The Winthrop Woman

by Anya Seton

  Elizabeth married Robert Feake a month later in the middle of December. It seemed that in the Bay Colony marriage was no longer considered a sacrament or performed by a clergyman. Governor Winthrop, as chief magistrate, married them in the front room of his house. Elizabeth wore her maroon taffeta gown, Robert wore his plum-colored doublet. The Winthrops stood behind the bridal couple, and during the five-minute ceremony Elizabeth heard Martha crying softly, as she had nearly three years ago in St. Sepulchre's Church at the other wedding. Except for Martha there was no sound but Winthrop's measured voice, the murmured answers, and the hiss of burning logs. When the newlyweds had signed the contract, Winthrop smiled and said, "You may now kiss your wife, if you like, nephew Robert."

  Robert flushed up to his silvery hair, flattered by his relationship to the Governor, but so awed and confused by his status with Elizabeth that he did not move. She threw him a look of almost maternal pity, and laughed. "Come, come, husband—" she cried in a brittle voice. "You must not be so ungallant!" She brushed his smooth beardless cheek with her lips, noting that he trembled, and also that he smelled pleasantly of lavender. It won't be so bad, she thought. And thank God, I'm quit of this. She saw relief in Winthrop's eyes, and murmured recklessly, "Aye, my uncle. You'll soon be rid of me."

  He started, uncertain of what he heard, but the group dissolved as Margaret rushed up to give Elizabeth a warm hug, and the others followed.

  Elizabeth picked up Joan who had been standing owl-eyed through the ceremony, clinging to Martha's hand. "Here is your new father, poppet," she said in the same brittle tone. "Isn't that splendid?"

  Robert smiled nervously and touched the baby's hair. Joan stared at him without interest, then began to nuzzle Elizabeth, and pull at her bodice. Everyone laughed a little too loud. Margaret said, "Oh, for shame—'tis time you weaned her completely, Bess ... Fetch us wine," she called to the servants who had clustered near the kitchen door. "We must drink to the bridal couple!"

  "We do not drink the health of anyone, my dear," said Winthrop. "You forget. God alone has the power to grant health or contentment. But we may break bread and take a sip or two of wine in simple amity."

  Oh lud, thought Elizabeth, and the shell in which she had enclosed herself nearly cracked. At Martha's marriage there had been music and dancing, even at her own to Harry there had been Emmanuel Downing to lend jollity. But now they stood solemnly around the trestle and bowed their heads through Winthrop's extended prayer. Thomas Dudley and his son Samuel had come to the wedding. As soon as the blessing was over, Dudley and Winthrop began heavy frowning converse, which Margaret watched anxiously, knowing that the disagreements between these two were mounting. Samuel Dudley however whispered to Mary, who actually fluttered and looked almost pretty. Poor Mary, Elizabeth thought. If she'd set her heart on young Dudley, she'd have small hope of gaining him in view of their respective fathers' feelings. Yet Winthrop was ever indulgent with Mary.

  Elizabeth did not know she sighed, but Robert leaned near her and murmured, "You're weary? I too wish we could leave."

  "Why can't we!" she said. "I want to go. I will go."

  "But Elizabeth—to leave table before the Governor, and the ride is long and cold to Watertown. 'Twill soon be dark, and my home so poor yet, I've been wondering if for tonight you'd not better stay here in comfort... and your child..."

  "Nay, Robert," she said gently, knowing that he feared to be alone with her, and feared that he could not please her. "We will leave Joan until tomorrow, she is weaned enough for that. And we will start now for my new home. The Governor is no more my master." Nor, she added silently but looking hard at Robert, is any man.

  He swallowed and pushed back the trencher they had shared. "As you wish, Elizabeth. I will always—if I can—do what you wish."

  CHAPTER NINE

  DURING the first months of her marriage to Robert Feake, Elizabeth was content at Watertown. She enjoyed her four-room house, small as these rooms were. She loved her tiny garden and the river that shimmered and curved at the foot of their homestall. At last she was her own mistress, and Watertown, seven miles up the Charles from Boston, was usually far enough from her uncle to give her the independence she craved. Though Winthrop had unexpectedly appeared several times in the town. Once, to discipline the Reverend George Phillips for not banishing Richard Browne, an elder in the Watertown Church, who persisted in voicing the hideous opinion that Papist ceremonies might be valid for some, and that even Roman Catholic Churches were true churches, and not temples of Babylon. Though most of Watertown's congregation sided with the Governor, Mr. Phillips continued remarkably stiff-necked, and refused to admit that Boston had jurisdiction over anything that went on in his church.

