Kit admired the fine perfect thread that slipped evenly through Hannah's fingers. "It's beautiful," she said. "Even Mercy can't spin it like that."
Hannah looked pleased as a child. "Fourpence a skein," she said. "Enough to pay the taxes and buy what I need."
"Taxes? On this swamp land?" Kit was indignant.
"Of course," Hannah said matter-of-factly, "and the fines for not going to Meeting."
"They make you pay fines for that? Wouldn't it be better to go to Meeting instead?" Kit looked around at the much mended clothing and the sparse furnishings of the little room.
"I doubt they would welcome me," Hannah said, again dryly, "even if I chose to go. In Massachusetts we Quakers had our own meetings."
"Can I become a Quaker?" asked Kit, only half joking. "I'd rather pay a fine any day than go to Meeting."
Hannah chuckled. "Thee doesn't become a Quaker just to escape the Meeting," she said, and Kit flushed at the gentle reproof in her tone.
"How does one become a Quaker?" she asked seriously. "I wish I knew something about it, Hannah."
The old woman was silent for a moment. Before she could answer, a shadow fell across the sunlight. A tall figure filled the doorway. Kit started. For an instant she thought that Hannah actually had conjured up a vision. There, unbelievably, was Nathaniel Eaton, the captain's son, leaning easily against the doorpost, with that well-remembered mocking smile in his blue eyes.
"I might have known," he said, "that you two would find each other."
Hannah's face crinkled up with pleasure. "I knew thee would come today," she triumphed. "I saw the Dolphin pass Wright's Island this morning. Kit, my dear, this is the seafaring friend I told thee about."
Nat made a bow. "Mistress Tyler and I are already acquainted," he acknowledged. He tried to set down, without anyone's noticing, the small barrel he carried under one arm, but Kit's glance was quick. A keg of fine Barbados molasses. So it was not just coral trinkets and flower bulbs that this seafaring friend of Hannah's brought from afar! Hannah caught the action, too.
"Bless thee, Nat," she said quietly. "Now sit down and tell us where thee has been this time."
"Charlestown," he answered, settling on an upturned barrel. Instantly the cat slid from Kit's lap and with a loud "R-rr-iouw" leaped into Nat's and circled contentedly. Nat winced as her claws dug rapturously into his coarse homespun trousers.
Hannah made fast the thread and sat with idle hands, her eyes never leaving the young sailor's face. "And thy father?"
"He is well and sends you his greetings."
"I've been listening for a breeze every morning, just thinking thee might be coming up the river. I said to Thomas just yesterday, 'Tom,' I said, Tm going to save the last of these berries, just in case the Dolphin comes soon.' He'll be pleased when I tell him you've been here."
Kit's breath caught suddenly in her throat. Hannah had spoken as though her husband, so many years dead, were still here in the little house. A cloud had passed across the old woman's eyes, a vagueness that Kit had noticed there before. Kit turned a troubled look to Nat. He seemed not to have noticed anything amiss, but very casually he reached out his hand and covered Hannah's worn fingers with his own.
"Has the old she-goat had her kids yet?" he asked easily. "Don't tell me you've sold them before I could see them."
The vagueness was gone as suddenly as it had come. "I had to, Nat," Hannah said regretfully. "They were getting into the cornfield. They brought a good price—two hanks of wool for a new cape."
Nat leaned back now and surveyed Kit with frank interest. She had forgotten the intense blue of his eyes, like the sea itself.
"Tell me," he asked her, "how did they ever let you find your way to Hannah?"
Kit hesitated, and Hannah chuckled. "How did thee find a way here?" she demanded of him. "'Tis a strange thing, that the only friends I have I found in the same way, lying flat in the meadows, crying as though their hearts would break."
The two young people stared at each other. "You?" breathed Kit incredulously.
Nat laughed. "I'll have you know that I was only eight years old," he explained.
"Were you running away?"
