“As I am sorry. I would say in particular—”
“No. Say nothing more. We know each other well enough that we need not spell out every little word. We’ll misstep from time to time, and when we do we’ll pay a price in that worst of all miseries, a disconnection between us, but once it’s over it’s time to move on. Now come, they await us with the papers in the other room.”
Too fast, she thought, it was all too fast, and thinking it, she fell back to the last time she’d thought it, standing at the barn with Eben Freeman as he’d pronounced her widow before she was quite through with the word wife. What did it mean that she would think of that time in the middle of this one? Was she now moving to wife before she was quite through with widow? Was she mistaking being Edward’s widow with being Edward’s wife? No. No. The former had little to recommend it; the latter was done.
Lyddie stepped into the room ahead of Freeman, but there, too, she found herself falling back to a former time, to the same stiff room, the same grayed and balding men around the table, the same or near-to-same paper and pen awaiting her. But no, she corrected herself: this time all was different. This time there was no need to summon Eben Freeman because he was right there, standing beside her, and she was about to sign a paper that would eventually bind her to the house, not cut her loose from it forever.
Or would it? As flawed as they were, Lyddie’s dower rights had given her some control over the disposal of her husband’s property; the minute Lyddie signed them away, Eben Freeman would make all decisions regarding the house. Eben Freeman in control was, of course, a better thing than Nathan Clarke in control; Eben held Lyddie’s interest at heart, as evidenced by his desire to make the purchase in the first place, but what if an occasion arose where their interests differed? Lyddie had no doubt that Eben Freeman dead would leave her with at least the same rights she was about to lose, but what of Eben Freeman living? What if she had been right about his proclivity to punishment? What if this price he talked of in paying for missteps was to be paid by her alone, and in more than just human disconnection? What if he wished to exercise his authority over her by exercising his authority over the house?
Lyddie went back and forth with he wouldn’t, he would, he wouldn’t and then came to the heart of the trouble: whether he would or no, he could. He could, by law, do whatever he chose with the house once she signed the paper, as he could do with her the minute he married her.
Lyddie had barely stepped inside the room; she now stepped back until she was level with Freeman. “Might we speak a moment in private?”
“In private?”
“I have a question about this paper. I apologize for not thinking of it earlier.”
She stepped out of the room, leaving Freeman little choice but to follow her to her own chamber.
“What is this, Lydia? We’ve several gentlemen waiting.”
“Yes. And I apologize. Again. But ’tis here I surrender all, and if I do not ask you now—”
“Ask me what? Good heaven.”
“I would not surrender all to be less than I was before.”
“I don’t in the least take your meaning. What do you surrender?”
“My interest in the third of the house. I sign it away today and what do I have tomorrow?”
Freeman appeared to lengthen and straighten. “A husband. Whenever it is you deem yourself able to marry him. I would think, as trade—”
“’Tis not a question of husband, ’tis a question of house. Nor is it a question of trade. Do you not see? I give away my life interest in a third of the property today in exchange for nothing. I cannot think Mr. Otis, nor, indeed, you, as a man of law, would wish to sign such a document.”
“I cannot for one minute comprehend what it is you fuss about. At our marriage you lose all dower rights in the house; ’tis so stated in Edward’s will. He well understood that if you remarried you would have no need of such rights. This thing that happens today, then, is only the same thing that would happen a few days hence at our marriage.”
“But must it be so?”
“What is it you ask, Lydia? Have it out and let us get on with this business.”
Lyddie thought. What was it she asked? “I ask to keep my life interest in the third of the house while you take title from Clarke and continue it thus into our marriage. Cannot such a document be written?”
He stared at her. “Do you know what you ask?” he said finally. “Do you know what insult you do me?”
“I know what I ask. I think it not insult to you, but necessity to me.”
“Are you’re saying to me that you refuse to sign this paper?”
“I do not wish to sign this paper. I cannot sign this paper. Not as it leaves me now.”
