When he was not working in town, Cullah enlarged our home until it did indeed carry a third-floor tower. He told me that hearing the baby cry gave wings to his hammer, a feeling of urgency that the family would grow and need room. If someone ordered a fine maple or walnut chest, the scraps went into a bin. From them he built boxes and shelves, spoons and bowls. From his own stock, he created beds with posts to hold curtains, until our house resembled no less than the Roberts home had been. I was so proud of my house, of my husband and child, of my life. I attended meeting on Sunday when it pleased me. My husband worked hard and was known for honesty and generosity. I made the most beautiful linen in Massachusetts Colony, though Johanna continued to insist she purchased it from France. I had been trained by French weavers, so what was the difference?
Brendan was a quiet baby, sleeping much of the day, so that in short time I felt healed and went back to my work, this time only spinning and weaving in two-hour bits. Still, it was possible to finish a couple of yards a day at the loom, and I had lately been concentrating on woolens, for, with the approaching cold, Johanna had told me there was more call now. She had asked me to try the variation called linsey-woolsey, but though I had provided her with twenty-five yards of it, it sold slowly, only four or five yards at a time. I also made rougher brown wool for men’s and boys’ coats. That sold better.
I had had seventeen yards of black wool for capes on my loom when Brendan was born. Every morning I blessed the loom and touched the iron spider over the doorway, every evening I put it away with the second chant.
My Cullah never left for his shop without touching the doorpost and blessing all who passed thereunder and he never came to bed without thanking God for another day of good hard work, a project finished or a new one begun, and a wife and home to keep him through the night.
From the Boynes we learned also of their tradition; though they were Irish they could boast of three generations having been born on the land whereon they lived. Their beliefs in old ways were woven with the ways of Indians, the English, and some distant north folk. Mrs. Boyne could speak of them with great detail yet could never tell me whence they lived nor how long past her knowledge had come.
Jacob believed she unwittingly carried Norse tales as some of the Irish do, indeed some Scots also, for the heat of Viking blood was strong, he said, and he believed he saw it powerfully in my strawberry-and-flax-colored hair. When he spoke of such things, he would raise his cup to Cullah and say, “Son, blessed will be your sons that carry her blood, and may your daughters all take after you, for that will be the strength of this family. A merry day, a merry day, I tell you, when you brought this lass to wife.”
If Jacob’s only thought was to endear himself to me, he made good work of it.
Every month I called upon Lady Spencer and showed her samples of my work so that she was always the first one to apply to Johanna for a gown of some cloth that appealed to her. And then one day, to my great surprise, Lady Spencer called upon me.
It was a bitter and windy day in March, the roads still frozen solid enough that horses’ hooves sounded as if they traversed a pavement. I was in the midst of kneading bread when the coach appeared, and when I heard it I rushed to put a fresh apron over my waist and a clean lace cap over my hair.
Lady Spencer admired Brendan, commented on the style of my home, particularly the curtained windows and woven damask-covered bedsteads, but other than that stayed but a moment. As she stood at the door, adjusting her gloves, she turned and said, “The town council has been meeting lately. I find that it is best to listen but do nothing.”
“Their meetings concern me? My husband?”
“Tell your husband I believe he is a loyal subject of the king.”
“Yes, Madam, I shall.”
After she left, simply waiting for Cullah to come home was beyond my strength. I had to do something. I put the bread to rise and changed and wrapped my babe, then walked to town. I found Cullah standing at the lathe, and I was careful not to make any sudden noise or movement that would distract him from the spinning form and the razor-sharp blade in his hands. I watched him. His shirt had come apart at the shoulder again. His apron wore into it, and as I observed I thought of how I might restitch the place so that it could withstand the wear. His work took him from one tool to another all day long. A frost of wood chips had caught on the back of his hair. When at last he let the machine spin to a stop, I stepped forward. “Husband?” I called. “I must speak to you.”
He welcomed the two of us with a broad smile. When I told him of Lady Spencer’s strange visit, his face showed his concern, yet he said, “I am lost for a reason to it. Loyal subject of the king? Which king did she mean?”
I drew in a breath. “I know not.”
“Did you say anything to her?”
“Nothing more than bidding her good day.”
“If anyone comes to the house today, you must turn them away. Either arrange it so that you seem not to be there, or bar the door and tell all that they must come back later when your husband is home.”
“Cullah, what is happening?”