  Worse followed in February when Phillips and others of the principal Watertown men refused to pay the levy of eight pounds the Governor had ordered for the fortification of Boston. Phillips actually said that he did not think Winthrop had power to make laws or raise taxes without the consent of all the people in the Bay, nor did he believe such power granted by the Charter. This disagreement lasted some time, and ended in Phillips's unwilling submission when Winthrop demonstrated that the first General Court had given full powers to the Governor and his assistants, no matter what the Charter said, and anyway the obstreperous inhabitants of Watertown could air their grievances in a few months at the next Court.

  Elizabeth was amused by these incidents, and delighted that she lived in a place which dared combat Uncle John. Though Robert was never of that number. He continued to be in awe of the Governor, and anxiously adoring of Elizabeth. This frequently touched, and sometimes exasperated her. If she had loved him, her bridal nights might have been tragic, but as it was, Robert's fumbling overeagerness, his total inexperience, his peculiar embarrassment all produced in her no deeper feeling than sympathy. Harry had well taught her the arts of love-making, and though she was startled to find herself in the role of teacher, the matter was soon adjusted.

  Robert clung to her, he was incoherently grateful for her soothing kindness when he had nightmares, he derived comfort from her nearness, but as the months went by his never importunate virility dwindled.

  Elizabeth accepted this philosophically. Robert never seemed quite like a man to her; not that he was actually effeminate, but their relationship, she realized when she thought of it, was more that of mother to a rather shadowy but devoted child. And for the present that sufficed. Especially as Robert had after all given her freedom, of a sort, and lavished on her every material comfort that he could afford. She was grateful, and accepted. The ninety pounds jointure that Winthrop—urged by Jack—had finally settled on her she kept locked in her chest with Harry's brooch and Jack's glove. Nor did Robert ever ask about it.

  On the morning of August 24, Elizabeth awakened after a stifling muggy night, and turning in their big bed saw that Robert was already up and pulling on his breeches. "Lord help us," said Elizabeth yawning and twisting her hair off her sweaty shoulders. "What a night, I'm measled with mosquito bites, all of an itch. There's much to be said for the old country."

  Robert did not answer, he was carefully washing his ears at a basin. Always he was very clean. Elizabeth scratched her arms, stomach and breasts violently, looking at the red splotches with disgust, yawned again and got out of bed. "'Tis St. Bartholomew's Day," she said, and sighed. "Oh, Rob, d'you remember the Fair? How I loved it. Every year I went, and it so near our home in the Old Bailey, I could hear the music while I lay abed too."

  "I never went to the Fair," said Robert with constraint. "Or at least I don't remember it." He began to comb his thin flaxen hair.

  "But, of course you'd remember it! And of course you went. All Londoners did." She had spoken without thinking, but now she saw what she thought of as "the strangeness" in his face, a shut, dark look, and it occurred to her that this came whenever there was mention of London.

  "Why do you always seem so moon-struck when I speak of home?" she cried in sudden irritation. "Be
fore God I believe you've some shameful secret of the past!"

  He winced, and his eyes blinked rapidly as they had almost stopped doing since his marriage. She saw his long fingers clench the comb. "Don't speak to me in such a tone, my dearest wife," he pleaded, walking slowly towards the bed. "I can't endure your anger." He knelt beside her and put his cheek on her knee.

  "Oh, pother!" said Elizabeth. "I'm not angry, only hot and uncomfortable. Why must you make such a fuss about naught? If you've a secret, keep it, only I like to think of home sometimes."

  "Is this not yet home, Bess?" he said sadly. "I've tried to make it so."

  "Of course it is—you ninny." She patted his shoulder. "I hope Sal's put a keg of beer in the spring, or it'll sour in this thundery weather. That wench gets more careless every day."

