The Maidenhead

by Parris Afton Bonds

  The Madonna could not have smiled as sweetly as Modesty. "Me lady Clarissa wants children, Reverend Dartmouth." That the lovelorn beauty would prefer an immaculate conception need not be stated. "Give her a little time. As for me services, I ask little."

  His gaze grew milder. "But this is too much— to barter with you for the Lady Clarissa Lockridge. I might remind you, Mistress Brown, that our Lord Jesus of Nazareth turned over the money changers’ tables in the temple.”

  “Are yew not yewrself exchanging money with the London Company for a wife? Are yew not buying a marriage contract? I ask only for a small recompense, friend.”

  His somber features gave way to reluctant admiration. “You twist words like the Devil himself.’’

  She managed a sagacious nod. "Verily, the Devil is a male, is he not? Godspeed, friend.”

  James Harwell came calling, his flat cap in hand. The milner was a plump little pumpkin of a man with a red-veined nose and round eyes that grew rounder when Modesty suggested that Annie was interested in him. Then his eyes grew nigh the size of saucers when she told him what her own fee would be.

  "Why, I won’t pay it. This is highway robbery. We were told we only had to pay for the females’ contracts. I shall report ye to the Board of Trade!”

  "But, sirrah, by that time the lovely maiden will have chosen another husband. In faith, a husband who values Annie enough to give her the three acres and the milk cow she desires and render the small fee I require, a milk cow for meself.”

  James Harwell’s lips opened as wide as the bell-mouth pistol tucked into his belt. After a moment of concentrated thinking, he conceded. “So done.”

  She curtseyed. "Enjoy the day full well, sirrah.”

  The honorable Walter Bannock, Rose's selection, was a tall, balding scarecrow of a man. Of slow and halting speech, he had an unimpressive mustache. No wonder Modesty had not taken note of the sawyer before. He was singularly unappealing. But his brown eyes were warm. That was promising. "The lady Rose fancies thee, Master Bannock."

  "I—'tis true, I find her fair—fair of face—the lady has not given her pledge—your commission she spoke of—”

  "Wot ails thee, Master Bannock?”

  He spread his hands, one missing a forefinger. "I have no spinning wheel to give the lady, nor the fee—fee—you demand."

  Stalwart, Modesty judged him, most likely good for Rose, but his wits should be as sharp as his dirk strapped at his waist. "Yew are a sawyer, are yew not? Build her a spinning wheel. Nay, build two. I will take the second in trade for tobacco."

  “But, but—'twas not me understand—standing—that a man would have to—to pay twice for a maid.”

  “Thou doth play the fool, Master Bannock, if thou wouldst haggle over a spinning wheel.” A man would need more than a spoonful of brains to deal with her.

  He was wringing his hands like a papist would rosary beads. "Well, I sup—suppose. All right, I pledge to build two spinning wheels."

  It was all Modesty could do to keep from dancing a little jig. Aye, after all these years of dreaming and scheming, by the morrow security such as she had never known would be hers at last.

  The morrow brought the continuing arrival in the churchyard of her commissions: hogsheads of green tobacco leaves, a looking glass, a keg of rum, and much more. Enough for Modesty to start up a business as a shopkeeper herself, should she so desire. That the milk cow died was but a small loss.

  At noon, the bridal procession marched to the commons for the wedding ceremonies. Each of the women wore one of their two dresses provided by the Company. Except for Clarissa.

  Her gown was of white silk, its scooped neckline and cuffs trimmed in tambour lace. The gown retained the Spanish sense of formality but with a more pronounced décolletage that gave a view of her white breasts.

  The commons was even more crowded than on the day of Modesty's arrival, if that were possible. Children were engaged in the rough-and- tumble rural English pleasures of running or wrestling. Men were sampling dippersful of hard cider or peach brandy.

  Every woman had selected a groom from among the surfeit of men. All but Modesty, of course.

  Radcliff stood just beyond the bowling green with the town officials, and when she passed by, he grabbed her arm. Beneath his white shock of hair, his bloodshot eyes glittered. "I remember now." His narrow lips drew back to reveal canine teeth. "You cost me dearly!"

