Abiding Peace (13 page)

The next morning, Samuel ate his breakfast and prepared to go over to the meetinghouse for an hour or two’s study before Mahalia Ackley’s funeral service. He paused in the doorway with his Bible in his hand and watched Christine place several biscuits and a dish of gruel in a basket. “May I inquire your purpose this morning?” he asked.

She looked up and paused. “I thought to take something to the prisoner.”

Samuel stepped away from the door and stood for a moment, regarding her in confusion.

“Mrs. Heard will prepare something for him to eat, I’m sure. The captain will have set a watch over him. You needn’t trouble yourself on his behalf.”

Christine stood still, her eyes downcast. “Forgive me. I should have asked your permission first. I only want to be sure he is being treated well. It was cooler last night than it has been in many weeks, and I thought he might need a blanket tonight. And I wondered if they let him wash, or whether anyone will tend his wound, which you—” She stopped abruptly and turned away, her hand at her lips.

“Which I caused.” Samuel stepped toward her, acutely aware of his children watching. “Christine, do you think we would let him languish unfed, untreated? I shall go myself to dress his wound after the service if need be, but it was Baldwin’s intention yesterday to fetch the physician back again to tend him and stitch up his arm.”

Her shoulders jerked.

Samuel stepped closer and lowered his voice. “Christine! Think you that I injured him on purpose? He tried to kill me, lass. I struck in self-defense. I regret it turned out this way, but that is what happened. Do you care about this felon so much? Please, do not imagine that I gladly maimed him.”

“You are angry with me.” She turned, and he saw a tear clinging to her lashes.

“Nay. But I shall be if you go to the Heards’. Would you leave the children alone to go and comfort the prisoner the morning we bury his victim?”

She caught her breath. “How can you say that? You forbade John to call him a murderer until such is proven, yet you say it yourself.”

He stared at her. Something twisted in his heart. Could she possibly have formed an ill-advised attachment to the man who bullied her and perhaps strangled her neighbor? “I forbid you to go to him.”

She straightened her shoulders, and her eyes flashed. For an instant he feared she would challenge his right to speak so and go anyway.

Dear God, how have we come to this? Meek Christine defying me! Please, let us not show ill will before the children
.

He swallowed hard and tried to frame a gentle overture, but Christine opened her mouth first. “Very well, sir.” Her posture drooped. She took the food out of the basket and folded the napkin.

He stood unmoving for a moment. The children still watched. The quiet in the room bespoke their attention, and he could feel their stares. He cleared his throat. “Thank you for that. I shall go at once to the garrison and inquire whether the prisoner needs food or medical care.”

Leaving his Bible on the table, he set out with long, purposeful strides.

Christine sent all of the children but Ruth to the river to fill the water buckets. Mr. Dudley did not need Ben’s labor this morning, since all of the villagers would attend the funeral service. Ben would watch John and the girls, and the brief excursion would do them all good.

As soon as they were out the door, she crumpled into the chair by the hearth and pulled her apron up to cover her face. Her sobs came unbidden, shocking her. She must stop weeping before the children returned.

After a few minutes, she felt a small, warm hand on her wrist.

“Why you cryin’, Miss ‘Stine?”

She raised her chin and wiped her eyes. Ruth stared up at her with wide blue eyes, as troubled as her father’s.

Christine clasped the little girl to her. “I’m sorry, dear. Your papa is right. There is no need to worry.”

Did she weep for the outlaw or for herself? She could not tell. Perhaps it was for the straining of the fragile tie between her and Samuel.

Things had changed between them. Two days ago, when she told him about the outlaw, he had responded considerately, almost tenderly. But now his tone had hardened. He thought her foolish to have acted as she did, aiding the thief and concealing his existence. Once, she had felt Samuel respected her and counted her a friend. Had that changed? Would she ever enjoy his high regard again?

She managed to smile at Ruth. “Come, let us set the bread to rise while we are at the service.”

Samuel returned to the parsonage just long enough to retrieve his Bible before the funeral procession reached the common. Christine had all the children scrubbed and turned out in their Sunday best, and Goody Deane had come to walk over to the meetinghouse with them.

“You needn’t worry about McDowell,” Samuel said.

“Who?” Christine stared at him.

“The prisoner. The Heards will feed him. He is well taken care of, and the physician dressed his wound this morning.”

“Ah.” She ducked her head and untied her apron.

So … she hadn’t known even his name. Somehow that lightened Samuel’s spirit.

He went out and hurried to the meetinghouse steps. James Dudley’s cart carried the coffin, and all of the neighbors who lived in that direction followed slowly behind. Elder William Heard cut across the green past the stocks. Samuel greeted him. Heard went inside and brought out the large conch shell they used to call the people to meeting and began to blow.

Other people came from up and down the village street, walking with somber, measured steps. Samuel waited until all the people had gathered on the green before the meetinghouse. The pallbearers lifted the casket out of the cart. Roger Ackley, his face set like stone, joined him on the steps, and Samuel led them into the building.

After the service and the burial, the villagers melted away to their farms and businesses, with no prolonged socializing. Many had already lost two days’ work due to Goody Ackley’s death and could not afford to give up more.