  "Shall I find you another maid, Bess?" asked Robert quickly, looking up into her face.

  "And where, I'd like to know? There's scarce a lass over here willing to be a decent servant. I doubt Sally stays after her passage money's paid up, she's none too content now unless she's bawdy-trotting with one of your men." Sally had made it obvious that the only amenities she found in Watertown were the dubious attentions of Robert's two indentured menservants.

  "You don't sound content yourself," persisted Robert, increasingly disturbed by Elizabeth's sharp tone. Though he knew she had a temper, she had never lost it with him, nor had he ever known her to grumble.

  "I am content," she snapped, then shook her head with a half-laugh. "Oh Rob, don't act so downtrodden. You're very good to me. Women have moods, my stomach's queasy, and in truth I think I'm breeding."

  "What?" he whispered, drawing back. "What did you say, Bess?"

  She laughed outright at his dazed face, thinking that any other husband would have guessed. "I said I'm almost sure I'm with child, and you needn't look shocked, my dear, we've been married eight months, so the court won't have us up for lewd questioning, should the babe come early."

  "Do you want it?" he said, swallowing.

  "To be sure I want it. I always wanted more babies."

  "But the dangers. I can't bear to think of you in pain or danger."

  "If I'm not afraid, you needn't be," she said. "The second comes easy. Look at Aunt Margaret, she near died last time, she's way over forty and yet whimpers not at bearing her seventh."

  "Aye, that's true," he said, reassured as Elizabeth's decisive strength always reassured him. "I suppose it will be pleasant for us to have a baby. Though I can't imagine it."

  "You're good to Joan," she said looking at him kindly. "And will dote on your own. Now, Rob, shouldn't you be hurrying out to the fields? Aren't the men cutting corn today?"

  He started and nodded. He finished dressing and went out while Elizabeth thought it was fortunate that his servants had been farm lads in the old country and had enough knowledge to tend the Feake crops, for Robert certainly had not. He was as ignorant of husbandry, cattle care, or land-clearing as she was herself, but she at least understood gardening and the stillroom, and she had been used to the partial supervision of a manor, while he apparently knew no skills but his former craft. Sometimes she wondered why he never seemed to miss that or wish to exercise it. He had given her a fine gold neckchain and an exquisitively chased silver ladle for wedding presents, and both he himself had made in London, so that she knew his ability. There were, of course, no materials in Watertown for him to set up as gold- or silversmith; also it was clear that he no longer wished to have anything to do with trade, but she thought it odd that the thin sensitive fingers should he idle of an evening when he might have tinkered with their pewter or made tools as most other men did here.

  But her thoughts never dwelt long on Robert when he was not with her. While she dressed herself in her one cool gown of rose tiffany, bundled her hair into a kerchief and tied on a workaday apron, she thought again of Margaret whose babe was due in a fortnight, which meant it had been conceived almost as soon as they landed from the Lyon, and inescapably brought to Elizabeth an image of her uncle in a grotesque light. Impossible and revolting for her to imagine him in any act of intimacy, and she felt an irrational anger too on Margaret's account, though the feeling was unjust. Margaret, incredible as it seemed to Elizabeth, truly loved her John and delighted in submission. And she has God too, Elizbeth thought a trifle wistfully, a God whom she believes watches over and loves her.

  This meditation was brusquely interrupted by Joan, who had learned to unlatch the door and ran into the bedchamber crying, "Mama! Mama! Injuns!"

  There had been rumors of unrest amongst the Indians lately, nothing definite, but the Feakes' neighbor, Captain Patrick, had told them that he and Underhill were on the alert. Elizabeth was not given to worry; moreover she had become friendly with several of the local Indians who lived across the river in their village called Nonantum, so that the note of fear in the child's cry scarcely disquieted her, but she was startled when she hurried down to the kitchen and found two strange Indians standing on the hearthstone smoking English pipes and gazing fixedly at the terrified Sally, who was huddled over the spinning wheel trying with shaking hands to twist a length of broken yarn.

  "What are you doing here?" cried Elizabeth to the Indians, pushing Joan behind her and wishing Robert and the men were working the home lot today instead of their fifteen acres by the Common.

