by Anya Seton
Will stared up at the great tester. "I'm going to Watertown, Bess. Tomorrow. We must find out the truth. From now on we'll never again hide our heads in the sand, and live with deceit and evasion. And if injustice has been done to Robert, we must rectify it."
"Oh, don't go—" she cried. "Will, don't leave me here, wondering and fearing, how do you know you'll be safe up there?—or what Thomas has done now! God, how I loathe that man! I hope you kill him, if you meet him—nay, I don't mean that but I hope God strikes him dead, or the Devil who is certainly his master—and as for Robert—oh WHY did he come back!"
"Hush, hinnie!" said Will sharply. "You've more sense than this. Hatred of Thomas Lyon'll do no good. Nor yet a wish that Robert should disappear forever. He hasn't. You must pray as I have that the right course will be shown us. Have faith."
"Faith in what?" she said, turning away from him on the bed.
"In decency and kindness, then," he said with a curt laugh. "If you can think of no loftier objects. Nor am I sure that I can."
Her passionate tears and turmoil checked themselves. She sighed hard, then she lay back quietly on the pillow. "The old fairy tales—" she said at length in a controlled voice, "I remember those my nurse would tell—'and so then, Miss Bessie, the prince married the princess, wi' the castle bells a ding-donging fur joy—'n they lived happy ever arter'—she believed it and I believed it, yet we'd only to look about us to see differently."
When Will left next day by horse for Watertown, he carried with him all the cash they had on hand, also the silver ladle and the gold chain Robert had given Elizabeth as bridal gifts.
The journey took a week, and presented no dangers, beyond the routine ones of swollen fords, drenching rains, and a temporary lameness of the horse. The long trail was well worn now, and easy to follow.
Will avoided Boston and rode directly to Watertown. He crossed the Charles by the Mill Bridge, and after inquiries, went to the parsonage, as being always a font of information.
The Reverend George Phillips had long since died, and the Reverend John Sherman had succeeded him. Mr. Sherman was at home, working on a sermon. He received Will cordially, and with no recognition of his name.
"Sit down, sir, sit down," said Mr. Sherman who was square, bristle-haired and bright-eyed, rather like a benevolent woodchuck. "What can I do for you, you've traveled from New Netherland, you say? My, my—a long journey."
"And a worrisome one," said Will. "I've come to see Mr. Feake, Robert Feake. He's here, isn't he?"
The minister's smile faded. "Oh dear, yes—he's here, poor creature. 'Tis very sad. Silly, you know—mad as a March hare, though harmless. Are you a relation?"
"In a manner of speaking," said Will. "I'd like to see him, and also to be sure that he wants for nothing."
"Excellent," said the minister, looking relieved. "There's been another kin of Mr. Feake's here recently, a boisterous man called Goodman Lyon, had some long-winded tale of rights and property of Feake's, and a wicked wife—a Winthrop she was once, and lived here too before my time. Left in a hurry ten years ago, the Feakes did. But Simon Stone, our bead selectman, he doesn't want that talked about. Thinks the town did very wrong by the Feakes, that's why he's arranged to keep poor Mr. Feake now—since he wants to stay here. At least he seems to from his babblings. But I fear he'll be a town charge."
"That he won't, sir," said Will. "That's why I've come."
The minister rose with a kindly smile. "I'll direct you to Mr. Stone, he knows far more about this matter than I."
Will made bis errand known to Simon Stone, who examined him gravely for some minutes, and being a man quite capable of making up his own mind and a shrewd judge of character, Stone thereupon discounted all that Thomas Lyon had told him. His decision was strengthened when it appeared that Mr. Hallet was determined to see that Feake had immediate support, especially as Lyon had done nothing for Feake except badger him and force him to write letters.
"Come with me, now—" said Stone, "and we'll see Mr. Feake. We've put him temporarily in the home of Samuel Thatcher, who has an extra room, and will doubtless continue to take charge of him if adequately paid."
They walked down Bank Lane and passed a handsome house upon the riverfront. "That's where the Feakes lived when they were here," said Stone, "belongs to the Rainsboroughs now. Samuel Thatcher's place is the next beyond."
