To Capture Her Heart Page 9

  When Patience’s parents died of the fever, Mary and Lizzie convinced her to open a Dame School for young girls, and she had even taught Caleb, Joshua, and Jonathan their alphabet and little rhymes she remembered learning at her mother’s knee in England. “Thirty days hath September” was her favorite.

  After the church, education was the highest priority for the men of Southold, and they soon put together the funding for the first full-time teacher. They hired Mr. Griffing and provided him with a house where he both lived and taught. His classes for boys were the basic reading, spelling, writing, and arithmetic.

  But for Mr. Howell they approved funds for a schoolhouse, and Benjamin had been hired to build it. Now Barnabas looked around the room with its neat rows of benches for the boys, a hearth and chimney in the center, and a desk and chair for Mr. Howell. Benjamin had mentioned he was particularly happy at how the bookshelves he’d built looked, and Barnabas was pleased to see Mr. Howell had brought a box of books to fill them.

  They despaired of finding a gentleman who could teach their boys the Latin and ciphers needed to prepare them for college. The hope of the next generation lay with education, so Barnabas sent letters as far away as London in search of the right candidate.

  But he’d found him straight out of the graduating class of Harvard College, and now the boys of the town filed in for their first day of instruction with Mr. Howell.

  The Indian summer would not last much longer, and each student brought a log so that when it was time to light a fire for warmth, the teacher would have a supply. The students brought their own ink as well and reams of parchment.

  As class began promptly at seven o’clock, Barnabas gave one last lecture on the importance of school and reminded his sons they must not waste a minute of their opportunity to learn as he bid them goodbye . He chuckled as he told Mary when he got home about their serious faces as he left them in the schoolroom with their quills, ink, and hornbooks.

  Caleb and Joshua brought the hornbooks that had belonged to Joseph and Benjamin when they were little. The wooden boards were trimmed in leather and had a transparent sheet of horn over the front that held parchment paper. On the backs were written The Lord’s Prayer. Jonathan had a brand-new one, and his was made to match the first two.

  The boys came home for dinner. After they returned to their classroom, Abbey gathered Misha, Hannah, and Sarah up for their naps, and Mary and Barnabas spent a rare afternoon together in the bakeshop. Mary sighed as she checked her pies in the oven. Two more were on the oak table waiting to be baked.

  He watched as she sprinkled the tops of her baking pies with rosewater. “We have done the right thing in hiring Mr. Howell, I believe. He is well read and his collection of books is impressive. He’ll teach our sons well.”

  “’Tis good to know. Mr. Griffing was certainly excellent until he went back to England. Do you think Southold attracts the best because it’s such a lovely place?”

  “No doubt.” He took a couple of slices of apples from the basket and ignored the look Mary gave him as he took a bite. “Benjamin did a good job with the bookshelves.”

  “I’m not surprised. I hear the whole schoolhouse is very nice. He learned from you, did he not?” She smiled as she crimped the edges of her pies.

  “That he did.”

  Mary straightened from the table, her ear toward the front of the house. “What was that? The boys? Why are they home so early?”

  Barnabas strode toward the parlor and Mary followed, wiping her hands on her apron. One look at Jonathan’s and Joshua’s face told her something tragic had happened at school.

  “What’s the matter? What has happened?” Barnabas looked from one boy to the other. “Joshua, speak. Tell me.”

  “Mr. Howell didn’t look so well. He told us to practice writing the list of words with one syllable he posted on his desk. I couldn’t see them so I raised my hand like he told us to do. He said, ‘You may come up to the desk and read it, Master Horton.’ But he didn’t sound very good.”

  Mary grasped his shoulders. “What happened? Is he all right? Tell us, Joshua.”

  His voice trembled. “I got up and walked to his desk and then Mr. Howell made a funny noise. Mr. Howell’s face was red and sweaty and he started to stand up, but then he just fell over.”

  Jonathan started to cry.

  “We ran as fast as we could.”

  Mary went pale. “Oh no. I hope it’s not fever.”

