The Captive Bride (20 page)

Sassamon stepped forward, saying, “Hello, Rachel.”

She took his hand and gave him a warm smile. “This is a surprise, John. Hello, Father. You're looking thin.” She took his hand also, and thought about the many months it had taken for her to do a simple thing like calling Matthew Winslow “father.” He had been to their house exactly four times over the past eight months, never staying the night anywhere except in the inn. It was always something like an armed truce, and none of them had been able to feel very comfortable, though outwardly they appeared to be.

“We're like a bunch of porcupines!” Gilbert had exclaimed in disgust one evening after Matthew left the house. “We just
seem to be full of spines that keep poking somebody else in tender places!”

“Well,” Lydia said, “it's not as bad as it was. We can sit down and talk now, at least.”

“That's just,
wonderful,
isn't it?” Gilbert had growled. “I'm actually able to sit down and
talk
with my own son!”

For the first time in her life, Rachel had flared up at her grandfather. “Well, you're as bad as she is! He comes here and sits and you talk about nothing but some idiotic sermon! It wouldn't kill you to
bend
a little and say a kind word to the poor man, would it?”

Gilbert and Lydia had stared at her, and finally Gilbert had said resentfully, “Maybe you're right, Rachel, but there's some deep wounds in our past. Scars that don't heal all at once. But what about you? I don't notice as how you're sitting on his lap, and if you said one warm kind thing to Matthew tonight, I missed it!”

Lydia had stopped the quarrel, saying, “We're all guilty, Gilbert. The next time he comes, I—I'll be more—gentle.”

Now, standing there in the cold air, that scene flashed back to Rachel, and she made herself smile at Matthew. “We've been disappointed that you've not been back to the house.”

Matthew's face changed suddenly, and a warmth appeared in his bright blue eyes. “Why, thank you, Rachel. I've thought of you every day.”

Jude said, “Where you headed, Mr. Winslow?”

“John and I thought we'd make a sweep around the north country. Maybe find a few beaver streams we can trap in, in the spring.”

Jude frowned. “I'd be careful if I were you. You know how jealous Philip is of his territory.”

“Philip won't mind if we take a few beaver, Alden,” Matthew said easily. “Indians don't mind sharing things.”

Jude grew defensive then, for Winslow was actually saying that settlers such as himself made the Indians go on the
warpath. “Well, I been hearing that the tribes are restless. You hear about the attack on that farm in Bennington?”

“Bunch of wild young boys drunk on whiskey,” John Sassamon answered. “They weren't Wampanoags, either.” He turned and said, “I'll be back this way in three days, Mr. Winslow. Where can we meet?”

“Why, right here, if Alden doesn't mind.”

“Of course.” There was not a great deal of warmth in Jude's voice, but he could not refuse with Rachel standing there. “Rachel and her grandfather are here for a visit. You'll be welcome.”

“Lydia didn't come?” Matthew asked Rachel.

“Oh, yes. She and Grandfather are over at Pageville. There's a little church there having a struggle and they visit when they can to try to help out.”

“You'll stay for supper, Mr. Winslow?” Jude asked.

“Yes, please do, Father,” Rachel said quickly. There had been a cold formality in Jude's voice, and she had seen Matthew start to shake his head. He was surprised at her insistence. “Why, I think I will.”

John was not included in the invitation, but as he left, he whispered to Rachel. “That's my good girl! You honor your father and you'll live a long time, like the scripture says!” He started to leave, then paused and said so softly she almost missed it, “God love you, Nahteeah—you've been a good sister to this Indian!” Then he left on silent steps and disappeared into the line of trees to the east of the house.

Rachel spent most of the afternoon cooking, and to her surprise, Jude and her father walked around the farm talking, apparently content with each other's company. Jude was making an attempt, she saw, to get to know her father, and it gave her a warm feeling to see it.

Gilbert and Lydia got back just as the sun, white as if frozen by the raw winter wind, slipped behind the tall oaks. They came inside the house and as they took off their heavy coats, Rachel said, “Did you know Father is here?”

