. “I propose to equip a pinnace with supplies and a group of new settlers, particularly those wives who wait in England to join their husbands,” White said, leaning gently forward. “The colony does need some provisions to insure a safe passage through the winter, so the pinnace should depart immediately. While the pinnace sails, we will outfit a major supply fleet of seven or eight ships to sail in the Spring. If Sir Richard Grenville would lead the fleet—”
“Why not Simon Fernandes?” Raleigh interrupted.
White made a face. “If you will read my journal, Sir, you will see why I cannot sail again with Simon Fernandes. I have suspicions that he is at worst a spy, at best an opportunist concerned only with privateering for his personal gain.”
Raleigh leaned back in his chair and stroked his beard again. “Your former colleague, Thomas Hariot, has a manuscript ready for publication,” he said. “If this work were published to increase interest, investors would more readily sign on to support our venture.”
“Exactly!” White pummeled the air with his fist and saw Raleigh smile at his enthusiasm.
“Enough,” Raleigh said, standing. “We will do what must be done, Governor White. You did right by coming here personally, and we will do right by sending you back to your daughter and granddaughter with all due haste.”
White stood, too, and bowed, silently thanking God that Raleigh’s visions of a sprawling and prosperous Virginian estate outrivaled his doubts about the benefits and profits of privateering.
During the English winter of 1587, draughts whistled among the tapestries of London’s fine houses. The constant damp made fires balk and turned the gentry’s fine clothing slick and musty. Biting winds churned the unruly waves of the English Channel so violently that John White’s pinnace could not sail.
Bravely shouldering his disappointment, John White said innumerable prayers for the safety of the colony and his family, then concentrated his efforts upon equipping the large fleet that was to sail in the late spring. The wives of Roger Bailie, Thomas Stevens, Roger Prat, and John Sampson were contacted and began making arrangements to sail to Virginia, and White had the sad responsibility of visiting the widow of George Howe to inform her of her husband’s death. The widow Howe elected to remain in England rather than join her son, consigning him to the care of God and John White. White could not pass judgment upon the grieving woman. Those who did not have the courage to cross the Western Ocean should not set out on such a journey.
His disappointment over the pinnace’s failure to sail was tempered by the discussion of Thomas Hariot’s manuscript, A Brief and True Report of the New Found Land of Virginia. Interest in the colony and in Virginia soared, and White found himself in demand as a dinner guest of gentle folk who peered over their silverplate to inquire about rumors of savages, wild animals, and the possibility of gold in the sandy shores of Virginia.
TWENTY-SIX
God will not bless us if we neglect his worship any longer!” Thomas Colman’s angry voice echoed over the assembly and Ananias Dare noticed several of the colonists nodding in agreement. This minister was dangerous, and in Ananias’ opinion, an unwelcome addition to the colony.
“Would you prefer to starve or pray this winter?” Ananias asked, opening his hands to the men and women who had gathered on benches in the circular clearing to hear the minister’s sermon. “The Reverend wants us to take precious time and energy to build a church, but I say ‘tis more important to hunt. Winter is upon us, but with salted meat in the storehouse—”
“Hunting will take us into the forests of the Indians,” Arnold Archard spoke up, his hand on his young son’s head. “And I dare not venture from this island nor from my house without the blessing and protection of God.”
“Aye,” Edward Powell stood. “Does not the Word of God instruct us to bring our first fruits into the storehouse? We have made no storehouse for God, and we need a place fit for worship. This open space—” he spread his hands to indicate the clearing where they had gathered, “is not sufficient. Our women and children will not want to meet here in the cold of January. But we can build a church for worship, and a place for assembly.”
“Mark me, why should we build?” John Sampson interrupted, standing. “I would as lief build a castle as a church. We are leaving this place in the spring, so we don’t need a permanent building.”
“The building can be disassembled, as can our homes.” Thomas Colman stepped forward again, and Ananias noticed with disapproval that nearly every eye turned respectfully toward the minister. “We can build a sound structure of wattle and daub panels. When it comes time to leave, the house of God can easily be carried with us.”
“The house of God.” Ananias stepped forward, his upper lip curling in distaste. “We worship God in our hearts and in our homes, we do not need to invest our labor in this man’s idea. He merely seeks an outlet for his calling, for he is no farmer. If you let him build this church, he will demand a tithe of your crops next, a tithe of your venison, your squirrel, your gold. If we give in to his demands for God at this juncture, I believe we will be supporting the minister and his wife for years to come.” He slamm
ed his fist onto his open palm. “‘Tis not to be borne! Would you serve the state church of England even here? We were promised self-government, and we ought to worship in the sanctity of our own homes. Each man must see to his own to prepare for the winter; we do not have time to build a church!”
Ananias smiled inwardly when many faces nodded in agreement and heads buzzed in private discussion. But then the minister stepped forward and held up his eloquent hands. The crowd stilled.
“God demands nothing from a heathen man,” he said, his dark eyes sweeping over the assembled group. “But of those who call themselves his people, he demands everything. The tithe is the Lord’s, but more than that, everything we are and own is his. I beseech you, my brothers and sisters, to make of yourselves a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable unto God, which is your reasonable service.”
Ananias felt the pull of the minister’s dark eyes, and he looked steadfastly away.
“I will not command you to build a church,” the minister went on. “I will ask you to commit yourselves to this duty. Whatever man will come to build, let him come. Whatever man will ignore the blessings and commands of God, let him stay away and tend to his own affairs. But if you would ask God to provide safety, security, and provision for the winter, ‘tis only fair that you provide the same for God’s people who want to worship. If you care not for the things of God, consider this—there are savage arrows in the forest. Will the one flying toward you be swayed by the hand of God, or find its place in your breast?”
The minister sat down, but the air trembled with his poorly veiled threat. Wives whispered into the ears of their husbands, men nodded in reply. Ananias knew in that moment the minister had won. How could he compete against the threats of a man who promised certain death if they did not obey his wishes?
Nudged by his wife, Henry Payne stood. “I will meet you tomorrow, Reverend, to begin building,” he said.
