“Let me walk you ladies home,” he said. “I’d like a word with you, Miss Hardin.” He was not usually so formal with her except in public, but the matter he needed to discuss was a serious one.
Christine raised her eyebrows but said nothing.
After the three had crossed the road together, he paused on Goody Deane’s path.
Christine halted as well and waited for him to speak.
“Constance tells me Goody Ackley asked you to work for her,” he said.
Christine looked down at the ground. “Aye. But I declined her offer.”
Goody Deane swung around near the doorstone. “I’ll be stretching out yonder if you need me, Christine. Thank you kindly for the vittles, Parson.”
“And thank you for bringing the gingerbread, ma’am. It added a festive note to our Sabbath-day dinner.”
“Ah, well, a bit of gingerbread never went down wrong, I say.” Goody Deane nodded and went into the cottage.
Samuel cleared his throat and met Christine’s gaze. “If I could pay you in coin, I would. You know that. Your labor in my house has been worth much more than I’ve been able to give you. But I expect the Ackleys would give you a fair wage, and if you—”
Christine’s hazel eyes grew large as he spoke, and her brow puckered. “Please, Pastor, do not speak of it. I do not wish to go to the Ackleys’, and I’m happy with our arrangement.”
He exhaled and smiled. “Bless you. But the Ackleys would give you room in their loft, I’m sure. The last hired girl had a place there.”
“I enjoy living with Goody Deane, and I think I do not boast to say she likes having me.”
“Oh, to be sure,” he said quickly. “I’ve thought it good for her since the beginning. I’m certain you are a great help to her, and she seems in much better spirits since you’ve boarded with her.”
Christine nodded. “A pleasant situation and a congenial employer go further than a generous wage, sir. And I’m not sure how generous the goodwife we speak of would be.”
Samuel couldn’t refute that. He’d heard Goody Ackley wrangled over the last ha’penny with the trader, and her husband, Roger Ackley, was well known to be a skinflint. But even the stingiest couple in Cochecho would probably pay Christine more than he could. He rarely gave her a coin. He did allow her to sell cloth that she wove on his loom and keep the profit, but most of the textiles she produced seemed to find themselves clothing his own children.
“When it comes down to it, I don’t give you much for your labor.”
“Ah, well”—she looked down once more, and her cheeks flushed—”you give me all I need, sir. My food and any other necessities. And you’ve allowed me to be a part of your family, which is a great boon.”
They stood in silence for a moment. Samuel tried to imagine the family now without Christine. A brief image of domestic chaos and wailing children flickered across his mind. “You truly do not wish to go to the Ackleys’ farm, then?”
“I do not.” She looked up and gazed at him earnestly, her plain features less serene than usual. “If you are happy, I should like to continue things as they are.”
“We agree then. I shall see you in half an hour, at meeting.”
Samuel tipped his hat and turned toward the street.
two
A week later, Christine spent a good part of Monday morning working in Goody Deane’s garden. The pastor had suggested in the spring that they plant enough vegetables at the parsonage for Christine and Goody Deane as well as the Jewett family, and Tabitha Deane’s small plot was now given over to herbs. Christine had invited the three little girls to help her weed the small garden and pick mint, yarrow, and basil leaves for drying. Ruth and Constance took to the work eagerly.
“Why don’t you sit in the shade now with your dollies?” Christine asked when they had picked all the herbs she wanted for the present. “I shall finish placing stones along the path here. You girls may play for a while, and then I shall fix us a cup of mint tea.”
The two girls retrieved their rag dolls from the back stoop. Christine had fashioned Ruth’s doll from scraps, modeling it from the design of the ones Elizabeth Jewett had stitched for her two older daughters. Now Ruth’s doll, Lucy, was never far from her. She had cried the first time her father told her that Lucy could not go to church with her, but Abby had calmed her and whispered to her that their dolls would go to “doll meeting” while the real people were away. Ever since, Ruth had happily dressed Lucy in her best gown and shawl on Sunday mornings and left her sitting on Mother’s chair beside Abby’s and Constance’s dolls when they left for the meetinghouse. Stories about “doll meeting” were now favorite bedtime tales.
