“I hear,” I said. “I am not afraid.”
The woman hissed at me and held a twig broken and bent into the shape of a cross before her, waving it about. At last they pulled up before a public inn. Light flowed from the windows carrying merry, drunken singing that seemed to chase away the worst of the storm. She slurred at me, “Get off. We’ve carried you longer than your shillings and a penny allowed.”
“For the travel I thank you,” I said, “but for the insults I do not. Will you be purchasing a meal here in this inn?”
“Will we not be shed of you if we do?” she asked.
“I only want shelter from the rain, same as you. I will stay far from you both, and I will tell no one you are Catholic.” Fear passed between them with a shared movement of their eyes to each other and to me.
I followed them inside though I could not imagine spending a night in such a place. Even Goody Carnegie had warned against it. It was vulgar and foul and I pushed to one side away from the oystermongers. The innkeeper would allow me a seat on a bench, and shoved a man, drunk and smelling of a latrine, onto the floor. “I shall be happy for that, sir,” I said.
“What of your parents, there?”
I looked where he pointed to the oyster man and woman. He had assumed we were a family. I was tired of being angry and sharp-tongued, tired and sore of heart in every fiber of my being and did not wish to correct him. I sighed and said, “Those two? They are angry with me. I left to marry a man and they brought me all the way from Boston in the storm before I did. I have learned my lesson. Please be kind to them though they shun me.”
He nodded. “Aye. I’ve a daughter almost your age. I am glad they caught you before you made a crashing mess of your life. You must not be a bad sort to admit it.” He took them each a cup of ale and a small bun, with his compliments, he said. They looked upon the offering warily, then their eyes turned to me. I nodded, then leaned my head against the wall and in the revelry of the inn’s drunken din, I slept.
I awoke and left the inn at dawn. Before I had walked half a mile, the toe gave out on one of my shoes and mud crept in between my toes. I reached the familiar—Lexington’s center cobbled street—then came to the avenues branching it where there were finer houses. Beyond that, a few more houses, two cross streets, and I turned down the lane where the Roberts had lived. Rather than soldiers at the gate, there were liveried footmen. Mr. Barrett had moved in. No such grandeur had been the Roberts legacy, even when they thought they were well off. I wondered if Serenity had taken that costly wedding gown with her as she fled.
I gathered my courage and approached the door, ignoring the footmen as was proper. Not having a stick I rapped at the knocker. A butler came at once. “Miss Talbot of Two Crowns Plantation to see Mr. Barrett,” I said.
The butler peered down his nose to right and left for sign that I was accompanied, as a lady should be, yet he continued, unperturbed. “This way, Miss Talbot.”
Once he had closed the door, he said, “Is Mr. Barrett expecting you?”
“No, I fear not,” I said. “I lived in this house, you see, as a ward of the Roberts family. Of course, I had no idea they were in such peril. I came to inquire if he would assume my wardship. I have clothing. I have means. I have only the need of a roof until I get home, for which I shall be waiting only until sailing weather. May I speak with him?”
“I shall see if he is at home.”
The man left. Of course, he meant “at home” to me. If Barrett had no intent of seeing me, he would not be home. And he was not. I looked into the butler’s eyes for a sign of understanding. They were cold as a January morning as he closed the door to me.
On the road, every man or woman I encountered was too occupied to bid me the day. I remembered when I had first come, how although Goody Carnegie might have been considered a madwoman to be feared, she was able by request to cause a meeting of a council, and to find me a place to stay. If she were not tired from her night of howling, she might at least tell me where to go next. If Wallace loved me, surely he would be searching for me. How was I to save myself now? Would he not think kindly of me as I thought of this poor woman? I only need awaken in him a bit of pity for my circumstances.
It took me another hour to find her house. The storm had torn a large tree loose from the roots, smashing it across the Concord road that ran to the northeast. At last, I found her, sitting before her fire weeping as if her heart had been broken, her door ajar, leaves, dirt, whole branches, even a dead bird blown in by the winds. The gale had tattered her table and filled every cup with sand and grime. I knew not whether she were really mad. I knew not how to speak to a person who was so. I put my bundles on the floor, sat upon one, and waited.