Roanoke (The Keepers of the Ring) (47 page)

Audrey dissolved into a gale of giggles, and Jocelyn gave a short laugh touched with embarrassment.
“Think not that I lied. ‘Twas the truth, I promise. The man has not had a bath in months.”

Audrey threw back her head and laughed again, and Jocelyn lifted her cup of water in a silent toast.

The two women talked for an hour, and during the conversation Audrey saw Jocelyn wipe her husband’s brow, lay her hand tenderly upon his forehead, and place his Bible on the bed where, ever so often, his hand sought the comfort of the leather binding. “He rests better when it lies beside him,” Jocelyn said, without smiling.

“
I would have thought he would rest better with
ye
beside him,” Audrey said, half-joking, but she bit her lip when Jocelyn did not smile in return. “Welladay, what’s this,” Audrey whispered.

“
He loves me not,” Jocelyn said, one thin shoulder lifting in an elegant shrug. “I knew it when I married him, but I hoped he would learn to care for me. But we are both of hard heads and harder hearts, and each time I think we might be joined together in love, something pulls us further apart.”

“
I have wondered,” Audrey admitted, “but after the baby came, I thought he had learned to be a proper husband—”

“
He keeps me at arms’ length,” Jocelyn answered. “We have learned to live in such a way that we are—compatible.”

Audrey felt a wave of compassion stir her.
Her young and delightful mistress deserved a prince among husbands, one who would cherish and adore her high spirits, not a grim, gray distant person like Thomas Colman. Surely if Jocelyn had not been frightened and grieving for her father when the minister proposed, the marriage would never have taken place.

“
Faith, how do ye do it?” Audrey asked, spreading her hands wide. “Come with me, Jocelyn, and put aside this man. Beth Glane and the other women would gladly nurse him. Why kill yourself for a man who loves ye not?”

“
Because blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.”

Jocelyn
’s voice was so low Audrey thought she had imagined the answer, but then she looked up and saw the light of love shining from Jocelyn’s eyes as she looked at her sleeping husband. “I tried to leave,” she went on, her voice as light as a thistle bloom that falls into silence without a sound, “but God brought me back. For some reason, God has placed love in my heart, and I cannot deny it.”

“
Love must be fed to survive,” Audrey quoted blithely, remembering the first time William had told her thus as he begged for a kiss.

“
No,” Jocelyn whispered, “true love gives and waits. For as long as it takes.”

She tiptoed to the bed and lifted the Bible from beneath Thomas
’ hand. “Know you what grace is, Audrey?” she asked, flipping through the pages.

Audrey thought a moment.
She had oft heard sermons about it, but remembered little but that grace kept believers from hell and that sinners did not deserve it.

Jocelyn didn’t wait for an answer. “Grace comes from the Hebrew term meaning, ‘to stoop,” Jocelyn explained. “God gave us grace because there is nothing we can do to deserve God’s mercy. For many months I thought God wanted me to show love to Thomas, but what God wanted most of all was for me to show forth his grace.”

Jocelyn lifted the Bible and read:
“For by grace are ye saved through faith; and that not of yourselves: it is the gift of God, not of works, lest any man should boast. For we are his workmanship, created in Christ Jesus unto good works, which God has before ordained that we should walk in them.”

“
So God wants you to stoop?” Audrey asked, not understanding. “By serving this hard-hearted minister?”

“
Yes,” Jocelyn answered, smiling as she looked at the sleeping man. “Love that reaches up to God is worship. Love that reaches out to a husband is affection, and that wasn’t enough for us, Audrey.” Her voice warmed, and she took Thomas’ hand and held it to her cheek. “But love that stoops to give—’tis grace.”

Audrey felt the corner of her mouth fall in a derisive smile.
“I’ll see how well you are stooping when he wakes up,” she said, lifting her chin. “And then, if you are ready to leave, ye and the baby will be welcome in me house.”