Lydia stopped abruptly, turned and said quickly, “No, where is he?”

“Jude's been running him all over the farm.” She laughed ruefully, adding, “You'd think Father was interested in
buying
it, the way he's looked at it.”

Gilbert came to stand before the fireplace, holding his hands out to the flickering blaze. There was a wry light in his eyes and he said, “Matthew wouldn't be interested in this farm—maybe in the man who owns it?”

Rachel flushed slightly, then said, “Mother, will you help me set the food out? They went up to see a tract of land that Jude is interested in. Said he wanted to know what Father thought of it.”

By the time the table was set, the two men walked in. Rachel did not miss the way her father's face changed at the sight of Lydia and his father. She could not say exactly what it was, but there was a certain sadness in his face that she had gradually come to notice. It was not gloom or despair, and few would even discern it, but now as she watched him enter, she saw his whole expression subtly alter. As his eyes fell on Lydia, she saw a longing in his face and a soft smile on his lips.
He still loves her,
she thought. Then her attention turned to Jude.

Jude's face was flushed from the long walk, and he spoke briskly, saying, “Look at that food!” He moved to the table, shook his head and said, “I haven't had a home-cooked meal like this since the last time you were here.”

“Hello, Matthew,” Gilbert said, coming to take his hand. “You've been away for a long time.”

“Yes,” Lydia said quickly, coming to stand beside Gilbert. “We expected you back before this.”

“I've been on some pretty far trails since I was in Plymouth.” He hesitated, then added, “You're both looking well.”

Rachel interrupted, “We can talk while we eat—everything's getting cold.”

They all sat down and spent the most relaxed time any of
them had had since Matthew's return. Time had blunted the initial shock, so they were not constantly ill at ease just being with him. It helped to have the presence of Jude, making it necessary to speak of ordinary things in a normal fashion.

Jude kept the conversation going, and as the two women kept the food coming and the cups filled, he told Gilbert how he'd been increasing his holdings. “Land will never be so cheap as it is now, Rev. Winslow!” he exclaimed. “Now's the time to buy up every inch of ground you can, because this country will be worth a great deal of money in the years to come.”

The rest of them listened, saying little, and finally the meal ended. As the women cleaned the table and put the dishes away, the men sat around talking idly of local matters. Rachel came and sat off to one side, joined by her mother.

Gilbert had been telling of the church close by. Then he turned to Matthew. “Deacon Lattimore tells me you've been quite an encouragement to him, son.”

“Why, I've done little enough,” Matthew protested.

“Lattimore would disagree,” his father smiled. “He thinks you're quite a Bible scholar. Told us over and over how much he's appreciated your visits. And I didn't know how much you'd done to help with the Indian mission schools.”

“Oh, John is responsible for most of that. I've just been able to help a bit with the cost.”

Gilbert saw that his son was embarrassed, so he merely smiled and said, “God will bless your work, I'm sure.”

At last Matthew went to sleep in the barn, and Gilbert and Lydia retired. Jude and Rachel sat before the fire talking for a while.

Jude had been put in a mellow mood by the quiet evening, and he talked of things he hoped to do—not business matters, but of things he'd never shared with her. His face grew dreamy, more relaxed than she'd ever seen him, and he moved his hands expansively as he spoke of travel, of going to England, even to Germany, someday. For a long time she
sat there, her feet curled under her, her head resting on her palms as she listened intently. Several times he said
we
when speaking of journeys and plans, and she smiled quietly, thinking of how carefully he'd avoided any direct talk such as that for a long time.

He got up to poke up the fire, then came to sit beside her; she said in a whisper, “I love it when you talk like that, Jude!”

She made a lovely picture as she sat there, the golden firelight catching fire in her eyes, her lips slightly parted. His blood was stirred, and he lowered his head and kissed her, then put his arms around her, holding her close.

