Then and there I made up my mind that in the morning I would pack my things and go to Boston, find the first ship heading south and get aboard. With calm weather, there had to be someone headed south. I remembered Jamaica. I saw my mother killed and all these years I believed the lie I had told myself. I sat at my flax wheel and pushed the treadle. The familiar whishing that had kept me afloat all these weeks now seemed accursed. Goody Carnegie’s words rang in my memories, too, of what I would do if I got to Jamaica and found nothing the same. How adrift I might be there, worse than here where I at least knew how to make do.
“Why does not Cullah return?” I said aloud. I felt more alone than at any time yet. I wanted him to come and build something. To hammer away all day. To tell me his strange stories in the evenings by the light of this fire. To kiss me. Did I love him? A woodsman? How could I love a simple woodsman? I had loved before. Always it was simply the first or closest or only single fellow in my acquaintance. I ate my supper alone and closed my door and windows for the night. Was love but a feature of vicinity? Perhaps if I stayed onboard a pirate ship I would love a pirate. If I lived in a castle, a prince.
Suddenly Wallace’s face loomed in my imagination. How sorry I might have been, though crushed by his rejection, to have married him and learned only later of his unspoken scorn for me. How thankful I was not to be yoked with such a mate as he. Yet, just thinking of Wallace made warmth come to my face, my lips. Thinking of Cullah only brought me a storm of emotion, like a gale with no direction, this way then that, turning, changing, loving and longing—and fear.
As I lay abed, I decided I would not find a ship on the morrow. Instead, I would make inquiries. I would find out more about the two MacLammond men, before I lost my heart to one of them. Perhaps I was not in danger of losing it at all, but simply wanted to stretch my legs and go abroad in the town, something besides being shut inside spinning and weaving the day through. That was not uncommon, was it? La. Was I lying to myself again? If I was so practiced at deception that I was the person most deceived by my own lies, how could my heart ever be trusted?
It was a fair walk to Concord but I got there in less than two hours. At the first store of trade to which I came, I asked whether MacLammond the woodsman came there. The answer was no, but not just no. The storekeeper had naught but evil to say about the MacLammond men. I asked at another but that man had no knowledge of them at all. Then I found a church by a well. The bucket was empty so I lowered it and drew from the dipper a cool drink. Then I went inside, meaning to rest. The vestibule held a bench for just such a purpose and, opposite it, a board papered with notices. I sat on the bench. My eyes had barely gotten used to the darkened interior, when I saw the letters AT on a small paper. I held my breath while I stood and raised the more current notice. A soft moan escaped my lips.
August Talbot here this day, 9th July, 1736. Made inquiries to the Whereabouts of his Sisters, the misses Talbot of Meager Bay, Jamaican West Indies.
I went to a door in the far end of the building and rapped at it. An old parson opened, saw me, and quickly donned his wide-brimmed hat. I called out, excitedly, “Father? I mean to say, sir? Tell me, quickly, what know you of this note?”
“Pardon, Miss?”
“Do you remember the man who left this?” I handed him the note.
“No. People come, of course, all hours. The door is always open. Being at the crossroads, naturally, some of those are years old. I wanted them to move the board outside but people said then the rain washes all the messages away.”
“Well, it would.”
“Yes, I suppose. Who was it you were looking for?”
“The man who wrote this note.”
“What’s he look like?”
“I, I know not. He was but a boy when he went to sea. Did you see him? Did you see who left this?”
“Sailors sometimes come here looking for people. They all look alike, sailors. Put on it how to find you and pin it back up.”
He offered me a quill, so I wrote, “Take the bridge to Lexington and go through the town. Ask for the Carnegie house. I shall wait for you. RCET.” Then I asked him, “Reverend sir, may I ask whether you know of a man named Jacob MacLammond, or his son Ea—that is, Cullah?”
The man squinted as if weighing his words. “Have you a message for them, too?”
“No. I am inquiring of their character. They were recommended to me by Lady Spencer of Boston.” I searched for a quick lie. “My auntie with whom I lived has died. I have heard they do woodworking and turnings and I have need of such. Of course I must be careful who I let into my house.”
“Did the person you heard this from tell you what to say? I’d pay attention to them, if I were you.”
“To say, sir?” It was my turn to squint. Was he asking me for some secret word? Some key that would tell him I could be trusted? “I know only that they came once from Scotland and choose now to live here. I need them to, well, build a chest. A chest with shelves.” I steeled my face but felt as if the falsehood shone brightly.
The parson folded his arms, used his thumb and drew a small cross on his sleeve.