by Anya Seton
"Very well! Damme!" cried Thomas. He yanked the letter from under his shirt. "I'll read it to you!"
"I will read it, Goodman," said Mr. Lawe, holding out his hand. Thomas surrendered his letter with ill grace.
The magistrate glanced at the signature, and nodded. "'Tis Winthrop's indeed, and 'tis dated from Boston three weeks ago. It says 'Dear grandson Lyon. Your letters went unanswered because of the severe affliction God has sent me in the loss of my beloved helpmeet ...'"
Elizabeth gave a strangled gasp. "It can't be," she cried wildly. "He can't mean my Aunt Margaret!"
Mr. Lawe glanced up at her. "I'm afraid that's the meaning, Mrs. Hallet, 'the loss—of my beloved helpmeet, in the summer sickness we had here ...'"
Elizabeth turned blindly and sank to the settle by the fire; she held her hand against her face to shield it from the curious observers. Margaret is dead, she thought, my dearest mother, the only person who truly loved me in all those years. She knew now that she had thought Margaret would be always waiting, and that someday they would meet again, and she would tell Margaret everything, and bring Will to her for blessing. Mr. Lawe's voice went on, but Elizabeth did not listen.
"'I myself,'" read Mr. Lawe, "'have been disabled with much bodily weakness, and the feebleness of my head and hand deny me liberty to write as I do desire. Lieutenant Baxter coming here to me with salutations from the new Dutch governor has told me somewhat of my daughter Feake's concern. Your letters also raise grave doubts that I know not at present how to answer. I send you what I can for the necessities of my granddaughter Martha Johanna and am sorry to hear there is such need. Mr. Feake has I believe written as you so desired, and is sailing for Old England, being much afflicted. You may tell your mother Feake that her aunt had prayers for her in her last moments ...' "—That," said Mr. Lawe looking up with a frown, "is the letter, nor do I find it quite as I expected."
Nor did Will, who let out a long sigh of relief. It was clear enough to him that Thomas had written his doubts of the marriage to Winthrop, but the old Governor either because of his illness, or because of family loyalty, or possibly from distaste for his importunate grandson-in-law had maintained an admirable discretion. Bess was right to have made them read the letter, Will thought, looking at her averted face with sympathy, knowing how much Margaret Winthrop had meant to her.
"I can't see what that there letter proves, Thomas!" said Goodman Crab with a disgusted shrug, "except you've been plaguing Mr. Winthrop to give you something and made yourself out to be in desperate straits, as I've never seen signs of meself. And it's brought bad news to Mrs. Hallet, and I say we'd all best go and leave her to her grief."
The Greenwich folk murmured agreement, and Mr. Lawe stood up nodding.
"Hold on, sir—" said Thomas to him sharply. "The case isn't altered. However come by, my father Feake's wishes are plain put in writing, which our minister has got. You and me and Mr. Bishop came here tonight to restrain Hallet from further use of the property, and to take it into our hands. There's the money in the lean-to chest we must have too, or if that fellow's spent it he must make restitution. Over eighty pounds it was my father left behind."
"That's true," said Mr. Bishop, recapturing his earlier certainty. "Give them the injunction, Lawe, as you had it ready!"
Will would have spoken then, but Crab saved him the trouble. "Bah!" said the Goodman spitting into the fire. "Ye Stamford men can yammer injunctions and restraints an' what ye will, but your wits have gone as addled as Mr. Feake's if ye think it'll profit ye any! Have ye forgot this is New Netherland? Ye've no more say this side o' Totomack Creek than ye have in Spain, and we'll all thank ye very kindly to go home again!"
"Bravo!" cried Will, laughing outright at the minister's expression, while Thomas Lyon sent Will a look of hatred.
Mr. Lawe walked over to his colleague, and spoke to him in a low tone. "I'm afraid that what the goodman says is true, Bishop. I always knew there was a flaw in this procedure, if it occurred to them to find it. There's nothing we can do at present."
"Aha!" cried Crab, who had cupped his ear to listen. He winked jubilantly at Will, then grinned at the Greenwich folk who had all begun to chuckle and murmur amongst themselves.
