Abiding Peace (4 page)

“But you never know.” Dudley lifted his scythe and swung viciously at the tall grass.

By the time they left for their walk back to the parsonage in midafternoon, Christine’s fatigue oppressed her. She had spent much of the day on her feet, spinning wool for Jane and helping her churn butter. Catherine and Sarah had joined them, and all had shared in the cleaning and baking. At the end of their visit, Jane had two pounds of fresh butter—she sent one back with the Jewetts—two skeins of fine gray woolen yarn, two berry pies, and enough newly baked bread to last her and Charles a week.

The smell of the baking loaves had prompted Abby to tell the ladies about the disappearing bread at Goody Deane’s house. Christine had confirmed her story.

“Likely Goody Deane was confused,” Sarah said. “She is getting on in years.”

“Nay, she baked three loaves, of that I’m certain.” Christine shook her head. “I hate to think someone stole one.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me,” Catherine said. “I had a row of beans almost ready to pick last week, in the bed just outside the palisade. I went out one morning to pick them for dinner, and what think ye? Someone had stripped the vines before I came. Fair tasting them, I was.”

“You didn’t tell me,” Sarah said, her blue eyes narrowed.

“Someone picked them off before you?” Jane asked.

“Aye. I asked Father and Mother and Stephen, but none of them had done it.”

“Perhaps a deer got them,” Christine suggested.

“Nay, they would have eaten the plants right off. These were very neatly picked. Father said to be watchful for savages, but we never saw any.”

Christine kept a sharp eye during their walk home, but no mishaps befell them.

“You needn’t tend our supper tonight,” the pastor said as they approached the village. You’re fatigued. Go home and enjoy the rest of the day with Goody Deane.”

“Who will feed us?” Constance asked, staring up at her father.

“I shall do it. Even a man as clumsy as myself can build up the fire under the stewpot and set out the biscuits Miss Christine put by last night. And you and Abby shall help me.”

“And there be mince pie left,” said John, licking his chapped lips.

“We can fend for ourselves,” Samuel said with a smile.

Christine returned his smile. “I’m sure you can, but I’d like to come and weave for a while, if you don’t mind, before the light is gone.”

She did just that, managing to finish the linen that she and the pastor had agreed she could sell.

“That’s nice work, Christine,” he said as she carefully folded the material. “You have a buyer already, I believe?”

“Mrs. Heard told me last spring she would take any linen I could give her, after she saw the sheeting I wove for Mrs. Otis.”

The pastor nodded. “Aye. And you shall keep the price.”

“Nay, sir. You supplied the flax and the loom.”

“We have had this conversation before. Without your labor, there would be no linen.”

She inhaled deeply. “Then, sir, if you insist, we shall split the profit.” She glanced at the children and lowered her voice. “I don’t like to say it, sir, but Ben at least will need new boots in the fall. All of the children are growing quickly, and—”

“I fear you are right. I noticed today how tall Abby is getting. Think you that one of my wife’s skirts could be cut down for her?”

It was the practical thing to do, of course. “Certainly. I’ll see to it tomorrow.”

He nodded. “Very well, then, we shall go halves. My portion of the linen money shall go to the cobbler and to the trader for whatever foodstuffs you think we need. But your part is yours to keep and do with as you wish.”

She could see that he would brook no further argument, so she lowered her chin. All too stubborn that chin had become lately, she supposed. Sometimes it felt as if these were her own children she championed. “We agree, sir.”

“Good. Now, you must be on your way. I insist that we shall make our own supper tonight.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but Ben chimed in with, “I’ll make up the fire, Father, and John will help Abby set the table.”

John threw a dark look at his brother, but the pastor’s features relaxed.

Christine decided it might be well for him to have a calm evening alone with his children. She had left the stew ready to heat in the iron kettle, and there really wasn’t much to do. “Thank you,” she said. “I expect Goody Deane and I shall retire early.” She gathered her things and crossed the dusty street to the widow’s cottage.

As she opened the door, Goody Deane startled in her chair, and Christine greeted her softly. “Good evening. The pastor says he and the children can take care of themselves tonight.”

“I been looking for ye to come back,” the old woman said. “If I’d known ye weren’t eating at the parson’s, I’d have put supper on.”

“Don’t stir yourself,” Christine told her. “It looks as though you’ve made a lot of progress on your knitting today. I’ll build the fire up and fix us a bite.”

“Oh, do we need to heat the house up? It’s just now getting bearable. I have hopes of a restful sleep tonight, but not if we get the fire up and heat the house to a simmer.”

“Very well.” Christine opened the tin box where they kept bread and remnants of food. “I think there’s enough lamb here to eke out a meal with bread and butter, and I spy a morsel of seed cake. I’ll fetch a bucket of cool water, and we’ll sit down.”

She took up the nearly empty water pail and dumped the little that was in it into a pitcher. The cottage had no well, but the walk to the river was a short one. It took her only a few minutes to reach the bank and fill her bucket.

The trader’s daughter had also come to fetch water, and they greeted each other cheerfully.

Christine trudged alone back to the little house, thinking about her place in the community. When she first returned from her captivity in Canada, she had felt like an outsider and was shunned by many of the villagers. But time and contact had softened their attitudes, and she now felt a part of Cochecho. Her pleasant days divided between Goody Deane’s cottage and the parsonage filled her with contentment.

