Rebecca Wentworth's Distraction

by Robert J. Begiebing

  Her face lost its smile. “You are not mocking me, then? You are serious after all. A private room.” She did not smile or indicate any favor on the proposal.

  Instead, she added a stipulation: “I’d like a tutor, sir.”

  “A tutor,” he said, a mere statement.

  “To make progress in reading and sums.”

  “I see.” He could not afford the additional expense, not yet.

  “Once a week,” she went on. “I would, under your proposal, have plenty of leisure now to progress each week between lessons.”

  “But you already read, Gingher. You are free to continue.”

  “My skill’s not sufficient. And I have no taste.”

  He saw he could not avoid her final terms. “It will take a little more time for me to arrange for this. Would you allow me to help you in reading and sums for now? We will find you a proper tutor as soon as I can manage it.”

  “Well, then, you can instruct me to draw as well, Mr. Sanborn.”

  He tried not to hesitate. “If you wish. We’ll meet once a week, for an hour or two, devoted to your instruction in sums and letters and drawing. For now. Does that suit you?”

  “It does, sir.” She flashed a smile. “And we’ll begin tomorrow then.”

  He agreed, and at the time she appointed. She looked at him expectantly, as if it were time to come to the ultimate business of the evening, or to deny it. She put down her glass, half full, and waited for him.

  He put down his empty glass, stood, and went over to her. He took her elbows and raised her to her feet and then embraced her, not assertively but firmly. He tasted the wine still on her lips. It struck him that their attitude was a mockery of connubial affections, but she, as if catching his thoughts, slid her hands directly to his waist and then one hand tested his earnestness. He was painfully taut.

  He wondered for but a moment what it would be like to have to woo a woman again, rather than this directness between them. He thought another instant that he was glad not to have to woo anybody, to save his strategies and his energies for more important business. This was far more . . .—he searched crazily for a word as her hand boldly stroked him—efficient. Yes, less wasteful.

  He began to unfasten her gown as quickly as he could, but it being a new garment, he fumbled, so she helped him. Within minutes they were disrobed. She had held only her mask and a small case with a cupid engraved on it. She placed the mask over her face again, laughing. He picked her up and carried her to his bed, where he flung her down and savored her nakedness an instant more. In a quick movement, she opened the case she had retained in her left hand, took out a small sponge, and inserted it deep into Cupid’s grotto. Sanborn fell to his knees in front of her. Her hands grabbed the hair on his head and they began a familiar yet desperate dance together—without connubial tenderness, to be sure, but with a selfish exuberance that, so far as he could tell, enflamed them both.

  Chapter 18

  FROM THEN ON Gingher became his particular mistress, and he devoted renewed energies to her support as well as to his. Fresh commissions started to come his way following his absence, and he immediately began his own speculations in land, through Colonel Browne and the Wentworth clan’s far-flung proprietorships. His investments were, of course, modest at first and worthy of a popular artist’s income, purchasing a half-right here and there at about fifty shillings.

  But before long he also began to experience success in selling off some properties that rose in value surprisinglyquickly, and with his profits, he purchased still more rights in promising towns. With the help of Mr. Hart particularly, the merchant he had once painted, and by cultivating as well other acquaintances, he had kept his finger on the vicissitudes of land values, grants, and proprietors. With some regularity now, he supped with men of substance in the Wentworth Tavern or Colonel Packer’s Tavern. A number of these men, and their familymembers, he had painted. He joined their drinking parties, ever more raucous as theytossed about the bumpers, and their heated political debates, which sometimes devolved into blows. He drank “to the ladies” and “to the governor” and to a host of others as the evening toasts went round. He wandered with them into the streets under the stars, struggling to regain a dignityand proprietytheyhad bytacit agreement cast off within the tippling rooms. And he was all the more pleased to be resettled in the capital during that fall, for the throat distemper had appeared again in Stratham, Hampton, and other towns, carrying away scores of people.