Will glanced up at the house which had sheltered Elizabeth so long, seeing with a pang that it was a much finer place than the one they had at Greenwich. "Mr. Feake lives next door to his old home?" he asked.
"Aye," said Stone with pity. "That's why we put him there. He's quieter when he can see his former house. Thinks he's living in it. He seems to have no memory for anything that's happened in his life except at Watertown, but'll say most anything you tell him to."
Will was silent until they reached the Thatchers', and saw Robert sitting on the grass, with a musket in his lap.
"Good Lord!" cried Will involuntarily. "Is that safe, and shouldn't he be confined?"
Mrs. Thatcher came down the steps and heard this, she bowed to Stone and answered Will. "Oh, he's quite safe, poor gentleman. He's very good when he can see his house and the river. And the musket isn't loaded. He likes to think he's cleaning it, in readiness for drilling on the Common. A lieutenant he was, it seems, with a Captain Patrick years ago ... Come now, Mr. Leake!" she said to Robert. "Here's visitors for you."
Robert looked up. He had grown completely bald and very fat. His pink scalp and his pink beardless skin gave him the look of an old baby. He smiled politely, the pale watery eyes resting on Hallet without surprise.
"So you came to see us, after all," Robert said. "Bess'll be so pleased that you didn't sail before you visited us. She's in the house, but she's going to Ipswich tomorrow to see her sister, Martha Winthrop, but you must spend the night with us. Sally—!" he said to Mrs. Thatcher. "Run down the lane and see if Captain Patrick and his wife'll sup here. They're very agreeable folk," he said, turning back to Will. "Our closest friends. I'm sure you'd like to meet them."
"Aye, I would, thank you," said Will hoarsely. His throat tightened, and he looked away.
Robert resumed polishing his musket, and Mr. Stone said in a low voice to Mrs. Thatcher, "Bring us that paper—maybe Mr. Hallet can understand it."
Mrs. Thatcher brought a folded parchment and gave it to Will. It was an affidavit signed in England by the House of Commons. It stated that Robert Feake had been granted full pardon for an unnamed offense.
"I think I know what it means," murmured Will. "He had delusions. Thought he'd committed a crime that he hadn't."
"'Twas all we found in his pocket when he got here," said Mr. Stone. "Not a farthing besides. 'Tis a miracle how he ever got back to Watertown."
"I never left Watertown," said Robert suddenly, with faint reproof. "Why should I leave Watertown?"
"Mr. Feake," said Will abruptly. "Do you know aught about your property in Greenwich?"
"Oh no," said Robert. "A stranger asked me that some—some days past. He wanted me to say 'yes' so I did. One must always be courteous to strangers. Governor Winthrop, my Uncle Winthrop that is, he says so, and 'tis true. A most courteous man, and has taken much notice of me. He comes to visit us often—Bess being bis niece." Robert gave a pleased little laugh.
"I'll get him to his dinner now, sirs," said Mrs. Thatcher. "He's very biddable, but in truth, I don't see how we can keep him longer he has such a good appetite, and I've barely enough to make do with as it is."
"You shall have enough from now on, Mistress," said Will "And may God bless you for your kindness."
When he left Watertown he had deposited thirty pounds with Simon Stone in full payment for all Robert's erstwhile lands in Greenwich, and in case that should not be enough he left the gold chain and the silver ladle. The town was to administer these funds and pay the Thatchers from them. In return Will got a deed and quitclaim from the selectman who shook his hand warmly and thanked
him several times, having learned enough about the case to know that Feake had no legal right to further funds.
Will left the Bay with a far lighter heart, and rode whistling through the splendor of the autumn leaves. Feeling now greater security than when he had journeyed up, he did not avoid the settlements. Ten miles below Hartford he ferried across the Connecticut to Wethersfield, to spend the night there in an ordinary.
Here in the taproom he heard some startling news as he sat on a corner bench, drinking a pint of ale and thinking with pity of Robert, and yet relief that the madness had taken so benign a form, and the man escaped into a span of memory where he was content to be.
Will was jerked to awareness, by a voice saying "Greenwich," then he heard "Stuyvesant" and jumbled exclamations of astonishment and laughter.
What NOW! Will thought, stiffening.