"I certainly was. We were on the way down river, and my father had just told me he was leaving me at Saybrook to spend the winter with my grandmother and go to school. It seemed like the end of the world. I had never lived anywhere but the Dolphin, and it had never occurred to me that anyone but my father would teach me. I'd never in my life seen anything like the meadows. They went on and on, and all at once 1 was hungry and thoroughly lost and scared. Hannah found me and brought me here and washed the scratches on my legs. She even gave me a kitten to take back with me."
"A little gray tiger," Hannah remembered.
"That cat was our lucky piece for six years. Not one of the men would have weighed anchor without her."
Kit was entranced. "I can just see you," she laughed. "Did Hannah give you blueberry cake, too?"
"Right here at the table," nodded Hannah. "I'd forgotten how a little boy could eat."
Nat reached again to cover her hand with his own. "Hannah's magic cure for every ill," he teased. "Blueberry cake and a kitten."
"Did you go back to school?" questioned Kit.
"Yes. Hannah walked back to the ship with me, and somehow I felt bold as a lion. I didn't even mind the thrashing that was waiting for me."
"I know," said Kit, remembering the walk up to Mr. Kimberley's door.
"And now thee can both have supper with me again," said Hannah, delighted as a child at the prospect of a party. But Kit jumped to her feet with a guilty glance at the sun.
"Oh, dear," she exclaimed. "I didn't realize it was time for supper."
Hannah smiled up at her. "God go with thee, child," she said softly. She did not need to say more. They both knew that Kit would come back.
Nat followed her to the door. "You didn't say what you were running away from," he reminded her. "Has it gone so badly here in Wethersfield?"
She might have told him, but looking up she caught a hint of "I told you so" in those blue eyes that silenced her. Was Nat laughing at her for behaving like an eight-year-old? Her head went up.
"Certainly not," she said with dignity. "My aunt and uncle have been very kind."
"And you've managed to stay out of the water?"
That superior tone of his! "As a matter of fact," she told him haughtily, "I am a teacher in the dame school."
Nat swept her a bow. "Fancy that!" he said. "A schoolmistress!" Instantly she wished she had not said it.
But as Nat followed her into the road, his mocking tone changed. "Whatever it was," he said seriously, "I'm glad you ran to Hannah. She needs you. Keep an eye on her, won't you?"
What a contradictory person he was, she thought, hurrying along South Road. Always putting her at a disadvantage somehow, and yet, now and then, surprising her, letting her peek through a door that always seemed to slam shut again before she could actually see inside. She would never know what to expect next from him.
CHAPTER 11
MIDSUMMER HEAT lay heavily upon the Connecticut Valley. The bare feet of the children were covered with fine dry dust from the road. Inside the kitchen the small bodies squirmed on the hard benches, and eyes strayed from the primers to gaze through the door at the forbidden sunshine. Kit felt as restless as her pupils.
If only I could be like Mercy, Kit thought. When her own voice rose in exasperation she was ashamed, remembering Mercy's unfailing patience. Watching Mercy this morning, she thought again, soberly, of the words that Mercy had spoken earlier in the summer. There had been a rare afternoon when Judith had invited Kit to go with some other girls of the town to pick flowers and picnic along the shore of the river. At the last moment Kit had turned back to Mercy and cried impulsively, "Oh, if only you could go, too, Mercy! How can you bear it, always staying behind?"
And Mercy had answered serenely, "Oh, I settled that a long time ago. I remember it
very well. Father had carried me to the doorstep, and I sat there watching the children playing a game in the road. I thought of all the things I would never be able to do. And then I thought about the things that I could do. Since then I've just never thought much about it."
Teaching the children was certainly something that Mercy could do, with love and skill. And yet, Kit often wondered, what was it worth, all this work to master their letters? She herself had been eager to learn, scarcely able to wait to open the wonderful volumes in Grandfather's library. But most of these children would never even imagine the adventure that words could mean. Here in New England books contained only a dreary collection of sermons, or at most some pious religious poetry.
Sighing, Kit glanced over the docilely bent heads of her charges toward the open doorway, and as she did so a sudden motion caught her attention. She moved quickly.
I'm sure someone is out there again, she thought. Today I'm going to find out.
