To Follow Her Heart Page 4

  Mary smiled as Patience entered the room. “I see you’re feeling better this morning. And I love what the girls will be making. Is Lizzie helping?”

  “No, she’s got some hat orders to finish up, so she’ll be here, but not with us. I shall be busy, and that is good. I’m grateful for the time I spend with my girls.”

  “I brought you some ginger cakes. And here’s some fresh bread for the girls and a crock of my strawberry jelly for your class once they’ve put their work away. Sarah will come to walk them home.”

  “Very good, Mary. Thank you for these.” She watched as Mary left and then put the gifts of food in the kitchen. Back in her classroom, she sat in between Misha and a squirmy Mercy. Misha was finished with school, but she liked to help with the little ones.

  “I thought we’d begin this morning practicing stitches on our samplers. Once your fingers are warmed up, we can begin edging our handkerchiefs with lace. Who remembers which letter comes next after L?”

  Mary’s daughter and namesake smiled shyly. “M is for Mary.”

  Patience clapped her hands. “That is right!”

  When the girls had one row of lace around their linen squares, Patience led them through practicing the days of the week and the months. “Thirty days hath September, April, June, and November. How many days do the other months have?”

  Young Mary jumped to her feet and danced a circle. “Thirty-one!”

  “You are so right. Just like your mother, you are. So good with numbers. And February, does it have thirty or thirty-one?”

  “Twenty-nine!” they called out in unison.

  “You are most correct for this year, my ladies. Who knows why it was twenty-nine this year?”

  Everyone was silent. Misha finally spoke up. “May I answer that, Miss Terry?”

  “Why, of course, Misha. Tell these young ladies why we had twenty-nine days in February instead of twenty-eight.”

  Misha recited a perfect discourse about how the calendar year must be able to catch up with the solar year.

  Patience smiled her approval. “Thank you. Now let us practice writing our numbers.”

  Misha stood to gather hornbooks for the girls to write on. The students bent to their task. They strove for perfection in shaping their numbers, and most had them in order.

  When they were done, Patience beamed even as sadness gripped her. How could she look so happy when her heart ached and her stomach twisted like a wrung-out dish rag? She sighed. She looked at the precious faces of her young girls. Only selfishness would allow her to burden them with her sorrow. No, for these sweet girls, she would give them a smile. Give them hope.

  She smoothed her skirt as she rose to her feet. “You have all done well today. Follow me to the kitchen.” As they ate their bread and jelly, chatting with one another about their needlework, Patience sat at the end of the table, dipped her quill into the inkpot, and poised it over small sheets of parchment.

  Dearest Parents,

  I regret that I shall not be able to perform my duties as your daughter’s teacher for an indeterminate amount of time. Please know that I enjoy teaching your dear child, and I long to return to that endeavor as soon as possible.

  I have sent with them today the sampler and handkerchief they have worked so hard on. They should continue to practice their stitches at home whilst I am away.

  I remain your faithful servant,

  Miss Patience Terry

  She dipped her pen again for a postscript.

  P.S. I do apologize for the inconvenience of my actions. I pray your forgiveness.

  She folded the pages and dripped puddles of red wax on the seam. Each circle she pressed gently with her stamp, sealing the letters. The parents could read her note at home. She had no desire to discuss the content with anyone. Writing it was difficult enough.

  The chatter of her young students drew her attention, and she watched as Mercy used her pudgy finger to get the last drop of jelly from the crock and then put her finger in her mouth. “Manners, Miss Mercy. Sit up now and wipe your fingers on your napkin, please.” She could not help smiling. How she would miss her darling girls.

  Her class this year was smaller than the year before, but she liked that. Mercy was younger than the girls she usually instructed, but she was bright and already knew her alphabet. And she tried so very hard. Toward the end of the year, she taught her students to read, and it made her sad to think she might not be able to give Mercy her first glimpse of reading. But she would not be able to devote herself to teaching anyone until she knew where Jeremy was.

