I climbed the steps. A crowd assembled, growing moment by moment. I wondered if the smell coming from the place was emanating from the platform or the crowd. Did they carry rotted fruit and dead cats or did I smell the remnants of some past judgment, still oozing under the planks even in the cold? America moved ahead of me and put her shawl over the rough wood on the neck trough. I removed my bonnet but left my cap in place to cover my missing hair, and handed her the bonnet.
The bondsman took the shawl and gave it back to her, saying, “Not allowed.” He thrust my hands through the holes and shoved my head toward the groove meant for the neck. After he closed the wide yoke, pushed the tenon through its hole and bolted it, he pulled off my gloves!
I moaned aloud against my resolve to stay silent no matter what occurred. My blistered hands had bled and oozed as I wrung them in the hearing. The cloth stuck to them, forming a crust that he had torn open. They bled anew now, and it appeared to the people below that he had somehow injured me. Someone threw an egg at the man and it splattered the back of his coat with foul-smelling contents. That started a clamor, and my knees weakened, expecting that to be but the first of many such insults aimed at me.
I could see nothing but the gray boards on the platform. I heard boots upon the boards, felt the vibration of someone moving around. Was the bondsman preparing something else? Did he carry a whip? Would he remove my cap, too, revealing more shame? To be a woman without hair was to be an object of ridicule forever. No matter that the back of it was done in a roll of braids, the front was gone, blistered under the cap, making me look like an elderly man with a natural tonsure of receding hair. I panted, bracing myself. All of a sudden, the crowd quieted. Someone draped a coat or a cloak across my back. The garment had just been worn and removed by some person; it felt warm as an embrace. I waited. Silence grew until I heard my own heart beating.
Then I heard someone say, “Time is completed.”
There had been not one stone, not a potato, not a voice of derision. The bolt was opened, the tenon pulled, and the yoke raised. I lifted my head, my neck gone stiff and painful. Oh, la! I stared straight at the back of Lady Spencer herself, supported by a walking stick in one hand and Daniel Charlesworth by her other arm! She had stood on the platform in front of me so that no one dared throw a thing.
I turned around. August had kept guard of my backside. Rather than his more sober tricorn hat, he had donned his captain’s hat with its gold braid and plume, and thrown his bright red coat across my shoulders. He faced the crowd a moment more, then turned to me and smiled. Across his brocade waistcoat, two wide leather belts bristled with three pistols and a dagger. At his side hung a tasseled cutlass, partly unsheathed. His hand rested upon the hilt of it, and he cocked it, but he held the other hand out to me and I took it, marveling in the size and strength of it.
“All is well,” he said, loudly enough for the people to hear. “The people of Lexington, I find, are most congenial and quick to forgive small offenses.”
People in the crowd said, “Aye, aye,” and a few clapped. Then August held out his other arm to Lady Spencer, who took it, to the gasps of people below. Daniel Charlesworth took America Roberts’s arm, and the five of us left the place in Lady Spencer’s gig. I sat in silence, feeling stunned relief. August played the gallant with Lady Spencer with perfect deference and decorum, despite that he looked capable of rendering asunder any who stood in his way.
At Lady Spencer’s house, she called for wine to be served in the parlor, and though I sat with them, I felt separated and shattered still, as if I moved behind a gauze, as though everything were too polished and too loud, affronting my senses.
Daniel told us how he came to be a lawyer in full, now, and that Lady Spencer had sent for him to come from Boston, with little knowledge other than what August had given her on Saturday. By today, Monday, Daniel had come to my rescue. He had queried some friends and found out about the suit to take my land, as that was what had postponed Serenity’s charges as late as they were, else it would have happened in a trice.
“Why would Wallace do that?” I asked.
