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Goody Crab, after several noggins of rum - and she could hold her drink as well as any man - was reminded of a tale she’d heard in her Yorkshire girlhood, something about a witch’s coven flying through the black sky on broomsticks, but Elizabeth checked her. Witchcraft was no jesting matter; some of the guests looked uneasy, and Elizabeth herself preferred not to be reminded.

They gorged on wild turkeys stuffed with sage and chestnuts, and on the great roasted oysters from Totomack Cove. They had pumpkin pies sweetened with maple sugar, and boiled “plum” puddings made with huckleberries. Each woman had brought her speciality. Anneke, her famous gingerbread, Rebecca Husted some loaves of the precious wheat bread, Elizabeth offered a fragrant conserve of rose petals and wild strawberries. There were apple dowdies and pressed cheeses, there were even sugared raisins which the elder Mrs. Husted had been saving against a great occasion. The housewives had with much ingenuity avoided using Indian corn - the all too familiar staple of everyday meals.

The men brought hard cider, rum, and ale, but Will had provided lavishly. He was a genial host, happy in the new pleasure of dispensing hospitality, after the bachelor years of wandering, of solitude in trading posts, or of subservience in Sherborne Castle.

By eight o’clock, there was a pause. Some of the older guests began to think reluctantly of bedtime, the Husted and Sherwood babies, with other children, were already asleep in an upstairs chamber. But nobody wanted the holiday to end.

Richard Crab sprang up and waved his mug. “ Tis like old times in Essex at Squire’s manor house when I was a lad!” he cried exuberantly, his gnarled weatherbeaten face beaming. “Now we got Will Hallet for squire, him and his good lady! Drink to ‘em, cronies! Gi’ a rousing huzzah for the Hallets!”

They all cheered and huzzahed and cried, “God bless you!”

Elizabeth caught Will’s arm and held it tight, while she curtseyed and he bowed.

“I’ve got me old jew’s-harp,” cried Crab. “Let the youngsters have a romp!” And he began to play, twanging away at some unrecognizable but spirited tune.

Lisbet, who had been roasting chestnuts in the fire, seized young Danny Patrick; they sprang up and whirled together, not quite in time. Hannah, with other children, joined hands and scampered uncertainly around in a ring.

Angell Husted grabbed his young wife’s waist, and tried to lead her in a country hay, which they neither of them remembered.

“Well, hinnie -” said Will gaily in Elizabeth’s ear as they stood near the passage together watching. “Shall we tread a measure too? For sure we could show them a galliard, couldn’t we? What’s the matter -” he added in consternation, for Elizabeth’s eyes were full of tears.

“They don’t know
how
to dance . .” she said, in a choked voice. “The young ones don’t. They don’t know how it used to be, and they can’t learn here in this harsh land. There’s a shadow.”

He stared at her. “What melancholy vapours, Bess! Have you drunk too much, or not enough? You
were
enjoying yourself mightily.”

“ ‘Tis Hallowe’en,” she said, trying to laugh. “I’m afflicted with ghosts, and the sense of doom.”

“Then stop it, hinnie. There’s no doom but what we make. I ne’er heard you superstitious.”

“I would be merry,” she said, “but I dare not, when always something punishes my merriment - Aye - I thought so,” she said turning towards the window. “Don’t you hear horses?”

Will listened, and he did. “Bess, what on earth - have you gone fey, has some wizard given you the ‘sight’?”

“Perhaps,” she said wearily. “I had a dream last night; but also there was something Angell told me all unknowing. He saw Thomas in Stamford two days agone. Will, I
know
Thomas has been biding his time and now found out something. I feel it.”

The muscles knotted in Will’s jaw. “Stand firm, then, Bess,” he said. “Admit nothing.”

He strode into the passage and opened the door. “Come in, friends!” he cried, still uncertain whether Bess were right or not, though as three figures moved into the light he saw that she was.

“Good evening, Thomas,” he called out smoothly. “Ever you come unexpected to my door accompanied by two other gentlemen. I find this a trifle monotonous, yet perchance you’ve come to help Greenwich celebrate its excellent harvest? If so, you are most courteously welcome.”

Will spoke deliberately in slight exaggeration of the speech learned in his aristocratic years. Thomas’s companions - the Reverend Mr. Bishop and Mr. Lawe, who barely knew Hallet by sight - were startled. Both were men of education, and did not ascribe Will’s way of speaking to Dorset accent as the simpler folk had done. Here was certainly not the low common fellow Thomas Lyon had represented, and they changed their attitudes.

