The Winthrop Woman Read online

  The other customer was a stranger, and obviously a gentleman, for he was dressed in taupe velvet with a sword at his hip, and wore a large plumed hat above curling lovelocks glistening with pomade. He strode into the shop demanding with some arrogance to know whether they carried the best Verina tobacco, and upon Thomas bowing low and assuring him that they did, the young man leaned against the counter and requested to try its merits then and there, while he stared boldly at Elizabeth. She was used to that type of stare, which she calmly returned before lowering her lashes and fetching one of the little clay pipes they kept ready. She filled the pipe with their best minced tobacco, then lit it for him, smiling faintly, pleased with so interesting a break in the day's routine.

  "Ah—splendid..." drawled the young man on a deep breath, letting the smoke drift out of his nostrils. "Fine tobacco ... and I should know.... since I have recently been growing it in Barbadoes." It seemed to Elizabeth that he spoke with meaning, and that his eyes moved watchfully from her to her father. This puzzled her, but Thomas noticed nothing, and said without enthusiasm, "Indeed, sir? We have a young kinsman who is there now, but this is none of his tobacco, I assure you. It was most inferior."

  "Ah so?" said the young man..."sad, sad." He seemed about to add something else, but did not. He looked at Elizabeth instead. "Well, this is excellent," he said, "I vow I shall return later and buy a pound of it, for the moment I've not my purse with me ... unless, perchance..." he paused delicately and looked at the apothecary, "My name is Robert Seaton, esquire, I have lodgings at the Sign of the Bell in Aldersgate, near in fact to my good friend the Earl of Thanet's mansion."

  Thomas hesitated only a moment. "But of course you shall take the tobacco now, sir, and settle the account at your leisure, and I trust that in future you'll be pleased to patronize The Three Fauns again!"

  "Wiry, to be sure—" said Seaton smiling, "and since you are so kind, I've a touch of the ague, perhaps you have some electuary that might help...?"

  As Seaton had hoped, Thomas nodded and turned in to his stillroom. The young gallant leaned close to Elizabeth and whispered, "Slip out into your garden quick as you can ... over to the Wall behind the rose trellis!" As she looked both startled and indignant, he added urgently, "There's a valentine awaiting you!"

  "Sir—" she said tartly though she kept her voice low, "I assure you I've no interest in your valentines, find yourself another."

  He shook his head violently, in denial of exactly what she was not sure, because Thomas came back with a flask of betony water. The young man thanked him, took the pound of tobacco, and went out, but his lips formed "the garden" to Elizabeth behind her father's back.

  Such effrontery! I certainly shall not go, she thought as she dusted the tobacco crumbs off the counter, nor did she find him particularly attractive. Yet how did this Robert Seaton know there was a rose trellis in the garden, how did he expect to get into the locked garden, and how was it that he had a valentine all ready for her? It could do no harm to find out, she decided suddenly. It was even perhaps her duty to investigate so peculiar an invasion herself, since Richard was out and her father virtually crippled.

  She murmured a quick excuse to Thomas and slipped past him into the house. As she walked down the passage to the garden door, she wiped her hands on her apron, and loosened her kerchief so that several dark curls escaped to frame her forehead and cheeks in the becoming way the Queen had made fashionable. The garden appeared quite deserted. She walked a trifle nervously up the brick path around the sundial whose brass pointer shadowed XI, past a bed of sweet marjoram and yellow violets to the trellis. Between the trellis and the wall there was an ancient spreading yew, and she saw a flicker of motion behind it.

  "Who's there?" she called resolutely. "Is it you, Mr. Seaton? I only came to inquire by what means you intrude on our—" She stopped with a gasp, as a tall figure in brown emerged laughing from behind the yew, grabbed her roughly and stifled the scream in her throat with a kiss. Her response was a violent resounding slap. She was instantly released while a voice between mirth and anger cried, "God's bloody wounds! What a greeting!" She stared and her jaw dropped. "Harry...?" she whispered uncertainly. "But you're in Barbadoes..." So astonished was she and so unlike her memory of him did he look that she felt a quiver of fear. There were ghosts that appeared like this, there was witchcraft—whereby the devil took on human form to tempt maidens who were not discreet.