Yes, for the third time a little bunch of flowers, buttercups and wild geraniums, lay on the doorstep. As she bent to pick them up she was certain that a shadowy figure slipped behind a tree. Curiosity made her forget her pupils, and stepping into the road she saw the small figure plainly and recognized Prudence Cruff.
"Prudence," she called. "Don't run away. Is it you who left the flowers?"
The child came slowly from behind the tree. She was thinner than ever, clad in a shapeless sacklike affair tied about her middle. Her eyes, much too big for her pinched little face, gazed at Kit with longing. She reminded Kit of a young fawn that had wandered near the house one morning. It had drawn nearer just like this, quivering with eagerness at the food Mercy set out, yet tensed to spring at the slightest warning.
"Who are the flowers for, Prudence?"
"You." The child's voice was nothing but a hoarse whisper.
"Thank you. They're lovely. But why don't you come into the school with the others?"
"I'm too big," stammered Prudence.
"You mean you know how to read already?"
"Naw. Pa wanted me to go to school, but Ma says I'm too stupid."
"You don't really believe that, do you Prudence?"
A bare toe dug into the dirt of the roadway. "I dunno. I can hear you when the door is open. I bet I could learn as good as them."
"Of course you could, and you ought to. Why don't you come in with me right now, and see how easy it is?"
Prudence shook her head violently. "Somebody'd tell on me."
"What if they did?"
"Ma'd cane me. I'm not s'posed to speak to you."
Remembering Goodwife Cruff's hard thin mouth, Kit did not urge. "Prudence," she suggested instead, "you could learn to read by yourself if you really wanted to."
"I haven't any horn."
Kit remembered something. "Is there a place where you could meet me where no one would tell on you?" she asked. "Can you get to the Meadows?"
Prudence nodded. "Nobody cares where I go, just so's I get the work done," she said.
"Then if you'll try to meet me there this afternoon, I'll bring you a hornbook and I'll teach you to read some of it. Will you come?"
"If I get finished—" Prudence breathed.
"You know the path that leads from South Road over to Blackbird Pond?"
Prudence gulped. "The witch lives down there!"
"Don't be silly! She's a gentle old woman who wouldn't harm a field mouse. Anyway, you don't need to go that far. There's a big willow tree just down the path. I'll wait for you there. Will you try?"
The struggle behind those round eyes hurt to watch. "Maybe," whispered Prudence, and then she turned and ran.
Kit walked slowly back into the schoolroom. What excuse could she make to get into her trunks today? At the bottom of one of them, she had remembered, was a little hornbook. It had been a present, brought from England by friends of her grandfather's. It was backed by silver filigree, underlaid with red satin, and it had a small silver handle. She had never really used it; she remembered how she had astonished the visitors by reading every letter straight off, but she had cherished the gift for its delicate craftsmanship.
What a pity every child couldn't learn to read under a willow tree, Kit thought a week later. She and Prudence sat on a cool grassy carpet. A pale green curtain of branches just brushed the grasses and threw a filigree of shadows, as delicate as the wrought silver, on the child's face. This was the third lesson. At first Prudence had been speechless. In all her short life the child had seldom seen, and certainly never held in her hands, anything so lovely as the exquisite little silver hornbook. For long moments she had been too dazed to realize that the tiny alphabet fastened to it was made up of the same as and b's and ab's that she had overheard through the school doorway. But now, by this third meeting, she was drinking in the precious letters so speedily that Kit knew she must soon find a primer as well.
"'Tis getting late. Prudence. I don't want you to get into trouble, and I must go back, too."
The child sighed and held out the hornbook obediently.
"That is yours, Prudence. I meant it for a present for you."
"She'd never let me have it," the little girl said regretfully. "You'll have to keep it for me."
Kit made a decision. She had been wanting an excuse to take Prudence to Hannah. She had a feeling that the child needed that comforting refuge even more than she did herself.
"I know what we'll do," she suggested. "We'll leave the book here with Hannah. Then any time you want to use it you can come and get it from her."
Terror blanched the child's face.
