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“Pah!” said Harry, raising the flask. “So Robert Seaton told me when I went to him this morning from the ship. This pother about religious practice! It irks me - “ He clamped his mouth shut, aware that he was talking very freely, and that it was not only the rum had loosened his tongue. It was the girl and her wide-eyed interest, the admiring looks she gave him from her beautiful heavy-lashed eyes. There had been a lord’s younger son on Barbadoes, more scholar than planter, though in truth none of the sixty planters gave much thought to the plantations where the indentured servants from England, the slaves, both African Negro and Carib Indian, all laboured fitfully at the soil while their masters lazed or fought the days away beneath the tropic sun. This lord’s son had brought vellum-bound and entertaining books from home. Harry for the first time discovered that there was pleasure in reading and that not all books were pious. There had been a folio of plays by some actor at the Globe that had many good stories in it, including that of an adventurous Moor who boasted of his exploits to a lady who listened much as Bess did. The Moor had fallen madly in love with her and she with him . . . Harry checked himself. That was a foolish thought in regard to his little cousin, Bess. London was full of fair women, and with Seaton he hoped to sample some of them tonight. Let him not grow maudlin over the first pretty white wench he had talked to in years. He had moved away from her on the bench and said abruptly, “Where is my father, Bess - at Uncle Downing’s?”

She shook her head. “Back at Groton, since Hilary Term has ended.”

He nodded with relief. “I’ve no wish to see him yet,
nor
be packed off to rusticate in Suffolk. On the other hand, well,” he cocked his head and gave her the lopsided smile, “not to beat the Devil round the bush, I’ve landed without a farthing in my purse. I can’t lodge with Seaton, who already owes a quarter’s rent, nor do I care to beg for shelter under our estimable Aunt Lucy’s thumb,

so - “

“So you’ll come here, of course!” she said, trying to hide a rush of joy.

“Will he receive me?”

” Aye,” she said, thinking fast and summoning all her knowledge of her father. “But best not like this. You must seem prosperous, assured. Borrow fine clothes from your friend Seaton, talk big of your prospects, show condescension, yet flatter him - you must know what I mean.”

“I do,” said Harry laughing. “And I thank heaven I’ve so clever a little coz. I’ll be back later at the front door, but first a kiss before I go, sweetheart, one that doesn’t end in a slap!” He started to pull her into his arms, but she twisted quickly and jumped up from the bench.

“No, no, I beg - “ she stammered. “Listen, you hear it’s very late,” for Paul’s bell began to clang out the noon strokes, and then St. Sepulchre chimed in with its lighter peal. “Go, please, hurry!”

Harry shrugged, amused at her panic, yet touched by it too. “Till later then!”

She watched anxiously while he scaled the twenty-odd feet of wall, finding hand- and toe-holds where she could see none. She held her breath as he edged himself around the ridge of overhanging sharp iron spikes, until he finally stood on top and waved down at her. Then she ran through the garden into the house, just as the family were gathering for dinner. Fortunately Thomas had been so pleasantly occupied in concocting a special strong physic for a new customer, Lady Deborah Moody, that he had not noticed the length of her absence.

Harry returned at five that afternoon and rapped boldly on the front door. Elizabeth, watching her father’s startled greetings, had much ado to hide her mirth, for Harry had followed all her instructions. Though he was taller than Seaton, that young man’s second-best clothing fitted him well enough. The slashed green doublet and falling ruff, the high leather boots, embroidered gauntlets, and large black felt hat were those of an elegant cavalier. He had even borrowed Seaton’s ivory cane - the height of fashion - though the fine sword and engraved scabbard were his own, and the only thing of value he had been able to bring with him in his hurried escape; except a squat young man carrying a sea chest, whom Harry beckoned through the door, before the startled apothecary had had time to think.