  "Aye, I'm Harry, in truth," he said ruefully rubbing his cheek where the marks of her fingers sprang red against the tanned skin. "As you, Bess, have turned a vixen, in truth ... but let be—I'm pleased to find my cousin so virtuous. Did you think it was Seaton?"

  She nodded, still staring at him. His blond hair was bleached with flaxen streaks from the sun, his skin was browner than any she had ever seen. There were small gold hoops in his ear lobes; he wore a cutlass and a pistol at his belt. There was a careless swagger about him even though his leather jerkin was sweat- and sea-stained, and one seam was ripped open. He was tall, taller than the other Winthrop men, and far handsomer than they. His eyes were blue, heavy-lidded and bold, yet in their mirthful light and the deep set beneath arched brows there was something of Jack. And seeing this she felt the familiar pang, and consequently a melting towards Harry whom she had always thought of as a nuisance and a scamp.

  "Tell me," she said slowly. "How is it that you're in England ... and why this stealth ... and how —" she said frowning and still perplexed, "did you get into the garden?"

  He laughed and jerked his chin. "Over the Wall, my lass, how else? 'Tis simple enough though I tore my jerkin on the iron spikes atop. No matter, I shall now order me a new scarlet suit at Seaton's tailor. This is hardly garb for a gentleman o' London—where by the way I arrived this morning."

  "Why?" she said. "I mean, why didn't you come to us openly, since you are back?"

  He spoke slower than he used to, almost in a lazy drawl which now had a mocking edge. "Because, I have some reason to doubt my welcome in certain quarters. My father's and Uncle Downing's letters have been scarce admiring of late,... so, my sweet coz, I thought I'd see you first, mayhap learn from which quarter the wind doth blow." He gave her a lopsided smile of considerable charm, and leaned towards her touching her bare arm. "You've not turned long-mouthed and decorous while I've been gone, have you, Bess? As I remember our childhood you were nearly as black a sheep as I!"

  She tried to look rebuking, and she tried to still a quickening of her pulses, but she could neither. Instead his touch pleased her as had no man's but Jack's. It is because it's his brother, she thought—their kinship that I feel. And she said, "But why did you come back, Harry, and what is it you want now?"

  "'Tis a dry tale, sweetheart," he said shrugging. "So let's wet our whistles and sit there, for the telling of it." He pointed to a wooden bench beneath the trellis.

  She cast an anxious look towards the house, knowing she would soon be missed when the family gathered for dinner, but she sat down beside him. A leather flask hung from his belt. He unbuckled it and took a long drink. "Now you —" he insisted. She sputtered and coughed as the burning pungent liquor ran down her throat. "What is it?"

  "Rum," said Harry laughing at her. "The joy and solace of the Indies. 'Tis a drink of almighty Mars's own blood to fighters, of Venus's enchanted milk to lovers!" He took another pull from the bottle.

  "Harry—what is this talk!" Surely these were pagan gods he named in the same chanting voice his father used for public prayer! "You sound nothing like you used to."

  "Nay, and why should I? I was a raw lad of eighteen when I left, and now I'm twenty-one. I've learned hunger and danger, and the gut-shaking peril of the sea. I've learned the sweetness of a moonlit beach where the water laps like warm velvet, and it matters not that the woman in your arms is black." At her in-gasp of breath, he turned to her, his eyebrows raised and he drawled even slower. "I've learned what it is to have an enemy, and walk ever watchful in fear of murder, and then ...
to kill that enemy before he cuts me off." He tilted his eyebrows, watching her shocked face sardonically.

  "Harry—" she whispered, after a moment. "This man you killed ... he was a black?"

  "Nay, sweet. He was an Englishman, even as I. And until last September we settled our quarrels amongst us on Barbadoes, each man as he saw fit. But then alas a governor was sent us, one Wolferstone, a narrow man—and before he pried his long nose too deep into my matter, I thought it best to leave."

  She looked at him in wonder and excitement, aching to know more and yet afraid to question.

  "Might the Governor send after you to London?" she asked at last.

  Harry shook his head. "Far too busy with the Spaniards who are assaulting the Islands again; moreover who's to carry word to London? Since the two captains of the only ships that touch Barbadoes are friends of mine!" He grinned at her. "Bess, it would be wise to forget what I've just told you. In tame and peaceful little England they take crotchety views of bloodshed."