  Barnabas hoped not too, but most likely it was. They’d heard there’d been a big outbreak up in Cambridge, but Mr. Howell had assured them of his health and he seemed very hardy and full of vigor. Certainly he did not look sick this morning.

  “We need to get the doctor. Joshua, go. I’ll go to the schoolhouse. Have Doctor Smith meet me there.” He turned to Mary. “Here now, sit. Are you all right?”

  “I think so, Barney.”

  “I must go.” He took out the door quickly, but decided to first go to the meetinghouse to fetch Reverend Youngs. The two ran next door and found Mr. Howell lying on the floor. He appeared in a faint. The reverend sent the class home and Barnabas went out to the well to get a bucket of fresh water.

  The doctor arrived and, after examining him, diagnosed the measles. Mr. Howell would need to be quarantined and the children in the classroom as well, until they knew if any of them would become ill. He asked the reverend and Barnabas if anyone else had been close to the schoolmaster.

  “Benjamin. He helped him do some work in here on Saturday. Would Mr. Howell have been communicable then, Russell?”

  Doc rubbed his forehead. “Could be. Hard to know. You and your boys, including Benjamin, need to stay away from Mary and those little girls until we figure out if this is going any further.”

  Barnabas’s heart beat like it was in his throat. He could not bear the thought of any of his children or Mary getting this sick.

  Doctor Smith scratched his head. “You ought to take the boys and stay at Joseph’s until this is over, and have him and Jane stay with Mary. I’ll take Mr. Howell here with me. We need to get word to the other parents that their children need to be isolated.”

  Reverend Youngs volunteered to notify everyone. They helped the doctor carry poor Mr. Howell to his house and then Barnabas walked home. The doctor said they would have to be on the watch for any illness for two weeks, and he dreaded telling Mary.

  She took the news calmly but made him wait outside while she gathered nightshirts and clothes for him and the boys. She told him that with harvest almost finished, she looked forward to spending a little more time with Jane and Jay anyway. He knew she was in a panic. He could see it in her eyes. But he allowed her to be brave, because to take her in his arms for comfort might make her sick. And he could not risk that.

  13

  October 17, 1653

  Mr. Howell survived the measles under the care of Doc Smith. The fever that raged the first week subsided, and the red rash that began on his forehead and worked its way throughout his body began to recede. Of the boys quarantined in their homes—five had the measles previously and did not require quarantine—only three came down with the measles, and the Horton men and boys were not affected. Doc tended his young patients and they survived too, thanks in part, he said, to their age and hardiness.

  The scare of an epidemic shook the little hamlet, but Benjamin knew it put more fear into the people at the Corchaug fort than anyone else. For some reason, when the native people contracted the white man’s illnesses, they were much more likely to die. Entire Indian villages were dying from sickness the inhabitants never knew existed before.

  He wanted to see Heather Flower. They had not parted on good terms the last time. Doc Smith said after two weeks he would be in the clear, but he decided to wait another week to be sure. He couldn’t risk bringing illness and suffering to her or her people.

  School resumed with Mr. Howell, and Benjamin enjoyed watching his little brothers trudging off to school with their hornbooks. They ha
d their future ahead, but what of him? Was he happy where he was in the grand order of things?

  He walked out to the Town Road and looked at the elm-lined street. He remembered the day they had waded ashore. There’d been nothing but deer paths when they’d arrived.

  He and Joseph had worked hard with their father to build their house. He’d learned much about carpentry and it was a good trade. He was thankful for the good life he had here, but it seemed empty to him unless he had someone to share it with. If it were to be Heather Flower, he would be honored. But if she would not have him, he wasn’t sure he wanted to stay here. John Budd talked of moving out west. Joseph and Jane wanted to go with him.

  His uncle’s words echoed in his mind and he laughed at himself. His brother was always the dreamer. Even Uncle Jeremy said he’d thought Joseph would be the one to sail the seas with him. Yet he could be sailing right now if he’d said yes when Uncle Jeremy had invited him.

  Mary called. He turned as she hurried toward him. He’d never leave here. It would hurt her too much, and that he couldn’t bear.

  “Oh, Ben, there you are. I was going to cut one of the pies and I wanted to know if you’d like a piece.”