“My servant - “ said Harry carelessly, pointing to the man. “Name’s Peyto, very devoted to me. Can no doubt make himself useful in the kitchen, by your leave, Aunt?” He smiled charmingly at Priscilla, who fluttered and murmured, “To be sure, indeed. For certain . . .” while staring as they all were at Harry’s companion. Peyto was short and swarthy with alert black eyes and a scar on his cheek which was shaped something like the letter T though he had done his best, by means of a sharp knife, to reduce the resemblance. And Peyto wore his hair longer than befitted a proper servant, since this covered the cropping of both his ears. He was, however, correctly garbed in frogged tunic, grey knee-breeches, and white cotton stockings; a livery he had that afternoon appropriated without the knowledge of its owner, a servant employed in the house next to Seaton’s lodgings. Nor had Harry inquired too closely into the providential appearance of these clothes, knowing that Peyto never answered questions he did not wish to. But the man was devoted to Harry, and grateful in his own way that in the guise of Harry’s servant he had been able to slip back into England. Peyto Smith was a gipsy from a tribe that wandered the North, in Cumberland and the Scottish Border. Six years ago, his inherited talents for horse-stealing had brought unfortunate results, which culminated in branding, and ear-cropping, and then deportation to Virginia with a shipload of other young felons. Peyto was immediately bored with Virginia and homesick for his own people, so he set his considerable wits to work, and stowed away on the first likely ship that touched at Jamestown. This took him to Barbadoes, where he soon discovered Harry and attached himself to him, while Harry for his part found Peyto far more congenial than the three plodding Suffolk servants his father had sent him, and whom he had left behind to shift for themselves.

“It is a surprise, a great surprise, my dear Henry,” said Thomas Fones, still recovering from the sweeping entrance of his nephew. “A pleasure, of course - ‘twould seem you’ve been prospering . . . though the tobacco you sent...”

“Ah yes, shocking - poor stuff,” interrupted Harry, shaking his head. “Entirely the fault of my stupid slaves, but now the crop is vastly improved, vastly! I brought you a sample.” Harry smiled and pulled from his pocket the pound of tobacco which Seaton had that morning taken from the apothecary, though it had been transferred to a pouch. ‘Please to accept it, it’s yours,” he added graciously. “And when my goods arrive, I hope that you - my dear aunt  - will do me the favour to accept some other trifles.”

“Very kind, I’m sure,” said Thomas sniffing at the tobacco. “Aye,
this
is fine - the best Verina, I judge . . . my lad, I’m glad you’re doing well. ‘Twill delight your father, and Mr. Downing . . . have you seen him yet?”

“Oh, no,” said Harry. “I’ve come first to you. Perhaps I shouldn’t confess it, but of all places in London the Three Fauns has ever seemed more homelike than any other and its occupants more dear to me.”

Elizabeth turned to the window to hide laughter. The graceless rogue! she thought. Not only for magnificently presenting the apothecary with his own tobacco, but for knowing that Thomas Fones was in awe of Emmanuel Downing and faintly jealous of him because of his closer intimacy with the Winthrops. Harry had surely struck the most expedient note, and the apothecary smiled. “Well, well, nephew, I scarce think my simple home deserves much praise, but such as it is pray consider it yours, for as long as you will honour it. Come, join me in a drink to celebrate your homecoming, while the women prepare the guest chamber.”

Thus, to Elizabeth’s delight and her father’s initial gratification, was Harry installed at the Foneses’. Thomas presently dispatched to John Winthrop a reassuring letter which enlarged on Harry’s remarkable improvement, and prosperity. Harry himself, though he loathed writing and spelled worse than any of the family, judged it wise to send his father an accompanying note. It was full of filial affection and vague though confident reference to plantation affairs, urgent need to stay in London near influential friends, and impressive plans about to ripen. It closed with a tactful request for money to cover a temporary embarrassment until the next ship arrived from Barbadoes.

On an afternoon three days later at Groton Manor, John Winthrop received these letters from the London carrier and read them with astonishment and disquiet. Then he went in search of Margaret who was still in the washhouse with her two-year-old Sammy clinging to her skirts. She was superintending the laundry maids, and starching the family’s delicate lace collars and pleated ruffs herself. “Come out here, my dear,” said John, sniffing distastefully at the steamy air in the washhouse. “There’s news.”

She wiped her hands and followed John into the sunny courtyard where chickens scratched at piles of manure and two blooded hounds basked by the stables. “Is it bad?” she asked anxiously. “Not the King again!”

John frowned. “Aye, there’s trouble in that quarter. Though Parliament still sits, he tries to dissolve it; but ‘twas not that I meant. Son Henry is back. In London, stopping with Thomas Fones.”

Margaret uttered an exclamation and read the letters he handed her. “Ah, ‘tis not bad news, after all,” she said, her face clearing. “It would seem he scarce deserves the last angry letter you sent him.”

“And which he was obviously not there to receive,” said John dryly. “I pray that the Lord has truly touched his wayward heart, and these are signs of reformation - but I mistrust.” He sighed heavily, and glanced up at a window in the Manor House where old

Mistress Winthrop lay moaning with pain from a cancer in her breast. “If ‘twere not for my mother’s grievous illness, I’d feel it my duty to go up to London forthwith, and confront my son.”

