Puritan

by David Hingley

  Mercia took the key. ‘I understand. And I am grateful.’

  A sudden chill swept into the room as the door fell open, a woman on the threshold removing her woollen hood. She was young, her auburn hair falling over red cheeks, her rough brown jacket contrasting with Clemency’s more colourful attire. Her eyes roved the group, resting on Nicholas for a brief moment; he smiled, but she did not respond, continuing her sweep.

  ‘Father,’ she said, her eyes stopping on Fearing. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Talking with these newcomers, Remembrance, that is all.’ Fearing frowned, the furrows around his eyes deepening into grooves. ‘I thought I told you to stay at home.’

  The young woman’s eyes flicked to Mercia. ‘These are the people from Hartford?’

  ‘England,’ said Fearing. ‘Come at Clemency’s request for a few days.’

  Remembrance nodded; she did not appear particularly interested. Behind her Nicholas was still staring; Mercia noticed Nathan looking too. She could not deny the woman was beautiful, if a little haggard for her age, the signs of an outdoor life clear on her ruddy skin.

  ‘Mother is looking for you,’ she said. ‘She fears Praise is getting worse.’

  Gruff until now, Fearing swallowed. ‘Worse?’ He turned to Clemency. ‘But I thought you said the antim—the medicine would help?’

  ‘I thought it was helping.’ Clemency rose from her chair. ‘The Governor prescribes it for many such cases of flux as this.’ She tightened her jacket. ‘Mercia, I must go and see to Praise-God. I am sure now tempers have calmed that someone will show you to your lodgings.’

  ‘Please,’ said Mercia. ‘Do what you must.’

  Clemency followed Fearing through the door. ‘I will call on you later. Forgive me – I must go.’

  Mercia watched her friend leave the tavern, a shard of anxiety in her chest. She thought of Daniel, and was glad he was safe with Winthrop. Then she looked at Nathan and she could tell what he was thinking, recalling what had happened in his own past. The worry in Remembrance’s eyes was unmistakable. Silently, she uttered a prayer as the young woman glanced at Humility and left.

  It was Kit who showed them to their cottage. Turning right at the meeting house to take the northern road, it was not far off.

  ‘This is Old Humility’s place.’ Kit rested his hand on the wooden gate, a number of small grazes fading from his pale skin. ‘Or his son’s, at least. He lives in New Haven, but he owns this too.’ He shook his head. ‘Still, it means it is empty, and furnished enough for your needs.’ He looked from Mercia to Nathan. ‘There are two bedrooms.’

  Mercia peered up at a well-kept cottage, wooden clapboard walls beneath a shingled roof. It was simple; she liked it. ‘What of Nicholas?’

  Kit tugged at a thin cord around his neck. ‘I think Clemency was hoping he would share with someone – Amery, I think. He has a cottage next to the new schoolhouse, just down the way.’ He glanced at Nicholas. ‘As he has no wife, she did not seem to think you would mind.’

  ‘Fine by me. I am used to sharing.’ He looked at Mercia. ‘Shall I fetch the cart?’

  Mercia nodded and he set off back the way they had come. She smiled at Kit. ‘You are not long arrived from England, Mr …?’

  ‘West. I have been here about three years now.’ He pushed open the gate. ‘But Meltwater is still recently founded, so we are all new in a sense. Shall we go in?’

  He led them inside the cottage, the door knocker swinging its beaver’s tail against the wood as they bent under the lintel to enter. A tiny hall space with the brick end of a fireplace directly in front led onto two rooms to left and right. Indicating the left, Kit ushered them into a cosy sitting room enhanced by a smattering of wooden furniture and a large ironclad hearth.

  ‘This is what we call the best room, the sitting room. It is agreeable?’

  ‘Most certainly.’ Mercia looked around the small room in delight. A staircase led up from the back corner. ‘The bedrooms are upstairs?’

  Kit nodded. ‘Two rooms upstairs, and two down. The other room on this floor is the keeping room and can be used as a place to eat or prepare. There are cooking tools within.’ He turned to leave. ‘And now, if I may, I must return to my sawmill. It will be dark before long.’ He bowed, setting his hands together in prayer. ‘May God watch over you while you are here.’

