She had been at the loom an hour and was beginning to think she should stop and begin supper preparations, when the girls rushed inside.
“Miss Christine, we have company,” Abby called.
“Oh?” Christine rose and hurried to the door.
“It’s Miss Catherine,” Constance said.
Stephen and Richard Dudley’s sister was always a welcome guest. Her youth and enthusiasm couldn’t help but lift Christine’s spirits.
As she and the little girls spilled out onto the doorstone to meet the caller, Christine saw that Ruth had not stood on ceremony but had run to fling herself into Catherine’s arms at the edge of the street. Catherine laughed and stooped to hug her, while juggling her parcels.
Christine walked out with the two older girls to meet her and carry Ruth back. “I’m glad to see you, Catherine! Surely you didn’t come into town alone?”
“No, Richard was coming on an errand, and I begged him to bring me to see you. Ever since you told me Abigail was learning to weave, I’ve been meaning to give her this.” She held out a wooden frame about a foot square, laced with heavy thread, which Christine recognized at once as a small hand loom.
“Oh, that’s perfect for Abby!” Christine took it and placed it in Abby’s hands. “You can weave belts and kerchiefs and all sorts of things on this, my love. Not a large piece of cloth, but small lengths big enough for doll clothes, or towels, or … well, anything, if you piece them together.”
“Yes, I made pockets and dolly skirts and all sorts of things with that when I was your age,” Catherine said. “But I never use it now, and I thought perhaps you would like it.”
Abby looked up at Christine, her eyebrows raised so high that the skin of her forehead wrinkled like rows in a plowed field.
Christine laughed. “Yes, you may accept it. I doubt your father will object, and if he does, we’ll explain that you are merely borrowing the loom.”
“Well, you needn’t give it back, so far as I’m concerned,” Catherine said as they walked toward the house. “When you outgrow it, Abby, you can pass it on to Constance or Ruth. And this”—she patted the basket that hung from her arm—”is our refreshment. Seed cakes and a packet of chocolate. Father bought the chocolate, but mother doesn’t like it. She says it is too bitter to drink. She prefers her sassafras or raspberry tea. Anyway, I wanted you to try it.”
“Perhaps if we put sugar in it,” Christine said with a frown, though she wasn’t sure it would be a good use of the little maple sugar in the parsonage pantry.
“Well, I find it tolerable, but Father is the only one at our house who really likes it,” Catherine said. “We’ll have fresh cider in another month, and glad we’ll be to get it again.”
Christine arranged a chair near the doorway for her guest so that Catherine would not get too warm when she stirred up the coals in the hearth to heat their tea water. They spent a pleasant hour talking while Catherine showed Abby how best to thread the hand loom and Christine stirred up fresh biscuits for supper. She hadn’t felt like laughing much lately, Christine noted. But with her young guest in the house, merriment was inevitable. She even found herself humming a psalm as she stoked the fire, although perspiration dripped from her brow onto the hearth.
When they’d shared their cakes and chocolate—which they all agreed was better with a scant spoonful of sugar in it—they went to the garden and picked a few carrots, which Christine sliced and added to the stewpot. By the time Richard Dudley came to collect his sister, she realized that Samuel would soon be home for supper. He’d no doubt taken his journey to visit the prisoner, and she hadn’t thought about either of them for quite some time. With a guilty start, she sent up a quick, silent prayer as she waved good-bye to Catherine and Richard then herded the Jewett girls back inside to set the table.
Samuel returned home for dinner on Thursday. His sons were both at home that day, as a light rain that morning had put a stop to all harvest activity.
“You boys come over to the meetinghouse with me for an hour after dinner,” he said. “I fear you’ll forget your Greek and mathematics if we don’t continue lessons soon.”
“Do you plan to visit the prisoner today?” Christine asked.
He looked at her in surprise. She had not mentioned McDowell for several days, and he’d hoped her preoccupation with him had lessened. “Why, yes. Probably a brief call, after the boys do their sums and grammar. I’ll want to study a bit more before evening worship.”