The Stamford men grimly went away. As Thomas slammed the door behind him he called out in a voice trembling with fury, "You needn't think this is the end, William Hallet! I know a thing or two will make you sing a different tune, and I know how to go about it now!"
Except for Will, the company all jeered, and Crab cried, "Hark at him squealing like a snared coney, and just about as fearsome!"
But Will was not so sure this was an empty threat, though he said nothing disturbing to Elizabeth, and comforted her while she grieved bitterly that night for Margaret.
The snows fell thick and heavy that winter, and it was early March before Thomas could put his new scheme into action.
Will and Elizabeth enjoyed the quiet shut-in months, wherein they felt increasingly secure. Nobody molested them, they had no news from the world beyond their coves. From time to time they saw a neighbor when the trails were passable, and they made one or two land sales—of a salt meadow to John Coe; of an upland strip which Angell wanted to round out his holdings. Will made enjoyable plans for investing the proceeds in more livestock and in tools and household goods to be bought at New Amsterdam in the spring.
In January, Elizabeth discovered that she was with child, and was delighted. Will could not at first prevent dismay. Deeply as he had buried the consciousness of it, he was not always able to forget their ambiguous position, also he had horrified memories of her last agonizing childbirth. She however had neither fear nor misgivings, she welcomed this natural proof of their love, and bloomed at once—as she had in every pregnancy but the last—into heightened well-being and increased beauty.
"It will be a boy," she said confidently. "Another William Hallet, and you will dote on him, my darling, so much that I'll be jealous."
"I shall be jealous of the little knave," said Will laughing. "And it's you who dotes on babies—they frighten me." But he found that the thought of fatherhood grew deeply pleasing to him, and he secretly made plans, and worked harder than ever so that his child might not be ashamed by smallness of estate compared to the Feake children.
Their peaceful lives were shattered without the slightest warning, on a particularly beautiful early April day, when clouds were scudding across a brilliant blue sky, and the daffodils and English violets were blooming in Elizabeth's garden.
Anneke had strolled down the muddy path to visit with Elizabeth, who was working at herb-planting with the two girls. Will was repairing his plough in the barnyard, and could be heard whistling. A cheerful sound which contributed to Elizabeth's content. She loved to know that he was near.
"When's Toby going to sail again?" asked Elizabeth of Anneke, who settled herself with a comfortable sigh on the bench Will had carved, and which he had moved from his own property to Elizabeth's garden.
Anneke started her knitting, and said, "In a few days, not a long voyage this time. Only to Virginia for tobacco."
They both glanced down the cove towards Toby's sloop which rode at anchor near Green Island. He had with unexpected sentiment named his new vessel the Ben Palmer in memory of the lad Mianos had killed. Toby had a crew of three now, and the women could see him standing on the cargo hatch and directing the placing of the ballast.
"There's another ship, behind," said Anneke in surprise. "She's coming in the cove, vat could she vant?"
Elizabeth and the girls stood up, staring curiously. "'Tis a Government pinnace," said Elizabeth, seeing below the Dutch flag the fluttering colors of the West India Company. "Thank God," she added, "'tis not yachts full of soldiers come to massacre our Indians! That cannot happen again."
"Nay," said Anneke, ceasing to knit as she was also caught by bitter memory. "Those bad times are gone. 'Tis some new shipping rule, perhaps?" she added as the Dutch pinnace dropped anchor near
the Ben Palmer and the captain waved over the water to Toby.
"But there are soldiers," said Elizabeth with a puzzled frown, seeing the sickeningly familiar glint of helmets and cuirasses as a dozen men climbed down the ladder into the pinnace's longboat. She went to the corner of the house. "Will!" she called. "Come here, dear!" But though disquieted, she had no premonition of disaster.
Will, however, did have—when he had come running from the barnyard. As he walked down to their little landing and waited for the longboat to arrive, he thought, This is it. It has come. He stood stiffly waiting, while Sergeant Pieter Cock jumped ashore. "Mistress Feake here?" he asked of Will, whom he had never seen before.
Elizabeth came forward walking slowly. "Good day," she said, staring at the stolid bearded Dutch face beneath the helmet. "Aren't you the officer who came here with Lieutenant Baxter four years ago?"