Daniel smiled with one corner of his mouth raised wryly. “He wants that land, as do many others who believe the old stories about it. The Carnegie place used to belong to someone named Goodman Smythe. A common enough name that it means nothing. The rumor was that the name was falsely used, that he had been a pirate and knew Edward Teach and was of the same caliber, and that Smythe had buried treasure on the place. All accounts, though, were that he worked diligently and as hard as any farmer to try to make good of it. He never lived higher than his farm allowed, which was quite modest.”
I laughed. “We found a brass ship’s bell and a couple of cannonballs, a metal ring of some sort like an ankle iron. If he was a marauding seaman, he left little behind.”
Lady Spencer said, “I always believed that rumor was false. The man was a humble yeoman and worked himself into an early grave. His son went to a trade in New York but a little while later was killed by a falling tree; his daughter married Matthew Carnegie.”
“She was Goody Carnegie?”
“Yes,” she said, “poor thing. No one knows why she went so mad. He left her after about a year, alone with the house and land. Left for the frontier and never returned. It was a wonder she lived so long, but blessed peace that she is at last in the ground.”
I nodded. I knew the reason for Goody’s madness. It would serve no one to tell it, and I was too exhausted to want the small thrill of owning some dreadful gossip. Was Matthew Carnegie the specter never at rest over the graves of his child and wife? A chill drove me to shudder, but I brushed it away.
Amelia said, “You, my dear, do live beyond a farmer’s wife. I fear it is my fault.”
When America, August, and I arrived at last at home, the children gathered, all questioning at once about what had happened in town. Jacob had let them play and dabble as they might, and the only one who appeared presentable was Gwyneth. Rather than ask for explanation, she put her arms around me and hugged me, and in that simple act, made all of it worthwhile.
When the clamor of our arrival had passed and the children were in bed, August and I sat together at the fire. His face grew cold as it did sometimes. “It is not finished,” he said. “The Spencer plantation in Virginia ships a great deal of tobacco and rum to England. I sense a downturn in their profits coming. Ill winds they be a-blowing.”
“August, you must not,” I said, stunned. “Vengeance is not the answer. You will be fanning the flames of a feud between us and Wallace Spencer. Gwyneth is not so harmed. Cullah is gone and Jacob cannot see. I fear what Wallace may bring upon my family when you are away.”
“Don’t preach at me, Ressie. I see the venom in your eyes even now. You’d have him over the coals in a trice. Saturday I ordered my ships made ready. I have the names of the vessels that take his cargo. We sail next week as soon as we’re provisioned. I shall levy a tax upon the Spencers that they will not quickly pay.”
I searched my heart. I should be happy to think of him acting out retribution upon them but I felt broken of spirit, weary of hate and intensity, and not willing to perpetuate the whole affair. “I wish you would not.”
“What about Gwyneth’s honor?”
“Of course I value her honor, but, August, I do not want you to be arrested. I need you. Cullah and Brendan will return, then go.”
He sneered. “I answer to no one. I have word the Blue Dawn left port in Hampton, Virginia, bound for England ten days ago, loaded to the waterline with Spencer’s barrels. Winds are up. With good sail and all watches on deck, I can overtake her before she reaches sight of land. They will expect no trouble and will not be watching. We shall see her on the bottom before so much as a pipeful reaches the coast.” He stared hard into the fire, the look on his face one of fury barely contained.
“Do you not feel enough has been done?”
“Never.”
“I paid my due. Leave this be.?
??
“He will pay his.”
CHAPTER 29
February 25, 1756
August had been gone three weeks or so—it was a bitter, late February morning when the Reverend Mr. Clarke, the pastor of First Church, called. I could not say that I felt changed afterward but I wished the blot I had brought upon myself would go away. Reverend Clarke assured me it would. “It will be talked about until some other thing comes along. Have no fear. Hold up your head, Goodwife. You have paid your debt to the town and now to your God. No one condemns you.”
I bridled my anger and served him tea, though I felt a childish want to scold him in return. I knew I had been wrong. I felt mortified.
