Bradford shook his head and said, with more openness than he had shown in the past to Gilbert, “I fear, Mr. Winslow, that our congregation stands on precarious ground here in Leyden. We are here by the permission of the Dutch government, and as you know, Holland and Spain have erupted into open warfare several times already. There are two powerful forces struggling for control of this country, and if it comes to an open conflict—well, we still remember the horror of the Spanish Inquisition when it was introduced to this country in the 1570s.”
Gilbert stared at him and asked, “You may have to flee for that reason, Elder Bradford?”
“Not only for that reason, for even if that situation never developed, we are troubled over the future of our children. You see, a new generation has grown up here without memories of England. The discipline of our congregation bears down hard on the spirits of the young. They watch their Dutch friends having entertainment on Sundays, while they are expected to spend the day listening to sermons. It is inevitable, I suppose, that young people will be attracted by the high-spirited traditions of Holland. You have seen, I’m sure, Mr. Winslow, the women of these parts give great liberty to their daughters. Sometimes they stay out until the gates of the city are locked, and the young men entertain them at inns all night or until they please to take rest. The young men and women go by horseback and in carriages to cities ten or twenty miles distance and there feast until late at night—and this they do without all suspicion of unchastity. That is why I am glad you are going on this excursion,” Bradford said with a smile. “And I exhort you to take care of the virtue of our young women.”
“You may trust me for that,” Gilbert Winslow said with a straight face. “If there is anything in this world that interests me, it is the virtue of young women!” Then, lest Bradford should see any humor in his eyes, he asked quickly, “And this situation is so serious that you may move out of Leyden?”
“It is indeed; necessity forces most of our young people to labor in shops and mills. It is hard work, and they have no economic gain to look forward to in this country.”
“But—where would you find a place for your people?”
Bradford stared at him for a moment, pursed his lips, and then said quietly, “The New World.” He seemed to be lighted inside by the thought, and his eyes gleamed as he went on. “We are engaged now in such an investigation that may prove profitable.” Then suddenly he stopped and looked straight at Gilbert, and the open manner disappeared from the elder as he said quickly, “This is all confidential, Mr. Winslow, and I urge you to say nothing of it.”
“Why, of course not,” Gilbert said at once. He filed the matter in his mind, knowing that it was the sort of information the authorities of England would be glad to have.
Later that morning, Gilbert and John Howland were packed into a carriage with several other young people as they made their way across the brilliant countryside. Bargsteen was a large village some ten miles from Leyden, and when they arrived, the village square was packed with people. Gilbert reached up and handed Humility down, an action which caught her unawares and brought a faint flush to her cheeks. She nodded to him and said in almost a whisper, “Thank you.” And he held on to her hand a few seconds longer than absolutely necessary.
They all went to a large inn and were shown to their rooms, Gilbert sharing a common room with Howland and two Dutchmen, and Humility and Bess doing the same with some of the young women. They met together for a supper at the long table in the inn; after supper, just as darkness was beginning to fall, Gilbert noticed that Humility got up and walked out of the room through the large front door. Glancing around, he saw that no one was paying any attention, so he rose up and went after her. When he got outside, he saw that she was walking slowly, head down, toward the long canal that intersected the center of the marketplace. It was a narrow canal, no more than six feet across, spanned at frequent intersections by arching stone bridges. He let her get a few hundred yards from the inn and managed to come up quite close before he called out, “Humility.”
She turned in surprise and said, “Oh, it’s you, Gilbert.” The use of his first name did not pass unheeded, and he stepped up beside her, noticing for the first time that she was taller than most women.
He said, “It’s beautiful tonight, isn’t it?” Then he added, “May I walk with you for a while?”
She hesitated then said, “Well, only for a little way—I must go in soon.” He walked beside her, and the red flashing sun threw rippling streaks along the surface of the water in the canal below. The cool breezes of evening brushed against their faces. As they went farther from the center of town, a quietness spread out, and their voices seemed loud in the silence. Once he allowed his arm to brush against hers—apparently by accident and noted that she did not draw back. They spoke idly of the things that had occurred on the journey until finally they came to one of the arched bridges, and Gilbert said, “Let’s cross this bridge and pretend it’s London Bridge.”
She smiled at him quickly and he recognized with a shock, Why, she’s beautiful! Taken aback, he did not speak until they reached the crest of the bridge. They stood staring down at the rippling water beneath.
“I’ve never seen London Bridge.” Humility took a tiny stone, threw it over the side, and watched as it hit the water and the circles spread to the sides of the tiny canal. “I suppose you’ve been there many times, Gilbert?”
“Oh, yes, I’ve been to London. I’ve been to many other places, too—but, I suppose places are about the same.” He hesitated, then looked down at her and added softly, “People are born, they grow up, they fall in love—” Gilbert paused at this last word and watched her face carefully for any response. Finally, he smiled and went on, “—they marry, they die—and that’s what life is, Humility.” He looked at her face and asked gently, “Isn’t that what you want with your own life, Humility?”