  Patience wrapped each girl’s hornbook, sampler, and handkerchief with a single row of lace in a piece of linen and tied them with a length of pink ribbon. Under the ribbon, she tucked the letter she’d written, with instructions for the girls to give the packets to their mothers. Sarah arrived to gather her sisters for the walk home, and Patience gave each of them a warm hug and waited until they were halfway down her flagstone path before she let the tears well.

  She swiveled from the door, sank onto a chair, and sobbed into her apron. Long moments passed before she drew in a determined breath. She would not waste time on crying. She must be single-minded in her purpose and rely on God to see her through. Relying on her own strength would get her nowhere. She dried her eyes. There. Enough was enough. She sank to her knees on the wooden floor and prayed. “Dear Lord, give me strength and a clear understanding of what I must do to bring Jeremy home.”

  A gusty wind hit the roof, and she heard a shingle rattle. Jeremy considered it his job to repair such a thing. He’d always been her helper, now she must be his.

  She picked up her skirts and flew up the stairs. Grabbing the bag, she scarce gave a look around her room before she bounded back down. To the sack of ginger cakes she added a bit of cheese and bread and folded the top over with a gentle twist.

  She banked the fire, scooped water from the pot, and ladled it over the ash. She draped her red cloak over her arm. Thankful Lizzie was late today, she hurried out the door without even a backward glance, straight for the south harbor, where the founders and their families had first waded ashore. Thank goodness there was a dock for the ships now.

  She stood, her face tilted up, and gazed at the tall ship, sails yet hoisted, sides creaking with each lap of water on the wood. She’d overheard at church services that The Rosemary would leave port for Barbados. It was the merchant vessel Nathaniel arrived on, and her hope was to gain passage. Now she stood, the cool salt breeze rustling her skirts, and stared at the tall hull with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.

  What a far-fetched plan it was to disregard her fear of sailing. Her heart ached, and she could not do it. She clutched the valise to her chest as tears flooded her eyes, coursing down her cheeks. She wanted to find Jeremy. Oh, why could she not just walk up that plank and beg they take her with them? She’d earned a meager salary from her Dame School, but she’d always been thrifty and had saved what some would call a pittance. Surely it was enough to purchase passage on The Rosemary. She would give it all to find Jeremy. But not on a ship. Not on the ocean.

  6

  July 20, 1664

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Jeremy pushed up from his chair as muster was called to join all hands on deck. With everyone accounted for, Captain Stone invited Jeremy to walk with him. As they strolled along the upper deck, Jeremy said, “I’m hoping the good governor will see his way to offer me a hot bath. And mayhap accept a bill of credit toward a proper coat, breeches, and boots.”

  Captain Stone studied his garb. “Aye. You look like a crewman on a pirate ship. Is that all Samuel could find for you?”

  “Apparently.” He tightened the sash. He could not wait until supper with Governor Winthrop and Governor Bellingham. He’d give his report and be gone as soon as he’d bathed and donned a proper set of clothes.

  “I’ll leave you to your report then, Captain Horton. We shall go ashore at half past four. Our supper is at five o’clock.”
He turned on his heel and left Jeremy to return to his cabin.

  Jeremy took one last look over the rail and fought down a great urge to make his departure right then. Back in his cabin, he sat at the small writing desk. Paper, a billowy pen, and ink sat ready for his report. Samuel must have returned while he’d been out.

  He sat and wrote with a flourish everything he could remember, from the first gust of the storm to the moment he awoke in the bunk on board Captain Stone’s ship. He shook his head as he recalled each detail. Why was he not dead like the rest of his crew? Mayhap it was because he’d stayed with his ship until the end. So appalling, really. He would have given his life for his crew. He’d clung to the hatch and searched for them to no avail. Everyone perished, but he prayed that was wrong. He begged God to tell him why he’d made it when the others had not. He might not ever know. Only God knew when his days on earth were to be done. And it hadn’t been the day he’d landed in the ocean on a piece of wood. He’d prayed then that if he ever made it home, he’d do whatever the Lord called him to do. He bent his head to the paper once more and finished the account.

