by Anya Seton
He saw that Betty had not finished and smiled at her. "What else, my dear?"
Her level blue-gray Saxon eyes met his squarely. "John—how long are the Hallets to remain here?"
Aha! Jack thought. He had been expecting this for some time.
"Why, I don't know," he said. "It's a most awkward situation as you know. They've no other place to go. You find the house too crowded?"
"Somewhat," she said. "But 'tis not that. I've been patient, I believe, and not inhospitable since the day last month when the six of them appeared at our doorstep. I've held my peace. I know my duty towards you and your relations. I am aware that through circumstance as well as kinship, you once took a particular interest in Elizabeth." Betty said this seriously without a trace of sarcasm.
Jack could not help a chuckle, nor asking, "Surely you're not jealous, my dear?"
She considered a moment and shook her head. "Not at all. I simply don't understand her, nor is she the type of woman I can like. Really, John, the extraordinary things she's done! She favored that dreadful Hutchinson female. She set Watertown by the ears, and was forced to leave. She bought land, then abjured her nationality and turned it over to the Dutch. I pass by the scandal one could not help hearing which coupled her name with that Irish Captain's. But then the Captain gets murdered, and her husband goes mad."
"Some of these tragic facts my sister Bess could hardly prevent," said Jack.
"Possibly," said Betty without conviction. "But you must admit her responsibility for her recent conduct. After all, John, a divorce on whatever grounds! I never met a divorced woman before in my life!"
"Indeed we haven't," put in Mrs. Lake, her eyes widening with dismay as she considered her sister's résumé. "Papa—Mr. Reade that was—would have been scandalized, and our present father, Mr. Peter, his wife is quite mad, but nobody would ever dream of divorcing the poor thing."
"And that's not all—" went on Betty, ignoring her sister's interruption. "I don't understand why she is now penniless, unless it is from the folly of marrying Mr. Hallet who is NOT a gentleman, it seems, however he may sound like one."
Jack bit his lips. Betty in her calm incisive voice had indeed piled up many awkward facts about Elizabeth. It was a mercy that there was one of which she was ignorant.
"Don't you like Hallet?" he said quickly. "I do, in spite of—" he checked himself from saying "Bess's indecent passion for him" and substituted—"his humble birth." Yes, oddly enough he liked Will Hallet though he had been prepared to detest him.
"He's well enough," said Betty. "And I'm sorry for the children, but I do not think that their peculiar rearing fits them as constant companions for ours."
"As usual," said Jack after a slight pause, "you speak very sensibly, wife, and I agree with you. I shall give the Hallets a grant in town, build them a house at once, and you shall be relieved of their company."
"Thank you," said Betty rising. "Though I still don't understand why they've no place to go but here, and I believe you haven't even heard from her in years?"
"No," said Jack and attempted an explanation which was truthful as far as it went. "The Dutch have some singular laws, wife. I wouldn't expect you to understand them. You know that Governor Stuyvesant has been acting in a gravely inflammatory way; he claims all our Connecticut land for Holland, and indeed he claims everything as far as Cape Cod. I believe that to some degree Bess is being used as a pawn, her personal dilemma is a reflection of the international one."
"It may be so," said Betty with a vague smile, thinking of all the baking which must be done today before the Sabbath began at sundown.
It was one of her virtues that she never hammered on a point once it was made. She gave her husband a courteous bow and departed with Mrs. Lake.
Jack was left to indulge in some more uncomfortable reflections.
The Hallets were a problem, how serious a one neither Betty nor anybody at Pequot knew—so far.
The reception of his own glove, accompanied by Elizabeth's desperate little note, had been acutely embarrassing. At forty-two one did not expect to redeem an impulsive romantic promise made in youth, nor did he at all understand the urgency, though after questioning the laconic Toby Feake, the Hallet predicament became clearer. It was not until Jack had reluctantly sent Toby back to fetch the beleaguered family, and had a private talk with Elizabeth, that he discovered the full extent of her plight.