“Might I go with you, sir?” Christine’s eyelashes stayed low over her expressive eyes, and he couldn’t tell from her carefully neutral voice what her mood was.
He hesitated. McDowell was still chained, so she would be in no danger if she kept her distance. William Heard saw to it that he was washed and properly clothed. But still …
If he denied her this, would she resent him? And would she find a way to see McDowell without him? Better to take her there himself, he decided. Perhaps if he witnessed the meeting, he would better understand her feelings for the man.
“Shall you come to the meetinghouse in one hour? I’ll send Ben home to mind the girls then. Or you could ask Goody Deane to come over for a bit.”
“Thank you, sir.” She did not smile, nor did she look at him, but went about gathering up the dirty dishes.
She arrived punctually an hour later with a basket on her arm. He had expected that and made no comment. Goody Deane was at the house, she reported, and since the rain had stopped, he allowed the boys to go to the river and fish until suppertime.
The gate stood open at the Heards’ garrison, and the men were preparing to go into the fields. William greeted them, eyeing Christine in surprise.
“My wife be inside, making jelly,” he told her.
“I shall be glad to see Mrs. Heard,” Christine said, “but my real errand is to visit the prisoner.”
“The lady comes on an errand of compassion?” Heard asked Samuel. “Well, go along then, but my advice to you is that you go in first and make sure the prisoner is presentable before you admit the lady. He’s a hard’un, miss, though lately he’s seemed less surly.”
“I believe his attitude has changed,” Samuel murmured.
Heard nodded. “Well, please do bar the door of the smokehouse from the outside, as usual, when you leave, Parson. I like to think he’s secure here, though we haven’t posted a guard these past two days.”
Samuel followed his suggestion and left Christine outside while he entered the small, dim building.
“Well, Parson”—McDowell sat up straighter on the straw with a crooked smile—”I wondered if you’d forgot me today.”
“On the contrary, I’ve brought someone with me.”
“Oh?” The outlaw cocked an eyebrow at him. “Be the magistrate come then?”
“Nay, not yet. This is someone from the village. Someone you’ve met before.”
“Wh—” McDowell peered toward the open door. “Not the girl.”
Samuel was glad he hadn’t said “the homely girl,” for he was certain Christine could hear every word.
“Aye, it’s Miss Hardin. She requested to see you.”
“Well, now.” He smiled and put one hand up to his beard. “I don’t make much of a sight for young ladies.” His expression changed to a frown. “She don’t be come to spit on me and rail at me, does she?”
“Nay, I assure you she would not do so.”
“Good. ‘Cause that man who came t’other night, I thought he’d kill me. The master had to throw him out of the stockade.”
“What man?” Samuel asked.
“They told me it was the husband of her what was killed.”
“Roger Ackley was here?”
“That’s the name. He ranted and shrieked like a savage. Said they’d ought to string me up. Heard said he’d been hitting the rum, but it gave me a start, I’ll tell you.”
“Well, you needn’t fear a mob coming after you. William Heard and his sons would prevent it, and if ne
ed, we would protect you—the captain, Constable Paine, and I, and several other members of my flock. But I shall go and see Roger Ackley and make sure he doesn’t do that again. He is distraught, of course.”
McDowell shrugged. “I might be guilty of some things, sir, but I should hate awfully to be strung up for something I didn’t do.”
“I knew it.” The doorway darkened, and Christine stood there, her dark skirts blocking much of the sunlight. “Pardon me, but I couldn’t help overhearing. I’ve told the Reverend Jewett several times that you could not have done such a deed.”
“There now, miss.” McDowell lowered his hands as though to conceal the chains and smiled up at her. “Think of it! Ye’ve come to see me, after I treated you so mean and all.”
“I’ve forgiven you for that. I wanted to see you for myself and make sure you were well. You must pay for your crimes, sir, I don’t deny that, but you must not be made to pay for those someone else committed.”
