The Winthrop Woman

by Anya Seton

  Thus it was that the whole Feake family was in Boston on Election Day and that Elizabeth was standing with other women on the sunny green outside the meetinghouse listening to the hum of male voices inside and wondering why there was a sudden hush, then an uproar of shouts, groans, handclappings and hisses.

  She soon found out, for Jack Winthrop who, as one of the colony assistants, had of course been present, stalked out of the meetinghouse looking grim and seeing her, came over. "They've ousted Father," he said in a low tense voice. "Dudley's in."

  "What!" cried Elizabeth staring at him. "You don't mean Dudley's to be Governor!" It was impossible to think of her uncle as anything but supreme authority; impossible and disconcerting too, unnatural.

  "Aye," said Jack. "Father's not even deputy. Roger Ludlow is. Those new selectmen did it."

  "Not Robert—?" she faltered, frowning and still trying to rearrange her ideas.

  "Oh no, not Robert, of course—but most of the others." Jack laughed suddenly on a sharp note. "Ah well, it's an ill wind that blows good to none. Dudley's been hankering after this for years, and Father needs a rest. He'll put a good face on it, though 'tis a bitter pill, for now Dudley'll move the capital to Newtown—well entrenched with his cronies, Ludlow, the Reverend Mr. Hooker, and John Haynes."

  "I can't believe it," said Elizabeth, astonished to find that she felt sorry for her uncle; and in a few moments, proud of him, as he walked out of the meetinghouse side by side with Dudley who was flushed with victory. Winthrop held his head high, his smile was tight, but it was a smile, as he ceremoniously waved to his beadle and halberdiers to take their places before the new governor. He showed none of his inner confusion and dismay while he labored to accept, not the will of the people, for this he considered stupid if not wicked, but what was perhaps the Will of God.

  "I must go to him," said Jack, watching his father walk with Dudley while the people cheered uncertainly. "Dudley and Council will dine with us as arranged before this—this reversal. 'Twill not be an easy meal—but Bess—I must ask you something first."

  "Yes?" she said wondering. She had seen Jack but seldom since her marriage and not at all since he and Martha had moved thirty miles north to the new settlement at Agawam last autumn.

  "'Tis my poor Martha," he said. "Hasn't she written you that for three months or so she is at last with child?"

  "No!" Elizabeth cried. "Jack, how wonderful! But why hasn't she written? I confess it pains me that she hasn't."

  "Oh, she's had a cold, and her spirits are mopish," he said with some exasperation. "She has nervous fancies, like all breeding women, I suppose. But she longs for you, Bess. I found her weeping over a fine lace handkerchief she says you gave her once at Christmas in London years ago. 'Tis wild country up there and lonely, so few women yet. Bess—could you?"

  "Go to Agawam?" she said slowly, thinking of Robert, Joan, and her own baby of scarce a year, and still unweaned.

  "Aye," he said. "If you could go to Agawam, or Ipswich rather, for so we've named it—just for a visit, I know 'twould cheer her. I must be away so much and she frets after me, poor lass, she's so timid."

  "To be sure I'll go," Elizabeth said after a moment. She looked up into his steady brown eyes. He clasped her hand, said, "God bless you, we'll arrange later," and strode off down King Street towards the Winthrop home.

  Robert came out of the meetinghouse much distressed at the way the election had gone, and fearful that Winthrop might somehow blame him for not having influenced the other two Watertown deputies. Elizabeth reassured him, and forbore mentioning Martha or the trip to Ipswich as yet. This was a holiday, the only one permitted by the colony, and the Feakes, like all the settlers from nearby towns, planned to enjoy it, no matter who was Governor. The Feakes had come downriver by water and brought food in baskets. Before running off to amuse themselves, Sally and the menservants laid out the provisions on the grassy slope of Trimount, in the shadow of apple trees planted around William Blackstone's spring. The center of the Common was still nearly treeless, and very hot on this bright May day, so that other family parties crowded near the Feakes, and there was a temporary awkwardness when members of the Dudley clan ensconced themselves nearby. These were the new governor's daughter—Anne Bradstreet and her children; also Mary and Sam with their baby. Robert, at once embarrassed, wanted to move away, but Joan darted over to play with the little Bradstreets, and Elizabeth, feeling that constraint was untenable, called out laughing to Mary, "Aren't you the fortunate lass! Since you have a father for governor no matter what happens!"

