by Becky Akers
He would have known the place for hers even without the tavern master’s help. It bore that air of neglect and disrepair that widows’ farms always did. The barn’s roof sagged, and the red house needed paint, though the garden that lay to the side was large and well-tended. Abigail stood in it now, watching him dismount, the beans she had been weeding forgotten.
“Hello, Abigail.”
“Richard.” It was scarcely more than a breath.
They stared, wordless. Abigail’s hand fluttered to her throat. Though nearly a dozen years had passed since they’d seen one another, her appearance belied it. She looked exactly as she had that morning at breakfast, even to cheeks turning scarlet, this time with joyous surprise rather than mortification. The Deacon held his arms stiffly at his sides, willing himself calm while his thumbs rubbed his forefingers. Finally, he cleared his throat.
“Abigail, I, ah, I’m sorry about your husband. My wife died just last spring. I know how lonely you must be.”
She glanced away with half a shrug. “My Samuel was a good man, Richard, but he’s been dead a long time. ’Sides,” she looked back at him, full in the eyes, “I only ever loved one man.”
He was too nervous and too intent on his plans, his children’s pressing needs, his own anguish, to credit such bold talk. He stood silent, worrying a clod with his foot. At last, he drew a deep breath. “Owe you an apology—”
“Please, Richard, don’t. It was wrong for us to—to—. I know it was wrong, but it’s made me happy ever since, to remember that—that night.” Her voice sank so low he could hardly hear. Still, her remark shook him. What was he doing? Bringing a strumpet into Elizabeth’s house? A woman he’d tumbled while her husband slept above them and she thought of it fondly?
“So you’re alone now, Richard?”
He nodded. Again they stood silent as she awaited his next words. His children must have a mother, and he owed her this much at least. Surely, the Lord would honor his attempt to make it right, though he was so many years late.
“Abigail, I got a big farm and ten children. They need a mother, and I need a wife.”
His bid hung baldly between them. Still she said nothing, though a smile tugged at her lips. Watching that smile, appalled lest it become a grin, he said, “Will you marry me?”
“Thought you’d never ask, Richard.” She did indeed grin and then compounded her error by winking as the bawdies in Boston had done when he fled there to forget her. “Aren’t you going to kiss me, Richard? ’Tis the thing to do when you’ve just proposed to a lady.”
“Abigail, please!” He could not keep the heartbreak and uncertainty from his voice. “My wife’s been dead a year, less than a year, now.”
“Oh, of course, I—I’m sorry. And you must be hungry and thirsty after your ride. Why don’t you let me set out some dinner? You can meet my daughters, too. You know, the younger one—” She stopped, confusion dimming her pleasure. “Well, never mind. Come on up to the house, Richard. Sarah and Alice were cutting out new dresses this morning. I’ll introduce you.”
He offered his arm, suddenly shy as a boy at her proximity. Her hair was powdered perfectly, her hands as dimpled and white as when they kept company in Massachusetts. Her mouth was as lush and inviting as ever. The same scent still rose from her tight, compact body. He had never identified that smell. It wasn’t the aroma of baking bread that clung to his mother, nor did it come from the rosewater Elizabeth had favored. It seemed to waft from Abigail herself and was sensual, earthy, exciting.
Her home’s interior was in better shape than its exterior, with feminine touches warming the rooms. A length of linen, bleached and neatly mended, covered a board and the trestles on which it rested. The Deacon contrasted this with his own table, innocent of a cloth since Elizabeth’s death and usually hidden under tools and the tack he was repairing. Along the mantel of Abigail’s fireplace bloomed a row of daisies. Elizabeth, too, had sprinkled knickknacks about the house. The children had broken or misplaced some of them; he had stuffed the rest in cupboards or drawers lest they proclaim how much they’d lost. He remembered the life such trinkets gave a home, life that only a woman evoked. Beth had done her best, but with her brothers outnumbering her, she was succumbing, protesting less as saddles found their way from barn to hall and axes leaned against the parlor’s walls instead of the woodpile.
