Puritan

by David Hingley

  She shivered as the sun went in. ‘I did not know she had a brother.’

  ‘Well,’ Hopewell leapt to the ground, ‘there will be much about her – about all the town – that you don’t know.’

  Of course he was right. A few spots of rain dropped from the quickly darkening sky. ‘Will it not be – discomfiting? To sleep in the house where she was …?’

  ‘Oh, no. That won’t bother me at all.’ He put his hand on the gate and the top hinge fell loose. ‘You can tell I don’t come back much. Let me help you tidy and I’ll be out of your way.’ He turned to Nicholas. ‘By the time I come out, Lavington will have heard you are back in town. I wager you five beads of wampum he will storm round here within the hour, rain or no.’

  Nicholas grinned from atop his horse. ‘I thought you Puritan lot hated gambling.’

  ‘They do.’ Hopewell raised an eyebrow. ‘I don’t. Now, will you wager?’

  He stretched out his hand as the torrent began. ‘Oh yes.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  As Mercia suspected, Hopewell won the bet – and convincingly. Not twenty minutes after their arrival, she was balancing one-footed on a rickety stool, stretching on tiptoe to clean a strand of silky thread from the top corner of the cluttered kitchen area, when a loud rap resounded from the entrance passage behind. Moments later the front door thumped against the interior wall.

  ‘Quayle!’ Even in the keeping room, Lavington’s outrage made itself felt. ‘Where are you?’

  Mercia froze on the stool, swaying as though she were a statue of Cupid in a country garden back home, one hand in front and the other behind where the boy-god’s chubby fingers would be clutching his bow. As much as she was not afraid of Lavington, and wanted to charm him to her side if she could, she did not want to be the first to speak with him today. Holding her breath, she waited for Hopewell to respond.

  ‘Who is it?’ the trader called from upstairs. ‘I have just this hour returned from upriver. Who is it come to greet me home?’

  ‘Quayle!’ roared Lavington. ‘Come down here now!’

  Her outstretched leg aching, Mercia bent to set her foot quietly on the floor. Moments later a wooden groaning from above signalled movement.

  ‘Mr Lavington.’ The stairs creaked, Hopewell’s voice less muffled now. ‘What a delight.’

  Lavington was in no mood for games. ‘Quayle, what do you mean by bringing those people into my town?’

  The creaking stopped as Hopewell reached the ground floor. ‘Your town? I thought we all had equal share in its success or failure, was that not what you said when we arrived?’

  ‘Yet I am magistrate. I think that gives me some authority, or it should.’

  Footsteps clunked as the men passed into the sitting room. Mercia crept into the hall, daring to peek round the doorpost, but her hand brushed against a patch of sticky grime and she yanked it away without thinking. Hopewell’s eyes flicked up towards the movement; she ducked back, but too late.

  ‘So there you are, Mrs Blakewood.’ Lavington whipped round to face her. ‘You may as well show yourself.’

  She took a deep breath and came into the open. ‘Mr Lavington.’

  He held her innocent gaze. ‘It will do you no good, returning here.’

  ‘I do not intend it to do me good. Doing myself good was never the issue.’

  ‘You understand my meaning. You were told to leave town. Why have you returned?’

  On Lavington’s other side, Hopewell scratched at his beard. ‘Mrs Blakewood was concerned that I should know of Clemency’s death. She had the courtesy to seek me out. I am curious, John, why nobody from the village would be bothered to do so themselves?’

  The magistrate threw up an irritated hand. ‘How could we find you out? You are always so well hidden.’

  ‘You merely have to ask the right people.’

  ‘Bah. You would have returned sooner or later.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Hopewell’s face was set, his facade of mischief gone. ‘By which time Clemency would be long buried. I take it she has been laid to rest?’

  ‘Yesterday, in the plot outside the eastern gate. But that is not the point of this discussion.’

  ‘There is no point to this discussion. Mrs Blakewood believes my cousin was killed, and so I have invited her to stay while we search for answers. I will sleep at Clemency’s house.’

  Lavington reddened, pointing a rigid finger. ‘Quayle, I promise that if you—’

  ‘Hold, sir. There is naught you can do. Besides, she is in Connecticut at the invitation of the governor himself, that man with whom you claim to hold the deepest affinity.’ He raised a provocative eyebrow. ‘Now, I would be obliged if you would allow me to continue to prepare the house for my guests.’

