by Angela Hunt
In a single movement she threw herself off the rock and crouched behind it, peering anxiously toward the west. After what felt like an eternity of silence, Jocelyn turned and fled through the woods to the familiar southern beach. As she ran, a new thought struck her: what if the boy had purposely led the others away from her? They might even be here, on the southern end of the island, and she would run headlong into their hunting party, a crazed, pregnant English woman . . .
She skirted the open areas of beach and crept home through the woods, heading steadily north until she at last caught sight of tendrils of smoke from the village’s supper fires. ‘Twas dusk when she entered the circle of houses, and a group of angry colonists awaited her.
“The minister had us organize search parties for you,” John Sampson told her, his voice rough and accusing. “We’ve wasted half a day in the woods when we ought to have been working.”
“We thought you had been kidnapped by savages,” Beth Glane added, her thin voice even more sour in the twilight. “And yet you amble home as if you have been out for a walk, never minding our trouble on your behalf.”
“I thank you for your trouble,” Jocelyn answered, well aware of the hostility in the faces before her. “I—was upset, but I am fine now. I beg your forgiveness for my folly.”
“We were afraid the savages had returned,” Arnold Archard offered, a worried look in his eyes.
“Pray do not worry,” Jocelyn answered, pushing past the assembled group. “I must go home.”
“I’ll take you home,” John Chapman volunteered, stepping forward and gallantly offering Jocelyn his arm. Relieved and touched, she took his arm and he escorted her to her house while the knot of colonists dispersed.
They walked without speaking through the darkness, the air of the clearing vibrating softly with the insect hum of the wood. After a moment, the old minister’s step slowed. “Are things so hard, my daughter?” he asked, his eyes shining in compassion through the gloom. “Was it so bad that you had to run away?”
Surprised by his insight, Jocelyn pressed her hand to her mouth, stopping the sound of tears.
“Our blessed Lord understands what you’re feeling,” the minister went on, his rough hand patting hers in a paternal gesture. “The Christian life often seems hard, and the life of a Christian servant seems even harder.”
“Thomas bears it well enough,” Jocelyn stammered, her voice breaking. “I am the weak one—”
“I wasn’t speaking about the minister,” Chapman answered, stopping on the path. “We are all Christ’s servants, but remember this, my child: his yoke is easy, and his burden is light. Anything you find hard to bear is not from God. Cast that burden off, and walk in his grace. In grace you will find the strength to be free.”
Overcome with feelings too deep to express, Jocelyn pressed her lips together and nodded.
Thomas opened the door just as she and John Chapman reached the house. “Here’s your wife,” the elder minister said, transferring Jocelyn’s hand to Thomas’. Jocelyn looked into the dark, unreadable eyes of her husband. There was no sign that he had worried, no sign that he was glad for her return.
“Let us thank God she is safe,” Thomas said, thanking John with a slight smile. So saying, he bid the minister goodnight, latched the door, and left Jocelyn with Audrey in the lower room while he climbed to his solitary attic.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Audrey welcomed Jocelyn with frantic questions, but Jocelyn abruptly told the girl to go spend the night with Eleanor. The maid obeyed, taking her cloak from the wall with only a single questioning glance at her mistress, but Jocelyn ignored her and stood motionless before the fire.
Her feet ached from her frantic race through the forest, her slippers were worn from the sharp shells of the beach, and the skin of her hands and face had been stung and scratched from brambles. Ravenous, her body demanded to be fed, but she could not summon the strength to ladle pottage from the stewpot that sat in the glowing embers of the hearth fire.
She sank onto the bed and struggled to slip her shoes from her feet. A sharp pain in her ribs made her gasp, and for a moment she feared that she had somehow harmed the baby, but after a moment the spasm passed. In relief, she fell back onto the bed as hot, silent tears sprang from the corners of her eyes.
She might have fallen asleep, but the ladder creaked and Thomas thrust his lantern into the darkening room. “Is anything amiss?” he asked, his eyes searching her face. “You need someone to care for you—why did you send Audrey away?”
