‘He is a quiet soul,’ said Amery, walking with them down the street. ‘Quiet and strong of faith. Sometimes I have thought he should become a minister himself.’ He smiled. ‘Ever since I met him in Boston, not long after he arrived on these shores.’
Nathan’s eyes flashed. ‘Boston … what is it like?’
‘Boston is the greatest city we have, friend, a noisy, busy place of wonder. I studied at our new college there.’ Reaching what passed for the town stables, a straw-strewn plot next to the southern gate, Amery stood aside to allow the others to pass in. ‘Harvard has the potential to become a great university, far though it is from your own Cambridge, or from Leiden and the like. One day, perhaps, it could become the College of Light itself.’
Running her hand through the mane of a fine-looking chestnut colt, Clemency winked at Mercia. ‘The College of Light again, Amery?’
His exuberant expression darkened. ‘Do not mock, Clemency. It is a noble ideal.’
Mercia glanced between them. ‘What is the College of Light?’
For a moment Amery stared at the ground, but after a short silence he picked up. ‘It is to be the Universal College, where all scholars will bring their knowledge so we may better understand God’s world.’ Of a sudden his eyes shone. ‘And where could a more exalted place for that task be found than here, at the frontiers of Eden? Here in this wilderness where His secrets are countless and untold.’
‘Amery is a believer in pansophism,’ explained Clemency. ‘The world’s greatest minds pursuing collective wisdom.’ She raised an eyebrow at Mercia, carefully so Amery would not see; nonetheless his face saddened once more.
‘As are Governor Winthrop and Mr Lavington. What is wrong with wanting to learn how God’s world works?’
Effortlessly sliding her boot into a stirrup, she mounted the handsome colt. ‘There is nothing wrong in it. I am teasing.’
‘Unless in searching for God’s secrets you uncover the Devil’s too,’ said Nathan, jumping onto a horse of his own.
Amery folded his arms. ‘You speak of diabolical magic. I have no interest in such an abomination.’
‘And yet others might.’ Clemency steadied her horse as it shifted left beneath her. ‘You heard, Mercia, how Remembrance called me a witch.’
‘Yes, though I did not think to heed it.’
‘But where is the line to be found between the Devil and the Lord?’ Clemency watched as Mercia swung onto a sorrel mare. ‘For different people it is at different places. Do not doubt the zeal of some of the folk who live here, or of those in England. What is medicine to the governor, to you and I, is poison to others, whatever good it does.’ She smiled. ‘You have not yet met my cousin, for Hopewell spends most of his time away from his house, earning his living through trade with the Indians. But perhaps he is right to claim they have more wisdom in these matters than we.’ She clicked her tongue and her horse moved off. ‘Now enough of this. Amery? Nicholas? You will join us?’
His cheek sucked in, Amery shook his head. Nicholas glanced up at Mercia, his face uncertain; she shrugged, indicating he should do as he pleased.
‘No, thank you,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to intrude.’
‘You wouldn’t be.’ Clemency glanced at Mercia. ‘But very well. Enjoy your day.’
Leaving the town, the chattering trio rode to the waterfall, delighting in its magnificence before riding further through the forest, following the river for a time. Soon Clemency picked a way up a gently sloping hill until they emerged at a gap in the treeline, the panorama of New England revealed to them in its glory: seemingly endless trees, some of the leaves beginning to redden, but most all shades of green, the blue sky above peppered by lazy clouds. Close by they could see Meltwater ringed by its circular palisade, nestled at the heart of cleared fields where men and women, specks in the corn, were hard at work keeping their community alive.
‘That is what we do here,’ said Clemency, a great pride in her voice. ‘That is home.’ She sat up tall on her horse. ‘When you go back to England, if go back you must, tell everyone you have seen what America is, and that this is it. A thing of great wonder is being forged here, Mercia, one the people will not surrender lightly, not to a Duke, nor even to a King.’
They stayed for several moments in silence, taking in the view and its meaning. The intense freshness of the pine-tinged September air gladdened their hearts, and Mercia thought, yes, this is a special place, and I am glad I have come. She looked at her friend and felt through her happiness the wonder and the pride; Clemency, seeing her job was done, smiled and pulled her away before she could get enough.
