‘She took her own life. There is nothing to solve. Unless, of course, she was engaged in some devilish magic that went wrong.’ He leant in still closer. ‘And if that happens to be so, then nobody would thank you for raising it, not least when the King’s commissioners are so near. Now, leave well alone and go.’
An anger rose. ‘I cannot believe you would put the town’s repute above finding the truth!’ She jerked her head at Lavington. ‘Him, yes, but surely you want to understand? For Clemency’s sake, if for nothing else!’
‘A cart will arrive in an hour to take you and your menfolk to Hartford. Go and make ready.’ He jabbed a podgy finger at her chest. ‘This is our town, Mrs Blakewood, not yours. ’Tis past time for you to depart.’
Chapter Twelve
‘So that’s it?’ Nicholas wrung his hands in irritation. ‘You’re just going to leave, do as they say?’
‘I do not see that we have much choice.’ Leaning against the sitting room doorway, Nathan folded his arms. ‘We have nowhere to stay.’
‘We could … stay with Amery.’
‘How? His cottage is barely large enough for the two of you. Where would Mercia sleep? We have to face facts – this is not our town.’
‘But—’
‘He is right, Nicholas.’ Standing at the window, Mercia had been listening to them argue. She watched as a horse and cart pulled up in the street. ‘We are not welcome here.’
‘What does that mat—’
‘Nicholas, that is enough.’ Mercia turned to face them. ‘Nathan, the cart is here. Would you load my trunk?’
Nicholas swallowed. ‘Now I cannot even—’
She quietened him with a keen glance. ‘Nathan, please.’
‘Of course.’ Nathan lifted the battered trunk from in front of the fireplace and hauled it outside. She watched him push it into the cart, the driver offering no assistance. Then she looked again at Nicholas.
‘Of course I am not giving this up.’ She sucked in her lips. ‘Once we have returned to Hartford, I shall want you to accompany me on a journey. But not a word to Nathan. He will object, and then he will want to come, but I want him to stay with Daniel.’
Nicholas smiled. ‘Now that is more like it. Where are we going?’
She picked at a loose thread on her dress. ‘Upriver, Nicholas. We are going to find the Indians.’
Several rainy hours later they trundled into Hartford, returning once more to Winthrop’s home. As they unloaded the cart Daniel rushed out to meet them, and for an instant she forgot her pain as she hugged his thin frame, but when Nathan scooped him up with a broad smile the breaking of contact allowed the tragedy back in, and not even her son could now dispel it. Still, it was a happy hour that she spent in the damp garden outside the governor’s workshop, listening to Daniel talk of his friends and the fun things he had done. Later, she sat with Winthrop in his parlour, sitting in silence as he digested the awful news. Too distraught to join them, Elizabeth had already retired. Mercia herself was in no mood for sleep.
‘I agree with you.’ Winthrop sat by the fireplace, his fingertips arched against his chin. ‘Clemency would not have killed herself.’ He studied the dancing flames. ‘The suggestion is abhorrent.’
‘Can you not do something?’ said Mercia, her tone blunt.
Winthrop looked at her; the fire was casting his shadow on the stone floor behind him, rendering his presence still larger than normal.
‘I can write to Lavington and Godsgift Brown, but the governorship holds little real power beyond influence and ceremony. And Lavington is a magistrate, the principal authority in the north-west.’ He sighed. ‘I put him there. Still, I would ride to Meltwater tomorrow, much good it would do, had I not received word that the King’s commissioners want to meet with me next week, and I needs must prepare. We would do better to convince the townsfolk to act.’
Mercia nodded. ‘I think some of the younger amongst them may be questioning their elders’ story.’
‘What of Lavington’s son, or Amery Oldfield?’ His elbow on the arm of his chair, Winthrop rubbed at his temples. ‘They … knew Clemency, of course.’
The tacit admission that he knew the trio had worked together did not escape her. ‘They seem … concerned, although we did not have much occasion to speak before Lavington had me removed.’ She bit her top lip. ‘May I ask a question?’
‘By all means.’