When he left with a small napkin wrapped around half an apple pudding, I went to the barn and began collecting eggs in a basket. The sounds of the chickens and geese murmuring at my feet lulled and soothed me and the dozen or so eggs in my basket made me think of pies I might make. I began to sing. The barn door creaked. I looked up. It moved back and forth in the wind. “Reverend?” I called. “Have you more to say?” The door creaked again, swinging to and fro. “There you are, you silly girl,” I said, to a speckled hen. “Two today? Did I miss your nest yesterday?” I reached in and pushed her off the eggs she sat upon. The hairs on my arm stood up. I shook off the chill. The door creaked again but I ignored it. I clutched the eggs in my left hand and turned to put them in the basket draped over my right arm. I dropped the two eggs. They made a gentle-sounding crush as they hit the hard-packed mud floor.
Standing in the sunlight of the open barn door was a man. An Indian. He wore leggings and breechclout. His face tattooed, his arms glistening with grease and full muscles bound by a band on one arm, he stood stock-still as if he had come for the eggs and had been caught off guard by my presence. I was aware that someone had made the sound of a whimper of fear and that the sound may have come from me.
“Talbot?” he asked.
“What?” I stammered. “What do you want?” I raised my brows and held the basket of eggs toward him. “Are you hungry?” I asked, gesturing with the basket.
“I find woman-child Talbot.”
“What do you know about a girl named Talbot? Who are you?”
“My mother woman-child Talbot. She sends one find other Talbot. Her name now Weenak-echon. Willow Bend Down. Mother old name Shield of Owasso.”
I drew in a breath. “Shield of Owasso? Red Shield of Bear? Patience Talbot? You—you are her son?” I stepped toward him.
“Where woman-child Talbot?”
“I am she. Resolute Catherine Talbot. I have a husband now. My name is MacLammond.”
He broke his stony look with a sly smile. “Mack. Lamb-ben. Talbot now Mack Lamb-ben. What means Mack Lamb-ben?”
I thought a moment and saw Cullah’s face before my eyes, my Eadan with claymore ready, his image bristling with the ancient danger of a Highland fighter under an echo of skirling pipes. “It means Warrior.”
He seemed to be thinking. “Woman named Warrior?” He looked about the barn. “Sister of Shield of Owasso called Warrior.” He turned back to me. “Woman named Warrior, sister Willow Bend Down old. Our people war. Old ones and babes killed by English. Old mother wishes come to sister Mack Lamb-ben. Cannot run, much bend down.”
“Patience is alive? Shield of Bear, I mean. English are killing your babies? Your old ones?” It was too much all at once. “She comes to me?”
He nodded. “Willow Bend Down come this place. You keep? Keep safe?”
I could see him better then. My eyes had adjusted to the glare behind him. “Are you the man who came here before? You came to the house and took yarn?” He understood not. “You go there”—I pointed at him, at the house, made a fist—“took wool.”
He smiled. Why, his eyes shined merrily, his teeth clean and straight, and the face of him not at all threatening! He said, “Skimp wool. Not good to sew, too much breaks. Willow Bend Down tell sister who make skimp wool.”
The smiling dolt had just insulted me. I sharpened the tone of my voice. “It is not meant for sewing, it is wool for weaving. It must be fine to make—oh, what am I saying? Forget the yarn. Where is Patience? Where is Willow Bend Down?”
“Come,” he said, and motioned to me with his hand. He still smiled.
I moved toward the door. He pushed it wider. There stood a woman in deerskins, bent over, crouched under a heavy bearskin cape and holding to a walking stick. Her long, braided hair was motley with red, gray-white, and yellowing strands. She wore grease on her sun-darkened arms, a band around her head. She had a tattoo of a solid black line across her face as if another band encircled her cheekbones and crossed the bridge of her nose. When she saw me, she straightened a little and raised her face.
