The Blind in Darkness

by Stephen Lewis

  Thomasine met the merchant’s gaze with one of her own as steely and with a touch of brazen impudence that suggested that she was not one used to being cowed.

  “And yet marry we did. With my own brother as witness on the marriage night that we retired to our bed as husband and wife.”

  “And was he in the room with you?” Worthington asked.

  Thomasine hesitated for just a moment.

  “If he was here, he could tell you right well that what I say is true.”

  “It matters not. He is not here. And if you played the whore with my son, why that is a basis for a whipping in Newbury.”

  “If,” Woolsey said slowly, articulating each syllable with emphasis in the way he did when he wanted to be not only heard but heeded, “it is as the young woman says, she may indeed have grounds certifiable for her claim to be Nathaniel’s widow.”

  Worthington wheeled and took a step toward Woolsey. The magistrate half raised himself from his chair. He settled back into it as Worthington stopped, contenting himself with a withering glare. The merchant looked toward Wequashcook.

  “William tells me here that he found you in a tavern, hardly able to stand, that another had to make your introduction to him, and that is the only way that you knew to board the ship that brought you here. Is that not so, William?”

  Wequashcook nodded.

  “There. That is all I have to say on this matter. You shall not have any part of what my poor son would have inherited.”

  “I will bring the matter before the governor,” Woolsey said.

  “Do as you please.” He strode out of the room, followed by Wequashcook.

  Thomasine watched their backs, and then she offered a little bow to Woolsey and Catherine.

  “Why thank you good sir, for so defending my interest. And you Mistress Williams, have been more than kind. I will not trouble you further. Even today, I will take my things to the farm, just as my husband intended.”

  “That is not wise,” Catherine said, “as you know well Master Worthington does not want you there.”

  “And yet,” Thomasine replied, “although I have lived long by my wits, I do not think you can find many who would call me wise. So, now, I ask that I may take my leave, for I have much work today.” She curtsied, an exaggerated squat that almost brought her to a seat on the floor, straightened up and walked out the door.

  “Remarkable woman,” Woolsey said as the door shut, and he and Catherine were left alone.

  “She has chosen a most dangerous enemy, nonetheless, and I fear for her safety. Sara Dunwood sends word to me that she has the toothache. I think I can bring her a poultice of hops that promises some relief.”

  “Does not Sara live next to the Powell farm?” the magistrate asked.

  “That she does.”

  “An interesting co-incidence,” he replied with a smile. He stood up slowly, and almost staggered. Before he could fall, however, Dorothy was at his side, supporting him with a firm hand on his elbow.

  “But where . . .how . . ..?” he began.

  “I was just at the door,” the servant replied. “I knew it would not be long ere you did something foolish.”

  “Good-bye, then, Joseph,” Catherine said, “I am content to leave you in such capable hands. I will report to you if I find anything amiss at the Powell farm.”

  She waited for Dorothy to help Woolsey climb the stairs, and then she left.

  * * * *

  “I can walk with you,” Phyllis said, as Catherine gathered her midwife’s bag late that afternoon.

  “It is just your idle curiosity. I know you are not so fond of a long walk along a muddy road.”

  “I thought you might want the company,” Phyllis replied.

  “Come along, then,” Catherine said. “It is no use my having to report to you what you want to see with your very own eyes.”

  The sun was just above the trees that rimmed the road leading away from Newbury Center. In a cleared area just ahead, they could make out the squat outline of the Dunwood house. A cow grazed in a sparse patch of grass behind the house, and a hog rooted in the front yard. On the side nearest town, Allan Dunwood was at work laying out the rows and mounds of a garden. He waved to them as they approached and motioned for them to enter the house. A little smoke curled from the chimney in the center of the house. Beyond the Dunwood house rose the slightly more substantial shape of Isaac Powell’s house.

  “You go on ahead,” Catherine said, “as I know you have a special interest in visiting there.”

  “But what should I say to her?”