  “You have to ask? I’m coming right in.” He followed her up the wooden steps and eyed the table. “I’ll take that one.” He chuckled.

  “Oh, no you don’t.” She tapped his hand as he reached toward the nearest golden pie. “How unlike you, Ben.” She smiled as she tsked. “You are always my one to have some manners.”

  He stared at her thoughtfully. “Maybe I’m tired of being so predictable.”

  “Whatever do you mean? What has that to do with manners?”

  “I’m just thinking I’m always the obedient one, the one to do what everyone expects of me. It might just be time to do what I want to do, even if on a whim.”

  She picked up a knife and inserted the tip into the center of the pie. As she lifted a wedge, the syrupy apples oozed and she quickly transferred it to a plate. Ben watched as a glob fell back into the pie pan and he quickly scooped it up and popped it into his mouth, licking his fingers.

  “Was that a whim? Really, Ben. Here.” She handed him a fork—from a set Uncle Jeremy had brought from France—with his plate of pie.

  He stabbed a bite and took his time to answer. He let the flakey pastry crumble in his mouth, releasing the sweet apple and cinnamon he loved. His fork toyed with the next chunk. “Everyone always thought Joseph would take off with Jeremy sometime, but he got married instead. Everyone has always thought I would be the one to marry and settle down. What if I took to sailing? What would you think?”

  She stopped the knife mid-slice, her eyes a troubled gray. “You wouldn’t do that.”

  “That is my point. Mayhap I would.”

  “Oh no, Ben. You mustn’t think like that. You cannot put yourself at risk just to make a point. There’s nothing to prove. We all love you just as you are. And what about Heather Flower? How could you leave when you know she needs you?”

  She was the reason he’d thought of this to begin with, if he were honest with himself. “I don’t know. I was talking with Uncle Jeremy. He’s led quite a life when you think about it. Always full of stories about pirates and storms, shipwrecks and treasures.” He forked the pippin pie into his mouth and chewed while he thought of the tales Uncle Jeremy told him and Joseph as they grew up.

  “But at what expense? He’s never had a family.”

  “We are his family. And he has God. He’s happy with that.”

  She sat down next to him and pushed at her pie with her fork. “Would you be happy with that?”

  The sunshine through the window caught the light in her hair, giving her a rosy halo. He ought not to lie. “Not completely.”

  “I’m not so sure Jeremy is either. God is enough for all of us and should come first. It doesn’t mean we don’t long for someone to share this life with though. I don’t believe running from Heather Flower is the answer.”

  “Do you think Uncle Jeremy is running?” He watched her as she twisted a lock of hair and then pushed it from her brow.

  “No, I think the sea has been in his blood since he was a very young lad. Ben, you are much like your mother, but you are a little like me too. Your calling is more in people. Family. Community. Being the light on the hill people come to when the fog rolls in. You must never think it wrong to be predictable. That means you are dependable.”

  “But what does that have to do with Heather Flower? She doesn’t want me to be her light. She doesn’t even know what she wants. Mayhap never will.”

  “Oh, she will. She just needs time. Just be there when she is ready to turn from her grief.” She patted his hand and he wished it were that easy. “When Jay was little, he wore his heart on his sleeve. It wasn’t easy for me, but at least I knew what he was feeling. You might not have known this, but I worried more about you when you boys were little. You were careful not to show your hurts and disappointments—always more concerned about everyone else.”

  He took a deep breath. “Then it would be all right with you if I did what I want for a change.”

  She shook her head. “Do you mean sailing off with Jeremy? That is not what I mean at all. I don’t believe that is what you really want. My point was, you are afraid to show your hurt. To spare Heather Flower the discomfort of disappointing you, you would go off and sail the high seas with your uncle.”

  With both hands, he ran his fingers through the sides of his hair. “You might be right, Mother.” He grinned at her and was certain there was a merriment in her eyes not there a moment ago.

  “The chance to go sailing is always there. The chance to fall in love comes so seldom.”