The interview had taken place in this room on the night of the arrival. Elizabeth had concealed nothing from him. She had told the whole story of her love for Hallet, of Robert's irrational acts, of Thomas Lyon's vindictiveness, of the Dutch governors' behavior—both of them; of the banishment, and of Stamford and New Haven Colony's relentless persecution.
Jack at first found it incredible that a Winthrop should be seething in such an unsavory stew and thrust there apparently solely by reason of a reckless passionate love, but as he listened his initial shock of distaste gradually faded.
Bess was still, at thirty-eight, a beautiful woman, her curly dark hair showed no gray, her lips were red, her cheeks rose and white. He discovered that her long voluptuous eyes still had disturbing power to move him, especially when they shone with unshed tears. When she had finished, he spoke, however, somewhat dryly.
"This is a most distressing story, Bess. I confess I'm appalled though also sympathetic. But there is, I perceive, one stark circumstance which makes resolution of your problem quite impossible. You are not legally married to William Hallet."
"But we are married!" she cried. "The best they'll let us. We tried, I told you how we tried. We feel married. You see my ring!"
"Unfortunately, little coz," he said, "the law is not sentimental, and takes no account of good intentions."
"Then you marry us, Jack darling!" she cried, seizing his hand and holding it against her cheek. "It's just a few empty words. You can do it. 'Tis this hope I've been living on. Jack—you see, I'm with child by Will. You'll not deny me this!"
His heart gave an uncomfortable thump, a long-vanquished desire sprang up at the touch of her hand and cheek. But he saw that this was no longer true for her; that kinship, confidence and the desperate need for help were all that she still felt of the old bond, which had been at last replaced by a stronger love. He looked away from her imploring eyes and sighed heavily. "I must deny you, Bess. Alas, I have no choice. I've not been sworn in as magistrate for Connecticut Colony, since we've just come under its rule here. And even if I were, my poor girl, I couldn't marry you. You're not divorced by English law, only by Dutch."
She dropped his hand and turning from him stared down at the table. "Then what can we do?" she whispered. "Where can we go now—and we have nothing to live on."
"You can stay here," he said slowly. "The question of your marriage need never be raised, it'll be assumed. In the meantime, I'll write letters for you. To Eaton and Stuyvesant—to my father."
A gleam of hope had come into her face, but at his last words she stiffened. "To your father? Then we're lost. He'll send after me himself. Have me flogged and branded, banish Will from New England too as he has so many. He has no heart."
Jack's eyes hardened, he spoke with sharpness. "You misjudge my father as usual. You see but one side of him!"
"Ha!" she said bitterly. "You think he has a heart? How then could he take another wife, six months after my Aunt Margaret died, and after all the protestations that he made of loving her? 'Tis sickening."
"Bess, you forget yourself!"
His annoyance was the greater because he had been as startled as anyone by his father's precipitate remarriage with a wealthy Boston widow called Martha Coytmore.
"He's sixty," said Elizabeth angrily. "And I think might have contained himself at least the customary year out of respect for my dead aunt, but no—it seems the new wife is already breeding. What he calls lechery in others no doubts wears some sweeter name when he applies it to himself."
Jack's chair scraped on the floorboards. "You ar
e outrageous! How dare you speak so of my father!"
They confronted each other across the table, both cleft chins squared, the eyes unlike in shape but alike in glittering indignation.
The anger ebbed first from his, for he knew that she was thinking of her sister as well as of Margaret, and he dimly understood how painful it would be for a woman to see how quickly consolable most widowers were.
"We'll not quarrel, Bess," he said, sitting down again. "In fact, how foolish of you to quarrel with me now. But you've never had discretion even for your own good. Nor can you scheme and play the hypocrite to gain your ends. So you've the virtues of your rashness, and we'll let this matter drop."
