Roanoke (The Keepers of the Ring) (4 page)

White placed his hand on the minister
’s back in a fatherly gesture and lowered his voice so the clerk would not hear. “The girl is my own niece, seventeen years old, beautiful in every way, and virtuous. If you will promise to woo and win her, without divulging our conversation and your promise to me, we can conclude our agreement. I ask only that the marriage take place before the ship lands in Virginia.”

White held his breath for an answer as the minister
’s eyes deepened in speculation. “And if I fail? If she will not marry me?”

White reflected. He knew his unconventional niece,
‘twas very possible that she could harden her heart against marriage. But surely the girl could be won by this handsome man.

“She will marry. Her cousin and I will convince her
‘tis best.”

“No.” The minister held up a hand. “She will not be trifled with. She must make her own decision and choose this marriage of her own free will.”

“If she refuses, my patron’s offer is withdrawn, and you, sir, will be on board my ship without having paid for your passage. Would you then have me throw you overboard?” White leaned against the door and thrust his hands behind his back. A pox upon him, this was a very strange and deliberate minister! I’faith, the man should have been a merchant, for he drove a hard bargain.

Colman lifted his dark brows. “I must go to Virginia. Hence, if the girl will not marry me, or if you judge that my efforts have been less than sincere, I would be willing to give my service in whatever capacity you choose.”

White moved toward his desk. “Agreed. If the girl will not agree to this marriage, you shall serve fifteen years as my indentured servant.” He pulled a sheet of parchment from the desk. “And after fifteen years you will walk away with nothing but your freedom. No land, no wealth, no wife.”

Thomas Colman
’s brows rushed together in a brooding knot over his eyes as he considered the stiff penalty for failure, then he nodded soberly. “Draw up a document, and I will affix my signature,” he said, his voice surprisingly toneless for a man who had just agreed to win a beautiful wife and vast fortune. “I will do whatever I must to leave England.”

four

T
he apothecary paused outside the door of Robert White’s London house. The man had been slowly dying for nearly a year, and the apothecary knew both the local surgeon and physician had given up hope for his recovery. Through countless bleedings and purges, the man had rallied, then failed again as the consumptive disease ran its bloody course.

The wizened man knocked at the door, then made pleasant conversation as White
’s lovely daughter led him back into the bedchamber where the frail scholar reclined upon tattered pillows. The stench of death lay heavy in the room. White’s bony hand waved the daughter away, and when he spoke, the apothecary had to lean close to hear.

“I want a mixture to make me sleep,” White said, phlegm rumbling in his lungs and throat. “A deep sleep, mind you, with no waking for at least five hours. Something that can be stirred into a drink, and swallowed easily.”

The apothecary nodded. “Is the pain so great?”

White made a brave attempt at a smile. “
‘Tis immense,” he said, his eyes shining like dark globes in the narrow sockets of a skeleton. “Pray deliver it tomorrow, and place it into my own hand, not my daughter’s.”

“It will be done, Master White,” the apothecary answered, struggling to hold his breath so he would not inhale the thickened odors of the room. He bowed, then hurried out of the house.

“Supper is ready, Papa,” Jocelyn called, carrying a bowl of pottage into the bedchamber. She lay the bowl on the bed while she arranged her father’s pillows so he could sit upright, then she held the spoon and fed him the watered-down pottage. She tried to smile and keep her voice light as she chatted about the day’s events in their part of the city, but after a dozen spoonfuls her father’s frail hand pushed the spoon away.

“
‘Tis enough, Jocelyn, I am not hungry,” he said. The sight of his weary smile through cracked and bleeding lips brought tears to her eyes.

“Would you like me to read to you?” she said, turning away. “Something from Aristophanes? Sophocles? Marcus Aurelius?”

“No Greeks or Romans today.” His head fell upon the pillow. “But if you could find something in the Scriptures . . .”

His eyes closed, and Jocelyn fumbled for the leather-bound Bible by his bed. The “Bishops
’ Bible,” as ‘twas called, was a beloved translation of the Scriptures authorized for the Church of England. Jocelyn let the book fall open to a well-worn page and began reading:

And you, who were dead in trespasses and sins; wherein in time past ye walked according to the curse of this world, according to the prince of the power of the air, the spirit that now worketh in the children of disobedience . . . But God who is rich in mercy, for his great love wherewith he loved us, even when we were dead in sins has quickened us together with Christ, for by grace ye are saved . . .

“By grace,” her father murmured on his pillow, the words barely distinguishable. “Only by grace, Jocelyn. ‘Tis what Martin Luther fought for.”