  Lavington bestowed a look of total contempt on the trader, before turning to Mercia, his narrow eyes blazing.

  ‘I will allow you here only because of that acquaintance with the governor. Any trouble, any disturbance, and I will use the law to remove you. I will not allow Mrs Carter’s death to be sullied unnecessarily.’ He thrust on his hat. ‘Good day.’

  ‘Pleasant man,’ said Nicholas, stepping from the staircase as Lavington slammed shut the front door.

  ‘He is an idiot,’ said Hopewell. ‘And with the King’s fleet arrived in New England, he is a scared one. He fears Meltwater will be absorbed into the Duke of York’s new lands to our west. Do not be worried. He is lashing out.’

  ‘They buried her.’ Mercia was looking at the floor. ‘I should have liked to have been there. They knew that.’

  Hopewell put a hand on her shoulder. ‘They did not know you were coming back.’

  ‘I suppose not.’ She sighed. ‘Still, I shall be able to visit the grave now.’ She shrugged off his hand and walked to the window. ‘Is that true, what you said about Lavington being afraid of the Duke’s ambitions? You are well informed for a man who spends his time out of town.’

  ‘It is not so surprising. The Indians learn everything, and more quickly than the Englishman. I am never far from news.’

  She nodded, looking out onto the muddy street where a few shallow puddles were reflecting the emergent sun. ‘Thank you for your words just now.’

  He grunted. ‘There are difficult times ahead, Mrs Blakewood. I would not thank me yet.’

  There was no sense in deferring it. Throwing back her hood so everyone could see her courage, she walked into the fresh afternoon light. Courageous, yet not stupid: Nicholas was at her side.

  ‘Good evening.’ The shower over, people were back on the streets: she nodded at Renatus Fox as she passed the would-be minister, his white hair flopping from under his battered hat; a similar greeting she bestowed on the Edwards brothers, and then a squat, middle-aged man, who introduced himself as Seaborn Adams, walking arm in arm with a woman of around his age. The men returned her greetings, politely she thought, although Seaborn’s companion merely held her gaze. She was surprised, for she had anticipated a purely hostile return. At the central crossroads, Percy Lavington was talking with Amery on the meeting house steps. Amery leapt up to greet them, although Percy remained sitting, observing from his wet vantage point.

  ‘Hopewell said you were back.’ He shook Nicholas’s hand with relish. ‘It is good to see you again, both of you.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I spoke with Kit, while you were gone. He said he had talked with you. I did not even know you had left until it was too late.’ He hesitated. ‘I have spent much time in thought since. And … I think you are right. About Clemency. I assume that is why you have returned?’

  She studied his face; his blue eyes seemed earnest, genuine. ‘Thank you, Amery. What say the rest of you? Are the other townsfolk as convinced?’

  He glanced around him. ‘Unless Mr Lavington changes his mind … some of them just want it forgotten, you can tell. But at the funeral yesterday, the uneasiness was obvious.’ He fixed her with a pitying look. ‘Renatus conducted the ceremony. He said some beautiful words.’

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nbsp; An uncalled-for tear came to her eye. ‘At least she is at rest now.’

  ‘Do not let your absence trouble you. Percy, too, was out of town.’ He leant closer in. ‘Overseeing arrangements for our friend Dixwell to—’

  ‘Don’t mention that here!’ Silent until now, Percy jumped to his feet. ‘Anyone could be listening.’

  ‘Who?’ Nicholas looked around. ‘There is nobody in the street.’

  A quick burst of annoyance flashed across Percy’s face. ‘That is irrelevant.’ Then he sighed. ‘Mrs Blakewood, I am speaking rashly again. I am … anxious, that is all.’

  She gave him a reassuring smile, although in truth the force of his words had alarmed her. ‘Do not be concerned, Percy. We are all upset. Or we should be.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He bit his lip. ‘I should leave you to your conversation.’

  He walked away, leaving the others to stand for a time in silence. Then a bird flew overhead, its song brightening the air, waking them from their individual thoughts.

  ‘Poor Percy,’ said Amery. ‘He does get so nervous about—but as he says, we should not talk about it.’ He turned to Nicholas. ‘Where are you staying now? You are welcome to my spare bedroom again if you wish.’