‘Forgive me, but – the antimony of ceruse you prescribed for the child.’ She hesitated. ‘There is no chance it could have been poisonous, or the wrong dose?’
Winthrop shook his head. ‘I know all my medicines intimately, Mercia, and I cannot believe Clemency made an error in her administration.’
‘Then no one should have cause to think her negligent.’
‘Such as the Davison family?’ He intertwined his fingers. ‘I cannot see them stooping to such awful revenge – not that I much know them. But I cannot think why anyone would wish to harm Clemency.’
Mercia’s jaw twitched as she thought of the passionate letters she had found, but she kept that information silent. ‘No. And I know you will need to keep somewhat distant from this.’
He shifted in his chair. ‘It is not that I do not want—’
‘There is no need to explain.’ Emboldened by events, Mercia waved a dismissive hand: the norms of social conduct held little meaning at present, even with a man of Winthrop’s status. ‘I understand the delicacies of men in your position, Governor. My father was in government, after all. But with your permission, I would like to stay in Connecticut to investigate.’
Winthrop roved her face. ‘Do you think yourself well enough? Finding anyone – like that – would be difficult, but a woman who was becoming your friend … I do not want you to feel obligated in any way.’ His forehead creased in sorrow. ‘Not when I invited you here to find respite and peace.’
‘Governor, somebody must do something. If the townsfolk will not, and you cannot, then it must be me.’
His voice dropped to a whisper against the crackling flames. ‘I just wish it were not so.’ Then he pulled himself up straight. ‘You are welcome here as long as you wish, and Daniel will be cared for as long as needs be. I can do that for you, at least. If there is anything more I can do from here, I pledge to do it.’ He reached out a hand, arresting it halfway. ‘I want you to know you are not alone in your sorrow, Mercia. Clemency was very dear to me.’
The concern in his gaze was reassuring, somehow. ‘I know.’ She gave him a weak smile. ‘But sorrow must wait. First we must discover the truth.’
It felt uncomfortable, keeping her designs from Nathan. She flicked her eyes away when he smiled goodnight to her that evening, knowing that when he awoke it would be to discover she had taken Nicholas and gone. She knew he would think to come after her, but she had not told even Winthrop her precise intentions. Keeping her secret from her son was worse, but he might let slip if he knew. Not that Nathan would have prevented her – she would not have allowed it – but there would have been an argument, a galling insistence that she think of herself. No, Nicholas was the right companion for this task. And part of her, conversely, wanted to protect Nathan from any dangers the road might entail.
It was still dark when she led a horse from the stable, a light brown mare that snorted its derision at the early hour. They rode briskly, wrapped in warm riding cloaks borrowed from Winthrop against the chill of the dawn air. Nicholas went in front, scouting the landscape for trouble: she allowed herself that concession to safety, at least.
They took the familiar road to Meltwater: north out of Hartford, then west. They kept up their pace on the thankfully deserted road, but it was several hours before they came near the town. When they approached within a few miles they slowed their horses to a trot, listening intently lest anyone was riding east: a good precaution when Standfast Edwards raced past, but they heard his approach and darted into the woods before he could see them. Resuming their ride, a track came into view on
the right, a narrow trail she knew bypassed the town and headed north. They took it, urging their steeds through the thickets of trees, their leaves as russet now as green, the encroaching hand of autumn shaking the first brittle husks from their branches.
‘How much further from here?’ asked Nicholas.
Now ahead, she steered her horse around an elm blocking the middle of the path. ‘Clemency talked of it once, when we were out riding. She said it was not far.’
‘Are you sure they will talk to us?’
She twisted round in the saddle. ‘Are you nervous? I do not think it will be the same as when we met the smugglers in London.’
He gripped his reins and trotted alongside. ‘Of course not. I wasn’t nervous then, either.’
‘Of course not.’
Soon the path faded to almost nothing, but a clear line of cutback undergrowth guided them forwards. Minutes later the path reappeared, a pencil-thin sliver of earth that gradually widened. As they progressed, their surroundings seemed to brighten, ever more light falling through the thinning trees. She eased her horse onwards until the path broadened out and finally left the forest altogether. Now in full daylight, a wide space of unwooded land filled the openness before them. Smoke was rising from an encampment of tents beyond the far edge of the field.
