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“ ‘Tis Sprite,” said Elizabeth softly, scratching her furry ears. “The children named her. I’ve not seen her for long. I was afraid she - ”

She stopped, unable to explain how dismayed she had been of late when the doe had disappeared.

“She’s hurt her hind leg?” asked Will, slightly embarrassed, conscious of intensity in Elizabeth, and the fringe of some secret meaning he no longer shared. It was a pretty woodland pool, set in grey rocks and ferns, but he had seen a hundred others much like it on his travels.

“Aye
₅
she broke her leg when she was a fawn,” said Elizabeth, watching the doe limp off to a sassafras tree and begin to browse. “I tried to heal it but I couldn’t quite. So she must endure to hobble.”

“Poor beast,” said Will politely. “I’m thirsty, Bess. Is this lake water sweet?”

“Aye, indeed,” she said, as to a foolish question. “Come drink.” They knelt together on the mossy margin, and cupping their hands drank of the clear cool water. “Are you anhungered too?” she asked, smiling. “There’s a blueberry patch t’other Side of the great rock.”

“Not hungry,” he said. She nodded, and sat down on a bed of fern and mess, laced her fingers around her knees and seemed to be smiling now at the pool and waiting. She had lost all self-consciousness, and, he thought, lost awareness of him too, which piqued him.

He had a strong desire to kiss her, to reawaken the sensual response she had always showed, but her attitude confused him, More than her attitude, some subtle emanation from the place itself as it touched her, though he felt it only by indirection.

He sat down beside her on the ferns, and started to speak.

“Hush - ” she said again, taking his hand. A friendly little gesture like a child’s.

He stared at the pool, trying to see what she did. The tranquil dark green water was nearly black in the shadows. Now he noted two snowy herons, preening their feathers in the marshy brink at the far side, also the purple of loosestrife and red-berried trillium in the woods near them, but surely nothing to explain her expectancy.

“What are you looking for?” he whispered, closing his fingers around her hand.

She started a little, realizing that she had expected him to know. “It’s the way the light comes through the trees, just at sunset; once I almost caught it, when it turns the pond to gold, but I was too late. I saw only the shimmer as it passed. Just there between the hemlocks.”

All this for a sunset, he thought. What a strange little pagan she was, burning with some crystal flame he did not understand. But he kept very still, conscious of her hand so trustingly clasped in his.

He saw the sun rays slant through the hemlocks and then vanish into darkness. She sighed, her hand fell from his. “It won’t come today,” she said. “There are too many clouds.”

He looked around at him, and he met her gaze with a question.

“You don’t feel what I feel, do you, Will?” she said, with a rueful smile. “No matter, at least you’ve been with me here, perhaps it is something one can only feel alone.” She was quiet a moment, and with a sudden change of mood, she jumped up.

“Let’s go back to the beach,” she cried. “ ‘Follow my love, come over the strand!’ “

He was bewildered by her and the tender teasing with which she quoted his own ballad to him.

“Can we not stay here?” he asked humbly. “The tide won’t be down enough yet”

“We can’t stay here,” she said. “One shouldn’t stay here long.”

She ran back through the trees, and he lumbered after her, feeling awkward and uncertain, yet more charmed by her than he had ever been. They reached the beach where they had sat before. “The tide
is
down,” she said. “See, how far out on the sands the water’s gone.” As she spoke the glow in her eyes darkened as the pool had done. Her features grew sharper, her mouth tight She had been ageless, shining with a fey, mysterious beauty. She became in an instant a woman, still fair but mature. It hurt him to see the change.

He caught her around the waist, and pulling her roughly against him, kissed her on the mouth. She did not resist Her warm lips opened under his. Her breath was sweet as milk, Desire rushed through his body. “Christ - ” he whispered against her lips. “It begins again, dear heart, as it was in Plymouth.”

“And will end as it did then,” she said, looking up at him steadily, her eyes so near that he could see their gold flecks and each separate eyelash.

“No!” he cried. “It cannot end so. This time is different Bess - I fear that I love thee.”

They stood silent, their bodies pressed close, while the grey gulls circled lazily above their heads,

“Aye,” she said at last. “I think you do. ‘Tis strange.”