"Prudence, listen to me. You're afraid of Hannah because you don't know her, and because you've heard things that just aren't true."
"She'll cut off my nose if I go near her!"
Kit laughed, then took the child's hands in her own and spoke as earnestly as she knew how. "You trust me, don't you?"
The small head nodded solemnly.
"Then come with me and see for yourself. I promise you, on my honor, nothing will hurt you."
The bony hand in hers was trembling as they walked down the grassy path, but Prudence stepped resolutely beside her. Kit's heart ached suddenly with pity and gratitude at such trust.
"I've brought another rebel to visit you," she announced, as Hannah came to the door. Hannah's pale eyes twinkled.
"What a wonderful day!" she exclaimed. "Four new kittens, and now visitors! Come and see."
Under a corner of the cabin, on a pile of soft grass, the great yellow cat curled protectively around four tiny balls of fluff. Her topaz eyes glowed up at them, and her purr was boastful. Completely disarmed, Prudence went down on her knees.
"Oh, the dear little things," she whispered, reaching one reverent finger. "Two black ones, and one striped and one yellow one." Over her head Kit and Hannah smiled.
"If thee is very, very careful, thee can pick one up and hold it," Hannah told her.
With a black kitten cradled in her hands, Prudence watched them find a safe corner for the hornbook.
"Thee is welcome any time, child. I'll keep it safe for thee. Now show me what thee has learned today. What letter is this?"
In the clean white sand on the floor Hannah traced a careful B. Looking at Prudence, Kit held her breath. But there was no trace of fear in those fawnlike eyes as Hannah held out the stick. Boldly Prudence reached to take it in her own hand, and carefully and proudly she traced the lines herself.
"I believe there must be a morsel of blueberry cake for such a smart pupil," praised Hannah.
The morsel of cake vanished in a twinkling. "Hannah's magic cure for every ill," Nat had said. "Blueberry cake and a kitten." Kit smiled to see it working its charm on Prudence. But there was an invisible ingredient that made the cure unfailing. The Bible name for it was love.
"Why do they say she's a witch?" Prudence demanded, as the two walked slowly back along the path.
"Because they have never tried to get to know her. People are af
raid of things they don't understand. You won't be afraid of her now, will you? You will go to see her when you can, even if I'm not there?"
The child considered. "Yes," she said finally. "I'm going back first chance I get. Not just because the horn is there. I think Hannah is lonesome. Of course, she has the cat to talk to, but don't you think sometime she must want somebody to answer back?"
Watching Prudence scurry off toward home, Kit had a moment's misgiving. As always, she had acted on impulse, never stopping to weigh the consequences. Now, too late, she began to wonder. Had it been fair to draw Prudence into her secret world? She felt completely justified in deceiving her aunt and uncle; they were narrow-minded and mistaken. But the thought of Goodwife Cruff made her shudder. Yet Prudence had looked so miserable. She needed a friend. For a few hours those wary anxious eyes had been filled with shining trust and happiness. Wasn't that worth a little risk? Kit shook off her qualms and set her own face towards home and another dull evening.
William could talk of nothing but his house these days. Every evening he must report exactly which trees had been cut, which boards fashioned. Today, he reported, as the family moved inside to escape the twilight mist that rose from the river, he had overseen the carpenter who was splitting the white oak for the clapboards.
"I don't think I made any mistake in deciding on riven oak," he told them. "Of course, two shillings a day is high for a carpenter, but—"
Sometimes Kit wanted to stop her ears. Would she have to hear the price of every nail that went into those boards, and every single nail the finest that money could buy? She was tired of the house already before the first board was in place.
Judith, however, took a lively interest in such details. She had a flair for line and form and a definite mind of her own, and it was plain, to Kit at least, that as William planned his house Judith was comparing it, timber for timber, with the house she dreamed for herself. Her purpose was only too apparent as she made adroit attempts to draw John Holbrook into the discussion.
"I think you should have one of those new roofs, William," she said now. "Gambrel, they call them. Like the new house on the road to Hartford. I think they look so distinguished, don't you, John?"
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