The Witch of Blackbird Pond by Elizabeth George Speare
"A five-year-old could do better. As if things weren't bad enough here in this house. If we had to have a cousin at all why couldn't it have been a boy?"
"A boy!" Rachel's answer was a long sigh. "Yes, a boy would have been different, that's true. Poor Matthew!"
Turning, Kit fled up the stairs. When Judith came to bed she was already under the covers, huddled far over to one side of the wide bed, her face hidden against a damp pillow. For a long time after Judith blew out the candle Kit lay rigid, fearful that a single sniff might give her away. But the feather mattress was deliciously soft, and her weary nerves gradually relaxed.
Suddenly, however, she sat straight up.
"What was that?" she quavered, forgetting her pride.
"What was what?" yawned Judith crossly. The long eerie noise sounded again. Indians?
"Oh, that! That's only a wolf!" scoffed Judith. "Goodness, you're not making all that fuss about one old wolf? Wait till you hear a pack of them."
CHAPTER 5
THESE ARE the only clothes I have," protested Kit. "If they are not suitable, I shall stay here with Mercy."
Through the crystal Sabbath morning the Meeting House bell tolled steadily. Matthew Wood stood on the threshold of his home, his bushy eyebrows massed close together as he surveyed the three women who waited to accompany him. Beside the plain blue homespun and white linen which modestly clothed Aunt Rachel and Judith, Kit's flowered silk gave her the look of some vivid tropical bird lighted by mistake on a strange shore. The modish bonnet with curling white feathers seemed to her uncle a crowning affront.
"You will mock the Lord's assembly with such frippery," he roared.
This was the second time this morning that her uncle's wrath had descended on her head. An hour ago she had declined to go to Meeting, saying airily that she and her grandfather had seldom attended divine service, except for the Christmas Mass. What an uproar she had caused! There was no Church of England in Wethersfield, her uncle had informed her, and furthermore, since she was now a member of his household she would forget her popish ideas and attend Meeting like a God-fearing woman. This time, however, he was baffled; he knew as well as she that there were no garments to spare in that house.
Rachel laid a placating hand on her husband's sleeve. "Matthew," she pleaded, "everyone knows that the child has not had time to get new clothes. Besides, it would be wasteful to throw these aside. Katherine looks very pretty, and I'm proud to have her go with us."
Judith was certainly not proud of her. Judith was as outraged as her father, though for a different reason. Her pretty mouth had a sulky droop, and the long fringe of lashes barely hid the envy and rebellion in her blue eyes. This first venture outside her new home was not starting out auspiciously for Kit, but as they set out along the road she could not repress her curiosity and bouncing spirits. If they were going to church then there must be a town somewhere beyond this narrow road. Under a brilliant blue sky Wethersfield held far more welcome than on that first foggy dawn. There was a delicious crispness in the air.
The family walked along High Street, past a row of substantial frame houses, and came out on a small square clearing. Kit looked about eagerly. "Is it far to the town?" she whispered to Judith.
There was a silence. "This is the town," said Judith stiffly.
The town! Kit stared, too aghast to realize her own tactlessness. There was not a single stone building or shop in sight. The Meeting House stood in the center of the clearing, a square unpainted wooden structure, topped by a small turret. As they crossed the clearing Kit recoiled at the objects that stood between her and the Meeting House; a pillory, a whipping post and stocks.
Inside the small building, on rows of benches, sat the good folk of Wethersfield, men on one side and women on the other. At the door Matthew Wood left his family and moved with dignity to the deacon's bench directly in front of the pulpit. Rachel preceded the two girls down the aisle to the family bench. As Kit moved behind her the astonishment of the assembled townspeople met her with the impact of a gathering wave. It was not so much a sound as a stillness so intent that it made her ears ring. She knew that her cheeks were flaming, but she held her head high under the feathered bonnet.