The man spoke to her. I recognized when he said “Mack Lam-ben,” but nothing more. The woman nodded. She spoke to him and raised her arm, her hand uplifted. He gave the same gesture, even more slowly, as if he were trying to press a memory into his heart. Then the young man looked warily about the place and trotted into the woods where he disappeared, leaving me staring at this creature before me. She stared back, her eyes of pale green searching my face. I pulled my cap back. My hair had not faded as hers had, having rarely seen the sun upon it. I stepped closer. “Patey?”
“Ressie?” Then she muttered something I could not understand.
“C’est moi. Is it you? Est-ce vraiment toi?” I asked. She spoke again, words that seemed more clear but were neither English nor French. “Can you speak no English at all?” I asked, leaning down so our faces were at the same height. I knelt in the dirt. She did the same. When we were both on our knees, we leaned toward each other, staring. At last, I said, “Patience? Patey?”
She nodded. At first hesitantly, then assuredly. I smelled on her the wilderness, smoke from a thousand fires, blood from butchering animals, sweat and sunshine from all our years apart. We fell into each other’s arms, both breaking into loud weeping. As she cried, I smelled something else. A sour, death smell, a disease. No wonder she could not keep up. Patey had come to me, had been brought to me by a son half Indian, half Talbot, not willing to let her be left behind to face the ravages of war.
I made room for my sister at one end of the parlor. With Jacob’s help, we created a bed where, I remembered—before there were children, before there were additional floors to this house—there had once been a bed. Our first. Patience stayed in it, much of the day. She seemed so weary. Then in the afternoons, when it warmed, she rose and sat in my chair by the fire.
Little by little, Patey regained her speech, and she seemed to long to tell me all the years of her life gone by. In short tales by our evening fireside, she told me of her husband Massapoquot, of their nine children, and of the one young man who brought her to me. She would not tell me his name, but said, “Call him John.”
When she had eaten good broth and bread for a few days and seemed more well, I at last asked her, “From what are you ill?”
“I have a stone in my stomach, that is all I know.” She had found her English words, though she spoke slowly.
“I will take you to physicians in Boston.”
“No. Look at me. I am more Indian than English. One look at the mark upon my face and they will either turn me away or put me in jail or a lunatic hospital. If you will have me leave you, I will walk away and die as my people have died for all of time.”
Her people? How could she believe that Indians were her people? Talbots were her people. Earls and nobles were her people. I felt so distressed I was sure it came out in my voice. “What causes stones in the stomach?”
“The sachem did not know. He said I may have eaten a stone left in some beans and it grew in the place where a child should grow. Or, I may have eaten the seed of a wolf, because sometimes it feels as if I am being chewed from inside. I fear I am dying.”
“Oh, Patience. Do you feel better at all, after the bath and the soup?”
She smiled and winced. “It would m
ake you happy if I said yes.”
I bowed my head and held her hands in mine and pressed them. How alike we were, yet no longer the same skin. We both had calluses in different places, but her hands looked tanned as if by a leather worker. The skin even on the backs of the hands was thickened. I leaned toward her, and as if I had asked her to do the same, she inclined herself toward me. We touched our faces to each other. I held Patience and wept sweet, bitter tears. So much time gone by. So many things we never shared. Yet it was her choice, I reminded myself, and that, too, brought tears to my eyes. Now that she was returned, she would soon die.
My children were both awed and terrified of her. America conquered her timidity soonest, as would be expected. Sometimes, Patey rocked the littlest ones, and that included, to his great joy, Benjamin. Unlike his uncle August expecting him to behave in a manly way, Patey petted him and let him return to baby ways as much as Dolly. After about a fortnight of that, he grew tired of babying and told her he had quite grown up.
“That is good, little Ben,” she said. “If you would like to be held, that will be good as well. You may choose.”
“Why do you do that?” I asked. “We thought it wise to prepare him to be a man by not letting him act a child.”
“But he is a child. An adult has life hard enough. Let them have their comforts when they are still soft and weak. There is no good come of beating a child but filling him with hatred and, and, I cannot remember the word. Resent.”
“Resentment? We do not beat our children, Patey.”
“Most English do. It is said they eat them in times of famine.”