After a quarter hour’s hard work on the stone walkway, Christine looked up to see Goody Deane and Abby Jewett returning from their excursion to the trading post. While Christine disliked going out among people, Goody Deane enjoyed socializing. When her joints didn’t ache too badly, she would happily undertake errands while Christine dealt with cleaning. Christine had permitted Abby to accompany her on her excursion that morning.
“Miss Christine,” Abby cried when she spotted her in the garden. She ran up the path, clutching the handle of the small basket Goody Deane had entrusted to her. “We got the black buttons you asked for and a bottle of ink for Father!”
“Lovely.” Christine straightened and pressed her hands to the small of her back. Being tall had its disadvantages. “You two are just in time to join us for a cup of tea.”
The widow had by this time reached them. “Bless you. I can use it.” She pulled a snowy handkerchief from the sleeve of her brown linsey gown and wiped her brow. “I shall remember this heat next winter when I’m shivering. Remind me if I complain about the cold.”
Christine laughed and gathered her tools. “Come, Ruthie. Constance, time for tea.”
They all went inside, and Christine stirred the embers in the fireplace while Goody Deane hung up her bonnet.
“There, now,” Christine said. “I’ll fix the tea, and you can get a loaf of that new bread, Abby. We’ll all have a slice.”
The girl headed for the worktable near the window where two loaves of crusty brown bread awaited her. The widow had risen early, set her bread, and had it baked and cooling before she ever left for the trading post.
“Goody Deane?” Abby’s voice rose in uncertainty.
“What is it, child? I shall fetch the knife, is that it?”
“Nay.” Abby turned and looked at Christine and the widow. “Were there not three loaves when we left this morn?”
Christine and Tabitha Deane stepped toward the table.
“To be sure,” said Goody Deane. “Miss Christine must have put one away.”
Christine shook her head. “Not I.”
“Well. Isn’t that strange? I’m sure we had three. But sometimes I get addled.”
“Nay, you remember correctly.” Christine looked on the floor and at the shelves on the nearby wall. “Where do you suppose it got to?”
Constance and Ruth came over to stare at the two remaining loaves.
“Perhaps it’s with Mr. Heard’s shirt,” Abby offered.
“How is that?” Christine glanced at her keenly.
Goody Deane waved a hand through the air. “Ah, she heard it told at the trader’s how Mrs. Heard missed her husband’s second-best shirt off the clothesline last washday.” The widow drew in a quick breath. “Perhaps there’s some sense in that, though, Abby. After all, when Mrs. Heard told it, Goody Ackley chimed in with a tale of a missing roast of lamb.”
Abby nodded solemnly, her wide brown eyes still on the loaves.
“Well, come on,” Christine said briskly. “Let’s have a slice of this good bread before it walks off on us.”
She poured hot water over the crushed mint leaves, and Goody Deane set about cutting the bread. Christine took down the only two cups in the house, a chipped saucer, a small pannikin, and a custard dish. The girls wouldn’t mind drinking out of the odd
assortment of dishes. At last each was settled about the table with a thick slice of the good rye bread before her, slathered in butter that Sarah Dudley had brought them on Sunday.
“I believe young Mrs. Dudley makes the best butter I’ve ever tasted.” Goody Deane smacked her lips.
“Aye, Sarah has a fair hand with it. She says it’s because of all the clover in the field where their cow grazes.” Christine reached over to tuck a linen towel securely in the neckband of Ruth’s dress.
“Goody Ackley was rude today.” Abby licked a smear of butter off her fingers.
“Really, Abby. Let us be kind,” Christine said gently.
“She be honest,” Goody Deane said. “That woman was rude, indeed, but it were nothing new.”
Christine inhaled slowly, wondering how she could teach the girls not to gossip if their hostess encouraged it.