‘See,’ she said. ‘Not far.’
The large space was partially harvested, the nearer half towering with crops, tall corn plants bobbing about in the light breeze as beanstalks slithered up their slender height. Around the corn, the tops of by now familiar pumpkins protruded through the ground. A number of Indians sat at the edge of the crop. As they got closer, Mercia realised they were all women. She spurred on her horse to where two of the labourers were taking a rest.
‘What cheer, nétop?’ she said, addressing the women with a phrase Winthrop had suggested she use.
The younger of the two stared up and frowned. She glanced at her companion, a middle-aged woman with a tightly creased face, possibly her mother, Mercia thought, for they had a common appearance.
‘Awaùn ewò?’ said the girl.
The elder woman set down her basket of yellow corn and looked the newcomers up and down. ‘Asco wequassunnúmmis,’ she said. ‘Askuttaaquompsìn?’
Nicholas looked at Mercia in confusion. The woman repeated her words, this time more slowly. Keeping her gaze on the Indians, Mercia leant over the horse to take a thin book from her saddlebag. She flicked to the first section and glanced down at the page. Then she smiled at the woman, making a circular motion with her wrist. ‘Could you please – again?’
The woman repeated herself still slower.
‘Ah.’ Mercia looked up from her book. ‘She says good morrow. I think. And then – how are you?’
‘Another phrase book?’ said Nicholas.
‘That is right, like the Dutch one I made for New York. Except this is more useful, by a man called’ – she looked at the cover – ‘Roger Williams, of Providence. He calls it a key, so that we may speak with the Indians.’ She looked again at the book; she had skimmed its contents in preparation, but she had not had chance to retain much. She turned back to the stares of the Indian women, still wondering who she was, no doubt.
‘Asnpaumpmaûntam,’ she tried slowly, her eyes on the book. Accentuating each syllable, she did her best to pronounce the strange word, but the girl still laughed. The elder woman waved an admonishing hand and signalled at Mercia to continue.
‘Neèn,’ Mercia said, pointing a vigorous finger at herself. ‘Mercia Blakewood.’
‘Túnna cowâum?’ The woman bent forward. ‘Where you come? Meltwater?’
Mercia shook her head. ‘Acâwmuck notéshem.’ She had no idea if she was pronouncing the phrase even the slightest bit correctly. ‘Over the water.’ She turned the page, flicking to a word she had highlighted and practised. ‘Acawmenóakit.’
‘What did you say?’ muttered Nicholas, barely keeping his horse from nuzzling at the corn.
‘That we have come from England – Acawmenóakit – although here it says the word means “the land on the other side”.’
‘Interesting. What should—?’
He broke off as the two women let out a sudden wailing of an uncomfortably high pitch. Mercia’s face fell – had she done something wrong? Her stomach went cold when another woman in the field took up the call, followed by another, and another, and then a similar howling broke out from inside the encampment itself until it seemed as though the whole village was screaming.
‘Perhaps we should go,’ said Nicholas. ‘Before anything bad happens.’
‘Maybe you are right.’ She was on the verge of turning her horse when a figure sped from the settlement, running barefoot towards them. Mercia squinted to see better who it was and felt a surge of relief.
‘Wait. ’Tis Susanna. Sooleawa.’
‘That woman you met?’ he said, putting himself between Mercia and the encampment. ‘Still, be ready to leave if we need to.’
Her hands on the reins, Mercia watched Sooleawa approach. Exactly as she reached them, the wailing stopped.
‘What cheer, Sooleawa?’ Still uncertain, she affected a smile.
‘What cheer, nétop.’ Sooleawa laid her hands on her fur-covered hips. ‘What are you doing here?’
Mercia pulled up her pawing horse. ‘I came to find you, to talk.’
‘Oh.’ Sooleawa’s face softened. ‘Then, please. You are welcome.’
‘Thank you.’ Relieved, Mercia jumped to the grassy ground. ‘And now I am here, I was hoping you could help me find someone else.’