  By the spring of 1743, he anticipated, from what he understood of such men, Mr. Prescott was due to return to Portsmouth on business of his own. He, in fact, found Mr. Prescott on a windy May day in Packer’s Tavern sitting with a group of notable men. Sanborn was welcomed to join their hearty company, and he then proceeded to outlast several of them at table in hopes of gaining Prescott’s ear.

  Prescott seemed pleased to learn of Sanborn’s success in modest speculations, as if such news placed the two together by some sort of divine justice among men of significance in the very alehouses where provincial business was transacted.

  “Have you given any more thought to Rebecca, Mr. Prescott?” he asked, late in their agreeable conversation. “I’m still willing to offer instruction and guidance, from time to time, that might brighten her hours. And concentrate her talents on appropriate matters.”

  “I’m only just arrived, Mr. Sanborn, and have been conducting other business.”

  “Of course,” he said. “I only meant to ask after your intentions and whether I might be of assistance in any way. You say your wife and children are well, mercifully. But I wonder, how is Rebecca?”

  “Very well, if mopish on occasion.”

  “Indeed, all the more reason to leaven her domestic labors with infrequent drawing lessons and illustrations of Christian themes.”

  “That may be so, Mr. Sanborn. Mrs. Prescott agrees with you, as you perhaps know. I think I might induce the colonel to agree to these sacred themes, merely. But until we speak to him, and at the right time for so delicate a matter, we had better practice patience.”

  “I concur, my friend. Allow me to honor you with another.”

  “No, thank you. I’d better be off. Another appointment with two of our absentee proprietors. Some other time, certainly.”

  The two men rose and Sanborn made a little bow as Prescott left.

  DURING THE MONTHS following his return to Portsmouth, however, it never became clear to Sanborn whether Squire Browne could be persuaded to allow Rebecca liberty either of lessons or drawing and painting on her own. It was disheartening to Sanborn, and to Miss Norris, when he spoke to her. He had put off his conversation with Miss Norris until, as he had hoped, he could report good news. She was not pleased by his delay. Worse, she had found another source of displeasure.

  “You should not be seen with that woman,” she said.

  “Woman?”

  “That vile trollop.” She looked defiantly into his eyes.

  “I am not ‘seen’ with her, Miss Norris. She is an old acquaintance, who helped me on occasion when I first tried to settle here. I encounter her now and then, as people do in a confined seaport.”

  “Encounter indeed!”

  He knew that he had taken pains to avoid being seen with Gingher. Had Miss Norris heard something? From whom? She looked at him as if he had betrayed her somehow. He believed that he had not been toying with her interest in him as a rising young man of the world, who, he assumed, was roughly her own age. He doubted she saw him as “a match.” But they had indulged in a mild, unspoken flirtation while pursuing their mutual concern for Rebecca.

  “I’m sorry,” he finally said, “that I’ve somehow not met your expectations. But that failure on my part is relatively unimportant, is it not? There is, Miss Norris, a certain young woman whom we both admire and wish to . . . well, to protect. I think we would do better to combine our energies to help her in any manner we can. The fact of the sorry matter is that Rebecca is to rusticate in her enfor
ced retreat, that she is to be consumed—for some years it seems—by the distraction and rigor of country labors.”

  She gave him a last angry glance and turned away. “That may be,” she said with her back to him. “That may be, Mr. Sanborn. You are, of course, in one sense right. Yet surely you understand that a woman in my position, and who is known to have your acquaintance, cannot continue to associate with one who entertains harlots.” She turned to face him, her eyes hardened. “I cannot afford to be dragged into the gutter by association. If I ever see or hear of you in any way entertaining that lewd woman again, I shall be forced to sever our ties.” She left immediately, as if to drive her assertions home. He had thought he was being discreet with Gingher, but he saw now the necessity of a more vigilant discretion. In fact, he soon was making inquiries as to the possibility of new quarters for Gingher in the nearby town of Greenland.