“Who did she rude to?” Ruth asked.
“To whom was she rude,” Christine murmured.
“Aye.” Ruth nodded vigorously, and Christine had to smile.
“Goodman Ackley.” Abby took a big bite of her bread and butter.
“Her husband?” Christine eyed Abby then shot a glance at Goody Deane.
“As I said, nothing new in these parts.” The widow sipped her tea. “Roger Ackley was with her, and she kept needling him about this and that, things she needed that he seemed reluctant to buy. I heard him say once that something could wait until after harvest, but the wife went on about how she always has to wait, wait, wait. So he put it on credit.” Goody Deane shook her head. “And she treats the trader’s clerk shamefully. She as much as accused him of cheating her this morning, but when the coins were laid out and counted, the clerk was in the right.”
“Well.” Christine didn’t know what else to say.
“Aye. But did she apologize?” the widow asked.
“She did not,” Abby cried, her eyes glittering. “She scooped up the pennies and said, ‘Hmpf.’”
Christine held back a giggle. She reached for her cup to give herself a chance to recover her decorum. After a sip, she said, “Well, perhaps we should introduce a new topic.”
“Do you be going over to the parsonage today?” Tabitha asked.
“Aye.” Christine glanced at the window and noted how the sunlight shone through from nearly overhead. “It’s getting on for noon. I must go over and get dinner on.”
“Father will be home from church soon.” Abby jumped down off her bench and ran to fetch her doll.
“He could do his studying at home, now that they have the two new rooms,” Christine said.
“But people would talk if you spent the day there while he was home,” the widow reminded her.
It was true. She couldn’t stay at the parsonage all the time, especially when the master of the house was in it. Though she had lived there while Elizabeth was alive, that was no longer acceptable. When the pastor’s wife died, Goody Deane had offered her a bed in her cottage across the way, and she often accompanied Christine to lend an added air of propriety.
“I can go with you,” Goody Deane said.
“You are far too kind. Don’t you have things you wish to do here?”
“Nay. You keep this little place so tidy, I’ve naught to put my hands to. But the children always have washing and mending to be done at the parsonage, and one can never bake enough corn pone to keep those boys sated.”
Christine patted her hand. “Thank you. If you wish to come over later and do some mending and perhaps stir up some biscuits, I might put an hour in at the loom. I’m nearly done with that length of linen, and I’d like to warp some black woolen soon.”
“The boys be outgrowing their togs?”
“I’d like to weave enough for new trousers for both John and Ben, and their father’s winter coat is disgracefully shabby. I hope he’ll have a new coat before snow falls again in New Hampshire.”
Goody Deane brushed the crumbs off the table into her apron. “Be Sarah Dudley giving you the wool?”
“Aye, she traded me a great quantity for Ben’s work at planting time. Well, she traded with the pastor and Ben, that is.”
“She’s a good soul.” Tabitha frowned as she covered the remaining bread in a towel. “I do wonder where that loaf of bread got to. We might have to bake again before the week is out.”
“Move along, John. We haven’t all day.” Samuel hastened to fill the woodbox, while the boys carried water and fed the few chickens that scratched the backyard bare.
When he returned to the house with his last load of firewood, Christine was tying Ruth’s skirt on over her diminutive cotton shift. Constance sat on the bench by the table. Abby knelt before her, wielding the buttonhook.
“Almost ready, Father,” Abby called as he dropped his wood into the woodbox.
“Good girl.”
Christine caught his eye, and he smiled at her over Ruth’s head. They were good children. Well behaved and diligent. Since their mother’s passing, Christine had proved trustworthy to continue their training. She even did a bit of spelling and ciphering with Abby and Constance on mornings when John and Ben joined him at the church for their lessons. He would have to talk to her before harvest to see what she thought about the dame school Mrs. Otis planned to start. It would ease Christine’s burdens a mite to have the two girls out from underfoot a few hours each day. Still, she didn’t seem to mind having them about.
