The Captive Bride

by Gilbert, Morris

  “Come inside, Rev. Howland,” Lydia Winslow said. There was a trace of coquetry in her voice and in her black eyes. Her dark beauty and expressive features still bore evidence of the French blood of her father.

  They entered the house, and for the next hour sat around the oak table, where Howland discovered the source of his young pupil’s wit and intelligence. He had “discovered” Miles three years earlier when the young man had come to Harvard at the age of thirteen. In their first meeting he had been astounded at the breadth of Miles’ scholarship and at the same time warmly approving of the modest charm of the young fellow. For three years he had nurtured the boy, who had become known at the school as “Howland’s Student,” for the older man had been jealous of the lad, not trusting other instructors to do the finishing he felt necessary.

  Ordinarily this sort of monopoly would have been forbidden, but Robert Howland himself was on a special footing at Harvard. He was a close friend of Cotton Mather, and such prestige was enough to permit Howland to do pretty much as he pleased. In all fairness, it was not his friendship with the titular head of the Puritan world, but his own brilliance that had made him a legend at the school. Cotton Mather had graduated from Harvard at the age of fourteen, but he had said often, “I got an early start, and Robert Howland got a late one—but if we had begun together, I have no doubt he would have eclipsed my record.”

  Sitting there at ease as he had rarely been on a first visit, Howland noted that Matthew’s intelligence and his wife’s ready wit and charm were combined in their son.

  “I’m surprised you’d think of leaving your position with Harvard to pastor a small church, Rev. Howland,” Matthew said at last.

  “It was a difficult decision,” Howland admitted. “But I’ve grown too bookish over the last few years. The Lord has instructed me to go out where the harvest is white. Except for the time I’ve preached for Rev. Mather, I’ve been rather tied to my desk.”

  “Aye, a man needs to be with the people,” Winslow nodded. “My father says that there are too many people at universities who have more degrees than they have temperature!”

  “Matthew!” Lydia said sharply, “you shouldn’t say such things to Reverend Howland.”

  “Oh, Father can say anything!” Winslow laughed. “He’s ninety-one, you know, and he never was noted for his tact.”

  “I’ve been anxious to meet him, sir,” Howland smiled. “Miles says he has more brains than all of Harvard combined.”

  Matthew threw back his head and reached over to pound his son on the shoulder, “Son! You’ve got no more tact than any other of us bull-headed Winslows! Imagine telling your teacher a thing like that!”

  “It’s good to see a young man who honors his parents, Mr. Winslow,” Howland remarked, smiling at the young man.

  They talked a little longer and then Miles looked out the bay window and jumped to his feet. “There’s Grandfather and Rachel!” he yelped and dashed out the door. Howland heard him talking excitedly and was amused at how the young man, who had gone to great effort to be dignified at Harvard, had now reverted almost to a wild, puppyish excitement in the presence of his family.

  As they entered the cabin, Miles said, “This is my grand-father—and this is Robert Howland, sir!”

  Howland looked at Gilbert Winslow, and was in some awe of the man, for this one, after all, was the last living member of the Firstcomers—that intrepid band of Pilgrims who had come on the Mayflower so many years ago!

  “I’m honored, Mr. Winslow. I believe you knew my grandfather, John Howland?” the minister said at once, and the hand that gripped his was still strong and without a tremble despite the years.

  “John Howland!” The old man stared at him. “I did, indeed, and a fine man he was, too! Your servant, sir. My grandson speaks highly of you.”

  Time had taken a fraction from his height, so that he was slightly beneath his son and grandson, but he still stood straight as a pine sapling. The cornflower blue eyes were undimmed, and the tapering face was browned by the sun. His voice was not strong as it had once been, but there was no tremor as he spoke in a thin, clear tone, and his movement, if not swift as those of his tall descendants, was sure and still graceful.

  “Reverend Howland is going to be pastor at Littleton, Father,” Matthew said.

  “They need a man of God there,” Gilbert snorted. “The last one they had had no more backbone than an oyster!” He shot a glance at Howland and said, “My grandson tells me you know the Word, sir. I trust you will preach it undiluted—put the fire back in hell and the fear of God in those half-baked, lukewarm, imitations of Christians in that church!”