  Mary smiled. The tall dreamy Anne Bradstreet, who never seemed quite aware of her surroundings, looked around and smiled too. Soon all the new babies were being compared, and Robert was relieved when he heard his own little Lisbet admired. She was very like him in coloring, a silvery fairylike child, undemanding and quiet. She had given Elizabeth no trouble at her birthing, and she seldom cried now. Robert was wonderingly proud of her and had insisted she be named for his wife, much against Elizabeth's wishes who yearned for something romantic like Celia or Pernelle. But Robert had shown a curious streak of stubbornness until Elizabeth had yielded. And now in its shortened form of Lisbet the name did suit the child.

  That Election Day was a merrier gathering than any Elizabeth had seen in New England. Several ships had come in that week; the town was full of newcomers, by no means all of them strict Puritans. On that brilliant spring day, little Boston wore an almost settled and cosmopolitan air. The ships had made quick voyages and had supplies left to sell. John Coggin, a wealthy merchant, had opened the first general shop, and public pressure had finally resulted in a licensed tavern—an ordinary—run by one Samuel Cole. The delighted settlers patronized it lavishly, though Cole's brother, Robert, wandering the streets with a red D for Drunkard sewn on his doublet, also provided a warning which went unheeded as the day advanced. Nobody was very sure how severe Dudley would be on moral laxities, and it seemed reasonable to enjoy oneself in the interregnum. Moreover, Boston's ministers Cotton and Wilson were dining at the Winthrops', so that except for the very godly, who soon withdrew to their homes, there was no curb on the normal English love of sports, drinking and horseplay. It was very like a Fair Day at Boxford.

  There were three military leaders in the colony now, by the addition of John Mason who commanded the Dorchester militia, and on the parade ground all the captains held competitive drilling of their train bands, which produced an agreeable background of stamping feet, drums, fifes, and occasional wild musket shots. Soon there was singing too. Some of the new-come lasses and lads began the May songs they had loved in their English villages, and Robert Cole, unabashed by his red badge of shame and half tipsy despite it, started up the ballad "Robin Hood and Little John, They both are gone to the fair, O!"

  The sport rapidly grew rougher. A squealing greased pig was brought and set loose for the young men to catch, there was a tug-of-war, and a wild sack race to the ducking pond and back. Near the Feake and Dudley parties somebody started to play the fiddle and a group of youngsters from Essex caught hands and began to dance while the surrounding ring jiggled and clapped hands and cheered when shrieking girls were caught and kisses snatched.

  "This is getting very lewd," said Mary drawing her brows together like her father. "Samuel, I think you should stop them. Dear me, isn't that Stephen, wrestling with that chandler's boy?"

  Elizabeth, who was thoroughly enjoying herself and wishing she dared dance, looked with interest where Mary was pointing. It was indeed Stephen, Margaret's eldest son. He was as panting and yelling and dirty as any of them, and this despite his dramatic conversion two months ago, when as Winthrop had solemnly recorded in his journal the fourteen-year-old Stephen had been

  buffeted by Satan, and so broken for his sins that he mourned and languished daily, until at last he confessed his blasphemous and wicked thoughts openly and was freed from temptation and received into the church.

  "Aye—His Worship—that is�
��Mr. Winthrop will be much upset when he sees this revelry—" said Robert nervously, while Samuel went off to reprimand Stephen. "Come, wife, I think we should go."

  "Wait," Elizabeth said scarcely listening. She stood up and shielding her eyes peered down the Common where there was a cannon-ball-pitching contest. There was something familiar about the large figure which was whirling and flinging the heavy iron ball.

  "I'll be back soon," she said to the astonished Robert. She walked around the dancers and down the strip of trampled rough grass through the crowd until she came to the contest. "Will Hallet," she whispered, and felt a peculiar, not entirely pleasant thrill. He had changed a good deal in three years, grown and broadened so that he was much larger than all the other men except his opponent—Bigelow, the blacksmith. Will's face was still fresh colored though shadowed now by a stubble of beard, his lank hair was darker and cut off below his ears. His sweaty leather doublet hung open and disclosed a chest full of curly hair. As he lifted the cannon ball with two hands and swung it back for the throw, the muscles swelled in his powerful arms and long sturdy thighs. The ball fell on the far side of a stick, beyond that thrown by the blacksmith, and some of the crowd cheered, "Good lad, Will! Go it, Hallet. I've bet all my pence on ye!" Others groaned and encouraged the smith.