Freeman’s eyes shrunk to hard, wet pebbles, his jaw lumped and hardened, his skin took on the look of a parchment stained with port wine. Lyddie fixed her eyes on the pebbles, willing them to open, to soften, to see, but they turned away; he turned away. He left her. She heard the study door open and a short, sharp indistinct exchange take place; she heard the study door open and close again and then the outer door open and close. An excited gabble had broken out in the study and the door opened again.
“Mehitable!”
Fast steps, the fastest Lyddie had heard since the birth of little Edward. “What, Nathan? What on earth?”
“’Tis again! Your mother! ’Tis too much to be borne! Again she refuses to sign the paper!”
“No. You cannot be right in this.”
“Can I not? I have it direct from Freeman. Refuses! And now he’s gone off to Barnstable and left her on my charge, and here we are, back at the start. Well, she’ll not be back where she started, not under this roof.”
Lyddie strained her ears to catch Mehitable’s response, but it appeared there was none. Lyddie had not expected her daughter would fight her husband for her, but she had hoped for some word that would affirm the recently rewoven thread between Lyddie and her daughter. But, in truth, how strong had that thread ever been? The little girl had rushed to her father’s arms at his every return home while Lyddie had stood aside watching—nurturing, yes, and teaching and protecting as she could, but always watching. But watching for what?
Her last child to die, too. The awesome truth struck her like a blow. But she had no time to see the knowledge through to any purpose—heavy heels approached her door. Lyddie picked up the extra skirt and shift she’d brought with her and folded them, anticipating her son’s message, but the person who appeared at her door was not Clarke, but Mehitable, her previously bloodless cheeks flushed. She looked at the neat clothes on the bed.
“So. You would leave us and go back to Father’s house.”
“Have I a choice?”
“Choice! You have every choice! You’ve always had every choice!”
“You would sign such a paper, then. You would give over all your interest in a property—”
“I would give over the past and look to the future, Mother.”
“Do you not see this is what I do? Look to keep some little charge of my future?”
“But why, Mother, when you have a man of scruple who will keep charge for you?”
“Any man may lose his scruple when his interest comes against another’s.”
“So you speak of my husband now.”
“I speak of any man.”
“No, you do not. You speak of my husband and the money you say he stole from you. How could you stand in his house and accuse him so?”
“Do you think I would say such a thing if I didn’t know it to be true?”
“If indeed that’s what you think, you’d best go.”
“I’d not leave you, Daughter, nor the babe, in time of need.”
“We’ve no need of you. Go.”
34
She’d been gone ten days, and in her absence the peas and cherries had ripened and the honeysuckle and roses had passed their bloom. The house looked better since the furniture had been returned but was st
ifling hot after being shut up so long; Lyddie propped open the doors and windows and set to work, thinking that the poor house had suffered such a year of off-and-on neglect it must be anxious to get shed of her. She threw out some spoiled milk and the cucumbers she’d laid out to pickle; she turned and reshaped her cheeses, she cleaned a bloody smear off the window glass and carted the dead pigeon that lay below it into the woods; she picked the peas and cherries, weeded the garden, swept and sanded the floor, knocked down the cobwebs, milked the cow, put out her milk pans, ate a supper of the fresh fruit and a crust and dropped into bed like a felled pine. She slept to moonrise and woke, her mind working almost before her body wakened.
She was, as Nathan had said, back at the start. Freeman was finished with her and back at Barnstable; Nathan had again cut her loose; Sam Cowett had…Sam Cowett had done nothing, but Lyddie could as little return to work for him as she could stay at Nathan’s or chase Freeman to Barnstable. And did she want to chase Freeman to Barnstable? When Lyddie thought of Freeman she saw the unfamiliar, pebbled eyes; she had lost any picture of the other Freeman, the one who had so often quickened her spirits and brightened her mind. How was it that once they’d agreed to wed they’d come at everything from opposite banks, neither one able to find a crossing place? What had changed? Or had they changed? Lyddie thought over each of the boggy spots: Mehitable’s travail, Cowett’s visit, the paper, and tried to think where she might have done different so as to carry one or the other across the flood. If she had agreed to the early marriage date…But how could she, with her daughter unable to feed herself or to sit up? And why should she, when it was clearly nothing but a test of wills? Why should Freeman care so much about marriage one week over marriage the next?