  “I don’t know wot yew’re talking about, yewr worship.”

  "I think you do."

  She felt her blood ripple with disquiet. London gossip had said that after fraud accusations had been leveled against Radcliff s father involving the sale of black-market wheat during a famine, his mother had been forcibly removed from her box in the royal theater. Gossip further related that he had never forgiven this insult, and that his insatiability for pleasure and power was only surpassed by his drive for revenge.

  Without looking at him, she shook off his arm and continued on toward the church.

  One of the Colonial wives had told Modesty that the publication of the banns, which had sufficed at home to alert a village of an impending marriage, had failed to work among the dispersed settlements of the New World colony. In order to spread the word to all of the intended event, the marriage license had been created.

  When her turn in line came for signing the license, she said, "Prithee, inform Sir Yeardley that I shall be buying back me marriage contract."

  The old reverend, outgoing chaplain to the governor, raised his white brows, then glanced uncertainly at Radcliff and the colonial governor, who had just entered the church and were deep in conversation. With no help evidenced from that quarter, the reverend told her, “As you wish.”

  With the Book of Common Prayer open, he solemnized each ceremony with few words and posthaste.

  "John Rogers, do ye take this maid to be your wife?"

  “Aye, I do.”

  “And Mary Mullins, do you take this man to be your husband?”

  "Indeed, I do."

  "Then by the laws of God and the Company, I pronounce you man and wife."

  After the minister completed the ceremonies, a round of cheers went up and hats were tossed in the air. Now the festivities began. Mistress Pierce had informed Modesty and the other women that there would be dancing at the council chambers, followed by an elegant supper that evening and then more dancing, card playing, spiced drink, and convivial song and conversation. Modesty kept an attentive ear for the latter as she threaded her way through the crowd.

  When she stopped at one of the tables to get a drink, she overheard the men standing there.

  “Heard tell Wolstoneholme Town has a licensed distiller," a ship’s chandler said, winking at his drinking partner.

  “They say the price of tobacco is dropping in London," a paunchy man was telling a fellow planter.

  "Everyone's raising it," said another, his pipe stem almost as long as his nose. "The market is flooded.”

  Now that the brides had been married off, tobacco, the economic mainstay of the colony, was once again the main subject of conversation among the men.

  When she moved to the other side of the room, Modesty listened as the score or so of town wives discussed the more frightening subject of Indians. "Dashed the poor babe against a tree and splattered his brains, the Powhattans did,” one woman said, shuddering with revulsion.

  Modesty gleaned from the wives that thirty- two tribes were united under the Powhattan chief, Itopatin, though his younger brother, Opechancanough, controlled the tribes from behind the scenes. Though insisting that his people desired peace, Itopatin felt that the white population was infringing on tribal lands and threatening the entire Indian society. He asserted that the random killings of colonists were the acts of renegade Indians.

  "How many more of these indiscriminate murderings will Yeardley tolerate before he and the council order a reprisal?” one settler’s wife demanded in a frightened whisper.

  Modesty didn’t hav
e the chance to hear more about the Indians, however, as she was a sought-after partner for reels and another type of folk dancing which often tripped her untutored steps. The fiddle music was energetic if not elegant, and the bachelors likewise. Their eager attention would turn the head of a less experienced maiden than Modesty.

  Roger Martin, the town cordwainer, promised her a pair of red Spanish cordovan leather shoes if she would but agree to a single dance. Dan Warwick, the tallow-chandler, begged her to give him the opportunity to set her heart afire.

  Captain Dick Heffeman, so gallant in his leather buff coat, boots, and riding spurs, swore that his heart wouldn’t survive the season without her. His eyes burned bright as the candlelight. But Modesty knew that candles, like passion, were easily lit and easily extinguished. Still, she enjoyed all the attention—which was blighted by the approach of the governor and his chaplain.

  "Mistress," Yeardley began, his bushy white brows beetling down, “the parson informs me that you have not honored your marriage contract with the Company."