Strange indeed, he thought, since he had lusted for many women,
but never yet spoken of love,

“I see you do not want me,” he said very low, turning from her.

“If you see that, your sight is gravely amiss.” She gave a little laugh that caught in her throat. “I want you as you want me. And Will, I love thee too. I believe it’s love. I felt it strongest at the pool. It pierced my heart though you were unaware.”

“Then come to me, darling. It’s no sin. ‘Tis not like last time. Now your husband is - ” He jerked his head as though to rid it of a burden.

“My husband is mad, yes,” she said, still looking at him steadily. “But yet I am with child by him.”

He stiffened and made a harsh sound. She thought he would harden into the cold fury that he had before when she denied him. But he did not.

He took her in his arms again and smoothed her hair. “Oh, Hinnie, hinnie-sweet,” he said. “What a coil we have got into. What a miserable coil.”

“So now,” she whispered, “you will go again, dear love. Where shall it be this time? Virginia or the Indies?”

He sighed, still gently smoothing her hair. “I cannot go, Bess,” he said in a tone of wonder. “I cannot leave thee. It shall be in any wise you wish it, but I will stay near thee, and help.”

With one exception all the Greenwich settlers liked William Hallet from the first. “An able stalwart man,” said Richard Crab to Robert Husted, summing up the general opinion. “He’s seen a lot o’ the world, is not afraid o’ work, and has much skill at husbandry.”

“In truth,” agreed Husted, “and having no family yet, Hallet can give his mind to town affairs, knows summat o’ soldiering too, though he won’t talk of it I’ve been thinking we should get us a train band here. He could drill us now and then. Every proper town has a train band, and no reason why we should depend on Stamford come any trouble.”

So they chose Will for their captain. And they respected his opinion in matters of fencing certain fields, and of allotting common land and fishing rights. He told little about his earlier life, made no reference to the Digbys and Sherborne Castle. He was accepted as a Dorset yeoman who had been trained for a joiner, and the excellencies of his speech were put down to Dorsetshire peculiarities.

Will established his homestall on Totomack Cove, near the spot where Nawthorne’s clan had lived. He bought six acres there from Elizabeth, after refusing her impetuous offer to give him the land. His pride forbade a gift, but also they must, for her sake, be careful to conceal their love for each other, or any signs of intimacy. He particularly wished to protect her from the growing animosity of her son-in-law.

Thomas Lyon had been annoyed when the Greenwich men elected Hallet to leadership. He felt that as new son to the largest landholder the position should have been his. And he resented Hallet’s frequent presence at the Feake home, where everyone welcomed the fellow with excessive cordiality. Mother Feake never said much to Hallet, but she seemed to change when he was around, looking softer, smiling more and acting as though that common carpenter was an equal and a friend. As for the children, they followed Hallet about, obviously admiring, while he quietly performed many neglected tasks. For months there had been a leak in the lean-to roof. Hallet repaired it. He also fixed the pigsty, and made Elizabeth a brand new chopping board of hard maple to replace the old splintery pine one.

The fellow Hallet also had a curious effect on Father Feake, who often left off reading the Bible or staring into space to ask him sensible questions - about the best storage for the salt hay, or the possibilities of marketing their excess corn crop.

Before many weeks passed, it seemed that Hallet was looked to in all matters as though he were the man of the house. Thomas felt himself supplanted, and was all the angrier since he could find no real cause for complaint Hallet was very helpful, not only at odd jobs, but with crop-tending. He was generous with the loan of his horse, and he shared with the Feakes the game he shot in the forests.

There could be no doubt that Will Hallet’s advent had eased all their lives, and Thomas, who was as shrewd as the next man, very soon began to ask himself why.

It did not occur to him that Elizabeth had anything to do with all this - a middle-aged woman of thirty-six, swollen with pregnancy -  nor had he any illusions about his Joan’s attractions either. And Lisbet was too young, surely, to be the magnet. Though Thomas retained this as a possibility. Perhaps the fellow had an eye to the future, and the securing of a fine dowry, but in the meantime what more likely than some plot to alienate the Feake property? To so worm his way into Mother Feake’s gratitude that he could gain control of their affairs, buy land for a song, even set himself up as
the
Greenwich patroon.