Two girls sat sewing at the table. One looked exactly like the young Abigail Cobb with whom he had fallen in love. The other, a few years younger, with hair black as jet, leveled familiar eyes at him. They were as blue as Nathan’s, with the same humor and proud spirit. He should have realized then she was his daughter, born of that lustful night, but he was so skittish about inviting Abigail and these two strangers to join his shattered family that he ignored the evidence staring at him.
Abigail had apparently raised her daughters on tales of her romantic past. When she told them this was Richard Hale come to visit, the smaller one, Alice, clapped her hands (just as Nathan did when he was excited, though he still did not recognize her for his own) and squealed, “The one you almost married, Mama?” while Sarah said, “I never thought you’d be so tall, sir,” and blushed.
They passed a pleasant dinner even if the girls were more vivacious than he liked to see in children. He and Elizabeth had taught theirs to be respectful when guests were present: they were to wait until addressed before they spoke, then keep any remarks demure and brief. But Alice and Sarah chatted freely with their mother, asking questions of her and even of him that skirted impertinence. This laxity would have to change.
The Deacon ate as much as he could hold of Abigail’s cooking. Though her daughters wanted chastening, she set a superb table. What succor, to feast like this every night when plowing was done! He ate so heartily that Alice blurted, “You’re right, Mama, about flour on the table holding a man.”
“Hush, Alice,” Abigail said, reddening, but he looked at her until she stammered, “’Tis a—a silly joke, Richard, I’ve made to the girls—that it takes flour on our hair, powder, you know, to catch a man, but then you’ve got to take more flour and knead it and bake it to hold him.”
Abigail waited until they had finished dining to tell her daughters she had agreed to marry their tall, severe guest. Sarah congratulated him. Alice turned those blue eyes on him and smiled. “I hope you make Mama as happy as when she’s just remembering you.” It was the sort of thing Nathan would say, disconcerting, wise, that would have had Elizabeth and the Deacon exchanging proud glances. Now he shivered as Nathan’s eyes and Nathan’s words met him in this Canterbury kitchen.
He should have guessed then or during the next weeks as he saw more of Alice while he and Abigail mingled their households. But he dismissed her resemblance to his son as happenstance, until that night last harvest when Abigail told him that not only was Alice his daughter but she and Nathan were in love. In that moment, he comprehended the weight of the Almighty’s judgment: his innocent boy must suffer for the father’s sin. He groaned as Abigail cried, “Please, Richard, do something! They can’t marry, but how can we stop them?”
“Why can’t we?” His bellow made her jump.
“Because—because—what reason’ll we give?”
“That’s your trouble right there, Abigail, you don’t give a reason to children. You just tell them. You say, ‘This is the way it’ll be because I said so.’ I’m Nathan’s father; he’ll listen to me.” Though that headstrong daughter of yours won’t, he wanted to add. But Abigail’s bosom, framed by the lace of her nightdress, dammed his words. He lifted the quilt to slide in beside her. “I’ll scotch this thing. Don’t worry.” He kissed the tears from her eyes before moving on to her tantalizing lips.
“Richard,” she whispered as his mouth continued down her neck, “you won’t tell them about—about us, will you?”
“No, ’course not.” And he lost himself in his passion.
But discouraging Nathan and Alice had been harder than he supposed. First, he
wanted to be sure their feelings were what Abigail alleged, for his wife was sometimes fanciful. He watched them at meals, kept track of how often they were together, waited for the reaction when he mentioned the name of one to the other. They did wind up together more than two people on a farmstead should. Alice’s eyes shaded more deeply blue when Nathan came nigh, while Nathan’s smile was brighter and his jokes quicker with Alice laughing beside him.
The Deacon had decided to speak with his son on the morrow, a week after Abigail revealed her suspicions, when Nathan approached him after supper. He was standing on the porch step, alone with his pipe. The door banged behind him and Nathan said, “Father, can I talk to you?”
No! his soul shouted, Lord, spare me this! But he knocked the ash from his pipe and cleared his throat. “Sure, son. Let’s go down to the spring.”
The sun was setting in a red symphony, and the Deacon admired the sky. The spring’s gurgle provided fitting music for such majesty. Finally, reluctantly, he turned his attention to Nathan, his treasure and joy and favorite among his children.