  She dipped her deepest curtsey. “Yewr lordship, I desire to buy back me contract. The Company will be lacking not a farthing for me transportation costs."

  "But Jamestown is lacking a bride."

  "Would Jamestown want a bride who is a witch?" Radcliff drawled from behind the governor.

  "What?" Yeardley asked.

  “Wot?" she echoed.

  As the dancing ceased and the merrymakers grew quiet, Radcliff paused to inhale a pinch of snuff, doubtless for dramatic effect, then said, "Mistress Brown has been accepting possessions from the bachelors. 'Tis obvious she seeks to cast spells on all the males of Jamestown.”

  The circle of revelers seemed to shrink away from her and her accusers. “’Tis true," Ethan Wheeler said. “She took a beaver hat from me."

  "Wanted a pair of Spanish leather shoes from me,” Roger Martin put in.

  "Are yew all daft?” she demanded. "Meself a witch?”

  Radcliff glanced around the room, his expression one of stark concern. "Did not good neighbor Harwell’s milk cow die this morning? I ask you, neighbors, look upon this wicked woman if you dare and behold—she has eyes of different colors. One green, one brown. She has the power of the Evil Eye. The Devil’s accomplice, if ever there was one among us. Burn her, I say.”

  "Burn me?” Her voice was little more than a croak.

  "Burn the witch!” an old harpy cried out.

  A chorus of terror-filled voices reverberated around the room. "Burn her! Burn her!"

  Without realizing it, she was backing away from menacing faces that seemed to crowd suddenly in on her. Among the faces, Radcliff s satisfied smile crackled like flame. She could already feel herself sweating from its heat.

  Yeardley raised placating palms to the crowd. "Now wait! There’ll be no rioting here. Tomorrow I shall call a meeting of the General Assembly a fortnight hence to determine the maid’s guilt. Until that time, she’ll be placed in the pillory for twenty-four hours for failing to comply with her contract and then remanded to the gaol."

  Shame vied with anger inside her. She struggled as two summoned soldiers bearing unwieldy blunderbusses seized her by her arms to escort her out. Now the spectators backed away from her as if she were a leper.

  "Consorted with the Devil, I wager,” the glass- blower said.

  "I knew her for a witch when first I laid sight on those oddly colored eyes," Mistress Pierce said.

  Why, the Company widow had even offered advice on how to select a husband according to his possessions!

  “A pox on yew all!” Modesty shouted over her shoulder before being ushered out into the darkness.

  The soldiers half dragged, half propelled her toward the commons. After the din inside, the sudden silence of the night was terrifying. Her heart was fair to bursting with her terror. To be burned at the stake . . . she beat back the image of such suffering. Still, her fear only crept away like a cat and crouched somewhere beyond.

  Across from the commons, a lantern hanging by the mortar-and-pestle sign of an apothecary shop cast a ghostly light on the pillory and stocks.

  A female colonist dozed in a sitting position, her bony ankles thrust through the stocks' wooden framework. At the approach of Modesty and her captors, the woman awoke with a start. "Got charged for being a scold, eh?" she cackled.

  “Nay. For being a witch.”

  With an alarmed outcry, the old hag drew back as far as the stocks would allow. Modesty ignored the woman. One of the soldiers hefted the pillory's upper framework, and the other thrust her head and wrists in its slots. At this point, struggling was useless. She envied the other woman’s mode of punishment. At least the hag didn’t have to stand.

  After the solders departed, the poor old woman was too petrified to utter another word, which was just as well with Modesty. She needed to think. Her wits had always gotten her through precarious times before. Did she not have a fortnight to assess her situation? Surely she could contrive some way to save her hide.

  One thing she did know: Joan of Arc she was not.

  Chapter Four

  Wild vines and begonias intertwined at the base of large trees, climbed the trunks, and crept along the branches to link with other trees. In the wanderings from tree to tree, the creepers sometimes crossed the arm of a river over which they threw a bridge of flowers.

  The land seemed too intoxicating for a puritan. Even the bears became intoxicated on the wild grapes. As for Patrick Dartmouth, he was intoxicated by the frivolous young woman he had taken to wife, the arrogant lady who now rode pillion on his nag, her arms wrapped securely around his middle.