  Elizabeth waited at the edge of the crowd until the cannon balls were thrown again and Hallet won, when a pretty girl of about sixteen rushed up to him and throwing a garland of green maple leaves around his neck gave him a hearty kiss. Oh, thought Elizabeth. Of course, there'd be a girl with blue eyes and yellow ringlets, maybe there was even a babe at home somewhere.

  She turned to leave, chiding herself for the unconsidered impulse which had made her rush over here, when Hallet saw her. The girl was clinging to his arm, but he pushed her aside im patiently, tore off the maple wreath and strode towards Elizabeth. "Mistress Winthrop?" he said with the gently-bred intonation which seemed so incongruous with his rough shabby clothes and workman's haircut.

  "Not Winthrop now," she said quickly. "Soon after landing I married a gentleman called Robert Feake. We live at Watertown."

  "Ah so?" he looked down at her with courteous interest and something else she couldn't quite fathom, since it seemed to be compounded of admiration and wariness. She noted for the first time that his eyes were gray, and their composed stare had the remembered effect of embarrassing her.

  "Where have you been, since we left the Lyon?" she said, turning away and starting to walk.

  "Roving," he answered, falling into step beside her. "North of Piscataqua, even into New France. By-the-bye I saw Lady Gardiner up there last year."

  "Mirabelle?" she cried. "Oh, what's happened to her? I still miss her."

  Will laughed. "You shouldn't by rights, since she pokes fun at your colony. You should hear the drolleries she tells of Puritans! In Quebec she made de Champlain and the Abbé of the Récollets shake with mirth."

  "No doubt," said Elizabeth dryly, knowing nothing of New France except that the English considered it a fearful Papist menace. "Is she there now?"

  "Nay, she returned to England with her husband." Where Sir Christopher, still smarting from his treatment in Massachusetts, had every intention of making trouble, Will thought with amusement. The inborn shrewdness of the English yeoman had, in Will Hallet, through the accident of his aristocratic rearing, ripened to a sophistication which his recent years of total independence had matured. People's foibles and motives often amused him, and for his age he was an acute observer.

  They had both unconsciously paused near the pond, and Elizabeth saw the yellow-haired girl hovering behind them and pouting. "Is that your lass?" she asked suddenly, with a casual smile, "or wife, mayhap?"

  Hallet looked around. "Good Lord, no! I ne'er saw her until I came back here two days past. D'you think me fool enough to marry at eighteen? I've no wish for shackles."

  From this reply Elizabeth derived both satisfaction and a qualm. Eighteen, she thought, not yet a man despite his size, while I am twenty-four and well shackled. She saw that several people who knew her by sight were staring at them curiously, and she drew herself up saying in a brisk condescending voice, "It's been pleasant to meet you again. Always I'll feel grateful for your brave act on the ship. Do you stay long in Boston?"

  He shrugged, instantly noting her change of tone, and his became as formal. "I daresay not. I've kin from Dorset now in Plymouth Colony. I may see them, but I've a fancy to go south for a change, maybe Virginia. The ships'll always sign on a good carpenter."

  "Ah, would that I were free as you!" Elizabeth cried involuntarily, swept by a familiar ache, and a new pain too which was in some way connected with this huge sweaty lad who stood beside her. She swayed closer to him without knowing it, and his wary gaze softened in response. "But you're a woman," he said. "For a man 'la plus grande chose au monde c'est de savoir estre a soi'—his own master—but a woman! A woman, an ass, and a walnut tree, the harder you beat them the better they be!"

  "You knave!" she cried, with a spurt of startled laughter. "Was that French you spoke?"

  "Montaigne," he said grinning. "I told you I'd a most elegant education, and the run of one of the best libraries in England."

  "Will, you're—you're fantastical," she said. "Why don't you use that education, why you could be schoolmaster here, I shouldn't wonder, or you could—"

  "Elizabeth?" called a querulous voice behind her. "Bess, where have you been? I've been searching the Common!"

