The Winthrop Woman

by Anya Seton

  She pulled another piece of paper from the box, and started once more in cipher, "Deare husband."

  The other women had gone on talking and Margaret said, "Pond asked me if you sailed with us—I said I thought so—yet Bess dear —how I hope that you will make the match with William Coddington—John wishes it—and it would settle you so well over there!" Winthrop had twice mentioned William Coddington's projected visit to the Manor, and a groom had gone to fetch Coddington from Sudbury this very afternoon.

  Elizabeth sat up, pushing back her hair which the baby had tumbled. "I won't know until I see the man!" she said briskly. "But I mislike what I've heard about him—writing the vicar to inquire about my virtues! Writing you the same! And I've little fancy for a widower, no matter how Uncle John thinks to get me ably off his hands!"

  "Bess!" cried Margaret, noting sadly that Elizabeth had returned of late to the rebellious bravado of her girlhood, but Margaret was staunchly fond of her, and had come to depend on her too. "You speak most unreasonable. You are a widow, and since Mr. Coddington has most unfortunately buried his wife in New England..."

  "And is looking for another as fast as possible, and is rich, and is willing to consider me on Uncle John's recommendation, I should be thanking God for my good fortune?" Elizabeth burst out in one of her rare laughs at Margaret's rueful face. "Never mind, dearest Mother. I promise to charm Mr. Coddington if I possibly can. I suppose I must marry, if only to get a man in my bed. I find the nights lonely, and I want more babies."

  Margaret shook her head. "I grieve to hear you so flippant—did I not know your warm true heart..."

  "Warm true hearts profit little," said Elizabeth gathering up Joan. "I will go now and make myself beautiful for Mr. Coddington!" She spoke pertly, but as she passed the desk where Martha was hunched, she gave her sister an anxious look, knowing well that something was wrong between the new couple, and sorry for them, even though she could not help relief that she had not had to witness raptures.

  William Coddington duly arrived in time for supper, and Elizabeth had made herself as lovely as the black silk dress and plain mourning collar allowed. She wickedly left off her starched widow's cap, and twisted her hair into little tendrils around her face. She rubbed some red salve Harry had given her on her lips. She doused herself with rosewater and patted orris-root powder over her neck and arms.

  Sally was in ecstasies as she helped her mistress, crying, "Oh, ma'am, ye dew smell good n' thass the truth. The gentleman'll never leave wi'out declaring hisself!"

  Elizabeth's hazel eyes sparkled as she descended the stairs, and her heart beat with an anticipation she had not admitted to Margaret. It would be pleasant to be wooed again, to feel desirable and female. It would be delightful to be kissed, and if Mr. Coddington pleased her, she had little doubt that she could kindle passion in him. Fifteen months had passed since she had said farewell to poor Harry, and his image had faded. Recently she had even enjoyed correspondence with Edward Howes, who apparently still wanted her and was making overtures by letter, though she had no intention of allowing him to get serious again. Her awakened body yearned for lovemaking after the long abstinence; she wished for new romance that would release her once and for all from any forbidden preoccupation with Jack.

  But William Coddington, despite Sally's prophecy, did leave Groton without declaring himself, for after one horrified look at him as she entered the Hall, Elizabeth behaved outrageously.

  Coddington was no more than thirty but his head was nearly bald, and fringed with straggling locks. He was pock-marked, much shorter than she and very fat. He was stuffed like a sausage into an elegant brocaded doublet and velvet breeches. There were several gold rings on his puffy hands. Bowing, he greeted Elizabeth in tones of measured condescension.

  "Good evening, Mistress Winthrop, this is a pleasure long desired, I have heard interesting reports of you, and am gratified to see that those of your comeliness at least were not exaggerated—" He gave her a smug appraising smile and she noted that his breath was foul from rotted teeth.

  "And I've heard of you," she answered, furious with disappointment. "And I observe that perhaps reports of famine in New England are much exaggerated." She glanced from his plump cheeks to his paunch, but her voice was so soft, and Coddington so sure of his own worth, that he merely smiled again in a startled way and said, "I believe they are, at least it is largely the lower sort of folk who complain."