“We regret to intrude, sir,” said Mr. Bishop. “But Goodman Lyon has, er - troublesome matters to divulge.”

“They must be of paramount importance, good sirs, if they have excited the attention of two such eminent gentlemen as - ?” Will paused, cool and supercilious as ever Lord Digby had been when confronted by vulgarity.

“I am John Bishop, Stamford’s pastor,” said the minister, uncomfortably. “And this is Mr. Richard Lawe, our magistrate.”

“Precisely,” said Will, bowing and concealing dismay, though he had been almost sure of their identity. “Two such
eminent
gentlemen.” He turned his back on Thomas, who had been trying to speak, and walking into the parlour, cried, “Neighbours, we have guests! Stamford guests! We must make them welcome! Wife, pour out the ale, unless you would prefer rum,” he said with anxious courtesy to the two Stamford leaders, who looked nonplussed.

“We didn’t come here for drink!” cried Thomas belligerently, trying to regain his confidence. Richard Crab put down his Jew’s-harp; all the Greenwich folk had drawn to the end of the room, and were watching with astonishment and hostility.

“True -” said Mr. Lawe, who wished he had not come. “However, a small tot of ale. perhaps.” He sat down in Elizabeth’s carved court chair. Why didn’t Lyon tell us Hallet was a gentleman? he thought. The matter shouldn’t be handled roughly like this. He drummed his fingers on his knee.

The minister also appeared uncertain, but a glance at the renegade Greenwich folk, who had once been his parishioners, decided him. Revelling they had obviously been, celebrating a Thanksgiving as they pleased, without benefit of clerical decree, prayer, or blessing. He folded his arms behind his back and, standing by the fireplace, spoke in his pulpit voice.

“We regret to cause you embarrassment, Madam.” He bowed to Elizabeth, who was busily pouring ale.

She looked up, smiling. “But indeed you don’t. We are delighted to see you, sir.” Her heart was pounding against her ribs.

“Not the embarrassment of our presence, the embarrassment of our coming disclosure,” said the minister quickly, and hurried on. “I have received a letter from Mr. Robert Feake. Written the day before he finally sailed for England.”

“Ah!” said Elizabeth, with a glimmer of relief. This was not what she had feared. “Poor Robert. How is he?”

“Quite, quite sane now,” said Mr. Bishop sternly. “As evidenced by his letter to me. He suggests that undue influence was used on him here -” Bishop glanced at Hallet. “The day he ran away from my home, being distracted of wits. He rejects the paper he incontinently signed, and asks that I, and Thomas Lyon, shall reserve the whole of his property until he sees how God will deal with him in England. He says that he now sees he and his children would be wronged by the terms he had given, and regrets his folly.”

There was a blank silence. Elizabeth did not understand, Will was too stunned to speak. It was Richard Crab who sprang out from the gaping crowd, and cried, “Now then, parson, what the devil d’ye mean by that folderol? The Hallets own the land fair and square, and the rest o’ the estate too. Feake, he took his share when he run away, and can go signing papers till the last trump, ‘twouldn’t change things. He’s not got his wits, as all of us know who’ve lived here.”

Mr. Bishop flushed and said stiffly, “You’re scarcely a judge of the legal aspects, Goodman Crab. Mr. Feake has written me to conserve his property, and Governor Winthrop of Massachusetts has sent Goodman Lyon a corroborating letter.”

Elizabeth drew a harsh breath, her dilated eyes fixed on Thomas. “Where is that letter?” she said. “The letter from my Uncle Winthrop.”

Thomas bit his lips, there were certain aspects of Winthrop’s letter he preferred not to disclose, since he had written indiscreetly, voicing suspicions as facts, nor was Winthrop’s reply quite in the tone Thomas had indicated to the Reverend Mr. Bishop and Mr. Lawe.

The latter now leaned forward. “Goodman,” the magistrate said coldly, “I know you have Governor Winthrop’s letter with you. It must be produced.”

Everyone stared at Lyon. Will stepped back, beside Elizabeth. “You shouldn’t have insisted, hinnie,” he said in her ear.

She did not hear him, she cried again according to a deep compulsion. “I wish to know what my uncle has written - if indeed he
has
written!”

“Very well I Damme!” cried Thomas. He yanked the letter from under his shirt. “I’ll read it to you!’’

“
I
will read it, Goodman,” said Mr. Lawe, holding out his hand. Thomas surrendered his letter with ill grace.