Nathan opened his mouth to speak, but the Deacon headed him off. “I been having a rough time of it, Nathan, with your brother’s banns and all. Haven’t seen much of each other, have we?” He babbled as though he had no idea why Nathan had sought him out. “So many folks tell me I done wrong for allowing this match. They say ’tis incest, even though Sarah and John aren’t related by blood. But I see how it looks, and I got to say, I’m starting to agree. Probably, if I had to do it over again, I wouldn’t allow it after all. But I already gave my word, and I can’t go back on that.” He peered at his son. From the frown on Nathan’s face, it was clear he had taken his meaning.
“Father, I—”
“Alice takes a husband someday, ’tisn’t going to be a Hale, I’ll tell you that much.” He clapped his son on the shoulder, hating himself for such dissimulation.
Nathan swallowed, a tortured gulp that made the Deacon wince. Enough light lingered to see his frown become half a smile. “Don’t want me marrying Alice, do you, Father?”
He forgot to act surprised. “No, son, I don’t.”
“I don’t suppose it’d matter if I tell you how we love each other. Just embarrass myself for no reason.”
“Most likely.”
Nathan nodded and turned to leave. The Deacon sagged with relief. But then his son faced him again. “Because we do, you know. Love each other.”
“That may be.”
The light had faded. He could no longer discern Nathan’s expression, but his son’s voice was mild, even pleasant. “And I don’t think you—we ought to be forbidden because—for whatever reas—”
“Sorry, son. I can’t permit it.” He expected that to finish the matter. It had before when he denied one of Nathan’s requests. These appeals had been infrequent and reasonable, and he had seldom refused them. When he did, Nathan gracefully acquiesced. So he was thunderstruck when a humble but insistent “Why?” came to him out of the dusk.
“Why? I said so, that’s why.”
“You’re letting John and Sarah marry.”
There was nothing to say to that.
“I love her.”
“Too young, Nathan. You’re still studying. You couldn’t support a wife.” He regretted that excuse as it left his mouth: his boy would easily refute it.
“Oh, Father, we’ll wait. I just want to know that someday—”
“Nathan, don’t make me keep telling you ‘No.’ You and Alice can’t marry. Been too much of it already in the family. I forbid it. And remember, you’re under my authority until you come of age. Now, I want your promise that you won’t marry her. Promise me.” He grabbed Nathan’s arm, startling him, as he shouted, “Promise me!”
“I—I can’t, I—”
“Promise me!”
So Nathan promised, and he growled, “Now, have an end to it.” He stalked to the house without waiting for his son.
Nathan was obviously distressed; though, having pledged himself, he made no further trouble. But Alice glared with more hatred than before. The Deacon was used to her animosity and gladly bore her rage as part of his punishment. Oddly, learning she was his own flesh and blood had not endeared her to him. Instead, it irritated him, for she should have been a better girl, more sensible, less frivolous. He knew his vexation was irrational, unfair to her, and arrogant. That piqued him further.
What the Deacon could not stomach was Nathan’s hurt. Though they did not speak of it again, a melancholy chastened his son for the rest of his visit, despite the Deacon’s attempts to please him with rambles through the woods and afternoons whiled away in fishing.
Nathan seemed reconciled by the time he returned to Yale. But Alice would not admit defeat. She wrote Nathan at every opportunity. The Deacon read as many of her letters as he could find excuse to. Though they said only what a girl might to her brother, they were the outpourings of an extremely fond sister. Nathan answered perfunctorily, and his father rested easy.
But over this last year, Nathan had not once mentioned a romance. He moved in a monkish world, devoted to his studies and to Linonia, a literary society at Yale. New Haven might as well have had no female residents.
Enoch, on the other hand, peppered his letters with the names of young ladies, the party this one’s mother had thrown for him, the sleigh ride to which that one’s brother had invited him. Between the lines was the implication that the girls admired Nathan, too, that his detachment intrigued them even more than Enoch’s friendliness.