“We’re ready,” Constance cried, jumping off the bench. She stumbled forward, toward the hearth, and Samuel reached out just in time to catch her.
“Careful, now. Even though the fire’s banked, you could get hurt badly if you fly into the hearth.”
“Yes, Father.”
He locked eyes with her and nodded sternly before releasing her. Cooking and scalding accidents accounted for many deaths among the women and children of the colony, and he demanded caution in the kitchen. In his capacity as makeshift healer, he’d seen too many charred bodies. If he could help it, his children would never be among them.
“Will we get to see Catherine?” Abby asked as they left the parsonage.
“Perchance,” Samuel said. His girls had a fondness for Catherine Dudley, Sarah’s young sister-in-law, who often told them stories and brought them treats. “My purpose is to visit her parents today and see what their needs be and to make arrangement with Goodman Dudley about the work he needs from Ben.”
“And we ladies shall call on Sarah Dudley and Jane Gardner as well,” Christine said.
The searing August sun already baked through Samuel’s clothing. He rarely went about without his coat, but the weather had given him pause. Would he rather be thought a proper parson and risk taking ill from the heat, or seem informal to his parishioners and live to tell about it? He had compromised on a waistcoat over his best linen shirt. He hung his powder horn and bullet pouch over his shoulder, hoisted his musket, and swung Ruth up with his other arm. “Come, littlest. We shall make better progress if I carry you.”
As they traversed the path between the village and James Dudley’s palisaded compound, he considered the progress his family had made since Elizabeth’s death and that of their infant son at the end of March the year before. The rift was still fresh in his heart, but they had fallen into new routines and habits, made easier by Christine’s ministrations.
She was a capable housekeeper and a gentle caregiver for the children, though she exacted obedience from them. Too bad she doesn’t wish to marry, he mused. Christine might make a natural mother. But she had voiced her disinclination to marry and bear children several times to his wife, back when she lived at the parsonage. He was sure her captivity and her years in the nunnery had strengthened those feelings. She seemed content to work for a family not her own, to the point of exhausting herself. He recalled how ill she had been after she and Jane cared for his family during the smallpox epidemic.
Although most grateful for her selflessness, he desired to make things easier for her. He supposed the best thing
he could actually do to lighten Christine’s burdens would be to remarry. Then she could go and work for someone else for real wages. Or, if she preferred to stay on, she could at least share the labor with the mistress of the house.
The thought made his head swim. Some men remarried quickly after being widowed, with Mordecai Wales a case in point. But the idea of taking another woman as his wife repelled Samuel. Elizabeth had been his joy, and she was gone little more than a year.
I’m nowhere near ready for that.
No, it was not to be considered. He squared his shoulders, relieved to have faced the thought.
All in Your time, heavenly Father.
As they passed Roger Ackley’s farm, he heard the good-wife’s shrill voice through the open window of the house.
“Mr. Ackley! Mi–i–i–i–ister Ackley! Where be that tub of water you promised to fetch me for washing?”
Christine looked askance at him, and Samuel shrugged.
“I hear Alice Stevens is going to start working for the Ackleys soon.” Privately, he questioned how long that would last. If Mahalia Ackley treated her maids the same way she treated her husband, it was no wonder she couldn’t keep domestic help.
They trudged on, and when they were past the house, he could see Goodman Ackley toiling toward the side door, pushing a wheelbarrow that held a squatty barrel Samuel assumed was full of wash water.
If the children had not been along, he would have stopped to have a word with the couple, but he had no desire to expose his family to the farm wife’s critical eye. He had heard the damage her tongue could do all too often. He wouldn’t want her telling others, for instance, that Abby’s skirt was scandalously short. Why hadn’t he noticed before how tall she was getting? Perhaps Christine could make over one of Elizabeth’s old skirts for his eldest daughter.
James Dudley and his sons were in the hayfield when the Jewetts and Christine approached. James and Richard sliced the tall grass with sweeping cuts, while Stephen stood guard with a musket.
Abiding Peace Page 2