Audrey was still shaking her head in disbelief when she left Jocelyn
’s house, but she stopped to talk to Agnes Wood and Eleanor Dare as they returned from the fields. Together they carried a heaping basket of pumpkins and gourds, and Eleanor’s delicate forehead glistened with perspiration.

“
Ho, now, a fine basket, that,” Audrey said, stopping to admire the produce. “Is there more to gather?”

“
Aye,” Agnes answered, not slowing her pace, but Eleanor abruptly dropped her handle of the basket and stopped to talk. “There is much work yet to be done,” she said, fanning herself. “Papa will be pleased with our crop.” She dimpled as she looked at Audrey. “And you, Audrey Tappan, you are a naughty girl! Does Jocelyn know you are out here? Mayhap you should get home to your mistress before she knows you are gone!”

Audrey cast a questioning look toward Agnes.
The older woman’s eyes narrowed in pain and an unspoken plea to remain silent. “Welladay,” Audrey said, hesitating. “There’s no gainsaying that. I’ll see Jocelyn soon . . . I promise.”

“
Good,” Eleanor said, lifting the handle of the basket again. “Tell my Papa, when you see him, that we’re having fish and hominy for supper. And tell Ananias to hurry home!”

“
Name of a name,” Audrey murmured as the two women continued past her. “Eleanor has lost her reason.” A mixed group of Indian and English children skipped by; behind them, struggling to keep up, ran four-year-old Virginia Dare.

Audrey felt a sharp pang of sorrow when she heard Eleanor
’s words: “I’faith, can’t those children be still? But that little one is a lovely child—whose is she, Agnes?”

Doctor Jones followed one guiding law of medicine
—as long as a patient’s fever stayed down, bleeding was not necessary. So Jocelyn rejoiced that Thomas’ fever remained low during the daylight hours, and through the weeks of November and December he gradually regained his strength. The fever and chills returned at night, but they no longer frightened Jocelyn. She either sponged Thomas or held him in her arms, until he lay quiet and still. And so, day by day, the minister of the colony began to be healed.

He had very little to say during his weeks of convalescence.
He never reproached Jocelyn for leaving, never questioned why she had returned. He seemed to accept her presence, but whether as a penance or blessing, Jocelyn could not tell. But she felt his eyes upon her as she fed him, cleaned the house, and cared for the baby. After nearly a month of such constant surveillance she dressed Regina in warm clothes and demanded that her husband get out of bed.

He stared at her as if she had lost her mind, but then he managed to ease his way into a shirt and pair of leggings.
When he lowered his painfully thin legs onto the floor and tried to stand, Jocelyn saw his difficulty. She supported him with one shoulder while she led him and Regina out of the house and into the sunshine of a small clearing just outside the palisade.

The December breeze blew cool, but Jocelyn spread a grass mat on the ground in the sun and heaped blankets around Thomas
’ shoulders. He sat down, obeying her without complaint, then Jocelyn placed Regina in his lap. “I must air out the house,” she said, turning on her heel, “and you must spend time with your daughter.”

She left them there, not knowing what would happen, but she thought of them often as she threw open the shutters and swept the floor.
She dragged the old, sweat-soaked mattress from the house and sewed a new cover from woven grass, then stuffed it with dried straw and pleasant-smelling herbs. The project took nearly half the morning, and at any moment she fully expected to hear Beth Glane’s righteously indignant complaints that the sick minister had been left to die outside the village.

But no one bothered her as she worked.
When the mattress had been refreshed and the house aired, she packed bread and some dried slices of meat into a leather pouch and set out for the sunny spot where she had left her family. She walked confidently until she reached the edge of the grassy clearing, then her heart skipped a beat as she glanced toward the mat. Thomas lay motionless on the ground and the baby sat on his chest—had something happened? She sprinted toward them, her heart in her throat, and stopped abruptly as she heard Thomas’s quiet voice: “So they came, you see, two by two. And God preserved their lives and shut them in upon the ark.”