McDowell looked up at Samuel. “Here now, Parson, mayhap I should have this young lady represent me at court.”
Samuel did not find the suggestion amusing. “We must not stay long. Christine, say what you wish, and I shall see you home.”
She knelt in the straw before he realized what she was doing and pulled the napkin off her basket.
“Here, I’ve brought you some biscuits and baked fish. I know they are feeding you, but I thought a bite or two extra would not be amiss. And I’ve brought ink and paper. I wondered if you wished a letter written to anyone. Do you have family you’d like to notify, sir?”
McDowell blinked and looked up at the pastor with a baffled expression. “Nay, who would I send a letter to? I’ve never thought of such a thing in my life.”
“Well, that’s fine,” said Samuel. “I’m sure Miss Hardin means well.”
“I do,” she said. “I tried to think if there was any service you might need while you are here.”
McDowell sighed. “Nay, but thank ye kindly, miss. And if you’ll allow it before you go, I’d like the parson to pray for me again.”
“Of course.” She looked up at Samuel, her eyes wide now and shining in the reflected light that streamed through the doorway. She sat back a little away from McDowell.
Samuel bent his knees and lowered himself to the floor. “Shall we pray, then?” The three bowed their heads, and he offered a plea for a swift and just end to McDowell’s confinement.
At his amen, the prisoner began a faltering petition. Samuel was not shocked, but he heard Christine’s sharp intake of breath.
“God above, look down on this sinner,” McDowell said. “Deliver me from my sin, Lord. I do not ask You to deliver me from my bonds, for they are just. Amen.”
When he finished, Samuel rose and held out his hand to Christine. She took it and let him pull her to her feet. She sniffed and turned to the prisoner.
“Good day, sir. I shall continue to pray for you daily.”
“Thank ye, miss. And you, sir.”
Samuel nodded. “Shall we go?” He hopped down the high step to the ground and offered his hand to Christine again. When she stood on the ground beside him, he carefully swung the door shut and put the bars in place.
“Do you wish to see Mrs. Heard now?” he asked.
Christine was patting her cheeks with a handkerchief. “I don’t feel like visiting, if the truth be told, but we told her husband I would, so I must.”
They paid a brief call at the door of the house, declining to go inside, then set out for the parsonage.
They were halfway there before she spoke. “Does Mr. McDowell pray with you every day when you go to him?”
“Aye. Since Sunday. I believe he truly repented then and came to the cross.”
She inhaled deeply. “I’m glad. Thank you for letting me see him.”
“Perhaps I should have told you, but …” Samuel eyed her carefully. “I did not want you to think I believe him totally innocent.”
“Nay, he has admitted he is not. Of the murder only he claims to have a clear conscience.”
“Yes, he’s confessed other things to me.”
She looked up at him, her brows furrowed. “What sort of things? Stealing from us?”
“From us and other people. Dan Otis’s knife, Brother Heard’s shirt, Goody Deane’s loaf of bread. Other things, here and in other villages. Christine, you would not be safe around that man.”
“But if he’s repented …”
Samuel sighed. “Yes. And I believe he means it. But I would want him watched, if he were set free, and made accountable. Sincerity must be proven.”
She considered that for a minute as they walked along and then nodded. “What you say is true. If John stole an apple tart and then said he was sorry, I should always watch him on days when I baked.”
“Exactly.” They went on together, and Samuel felt they were more in tune than they had been all week.
When they were within sight of the meetinghouse, she spoke again. “I understand your concerns, Samuel. McDowell did frighten me, and I’m not sure I’m over that yet. I did see his quick temper and a threatening side to him that I’ll not soon forget. But I’m willing to believe he can change, or rather, that God can change him. Still, I don’t say he has changed. You’re right about that. Time will show whether or not he is the same man who threatened me.”
Samuel paused and looked down at her. “I’m glad to hear you say it. I was surprised that you could feel such sympathy for him. For any man, for that matter. You always seemed to distrust men and to avoid them.”