  He ran his fork along the crumbs on the plate and nodded. “Agreed. I am convinced. But in the end, Heather Flower might not be convinced, and I would wager her parents would not be either. Her people are our friends, but they are a proud people. I’ve heard Wyancombone say his parents fear they are a vanishing tribe. I think they would be against our marriage.”

  “Lizzie and Papa were against my marriage to your father. It didn’t stop us, and they came around. Trust your heart.”

  He stood up, arms folded. “She’s not so happy with me right now.”

  “I think ’tis best you think about your work and give her the time she needs. You did an amazing thing with that schoolhouse, Ben. There’s a lot of building to be done out toward the Corchaug fort. There is so much to do here. Stay, work hard, and ask for God’s blessings. You know what your father says: ‘In God’s own time.’”

  He laughed. “It’s our family motto, is it not?”

  “Why yes, it is. And I had the hardest time learning it. Even now I get anxious. I suppose we wouldn’t be human if we didn’t. But it is so comforting to take things to God in prayer and put my worries in His care.”

  “But you know, Mother, God doesn’t always give us what we want. Look at Patience. I think she always thought she would get married and have children.”

  “God knows our hearts. In our imperfect way, we think we know what we want, but sometimes God has something better.”

  A baby’s cry interrupted and they looked toward the stairs. “Abbey is with the girls, but Sarah will be hungry. It was good to have this conversation, Ben.” She got up and hugged him.

  “And you’re right, I suppose. If I joined Uncle Jeremy, it would be running away from finding my purpose, not discovering it.”

  She smiled and he watched her hurry to tend to his sisters.

  But if his purpose was here, he hoped Heather Flower was a part of it. A man could hope.

  14

  October 19, 1653

  Dawn’s pink light spread across the bottoms of the bunchy gray clouds as Heather Flower picked her way through reeds and marsh to the water’s edge at dawn. Shivering, she pulled her thick woven blanket tight about her shoulders. It was three months to the day that her uncle passed to the hunting grounds beyond. Almost six months since
her husband had been slain by the ferocious Narragansett.

  In the days after her uncle died, her aunt sat in silence, until the time came she could allow herself to weep. They’d walked to the bank of Downs Creek together, arm in arm, their women friends behind them. The wails of grief let loose the pain that gripped their hearts. Now Heather Flower sank to the ground alone, into the cold, wet grass. She pushed away a sharp blackberry vine that bit at her ankles and listened to the hungry fish jumping for their breakfast in the water below.

  Her aunt remained in the wigwam, unaware of her requests to take some food or hold her arm to walk with her. Winnie had responded to Sarah’s birth and participated in the feast the day of her christening. But once home she lapsed back into a dazed state.

  Heather Flower sat for a while and pulled grass seed from stems, tossing them into the water and watching as they spread out and then bumped about like little boats over the gentle current. A memory of making little leaf boats with her brother came to mind, and she yearned for simpler times. She pulled the leather pouch from beneath the yoke of her dress and looked at the beadwork her mother had stitched.

  A longing to return to her home in Montauk set in. She missed her mother and father. Wyancombone came across the bay often to visit. He brought gifts from their parents and always a message from their mother to come home. But she could not admit to him, or her mother, that she wanted to. To return would be to face the death of Keme. She’d rather hide from it.

  Her friends who were taken on that awful day would never return home. If they could not, why should she? It was almost shameful that she was safe and they were not. Her skin prickled with contempt at the horrors they must face at the hands of Ninigret and his men.

  She ran her hands over her arms and shook the thought from her mind. She must focus on Aunt Winnie. Today she would go into town and visit Abigail. Perhaps she would have advice, something to help bring her aunt out of her grief.

  She looked in on Aunt Winnie before leaving and found her sitting by the fire just as before. She pressed her cheek to her aunt’s and tiptoed out. A half-grown litter of wolf pups, descendants of Winnie’s old Smoke, surrounded her, tails a-wag with eagerness to follow. She admonished them to stay, then shooed them into the wigwam. Their ears flattened and they whined as they looked at her with sad dark eyes. She almost relented but knew they’d curl about Winnie’s feet and keep her company, so she repeated her command.