  "I see—" she said. "How foolish of them." Her smile became more brilliant, gliding away from Coddington to rest on young Leigh, the vicar's eighteen-year-old son, who had just come down from Cambridge. The Leigh family had been asked to supper to meet Mr. Coddington.

  "Is it not foolish of the lower sort to complain of scanty food—Mr. Leigh?" she said to the young man looking at him through her lashes. He was immediately dazzled, and stammered some fatuous reply.

  Throughout the supper, Elizabeth flirted with young Leigh, she drank too much claret, she laughed too high, she interrupted Coddington whenever he tried to deliver an opinion. Martha and Mary stared at her in amazement. Had Margaret been there, she might have controlled this madness, but Margaret had excused herself from the supper party because her baby had again developed fever and convulsions.

  Mr. Coddington grew very quiet, and pursed his little mouth uncertainly as he watched Elizabeth. He knew himself to be a man of consequence both in Old Boston and the New—a most eligible husband. He had however been prepared to overlook the fact that Elizabeth was a mere apothecary's daughter, prepared even to forget somewhat damaging gossip he had heard about her impetuous marriage to Harry, since her double relationship to Governor Winthrop mitigated these. So undoubtedly did her beauty. He felt himself as powerfully attracted by it, as he was shocked by her hoydenish behavior, which grew worse. After supper Elizabeth, sweetly enquiring if she could entertain them, picked up a lute and sang in her true husky voice a ribald tavern song she had learned from Harry. She was presently joined in the chorus by young Leigh despite the rector's glares.

  "You do not like my song?" she asked anxiously in the silence that followed. "Oh, Mr. Coddington, I am so disappointed, for I wished so much to please you. Perhaps this one will, I think it charming." And she launched into "Cuckolds all in a Row."

  Before she had finished, Mr. Leigh rose, signaled his wife and grabbed his son by the arm. "We must be going," he said in out raged tones, throwing Coddington a look of commiseration and apology.

  Elizabeth too looked at Coddington, and was dismayed to see a lustful glint in his small eyes which kept roaming over her neck and bosom. She poured herself more wine to offset a fear—the lifelong buried fear of John Winthrop and his wishes. She had defied these once, and dared not do so again by explicitly refusing her uncle's choice for her. The opportunity must not arise. "Wait," she cried wildly to the Leighs. "It is yet early, let us play a game of names—to see what images they present!"

  The Leighs paused, compelled by her vibrancy and force.

  "My maiden name—" she cried, "was Fones—that's easy, since it makes us think of fawns. But yours, Mr. Coddington—why what a wondrous suggestive name it is! We think of a great fish, do we not? We think of little pods, and bags—aye, and can we help—when viewing so handsome, so virile an owner of the name," she paused, went on with silken malice, "Can we help think of a codpiece?"

  Coddington drew in a hissing breath. His pride of name was as great as his physical deficiency in the area to which Elizabeth so monstrously referred. He threw her a look of fury, and said with considerable dignity, "Your game is a poor one, Mistress Winthrop, and I perceive that you have drunk to excess. I shall return to Sudbury if you will kindly have the horses brought."

  It was some days before her baby recovered and Margaret heard of that evening from the rector. She went straight in search of Elizabeth who was working in her surgery looking pale and drawn.

  "Oh, Bess, how COULD you?" Margaret cried, sinking down on the stool and gazing woefully at
the girl. "What Mr. Coddington must think—and will tell John!"

  "He'll not tell much," said Elizabeth slowly pounding cardamon seeds in her mortar. "Except that he found me unsuitable, 'tis better that way. You scarce saw him—he was—was—" she shuddered, "like a bloated toad, and yet Uncle John would have had me marry him."

  "Men think not of the looks of other men," said Margaret helplessly. "And my John is best judge of what's good for you and all of us. Bess, he is your guardian, your uncle and your father, you MUST obey him."

  Aye, thought Elizabeth, and he has my dowry too, my four hundred pounds which he said he would repay but has not yet.

  Dear God, that I were born a man, and could strike out alone—with Joan.