  Nicholas smiled. ‘I’d been wondering where I was going to sleep.’

  ‘Oh, Nicholas, I am sorry.’ Mercia shook her head. ‘I had not thought. Could you? Nathan will need the other room at Hopewell’s cottage. If he wants to return, that is.’

  ‘He will. That would be helpful, Amery.’

  ‘Then I shall see you later.’ He bowed, setting a hand on his tilted hat just in time to prevent it from falling. ‘In the meantime, be careful.’ His eyes flicked up. ‘There are those here who would sooner ignore what is in front of them than seek the truth.’

  Mercia watched his departing back. ‘Oh, friend. You have no need to warn me of that.’ She looked across at the window of the tavern, where Humility Thomas had appeared beside his wife, her frilled sleeves folded, the frowning expression on his pudgy face oozing with mistrust.

  ‘Well, there we are,’ said Mercia, choosing to ignore Humility’s disdain. ‘Our first success. Amery thinks as we do.’

  ‘And Percy?’

  She blew out her cheeks. ‘He was … clearly listening. And he did not argue differently.’

  Nicholas laughed. ‘I always did prefer the optimistic point of view. Shall we press on?’

  Deliberately avoiding the western road where Clemency’s cottage stood, Mercia took them south, pausing outside Vic Smith’s forge where the muscular blacksmith was once more at his anvil. He looked up and his eyes met hers, but aside from a slight double-take he made no other sign he much cared, merely returning to his work.

  Passing outside the southern gate, the unfinished fort rising on the hill above them, she nodded towards a solitary figure tramping his way through the field, the town’s cattle herd lowing as he traversed the muddy space. ‘I suppose we do need to talk to everyone,’ she mumbled. ‘Even him.’ She nudged Nicholas. ‘Look, ’tis Thorpe.’

  ‘What’s he been doing out here in the rain?’ He scoffed. ‘Still wearing that coxcomb’s sash.’

  Walking in their direction, Thorpe raised his eyes as he heard them approach. Unlike Vic, his reaction was violent. He stopped up short, jerking back his head and yanking at his cloak.

  ‘By God’s truth!’ He stared at her. ‘You were ordered to leave!’

  ‘Good afternoon to you also, Mr Thorpe. We left, and now we are back.’

  ‘Of all the impertinent—’

  ‘Mr Quayle has invited us.’

  ‘That reprobate. I should have guessed.’ He dodged to one side, making to continue on his way. ‘Well, I doubt you will be here long.’

  Nicholas sidestepped into his path. ‘Hold a moment. My mistress would like to speak with you.’

  Thorpe shook his head. ‘Yet again, this servant is barring my way. You should discipline him with stricter force.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I should like a minute of your time. I did not have the chance to speak with you before.’ She tried a smile. ‘You are, I think, an intelligent man. A physician moreover. Perhaps we could discuss what you thought of Clemency’s—’

  ‘Suicide?’ He sniffed. ‘I should say she is being tortured in hell for it. Wouldn’t you?’

  She recoiled, stung by his bluntness. ‘There is no … I only want—’

  ‘Madam, I have nothing I need say to you.’ Slipping past Nicholas, he pulled his cloak tighter, covering his sash. ‘So if you have finished disturbing my evening, I shall return to my work.’

  Part unwilling, part incredulous, Mercia let him go. ‘Well, Nicholas. Not so successful that time, would you say?’

  Hopewell waylaid them as they returned through the gate, inviting them to share in a convivial supper, for they had not eaten since their journey from his camp. Not relishing the prospect of dining in Clemency’s house, Mercia asked him to bring his provisions to her lodgings – his own cottage, after all – even offering to cook. As darkness fell, he appeared at the door, handing over a colourful platter of vegetables and corn, following Nicholas into the sitting room to help him light the reluctant fire.

  She chopped and boiled, stirring a thickening potage above the keeping-room fire, wishing her maidservant Bethany was there in her place, for she had the ability to conjure up nectar from the most mundane of morsels. But soon the food was hot, and she carried it out in a large iron pot.