“No, dear, no,” pleaded Margaret, taking his hand. “There’s no need for you to so disturb yourself. He’s well off at the Foneses’.” She hesitated, then went on lower, “Dear husband, be not vexed with me, but always it has seemed you show this one child less trust and affection than the others.”

So rarely did she criticize anything that his spurt of annoyance was extinguished by self-questioning. He thought of John, the much-loved heir, and of Forth, the earnest Cambridge scholar who was now home and dutifully acting as secretary for his father. He thought of his one daughter, Mary, a quiet docile girl of sixteen who was at this moment tending her suffering grandmother. He thought of Margaret’s quartet of little boys, Stephen who was ten, the younger ones, Adam, Deane, and this little Sammy, clutching at his mother’s apron. Was it true that for each of these he felt more warmth than he did for Henry? “And if it’s so,” he said sharply, aloud, “what wonder, since he has been so oft reckless, improvident, a very rakeshame to disgrace me!”

“But if he’s changed - “ Margaret said softly, wondering at herself that she dared question John, and yet suspecting that his father’s antipathy and excessive sternness had always augmented Henry’s worst traits. “Think of the Prodigal Son, dear,” she said coaxingly.

John bit his lips, then gave her a wintry smile. “Aye, the lad has ever had keen advocates amongst women! Well, I’ll direct Brother Fones to advance him five pounds for the nonce, as it’s certain I have no spare money myself until the rents come in on Lady Day.” He looked down into her flushed, earnest face and, suddenly bending, kissed her en the cheek. “Ah, Margaret, sweet - thou art indeed above rubies, and all my children have cause to bless thee as I do.” They stood contentedly arm in arm for a minute, looking out past four splendid walnuts to the rolling fields of their own land, where the dark earth was ploughed and ready for the spring sowing. The ducks quacked on the pond below the crowded pigsty; three fine mounts and two draught horses stamped in the stable while the ostlers curried them. The granary was filled, the cellars were stocked with good wine as well as ale; even though winter had depleted the stores, there was plenty of pickled meat and bacon left in the larder. There were new calves in the cow byre - and the ewes would soon be lambing. These broad acres, this beautiful old manor house, this plenty and graciousness were home, and John felt them as solidly interwoven with his own fibre as the warp is with the weft.

And yet there came to him again the new foreboding and restlessness. Of what use these dear homelands if the spirit were stifled, if the air of even these sweet Suffolk meadows were poisoned by oppression and sin? And of what use were these lands if they were too cramped, and despite their bounty could not amply support eight children, or launch them into lives commensurate with Winthrop birth and gentility? It had been different in old Adam’s day, in the reign of the wise and tolerant Elizabeth. Nor had England been so crowded then.

He forgot both Henry and Margaret as his thoughts followed the worn fretful path which they, of late, so often trod. There seemed no solution as yet, none that a gentleman could stomach.” If the King granted Parliament’s requests to cease from exacting forced loans, and above all to cease from encouraging Bishop Laud in his devilish persecution of true believers in the Gospel, then there might yet be hope for easing of the lot and conscience of a loyal Englishman. John clasped his hands behind his back and strode towards the house. In his private chamber he gloomily perused the disquieting secret newsletter Downing had sent him and which contained details of new Protestant disasters on the Continent. In Germany both Calvinists and Lutherans were being smothered by the Roman Catholics; in France, Richelieu had seized La Rochelle and crushed the Huguenots.
“God help us in these evil and declining times,”
John murmured as he locked the newsletter in his private coffer. He bent his head and prayed.

Margaret returned to the washhouse, warmed by her husband’s praise, and pleased that he had taken her advice about Harry. She enjoyed starching the exquisite lace and worked deftly until a foreboding struck her too, though of a different nature from her husband’s. All the same, she thought suddenly, I wish Harry were lodged at the Downings’ instead of the Three Fauns, while a picture of Bessie’s lovely unhappy face formed itself on the glossy starch water. Yet how foolish, Margaret chided herself. The girl had been in love with
Jack,
but had now sensibly settled into her betrothal with Edward Howes. There could be no possible danger from Harry. She reasoned herself out of that fanciful worry, and continued to cope serenely with the normal cares of a household, children, and a dying mother-in-law. But her fancy, no matter how foolish, had by the end of March become an incontestable fact.