The Puritan service seemed to her as plain and unlovely as the bare board walls of the Meeting House. She felt a moment's surprise when her uncle stepped forward to line the psalm. His firm nasal voice set the tune and pace, one line at a time, and the congregation repeated it after him. By the time the long psalm was over Kit was glad to sit down, but presently she longed to stand again. The hard edge of the narrow pew bit into her thigh, in spite of every gingerly effort to shift her weight. Kit's gaze flicked over the other churchfolk. A varied lot they were. Not all of them shared her uncle's opinions of seemly garb; some were as fashionably dressed as Kit herself. But the majority were soberly and poorly clad, and here and there, in the farthermost pews, Kit glimpsed the familiar black faces that must be slaves. All of them however were alike in their reverent silence. How could they sit there without twitching a muscle, even with the black flies buzzing under their bonnet brims? It was impossible that they could be listening to the sermon. She could not keep her mind on it for an instant.
A steady rustling sound told her that a few muscles were as unruly as her own. On the stairs leading to the gallery nearly twenty small boys were clustered, shoulder to shoulder, and the solid ranks undulated with the constant jerking of restless elbows straining under tight woolen jackets. A rosy-cheeked boy on the second step, with one fleeting motion, captured a fly and held it imprisoned against his knees. Four boys nearest him were convulsed. Snickers spilled out past the hands they clapped over their mouths. A man stepped menacingly from the corner brandishing a long pole, and Kit winced as two sharp raps descended on each luckless head. The cause of all the commotion sat serenely, his rapt, innocent gaze never straying from the minister's face, his hand still cupped over the imprisoned fly. Kit felt a giggle rising in her own throat, and looking frantically for distraction, caught John Holbrook's eye. He looked away without a sign of recognition.
Bother these people! Look at Judith, sitting there with her hands folded in her lap. Didn't her feet ever go to sleep? Nevertheless, if this were a test of endurance, then she could see it through as well as these New Englanders. She tilted her chin so that one plume swept gracefully against her cheek, discreetly curled and uncurled her numb toes inside the kid slippers, and set herself to endure.
The sun slanted directly downward through the chinks in the roof when the sermon ended. It must have been a good two hours, and would, Kit suspected, have been much longer had not the minister's voice grown increasingly hoarse till it threatened to fail altogether. Kit rose thankfully for the final prayer, and stood respectfully with the rest of the congregation till the minister had passed down the aisle to the door.
Outside the Meeting House the Reverend Gershom Bulkeley took Kit's hand in his. "So this is the orphan from Barbados?" he rasped. "How grateful you must be, young lady, for the kindness of your aunt and uncle in your time of need."
Two deacons also took her hand and stressed the word grateful. Had Uncle Matthew informed the whole town that he had taken her in out of charity? If so, then she was obviously a surprise to them, by the suspicion and downright hostility with which the deacons' wives were surveying her from feathered hat to slippered toe. She did not look like a pauper. Let them make what they liked of that!
Most of the churchgoers did not come near her. A little distance away she glimpsed Goodwife Cruff, surrounded by a close huddle of whispering women, all darting venomous glances in Kit's direction. Kit turned a defiant back on them, but first she sent a friendly wave to Prudence, whose peaked little face turned pink with delight.
With a flash of pleasure she saw John Holbrook approaching, but her impulsive greeting froze as she saw that Reverend Bulkeley had the young man firmly by the elbow. In the shadow of his teacher an extra staidness had fallen over the young divinity st
"I was glad to see you in Meeting," he said gravely, "you must have found the sermon uplifting."
Kit was nonplussed.
"How very fortunate we were to hear Dr. Bulkeley," John continued, taking her silence for agreement. He rarely preaches now, since his retirement. 'Twas a truly remarkable sermon. Every word seemed to me inspired."
Kit stared at him. Yes, actually, he was serious. Dr. Bulkeley had moved out of earshot, and there was no hint of flattery in John's earnest words. She was floundering for an answer when Judith spoke.
"Dr. Bulkeley's sermons are always inspired," she said demurely, "especially when he preaches about the final judgment."
John marked Judith's presence with surprise and respect. Under the white bonnet her face was sweetly serious, her eyes dazzlingly blue.
"His learning is incredible," he told her. "He can recite entire chapters of Scripture, and he knows law and medicine as well."