  "Yes," she said, gazing at his handsome face. "I will forget ... yet, Harry, I think England is not so tame and peaceful as when you left. There be bitter things take place in parliament these days, and fierce murmurings against the King and Bishop Laud."

  "Pah!" said Harry, raising the flask. "So Robert Seaton told me when I went to him this morning from the ship. This pother about religious practice! It irks me—" He clamped his mouth shut, aware that he was talking very freely, and that it was not only the rum had loosened his tongue. It was the girl and her wide-eyed interest, the admiring looks she gave him from her beautiful heavy-lashed eyes. There had been a lord's younger son on Barbadoes, more scholar than planter, though in truth none of the sixty planters gave much thought to the plantations where the indentured servants from England, the slaves, both African Negro and Carib Indian, all labored fitfully at the soil while their masters lazed or fought the days away beneath the tropic sun. This lord's son had brought vellum-bound and entertaining books from home. Harry for the first time discovered that there was pleasure in reading and that not all books were pious. There had been a folio of plays by some actor at the Globe that had many good stories in it, including that of an adventurous Moor who boasted of his exploits to a lady who listened much as Bess did. The Moor had fallen madly in love with her and she with him ... Harry checked himself. That was a foolish thought in regard to his little cousin, Bess. London was full of fair women, and with Seaton he hoped to sample some of them tonight. Let him not grow maudlin over the first pretty white wench he had talked to in years. He had moved away from her on the bench and said abruptly, "Where is my father, Bess—at Uncle Downing's?"

  She shook her head. "Back at Groton, since Hilary Term has ended."

  He nodded with relief. "I've no wish to see him yet, nor be packed off to rusticate in Suffolk. On the other hand, well," he cocked his head and gave her the lopsided smile, "not to beat the devil round the bush, I've landed without a farthing in my purse. I can't lodge with Seaton who already owes a quarter's rent, nor do I care to beg for shelter under our estimable Aunt Lucy's thumb, so—"

  "So you'll come here, of course!" she said, trying to hide a rush of joy.

  "Will he receive me?"

  "Aye," she said, thinking fast and summoning all her knowledge of her father. "But best not like this. You must seem prosperous, assured. Borrow fine clothes from your friend Seaton, talk big of your prospects, show condescension, yet flatter him—you must know what I mean."

  "I do," said Harry laughing. "And I thank heaven I've so clever a little coz. I'll be back later at the front door, but first a kiss before I go, sweetheart, one that doesn't end in a slap!" He started to pull her into his arms, but she twisted quickly and jumped up from the bench.

  "No, no, I beg—" she stammered, "Listen, you hear it's very late," for Paul's bell began to clang out the noon strokes, and then St. Sepulchre chimed in with its lighter peal. "Go, please, hurry!"

  Harry shrugged, amused at her panic, yet touched by it too. "Till later then!"

  She watched anxiously while he scaled the twenty-odd feet of wall, finding hand and toeholds where she could see none. She held her breath as he edged himself around the ridge of overhanging sharp iron spikes, until he finally stood on top and waved down at her. Then she ran through the garden into the house, just as the family were gathering for dinner. Fortunately Thomas had been so pleasantly occupied in concocting a special strong physic for a new customer, Lady Deborah Moody, that he had not noticed the length of her absence.

  Harry returned at five that afternoon and rapped boldly on the front door. Elizabeth watching her father's startled greetings had much ado to hide her mirth, for Harry had followed all her instructions. Though he was taller than Seaton, that young man's second-best clothing fitted him well enough. The slashed green doublet and falling ruff, the high leather boots, embroidered gauntlets, and large black felt hat were those of an elegant cavalier. He had even borrowed Seaton's ivory cane—the height of fashion—though the fine sword and engraved scabbard were his own, and the only thing of value he had been able to bring with him in his hurried escape; except a squat young man carrying a sea chest, whom Harry beckoned through the door, before the startled apothecary had had time to think.