The Deacon bided his time, remembering his own heartbreak and how he had recovered to find Elizabeth, strong, shining, true. He had observed Nathan carefully, discreetly, while he visited this fortnight. The boy seemed his normal self, free of the sadness that had plagued him last year, but indifferent to the charms of Coventry’s maidens. His ride with Alice this afternoon had disturbed the Deacon deeply, despite Nathan’s implacable honor. Now, with his sons beginning their last year of college, he prayed Nathan would meet a girl to equal Elizabeth, who would make him as happy as Elizabeth had made him and drive Alice from his heart.
At breakfast the next morning, the Deacon continued studying his children.
Alice wearily endured the meal, the last at which Nathan would sit across from her until he graduated next year—and then, who knew? She had thought to accompany him to Yale today, soon to be his wife. Instead, tedious, empty months yawned ahead of her.
She bowed her head for grace. At the Deacon’s “Amen,” she glanced up to find Nathan’s eyes on her. They shifted so quickly that she thought she had dreamed it. No, I didn’t, she decided as Beth passed her a bowl of mush. He still cares. He does!
She tried to catch his gaze again, but he and Enoch were too busy reassuring the Deacon that they would study hard, spend their money wisely, and resist those rambunctious students trying to lead them astray.
Their father drained his tea and sang his usual song. “Enoch, you’ll be a credit to the pulpit someday, that’s for certain sure. Just hope Nathan’ll see how valuable this learning is. Young man spends four years reading Latin, Greek, and Hebrew, he ought to give himself to the Lord’s ministry. Got no business doing anything else.”
“Now, Richard.” Abigail patted her husband’s arm. “Boys, you wrap up afore you go outside once winter gets here. And mind you get to bed at a decent hour.”
Samuel and Joseph teased them about the girls of New Haven, with Enoch protesting they never spared him a thought when Nathan was about, and Nathan retorting that ’twasn’t his fault Enoch smelled of onions, he persisted in eating them however they discouraged the ladies. Even then, especially then, Nathan would not look at Alice.
After breakfast, the family collected in the yard to see them off. The horses waited at the hitching rail for their riders, Abigail’s dinner bulging in their saddlebags. “Don’t get wet fording the rivers. You’ll catch your death this time of year,” Abigail said. She kissed both boys and stepped back to let
the others at them.
Alice started toward Nathan, heartbreak on her face, but Abigail caught her arm. “Take care you watch your tongue, Alice.”
She nodded and broke free.
The family had fallen away, but for the Deacon murmuring to Nathan. Enoch sat his horse and bent to kiss her. “Hey, Sis, you smell onions on me?”
She smiled in spite of herself. “No, but I do smell bacon.”
“Really? Say, listen.” He chanced a peek at his father, then whispered, “Nathan told me—” He hesitated, and her heart leaped.
“What? What’d he tell you?”
“He wants to marry you, Alice. It’s just that—”
But his horse whinnied, drowning his words, and pranced backward. She was left face-to-face with Nathan. He was preparing to mount, having taken leave of the Deacon. He smiled at her, though he did not embrace or kiss her, mindful of the watching family.
“Goodbye, Ally.”
She nodded, and he vaulted into the saddle. He leaned forward to soothe the General, tossed her another smile, waved to the rest. Then Enoch and he cantered out of the yard and down the lane, Nathan’s bright head bobbing with the motion of his horse, taking the autumn sunshine with him.
CHAPTER 3
“’Tis inedible.” Enoch pushed himself from the table. “And I’m so hungry I could eat anything, man or beast. Even the milk’s sour.”
Nathan held a forkful of boiled beef a foot above his plate and let it drop. “I’d wager there’re more bugs in this than Master Thompson’s wig.”
“You’d win, too,” Enoch said. “Rather eat Beth’s cooking than this.”
They were sitting in the dining common at Yale on their fourth day back, their memories of the feasts at home a galling contrast to the mess confronting them now. Not even the beer served with the beef could mask the meat’s rottenness.
They left the table with rumbling stomachs and stepped outside into the morning. Enoch sniffed disbelievingly. “I’m so hungry I’m hallucinating. I’d take an oath I smell apple pie.”