"Aye," she said after a moment. "I'm sorry, Jack. But please, please don't write your father about our concerns. He'd be pitiless."
He had not argued with her, nor been quite sure himself what his father would do if all the circumstances were presented to him. But he had written at once, and told the truth, adding some recommendations of his own which he knew would carry weight. The reply had not yet come.
The Hallets were as glad to leave the Winthrop home as Betty Winthrop was relieved at their departure. For Will especially there had been weeks of humiliation, in the repetition of circumstances he had once endured at Sherborne Castle. He had sworn never to live again on someone's bounty, nor eat the bread of patronage, yet now by reason of the trap of love, he found himself forced to do so, and he suffered.
Elizabeth seeing this was frightened, and tried in all ways to save his pride; she clung to him, she enlarged upon the liking Jack felt for him, she poured her own love out to him, yet was ever watchful not to cloy or surfeit him, and she knew that Will's deep feeling for her had not changed.
But still there was a difference. He grew silent, the humor that she loved flashed seldom, he did not read his books, or talk at all about the future.
Once established in their own cabin on Meeting-House Hill life was a trifle easier. Will gradually took an interest in the six acres Jack had granted him. He started planting anew as best he could, but it was necessary to borrow tools from the Winthrops, also household equipment, and to accept the neighbors' help which they gladly gave, for they liked Will at once and made him part of the community. But the fact remained that the Hallets were as poor as the humblest cotter in Pequot, and that they were beholden to others for almost everything they did have.
At the beginning of August, Jack received two letters in answer to those he had written. One was from Governor Theophilus Eaton of New Haven Colony and it was exclusively and unpleasantly concerned with the Hallets.
Mr. Eaton began sternly:
Sir, Yours of the 17th present, I have received, by which I understand, William Hallet etc. are come to your plantation at Nameag. their grievous miscarriage hath certainly given great offense to many...
With mounting indignation, Governor Eaton noted the shocking manner in which his injunctions and decrees about the Hallets and Mrs. Feake's children had been flouted until finally "in a secret underhand way they had taken the children, two cows, the household goods" from Stamford and stolen off into the night. Mr. Eaton's respect for young Mr. Winthrop barely checked the angriest expression of his righteous indignation.
So all that Elizabeth had told Jack was confirmed. Nowhere in New Haven Colony might she be safe. Jack heaved a sigh of worried exasperation, then opened his other letter, which was from his father. When he had read it he mounted his horse immediately and rode to the Hallet cottage.
He found Elizabeth in her yard hanging out the wash with the help of Lisbet, Hannah, and his own twelve-year-old Betty. Jack was further amused to see that his little sons, Fitz-John and Wait-Still were playing a rough game of handy-dandy with Elizabeth's boys. And he thought that his wife's plan for keeping the cousins separated was not entirely successful. lie paused a moment to watch, remembering another set of cousins who had played together long ago in a different land, but with the same exuberance, and the same unconscious yet deep recognition of kinship. And of that older set of cousins, not one was living now, save himself and Bess, he thought with shock. Harry, Forth, Mary, Martha—all of them gone. "Eheu! fugaces ..." be murmured and walked towards Elizabeth with so serious a face that she dropped a wet sheet, and cried, "Oh, Jack, what is it?"
"A letter from my father," he said smiling. "Aye, Bess—I know you think that must be bad, but you're quite wrong!"
She picked up the coarse darned sheet, flung it over the line; and wiping her bands on her apron walked with him to a secluded corner of the yard.
"He writes me news that wouldn't interest you," said Jack, "Until the postscript. And this you may read for yourself." He tendered the letter to Elizabeth. She looked down with a fearing pang at the well-remembered writing.
Commend me to my daughter Feake and tell her I have written to the Dutch Governor about her business already as much as I can. Desire her also if she have any writings etc; to shew for her land in Barbado that she send it to me with speed and a letter of Attorney to Air. Turner to recover it and I shall help her to somewhat for it, perchance a good sum of money; my wife salutes you all: the Lord bless you all: your loving father
JO: WINTHROP
26 (5) 48.