  1745

  Voted that provided fifty good effective soldiers including officers will inlist themselves in his majesties service by ye first Day of June next for five months, under such proper officers as shall be appointed by his Excellency to go in Pursuit of our Indian enemies. . . & for further Incouragement as a Bounty, that they be allow’d for each male Indian they shall kill, . . . upward of twelve year old & scalp produced, ye sum of Seventy Pounds & Captives Seventy eight Pounds, fifteen shillings & for Females & others under ye age of twelve years old killd & scalp produced thirty seven Pounds ten shillings & captives thirty nine Pounds five shills....

  —Journal of the House of Representatives, under the administration of Governor Benning Wentworth, Wednesday, May 7, 1746

  I have often lamented... that the Art of Painting is made so little use of in the improvement of our manners. When we consider that it places the action of the person represented in the most agreeable aspect imaginable, that it does not only express the passion or concern as it sits upon him who is drawn, but has under those features the height of the painter’s imagination.... This is a poetry which would be understood with much less capacity and less expense of time, than what is taught by writings; but the use of it is generally perverted and that admirable skill prostituted to the basest and most unworthy ends

  —Richard Steele, Spectator #226

  Chapter 19

  BY 1745, HOWEVER, Sanborn and Miss Norris had other worries. He had grown prosperous, relative to his arrival, and she had long settled into her governess position at Mr. Sherburne’s. But throughout the past year, the eternal conflict between the French and English had been heating up again toward, as far as anyone could guess, a major conflagration in America. Towns not far away—Stratham, Newmarket, among others—had been harassed by Indian raiding parties in 1743 and again in 1744. One squire from Stratham had written to the Assembly for aid, complaining of constant alarums and warning horns on either side of the Exeter River. The people were much unsettled by it. And they had had difficulties and suffering enough from the hard winters of 1741 and 1744, from the recent disruptions of religious frenzy in their parishes, and now from the high wartime prices of merchants’ goods and basic commodities.

  As if the great comet raging in the sky all day—in spite of the very sun—during much of February had foretold some looming cataclysm, all regularities of life and business had been disrupted in the spring of 1744. The home government declared war against France in March and the colonies declared war shortly thereafter. Militia were continually being collected and prepared, many for departures and expeditions, for privateers and cruising service, and ultimately for Louisbourg. Even Sanborn had been called to muster and parade, like everyone else, and he was not amused by the prospect of battle, although he had formerly been amused by the ineptitude and raillery of such harmless peacetime “military” drinking fests. He had no intention of enlisting or being impressed to serve the province at the risk of his life for five pounds per month plus provisions. To encourage men to enlist, pay scales were posted, including potential bounty money, around town. Sanborn began making other plans.

  He took some comfort, however, in the long harbor fort, with its great triangle of bastions upon the rock ledge facing the bay, its thirty thirty-two-pound guns, its score of twelve-pounders, its guard of sixty men, its flocks of geese, which the governor touted as a foolproof alarm against nocturnal surprise (after the example of the ancient Roman capitol).

  On the eve of the Siege of Louisbourg, the French fortification on Cape Breton Island, Miss Norris and Sanborn’s greatest concern was Rebecca’s vulnerability to renewed, and more virulent, Indian attacks on settlements to the west. In addition, Sanborn had the harrowing experience of watching his most westward land investments freeze and even decline in value during the new insecurity.

  “How can her own kin ignore the danger?” Miss Norris was saying. With considerable effort over time, he had re-established himself in her good graces. Perhaps his most effective ploy was inconspicuously removing Gingher, to her own satisfaction, to a rent (an old two-room dwelling) in Greenland. Through care in her attire and address, he and she had constructed a respectable identity for her—a young widow of some leisure and modest education. The small house with room for a kitchen garden was in a private setting, yet within walking distance from the town center. His weekly tutoring continued, as did his occasional other “visits,” as they now referred to them.

  Miss Norris seemed wary now, but willing to let him demonstrate his trustworthiness. She had agreed to meet along the Parade, as the most seemly device. “I know that the Prescotts intend to stay on until the signs grow more sure. And they have much faith in their new garrisons. But for the Brownes to leave the child, to whom they had once shown such affection and solicitude, in such a dangerous situation . . .” She paused in her anger to search for words. “I must say, sir, it is utterly beyond my understanding.”