A few metres into the forest Mercia paused her horse and turned back. ‘Nathan?’ she called. ‘Are you coming?’
‘Sorry.’ He turned and trotted towards her, taking a final, long look back. ‘I did not notice you had gone.’
On they continued, enjoying the ride, dodging the trees, finally halting in a clearing bordered by a brook a half-hour’s distance from the viewpoint. Dismounting, they sat on a flat, smooth-topped rock with room enough for three, munching on the food Clemency had stashed in her saddlebag.
Breaking off a chunk of bread, she looked keenly at Nathan. ‘You seemed taken with the view, my friend.’
‘How could I not be?’ he smiled. ‘It is so … beautiful here.’
‘Beauty of all sorts in your life.’ She chuckled as Mercia’s cheeks flushed. ‘More ale?’
Eager to avoid further embarrassment, Mercia reached inside her pockets to retrieve a familiar parchment. ‘Would you take a look at this?’
Nathan laughed. ‘I might have known.’
‘Well.’ Mercia passed the parchment to Clemency. ‘I have yet to deduce its meaning.’
Clemency wiped her lips. ‘What is this?’
‘A puzzle from the governor.’ Sitting in the middle, Mercia shuffled closer, staring at the senseless letters. ‘It was found on your old minister when he died.’
‘I did not know of this.’ Clemency studied the paper. ‘But I suppose there is no reason why I should.’
‘The constable – Godsgift – he sent it on to Hartford.’
‘Did he show Lavington first?’
‘It seems so. I introduced myself to your magistrate the other day. He did not seem especially interested, or rather he pretended as much.’
‘You have been to his house?’ Clemency smiled, letting the paper dangle from her slender fingertips. ‘What did you think of his laboratory? Lavington is a pompous ass, but he has a curious mind.’
Mercia raised an eyebrow. ‘I was not allowed to see much of his work.’
‘You wouldn’t have been.’ Clemency puffed herself up, affecting a deep and steadied imitative tone. ‘You women should not bother yourselves with such endeavours.’
Mercia laughed, doubling up with mirth as she slid off the rock onto the grass, crashing down hard on the earth, yet she barely noticed the bump.
Clemency glanced at Nathan. ‘I did not think it so clever as that.’
He looked at Mercia, a large smile on his face. ‘No. But she is happy. It is good.’
On the grass Mercia was blowing out her cheeks, her fit of laughter subsiding. She rubbed at her aching sides. ‘I am sorry. But you were so accurate.’
‘I have had practice.’
Clambering upright she retook her stony seat. ‘Now what do you think of this puzzle?’
Clemency inclined her head as she looked at the parchment. ‘I do not know. Just a series of letters.’ She frowned. ‘Although, there might be something.’ She shook her head. ‘No, well – maybe – I will think on it.’
‘On what?’
‘I don’t know. ’Tis possible I have seen something like this before. In the governor’s house perhaps, or in Lavington’s, when I was there with Percy.’ She passed the parchment back across. ‘But I may merely wish to think that in my hope of helping you. All those alchemists’ codes are so much confusion.’ She smiled. ‘Why are you so inte
rested?’
Nathan swallowed a morsel of ham. ‘How could she not be? It is a mystery, and if there is one thing Mercia cannot abide it is an unsolved puzzle.’
She swiped the air in front of him. ‘I was hoping to help the governor. He has been so kind to me and does not have the time to act on this himself.’
‘True indeed.’ Clemency pushed herself up. ‘I will think some more about it and let you know.’ She reached to the ground. ‘Now, how about some of this pie?’
The rest of the day was equally pleasant; by the time they returned to the town the sun was already nearing the horizon. Back at the stables, Mercia felt exhilarated.
‘I am so pleased you invited us to stay,’ she said, looking at Clemency as she jumped from her horse. ‘You live in a magnificent place.’
‘And yet times can still be difficult.’ Clemency patted the colt’s flank; it whinnied, apparently as content with the day’s relaxation as its rider. ‘We do not have half the town dying of hunger as happened years ago, but a misunderstanding with the Indians, a harsh winter – yes, it can still be hard.’