  “I am sure you can think of something,” Catherine replied, “now go on. If I do not meet you there before you finish your visit, stop for me here.”

  Phyllis walked on ahead while Catherine turned onto the short path leading to the front of the Dunwood house. Inside, Sara was sitting on a crudely fashioned joint stool next to a plank table in the front room of her two room house. A chimney ran up the center wall dividing the front room from the one in the rear, where the family slept. The front room served as kitchen, parlor, and all purpose space. Two similar stools hung from pegs on the wall next to the fireplace in which smoldered a dying fire beneath a large black kettle. One child, three year old Judith sat at her mother’s feet while Sara nursed her brother, ten month old David. The legs of the stool were uneven so that it rocked as Sara shifted her weight to move the infant from one breast to another. Judith watched the legs rise and fall back to the floor, and as she leaned forward to place her hand beneath one leg, Sara placed her leg in the child’s path. Judith’s little face tightened into a scowl for a moment, but then she contented herself with playing with the hem of her mother’s gown.

  “You see how it is,” Sara said, glancing from the child on the floor to the infant at her breast whose cheeks were puffed as he sucked. Sara winced as she spoke, as if the effort to articulate words was painful.

  Catherine poked around in her bag until she found the poultice. She approached Sara.

  “Which is it now?” she asked.

  Sara opened her mouth and moved her head to the right.

  “That side,” she said, “on the bottom near the back.”

  Catherine peered, but the interior of the house was dim, and she could not see well. She cupped Sara’s chin with the gentlest touch and turned her face toward the window. She could now see a swelling on the gum beneath the rearmost molar. She applied the poultice with a wadded piece of rag.

  “That should help,” she said.

  Sara offered a brave smile.

  “I do hope so,” she said. “I do feel a little relief even now.”

  Catherine left the poultice on the table.

  “Use it as you need. I can bring you more.”

  David had abruptly fallen asleep, and Sara pulled a cradle out from beneath the table and laid him in it. She buttoned her gown. Judith tottered over to sit by her brother and watch him in his sleep.

  “A few moment’s peace,” she said. “Did you stop at my new neighbor?”

  “Phyllis did,” Catherine replied. “I did not want to delay coming to see you.”

  Sara chuckled, her pleasant face filled by a knowing smile.

  “I am sure most people in Newbury would like a closer look at that young woman, after the way she showed herself coming down from the ship, dressed like the scarlet harlot in the good book.” Sara nodded toward the window through which her husband’s shape could be seen as he labored over a shovel, and then she leaned forward, as though to share a confidence, which she offered sotto voce. “I can tell you she caught the eye of more than one of the men standing there at the dock. Why I caught my Allan staring at her when he thought I would not notice, and then he made a sound as though he disapproved, and yet he took not his eyes from her until I nudged him with my elbow in his ribs. That brought him round, right enough.”

  “Phyllis has instructed her that she can not dress in that fashion in Newbury.”

  “And that is a fact,
” Sara said, now in a normal voice, “folks such as her and me cannot dress like such fine ladies.”

  “Even fine ladies,” Catherine replied, “would be a little more sober in their dress than she was yesterday. But maybe she fancies herself so, as she says she married Nathaniel Worthington.”

  “More like Nathaniel would marry that boy,” Sara said with a crooked smile. She stood up and stretched her back. She looked down for a moment at Judith who still stared at David. Then she started as though just remembering something.

  “I am afraid Phyllis will be disappointed. I recall just now my Allan saying he saw Thomasine on her way to town not so very long ago.”

  “That is a pity,” Catherine replied, “for I do believe I know where she would have been going.”

  “The public house, no doubt,” Sara said.

  The room darkened so that the only light came from the dying fire. Sara jabbed a brand into the fire and with it lit a candle on the table. Allan came in and bowed.

  “Evening Mistress Williams. It gets dark sudden like here when the sun slips behind those trees. I can walk back with you.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Phyllis called from the door. Her face was grim with disappointment. “She was not home.”