Ben went home with the Dudleys, and Samuel walked home with the children and Christine for his dinner. While she put the food on, he walked about the garden, observing the abundant crops brought on by hot, steamy days and occasional gentle rains.

When Constance came out to call him to the dinner table, he took her hand and walked in with her.

“We have corn to pick,” he told Christine, “and a few cucumbers.”

“The children and I can do it this afternoon.”

“I’ll stay a short while and help.” He made the decision as he spoke. Working together in the garden might give him a chance to speak to Christine again out of earshot of his offspring.

To his surprise, he had no need to make an opportunity. After dinner, she put baskets in the children’s hands and sent them into the garden, then she turned to him as she tied the strings of her bonnet. “I fear this business has caused a rift between us, sir, and I do not like it. Can you forgive me?”

He stepped closer and looked into her serious hazel eyes. “As I told you two days past, there is nothing to forgive. You acted as you thought best. Indeed, you may have saved the family from tragedy.”

A flush stained her cheeks, but she did not look away from him. “I meant, forgive me for my ill-considered actions … and my words … this morning. I was wrong to put this man—McDowell, you call him—ahead of you and the children.”

“Nay, not so remiss. It is only Christian charity to see that the lowest—widows, orphans, prisoners—are cared for.”

“But—” She bit her lip.

“What is it, Christine?”

“I did feel animosity this morning when you spoke to me. Perhaps it lies beyond my right to mention it.”

Samuel sighed. “Nay, I hope you will come to me with anything that concerns you. And you are not far off the mark.” He looked out over the field, where the children raced to fill their baskets. “I fear I misconstrued your actions today. It is I who needs pardon.”

“Pastor, you cannot think I imagined … that I cared for him in any but the most humane way.”

He smiled as the bittersweet reality struck him again. She was right. A new formality that had not been there before separated them. “You called me by my Christian name not so long ago.”

Her color deepened. “Forgive me. I spoke in haste and agitation.”

“I do not wish to forgive that slip, Christine. It was pleasant to hear … and to think we were friends.”

She couldn’t look at him then, or so it seemed. Had he spoken too plainly? For he could no longer deny that Christine, who had come to them a shy, tall, awkward girl with the plainest of features two years ago and more, had become a responsible, caring woman who had found a place in his heart.

“If you count me as a friend,” she said softly, watching the children, “then please take my word. I sympathized with him, it is true. At times he almost convinced me he was innocent. But even if he were the vilest of men, he ought not to be locked up and left unattended while he bled and suffered. My faith in our people was small that day. I had seen them go out vowing to find the murderer and flay him alive.”

“That is true. I spoke to several of the men, in an attempt to calm them. I’m glad it was I who stumbled upon the fugitive. I should hate to think what some of the men would have done if they had found him first.”

“But we still don’t know if he had anything to do with Mahalia Ackley’s death. Yet today at the graveside, I heard murmuring that the prisoner should be taken out and hung at once.”

Samuel drew in a deep, uneasy breath. “You are right. There is unrest in the village. Captain Baldwin has posted a double guard at the Heards’ smokehouse to be sure the man is not molested. And I …” He watched her closely. “I have agreed to go to Portsmouth as one of the delegation that seeks to bring a magistrate here to try McDowell.”

She was silent for a moment; then she looked up at him. “You agree with me then? That the truth must be uncovered?”

“Of course. I would want nothing less. But McDowell refuses to admit to anything, even stealing Daniel Otis’s knife, which we found in his possession. Are you willing to accept the truth if it be not to your liking?”

She nodded. “The thing that would upset me would be injustice—condemning a man before his case is proven.”

“Then I promise you I shall do all in my power to see that the truth is found and upheld. And will you make a promise to me?”

Her brow furrowed. “What is it?”

“That you will never lie to me or hold back information that will affect this family again.”

Tears sprang into her eyes. “Oh, yes.”

He reached out and wiped away the single tear that rolled down her cheek. “I know you went to great lengths not to tell an outright lie, my dear. I see that now.”

“Yes, but you are right. I did deceive you about it. The trousers …”

He chuckled. “Aye. McDowell was wearing them when he jumped on me. I never noticed until Paine and Baldwin marched him away.”

“I’ve made you a new pair, from some cloth that Jane Gardner gave me. It’s coarse material, but they will make good workaday trousers.”

He felt his smile growing, and he didn’t try to hold it back. “Do you assure me that you could never have tender feelings for a man like that?”

“I do, sir.”

He arched his eyebrows. “Do you recall that you have many times told me you couldn’t feel that way for any man and that you wished to remain unmarried?”

A cloud descended on her brow. “Aye, sir.”

They stood looking at each other for a long moment. Her trust and championing of the outlaw might be misplaced empathy but surely not affection, Samuel mused. Still, he mustn’t assume that she had developed deep personal feelings for himself. He was her employer—of sorts—and the father of the children she cared for. He had exercised the utmost discretion to show her nothing beyond Christian love.

But someday, he would ask her if she still held to her declared purpose of remaining single. Because he was beginning to hope she would not.

“Father! I’ve filled my basket. Look!” Abby ran toward them.

Ruth ran along behind her, holding up her smaller basket. “Me, too! Look, Miss ‘Stine.”

Christine knelt and gathered Ruth into the curve of her arm. “Well done, girls.”