  He sat back while the ink dried. His arms folded behind his head, he let his thoughts drift to Southold, to Patience. She must be upset, but she always knew he’d never settle down, did she not? She’d cry, certes, then she would busy herself like she always did. She loved the children she taught. But what would she do when he returned? She would want to hit him, most likely. But she was too much of a lady, thankfully.

  He drifted to sleep and dreamt of Patience until the door swung open with a thud. Samuel stood there, the corners of his mouth turned down, his hands twitching at his sides. “You’re expected on the deck now. Cap’n Stone waits for ye.”

  “Of course.” He stood and rolled his parchment into a scroll. “Lead the way.” His long stride caught up with Samuel’s newfound swagger. “And Samuel, by the way, you needn’t worry. Your job here is secure. They won’t find you out on my account.”

  Samuel’s nervous laugh was like a twig scratching a window.

  “Truly. I won’t be telling.” No, in fact he’d rather them not know that he knew.

  Captain Stone looked resplendent in his red dress coat embellished with his sash and medals. His sword gleamed at his side. Jeremy fell in next to him, and the two walked down the plank like old friends. He couldn’t help but notice his legs were weaker than he’d realized. He’d been through an ordeal, but surely the lack of exercise and the meager food he’d been given did nothing to restore his vigor. At least he’d been given a hearty supper last night—so that Captain Stone couldn’t be accused of starving him, most likely.

  He needn’t have worried about his clothes, bills of credit, or whatnot, for Governor Bellingham’s man led him immediately to a bath and handed him towels and a new suit of clothes.

  He folded the borrowed clothes into a pile and lowered himself into the hot water. His head rested on the back rim of the tub, and he inhaled the steam. A deep sigh escaped as every muscle in his body relaxed. He allowed himself a good soak until the warmth of the water dissipated and then, with brisk strokes of a towel, he dried and dressed. The day was warm, but he finished with the coat left on a peg for him. It fit snugly and was of dark blue cloth with shiny brass buttons and gold epaulets. It would do, he guessed, though he looked like he’d just been commissioned a captain in the Navy.

  He entered the parlor, and Captain Stone and both governors stood. “Hear, hear. From pirate to gentleman.” Governor Winthrop beamed.

  Jeremy’s eyebrows rose with his chortle. “I think ‘thank you’ is the appropriate response.” He tugged at the hem of the coat. “A bit dashing, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Yes, yes—I do say.” Captain Stone nodded, and the governors moved to the chairs grouped by the window. They sat to discuss Jeremy’s return to Long Island.

  Jeremy would be provided with a horse and a scout to accompany him. The man would return with Jeremy’s mount. A bell was rung, and the conversation moved into a long, narrow dining room, furnished with a gleaming mahogany table and sideboard. They were served a supper of pheasant and root vegetables roasted in a marmalade sauce.

  Governor Winthrop stabbed a slice of meat, and with his fork in midair, he pointed to Captain Stone. “I want you to tell Captain Horton the plans for The Providence after you leave Boston.”

  Captain Stone’s brows knit together. “Why would the captain of a merchant ship need to know such high-level information?” He met the governor’s glare. “I mean, if I may ask, sir? We’ve gone to great lengths, have we not, to guard our intentions?”

  “Oh, Captain Stone, you do not understand who you fished out of the sea.” He grinned at Jeremy with a nod. “You know he is a Horton. He’s the brother of Barnabas Horton—the magistrate from the east end of Long Island, and we need their militia. We’ll be sending their troops in by land as you come in by sea.” He chuckled as if it pleased him to have to explain.

  Jeremy’s eyes shifted between the two. “The Southold Militia? You’ll be sending out the troops?”

  The governor turned his fork toward Captain Stone. “Yes, to support The Providence. Tell him, Stone.”

  “We are but one of four gunners sailing into Long Island Sound to take New Amsterdam.”

  “You don’t say. It’s about time. We’ve put up with them long enough.” He stabbed a bite of pheasant and chewed the morsel with gusto.

  Captain Stone put down his eating utensils. “It is of utmost importance that this information is not leaked to the Dutch or those who would inform them.”

  “Why certainly, Captain. And I think you shall find those on the east end most eager to give you their full support.”

