“What, then? Just let him live on, wallowing in his wickedness, having conference with Satan and doing his bidding, murdering not only heathen souls, but also the most godly among our living saints?”
“No. By no means. But fight him with faith, as father did. Think, brother:
Resist not evil
—are those not Christ’s own words? How can we preach this hard teaching to them if we do not live by it in our own time of sorest trial? And how to expect Caleb to keep his feet on our path if we become the instrument of bloodshed, the slayer of his nearest living kinsman?” I saw then that Makepeace’s countenance was hardening against me, as I became more strident. Struggling for self-mastery, I lowered my voice and softened my expression. “Do as father intended for you. Get yourself to Harvard’s college, prepare for the ministry. Help Joel, help Caleb, to stand with you in this work. Why, there is no limit to what great things might be done, what Caleb, highborn among them, might—”
“Caleb!” He spat out the name, kicking up a clod of turf with the toe of his boot. “I am weary of hearing about Caleb and his greatness. This same Caleb, who is of such brutish stock that his own uncle consorts with Satan daily. Oh yes: blood will tell, sister. But it is not princely blood that runs strong in his veins. It is wizard blood. His own people knew well enough, when they sent him out to live with that servant of darkness who is his uncle. I can hardly tolerate to sit at board and take a vessel from his hands. It is like being pricked all over with thorns, I tell you, to have him by me in meeting, mouthing God’s word, he, who was not so long ago in the wilderness, calling forth Satan. And yet all about me all I hear are paeans to his pregnant wit: ‘Caleb can construe Virgil … Caleb’s grasp of the gospel … Caleb’s fair hand…’”
He turned then and looked at me strangely, his eyes narrowing. “That day, when Solace drowned. Did it never occur to you it was Caleb who found her? That he went straight as an arrow to the well pit, without the slightest hesitation? Who is to say that he did not witch her to her death?”
I gaped at him. I could not believe he truly harbored such vile fancies. What other corrupt, lunatic thoughts might he be entertaining?
“Brother,” I said, striving for patience. “The well pit was the place of gravest hazard close by to us. He went there directly because he, clear witted, recalled as much when the rest of us were too addled to—”
“There it is again! Caleb’s accursed wit!” He threw himself down upon a fallen log and pulled out a spike of goldenrod that grew there, stripping the bloom from the stalk with a violent energy. “I know what you think. Do not trouble to deny it. You think I am blinded by envy. I tell you this: it is you who is blind. You and father both. Father was bedazzled by that boy. I could see it in his face, day following day. How he would smile with pleasure as Caleb mastered some difficult piece of scholarship, and then his glance would shift to me, and the smile would fade. I could see him, tallying up how long it had taken me to meet the same mark. I could read the disappointment in his eyes.” He looked askance at me. “Truly, I had thought God tested me when he sent a sister who outshone me in learning, but at least father had the propriety to put a stop to that indignity. Now, to have this stranger, this savage heathen, this, this sorcerer-to-be plucked from the wilderness—to have him come and to have to sit there and watch him usurp father’s regard, and to see father bestow on him the loving looks that should have come to me…”
“Makepeace, you are mistaken. Father never—”
“Hold your peace, Bethia,” he hissed. “You, of all people, are no one to speak.”
“I do not know what you—”
“Do you think me entirely witless? I know where your affections are engaged. Oh yes, I see that you struggle to obscure it, because you know that such unlawful feelings are begat of an abominable animal lust.”
“That is false!” I said, the blood scalding my face. “There is nothing in the least degree of that nature in my feelings for Caleb.”
His eyes held mine. I willed myself to gaze right back at him. His jaw worked and his skin became blotchy but still I would not look away.
“So then,” he said coldly. “You deceive yourself, where I believed you meant merely to deceive others. You are in even more danger than I supposed.”
“Makepeace, I tell you, you are mistaken.”
“Sister, it is you who are mistaken, in word, in deed and even, it seems, in thought. I see how you look at him, when you think yourself unobserved. I hear the intimate tone in your voice when you snatch a word with him, taking yourselves to be alone. You do not look that way, you do not speak so, when your object is Joel Iacoomis. Not even when young Merry, that love-sick calf, moons about you. No. These fond looks are for Caleb only. Admit it. He has bewitched you. You are besotted with him.”