Nathan tied up his horse. ‘You have lived in America always?’
She nodded. ‘My mother was pregnant with me on the crossing. She and my father sailed with the governor’s parents, back at the start. The original settlers, you could say, lest you count Plymouth, or the plantations much further south.’
Mercia straightened her jacket, crumpled from the ride. ‘You are proud of it, I can tell.’
‘I am.’ She scattered a bundle of straw on the earth. ‘After my father died, my mother remarried and helped to found Hartford. I still remember the journey even now – how the men drove the cattle and sheep all the way from near Boston, how that dog almost drowned until one of the women pulled him from the river. I have been a Connecticut girl ever since.’
‘A fine place for a fine woman,’ Mercia joked. ‘Would you like to come back to our cottage to rest a while?’
Clemency sighed. ‘Alas, I have to be at home tonight. I have some annoying matters to conclude.’ For a moment the cheer in her eyes dulled, but then she recovered herself, arching a mischievous eyebrow. ‘Besides, I think you two should spend the evening without me. ’Tis not easy to find the time.’
‘Do not be foolish.’ Mercia shook her head. ‘But perhaps it would do us well to get some sleep.’ She reached for Clemency’s hand. ‘I will see you tomorrow, then.’
‘Yes.’ Clemency smiled. ‘Tomorrow.’
Bidding her good night, Mercia strolled with Nathan towards their cottage, greeting the townsfolk they passed with a light heart. Even Standfast Edwards doffed his hat, walking with the man who looked just like him; introducing herself, he turned out to be his younger brother Sil. Then at the meeting house she frowned. Percy Lavington was waiting on the steps, but he surprised her by standing and beckoning her across.
‘Can we talk?’ he called.
She hesitated, then looked at Nathan. ‘Why don’t you light the fires?’
Nathan glanced between them. ‘You are sure?’ he said. When she nodded, he walked away, turning once to stare back at Percy. As he reached the cottage gate, she drew a deep breath.
‘I am listening.’
‘Please, sit with me.’ Percy resumed his perch on the steps; she waited a moment then sat beside him. ‘You have had a good day?’
She studied his face. ‘I have.’
‘I was hoping I would see you.’ He looked down. ‘I … wanted to ask your pardon. I was rude the other day.’
She flicked a loose thread from her sleeve. ‘A little.’
‘More than a little.’ Checking no one was nearby, he lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘But Dixwell – Davids, that is – told me you were nearly caught. It made me uneasy.’ He brushed back a straggling lock of black hair that was poking from under his hat. ‘He says you are a good woman. Brave.’
‘He is kind to say so. But he is the brave one.’
‘He has led such a life, that is certain. I never met him until now, although I knew of him before, of course.’
A light breeze whipped up, agitating the few leaves at their feet. ‘From your time in England?’
A startled flash of annoyance passed his face, but it vanished as quickly as it arrived. ‘I suppose Clemency told you that.’
‘She said you served Cromwell in some way. My father too was part of his government.’
He widened his eyes. ‘Your father?’
‘Sir Rowland Goodridge.’
‘Oh.’ He leapt to his feet. ‘I … I had no idea.’
She smiled. ‘You did not give me much chance to tell you.’
‘No.’ He scratched at his cheek, the broad brim of his hat bobbling in the wind. ‘Then I met your father once, although we barely spoke. And I heard … what happened to him this spring.’ He wrung his hands. ‘Tyranny once more. When Cromwell died, why could not the people see they were better without a King?’
It was a discussion she had heard many times before. ‘Another war was threatening, Mr Lavington—’
‘Percy, please.’
‘—and the people could not stand it. The King offered stability.’
‘A high price.’ He sighed. ‘Yes, I served Cromwell. My father advised I should learn the art of ruling from the best.’ He blew out his cheeks. ‘It was over all too soon. Now I fight the fight here in my own way.’ He reached out a gloved hand to help her up. ‘Well. I have said what I wanted to say. I regret my earlier discourtesy.’ He released her fingers and bowed. ‘I hope we can talk again while you are here.’