"Ja," said Sergeant Cock, unsmiling. "My English not good. I have letter from Mynheer Baxter, also proclamation from the Director-General."
"Will!" Elizabeth cried. "Will, 'tis the permit, at last. Baxter's got it!"
"Hush, hinnie," he said. "I'm afraid not." He put his arm around her. "You must be brave." He knew that it did not take a force of soldiers to deliver a marriage license.
"We go into house," stated the Sergeant. And led the way, after motioning his soldiers to follow behind Elizabeth and Will.
"What is the meaning of this, Vandrager Cock!" cried Anneke in Dutch, seeing with stupefaction that the marching procession looked very much as though the Mallets were being arrested.
"You will soon know, Mevrouw," said the Sergeant. "Since you are Dutch, you can translate the document for them better than I."
"Best stay outside, lasses," said Will quietly to the two girls, who were staring with round frightened eyes.
Cock motioned again to his soldiers who encircled the house, standing on guard, their muskets resting on the ground.
"Mynheer Baxter's letter," said the Sergeant when they were in the parlor.
It was not a letter but a hurried note. Elizabeth and Will bent over it together. "I regret this profoundly, and have done what I could to alleviate it. But Gov. S. could do no less in view of Thos. Lyon's and the pastor's representations here. 'Tis very serious. You must obey.—G.B."
Elizabeth licked her lips, and grabbed Will's hand which was cold and wet. The Sergeant glanced at them both indifferently.
"You will translate, Mevrouw," he said to Anneke, handing her a parchment adorned with a huge red seal. Anneke bent her head and glanced at the document. She stared, her jaw dropped. "God allemachtig!" she cried, staring at Elizabeth. "O hemel! Vat is this! I can't say these things."
"Read it, Mevrouw," said the Sergeant sternly. "I command you to."
Anneke bent her head again and haltingly, her lips trembling, she translated the document.
"Whereas Elizabeth Feake has for adultery been legally separated from her former husband, Robert Feake, before our arrival, by the preceding Director General and Council, and since that time continued to ... cohabit and keep company with her cope-mate and adulterer in a carnal manner as the witnesses declare, contrary to all good laws and our published order..."
Anneke's voice broke. "Bess, Bess—" she said. "But you are married to Villiam, here is some fearful error."
"Not precisely married," said Will with stony calm. "They wouldn't suffer us to be. We made our private vows."
"Continue, Mevrouw," said the Sergeant stridently.
Anneke obeyed in a thickening voice.
"And endeavored with him to ... sell ... the lands, cattle, furniture and other property of her former husband Robert Feake ... whereby the children finally impoverished would become a charge either of the Company, or on this Commonalty. This can not be suffered or tolerated in a good well regulated government. Therefore we do hereby, as well for the maintenance of justice as protection of still minor children, fatherless orphans, declare the above named Elizabeth Feake unqualified and incapable of disposing, or ... selling any property whether of her former husband or belonging to the children:"
"But this is nonsense!" snapped Anneke in Dutch, her sense of justice overcoming the shock of the Hallets' deception. "The children never had a true father until Mr. Hallet came, and he has much improved their property."
Cock shrugged. "That paper has nothing to do with me, except to enforce it."
"Go on, Anneke," said Will. "Let's get it over."
"And though deserving of much severer castigation and punishment, yet through special favor & for private reasons ... we consent to her ... residing at Greenwich, within our government with the children, under such Curators as ... we have appointed ... or may appoint, to be supported out of funds that have been left—but this, on the condition that she remain herself apart from him on pain of bodily punishment ..."
"By God!" cried Will, the blood rushing into his head. "What does the scoundrel mean by that!"
"Flogging. Branding. Gaol. No doubt the ears cut off—" answered Cock with a certain relish. "Since ve have the new governor, ve do like English colonies. The rest—" he added, pointing to the document, "is for you, Hallet."
Anneke's voice was hardly audible as she read the last portion of the document.
"We do hereby sentence and condemn William Hallet, the adulterer to remain banished out of this our jurisdiction ... and government and to depart therefrom within one month from date, nor molest or trouble anyone within our government on pain of corporal punishment; furthermore condemning his pretended property to be forfeit ... Thus done in Council, in Fort Amsterdam in New Netherland, the 9th of March, 1648."