  "And, in your behavior you most dreadfully breached the laws of hospitality," said Margaret fastening on another unhappy aspect of the rector's account.

  "For that I'm sorry," said Elizabeth dully. "I was high-flown with wine."

  "May God correct and guide you, my poor child," sighed Margaret rising with difficulty for she had remained heavy after Ann's birth, and her leg veins were swollen. "I pray all the time that you will be touched with His sure grace."

  Elizabeth put down her pestle. She bent and kissed the older woman. "I would be like you if I could, my mother, but I cannot."

  On August 15 of that summer, 1631, the Winthrops arrived at Sandwich in Kent to await Captain Peirce and his ship Lyon, which had been laden at Gravesend and was sailing down the Thames and around Kent to pick them up before continuing the voyage to New England.

  Mr. John Humphrey, who was married to Arbella's sister, Lady Susan, had kindly placed a house he owned in Sandwich at the Winthrops' disposal while they waited for the Lyon, but though it was a goodly Tudor mansion near the Guildhall the Winthrop party was so large that some must stay at the Fleur-de-Lys, which enchanted Elizabeth who insisted on being of that number.

  The Inn was small and musty, the beds none too well aired but it was gay, the taproom filled with jovial drinkers, the courtyard always a-bustle with travelers and sailors, and passengers like themselves, who meant to embark from the Downs. And at the Inn one could better smell the sea.

  Elizabeth had been bred in London and the gentle countryside, and was fond of both. Yet from her first glimpse of the distant line of breakers on the Sandwich Flats, she felt a compelling new thrill. Let the rest of them, Margaret, Martha and Mary, weep for Groton, as they did that night, Elizabeth could not join them. She suffered nothing but relief and anticipation. The Winthrops had brought four servants, amongst them Sally, who had decided to emigrate with Elizabeth when Wat Vintener proved fickle. Elizabeth nursed Joan, then left her in Sally's charge and escaped into the warm summer twilight, heading through the quaint winding streets for the sea. The sea was retreating from this town that had once been the chiefest of the Cinque-Ports, but a short walk brought her to the wide brown sands, where she stood trans fixed, gazing with awe at the crashing breakers, the flying spume, the suck and power of the watery masses, ever striving, pounding, ebbing, indifferent and beautiful.

  "Ah—" she breathed, stretching wide her arms into the salt-sweet wind. She walked so near the marge that one wave greater than the rest swirled round her ankles, and she laughed.

  "So, Bess—you laugh?" said a quizzical voice behind her. She turned and saw Jack standing on the sand. Some of her own exultance showed in his eyes. "The sea," he said, "pathway to the New World."

  "To freedom," she answered, throwing back her head. They looked long at each other and Jack moved closer, then checked himself. "I guessed where to find you, for it's where I would come too. There's news. The Lyon was sighted passing Ramsgate earlier. She'll soon be in the Downs with this wind. We may leave tomorrow."

  "I'm glad—" she cried. "Glad!"

  "Not afraid?"

  "Only of your father, I think. Of nothing else."

  He started to say that she needn't be, that his father was wise and essentially kind, that in any case she was but an inexperienced girl of twenty-one and must be guided. Instead he said, without wishing to, "Mattie is afraid."

  "I know." Elizabeth pulled her gaze from the waves. "She doesn't want to go." She hesitated. "Why can't you reassure her, Jack? What is there wrong between you two? She loves you so much."

  "Martha is a child," he said roughly. "Nor wishes to be anything else."

  They were alone on the beach, and plunged unsuspecting into an intimacy they had never permitted before. The gulls wheeled and mewed, heading inland towards the town. The sky turned violet and the waves flung diamond showers upon the glistening dark sand.

  "How can she be afraid with you beside her?" Elizabeth's voice was muted by the waves, but he heard her.

  "She is afraid of me—of being a wife."

  So that is it, Elizabeth thought. She had begun to suspect.

  "She fears childbirth," said Jack heavily. lie reached down and picked up a cockle shell; frowning, he fingered the delicate flutings. "Fears it more than is natural. She may love me but not enough to—" He flung the shell far from him. "Nor should I talk to you like this." He raised his head and looked at her in her new crimson gown. The strong breasts and shoulders, the proud lovely face silhouetted against the sky.

