“Nay. Of that I’m certain, sir.”
The men who had discovered the body in the woods off the road to Ackley’s farm were called back and asked if the dead woman’s scarf was on or near the body when they found it. All said no.
Next, Paine himself testified that Mahalia wore the article in question when she came in to trade on the fateful day. A woman who was in the shop at the time also swore that the deceased had worn the scarf.
Finally, Roger Ackley was called. The congregation hushed as he walked slowly up the aisle beside Captain Baldwin, dragging his feet with each step. He snuffled and took the stand. Again, the magistrate reminded the witness of his oath.
The magistrate fixed his stern gaze on Ackley’s face. “Goodman Ackley, what say you? I have examined the fibers Dr. Cooke gathered from your wife’s body and found them similar to ones I gleaned from the scarf you presented to Alice Stevens last week. So similar that I would not be loathe to say they came from that scarf. Have you an explanation?”
Ackley opened his mouth then closed it. He looked around, his eyes wild. He started to rise, but Paine and Baldwin, on either side of the stool, pushed him back down. He pulled in a shuddering breath. “My wife wore that scarf often. I gave a pretty price for it, and she doted on it. It is not unnatural that some of the threads should cling to her … skin.”
The magistrate frowned. “The physician tells me they would not stick as they did from a casual wearing. Sir, your wife was strangled with this garment.” He held up the white scarf. “I ask you, sir, where has it been since the day your wife wore it to her death?”
“I do not think she wore it that day, sir. Nay, she can’t have. I found it later, among her things.”
“As you found her basket?” the attorney asked.
“What … I do not understand you, sir.”
“Where did you find it?”
“Why … in the chest at our home.”
“You wife’s basket was on her arm when she left the trading post. The scarf was about her neck. Her body was found a few hours later. No basket was present. No scarf. The basket turned up the next day at the outlaw’s camp. Yet it was not there when he was captured. The scarf turned up in your wife’s clothes chest.”
McDowell’s attorney swung around and addressed the magistrate. “Your honor, I submit that my client did not kill Mrs. Ackley. Rather, I ask you to believe the evidence. The poor woman was strangled by her own husband, who placed the basket at McDowell’s camp to make him look guilty. But he couldn’t bear to discard the scarf he’d paid so much for. Nay, sir. He had his eye already on a younger, fairer woman, and he gave it to her when he wooed her.”
The magistrate held up both hands. “Sir, Goodman Roger Ackley is not on trial today. However, I instruct the captain to remand him into custody until a hearing can be held to ascertain whether there be sufficient evidence to pursue this line of inquiry. Meanwhile, the accused, Mr. McDowell, has confessed to several petty crimes.” He picked up a piece of parchment and read them off. “I shall recess for one hour, and when we return, I shall pronounce sentence on McDowell for these lesser crimes. I find there is not sufficient evidence to convict said McDowell of murder.”
The next morning, Samuel walked to William Heard’s garrison in a chilly downpour. Few people were about the roads.
The magistrate and lawyers had spent the night at the ordinary but planned to leave together after they broke their fast. Baldwin had commissioned two men to go with him to deliver McDowell to the jail at Portsmouth.
Samuel felt he needed to see the man once more before he left to fulfill his year’s sentence in jail.
William Heard admitted him to the smokehouse. Baldwin was already there, checking the leg irons in preparation to removing the prisoner.
“Thank you for coming, Parson,” McDowell said when he saw Samuel.
“I came to see if you needed anything and to tell you that I shall continue to pray for you.”
“Thankee, sir. I know I deserve what I’m gettin’. I guess I can stand a year, so long as they don’t throw me in a dank, cold hole for the winter.”
“I trust they will see to your bodily needs. Do not lose hope, McDowell. Do not lose faith in God Almighty.”
“I shan’t, sir. He knows I’m sorry I done what I did. And He made it so I shan’t be hanged for killing that woman, such as I didn’t do.”
Samuel nodded and turned to Baldwin. “Captain, this man is a brother in Christ. Please allow us to pray once more before you take him away.”
An hour later, Samuel entered his house and removed his dripping hat. Christine was near the hearth, coughing as she stirred a simmering kettle. As much smoke seemed to billow from the fireplace as went up the chimney. The fire sputtered as rain pattered down on it. He looked about, mentally counting the children in the haze, and relaxed when he was sure all were safe within the walls of home.
“Ah, there you be, sir. Your coat at least is soaked, and probably your other clothing as well. You’d best change and hang your things here to dry.”