  “Yes,” Catherine said. “She passed this way on her way to town. Another time, perhaps.”

  “Go on into Newbury Center to the public house, and there you can find her,” Sara said with a meaningful glance at her husband.

  “Why, perhaps I should go fetch her, then,” he said.

  “Do that, if you like,” his wife replied, “and you can just keep on walking with her to that old, dead man’s house.”

  “I have more poultice, if you need it,” Catherine said. “Come Phyllis, we must make our way home.”

  * * * *

  Halfway to their own house, on a road now in almost total darkness, lit only by a dim glow of a rising moon, they almost walked directly into two figures approaching them from town. A male voice muttered a curse, while the woman’s voice only laughed, a high pitched giggle that seemed moistened by whatever she had been drinking.

  “Do you think it was her?” Phyllis asked.

  “I am quite sure it was,” Catherine replied.

  “God forgive me for saying so,” Phyllis said, “but it seems to me that Nathaniel was not so unlucky in his death as he might have been had he lived with that one.”

  “Phyllis, that is a most untoward observation.”

  “Yet it is what I believe. The Lord knows I mean no harm when I speak my mind.”

  “I am sure He knows, but I wish I knew how to teach you better management of your tongue that so often seems to run wild.”

  They walked in silence until Catherine’s house rose in front of them on its hill. As she usually did, Catherine glanced past the house to Massaquoit’s wigwam, looking for some sign that he had returned. The wigwam was just visible, a hemisphere, flattened at the top as though pressed down by a giant thumb. It at first seemed as deserted as when they had left earlier in the day, but Catherine thought she saw a puff of smoke rise from the opening she knew was at its top. She started to walk toward it when Phyllis took her arm and pointed to the house. Edward was standing in the doorway. And next to him was Massaquoit.

  Chapter Twelve

  “But surely you have not left them sitting out there alone?” Catherine said.

  “I am not such a fool, or so careless,” Massaquoit said. He sat at the table and looked toward the pot on the fireplace. “But I am very hungry.”

  “Matthew,” Phyllis began, using the Christian name she knew he detested, and which she only said when she wanted to assert her sense that he had risen above his proper place in the household. “Matthew,” she repeated, “Mistress Williams is not your servant, nor am I, to feed you when you come flying in like some strange creature of the night, a very spirit carried by the wind.”

  “Massaquoit,” Catherine said in a gentle but firm voice. “Assure me that those men in your wigwam are secure, and Phyllis will be most happy to put a fire under that stew, as she and I and Edward also must sup.”

  “The one who has shown that he might run is securely bound. The other has given me his word.”

  “I see,” Catherine replied.”

  Edward who had been sitting in a corner to the side of the fireplace snorted.

  “Gave you his word did he, and you trust in that?”

  “No,” Massaquoit said, “not entirely. Ninigret is a very capable jailer.”

  “He is but a boy,” Edward said.

  “Perhaps you want to join him in his watch?” Massaquoit said. He turned to Catherine. “He has proven himself a very formidable warrior, beyond his green years. And I am certain he, too, is most hungry.”

  “Phyllis,” Catherine said.

  Phyllis took her time walking to the fireplace, and then knelt slowly to stir the fire into fuller life.

  “Edward,” Catherine said. “We have guests in Massaquoit’s wigwam.” She waited for Massaquoit to nod his assent. “Have them come in to join us.”

  “All of them, Mistress?” Edward asked.

  “Surely,” Catherine replied.

  Edward went out of the door, shaking his head and muttering under his breath.

  “I am taking you at your word,” Catherine said to Massaquoit.

  “Do not fear. The wild boy is tamed and the man knows if he runs I will track him down again and not be so gentle with him as I was last time.”

  Catherine put her hand on the deep bruise under Massaquoit’s eye.

  “Gentle, indeed,” she said.

  The door opened again and Edward hurried in. Ninigret followed, one end of the vine wrapped around his hand, the other still about the neck of Frank Mapleton who stumbled in after him. Osprey, unbound, came next and bowed to Catherine.