  It was Robert, his face pinched with annoyance and uncertainty.

  Elizabeth flushed and recovered at once. "Oh, Robert, I'm sorry, but this is William Hallet. I haven't seen him since we crossed on the Lyon where he gave all the Winthrops cause to be grateful to him."

  "Oh indeed," Robert faltered, mollified by her smile and mention of the Winthrop name.

  "Forgive me for detaining your lady, Mr. Feake. I was telling her of my travels in New France," said Will quietly, absorbing in one quick glance the slightness of Elizabeth's husband, the white-lashed eyes that watered and blinked nervously in the sunlight, the slender womanish hands, the immaculate lawn falling-bands and cuffs.

  Robert, in his turn staring at the young giant who looked like a laborer and spoke like a gentleman, responded to the attraction which strength and masculinity always held for him. "Why, good day, Mr. Hallet," he said, inclining his head. "I didn't mean to speak harsh but I was worried about my wife's absence. Our relatives have been waiting—some members of the Winthrop and Dudley families, that is."

  Elizabeth noted Robert's unconscious use of the honorable prefix "Mr." and also that Will ceased to smile when Robert mentioned her exalted relatives. He will never allow himself to be patronized again, she thought, and spoke quickly. "Do come to see us in Watertown, please! Any day take the ferry to Charlestown, then follow the riverbank west a few miles until you come to our home lot. The house is quite large, thatched; there's a sapling fence covered with honeysuckle, and an iron door knocker with a lion's head."

  "Aye, do come," said Robert dutifully, though he did not understand the urgency in his wife's voice.

  Hallet bowed. "You are both very kind." He hesitated a moment, looking at Elizabeth's eager lovely face. A sudden confusion came on him, for he felt his heart beat thick and fast. He reddened, seeming all at once the boy he still was, and he spoke awkwardly in the rougher language of his early childhood. "Shan't have time enough. I mean to ship out—tomorrow. And I must shog off now." He turned briskly and beckoned to the blond girl who had seated herself on the bank of the pond and was sulkily picking apart her rejected maple wreath.

  He's nothing but a rude boor, after all, thought Elizabeth. She raised her chin and said, "Well, then some other time perhaps, if amongst all your journeyings, you should return to Boston. I give you good day." She managed a quick thin smile, and linked her arm in Robert's. She did not look back as they walked towards Blackstone's spring and the waiting children.

  It was n
ot until they reached home that night that she remembered her promise to visit Martha, and realized that if Will Hallet had come to Watertown, she might well have not been there to see him. She put him resolutely from her thoughts, which did not prevent a strange and humiliating dream some nights later in which she lay in Will Hallet's arms, felt his naked hairy chest pressing on her breasts, and kissed him in an abandon so piercing sweet that she awoke; and saw Robert creeping out of bed in the dawn-light bound, she thought, for the privy. She stared at the hunched-over form in the white night shirt while the dream faded. Then she said quietly, "What is it, Rob? The gripes again?"

  He started, and turned his head, seeming confused, as sometimes happened at night. "The gripes—?" he repeated, his voice hoarse and dragging. "Pain—in the darkness—like it was then—but not for him, not any more—nor can he tell them unless the Devil tells them—"

  "Rob!" she cried, jumping out of bed. "You must have fever!" and she felt his forehead which was cool and dank. "Pray God 'tis not smallpox..." she whispered. There was a raging epidemic of smallpox amongst the Indians, but it seemed to spare the whites.

  "Let me go," said Robert in the same hoarse voice. "I must wash my hands. Wash them in the Blood of the Lamb..." He pushed past her and ran to the ewer of water on the table.

  "Robert! Wake up, dear," she said shaking him. "Your hands are clean, you needn't wash them!"

  He put the ewer down, heeding her voice. "I needn't wash them?"

  "No, no," she said. "Come back to bed. Lie down. I'll bring you mint to breathe, 'twill clear you of these vapors."

  He obeyed her, and after he had sniffed the crushed mint, fell into a heavy sleep, but she was uneasy until morning when she examined his fair thin skin closely for any sign of the dreaded pocks. There were none, and Robert seemed his normal self, except that he questioned her anxiously as to what he had said in the night.