“Not so!” My heart was thundering and I could barely draw breath to speak. But when I saw him opening his mouth to continue, I mastered myself and held up a hand to stop him. “No, brother. You have said quite enough. At meeting, you confessed to gluttony and sloth—you had best return there and add envy to your list. For clearly your jealousy of Caleb’s God-given wit is overweening your reason. Further, you confessed to lust. I can only think that being wanton in your own longings you imagine the like sin in the hearts of others. I am innocent of your foul accusations. Entirely innocent. My feelings towards Caleb are unexceptionable, and your allegations as to my deportment are unfounded and ridiculous.” Since I could not tell him, in truth, what the nature of my feelings was—that I did love Caleb, as the brother that he, Makepeace, had never been to me—I turned my back on him and went to untie Speckle. My wrists were weak with anger and my hand shook as I worried at the knot. As I struggled to work it free, I lowered my voice with some effort, and spoke again without meeting his eyes.
“You know full well you would never have presumed to speak to me in these terms had father been here to upbraid you. Now you strut and swagger over me like some barnyard rooster, thinking you may insult and slander me without consequence. Do I need to recall to you that grandfather is my guardian? Not you. If you believe the truth of what you say, then go to grandfather and make your report of it. I dare you to do so.” I put my boot in the stirrup. Makepeace reached out a hand. I batted it away. I glimpsed his shocked expression for just an instant as I set myself astride the horse, hitched up my skirt and leaned forward. Then I dug in my heels. Speckle answered me with a burst of speed that left Makepeace eating dust.
It took him a long time to walk home. I expected a tongue lashing, or worse. But all he said was, “Be sure, grandfather will hear of it, if any other saw you riding in that indecent, manlike manner.” I maintained an icy silence, set out his supper, and took my own bread to eat in the garth. When I went to my shakedown, I did not give him a good night, and the next morning I rose early, made the fire and set a pot of water upon it, and then set out for the field, leaving him to break his fast alone.
N
ot long after, the court formally pronounced the death of John Mayfield, aged thirty-eight years, minister to the Christian people of Great Harbor and Manitouwatootan, by misadventure upon the high seas.
Grandfather summoned Makepeace and myself to hear the will, which he had sat down to revise with father just before that deadly voyage. There was nothing very surprising contained therein: the house, woodlot, beach lot and field lot went to Makepeace, with all the furniture and livestock. I would have the right to live in the house and receive my keep and care until my marriage. On that occasion, Makepeace was to provide my portion “according to the state of himself at the time.” I was also to have a small, silver-framed pen-and-ink drawing of mother, made when she was a girl in Wiltshire, England. “Your father also wills to you his Homer and his Hebrew bible….” Grandfather muttered on to himself, seeming distracted, his hand playing with the parchment. “Strange bequest, as I said to him. Makepeace, to my mind, might have better profit from…. But there it is … as he directed….”
He let that sentence trail away, smoothed the paper and put aside his glass, folding his long hands together on the desk before him. I had thought the meeting over, and was about to rise from my chair, when he spoke again.
“Now, I fear, we are come to a difficulty,” he said, turning to Makepeace. “You know, I expect, that your father gave out in charity inamost every penneth he earned, as soon as it came into his hands. Seeing this, I had set aside, over the years, funds for your college board and tuition. I am afraid I advanced him from those funds to pay for a first-class passage to England. I also sent with him a tidy sum in cash so that he might present himself in a gentleman-like manner upon arrival. Those monies, of course, have been lost. All my doing, I must own. His own modesty and prudence inclined him to travel steerage and rely on God’s providence on his arrival. I overruled him. I had large expectations for him in England; the Society must have been impressed by the scope of his work, must have showered funds upon him to make good such expenditure and much, much more. I did not wish him to come before them as a threadbare mendicant. But—”
Grandfather broke off and gazed down at his desk. “In any case, the point is, we now have a large deficit as regards provision for your college, but one that, given time, it is in my power to mend.”
Makepeace let out a relieved breath. He looked very pale but did not say anything. I sat forward in my chair as grandfather spoke again. “Alas, an additional difficulty presents itself in that—it is my understanding and please correct me if you think differently—you are not quite prepared to take the matriculation examinations for the college?” Makepeace said nothing, but gave his head a barely perceptible shake. “As you know, I have not time enough, nor, in truth, skill enough, to undertake your preparation. So there is a need for funds for a preparatory school for—what would you estimate? A year? Not more than, at your age, I hope?”