  Miles laughed in delight, and gave Howland a sly wink. “Don’t beat around the bush, Grandfather! Just come right out and say what you think about Brother Howland’s new charge!”

  “Now you behave yourself, Gilbert Winslow!” Lydia commanded, giving his arm an affectionate squeeze. “I think Reverend Howland can be trusted to take care of his church without your help.”

  Gilbert had opened his mouth to continue, but at Lydia’s words he shut it. Giving her a quick smile, he said, “Still trying to make a gentleman out of me, Lydia? You should know by now how hopeless that is!”

  “Reverend, this is my daughter, Rachel,” Matthew said, and Howland, who had looked to one side to speak with Gilbert Winslow, turned to face the woman who had entered and was standing quietly beside her father.

  “This is Reverend Robert Howland, Rachel—the teacher Miles has been talking about for so long.”

  “Welcome to Salem, Reverend Howland.”

  “I’m—very happy to meet you, Miss Winslow.”

  Howland had stammered slightly, for although Miles had talked almost constantly about his older sister, he had never once mentioned the fact that she was a strikingly beautiful woman. Why didn’t the young pup tell me she was so lovely! he thought with some irritation. He was a man who didn’t like to be surprised, and it bothered him that he had been struck so forcibly with her beauty that he had stammered like a callow youth. At the age of thirty-three, he was fairly hardened to the good looks of young women. Being one of the most eligible bachelors in the country, he had discovered, brought out the worst in most people. Almost everyone had a sister, a niece, or some girl who would make the perfect wife for him, and he had long ago thrown up a wall of defense against such ploys.

  But this woman shook that hardness, for she was without a doubt the most attractive woman he had ever seen, he admitted grudgingly. He gave her a hard stare, hoping to find some flaw, but was unable to do so.

  She was, he knew, thirty years old, but no one with eyes would have taken her for such. Why, she looks no more than twenty! Howland thought suddenly. He took in the creamy smooth cheeks, like pale ivory, highlighted by a pair of almond-shaped eyes, hazel except for times when there was a greenish glint which gave her a saucy look. Her hair was black, and it curled rebelliously from under the white cap that perched atop her head. The simple gray homespun dress did not conceal the smoothly rounded form, and there was an intensely womanly air about her, despite the direct look and almost militant posture.

  “You’ll be staying with us tonight,” Miles said slyly. He had not missed the startled look that Howland had given his sister, and it delighted him that the self-assured minister was put off stride for a change.

  “I don’t want to be troublesome,” Howland replied quickly.

  “No trouble, sir,” Gilbert Winslow offered, “I want to talk to you about a few matters.”

  “Look to yourself, Reverend” Lydia laughed. “The Winslows show no mercy where theology is concerned.”

  “And this one is the worst,” Matthew stated, going to Rachel and putting his arm around her.

  “Got more scripture in her than most of these fools who call themselves ministers have these days,” Gilbert nodded. “We’ll look for you at supper—all of you.”

  He turned and left, and Rachel said with a smile, “I’ll look forward
to seeing you this evening, Reverend Howland.” She followed her grandfather through the door, and the minister saw that they were chattering like two school children as they headed down the street.

  “I hope you won’t be offended at my father, sir,” Matthew apologized. “He speaks his mind a little bluntly.”

  “I’ve heard so much about him from Miles that I’m rather intimidated,” Howland answered. “He’s quite an institution, isn’t he?”

  “We weren’t sure how he would take the move here from Plymouth,” Matthew remarked. “But my business was here in Salem, and Reverend Findley died soon after we moved; Father practically pastored the church for years—with Rachel’s help.”

  Miles nodded at Howland, adding with a smile, “She’s the best minister in the whole colony, according to Grandfather. And I don’t much doubt it.” He shook his head in admiration and warned Howland with a grin, “Don’t get into a theological argument with her, I warn you. Aside from yourself, she knows the Scripture better than anybody I know.”