He ducked into his bedchamber and closed the door. On his pallet lay a new suit of charcoal gray wool. He bent and ran his hand over it. So. She had finished her weaving and sewing, despite all that went on in the village.
Well, this suit was too good for him to loll about home in or to wear over to the meetinghouse for school time and preparing sermons. He put on the workaday trousers she had made him that summer and a different shirt. She was right; he’d gotten soaked to the skin.
He carried his wet garments out to hang near the fire. Christine had left the door open, and the smoke had cleared a little.
“Where are the children?” he asked.
“I sent them all to the loft under Ben’s direction to crack nuts for me. I am baking a cake.”
“I see.”
“Do you, sir? Today is your birthday, you know.”
That tickled Samuel, and he laughed. “I had forgotten it.”
“Well, I had not.” She wiped her hands on her apron and opened the crock where she kept pearl ash for her soapmaking.
He heard Abby’s clear, ringing laugh and looked up. He could just see her back and Ben’s. They were sitting on the floor chattering together while they worked. Despite the rain, despite the bleak events of the last month, he felt happier than he had in a long, long time.
“Christine.”
“Aye?”
He stepped toward her and seized her hand. “My dear, you are lovely in your cap, with flour smudged on your nose.”
She froze and stared at him.
“It is my hope that in the past two and a half years you’ve come to think of this cottage as your home.”
“Oh, I have, sir,” she whispered. She tore her gaze from his and looked down at their clasped hands.
Samuel smiled gently and tipped her chin up until she looked at him again. “It is also my hope that you will consider an offer to make this your permanent home. Christine, if you feel you can find peace here in this house …”
“I believe I can.”
His smile grew without his trying to restrain it. “And if you can love my children as your own …”
“I do so already, sir. You know that.”
“Yes, I do. And if you think perchance you might one day love me …”
She lowered her lashes. He waited, and after a long moment, she looked up into his eyes once more. “I do not believe in chance, sir.”
He laughed and pulled her to him. “Marry me, then, dear Christine. Soon. I’ll ask the minister from Dover Point to read the banns. May I?”
Her glowing smile answered him, although she got no words out before John called down from the loft, “Father! What are you doing?”
epilogue
When the harvest was in and the golden days of October belied the coming bitter winds of winter, the Reverend Samuel Jewett took Christine Hardin as his lawfully wedded wife.
Her friends and the Jewett girls clustered about
her. Jane and Sarah helped her dress in a fine new skirt and bodice. Ruth presented a bouquet of dried blossoms she and her sisters had made. The visiting preacher awaited them at the meetinghouse with Samuel and his sons. When they stepped outside for the short walk from the parsonage, Goody Deane hobbled out from her cottage and joined them.
James Dudley’s wagon was tied up near the meetinghouse, and Captain and Mrs. Baldwin walked quickly toward the building. From down the street came the Heard family and the Otises. From the river path came the Paines and the fishermen and their families. Nearly all the people of the village gathered to witness the pastor’s wedding.
Christine could think of only a few who were missing. Among those was Roger Ackley, who had confessed after a week’s confinement and had been convicted a fortnight since of his wife’s murder. He now awaited his hanging, but she refused to dwell on that. Thoughts of the grisly crime vanished as Christine waited.
Jane peeked in the church doorway, keeping watch for the right moment. At last everyone else was inside and seated. She and Sarah drew Christine to the doorway. Her two friends took the little girls and hurried to their families’ pews.
James Dudley was waiting just inside the door. He offered his arm to Christine, and she slipped her hand through it.
She looked past the pews to the area below the pulpit, where Samuel stood with the officiating minister. Samuel looked at her with such love that she could only return his smile and walk toward him.
A rash of doubts tried one last time to assail her. Could she be a good wife? Samuel said she could. A good mother? He insisted she was already. A proper parson’s wife? He would teach her.
He reached out and took her hands in his, and she gazed into his eyes. Peace filled her heart.
To my aunt, Joyce Page Whitney, and my uncle, Robert Whitney, who are also descendants of blacksmith Richard Otis.
A note from the Author:
I love to hear from my readers! You may correspond with me by writing:
Susan Page Davis
Author Relations
PO Box 721
Uhrichsville, OH 44683
SUSAN PAGE DAVIS and her husband, Jim, have been married thirty-two years and have six children, ages thirteen to thirty. They live in Maine, where they are active in an independent Baptist church. Susan is a homeschooling mother and writes historical romance, mystery, and suspense novels. Visit her Web site at: www.susanpagedavis.com.
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