  He must be seven kinds of a fool. He had not even intended to buy himself a wife. Fleeing the smoke and smell and noise of daily living in a cramped and oppressively close London, he had arrived in the colony a year ago, just after the first meeting of its self-governing body—a radical deviation from English law.

  This year, he had journeyed from upriver Henrico to Jamestown out of curiosity about this General Assembly of representatives called by the governor. He had found himself appointed the chaplain to next year’s incoming governor, Sir Francis Wyatt.

  After the General Assembly was over, Patrick had stayed on a few days in order to be there when the God Sent arrived with its cargo of brides for sale, and so he’d been there to watch this vision of Aphrodite descend the gangplank.

  She had worn an Italian gown, black laced, with a standing band collar and ribbon girdle belt. Like a dunce, he had agreed with the terms set down by Mistress Modesty Brown and obligated himself to a Trappist monk’s lifelong chastity. Anger perched on his shoulder like a deriding demon, but he had only himself to blame.

  If he was going to purchase a wife, why had he not selected that gentle and biddable but plain Rose Crankston?

  How was he to support a titled lady who was more accustomed to monogrammed silver plate and well-crafted carriages? Even her heavy ornate chest of medieval design, which he had sent on ahead by barge, was filled with silks, furs, and satins.

  The gold buckle on his hat was the closest he came to owning anything ornate. That and a handsome chalice of silver, a Communion set valued at fifty pounds, and four divinity books.

  Of course, as many ministers did, he could add to his income by being a tutor. With the granting of 10,000 acres for a university at Henrico, he could supplement his income teaching once the construction of the university was finished.

  However, that could take years. Henrico consisted of little more than frame houses lining three streets, a storehouse, watchtowers, and huts, not to mention the two most important establishments in the community—the alehouse and his church.

  His newly purchased wife interrupted his introspection. "What will become of Modesty Brown? You can’t really believe that she is a witch, can you?"

  He pitied the lively, saucy woman. “Witch or not, she has apparently made an implacable enemy of the London Company’s representative by her bartering w
ith the marriage contracts, and that does not help her cause.”

  “Richard Radcliff—the man who denounced her as a witch?”

  "Aye.”

  "The man is a profiteer," Clarissa said. "I’ve heard his name bandied about in London. Can't you do something? She has only ten days more before the General Assembly re-meets."

  There it was again, his Maker forcing him to confront injustice. "I informed the council that neither I nor my church would have ought to do with this persecution.”

  His old buckskin slogged around a fallen tree that blocked the path. It was an ancient Indian road that was sufficiently inland from the James to facilitate the crossing of the many little creeks. In the spring, spawning shad clogged these tidal streams.

  At the noisy approach of Patrick’s saddleback horse, a land turtle plodded off the trail and plowed beneath a paper mulberry’s dead leaves of last autumn.

  In response, the Lady Clarissa’s arms tightened around him. “Indians?” she whispered.

  He savored the heady sensation of both her embrace and her throaty voice. "No, mistress. Only one of God’s more gentle creatures, a land turtle.”

  "What if Indians attack us?” she persisted in a perturbed voice. "You carry no weapon to defend us.”

  "I do not believe in killing, mistress.”

  "You may be fearless, but what good is your courage while the Indians are taking our scalps?”

  Fearless? If the young woman, his wife he reminded himself, but realized the coward who hid in his skin.

  His pugnacious father, a captain under Queen Elizabeth, had been created the first Earl of Bridgeshore as a reward for his successful raid of Ruthven. His three eldest sons also followed in his martial footsteps: Percy, who fought in the Dutch wars; Reginald, who sailed with the 1596 Cadiz expedition; and Robert, who led an Italian army into Hungary to thwart the infidel Turk.

  As the youngest of four warfaring brothers, Patrick had developed an aversion to the violence of military life. Instead, he had hid in books as an escape. He had pursued an education at Gloucester Hall, earned a master of arts from Oxford, and then enrolled at the Middle Temple.