Smothering a smile of relief and gratitude, Jocelyn slipped onto the mat beside them and spread out the lunch she had brought.
Without speaking, she observed the tender bond that had formed between father and daughter, and when lunch was done, she bundled up the mat, the blankets, and her baby, and led her husband home.

The weather accommodated many such outings in the weeks that followed, and Jocelyn thanked God for a mild winter.
The sunshine and brisk winds seemed to do Thomas good, for color had begun to return to his haggard cheeks and she could no longer count the ribs in his back. On the few days when winter gales kept them inside, Thomas would pull Regina up into his lap as he read his Bible at the board, and enunciate slowly as his slender finger pointed out the words.

Fearful that her praise would stifle his new feelings, Jocelyn said nothing, but continued her work.
Ofttimes she felt as though she served as the hands of God, ever silent, but always working toward some end she could not see. God had promised her that he would give strength
when the time came
—was this the time for which God had sent her back? She began to think ‘twas so.

One afternoon as she walked to join her family at lunch, she spied the dark form of Beth Glane in the clearing.
Beth sat on a blanket next to Thomas, one arm extended in his direction, her black bonnet bobbing with the urgency of her complaint as if ‘twas part of her head. Jocelyn sighed in exasperation. For weeks she had done nothing but shelter her husband, but apparently the business of the ministry would follow him everywhere.

Jocelyn approached from behind Beth.
“I caught them myself,” Beth was saying, her hands trembling as she gestured emphatically. “Boys and girls! Savages and English! Swimming together in the river, they were, without regard to holiness and
without clothes of any kind!
”

Thomas turned his dark eyes toward Beth.
“How old were these children, Mistress Glane?”

“
Well,” Beth huffed, “in truth, what does it matter how old they were?”

“
In truth,” Jocelyn interrupted, noting with satisfaction that Beth’s bonnet jerked in honest surprise at the sound of her voice, “they were no more than babies. Audrey and Hurit told me themselves that they took the young ones to the river to splash. And, as I recall, ‘twas many months ago, and no harm was done.”

Thomas smiled genially as Beth sputtered in confusion.
“But ye were sick, of course, Reverend, and I wouldn’t have bothered ye when ye were ill. But if we don’t stop communal bathing with the babies, how can we stop it with the youngsters? Or the maidens?”

The image of Beth Glane bathing in the river forced Jocelyn to press her lips together to keep from laughing.
And, she was pleased to note, the righteous zeal that in days past would have sent Thomas rushing to rebuke babies had dimmed to a steady glow. His voice was calm and eminently reasonable as he answered Beth Glane’s hysteria: “I think we have concerns of more importance than naked babies, Mistress Glane.”

Forty-six

T
he bitterly sharp breaths of February and March slashed at any settler who dared venture out in those months, but April dawned bright and beautiful. Jocelyn led her family to the greening meadow each morning with a light step, rejoicing that Thomas now considered his time with Regina as a part of his daily routine. His strength had returned to the point that he no longer needed Jocelyn’s assistance, and often he walked with Regina perched high on his shoulders. The sight brought a lump to Jocelyn’s throat as memories of her own father came crowding back.

She continued to bring them lunch, and after relaxing for a brief while in the meadow, they would return to the house.
Thomas gradually resumed his duties of visiting the sick and praying for those who requested prayer, but Doctor Jones advised that Thomas not visit the Indian village nor work in the hunting, fishing, or building crews until his health had been fully restored.

Day by day, Jocelyn continued to rejoice and thank God for his goodness.
God himself had told her to return, he had shown her the secret of grace. Her willingness to stoop had made all the difference in the world. While Thomas had not yet professed his love for her, the new gentleness in his eye and his devotion toward Regina signaled a fresh tenderness in his heart. In time, Jocelyn was sure, that tenderness would turn to her.