John's blush as he found the learned doctor again at his elbow was all the more flattering. Dr. Bulkeley glowed indulgently.
"I do know a bit of Scripture," he admitted. "But this young man has made a good start, a very good start indeed."
"You must bring your new pupil with you when you come to dine with us on Thursday," smiled Rachel Wood, and with a gracious acceptance Dr. Bulkeley steered his charge away. "And now, Katherine dear, here is another neighbor you must meet. Mistress Ashby, my niece from Barbados."
Kit curtsied, noting with satisfaction that this was one woman who did not despise vain adornment. Mistress Ashby's dove-colored damask with its gilt-edged lace must have come straight from England.
"And her son, William," continued her aunt. Braced to meet the reserve and suspicion she had encountered at every introduction so far, Kit was startled to meet the unmistakably dazzled gaze of William Ashby, and unconsciously she rewarded him with the first genuine smile she had managed this morning. Kit had no idea of what happened to her thin plain features when she smiled. William was speechless. As she turned to follow her aunt and Judith, Kit knew for certain that he had not moved, and that if she looked back she would see his sturdy frame planted motionless in the path. She did not look back, but she knew.
Walking back along the road Judith signaled Kit to fall behind the others. "You never mentioned that there was a handsome man on that boat," she whispered accusingly.
"Handsome? You mean John Holbrook?"
"You certainly seemed to know each other well enough."
"Well, there was no one else to talk to. But most of the time he sat by himself and studied."
"Have you set your cap for him?" asked Judith bluntly.
Kit colored to the edge of her bonnet. She would never get used to Judith's outspokenness.
"Goodness, no!" she protested. "Whatever made you think of such a thing?"
"I just wondered," Judith responded, and as Matthew Wood turned a stern look back at them, both girls walked on in silence.
"You certainly made an impression on William Ashby," Judith ventured presently.
There was no point in denying it. "Perhaps because I was someone new," said Kit.
"Perhaps. You aren't exactly pretty, you know. But naturally William would be impressed by a dress like that."
Kit wanted to change the subject. Wisps of smoke were beginning to rise from the chimneys of several small log lean-tos along the roadway. They seemed to offer a safe topic.
"Do people live in those tiny houses?" she inquired.
"Of course not. Those are Sabbath houses." Then Judith emerged from her own musings long enough to explain. "Families that live too far to go home between services cook their meal there on Sunday, and in the winter they can warm themselves at a fire."
A chill trickle of doubt began to cool the glow of the noontime sun and the memory of William Ashby's admiration. Surely Judith could not mean—
"Did you say—between services?" Kit inquired fearfully.
"Didn't you know there's a second service in the afternoon?"
Kit was appalled. "Do you mean we have to go?"
"Of course we go," snapped Judith. "That is what the Sabbath is for."
Kit came to a halt, and suddenly she stamped her foot in the dusty road. "I won't do it!" she declared. "I absolutely won't endure that all over again!"
But one look ahead at her uncle's shoulders, rigid in their Sunday black, and she knew that she would. Almost choking with helpless rage she stumbled after Judith, who had moved ahead too absorbed to even notice. Oh, why had she ever come to this hateful place?
CHAPTER 6
REVEREND GERSHOM BULKELEY laid down his linen napkin, pushed back his heavy chair from the table, and expanded his straining waistcoat in a satisfied sigh.
"A very excellent dinner, Mistress Wood. I warrant there's not a housewife in the colonies can duplicate your apple tarts."
He had just better compliment that dinner, thought Kit. The preparation of it had taken the better part of four days. Every inch of the great kitchen had been turned inside out. The floor had been fresh-sanded, the hearthstone polished, the pewter scoured. The brick oven had been heated for two nights in a row, and the whole family had gone without sugar since Sunday to make sure that the minister's notorious sweet tooth would be satisfied.