  The two Indians swiveled their beady black gaze from Sally, and contemplated Elizabeth with the same detachment. She saw by their face tatooings, the quality of their fringed buckskin breeches, their many wampum necklaces, and the amount of red-dyed deer hair and feathers in their roached scalplocks that both must be some sort of chief. One carried an English pike, and the other taller handsomer Indian a stone tomahawk with an elaborately painted wood handle. This Indian also wore with great dignity a mantle of woven turkey feathers.

  "What do you want?" cried Elizabeth again. "How dare you enter my house!" And she made shooing gestures towards the door.

  The taller one blew a cloud of tobacco smoke through his nostrils, and said, "Want Mr. Oldham—my friend."

  "Well, you won't find him here," said Elizabeth, relieved to hear English. "His house is up the river about a mile."

  "He not there," said the Indian. "We look. Oldham where?"

  "I haven't the least idea," snapped Elizabeth who barely knew John Oldham, a famous Indian trader, seldom at his house in Watertown. "Who are you?" she said, lifting her chin and frowning.

  "Me," said the tall one after a moment, "Miantonomo, Big Sachem Narragansetts. This—" he pointed to the other Indian, "English call James Sagamore—live near."

  "Oh, to be sure," Elizabeth cried, still uneasy but enlightened. Patrick had told her that a great chief of the Narragansetts had recently been to see Winthrop in Boston, ostensibly to ask for an alliance against the fierce Pequots whose lands adjoined the Narragansetts to the west. Winthrop had entertained the Sachem, his squaw and twelve braves hospitably, but there was doubt as to the real purpose of the visit. James Sagamore Elizabeth had also heard of, since he and his brother John ruled the Massachusetts tribes from Watertown to Salem. It seemed wise to pacify such prominent chiefs, and Elizabeth decided she had been discourteous. She managed a nervous smile. "I'm sorry I can't help you to find Mr. Oldham. But could I offer you something to drink, it's so warm."

  Miantonomo grunted, while the muscles relaxed around his glittering jet eyes. James Sagamore yanked a stool from under the table, settled himself on it, and said, "Beer."

  "Get beer, Sally," Elizabeth hissed over her shoulder, not removing her gaze from the Indians. The girl scurried out towards the spring. She came back staggering from the weight of a small wet keg. Behind her through the door waddled a fat, befeathered squaw, wearing a red English petticoat, and nothing above it except strings of wampum which flopped between her pendulous brown breasts. She gave Elizabeth what seemed to be a friendly salute, then seated herself on the bench near James Sagamore and eyed the beer keg expectantly.r />
  "Your woman?" Elizabeth asked, looking from one to the other of the men. Definitely relieved now, she felt inclined to laugh.

  "No," said Miantonomo. "She belong no man. She squaw sachem. She rule many men."

  Oh, thought Elizabeth, a female chief. I'm honored but I hope there aren't more of them. Though the hearth fire was low, yet it made the kitchen sultry, and the Indian smell was overpowering. She pulled the bung from the keg and, letting beer flow into a big pewter tankard, offered it to Miantonomo who drank deeply and passed the tankard to the others. Elizabeth prayed they would go, but James Sagamore put his pipe back in his mouth, while his eyes roamed around the whitewashed walls where the Feake firearms rested on wooden pegs. There were two muskets, a pistol, and a carbine. Powder horns hung beneath each. Robert had taken the fowling piece with which he was an indifferent shot, but he sometimes got wild fowl or small game.

  "Guns," said James Sagamore, speaking for the first time. "I want. You sell."

  Elizabeth's heart jumped. She did not need the memory of Captain Peirce's advice to Eliot on the Lyon, nor the knowledge that selling firearms to the Indians was an offense punishable by flogging and branding, to appreciate the danger of her position. I must keep my head, she thought, and instinctively turned to Miantonomo. "I cannot sell any guns, you know that, Sachem," she said speaking very distinctly. "The white Governor has forbidden it. He would be angry."

  Miantonomo nodded slightly but said nothing. James Sagamore got up and walking to the nearest musket, ran his stumpy finger down the barrel. "I take," he said, and glanced at the silent sachem, in a wheedling voice he added to Elizabeth, "I give you beaver."