“So I did.” She hesitated then added, “If it is not too forward, I should like to tell you that I credit your teaching with my change in attitude.”
“My … You mean from the pulpit?”
“Aye, sir, and in your daily life. You have shown me that we must be open and willing to forgive.”
Samuel spotted a cart coming up the street and a man heading toward the ordinary. “Let us walk,” he murmured. He must take care still of the village gossips and not be seen lingering with a single woman. “I am glad the Lord has used me to help you.”
She nodded but did not look at him as she continued. “I’ve seen several examples here—the Dudley men, Charles Gardner, indeed, your own example, sir. These godly examples have shown me that some men are kind and trustworthy.”
Samuel felt a surge of satisfaction rush over him, followed by a knowledge of his own unworthiness. They reached the doorstone of the parsonage. He glanced about, saw no one watching, and reached for her hand, giving it a quick squeeze and releasing it. “Thank you for sharing that with me. I take it as a deep compliment that you would trust me with your thoughts and that you consider me an example to follow.”
She swallowed hard and looked up at him, then away. “Feelings … they are so difficult to manage and to share. But they come from above, I am sure.”
“Aye.” He smiled, knowing he would pray that God would continue to bridge the gap between them. “I shall leave you here now and go back to my studies, though not for long.” He looked up at the sun and saw that their trip had taken longer than he’d estimated.
“When do you want supper, sir?”
“I shall return in an hour.”
He turned away, but he felt her watching him.
Thank You, Father, for this time together and this new understanding between us. Move us onward, if it be in Your plan, to a sweeter bond.
When he was halfway up the short path to the meetinghouse, he turned and looked back. She still stood outside the door. He raised one hand, and she waved back.
fourteen
On Saturday morning, Christine and Goody Deane both went to the parsonage. The elder woman was remaking one of the late Mrs. Jewett’s dresses for Abby, and she offered to watch Ruth and sew while Christine and the older children joined the pastor in harvesting the rest of their corn.
As they husked the two bushels of ears they’d picked, dropping the shucks on a pile at the
edge of the garden plot, Roger Ackley hobbled into the yard and hailed the pastor.
Samuel walked toward him, meeting him just a few feet from where they worked, and Christine could hear their conversation, whether she wished to or not.
“Brother Ackley,” Samuel said. “What brings you out, sir?”
Christine hoped he wasn’t here to insist that McDowell should be hung or to blame Samuel for the magistrate’s delay. She nodded at Ackley but kept her head down after that, not looking his way but concentrating on her ear of corn.
“I’ve come to ask you to read banns for me on the Sabbath, sir. And to perform a ceremony three weeks hence.”
Startled, Christine looked up. John, Ben, and Abby openly gaped at the man, though Constance appeared not to have noticed what he said and tugged tenaciously at the husks on her ear.
Samuel cleared his throat. “Am I to understand, sir, that you wish to marry again so soon?”
“That I do. You know the Lord says it ain’t fittin’ that a man should be alone. Now that’s scripture.” Ackley nodded emphatically.
Christine felt the color rise in her cheeks. She took Constance’s ear of corn, quickly finished husking it, and laid it in the basket. “Are you finished?” she asked the other children. “I think we should go inside.”
But they did not leave soon enough for her to miss the revelation of the intended bride’s name.
“Alice’s father won’t let her come work for me anymore without I marry her,” Ackley explained to the pastor. “And so I says to him, why not? Three weeks from Sunday is the day they chose for the weddin’.”
By this time, Christine’s ears pulsed with the infusion of blood, and she hustled the girls up the steps, embarrassed on Samuel’s account as well as her own.
“Who’s out there?” Tabitha Deane asked, laying aside her sewing.
“It’s Goodman Ackley.” Christine set the basket of corn on the table. “There, we shall have a good feed of roasting ears tonight.”
“He wants to marry that hired girl,” Ben said, shaking his head.
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