She waved limply in answer.
“Are you bewitched, girl?” He made his way down the ladder, and if not for the lantern in his hand Jocelyn was sure he would have wagged his finger at her like a scolding school master. “I don’t know what evil possessed you this morning, but you have broken every rule of the colony. ‘Twas a terrible example to set, and only your condition made it excusable.”
“I have done much thinking today,” she said, struggling to sit up so she might look him in the eye. “About us, Thomas.”
A dark cloud seemed to pass before his face, and Jocelyn quickened her words. “I have known all along that you do not love me, so I suppose I am not surprised that you made an arrangement with my uncle.”
“Jocelyn, that is past.” He set the lantern on their small table and folded his arms. “We must get on with our work.”
“Yes.” She held up a restraining hand. “But our work now involves a new life, Thomas, and I will not harm this child—our child. God would not want us to neglect our baby.”
“I have no intention of neglecting my son, if he survives this place. He will be trained to do the work of the ministry.”
“If he survives?” She caught her breath. “Marry, why would he not survive? Eleanor’s child is faring well—”
“Are you familiar with the story of David and Bathsheba? God took the life of their son in payment for David’s sin.”
“David’s sin?” Thoroughly confused, Jocelyn shook her head and struggled to understand. “But we have not sinned, Thomas. You told me yourself—”
“Mayhap you did not sin, girl, but God holds me to a—” Bitterness flooded his voice. “God holds his ministers to a higher standard. I did wrong to marry you, and a greater wrong still to conceive this child.”
“I don’t understand.” Her voice was a plaintive wail. Would he never stop speaking in religious riddles?
“Jocelyn—” For a moment he smiled at her in the old way, reminding her of their days upon the ship when his eyes had regarded her with affection. “How can I make you understand? You know so little of men.”
“You forget, I lived with my father for most of my life.”
“But still you were sheltered. I don’t want to bring pain into your heart, or to sully your ears with things you ought not to hear, but remember always that we live on an island with seventeen women and ninety unmarried men.”
“So? What have they to do with us?”
Thomas lifted his hand in an emphatic gesture. “They have everything to do with us! I am their shepherd, I must model a life of holiness, and they must curb their natural appetites. How can I preach to them about righteous, self-controlled living when it has become obvious that I cannot control myself?”
His face reddened in his confession; honest shame colored his countenance. Jocelyn bit her lip, amazed at the change in him.
“Thomas,” she began, “no one will expect you to live as a Catholic monk. Indeed, all would rejoice at the birth of your son, just as they rejoice at any birth—”
“No, Jocelyn. ‘Tis enough that I must be a spiritual father to all in the colony. And you should know—I do not want to have children.”
Powerful emotions struggled in his face, and she knew instinctively what he was trying to tell her. “Am I truly so horrible, Thomas?” she asked, lowering her eyes.
He squinted in embarrassment. “No, Jocelyn, do not think so,” he whispered, his voice ragged.
“I se
e.” She looked at her rough hands, swollen from her pregnancy and the stress of the day. She was not the fragile girl he had met on board the Lion, mayhap the sight of her thickening body repelled him. Still, he had married her. He was her husband and the father of her child, and he must needs fulfill his responsibilities.
“Our child will survive, Thomas,” she whispered, struggling to keep her emotions under control. “And he must have more than training. Our child must be loved.”
He turned away from her, and she thought his shoulders trembled. “You will have to love him, Jocelyn. Such things are not meant for me—”
“Think you that you cannot love your own child? I’faith, Thomas—”
“Don’t swear, Jocelyn.” His voice was filled with pain she couldn’t understand.
“‘Tis not swearing.” She sighed in exasperation. “A plague upon your self-righteousness! In truth, Thomas, you must allow yourself to love—”
“No.” He kept his back to her, and she rose from the bed and placed a tentative hand on his back. He pulled away, stung, his face etched with fear as he faced her.
“Thomas,” she grasped his unwilling hand and held it with all her strength. “Feel the life within me.”