Anneke put the parchment on the table. The Sergeant sat down—now that the official aspect had been discharged—crossed his legs and fumbled in his pouch for his pipe.
"Banished," said Will in what might have been a calmly amused manner except for the look in his gray eyes. "Banished from Bess, on pain of bodily punishment. My property all forfeit, hers given to curators. I should say that Thomas Lyon and the Reverend Mr. Bishop had had excellent success at last."
"It can't really be like that," said Elizabeth in a puzzled voice. Her mind seemed to have detached itself while Anneke was reading. The words conveyed very little, and seemed to refer to other people. The faces of Will, Anneke and the Sergeant swelled and shimmered as though she looked at them through water.
Cock spoke in Dutch to Anneke, who raised her head and said woodenly, "He says to start making your plans, Villiam. There's not much time, and the soldiers stay here until you go."
"It said a month!" he cried. "You read a month!"
"Month from this—" said the Sergeant putting his dirty forefinger on the date, "'March 9,' there vere delays, you have six days now."
"Bess," cried Will, sweat breaking out on his forehead. "Come upstairs, I've got to speak to you alone. My God, I don't know what we're going to do."
"You cannot speak with her alone, no more," said the Sergeant calmly, sucking on his pipe. "There must be no more 'overspel'—adultery, if she remains in Greenwich."
Elizabeth's daze shattered as she saw the terrible look on Will's face. She felt his muscles tense and knew that he was about to spring at the Sergeant, who was also watching, and raised his voice sharply. "Cornelis!" he called.
Tire guard at the door rushed in, his pistol cocked.
"But I'm not going to remain in Greenwich," Elizabeth said quite gently. "Do you think I would let Will go away from me?"
"Vere could you go, Bess?" said Anneke. "Vere could you go, vith nothing. They vill not let you take anything. O hemel!" she raised the half-knitted sock which had lain in her lap, and wiped her eyes.
"I don't know where we'll go," said Elizabeth. "I can't think yet. But wait—aye—perhaps I can."
Will stared at her without hope. He thought her distracted with the shock and himself saw nothing but ruin and despair ahead.
The Sergeant too stared at Elizabeth, a slight smile on his bearded li
ps. The Director-General would not be displeased if the foolish woman decided to follow her paramour out of New Netherland, thus leaving all her estate under the Dutch government's jurisdiction. This is a fine place, the Sergeant thought, big house and barns, in good condition. It occurred to him that it would make a splendid bouwerie for himself, he might get it as a grant, since the Director-General had indicated that he wished there were loyal Dutch patriots living on this troublesome frontier instead of the disorderly English.
"Tell her if she goes," Cock said in Dutch to Anneke, "that she may take some household goods and a cow or two, this I say on my own authority, I would not seem too severe."
A cow or two, thought Will. He stared at the floor that he might not look towards the barns and granary, the cow byre, bull pen, and the sheepfold where all the ewes would soon be lambing. He thought of the south field where he had meant to plow this afternoon. Of the fields already planted, and awash with green. Of the plans he had made for the buying trip to New Amsterdam.
"Bess, you can't leave all this," he said hoarsely. "You can hire Danny or someone to help you. I can't have you destitute because of me."
She shook her head. "What good is anything without you?—Anneke, we must get Toby at once. Signal him to come in."
"Ja, but vat can Toby do, my poor Bess?" said Anneke.
"He must go to Pequot—and to Jack," she added in a whisper.
"To your cousin John Winthrop?" said Will appalled.
"To my brother John," she said, her eyes wide and strained, seeing backwards through the years to a scene in the Governor's house in Boston, and beyond to a brown beach at Sandwich, and a London garden.
She walked rapidly from the parlor, and went upstairs to their bedchamber. She opened her bride chest and pushed back the laces and the piles of linen until on the bottom she found Jack's glove. She stared at it, and rubbed off a spot of mildew on the embroidered running hare. Then she sat down and wrote a note. She put the glove and the note in a little canvas bag and came downstairs again.