She was nearly to the cottage door when she saw a dark figure flit across the garden in the twilight, toward the back of the house. Christine halted so quickly that water sloshed over the rim of the bucket, soaking the bottom of her skirt. She set the pail down quietly in the path and tiptoed to the corner of the house.

A man in ragged clothes was peering in Goody Deane’s kitchen window. He turned toward her, his eyes wide.

Before she could speak, he gestured threateningly. “Quiet, miss. If ye give alarm, I’ll kill ye.”

Samuel served his children supper and was about to sit down to his own plate of food, when a peremptory knocking sounded on the door.

Edward Chapman, one of the fishermen who lived along the riverbank, stood outside, panting as though he had run all the way from his house. His rapid breathing and unsteady gaze told Samuel immediately that something untoward had happened.

“Edward! What’s the trouble?”

“Parson, can you come? The cow kicked my boy, Philip, and I think his knee is broken.”

“The poor lad. I’ll come take a look.” Samuel looked around, swiftly taking a mental count of the children. “Ben, I shall be gone for an hour or two. Read a chapter with the children and send the girls to bed. Abby, you will have to help Ruth undress.”

“Might I stay up with Ben, Father?” John asked.

“Aye. And if you need any help, run over the way for Miss Christine.”

Ben picked up Ruth and her doll from the rag rug. “We’ll be fine.”

“Here, Father. Take this with you.” Abby ran to the table and plucked a biscuit from his untouched plate.

Samuel smiled and accepted it from her. “Thank you, Abby, dear. Be good and help put the dishes to rights, won’t you? But let Ben pour the hot water.”

He went out into the dusk with Chapman, shoving the biscuit into his pocket. As they walked, he sought to calm the worried father. “Be Philip in sore distress?”

“Aye, sir. He bellowed like a cow moose. Awful pain.”

Samuel shook his head. “I’m sorry, Edward. I hope one day a physician will feel called to settle here among us. My ministrations are far from expert.”

“You’ve a better touch than anyone else in the village, and twice the heart.”

Samuel bowed his head and sent up a prayer for wisdom beyond his skill. Lately it seemed his theological studies were interrupted more and more often. Of course, summer brought more accidents with all of the farming activity.

Word had gotten about the first year he and Elizabeth moved to Cochecho, after he stitched up a man’s gashed scalp. The new preacher was as good as a doctor, some insisted. Samuel knew better. He acted because someone had to, and so they believed he had a special aptitude for it. As the village grew, so did the calls for his medical assistance. When he could, he steered people to Captain Baldwin’s wife, who acted as midwife and herb woman. But serious injuries were beyond her, she’d told him early, though she often helped nurse Samuel’s patients after he had done what he could.

Chapman seemed calmer by the time they came in sight of his cottage near the river. “I expect the boy will be fine once you set his leg,” he said.

Samuel nodded. “Let us pray so. If it needs setting, I’ll have you fetch me the splints.”

“I can do that.”

“Good. How has your catch been this summer?”

“The Lord has been quite generous,” Chapman said. “I’ve been out on the boat much of the time. By chance I was home tonight when the boy went to milk the cow.”

“God knew you would be needed,” Samuel said.

They reached the path to the house. “Well, he’s quit screaming,” Edward noted. “I made sure I was home ere nightfall. The wife says there’s been pilfering in the neighborhood. Like as not, some Indians are skulking about, she says.”

“I’ve heard as much from some others,” Samuel admitted. “I have no explanation … but I’ve heard of no raids or attacks since the one at the church. Just small things gone missing. Food, mostly.”

As Chapman opened the door, he heard weeping, and the fisherman’s wife cried, “Bless you, Parson! Our boy is in bad straits. I told him you would come and make it better.”

Samuel winced, wishing he had a stock of medicines and a physician’s manual. But God had called him to be a minister, not a doctor. He closed the door firmly and smiled at Mrs. Chapman. “I will do my best, ma’am. Have you any comfrey or boneset?”

“What do you want?” Christine’s voice croaked. Her heart drummed as though it would leap out of her chest.

The man stood in shadows, with his bearded face muffled in darkness. The pale skin below his eyes stood out, and as he shifted, she caught a metallic glint in his right hand.

“Don’t you yell.”

“I won’t.” Christine bit her bottom lip to still its trembling.

He raised the knife just a bit, making sure she saw it. “If you squawk, you’ve had it, that’s all.”

She nodded.

“Good, then. Bring me something to eat.”

“We … don’t have much.”

“Oh, I know. I’ve seen you go back and forth to the house over yonder. But you keep food here, too. Here, where there’s no kids snooping around. That’s why I came here and not there. I thought I had a better chance to get somewhat to eat without anyone seeing me.”

Christine shivered, though the evening breeze was warm. “Did you steal our loaf of bread yesterday?”

He smiled, and she could see his white teeth grinning ghoulishly in the fading light. “Aye, and good bread it were. I know you ladies can cook, that I do. I says to myself, ‘This ‘ere loaf will last a long time.’ But it was so tasty, and I was like to starve. I ate it all yesterday, that I did.”

“I can’t steal from Goody Deane. She’s a poor woman and she doesn’t have much.”

“She’s got more than me.” His lips drew back in a snarl, and he moved the knife. “Bring me some vittles, woman. You hear?”

Christine gulped for air. Would she ever be able to draw a full breath again? Her lungs felt as though a giant squeezed them. “I’ll try.”

“See that you do. And don’t you tell the old crone.” He laid a hand on her arm, heavy and warm through her sleeve.