She looked up at him and said breathlessly, “Oh, I don’t know! I really don’t know, Gilbert—” She bit her lip, shook her head, and there was a note of desperation in her voice as she went on quickly, “I’ve thought about—about love—and, and—” She seemed to have trouble with the word, but forced herself to go on. “I’ve never been able to get it straight in my mind how I can love God best and love a man at the same time.” It seemed to shock her that she had said something like this so bluntly, and she gave a little gasp and started to draw back.
Gilbert Winslow was never a man to miss a golden opportunity like this. He drew her close with a smooth, practiced motion—not so recklessly that he would frighten her nor so gently that she could pull away. Her eyes opened wide as he pulled her into his embrace, and she seemed unable to move as his body pressed against hers. Her lips opened slightly in shock, and he strongly suspected that never before had Miss Humility Cooper ever felt as she was feeling at this moment. He lowered his head, and let his lips fall upon hers. They were lips soft by nature, and soft as a result of the surprise and shock that came to her as his arms met, closed around her.
At once a resistance stiffened her backbone, but as the warmth of Gilbert’s lips touched hers, it seemed to spread like a fire through her veins; he felt her resistance melt, and she allowed him to pull her even closer. Humility’s heart was beating fast; unconsciously, her arms raised and went behind the back of Gilbert’s neck, and for one moment they stood there embracing, caught in the powerful magnetism between a woman and a man.
Then she drew back with a gasp, her eyes staring; her face, at first pale, took on a crimson flush starting at her throat and sweeping up over her face. She said in a stammering voice, “I—I can’t—” Then she put both hands to her face and turned blindly away.
Gilbert instantly took her arm and said what he knew must be said. “Humility! Forgive me—I don’t know what came over me!” He led her down the bridge and continued as she walked blindly down the lane. “I can’t tell you how I regret such behavior! I’ve never treated a young woman in such a fashion in all my life!”
This was true enough, for the young women Gilbert Winslow had kissed in such a fashion had never been let off so lightly, and he had to conceal a quick grin that swept across his features.
He continued apologizing all the way back to the inn; finally she stopped and turned to face him, her composure restored to some degree. Her eyes were still wide and her lips trembling, but she did not appear angry. She was, Gilbert perceived, shaken from her complacency, and he rejoiced to see it. Finally she said, “We were both wrong, Gilbert.”
Gilbert shook his head, “There can be no wrong on your part! I have never known a young woman who has such depth of spirit; I must say the thought that came to me when I first saw you: a woman of virtue and of such beauty is a pearl of great price.”
Humility touched her cheek with one hand, then, confused, turned away from him and went through the doorway, leaving Gilbert standing outside. He stood there for a few moments; then a broad smile flashed across his lips and he said under his breath, “Well, Humility, my dear! Underneath that drab exterior and strict Puritan behavior lurks a tiger! I’m glad to discover it; and it will be my duty as well as my pleasure to tame the beast!” As he followed her into the inn, he knew he had won the game.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE INNER RING
“Oh, Gilbert, I’m so glad you returned in time for my birthday!”
Dorothy Bradford leaned forward, put her hand on Gilbert’s arm, and swept the crowded room with excitement in her eyes. She was wearing a bright green dress full in the sleeves and trimmed with yellow silk. The other women, for the most part, wore bright colors also, and even some of the men were decked out in gay array. Gilbert had been surprised at first, thinking that the Separatists wore only black or dark gray; he soon discovered, however, that the more somber dress was only donned on the Sabbath—and on festive occasions they loved to wear brighter colors.
“My dear Sister Bradford,” Gilbert said with a smile and a nod, “you did not think I would miss it, did you? After all, when a beautiful lady issues an invitation, it becomes, in effect, a royal command!”
Dorothy lowered her eyes, then looked up with a brilliant smile. “Oh, you’re such a flirt, Gilbert! I don’t see how Humility can put up with you!” She slapped his hand playfully, then looked up, saying, “Oh, here come the Tilleys—I must go speak to them.” She turned to leave but paused for one moment to give him an arch look. “And now that Humility’s here, I suppose none of the rest of us will be able to get your attention for one moment!”
Gilbert watched her go to greet the Tilleys, then made his way through the crowd toward where Humility stood. The hot June sun had warmed the Bradford house, and the heat from the packed bodies made a sweltering furnace of the large living room. As he approached Humility, he wiped the sweat from his brow, thinking how quickly he had entered into the life of the little fellowship. Only two weeks had elapsed since the trip to Bargsteen, but he had spent almost every day since in her company. The lifestyle of the Separatists was simple, composed primarily of work and services that lasted all day on Sunday, and from time to time a celebration such as this birthday supper for Dorothy Bradford. He had achieved the distinction of being accepted as Humility’s suitor, so that they were spoken of together often. It was common to hear the phrase, “Gilbert and Humility,” when plans were being made for such events. Pushing his way through the crowd, Gilbert smiled and thought: Almost any time now Mr. Tilley is going to corner me and demand to know what my intentions are! He reached out, took the hand that Humility extended to him, and raised it to his lips, delighted as always with the blush that rose to the girl’s cheek when he made any gesture of affection. Her eyes dropped, and she hesitated as he held her hand a moment longer, then she murmured, “You—you shouldn’t do that, Gilbert. It’s—”
He laughed easily, his white teeth flashing against his ruddy skin, and said, “I can’t think why not! Doesn’t the Scripture say to greet one another with a holy kiss?”