He pulled his wide hat lower over his face, and looked carefully around the smoky low-beamed taproom. There were a dozen men sprawling on the benches, and near the fire, but all of them were strangers.
Will got up and joined three men who sat at a corner of the trestle table. "Your pardon," he said, "but having just come from the Bay, I'm fair bewildered by the things you're saying. Did I understand aright that the Dutch Governor is at Hartford?"
"Oh, indeed," and "To be sure," chorused the men, nodding and chuckling. "A week he's been there."
"What for?" said Will, instinctively addressing a lean man with a crest of sandy red hair, who had an air of quiet authority.
"Why, for the boundary dispute—settle old Peg-Leg's fantastical notion that Holland owns half New England," answered the sandy-haired man.
"And is it settled?"
"Settled indeed, since we're in possession. 'Twas bluster anyway. And a good diddling we gave him! We agreed to call Dutch his moldering old fort on the Connecticut, and in return he moves the boundary west and gives us Greenwich. That's a wee settlement t'other side of Stamford. Has fine lands."
"You ought to know, Jeff!" cried one of the other men, chortling. He turned to Will. "Jeffrey Ferris here, he was first settler in that Greenwich. Named the town, didn't ye, Jeff?"
"Aye," said Ferris. "Still got a plot there. But I left when the largest landholders went to the Dutch and turned patroon. Now I've a mind to go back again since it's English."
"Where is the boundary now?" said Will in a voice he strove to make casual.
"Four miles further west, at a river ye wouldn't know—called Mianus."
So! Will thought, one negligent pen stroke in Hartford, and they lost their home again. His stomach knotted in a spasm of rage. His eyes stung. He clamped his teeth on his lip, and the mug of ale wavered in his hand. The inner shaking ceased gradually as the men went on talking, and he heard Ferris say, in answer to a question, "I don't know what the Greenwich settlers'll do, they've leave to stay o' course if they want to, being Englishmen, but I'd like to pick up some acreage if I can."
Will bided his time until the curfew hom blew at nine, and the barmaid yelled out the sums that were owing. Then as the other men rose, Will said to Ferris, "I'd like a word with you in private."
Ferris grunted, and they moved behind the settle.
"D'you want to buy most of Greenwich?" said Will in a voice so sharp with irony that Ferris stared and backed away. "No, I'm not drunk, nor jesting either," said Will. "I'm William Hallet, my wife Elizabeth and I are those largest landholders you spoke about. It seems that we will have to sell."
Ferris tilted his head and frowned. "Not a likely tale," he said. "Where's Robert Feake and Daniel Patrick?"
"Feake is mad, and I have bought his interest. Patrick is dead. You've heard nothing of this?"
"Nay. I've not been in Stamford for some time." Ferris scratched his chin, watching Will thoughtfully. At length he spoke. "Are you off to Greenwich in the morning?"
Will nodded. "We'll travel together and discuss the matter," said Ferris.
Will arrived home three days later, and he broke this latest development to Elizabeth as well as he could, hiding with brave words, his own discouragement. "And so we're on the move again, hinnie," he said. "I think we must be born beneath the sign of Mercury, naught else would make it so hard to keep a home."
"I never have kept anything for my own," she said, turning her back on him and staring out the window towards the cove. "And, I'll not give up Monakewaygo!"
"You must, darling," he said. "Ferris is willing to buy all our holdings, and we'll need every penny we can get. And what use is that Neck to you? God knows when it'll be safe for you to enter English territory."
She pressed her face against the pane, looking at the dim white line of sands far beyond the mud flats and the shingly isthmus. "Monakewaygo was always mine," she said, "even if I didn't go there. I knew it was waiting."
"There are other places you can buy, be hopeful."
"So Thomas Lyon has won," she said in a strangled voice.
"No, Bess, he hasn't. Your thinking's muddled. He'll get no profit out of this, nor has he actually from any of his efforts. And what is he really, but a meddlesome, greedy, stupid young man? And not all bad either, nobody is. Remember he felt himself defrauded, and that moreover our behavior offended his religious principles, as it did those of many other people."
"I hate him," she said not heeding. "He's stolen my Joan from me, he tried to destroy us."