  She looked out the window. ‘I would rather God watch over Praise-God Davison.’

  Kit’s face twitched. ‘It is not for you to tell the Lord what he should do, nor I. We can only ask and hope his angels are watching.’

  His words disconcerted her. ‘I did not mean to offend.’

  ‘You did not.’ He stooped to regain the hall. ‘Please, ask if you need anything. Despite what you may think, we are friendly folk.’

  Nathan waited for him to leave, then pulled a face. ‘A peculiar kind of friendliness.’

  ‘They will get used to us.’ Smiling, she busied herself looking around the house, relatively small but more than sufficient for a few nights. The bedrooms were sparsely furnished, just a bed, table and dresser in each, but the view from one bedroom made up for it: if she stood in the right place, she could see over the palisade to the fields and woods beyond.

  ‘You will want this room, then,’ Nathan grinned.

  ‘Oh yes.’ She turned her head the other way towards the meeting house. ‘Ah – Nicholas is here with the cart.’

  As the two men unloaded her belongings she reviewed the contents of the keeping room: ironware to cook with, firewood for the hearth. Back in the best room she found the plate chest, then set to work lighting the fire, swearing as she struggled to make the kindling catch. Finally succeeding, she stepped back to take in the burgeoning heat.

  ‘That’s everything,’ said Nicholas, coming up from behind. ‘I’ll find out where to leave the cart and then, I suppose, where Amery lives.’

  She roused herself from the growing flames; fire was always captivating, somehow. ‘That reminds me. Amery said he was going to pay his respects to the town magistrate. I had best do so myself.’

  ‘What – now?’ Nathan came into the room, wiping his forehead with a ragged cloth. ‘We have only just arrived.’

  ‘Politeness does not wait.’ She smiled. ‘But you should stay here in case Clemency comes.’

  He wound the cloth round the leg of an upturned stool. ‘Merely to introduce yourself, eh?’

  She scratched at the back of her hand. ‘Why else?’

  ‘Winthrop’s request about the drowned minister, perhaps?’

  ‘Oh, that.’ She pulled her hood around her topknot. ‘It has not much crossed my mind!’

  An elderly woman sweeping leaves from the meeting house step told her where Lavington lived: it was the largest house in town, halfway between the central crossroads and the southern gate. Leaving Nicholas to hunt for Amery, she ambled in the direction she was shown. A metallic clanging drew her attention to an open gateway: Vic from the tavern was striking with a heavy hammer at an anvil, orange sparks flying in all directions. She paused for a moment to watch, but when he looked up she bowed her head and carried on. A woman in the doorway of the next building bade her good cheer as she passed, and then she came to Lavington’s house, much more extensive than the neighbouring dwellings, its chimneys thrusting into the sky. A single-storey addition was visible at the back.

  Pushing open another white gate she walked down a short weeded path. A bear’s head stared straight out at her, an iron knocker sitting flush in the middle of the front door. She rapped twice, awaiting a response.

  Shortly the door swung open. A red-cheeked woman poked her head through the gap, a questioning look on her face.

  Mercia put on her best smile. ‘My name is Mercia Blakewood. My companions and I are guests in your town – I wonder if I might see the magistrate to offer him my regards?’

  The door opened further, revealing the woman’s black serving dress. ‘He is busy,’ she said.

 
‘With Mr Thorpe, perhaps?’

  The woman tutted. ‘Thorpe was here for all of five minutes.’

  ‘Then could you ask?’

  The woman pursed her lips but nodded, disappearing inside. Mercia waited on the step, unwilling to enter until invited. After a minute she looked back at the street. A tall man was staring at her, his arms folded, but when their eyes met he walked on. He looked like Standfast Edwards, she thought, although without the mole on his neck: a relation, perhaps?

  Behind her, the serving woman cleared her throat. ‘Mr Lavington will receive you. Will you come this way?’

  Mercia followed her into an ample hall and through a wainscoted room where an oval table was laid with a fine pewter service. The far side of the room opened to the extension at the back of the house; entering the long space, she saw ranged along the right-hand wall a large bench covered with glassware, rather like Winthrop’s equipment but of much more limited scope. A vial of a clear, viscous liquid was bubbling away above a small flame, the condensed drops collecting in a tall cylindrical beaker alongside. On the opposite wall, a series of shelves held rolls of parchment and books, while a grey-haired man was writing at a desk beneath, shaking his quill over a dripping vial of ink. A male servant waited nearby.