  “Can preach a better sermon, too!” Matthew vowed. “ ’Course she calls it teaching—but I tell you, Reverend, when she speaks to a congregation, it’s a thing to hear!”

  Howland frowned. “I rejoice that she knows the word, but the Scripture says, ‘Let the women keep silence in the church,” you remember.”

  “I’m afraid Rachel has too much Winslow in her,” Matthew returned ruefully. He scratched his head, then shrugged his shoulders. “Miles is right, though, and I’d advise you to steer clear of her. She has a way of being more logical than you’d think for a woman so attractive.”

  “That’s what does it, Father,” Miles decided. “She’s so pretty that men don’t think she has any intelligence—or else they get all nervous because she’s a beautiful woman. Anyway, I’ve seen some pretty fair Bible scholars get put flat on their backs—theologically speaking, of course!—and never knew what hit them!”

  “You two hush!” Lydia interrupted, then continued, more quietly but with force, “Rachel is a handmaiden of the Lord, Reverend Howland. She’ll never marry, so she says, because she can serve God better in the unmarried state, as the Apostle Paul puts it. And you’ll not find a woman in these parts—or a man either—who serves God so faithfully.”

  “That’s true,” her husband nodded. “The poor bless her, and her prayers for the sick—” He shook his head in wonder and finished, “Well, you’ll admire her, as we all do, but she is a problem for some of our ministers.”

  Howland nodded. “Miles has told me of his sister’s good works, and I know you praise God for such a daughter. It will be my pleasure to become better acquainted with her.”

  * * *

  Robert Howland got better acquainted with Rachel Winslow that evening, but it did not improve his disposition.

  The meal had been excellent, and he had enjoyed listening to Gilbert Winslow tell of the voyage on the Mayflower. It was almost as if a witness had stepped forward from the Scripture, for the Firstcomers were, of course, the heroes of the church in America, and to hear the old man say things like: “...so Standish said to me ... !” or “Then I went to Governor Bradford and told him it had to be so!” These demigods—or so they seemed to Howland—had been Winslow’s friends; he had known them intimately, and it was a wonder to hear it.

  Finally Gilbert Winslow said, “It was a grand crew, and I would to God that some of their spirit would come on this generation!”

  “Oh, I think we have a goodly number of dedicated Christians in our own day,” Howland said. “It’s a common mistake to think that people in earlier times were more spiritual than in our own days.”

  “Do you really think that, Mr. Howland?” Rachel had said little all evening, but now she faced him directly across the table where they sat drinking tea, her hazel eyes gleaming, with a pronounced tilt to her chin as she shook her head. “You have been leading a sheltered life at Harvard.”

  Howland flushed, for he was not accustomed to being challenged—especially by a woman. “I think we are not so bad as many say, Miss Winslow.”

  “I think we are worse, sir!” She did not raise her voice, but there was no weakness at all in her tone or her look as she began to speak directly to the tall minister. “Our Fathers gave up everything they had in the world, risked death and the loss of all things for the privilege of worshiping God. And what are men risking today? Nothing!”

  “Well, really, Miss Winslow, from a theological point of view, we are not in such bad condition. We have more members in our churches now—”

  “More members, yes!” Rachel said instantly. “But what of the quality? You are aware of the Half-Way covenant, I trust?”

  “Certainly! But—”

  “A covenant straight from the pit!” she said directly, and Howland blinked at her bluntness. The Half-Way Covenant had been approved in 1657 by the Ministerial Convention in an attempt to settle a question that was both theological and social. Only members of the church could vote in the Bay Colony, and when the children of the first settlers grew to maturity, they were thought to be saints because they shared the covenant with their parents. But then their children came along, and most of them had no conversion experience of their own. The church was in a dilemma; if these unregenerate people were admitted to the church, it meant that no man needed to be converted—but on the other hand, they could not vote if they were not admitted. A solution had been reached in the Half-Way Covenant, which permitted the children of members to belong to the church without a conversion experience.

  Howland replied with some fervor, “Certainly, that covenant is not the best answer, and Rev. Mather opposed it, but we must work within the framework of the entire church, Miss Winslow.”