“I’m not sure how holy your greeting is,” Humility responded quickly, but there was a light of pleasure in her wide green eyes.
“Well, I suppose it’s my fate to be forever misunderstood. As the Scriptures say, ‘Man is born to trouble as the sparks fly upward.’ ”He took her by the arm and piloted her through the crowd toward the long table laden with food, saying cheerfully, “You aren’t fasting, I trust? I’m practically starved to death! Let’s try to get something into our stomachs before these gluttons devour it!”
They filled their pewter plates with coldcuts of beef, fish, mutton, and fresh vegetables of a bewildering variety, then found a tiny vacancy in one corner of the room. Sitting down, they ate and enjoyed the noisy hum that ran around the room. Gilbert looked around, thinking again of how mistaken he had been about the habits of the Separatists—not only in the matter of dress but in their character and social habits. Somehow he had formed the idea that all they did was sit around in dark clothes, looking mournful and trying to think of new ways to keep people from enjoying life. He had, however, soon discovered that though they worked terribly hard, when they got together on festive occasions, they put equal energy into that part of their lives. They loved to eat and to fellowship and not only the children, but the adults as well loved games of all kinds—a trait which gave some misgivings to the more sober leaders of the congregation.
He had discovered quickly, too, that the same energy with which they worked and played carried over into their services when they worshiped God. Accustomed as he was to the staid and formalized rituals of the Established Church, Gilbert had been taken aback at the emotional fervor with which the Brownists approached God on the Sabbath. There was a sense of excitement as they sang; he was shocked to find that they actually believed the words of the Psalms they sang with such gusto! He himself had long since failed to relate the words he sang in the services of the Established Church with anything having to do with real life! When he had heard the Green Gate congregation sing Psalm 150 for the first time, enthusiastically singing the words: Praise ye the Lord! Let everything that hath breath praise the Lord! the volume and pitch almost lifted Gilbert out of his seat. And all through the long sermons (which sometimes numbed his brain), an alertness illuminated the eyes of the hearers, and a little refrain of sound echoed the minister’s words: “Amen! Yes, that is true! Bless the Lord!”
Gilbert Winslow’s experience with formal religion had not been of this nature. These people looked forward with anticipation to celebration when they went into the house of God. Most Christians Gilbert had known left church with the feeling, Well, now that’s done—I can get on with the things that really matter! But to the worshipers at the Green Gate, worshiping and serving God seemed to be the things which did matter, and they went through the rest of their duties in order to get to this experience. It somehow made him feel uncomfortable, but try as he might to attribute their fervency to some sort of emotional disorder, when he sat in the service, looked about, and saw the pleasure written on the countenances of the worshipers, he felt himself out of step with some deep reality.
When Gilbert finally took his leave, he said goodbye to Dorothy, leaning forward to whisper in her ear, “Many happy returns, dear lady!” He gave her hand a squeeze, kissed it, then added, “Elder Bradford is a fortunate man indeed to have such a beautiful rose planted in his garden.”
At first a wave of pleasure swept across Dorothy’s face, then a cloud touched her eyes and she shook her head. “Thank you, Gilbert. It is nice to hear such things—though I suppose it’s vanity that makes me like it. I fear that my beauty—such as it is—will not remain long in view of what’s to come.”
“What’s to come?” Gilbert paused, looked down at her, and asked, “What could possibly take the bloom from those cheeks?”
“Why, if we make this terrible journey, if we live through it, there’s little likelihood that neither I nor anyone else will have anything resembling beauty!” A mixture of anger and sorrow drew her lips down and she shook
her head, adding, “Don’t mind me, Gilbert. I know it must be done.”
Gilbert wanted to press her, for this attitude was unusual. He suspected it had something to do with the proposed journey to the New World, and it was imperative that he find out anything he could about such a project. But he could not talk with the crowd around, so he took his leave from Dorothy, bade goodbye to Elder Bradford, arranged to meet Humility the next day for a walk, and left the house. Making his way along the cobblestone streets that twisted and wound through the city, he was greeted by a smallish boy on a path beside one of the canals. “Mr. Winslow, I’ve been waiting for you!”
“Oh, it’s you, is it, Tink?” He looked down at the boy, fourteen years old and undersized. The boy had tow-colored hair that shot off in all directions almost covering a pair of jutting ears, and bright blue eyes. He had a large purplish birthmark on his right cheek that marred his face and ran down onto his neck. Despite the smile in his face, there was something vulnerable about the lad.
During the long afternoons with nothing else to do, Gilbert had taken Tink strolling along the canals, catching the small, silver-scaled fish. The boy, who had been painfully shy at first, had opened up in the warmth of Gilbert’s attention, and Gilbert had the impression that Tink communicated more with him than with anyone else, for he seldom saw him with the other young people his own age.
Now as Gilbert put his hand on Tink’s shoulder and they walked toward the canal to find a favorite spot, Gilbert said, “Well, how was it today, Tink?”
The Honorable Imposter (House of Winslow Book #1) Page 7