  ‘Mrs Mercia Blakewood,’ announced the woman.

  The man rushed some last scribbles and rose, turning to face his guest. His expression seemed both welcoming and wary, his angular nose nestling between distinctly narrow eyes.

  ‘Mrs Blakewood.’ He smiled. ‘Welcome to Meltwater. But come, let us talk in more comfortable surroundings. I am sure you cannot be interested in my work.’

  ‘But I am.’ She advanced towards the bench. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘No, I know how all that bores a woman.’ With a nod at his man, he draped an elegantly covered arm around her back and steered her into the house. ‘Let us go to the parlour and talk there.’ He ushered her through the dining room; mildly irritated, she nonetheless allowed herself to be taken away.

  ‘In here.’ Lavington shepherded her into a finely decorated room across the hall, its walls papered with green fabric. Beckoning her sit in a blue-cushioned seat, he relaxed into an armchair that could only have been made in Europe: its rich satin upholstery spoke to its maker, an artisan on the continent.

  ‘Mrs Blakewood,’ he purred, smoothing the back of his hair. ‘Such a delight. Will you take some wine?’ He rang a silver handbell on a low table at his side. Within seconds, the female servant reappeared.

  ‘Some of the best wine, Jemima. After all, Mrs Blakewood has come all the way from England.’

  ‘Right away, sir.’ The servant glanced at Mercia then stepped from the room, leaving them to engage in platitudes about travel and the weather. Moments later she returned, handing over two diamond-patterned glasses with curving stems.

  ‘Thank you.’ Mercia took a sip. ‘This is excellent.’

  ‘From France. I knew you would like it.’ Lavington leant back in his chair, waving Jemima from the room. His crisp doublet creased as he reclined, exposing the white silk shirt beneath. ‘Well then, Mrs Blakewood. What do you think of my town?’ He swirled his glass, spilling a red drop unnoticed on his breeches. ‘Somewhat different to what you are accustomed to, I expect?’

  She held her glass on her lap. ‘From what I have seen, it is a remarkable achievement. I understand it was founded but four years ago?’

  ‘I led the people here myself.’ He smiled. ‘Governor Winthrop – we are close friends, you know – gave me the authority. An important trust, for we are close to the territory of the Dutch.’ He looked away a moment. ‘The Duke of York’s lands now, I suppose.’ He hesitated. ‘I understand you met Richard on the road. Mr Thorpe. I hate to ask a stranger, but … since he was widowed, he does so like to keep things to himself.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I wonder – did he happen to say anything about this commission of his?’

  She roved her eyes over his expectant face. ‘Nothing he cannot have told you, I am sure. But people do seem nervous that the Duke’s men are near.’ She thought of her encounter in the tavern. ‘Do you think they have cause?’

  For a moment his liveliness faltered. ‘Meltwater is mine, Mrs Blakewood, and it will stay that way – whatever Thorpe and his like care to think.’ He sipped at his wine and smiled. ‘But you are right. Such affairs need not concern you. You are staying as a guest of Mrs Carter, I hear?’

  For several minutes they talked about the town, or rather Lavington talked, Mercia nodding at appropriate moments. When finally he paused to take another drink, she grabbed the opportunity to lead the conversation in a different direction.

  ‘I wanted to ask you about a delicate matter,’ she said. ‘Governor Winthrop and I discussed it briefly.’

  He held out a hand. ‘Please.’

  ‘It concerns your old minister.’ She sighed; it was as well Nathan was not there, or he would have seen through it. ‘I was with the governor when he found out the news of his death.’

  A cryptic flicker of emotion crossed Lavington’s face: annoyance, she thought, maybe sorrow?

  ‘Indeed. A tragedy.’

  She ran her finger round the rim of her glass. ‘We were told he drowned.’ She paused, but received no response. ‘I know it has saddened the governor. He would be interested to know more of what happened, I am sure, and as you are close friends …’

  Lavington set his glass on the table. ‘We assume he fell in the river while out walking. There is little more to tell.’