  The governor grunted his approval. “Aye, they’ve champed at the bit ever since the Dutch captured Johnny Youngs.”

  Captain Stone tilted his head and cocked an eyebrow.

  Jeremy jumped in. “Our reverend’s son. He was always getting himself in a sorry plight. He rescued himself, you might say. It is quite a story—I shall tell you it one day.”

  Stone grinned. “In a pickle he was, eh? Why does it seem the son of a preacher is always the troublemaker?”

  A smile played across Jeremy’s lips as he remembered growing up with Johnny. He shook his head. “But he is a willow among the grass now. You know the Bible verse? Isaiah 44:4?”

  Both men nodded. Governor Winthrop added, “John’s son is that.”

  Governor Bellingham swallowed and cleared his throat. “Brief him, Stone.”

  Captain Stone pushed his plate away. A servant stepped forward to clear the table, and as the plan to take New Amsterdam unfolded, a dessert of baked apples encased in a sweet crust was served.

  “Three ships are in position now to enter the Long Island sound,” Captain Stone said. “We sail on the morrow to join them in for maneuvers in the east sound to finalize plans to force a surrender. Word is that it will be an easy takeover. The people are weary of Stuyvesant, and they want peace—and under English rule, if that is what is needed. There’s not much more to know.”

  Governor Winthrop turned to Jeremy. “I want you to be my point man in Southold. You shall train with their militia for a month. I want you to lead them into western Long Island. Do not be quick to shoot. Be there in an advisory capacity, but mostly to guide them into an easy transition after the takeover.”

  The last thing Jeremy wanted to do when he returned to Southold was to leave again. How many times had he said goodbye to Patience as she pleaded with him to stay? But surely she would understand it was at the governor’s request. And surely she would give thanks that he would go by land, with the horse troop. “But why me? I haven’t even trained with the Southold Militia.”

  Governor Winthrop began to answer, but Bellingham waved him silent. “Your good friend here has convinced me you’re our man. Johnny and Benjamin are hotheads who have wanted to run the Dutch out of New Amsterdam for years. We need you to keep a clamp on them. Keep them f
rom taking things into their own hands and forcing a fight. We believe we can do this without a drop of blood. We need the horse troop, but we don’t trust its officers. Simple as that.”

  Jeremy considered the argument. It was true that Johnny might go too far, and he could lead Benjamin astray. He had seen it before. Mayhap this was what God had saved him for. “It would be an honor, sir, to serve you and the Crown.” He turned to Captain Stone. “You have my full support for the attack, and my prayers for a bloodless takeover.”

  Governor Bellingham stood. “Very well. The Providence sails at dawn, and I will dispatch you with a scout as soon as word arrives that she’s underway.”

  Governor Winthrop stood, as well. “Give my regards to Barnabas when you see him.”

  “Aye. I shall do just that.”

  It was a long, sleepless night. Jeremy could sleep like a duck on water in a cabin bunk, cramped though it was. But a soft, feather-stuffed mattress made him toss about like a bass in a fishnet. Though he and the governor’s scout left at a gallop, the ride would take days, and the fast pace would not be suitable for the long haul. He was glad to be on their way, and it was Patience who occupied his thoughts, not Stuyvesant or the Dutch people, as he and the scout rode toward New London and the ferry.

  His mount was a tall mare with a sleek brown coat. Her stride was even and comfortable, and she tossed her head from time to time with a snort that said she’d go faster if he’d give the signal. He gave her no slack of rein, though, and settled back for the ride. A summer rain began to lightly pelt them, and he released the cocked brim of his hat and pulled it down.

  A vision of Patience came to him. She faced away from him, blond tresses coming loose from their combs, as they were wont to do. He wanted to reach out and gently touch her to ease her grief. For she grieved, he was certain. The last time he’d left, she’d told him how upset she was, her clear blue eyes pools of tears. She’d confessed her love and told him only God knew how long they might have together. She’d confessed her love, and he had betrayed it by leaving anyway. She wanted him to stay, and now she thought him dead. Was her grief racked with pain or anger?