‘As do I.’ She gave him a curt nod. ‘Good evening, Percy. Sleep well.’
Mercia eased herself from bed early the next morning, full of confidence and joy. Despite the hour, children were already playing scotch-hoppers in the street below, and she thought of her own son, optimistic she could come through the trials and provide for him. As she dressed herself, wishing her maidservant Bethany was there to help fasten the laces at the back of her dress, her mind turned to Nathan, wondering whether now was the time to change the bounds of their relationship to something greater. It would be well, she knew, to discuss such matters with a friend, and for the first time in a long age she felt she had someone she could confide in, however temporary that might be. Looking out the window at the trees and the picket fences, listening now to the pigs in a neighbouring garden, she found herself thinking – could it not become more permanent? And then again she thought of Daniel, and the manor house in Oxfordshire, and she knew that no, this was for the moment, but it was a moment she would be sure to enjoy.
After a brief breakfast she snatched up her jacket, tying it firmly round her bodice. In good humour she ruffled Nathan’s hair, flashing him a broad smile; he looked up from the table and grinned, his brown eyes staring into hers. Waving him farewell she picked up a basket that was lying in the corner, intending to ask Clemency where she could secure supplies in the town, hoping she would have time to walk with her to buy them.
Skirting the meeting house she saw Amery chatting animatedly with Percy; just behind them Humility Thomas followed her with his eyes, doffing his hat, before he turned back to Vic and another man to resume their conversation, Lavington’s manservant she thought. With a light gait she swept along the western road to Clemency’s cottage, swinging open the small white gate to walk up to the house.
Tapping on the front door she pushed it ajar, calling out as she entered, ‘Clemency, ’tis only me, are you in?’ When there was no response she passed into the hall, shutting the door behind her. It was dark; she waited for her eyes to adjust to the lower light before looking through the doorway of the keeping room – there was nobody there – and next into the sitting area, but again, there was no sign of her friend.
At the foot of the staircase she called up, receiving no answer. Setting one foot on the bottom step she climbed with a deliberately heavy tread, accentuating the creaks so that Clemency would hear her ascent.
‘Clemency?’ she called again. ‘Are you up there?’
There was still no response. Mercia frowned: it was too late for Clemency to be abed. Perhaps she was out – or maybe ill. She quickened her step, pausing on the upstairs landing, uncertain which of the two doors led to Clemency’s bedroom. She tried the door on her left, but there was no one inside, not even a bed. She set her hand on the second door, rapping on the rough brown wood with her other fist, the basket slipping down to her elbow.
‘Hello?’ she said.
She pushed on the door. It fell open, revealing the darkened room behind. Mercia peered in, not wanting to embarrass Clemency if she were indeed still in bed, but there was a large object hanging in her way and she had to move past it to—
She screamed. The basket fell to the floor.
Clemency was in her bedroom, but she was not in her bed.
She was hanging from the ceiling, a thick and vicious rope desecrating her proud neck. Gently, she swung around, a terrible groaning noise coming from the straining beam above. For a moment she wavered, her lower lip hanging open as though appealing to her friend for help. But she could not call out, could never beseech aid again. All the wondrous life had fled from her eyes; the twisted rope caught, swinging her limp body away.
Chapter Ten
Nothing moved. Not the tree branches outside the window, not the dust in the slender rays of light. There was only Clemency, only the rope. Mercia stood immobile as lost seconds sped by, and then her right boot walked forward of its own will – she did not control it – then her other leg, then boot, then leg, until she was standing beneath her friend, her new, invigorating friend, listening for breath, listening for heartbeat, but to no avail: consciously, unconsciously, terribly, Mercia knew Clemency was dead.
She stood alone, feeling the coldness of Clemency’s hands, the soft material of Clemency’s dress – the same she had been wearing the day before – until her mind snapped back into the awful reality of that September Connecticut morning. She ran from the room, down the stairs, through the red front door and the small white gate, stumbling into the street, running for the central crossroads, falling in amongst the people, Humility, Percy, Sil now too, all staring at this mad woman, this peculiar stranger who could not get her words out, who was hoarse, whispering, mute, until in a torment of rage and despair she cried:
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