  She ladled out two servings at the sitting-room table, a chipped wooden bowl for herself, a larger trencher for Nicholas and Hopewell to share. Standing back, she looked on the seated men as if daring them to criticise her efforts. Nicholas looked at the sorry mush, hesitating just an instant before he picked up his spoon to scoop a portion into his mouth. He swallowed, eventually. Hopewell did not seem to mind the lack of taste. Mercia herself was simply embarrassed.

  ‘Do you want a cook while you’re here?’ Hopewell asked. ‘Remy Davison prepares an excellent repast, when that father of hers lets her out of the house.’ He looked up. ‘Not that this isn’t – but perhaps you don’t want to worry about—’

  She took her seat. ‘I appreciate your thoughtfulness, Mr Quayle. I will manage.’

  ‘As you wish.’ He winked at Nicholas. ‘You got that wampum for me yet?’

  ‘I will have.’ Nicholas grinned. ‘I’ll have to find someone to win it off, but I always pay my debts.’

  ‘As any good man should. Now I just need Amery to pay up.’

  Nicholas leant over his soup. ‘Amery plays?’

  ‘Not as such. But last time I was in town, I convinced him that a wager could encourage his alchemical endeavours.’ He laughed. ‘He was to have made some useful discovery by the time I returned, but I seem to be back too soon, for I spoke with him earlier, and he has not.’

  Mercia forced down a spoonful of potage. ‘I thought Amery was new to Meltwater?’

  ‘To live, yes, but he has been here before.’ Hopewell ripped off a chunk of bread; the dense loaf still looked more appetising than the mush. ‘He knows Percy, of course, and Kit, as he did Clemency, and he has always corresponded with Lavington.’ A crumb of bread dropped from his beard to the table. ‘About time that one found a wife. ’Tis not natural for a young man to be so interested in books.’

  Nicholas set down his spoon, the trencher still mostly full. ‘He seems harmless.’

  ‘Many folk do.’ He looked at Mercia. ‘Did you speak with any of my fellow Precisians this evening?’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘I did not think to hear that word here. In England, ’tis mostly a term of abuse.’

  ‘Precisians, Puritans, Hot Protestants, the Elect … there are no end of terms to choose from.’

  ‘I suppose not.’ She smiled. ‘Yes, I have spoken with a few of your fellow – townsfolk. But mostly platitudes, no real discussion.’ She chewed at her lip. ‘We talked with the Edwards brothers briefly. They are close?’


  ‘Standfast and Silence? Both self-righteous do-goods, if you ask me. There’s something odd about Standfast in particular. But maybe I don’t like him because he spends so much time trying to make the Indians like us, instead of finding ways we can work with the beliefs they already have.’

  ‘He is a missionary?’

  ‘Of a sort. His brother is less zealous, but godly all the same. Fierce, though. A good fighter, and loyal.’ He laughed. ‘I reckon he drowned George Mason so his brother could have a try for the job. But Renatus will beat him to it.’

  She looked at him. ‘You are joking, I take it?’

  He took a sudden interest in his soup. ‘Just an expression, Mrs Blakewood. But it isn’t them you need to worry about.’ He shovelled the potage into his mouth. ‘As I always say,’ he garbled, ‘I am not one for clattermouths, but our blacksmith, you should watch him. Him and Fearing Davison.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Too quiet.’ He slurped at the soup. ‘Both of them. And Fearing … I don’t think he treats his family too well. Not that I know, but … I hear things. As everyone does.’

  ‘I see.’ She glanced at Nicholas. ‘Anything else?’

  Hopewell waggled his spoon in the air. ‘Godsgift Brown. He hates the Indians. Loathes them, the Lord knows why. Another one that could have done with taking a bride. Never know why he didn’t.’

  ‘Were you never married yourself?’

  ‘Once.’ His cheerful demeanour wavered. ‘She has been in the cemetery since the month after we arrived. With my baby boy.’

  She reached across a hand. ‘Forgive me. I should not have brought it up.’

  ‘Don’t be.’ He shrugged. ‘She was pregnant when we followed the old minister here, and then – she died in childbirth. I … find it hard to spend much time in the town now. Not like Thorpe, who can’t bear to leave his wife’s grave. But enough of that.’ He smiled. ‘Sarah Thomas – there’s a clattermouth for you. Remy Davison, the exact opposite. Aside from being a good cook, she is an angel.’