She allowed this, even went so far as to put her hand on his neck, her heart beating faster. Then just as she was drawing back from the increasing pressure of his lips, whispering, “Jude, we mustn't—” the front door suddenly opened, and Matthew entered, saying, “Alden—there's some kind of—”

Jude and Rachel pulled away so rapidly that she nearly fell off the bench. Her hair fell in disarray and there was a look of guilt in the way they came to their feet, staring at Matthew who stopped suddenly, the words broken off abruptly.

He stared at them, and for the first time in her life, Rachel saw the Winslow anger she'd heard about since she was a child. Her father's light eyes blazed like blue fire, and he actually took a step forward so suddenly that Jude stepped backward and raised his hands!

“Don't!” Rachel cried, taking a step forward, and it was well she did, for it brought her father's eyes to her, and she saw his wrath turn to sorrow as he looked at her. Then he pulled himself together and said, “There's some sort of animal after the stock, Alden—a bear, I think.”

Jude, welcoming the break in Matthew's mood, leaped to pull a musket from the wall, crying, “I'll take care of him.”

He left the room at a dead run, and Matthew turned without a word to leave, but Rachel said sharply, “Wait!”

“Yes, Rachel?”

She was suddenly angry through and through, and she did
not realize it was at herself instead of her father. She threw her head back and it was his turn to see some of the Winslow wrath, this time in the French blackness of his daughter's eyes!

“I resent what you think!” she said in a tense voice that quivered with rage.

“I—said nothing,” Matthew answered. He stood there, a tall shape in the flickering light of the candle, the sharp planes of his face bolder in relief.

She struck out at him; it was not the embarrassment of the moment that drove her to a rage, but the buried resentment and anger at what she had felt from the moment of his return. His act of betrayal fourteen years ago struck the fire that blazed out at Matthew as she stood there.

“You're so
holy,
aren't you?” she cried. “The father looking so offended that his precious daughter is kissing a man!” Tears then flooded her eyes, and she dashed them away angrily, saying bitterly, “Well, what gives you the right to think
anything?
Where were you when I was growing up—when all the other children had fathers—and I—didn't!” Her voice began to break as sobs rose to her lips, and she took two steps that brought her up to him, staring up into his face with an anger she had never shown to a living soul. “Why did you have to come back?” she cried. Then she raised her hand and struck him in the face twice, each time crying out as if he had struck her!

He stood there, the burning imprint of her hand on his cheeks. His eyes held no anger—only a deep, profound sadness. He let the silence run on, so that the sound of a log breaking in the fire sounded very loud. Then he said so quietly that she almost missed it for her sobbing.

“I can't blame you for feeling that way, Rachel,” he said. He hesitated, then added, “I never should have come to this place.”

She turned blindly and ran to her room, not hearing the door close. For a long time she cried bitterly, until there was nothing in her but emptiness. Finally she got up and undressed
and went to bed. As she pulled the covers over her, she thought of the sadness in his face—that face so much like Gilbert's from whom she'd never had an unkind word, and her throat ached with the pain of it all.

Tomorrow! Tomorrow I'll make it right with him,
she thought. All night she lay there, longing for the dawn.

But he was gone, and Jude, not meeting her eyes, said, “He just left.”

Rachel waited until she had a chance to speak with Lydia alone, and when she had told the whole story, her eyes filling with tears, Lydia took her in her arms. “You'll have a chance to tell him you were wrong.” She hesitated, then added, “I have to tell him some things, too—many things.”

Rachel and Lydia waited anxiously for Matthew to make one of his rare visits, but he did not come back to Plymouth. Two weeks passed, and the winter scored the land, closing the trails to travel. They did not speak of him, but he was not far from their thoughts. Lydia vacillated between a longing to recapture those lost years and feelings of bitterness that would spring up, locking her in a vise of unforgiveness.

The weeks ran on into February. Then the settlement was shaken with a violence such as it had not known in years.

Rachel and Gilbert were on their way to take food to a widow with three small children. They had just turned to go past the cannon on the square when they saw a crowd milling around near the Common House, making so much noise that Gilbert said, “Must be trouble.”