‘Hopewell Quayle.’ Mercia took a polite sip of the beverage Sooleawa offered as they sat inside a small, bare tent covered in rough sheets of bark. ‘I need to find Hopewell Quayle.’
Sooleawa prodded at a burning fire; the smoke blackened and rose through the round hole above. ‘He is still away from Meltwater?’
‘He was not there when we left. Unless someone has ridden to him since, I fear he remains ignorant about Clemency. And I need his assistance.’
‘Mr Lavington is not helpful?’
‘He has sent me away.’ She paused. ‘Clemency was killed, I know it. But I need to be there to find out why. Mr Quayle may be able to help with that. I understand he has dealings with your people. Maybe someone here will know where he is.’
Sooleawa drew a line on the ground with her stick. ‘There is a place of change – a boundary, I think you say – behind which even in the same place, at the same time, people exist on different sides. I think here, you are on one side’ – she teased a single dot into the earth on the left of the line – ‘and the rest of the town is on the other.’ She jabbed multiple dots on the right. ‘You are one, and they are many. What do you hope to achieve?’
‘May I?’ Mercia gestured at the stick. ‘I am not alone.’ Taking it, she twisted another three dots on the left of the line. ‘This is my friend Nathan, and this is Nicholas. This is Governor Winthrop. And this’ – she set a fifth dot alongside the other four – ‘is you, if you will help me.’
Sooleawa considered. ‘And Hopewell?’
‘This.’ She placed a dot on the line. ‘I do not yet know, but I must find out. And then, perhaps, the line will vanish altogether, and we will all be on the same side.’ She scrubbed out the line with the stick.
‘Except the killer.’
‘Indeed.’ Mercia drew a new, smaller line, separating one of the dots from all the others. ‘And then he will be alone in the place of change, set apart from the rest.’
‘You are wise, Mrs Blakewood.’ Sooleawa rose. ‘I, too, will find out.’
Under the watchful gaze of two bare-chested Indian men, Mercia waited with Nicholas in a much larger, oblong tent, about seventy feet across. The structure comprised a series of pairs of amply sized trees bent to meet in the middle, the subsequent frame covered in a diversity of woven mats. At each end an opening led outside, the hides that acted as doors pushed up in the fine weather. Arou
nd the tent’s edges, a number of narrow platforms were strewn with animal skins and baskets.
One of the watchers was well built; despite herself, Mercia found it difficult not to look, the attractive man’s demeanour alien yet familiar. Nicholas sat upright, holding himself taut as if ready to leap up. She looked at him, thankful for his presence and discretion, and she found herself absent of all the uncertainties she had held for him. Did it mean she had forgiven him his former betrayal? Perhaps. But he would have to acquit himself some more for her to be truly sure.
A rustling to the right indicated Sooleawa’s return. She was accompanied by two others: an older man, dressed more resplendently than any of the Indians Mercia had yet seen, outstretched eagle wings tied to his back; and a young man, his body decorated with markings, his black eyes alert. Holding a spear, he stared down at Nicholas, the pride in his gaze clear enough.
‘Sooleawa has told me you are looking for Hopewell,’ said the elder. ‘I know what has happened in Meltwater. It is sad their medicine woman suffered the ultimate fate, but we too have suffered deaths lately, and nothing has been done.’
Mercia stifled a gasp. Beneath the decoration it was the same chief who had ambushed Winthrop’s party on their way to Hartford from New York, the same who had thrown the head of the Englishman at Nathan’s feet. Now towering in front of her, he turned to face them. ‘My powwow too is dead. Where is my promised revenge?’
Mercia made to push herself up, but the sachem thrust out a tattooed palm.
‘Stay where you are, woman of the English!’ He turned to Nicholas. ‘What say you, nétop, if friend you are?’
Nicholas rose, dusting down his breeches. ‘I say nothing. This woman, as you call her, is my lady. You must speak with her.’
The younger man growled. ‘Take care with your tongue, friend.’ He spoke jerkily, spitting the last word with contempt. ‘Do you not respect our sachem?’
‘I respect him – friend. But you.’ Nicholas smiled. ‘Perhaps that is different.’
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