  “I, too, can’t understand it,” he said in a calming voice. “My efforts have long fallen on deaf ears. I now believe the squire stands obdurate on principle.”

  “It’s a scandal,” she said. She could not speak anything more.

  “It may well become so if any harm befalls the child.”

  They walked for a time in silence, noticing the ladies and gentlemen around them.

  “Perhaps I could intervene, in some way, if things turn untenable.”

  She looked up at him. “How do you mean, sir?”

  “I have no idea, at the moment. I’m not fool enough to be taking reckless chances myself. But, I’ve already made inquiries through Colonel Browne that I might be allowed to look after his interests in Blackstone and its environs, as well as the interests of certain of his associates, and of my own. Were I to visit Blackstone and inquire after her once more, well, I could both better assess the security of their position now and plead with the Prescotts for their own removal, if necessary.” He did not add that he would use his official mission to avoid other militia duties he had no heart to perform.

  “That would be something,” she said. “But there’s risk to yourself, and unless they do remove, and soon, it will have done little good.”

  “You’re right, of course.” He looked at her. She was not about to be appeased. “What else can I do now, however?”

  “I see no alternative. It would be doing something, at the least.”

  They grew silent again as they walked. Sanborn calculated that Rebecca should be about sixteen years old that year. She was not a helpless child any more, if she ever had been. Still, she was an extraordinary young woman, and a town on the hostile frontier was no place for her.

  As they strolled in the May evening, Sanborn recalled earlier that spring attending a sermon—it was more a ceremonial social and military occasion—by Parson Moody in Kittery, seat of William Pepperrell, commander of forces for Louisbourg. It was just prior to the expedition’s sailing forth. Several families of stature from Portsmouth were present, largely because of Governor Wentworth’s enthusiasm for some ultimate battle with the French papists who would encroach on En
gland’s and, more to the point, Wentworth’s own royal colony. It was by now widely accepted that the defeat of Louisbourg was essential—as necessary to British interests as the defeat of Carthage appeared to the Romans. (Later, not to be outdone, Parson Arthur Browne would give a similar, Church-of-England version of the sermon in Queen’s Chapel calling for the final defeat of the French interlopers.)

  “That dearest pastor in Christ, the Reverend Mr. Whitefield himself,” old Moody had said, “gave William Pepperrell—justice of the peace, president of Governor Shirley’s Council, and now lieutenant general of the combined militias—encouragement to lead and the very motto for our forces: ‘Nil desperandum Christo duce.’ And in this crusade, for which I have the honor to serve as senior chaplain, many have joined us with true passion to defeat the French Antichrist. Five thousand militia from New Hampshire and more than thirty-two hundred from Massachusetts and Maine. Thirteen warships from Connecticut, New Hampshire, Rhode Island, and Massachusetts. Can there be any doubt of our Christian resolve? Indeed, there cannot, in the eyes of God!

  “Never have greater zeal and purpose shone forth from this New England. The righteous multitudes awaken. Babylon shall be defeated.” Here Parson Moody had raised a hatchet off the pulpit and above his head. “I shall be among the first to enter the gates, and with this sword of the Lord and of Gideon I shall rend the church of all vestiges of idolatry.” He brandished the hatchet—Nestor in his aged warrior’s vigor before Troy. “Thus shall we men of the English colonies, strong and mighty in battle, enlarge the visible kingdom of Christ, even as we diminish the grip of papists, Jesuits, and all anti-Christian powers through the northern regions, from the River of Canada to the ends of America.”

  By April 29, the forces had embarked on their divine Redeemer’s mission. And now Sanborn and Miss Norris, like so many others who stayed behind, awaited news of triumph or, unspoken fear, failure. The waiting caused much anxiety across the province, but the merchants, by withholding goods for war profiteering, had caused further inconvenience and outrage. Finally, even the governor lost patience with his jolly colleagues and confiscated for his troops and the local citizenry all their pork at a fair price.