  ‘What of the paper that was found in his pocket? You have tried to read it, I presume?’

  He pursed his lips. ‘Naturally. But I did not think there was anything to heed. Godsgift asked Standfast to take it to Winthrop – a waste of his time, in my opinion. But the constable does as he pleases.’

  ‘But the code itself,’ she pursued. ‘The governor wondered if it might not be symbolic of alchemy?’

  Lavington sat up straight. ‘I have no idea why Mason was carrying that parchment.’ He reached up to twist at his left ear. ‘He never expressed an interest in such things to me.’

  ‘But you did investigate?’

  ‘Why? The man was found drowned. An accident.’

  ‘Drowned, as you say, but surely when a death like that—’

  ‘Mrs Blakewood.’ He laid his palms on the armrests of his chair. ‘You will have to forgive me, but these are not really matters we need to discuss. And I am afraid I am a busy man.’ He rose to his feet. ‘My experiment, and then business to attend to – the latest agreements from the General Assembly and so forth.’ He smiled, but it was clearly forced. ‘We will meet again, no doubt.’

  ‘I should like that.’ She stood up herself, burning to ask more, but aware she had reached the mark. ‘It was a pleasure to meet you, Magistrate. I look forward to my few days in your town.’

  ‘A pleasure to meet you likewise.’ He reached for his bell. ‘Now please, let Jemima show you out.’

  Chapter Eight

  Leaving the grand house behind, Mercia did what she always did when she had more questions than answers: wander and think. Somehow, the act of walking calmed her, allowing her to focus on the problems at hand. She took a stroll through the small town, ambled outside the palisade, roamed the edge of the forests that opened up before her. It was not long before she reached a narrow river coming out of the woods. In the near distance, a small building straddled the flow: Kit’s sawmill, no doubt, its wheel gently turning in the water’s steady gait.

  She allowed her mind to drift into the air around her, drawing in the sounds of the river and the scents of the pines, watching as the long grass underfoot brushed across her boots and the clouds journeyed across the sunlight overhead. She closed her eyes, breathing deep, the tree pollen tickling her nose. But then she sneezed, her mind drifted back, and she returned towards the palisade.

  The pleasant environment was disturbed too soon. Not far from the northern gate, a woman came
into view; facing the other way, her red dress nonetheless betrayed her for Clemency. She was clearly annoyed, shaking her head and throwing up her hands, arguing with the man she was blocking from sight, but as she approached, Mercia recognised Percy Lavington, returned from his task with James Davids. He was talking as furiously as Clemency was waving, although his tone was subdued. Looking over her shoulder, he scoffed.

  ‘And here she is herself!’ he said. ‘Mrs Blakewood, why don’t you join us? Then perhaps you can interfere still more!’

  Clemency twisted her neck. ‘Hello, Mercia. I apologise for this.’

  Mercia glanced at Percy. ‘For what?’

  ‘For him. For his ingratitude.’

  ‘Ingratitude?’ Percy laughed. ‘I am not the one who asked her here. You imperilled the whole errand, Clemency. How can I trust you again?’

  Mercia set her face. ‘I came here of my own will, Mr Lavington. And I owed Mr Davids a debt. I intended to repay it.’

  ‘What debt?’ He waved a dismissive hand. ‘All I know is I put a lot of effort into helping – those men – and I will not see them threatened. Do you have any idea what would happen if they were discovered?’

  Mercia bridled. ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘Then leave these matters to me.’ He turned back to Clemency. ‘As for you, your tongue is too quick to let secrets slip.’

  Clemency gritted her teeth. ‘Amery agreed.’

  ‘And he will hear my mind also.’ Percy shook his head. ‘But he is new to this, and you and I are not.’

  She held his gaze an instant, but then she sighed. ‘Very well. I am sorry, Percy. But I knew Mercia could help.’

  ‘Let us just hope nobody saw her – help.’ He snatched at his hair, long strands of black that snuck out from under his hat. ‘Damn this. I have to think. Make plans, in case.’ He thrust his finger towards Clemency. ‘Leave me be for a while.’