But what of Cowett’s visit? Perhaps if Lyddie had stayed inside when Cowett had appeared and saved her son the public humiliation that had so disturbed Freeman…but it had not, of course, been her son’s humiliation that had disturbed Freeman, it had been his own. He’d ordered Lyddie inside and she’d disobeyed, in front of Nathan, and, more to the point, in front of Cowett, who had come to see Lyddie, who might not have left in peace without seeing Lyddie. But why should he not see Lyddie?
And the paper, too; why should such a small request…but no. In fairness, Lyddie knew her request there had been anything but small. In fact, she could well imagine it to be unheard of. It would, of course, be a blow to any man’s pride, and especially a man such as Freeman, who prided himself on being fair to all, but why must it be such a blow? Why would a man object to a wife’s legal right to live where he intended her to live, unless to demonstrate his mastery over her? And having demonstrated a desire for such mastery, how could he expect her to sign away her solitary counterweight? She might have thought ahead and saved Freeman that humiliation in front of Nathan and Eldred and Griffith, but how to think ahead of a thing you didn’t see until you’d looked down at it on the table? So, yes, she’d obstructed Freeman again, and humiliated him again, and minutes later he’d galloped off to Barnstable. But would Freeman be lying in his bed now as she lay in hers, wondering what flaw in him had caused their rift? No. He would be congratulating himself on so near an escape from so unmalleable a wife. But, of course, he had posted their marriage intentions, and therefore he could not legally escape until Lyddie or the court made it legal. Well, then, she would make it legal.
The first thing on rising Lyddie took out her letter book and composed her letter.
Dear Mr. Freeman,
As the circumstances between us would appear to prevent any future domestic harmony, I hereby release you from your bond of engagement.
Yours sincerely, Lydia H. Berry
She hailed Jabez Gray on his way to the landing, and in learning that Seth Cobb was loading clams for Barnstable at the Point of Rock, she set off in that direction, taking the path through the sedge. As the sun heated her and the sweat ran over her she thought of her spring journey in the opposite direction; it seemed she was to spend her life going forward and back, forward and back, never leaving the age-old track that had been prescribed her.
Cobb’s ship lay canted on its side in the low channel not far from shore; oxcarts piled with barrels rattled over the sand flats to the ship, where a team of men rolled the barrels out of the carts and tossed them on board. Lyddie tucked up her skirt and trudged over the flats to the boat; Seth Cobb saw her from the deck and swung to the ground.
Lyddie held out the letter. “I understand you sail for Barnstable.”
Cobb read the name on the letter and grinned. “Love letter, is it? Never fear, I’ll deliver it with my own hand.”
“And when do you plan to return to Satucket?”
“We’ll be back in Satucket tomorrow, wind and weather complying.”
Lyddie wished him fair sailing, thanked him for taking charge of her letter, and retreated across the sand.
Lyddie looked out for Cobb’s sail the next day and saw it pull into Robbin’s hill at half noon. She waited, and although an assortment of men and carts passed by her house, Seth Cobb himself didn’t venture along till near four. She stepped out and met him in the road.
“I trust you had a fair voyage, Mr. Cobb?”
“I did and I thank you. And if you come to inquire on the safe delivery of your letter you may count it done. I put the letter straight in Freeman’s hand myself and stood by as he read it, in case there was a return, but he said no. I surmised to him that he’d be taking another trip to Satucket soon, but he said he was quite busy just yet at Barnstable.” Here Cobb frowned, as if he’d finally captured the sense of something gone wrong.
“I did offer to wait for a return,” he repeated.
“That’s quite all right, Mr. Cobb. ’Twas none required.”