  "My servant—" said Harry carelessly, pointing to the man. "Name's Peyto, very devoted to me. Can no doubt make himself useful in the kitchen, by your leave, Aunt?" He smiled charmingly at Priscilla, who fluttered and murmured, "To be sure, indeed. For certain..." while staring as they all were at Harry's companion. Peyto was short and swarthy with alert black eyes and a scar on his cheek which was shaped something like the letter T though he had done his best, by means of a sharp knife, to reduce the resemblance. And Peyto wore his hair longer than befitted a proper servant, since this covered the cropping of both his ears. He was, however, correctly garbed in frogged tunic, gray knee breeches and white cotton stockings; a livery he had that afternoon appropriated without the knowledge of its owner, a servant employed in the house next to Seaton's lodgings. Nor had Harry inquired too closely into the providential appearance of these clothes, knowing that Peyto never answered questions he did not wish to. But the man was devoted to Harry, and grateful in his own way that in the guise of Harry's servant he had been able to slip back into England. Peyto Smith was a gypsy from a tribe that wandered the North, in Cumberland and the Scottish Border. Six years ago, his inherited talents for horse-stealing had brought unfortunate results, which culminated in branding, and ear-cropping, and then deportation to Virginia with a shipload of other young felons. Peyto was immediately bored with Virginia and homesick for his own people, so he set his considerable wits to work, and stowed away on the first likely ship that touched at Jamestown. This took him to Barbadoes, where he soon discovered Harry and attached himself to him, while Harry for his part found Peyto far more congenial than the three plodding Suffolk servants his father had sent him, and whom he had left behind to shift for themselves.

  "It is a surprise, a great surprise, my dear Henry," said Thomas Fones, still recovering from the sweeping entrance of his nephew. "A pleasure, of course—'twould seem you've been prospering ... though the tobacco you sent..."

  "Ah yes, shocking—poor stuff," interrupted Harry, shaking his head. "Entirely the fault of my stupid slaves, but now the crop is vastly improved, vastly! I brought you a sample." Harry smiled and pulled from his pocket the pound of tobacco which Seaton had that morning taken from the apothecary, though it had been transferred to a pouch. "Please to accept it, it's yours," he added graciously. "And when my goods arrive, I hope that you—and my dear aunt—will do me the favor to accept some other trifles."

  "Very kind, I'm sure," said Thomas sniffing at the tobacco. "Aye, this is fine—the best Verina, I judge ... my lad, I'm glad you're doing well. 'Twill delight your father, and Mr. Downing ... have you seen him yet?"

  "Oh, no," said Harry. "I've come first to you. Perhaps I shouldn't confess it, but of all places in London the
Three Fauns has ever seemed more homelike than any other and its occupants more dear to me."

  Elizabeth turned to the window to hide laughter. The graceless rogue! she thought. Not only for magnificently presenting the apothecary with his own tobacco, but for knowing that Thomas Fones was in awe of Emmanuel Downing and faintly jealous of him because of his closer intimacy with the Winthrops. Harry had surely struck the most expedient note, and the apothecary smiled. "Well, well, nephew, I scarce think my simple home deserves much praise, but such as it is, pray consider it yours, for as long as you will honor it. Come, join me in a drink to celebrate your homecoming, while the women prepare the guest chamber."

  Thus to Elizabeth's delight, and her father's initial gratification, was Harry installed at the Foneses'. Thomas presently dispatched to John Winthrop a reassuring letter which enlarged on Harry's remarkable improvement, and prosperity. Harry himself, though he loathed writing and spelled worse than any of the family, judged it wise to send his father an accompanying note. It was full of filial affection and vague though confident reference to plantation affairs, urgent need to stay in London near influential friends, and impressive plans about to ripen. It closed with a tactful request for money to cover a temporary embarrassment until the next ship arrived from Barbadoes.

  On an afternoon three days later at Groton Manor, John Winthrop received these letters from the London carrier and read them with astonishment and disquiet. Then he went in search of Margaret who was still in the washhouse with her two-year-old Sammy clinging to her skirts. She was superintending the laundry maids, and starching the family's delicate lace collars and pleated ruffs herself. "Come out here, my dear," said John, sniffing distastefully at the steamy air in the washhouse. "There's news."

  She wiped her hands and followed John into the sunny courtyard where chickens scratched at piles of manure and two blooded hounds basked by the stables. "Is it bad?" she asked anxiously. "Not the King again!"