He resisted, pulling away like a frightened child, but she would not let go. Finally he relented, and she drew his hand to her stomach.
She took a deep breath, willing the child within her to move. There! Thomas felt it, too, for his face paled and his eyes glittered strangely. “I do not know what you feel today, or what you felt when you and my uncle arranged our marriage,” she whispered, searching his face even as she kept his hand upon her belly. “But I do know that on at least one night, you felt affection for me. And mark this, husband: if the people of this place believe the child is yours, yet know that you live in the attic, they will laugh at you, Thomas, and mock your words about self-control. Do you want that?”
“No.” He spoke through clenched teeth as though she held his hand to a red-hot iron.
“Then, I pray you, Thomas, you must behave as a proper husband.” She lifted her chin, allowing her tears to plead for the child. “Audrey must sleep in the attic, and you must share my chamber. ‘Tis a wonder Audrey has not already spread tales throughout the colony.”
“I cannot—”
“Yes, you can,” she answered. “I will not expect what you cannot give, Thomas, but you can do this simple thing. Beginning tonight, and from this night forward. I will not have our child called a mistake.”
His eyes met hers, and for a moment she thought he was honestly afraid of her. Slowly, he nodded in assent, and she released his hand.
He moved again toward the ladder. “I must get my books. My Bible, my papers, everything is upstairs.”
“Bring them down. You can move Audrey’s trunk to the attic on the morrow.”
He placed a foot on the ladder, then turned to her again. “By the by, where did you go today? I worried about you.”
The corner of her mouth drooped in a wry smile. “You don’t have to pretend when we’re alone, Thomas.”
He nodded without much conviction. “In truth, I worried. ‘Tis dangerous for a woman to wander alone. If savages had come onto the island—”
“There were Indians on the island.” She felt a twinge of satisfaction when his eyes widened in surprise. “I slept on a rock, and awoke to find an Indian boy standing over me.” She smiled. “His name was Kitchi, I think.”
“Did he harm you?”
“No, Thomas, ‘twas only a boy. I think he was more frightened of me than I of him. But he was not alone, and when I heard a noise in the bush, he leapt away. I think he meant to draw the others away from me.”
“Why didn’t you tell Ananias?” He took his foot from the ladder as if he would move to the door. “The savages may be scouting the island, testing our strength. Did you think you could keep this news to yourself?”
“We will say nothing, Thomas.” She filled her voice with all the authority she could muster and turned to face him directly. “Would you send our men out on another raid like the one that nearly killed the Croatoans in George Howe’s name? I was not harmed today, and we will say nothing.”
He clamped his mouth shut abruptly, then placed his hand again on the ladder. “I bid you good night, Mistress Colman,” he answered. “I will spend the night in prayer, but there is one thing I must require of you.”
“What?” she turned, ready to promise him anything.
He turned to climb the ladder and tossed the words over his shoulder: “Stop singing as you work.”
Safe in the attic, Thomas turned the lamp down to a steady glow and opened his Bible upon his knees. Flipping with trembling fingers through the pages, he found the verse he sought: Lust not after her beauty in thine heart . . .
The verse had become a mantra for him in the past few days. Ever since John White had dismissed the first charges brought months ago by John Jones and Beth Glane, those two devout colonists had consistently approached the council with complaints about the reverend Thomas Colman. The last attack had come but a week ago.
In the latest charge, Beth Glane had recited a portion of scripture from Paul’s letter to Timothy: And let these church authorities also first be proved, then let them use the office of leadership, being found blameless. Even so must their wives be grave, not slanderers, sober, faithful in all things. Let the authorities be the husbands of one wife, ruling their children and their own houses well.
“‘Tis well known that you, sir, had a wife in England,” John Jones announced when Beth Glane finished reading. As he spoke, the vein in Jones’ forehead swelled indignantly like a thick, black snake. “If we were in England, a charivari would have denounced your marriage to this young girl. ‘Tis not right that you should have two wives while many men here will have none.”