They said their good-byes and Cobb moved on.
35
August came as it always came: hot and humid at the start, then drying and dropping down until by the end they’d had their first night’s chill. Schooners full of blubber began to arrive from Canada and the try yard grew busy, filling the air with the heavy, noxious smell that had always meant prosperity, if not for Lyddie’s house now, then at least for the village as a whole. The English hay, salt hay, flax, and rye were harvested. The mill wheel never stopped churning. Lyddie picked her watermelons, took them to Sears to trade for turnip seed, and sowed the seed for a late harvest; at the same time she managed to sell Sears two pair of wool stockings, and her hopes of survival rose, to dash quickly once she returned home and saw her dwindling woodpile. She collected Edward’s ax and a tow sack and returned to the woodlot, intent on cutting up the windfall for kindling, but she hadn’t been at it more than an hour when she looked up and saw the long, dark shadow moving through the trees as smoothly as warm oil. Lyddie propped the ax against a tree and turned to meet him, her own movements stiff as scorched paper.
He came up and stopped an easy distance from her. “So Freeman puts you to chop his wood?”
“Mr. Freeman’s gone back to Barnstable.”
“And when do you marry?”
“We do not. He’s thought better of the idea.”
“And what do you think of it?”
“I don’t think at all. I’ve given it up as bad practice.”
He bent over to pick up the ax, but Lyddie stopped him. “Please don’t, Mr. Cowett. I wish to say something to you. I wish to express my great remorse over what transpired at our last meeting. My son—”
“Owns no remorse, I’d wager.”
“No.”
“I see you don’t live with him any longer.”
“I do not.”
“You stay here and make your own way?”
“I attempt it, yes.”
Cowett picked up a dry branch, snapped it under his boot, and tossed it into the tow sack. “I’m in want of housekeeping yet.”
Lyddie hesitated, the reason she’d given up the job hanging thick in the air between them. She reached for the ax, but he caught her elbow with one h
and and removed the ax with the other. She expected him to set off chopping, but he dropped the ax and stood staring down at the part of her sleeve that his fingers still encircled, transfixed. Rebecca’s gown, Lyddie realized. She was wearing Rebecca’s gown, and of course he would know the gown as he’d known the wife. It took him some time to pull his eyes off the dress and fix them on her face, but the hand stayed as it lay. “You’ll come to work?”
“I think—”
“You said you gave up thinking.”
“One must think at times.”
“One must give it up at times.”
If Lyddie hadn’t understood the words, she would have understood the hand. It slid upward, over Rebecca’s sleeve, familiar and warm, cupping the softer part of her arm. She had stepped away from that hand once and she could step away from it now, or she could stop thinking and take this simple thing that was being offered: the comfort of someone else’s living, breathing flesh to knock the dead out of her own. And where lay the sin in it, Indian or English? Neither of them belonged to another. When she thought of Eben Freeman now, she thought of him lying warm and sated in a pair of hired arms at some Barnstable tavern.
Sam Cowett’s other hand cupped her other elbow; Lyddie found herself leaning forward until his breath rippled her hair; he slid both hands upward along Rebecca’s sleeves until the backs of his fingers brushed against the edges of her breasts, and he turned his hands and caught and lifted them. Lyddie felt as naked as if her clothing lay beside her on the ground, but he didn’t attempt to take away the dress, he used it as a pair of handles to push her backward against the rock. His hands slid upward over Rebecca’s calico to Lyddie’s breasts again and down to Lyddie’s thighs; she felt the cold loss in one part as he brought up the heat in another, the desolation when the hands left her altogether, until she realized he’d just reached for his breeches and pushed them down. She clutched at his massive back, his hard buttocks, his long thighs; there was too much of him, not enough of him, over her, around her, in; she lost track of her hands, his hands; the dress balled up between them, but he wouldn’t take the time to remove it, Lyddie wouldn’t take the time, there was no time, they were finished.
The Widow's War: A Novel Page 18