Thomas at last sought for sympathy from Toby Feake. This was during the winter. Toby had now bought himself a sixty-foot sloop and had been at sea some months, but returned to Greenwich in January to await better weather. Thomas left Joan at home, because though she obeyed him very well, and always thought as he did, she nonetheless showed a tiresome lack of concern about her own interests, and seemed to share the family besottedness over William Hallet.

Toby Feake was dozing in a large armchair by a roaring fire. He was smoking a clay pipe, a tankard of strong ale stood on a stool at his elbow, the buttons of his velvet doublet had been opened for greater ease in the digestion of Anneke’s fine cooking. Toby’s heavy thighs were comfortably crossed, his shoes twinkled with silver buckles. He was the very picture of a prospering burgher, and he was disinclined to think about anything, except the best market for the next cargo of beaver pelts with which he would embark in the spring.

“I don’t see what you’re complaining of,” Toby said after listening to his new kinsman. “Naught wrong wi’ Hallet that
I
can see.”

“You should be glad he helps poor Bess, and Robert is brighter too,” said Anneke, taking a fragrant loaf of gingerbread from her oven. “Your Mother Feake has had a very hard time. Young folk like you don’t alvays notice.”

“That’s just it!” cried Thomas. “Why does he do all he does? ‘Tisn’t natural!”

“Quite natural,” said Anneke, so sharply that Toby opened his eyes. “Villiam Hallet has a good heart, also he’s known Bess since he was a lad, crossed on the
Lyon
ven she came over.” Anncke spoke sharply because secretly she did think there was something odd about the relationship. Once or twice she had caught a glance exchanged between Hallet and Bess, and been struck with a disquieting speculation. Which she had no intention of letting Thomas know, or anyone. Bess had misery enough to contend with.

“It is often unvise,” said Anneke, “for a young couple to live vith the parents. Flyspecks then grow big as toadstools.”

Thomas, who disliked the implied advice, hastily dropped Hallet in favour of another topic he had spent much thought on.

“Cousin Toby,” he said. “Did you ever hear of aught coming to Joan through her father’s property on Barbadoes?”

“Why ask me?” said Toby, yawning. “I know nothing of Winthrop affairs. Ask my aunt.”

“She denies it. But says the Governor handled all that.”

“Governor Winthrop has no head for money,” said Toby. “You got a good jointure wi’ Joan, yet if you think more’s coming to her, why don’t ye write to Winthrop himself? The
Victory’ll
likely touch at Stamford in a week or two. Could take the letter to Boston.” He yawned again. “Anneke, bring me more ale, but first mull it a bit wi’ cinnamon.” He closed his eyes and clasped his hands over his rounding belly.

Thomas went back home disappointed. But he wrote a letter to John Winthrop, a politic humble letter, expressing his great joy at becoming the Governor’s grandson, unworthy as he was, reminding him that Joan was not living in the manner appropriate to a Winthrop, and wondering if there might be some property due her. He made vague allusions to unsettled affairs prejudicial to Joan’s interests, and the ungodly behaviour of certain parties, and closed with a plea for advice. He did not mention the elder Feakes to Winthrop, nor mention his letter to Elizabeth. He settled back to keep matters under close observation, and bide his time until a reply might come, and show which way the wind blew.

He was not however destined to need patience for long. Matters reached a head before his letter arrived in Boston.

The thaws came early that year, and on a bright warmish morning at the end of February little Johnny rushed in to Elizabeth, crying that the sap was running in the maples, Danny had cut one and found it so. It was time for the sugaring-off. Could they start at once? There’d be a full moon too, for the next nights.

Elizabeth tried to smile. The sugaring-off was always a happy frolic for the children, and a pleasant gathering of neighbours, but it also meant hard labour, not only the gashing of the trees as the Siwanoys had taught them, and affixing of spouts and buckets, but the tending of many fires to boil the sugar.

Moreover as the best stand of sugar maples belonged to her and grew north of her home, those who helped would expect not only a share of the product, but food and drink for several days as well.

And she was weary to the bones. She had now carried the babe through the eighth month, and it weighed her down like a great sluggish lump. She had a steady pain through her groins, other pains which she had never felt before. Her spirits were as heavy as her body, except when Will came, and then she suffered that he should see her like this, distorted and clumsy, trying always to keep back weakly tears.