“And that your wife is a mere girl, certainly not a grave and sober woman,” Beth Glane added, her face a battlefield of scornful wrinkles. “I’ve heard her singing at her work. Who, sir, has time for singing? She is not a fit wife for a minister, and the marriage should be dissolved.”
Roger Bailie, as the eldest council member, turned to Thomas with a genial and forgiving smile on his face. “If, reverend, there is reason why we should not dissolve this marriage, we would be happy to hear of it.”
Thomas heard the unspoken plea: tell us you love the girl. Speak nobly of love, defend your wife, and all will be forgiven.
But as he thought of what he should say, Thomas caught the clear, cool gaze of Ananias Dare. Ananias knew the circumstances of his arranged marriage; he probably knew that Jocelyn was desperately unhappy. If Thomas gave anything other than the absolute truth, Ananias would be sure to prove him a liar.
He could not paint his marriage as a happy one.
He could not have the marriage annulled.
And so, feeling the scourge of the Almighty upon his back, Thomas folded his hands behind his back and uttered the single most humiliating confession of his life: “I have had two wives. Mayhap I did wrong to marry a young girl. And I am sorry if it proves to be an impediment, but the marriage should not be annulled. My wife, you see, is with child.”
Beth Glane gasped in horror, John Jones harrumphed in disapproval, and the heads of the council members rushed together for a hurried consultation. After a moment, Ananias Dare had spoken for the council: “We cannot undo what as been done under the direction of our governor. Mistress Glane and Master Jones, we beg you to keep the peace in the colony. Reverend Colman, we ask you to do the same. Keep the news of your former wife to yourself and live as circumspectly as possible.”
But, Thomas wondered, closing his eyes in preparation for prayer, how would it be possible to live circumspectly now that Jocelyn insisted that he actually live with her? Thus far he had been able to busy himself in the work of the colony, keeping her image and voice in the back of his mind and subjugating his own desires to the demands of the work. But to have her so close, to know th
at she would be breathing, laughing, sleeping only inches away—
He bowed his head and prayed for strength.
No matter how new or treacherous, life has a way of falling into a routine. At the first sign of a brightening sky, Jocelyn would awaken to sounds of Thomas rising. He rose, dressed, and left for the church without breakfast. Invariably Audrey would descend from the attic to help Jocelyn dress after Thomas’ departure, and Jocelyn wasn’t sure whether Audrey waited because she feared Thomas or merely wanted to stay out of his way. ‘Twas an unusual existence, Jocelyn knew, but Audrey seemed pleased to be sleeping in her rightful place and the people of the colony seemed to intuitively know that the minister belonged to them. The church building was the one place he seemed to feel truly at home. During the week, his parishioners visited him there, often bringing him food or other tokens of appreciation for his prayers, and Jocelyn felt that in an odd way the entire village was more wedded to him than she was. Very few of the Christmas gifts Thomas brought home were designed for Jocelyn’s enjoyment as well as his, and the friendly nods of appreciation after his Sunday sermon were directed toward him alone. Men and women alike shared with him their confidences as they asked for prayer, children ran to him for his blessing, and his resonant voice could cut through any argument and settle it with a well-placed quote from Holy Scriptures. Only Beth Glane and John and Jane Jones kept a careful distance from him, lifting their Bibles before their eyes as he spoke his Sunday sermon, seeming to prefer their own communion with God to the village’s communal worship.
When his day was done, Thomas came home to sit at the board and eat the supper Jocelyn and Audrey had prepared. During the meal he inquired about what each woman had accomplished. His tone was always agreeable and respectful, but his pleasantness vanished each night as Audrey climbed the ladder to the loft where her mattress now lay. After Thomas dimmed the lamp, he would kneel by the hearth and pray in a rough whisper for an hour or more, and, after saying her brief prayers, Jocelyn rarely remained awake long enough to feel the mattress shift as he climbed into bed beside her. He never spoke to her, never touched her, never reached for her as he had on their first night together.