The magistrate glanced at the signature, and nodded. “ ‘Tis Winthrop’s indeed, and ‘tis dated from Boston three weeks ago. It says ‘Dear grandson Lyon. Your letters went unanswered because Or the severe affliction God has sent me in the loss of my beloved helpmeet...”“

Elizabeth gave a strangled gasp. “It can’t be,” she cried wildly. “He can’t mean my Aunt Margaret.”

Mr. Lawe glanced up at her. “I’m afraid that’s the meaning, Mrs. Hallet, ‘the loss - of my beloved helpmeet, in the summer sickness we had here ...”

Elizabeth turned blindly and sank to the settle by the fire; she held her hand against her face to shield it from the curious observers. Margaret is dead, she thought, my dearest mother, the only person who truly loved me in all those years. She knew now that she had thought Margaret would be always waiting, and that some day they would meet again, and she would tell Margaret everything, and bring Will to her for blessing. Mr. Lawe’s voice went on, but Elizabeth did not listen.

“ ‘I myself,’ “ read Mr. Lawe, “ ‘ have been disabled with much bodily weakness, and the feebleness of my head and hand deny me liberty to write as I do desire. Lieutenant Baxter coming here to me with salutations from the new Dutch Governor has told me somewhat of my daughter Feake’s concern. Your letters also raise grave doubts that I know not at present how to answer, I send you what I can for the necessities of my granddaughter Martha Johanna and am sorry to hear there is such need. Mr. Feake has I believe written as you so desired, and is sailing for Old England, being much afflicted. You may tell your mother Feake that her aunt had prayers for her in her last moments . . .’ - That,” said Mr. Lawe, looking up with a frown, “ is the letter, nor do I find it quite as I expected,”

Nor did Will, who let out a long sigh of relief. It was clear enough to him that Thomas had written his doubts of the marriage to Winthrop, but the old Governor, either because of his illness, or because of family loyalty, or possibly from distaste for his importunate grandson-in-law had maintained an admirable discretion. Bess was right to have made them read the letter, Will thought, looking at her averted face with sympathy, knowing how much Margaret Winthrop had meant to her.

“I can’t see what that there letter proves, Thomas!” said Goodman Crab with a disgusted shrug, “except you’ve been plaguing Mr. Winthrop to give you something and made yourself out to be in desperate straits, as I’ve never seen signs of meself. And it’s ‘brought bad news to Mrs. Hallet, and I say we’d all best go and leave her to her grief.”

The Greenwich folk murmured agreement, and Mr. Lawe stood up, nodding.

‘ “Hold on, sir -” said Thomas to him sharply. “The case isn’t altered. However come by, my father Feake’s wishes are plain put in writing, which our minister has got. You and me and Mr. Bishop came here tonight to restrain Hallet from further use of the property, and to take it into our hands. There’s the money in the lean-to chest we must have too, or if that fellow’s spent it he must make restitution. Over eighty pounds it was my father left behind.”

“That’s true,” said Mr. Bishop, recapturing his earlier certainty. “Give them the injunction, Lawe, as you had it ready!”

Will would have spoken then, but Crab saved him the trouble. ‘Bah!” said the Goodman, spitting into the fire. “Ye Stamford men can yammer injunctions and restraints an’ what ye will, but your wits have gone as addled as Mr. Feake’s if ye think it’ll profit ye any! Have ye forgot this is New Netherland? Ye’ve no more say this side o’ Totomack Creek than ye have in Spain, and we’ll ail thank ye very kindly to go home again!”

“Bravo!” cried Will, laughing outright at the minister’s expression, while Thomas Lyon sent Will a look of hatred.

Mr. Lawe walked over to his colleague, and spoke to him in a low tone. “I’m afraid that what the goodman says is true, Bishop. I always knew there was a flaw in this procedure, if it occurred to them to find it. There’s nothing we can do at present.”

“Aha!” cried Crab, who had cupped his ears to listen. He winked jubilantly at Will, then grinned at the Greenwich folk who had all begun to chuckle and murmur amongst themselves.

The Stamford men grimly went away. As Thomas slammed the door behind him he called out in a voice trembling with fury, “You needn’t think this is the end, William Hallet! I know a thing or two will make you sing a different tune, and I know how to go about it
now!”

Except for Will, the company all jeered, and Crab cried, “Hark at him squealing like a snared coney, and just about as fearsome!”

But Will was not so sure this was an empty threat, though he said nothing disturbing to Elizabeth, and comforted her while she grieved bitterly that night for Margaret.

The snows fell thick and heavy that winter, and it was early March before Thomas could put his new scheme into action.