  “The church, sir,” she debated, “is the bride of Jesus Christ, and no man nor any group can by agreeing together soil her garments!”

  “You oversimplify!” he answered hotly.

  “Jesus said, ‘Ye must be born again.’ Are you going to say that the Savior ‘oversimplified’ the conditions for salvation?” she challenged.

  “Well—of course I’d not say that—”

  “Then the Half-Way Covenant is wrong?”

  Never had Howland felt so ill at ease, and the fact that he was confused as much by her enormous eyes as by her use of scripture and logic did little to make him feel any better. “I think you would need to do much research and study before you can draw that conclusion, Miss Rachel!” he said lamely.

  “The conclusion is simple, sir,” Rachel insisted, ignoring her mother, who was trying to signal for her to stop. “Either men are saved by good intentions and moral living—or they are saved by grace through the blood of the Lord Jesus!” She suddenly reached over and plucked up a Bible, placing it before Howland. “Show it to me in the Word of God, sir, and I’ll believe it!”

  “I tell you, ma’am, it’s not so easy as that!” Howland’s resonant voice rose, filling the room, and his face was red.

  Suddenly the tension that had risen so unexpectedly was broken as Gilbert Winslow slapped the table and laughed. “By my head, Robert! You’re your grandfather all over again! He was a dear fellow, John was. I knew him in England, you know, before we came to Plymouth.”

  Howland stared at him, his quarrel with Rachel forgotten. “I never knew anyone who knew him, sir.”

  “Well, I did, my boy!” The old man smiled at the memory. “As a matter of fact, you wouldn’t be here right now if it weren’t for me.”

  “Sir?”

  “Why, your grandfather went up on deck one night, and somehow managed to fall overboard. He caught a rope, though, and hung on for dear life. I came topside and heard him calling, so I got some help and we hauled him on board.”

  “I’ve not heard of that!”

  “Mr. Bradford tells of it in his history,” Gilbert said. “And he was much like yourself—in a physical way, though no scholar. A strong man—a strong man! Once when the general sickness cut us down in that first winter,
it was just myself, Miles Standish, John Bradford and your grandfather who were able to stand up. John and I dug many a grave—and he never once complained, he didn’t! A good strong man and a faithful companion he was,” Gilbert said softly, and then wistfully, “And I miss him to this day.”

  The old man’s words brought a peace to the room, and soon they left, after Howland promised to return the next day to visit with Gilbert. As they were walking back to the house, Miles said slyly, “I told you not to underestimate Rachel.”

  “I’ll remember that,” Howland said shortly. “She needs a husband with a strong hand, I think.”

  Miles thought about that. “Well,” he noted, “if there’s any man on this earth any stronger than my sister, I’d like to meet him. There’s been quite a list of candidates—wanting to marry her, I mean. But none of them measure up.”

  Howland did not answer, but he thought wryly, What the woman needs is a good beating. But he realized at the same time that his own admiration for her beauty would make such a thing difficult, so he put the whole matter of Rachel Winslow out of his mind.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  A BROTHERLY KISS

  “Robert, all this talk of witches—what do you make of it?”

  “The devil, sir, is not dead—and he will find an entrance if God’s people do not keep the door blocked.”

  The duties of his church kept Howland close to his village as a rule, but his one recreation in the two months since leaving Harvard had been angling with Gilbert Winslow. The young man had found that being a pastor required a certain amount of practical experience that no knowledge of Latin or Greek would solve, and he came at least once a week to fish with the aging man in the stream that wound its way through Salem.

  They sat under a huge chestnut tree and said little until Winslow broke the silence with his question about witchcraft. He was not, however, satisfied with the answer, for he shook his head and said, “I mislike it, Robert. There’s something about the subject makes people behave stupidly. Why, would you believe that fool Putnam woman has spread the rumor that she lost all her children in childbirth because Rebecca Nurse put a curse on her? And if there ever was a shrew it’s Ann Putnam, and if there ever was a saint, it’s Rebecca Nurse!”