"It has a kindly tone," said Elizabeth dubiously. "For sure he cannot know the worst about me!"
"He does," said Jack. "Though in my letter I admit I stressed certain aspects more than others. Bess, could you really think he'd let so close a member of our family suffer gravely without trying to help?"
"Perhaps," she said frowning. "But have you forgot how terrible he is in persecution? Subtle even, and devious, as he was against Anne Hutchinson and others—Ah, you may be angry with me again, Jack, but what cause have I to trust him? You don't know what he's written to Stuyvesant. And what is this tarradiddle about land in Barbadoes? He knows I've none, and that what little Harry left me—melted unaccountably."
Jack kept his temper with an effort. "You're determined in your hatred. I'm disappointed in you."
"Call it distrust and fear if you like," she said coldly. "I've never dared to hate him—ah, now I see. This mention of Barbadoes is one of Thomas Lyon's concoctions, ever wishful of getting something more with Joan. There is one I hate! And I'd like to injure him as he has us!" Her eyes narrowed and glinted green as she cried passionately, "Would I were the witch that Watertown once thought me, and I'd blast Thomas Lyon into perdition, but I'm helpless, helpless!"
"Hush, Bess—Hush!" he cried for the children had all turned to stare at her. "Don't talk so wild."
"'Tis not for what he's done to me, nor yet the children," she said lower but with the same venom, "'Tis for what he's done to my Will!"
The fury changed to pain in her strained eyes and Jack was touched, lie felt again sharp though fleeting envy for a love so powerful, and which had now forever passed him by.
"Yes, I know," he said. "But 'tisn't only Lyon. For there are many reasonable men who think as he does, Bess." He hesitated, then decided not to tell her of Governor Eaton's tirade. lie continued quietly, "The rights of your case are clear to me, and clear now to my father, whatever you believe, but for the others we must be patient. I too have written Governor Stuyvesant, and will again."
"He hasn't answered," she said bleakly, the fire gone from her.
"No—and it's awkward, since he blusters and threatens, claiming all these colonies for the Dutch. I fear he's not inclined to do a favor for any English person."
She made a bitter sound and turned away.
He took her arm and led her farther from the children to the tangle of underbrush next their clearing. "Bess, have you heard aught of Robert since he sailed to England?"
She shook her head, astonished. "Have you?"
"Aye," he said, and paused, uncertain what to tell her, while fervently wishing that the news had been of Robert's death. How simple then would have been Elizabeth's solution.
"Do you have any feeling left for Robert Feake?"
he asked slowly. "I know you never loved him, and yet did your duty kindly. I saw Robert in Boston, you know, and realized better than Father ever has, what you must have endured."
"Yet—" she said with difficulty, "when you saw Robert he had near recovered. Perhaps in England he'll lay the ghost that troubled him so sorely."
Jack looked at her with keen attention, and saw that he might speak without distressing her too much.
"He's in gaol, Bess. In the Fleet. And you spoke more truly than you knew, when you said he went to lay a ghost."
"In gaol..." she whispered, her cheeks whitening. She glanced over towards her children. "Oh. Jack, this is worse disgrace than anything has happened, always I fear so for them."
He shook his head. "You needn't. They're nothing like him, and remember—for that one weak broken mind they have thousands of strong and healthy ancestors. His is not a hereditary taint."
"Why is he gaoled?" she said, wincing. "From whom did you hear?"
"From Edward Howes, our old friend, whom we can trust. I wrote him to keep an eye on Robert. It seems the piteous man, on the day he landed, went to a London magistrate and confessed to a terrible crime committed over seventeen years ago. He said that he had strangled his apprentice, Ralph, and wished to suffer for it."
She stiffened with an inward gasp; then she shuddered and drew back. "You tell me this, and that it's no disgrace! How can you be so cruel!"