Well, Dr. Bulkeley had been pleased, but had anyone else? Matthew Wood had eaten little and spoken scarcely a word. He sat now with his lips pressed tight together. Rachel looked tired and flustered, and even Mercy seemed unusually quiet. Only Judith had blossomed. In the candlelight she looked bewitching, and Reverend Bulkeley smiled whenever he looked at her. But the greatest part of his condescension he had bestowed on Kit, once he had understood that her grandfather had been Sir Francis Tyler. He himself had visited Antigua in the West Indies, he had told her, and he was acquainted with some of the plantation owners there. He went back to the subject now for the third time.
"So, young lady, your grandfather was knighted for loyalty by King Charles, you say? A great honor, a very great honor indeed. And I take it he was a loyal subject of our good King James as well?"
"Why, of course, sir."
"And you yourself? You are a loyal subject also?"
"How could I be otherwise, sir?" Kit was puzzled.
"There are some who seem to find it possible," remarked the minister, staring meaningfully at a ceiling beam. "See that you keep your allegiance."
With an abrupt scrape of wood Matthew pushed back his chair. "Her allegiance is in no danger in this house," he announced angrily. "What are you implying, Gershom?"
"I meant nothing to offend you, Matthew," said the older man.
"Then watch your words. May I remind you I am a selectman in this town? I am no traitor!"
"I said no such thing, nor did I mean it. Mistaken, Matthew, I hold to that, but not a traitor—yet."
"I am mistaken," Mathew Wood challenged him, "because I do not favor knuckling under to this new King's governor?"
"Governor Andros was appointed by King James. Massachusetts has recognized that."
"Well, we here in Connecticut will never recognize it—never! Do you think we have labored and sacrificed all these years to build up a free government only to hand it over now without a murmur?"
"I say you are mistaken!" growled Gershom Bulkeley. "Mark my words, Matthew. If you do not live to see the evil results, your children or their children will suffer. Call it what you will, this stubbornness can lead only to revolution."
Matthew's eyes flashed. "There are worse things than revolution!"
"I know more about that than you. I was surgeon in the Fort fight with the Indians. War is an evil, Matthew. Believe me, there can no good thing come of bloodshed."
"Who is asking for bloodshed? We ask only to keep the rights that have already been granted to us in the charter."
The two men sat glaring at e
"I had looked forward to hearing Reverend Bulkeley read to us this evening," she said gently.
Dr. Bulkeley sent her a gracious smile and considered. "I have to coddle this throat of mine," he decided. "But my young pupil here is a very exceptional reader. I shall pass the honor on to him."
Grudgingly Matthew Wood lifted the heavy Bible and placed it in John Holbrook's hand, and Rachel moved a pewter candlestick nearer to his elbow. John had been respectfully silent all the evening. Indeed, he had had little opportunity to be anything else, and he now seemed pleased out of all proportion at this slight notice from his master. Kit felt suddenly provoked at him. One week in Wethersfield seemed to have changed the dignified young man she had known on shipboard. Tonight he appeared to be a shadow, hanging on every word from this pompous opinionated man. Even now he dared not assert himself but held the Bible uncertainly in his hands and asked, "What would you have me read, sir?"
"I would suggest Proverbs, 24th Chapter, 21st verse," said the old minister, with a canny gleam in his eye which Kit understood as John began to read.
"My son, fear the Lord and the King, and meddle not with them that are given to change, For their calamity shall rise suddenly, and who knoweth the ruin of them both?"
There was a harsh sound from Matthew, checked in response to his wife's pleading eyes. John continued reading.
As he read on, Kit forgot the meaning of the words and felt a stir of pleasure at the sound. John's voice was low-pitched but very clear, and the words fell with a musical cadence that was a delight. Every evening since she had come here she had sat waiting with impatience for her uncle's monotonous voice to cease. Tonight, for the first time, she caught the beauty of the ancient Hebrew verses.
When the reading was finished, family and guests bowed their heads and Reverend Bulkeley began the evening prayer. A little sigh escaped Kit. Her uncle's terse petitions were hard enough to endure; this prayer, she knew, would be a lengthy masterpiece. As the husky voice scraped inexorably on, she ventured to raise her head a little, and was gratified to see that Judith too was peeking. But Judith's attention was not wandering. She was studying, with deliberate appraisal, John Holbrook's bent head and the delicate chiseled line of his profile against the firelight.