Amelia said, “You, my dear, do live beyond a farmer’s wife. I fear it is my fault.”
When America, August, and I arrived at last at home, the children gathered, all questioning at once about what had happened in town. Jacob had let them play and dabble as they might, and the only one who appeared presentable was Gwyneth. Rather than ask for explanation, she put her arms around me and hugged me, and in that simple act, made all of it worthwhile.
When the clamor of our arrival had passed and the children were in bed, August and I sat together at the fire. His face grew cold as it did sometimes. “It is not finished,” he said. “The Spencer plantation in Virginia ships a great deal of tobacco and rum to England. I sense a downturn in their profits coming. Ill winds they be a-blowing.”
“August, you must not,” I said, stunned. “Vengeance is not the answer. You will be fanning the flames of a feud between us and Wallace Spencer. Gwyneth is not so harmed. Cullah is gone and Jacob cannot see. I fear what Wallace may bring upon my family when you are away.”
“Don’t preach at me, Ressie. I see the venom in your eyes even now. You’d have him over the coals in a trice. Saturday I ordered my ships made ready. I have the names of the vessels that take his cargo. We sail next week as soon as we’re provisioned. I shall levy a tax upon the Spencers that they will not quickly pay.”
I searched my heart. I should be happy to think of him acting out retribution upon them but I felt broken of spirit, weary of hate and intensity, and not willing to perpetuate the whole affair. “I wish you would not.”
“What about Gwyneth’s honor?”
“Of course I value her honor, but, August, I do not want you to be arrested. I need you. Cullah and Brendan will return, then go.”
He sneered. “I answer to no one. I have word the Blue Dawn left port in Hampton, Virginia, bound for England ten days ago, loaded to the waterline with Spencer’s barrels. Winds are up. With good sail and all watches on deck, I can overtake her before she reaches sight of land. They will expect no trouble and will not be watching. We shall see her on the bottom before so much as a pipeful reaches the coast.” He stared hard into the fire, the look on his face one of fury barely contained.
“Do you not feel enough has been done?”
“Never.”
“I paid my due. Leave this be.”
“He will pay his.”
CHAPTER 29
February 25, 1756
August had been gone three weeks or so—it was a bitter, late February morning when the Reverend Mr. Clarke, the pastor of First Church, called. I could not say that I felt changed afterward but I wished the blot I had brought upon myself would go away. Reverend Clarke assured me it would. “It will be talked about until some other thing comes along. Have no fear. Hold up your head, Goodwife. You have paid your debt to the town and now to your God. No one condemns you.”
I bridled my anger and served him tea, though I felt a childish want to scold him in return. I knew I had been wrong. I felt mortified.
When he left with a small napkin wrapped around half an apple pudding, I went to the barn and began collecting eggs in a basket. The sounds of the chickens and geese murmuring at my feet lulled and soothed me and the dozen or so eggs in my basket made me think of pies I might make. I began to sing. The barn door creaked. I looked up. It moved back and forth in the wind. “Reverend?” I called. “Have you more to say?” The door creaked again, swinging to and fro. “There you are, you silly girl,” I said, to a speckled hen. “Two today? Did I miss your nest yesterday?” I reached in and pushed her off the eggs she sat upon. The hairs on my arm stood up. I shook off the chill. The door creaked again but I ignored it. I clutched the eggs in my left hand and turned to put them in the basket draped over my right arm. I dropped the two eggs. They made a gentle-sounding crush as they hit the hard-packed mud floor.
Standing in the sunlight of the open barn door was a man. An Indian. He wore leggings and breechclout. His face tattooed, his arms glistening with grease and full muscles bound by a band on one arm, he stood stock-still as if he had come for the eggs and had been caught off guard by my presence. I was aware that someone had made the sound of a whimper of fear and that the sound may have come from me.
“Talbot?” he asked.
“What?” I stammered. “What do you want?” I raised my brows and held the basket of eggs toward him. “Are you hungry?” I asked, gesturing with the basket.
“I find woman-child Talbot.”
“What do you know about a girl named Talbot? Who are you?”
“My mother woman-child Talbot. She sends one find other Talbot. Her name now Weenak-echon. Willow Bend Down. Mother old name Shield of Owasso.”
I drew in a breath. “Shield of Owasso? Red Shield of Bear? Patience Talbot? You—you are her son?” I stepped toward him.
“Where woman-child Talbot?”