  “Good evening, Mistress,” he said. “I must request that you notify my master of my return.”

  “In good time,” Catherine answered, “I will send word to Master Worthington. Are you not hungry?”

  “That I am,” Osprey replied, “but more for my freedom than to fill my stomach.”

  Phyllis motioned for them to sit at the long table of polished oak. At a gesture from Massaquoit, Ninigret loosened the vine from around Mapleton’s neck, and they all sat on the benches on either side of the table. Phyllis laid the wooden trenchers in front of them and ladled in the stew. They ate in silence for a few moments, and then Catherine reached into her pocket and placed a brass button on the table in front of Osprey. Osprey put down his spoon, picked up the button, and nodded.

  “What of it Mistress?”

  “Is it not yours.”

  “Likely it is. I did lose such an one. I have already told him,” he pointed to Massaquoit.

  “He says he lost it in the snow outside of the Powell farm. That is after the old man was killed.”

  “That is right,” Osprey replied. “I found the man dead. I could not help him, and so I left. The button must have caught on something and come loose.”

  “I am sure that matter will be investigated more fully by the magistrates,” Catherine said. She looked at Mapleton who had his mouth no more than an inch or two above the trencher as he scooped up the stew.

  “I don’t suppose you want to repeat your tale, the one you have already told Massaquoit.”

  Mapleton lifted his face. Stew dribbled from the corner of his mouth.

  “I cannot see that it would do any harm.” He rubbed his hand over his neck, which bore the imprint of the vine like a collar, punctuated every so many inches with an indentation where the thorns had pressed into the flesh. “That is if I have nothing more to fear from these savages.”

  “You are in my house now,” Catherine replied, “and I vouchsafe your safety while under my roof.”

  “In that case, I can freely tell you that I filled your savage with a story just so he would not harm me further as we floated down the river, for I did think otherwise
he would drown me. But as for that, I have nothing more to say.”

  A loud knock came at the door. Edward opened it, and there stood Wequashcook and Master Worthington. The merchant strode in past Phyllis, who was seated at the foot of the table. His elbow glanced off her shoulder, but he seemed not to notice. He continued until he stood behind and between Osprey and Mapleton.

  “These men are in my employ. I have come to take them home with me where I can properly tend to them after their adventure with your savage.”

  “And what do you know about that?” Catherine asked.

  Worthington looked toward Wequashcook.

  “My savage was at the harbor when yours arrived with these two as captives. That is all I have to know. I insist you release them to my care.”

  “But Samuel, they are at supper as you can very well see,” Catherine said, “and they are free to go when they please.” While the merchant kept his eyes on Osprey and Frank, Catherine covered the brass button and slid it off the table into her pocket.

  “Now will do very well, then,” he said. “They can sup at my table as well as yours, and they perchance will find a better dinner conversation there.”

  Osprey got to his feet and seized Mapleton’s arm.

  “Up with you, lad, our master has come to take us home.”

  Frank, though, seemed reluctant to leave.

  “Can I not finish my dinner?” He smiled at Phyllis. “She does make an excellent stew.”

  Worthington nodded at Osprey, and the lieutenant squeezed Frank’s arm until the young man got to his feet.

  “Come on with you,” Worthington said. “We have things to discuss.” He offered Catherine a barely perceptible dip of his head, and walked out as directly as he had entered. Phyllis, this time, leaned away from him as he passed. Osprey and Frank followed. Ninigret began to rise as though to impede their progress, but Catherine shook her head. Then Wequashcook left, closing the door behind them.

  “Was that wise?” Massaquoit said. “We did go to some trouble to bring them back.”

  “I could have resisted,” Catherine replied, “but to what purpose? To have you and Ninigret fight again, only this time in my house? What would be gained if you succeeded in defending our guests? Worthington would have come back with a greater force.” She leaned toward over the table toward him. “I should have thought you would see, as well, that we must let them do what they want to do.”