  "You must woo her," said Elizabeth faintly. "Gentle her, persuade her, then maybe force her in the end, a little."

  "Aye—" he answered after a moment when her meaning reached him. Then he stiffened. He raised his eyes, staring at her now with what seemed like anger. "But by God, I don't want to!"

  "Jack—" she whispered. She caught her breath, and the words tumbled over each other. "Jack, we both love her, you do, you know you do, you must have patience, she is so tender, so unaware..."

  He said nothing. He took a sharp step forward and seized her in his arms. She made a whimpering sound, but she yielded her mouth to his. They stood there interlocked and trembling, while the waves pounded behind them. A fishing boat grated on the shingle nearby. There were voices and the light of a lantern.

  Jack's arms dropped, he jerked his mouth from hers, pushing her away. "Unclean," he said through his teeth, "incestuous. May God forgive me." Dim as the light had grown she saw real anger now in the brown eyes that were usually merrily observant. An anger that engulfed the world. "Come, Bess—" he said sharply. "My mother will be wondering where we are."

  They walked up the beach far separated from each other. They went silently through the twisted streets of Sandwich until they came to Humphrey's house and were greeted at the door by Martha with a glad cry of welcome.

  The next afternoon the entire Winthrop company having driven the six miles to the quay at Deal, embarked in the Lyon's longboat. Though Margaret said nothing as she settled herself in the stern, a tear glistened on her cheek, and she clutched her whimpering baby tight in her arms. Her four-year-old Sammy nestled beside her and stared with open mouth at the half-naked sailors, but she had had to leave Deane in London with the Downings. He was a delicate child and a scholarly one. John had written that he thought it best neither to risk the journey for Deane, nor interrupt his schooling. It was a sorry blow. Yet soon I shall see my oldest boys and my beloved husband, if God wills it, Margaret thought, seeking acceptance as always. And the rest of her family were here with her, comfort enough for leaving Deane—and England. The sailors began to row and Margaret though herself frightened of the water managed to smile at Martha who sat rigid on the next thwart beside Jack. The boat started to pitch as they moved from shelter. "See our ship!" cried Margaret en couragingly. "Does she not look large and staunch?" She indicated the 250-ton Lyon which rode far out at anchor in the middle of the downs, her flags flying, her high poop newly painted in red and blue, the rampant lion on the prow sparkling with new gilt.

  Martha did not turn to look, nor answer. She fixed her eyes on the dirty water that sloshed in the bilges, and pressed her pale lips hard to keep from whimpering as did the infant Ann. Jack despised her fears, she knew, and she despised h
erself. Already the motion of the boat and the vast insecurity of the treacherous sea made her sick and giddy. She sat frozen, while her muscles tensed as though they could rush her back to land.

  Mary Winthrop crouched on a chest of their household goods, beyond the four rowing sailors. Her plain freckled face was composed. Under her serviceable brown wool cape she held her vellum-bound psalm book; in her personal chest she had some other books she had bought in London. These and needlework were all Mary needed to while away the voyage. She longed to see her father of whom she was quietly fond. For the rest she was a philosopher, and though only eighteen was untroubled by youthful turbulence. She appeared indeed older than Elizabeth, who had wedged herself into the bow with Joan and was eagerly savoring the motion of the boat, the slapping of waves on the hull, and the flying spray. Elizabeth had been somber enough through the night of sleepless worry over those moments on the beach with Jack. Guilt-ridden because she could not help reliving them and longing for their repetition. Towards dawn her thoughts had grown so unmanageable that she had even dug her Bible out of the bottom of her bride chest and fumbled through Leviticus until she found the Lord's terrible ordinances in the twentieth chapter: The adulterer and the adulteress shall surely be put to death ... If a man shall take his brother's wife, it is an unclean thing: he hath uncovered his brother's nakedness...

  And if a woman should lust for her sister's husband ... as well? She had tried to pray for the first time in years. She arose very weary but calmer. She and Jack greeted each other coolly, and both plunged into the bustle of departure.