Makepeace, his face blotched red with mortification, gave his head another tiny shake.
“I am glad to hear it,” said grandfather. “Uncommonly glad. However, how to put this? One year, two years—whatever the term, I am not in purse to pay for it just presently. Weld’s school at Roxbury demands a substantial annual donation, and an allowance for wood that is not inconsiderable. Corlett’s school at Cambridge also sets high fees. All my funds are sunk into enterprises on this island or invested elsewhere at fixed terms. If I have to raise funds on such little notice it will be most disadvantageous, most imprudent. Are you sure, boy, that the scholar’s life is really for you? You know that I went not to any college, and neither did your father, though ’tis true that he as good as, since I had him well tutored by Trinity men. Would you not rather stay here, tend your fields, perhaps open a chandlery or some other profitable enterprise?”
Makepeace jumped to his feet. “I am to be a minister! It is all I have ever thought of…. Please, grandfather, you cannot mean to…”
“Very well, do not upset yourself. I simply felt it my duty to enquire. I am no mucker—I hope you know me well enough. I do not grudge the expense. It is only that I know you have struggled as a scholar from time to time. That is the whole of it. I wished to be certain, before we take great pains, that this is truly your desire and not some duty you feel obliged to shoulder for your father’s sake….”
“By no means. It is all I have ever wished for.”
“Then there is nothing for it. We shall have to do our best. Sit down, sit down, boy, and do not distress yourself. I have written to both the schools and have had an interesting reply from Elijah Corlett, the master of Cambridge Latin. Through John Eliot’s offices, we have secured places for Caleb and Joel there, as Master Corlett has some experience in instructing Indian youth, and the Society funds that work. Although you are above the usual age, he writes that he is prepared to accept you there when they come to him. And though, as I have said, I am sadly not in purse to provide the usual fees, Master Corlett confides that there may be a way to waive them, if…”
And here grandfather’s gaze shifted, unexpectedly, to me. “If you, Bethia, agree to be indentured to Mr. Corlett, as housekeeper at the school.”
“Indentured?”
My face must have been a study in astonishment. Indentures were for the children of the indigent. Grandfather, who liked to fashion himself after a feudal lord, attempting to get those about him to call his wild tract of island land “the manor”—and this to the point where the Aldens made jest of his pretensions—this same gentleman could not mean for me, his granddaughter, to be sold away as a bondswoman. It would shame him, surely, to do such a thing. A glance at Makepeace revealed that he, too, felt great discomfort. He squirmed upon his chair. Grandfather could not meet my eye but looked down and fiddled once again with the paper upon his desk.
“It would not be a common kind of indenture. For one thing, the term would be short—just four years, not the more customary eight. Also, it would address the problem of where you are to live, for you cannot keep house alone if your brother is gone to Cambridge, and as you know, I do not have room in my household to accommodate you in any degree of comfort. Aunt Hannah’s house—well, we all of us know you cannot set one foot in there as it is without stepping upon a sleeping child. If you were but a little older … but no, we must not think of that. I myself would be willing, since you will be seventeen come leaf fall, and at such an age it is not unheard of … but no. Your father was quite firm when this was last broached and I will not flout his wishes in that regard.”
I wanted to say, does no one think to enquire as to my wishes? But since I took him to refer to Noah Merry, it seemed better to keep silent. I was relieved that he did not seem inclined to follow that line of thought to its inevitable conclusion. I had nothing against young Merry. Indeed, I liked him well enough. But he was a boy yet; it was not possible to say with certainty what manner of man he might become. And I had no wish at all to be his wife, or any man’s wife. For one thing, I was in mourning. Each death, coming so swift on the heels of the last, had left me adrift. I had looked, in each case, for a new direction in which to steer my life. When mother died I thought I was meant to raise Solace—that this would be the larger part of my life’s work. When Solace died I thought that I was meant to support father, to keep his house so that he could pursue his mission untroubled by daily concerns. His death had left me utterly rudderless. Perhaps this service with Master Corlett, unwelcome as it seemed to me now, was meant to give me some new bearing. Since I was banned, by my sex, from the work of ministry, perhaps God meant to use me as the instrument by which my brother might follow that path.