Will swallowed, looking at her set white face. His Bess was as staunch a hater as she was a lover; dimly he recognized that this one blind unreasoning streak in her might come from long-past injuries as well as more recent ones, and that perhaps something never quite expressed in her relationship to John Winthrop the elder had openly transferred itself to Thomas Lyon. She had cause certainly for both antipathies, but in respect to her son-in-law, she had created an invincible image of shrewd jeering malevolence which did not exist. Will could face it fairly now. His and Elizabeth's past troubles had come largely from their own flouting of the conventions, while this present setback, though it sprang partly from that too, insofar as Bess was forbidden residence in New England, was largely chance—Governor Stuyvesant's impulsive acceptance of an international bargain. Would these reasonings solace her? He glanced at her anxiously and saw that they would not.
"Don't look like that!" he said. "I understand how you feel at giving up everything here that we've struggled so hard to keep. I too was filled with helpless rage when I first heard of this in Wethersfield, but we must be the 'seasoned timber that never gives,' as my old parson advises. There's naught else to do."
She turned and looked at him somberly. "Where are we going this time?"
Will laughed wryly. "To Hell Gate, hinnie! To Hell Gate!"
The hardness and the green glint left her eyes, her hands unclenched. "Ah, that was what you always wanted, wasn't it, Will? For that at least I can be glad."
He sighed. "'Tis not the way I wanted it, and not at all for you, knowing how you love this place."
A wincing and renewed shadow passed across her face. "I doubt that I've the courage to start over again," she said.
"Oh yes, you have." He took her by the shoulders and looked down at her searchingly. "You've endurance and courage beyond the reach of most, as who knows better than I."
She stood stiff and quiet under his hands, gazing past him to the window.
"'Follow my love, come over the strand..."' he said softly.
She turned slowly back to him, and in a moment she met his intent searching look with a shrug and a faint smile. "Aye, my love—needs must," she said bitterly, "over and over again."
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
BY MIDMORNING of September 14, 1655, Elizabeth began to watch for guests to appear on the lane which led to Hallet's Point above the Hell Gate whirlpools. The guests had been invited for a fete to celebrate Hannah Feake's eighteenth birthday.
In the roomy Hallet farmhouse there had been days of preparations, and Elizabeth on this bright morning was tired, but full of satisfacti
on. Ready-dressed in a gown of soft blue taffeta she sat on the sunny bench Will had caned for her long ago in Greenwich. It had been painted white, and placed near the stoop where it overlooked the garden and the lawn. Elizabeth had a proper English lawn now, Will had made it for her, and the boys tended it with enthusiasm because one part was a bowling green, where they were allowed to play skittles whenever the chores were finished. The garden was decorated today in Hannah's honor; there were garlands of pink daisies nailed to the surrounding locust trees, there was a target set up for archery, and since there was to be a special ceremony a little platform bad been built, and two chairs, wound with scarlet streamers, placed upon it.
What wonders they had achieved here in the five years since leaving Greenwich behind, thought Elizabeth, admiring the garden. Her complacent eyes went to a trestle table which was set up in the shade of an elm near the well, and covered with a fine new linen cloth. Lisbet and Hannah ran gaily to and fro the kitchen laying the table for the feast later.
Elizabeth watched them, then turned with a smile as Anneke plumped down beside her on the bench. "Oof—" said Anneke, fanning herself with her apron and loosening the laces of her puce silk bodice. "'Tis good to sit." She had grown very stout of late years, beneath the white cap her neat hair had lost its gold, but her face was still like a rosy apple.
She had driven over in an oxcart from Flushing the day before so as to help with the party. The Toby Feakes had moved to Flushing when the Hallets left Greenwich, and though both were on Long Island and in Dutch territory, six miles separated the families and they did not meet as often as they used to.
"Pretty girls—" Anneke said following Elizabeth's glance. "And your sons handsome too. They take after you!"
"Oh, Anneke," said Elizabeth laughing. "Such flattery, and so early in the day."
"How is it vith Robert?" said Anneke, after a moment. "Do you ever hear?"
"Aye," said Elizabeth. "Now and then we hear from Watertown. He's just the same—eats well and lives entirely in the past, poor soul. Yet they say he's quite content."