“I know, Papa.” She paused to see if he would say anything else, but he lay still. She kept reading. “And has raised us up together, and made us sit together in the heavenlies in Christ Jesus: that in the ages to come he might show the exceeding riches of his grace in kindness toward us through Christ Jesus.”

She paused as an image came to her mind: her father, sitting in a heavenly golden chair among white-robed saints who lingered in a sea of misty clouds and could see down to earth. In the days to come he would watch her to see how she lived, what she did, where she would go . . .

“Grace,” her father murmured again from his pillow. “Unmerited favor. God knows I do not deserve the goodness he has bestowed upon me.”

She sobbed, and his eyes flew open at the sound.

“Weep not,” he said, struggling to catch his breath.

“I’m sorry, Papa, I can’t help it.”

Robert White reached across the pages of the Bible in her lap and held her hand. “Don
’t worry, girl. I’m in no pain.”

“Yes, you are, and you don
’t deserve to suffer like this, Papa! If I could take the pain for you, I would, I could—”

He squeezed her hand and stopped the angry flow of words. “I deserve worse than this, Jocelyn, but God in his grace stooped down to redeem my soul. I will suffer here for a few days more, then I will go to my undeserved reward. When I go, God will send his grace to comfort your heart. But before I go,” he released her hand and struggled to sit up, “I have something for you.”

He fumbled for a moment under the blanket on his bed and brought forth a small wooden box. Jocelyn recognized it; the box came from a trunk of her mother’s things. “Papa, you shouldn’t have risen from the bed to fetch that,” she scolded, thumbing tears from her cheeks. “Why didn’t you let me bring it to you?”

He ignored her protest, opened the box, and pulled out a slender gold band. “This was your mother
’s wedding band,” he said, the words thick in his unwilling throat. “I placed it on her hand on our wedding day and removed it as we buried her in the churchyard. I want you to have it, Jocelyn.”

She protested, weakly, and he caught her right hand and pressed the ring into her palm. “
‘Tis yours,” he said, allowing his hand to fall. “Always remember the words engraved inside, daughter.”

He paused to catch his breath, and Jocelyn opened her palm and held the band up to the glow of candlelight in the room. “
Fortiter, fideliter, feliciter
,” she read, grateful that he had insisted that she learn to read and speak his beloved Latin. “Boldly, faithfully, successfully.”

He nodded and sank back on the pillows. “Such must be your credo in life, Jocelyn Marie. Wherever you go, go boldly. Go in the faith of the loving God you serve, and remember
the words God spoke to Joshua. ‘This book of the law shall not depart out of thy mouth—’"

His voice rumbled and failed, and she caught his thoughts and finished the scripture for him: “—but thou shalt meditate therein day and night, that thou mayest observe to do according to all that is written therein: for then thou shalt make thy way prosperous, and then thou shalt have good success.”

“Yes.” He closed his eyes. “Boldly, faithfully, successfully. As your mother lived, so must you.”

“As my father lived,” she whispered, leaning forward to kiss his forehead. He lay motionless in his exhaustion, so she slipped the ring on her finger, cleared the supper bowl, and left him to sleep.

Sleep did not come easily to Jocelyn; she tossed fitfully in her bed that night. For some unexplained reason the accumulated memories of her life chose to march across the stage of her memory, unsettling her with their vividness. Her father teaching her to read from the Bible; his big feet supporting hers as she clung to his fingers and learned to dance in the small hall of their house. Her father had taught her about love and life and God and man at a very young age.

“Look here,” he had said one afternoon as they worked on her Latin lesson, “the word
believe
. Do you believe in me, Jocelyn?”

She giggled and looked up at him. “Of course, Papa.”

“Ah, yes, you have seen me, you know I put you to bed at night. That is the Latin
noticia
, to observe the facts. Now, Jocelyn, do you believe I always want to do what is best for you?”

She stopped giggling and looked down at her textbook. The day before her father had made her come inside and study instead of playing with the other children, so did she really believe he wanted what was best for her?

“Yes, Papa,” she said, more soberly.

“Good,” her father answered. “That is the Latin
assentia
, to agree. Now, Jocelyn, do you believe in me so much that you know I would risk my life—even give my life—to save yours?”

She stopped moving altogether; this was a new concept. Would her father, a teacher who regularly acknowledged respectful greetings in the street, give his very important life so that she might live? Her eyes flew to his face to search for the
answer, and in his loving eyes, she found it.

“Yes, Papa,” she said, delighted in her discovery.

His broad palm brushed her head. “Good, Jocelyn. That is the Latin
fiducia
, to hold in confidence and trust. And now I’ll tell you a secret—as you believe in me, my daughter, so you must believe in God. And though you can trust me with your life, little girl, God holds your life even more tenderly.”

Jocelyn turned on her mattress and pounded her lumpy pillow with her fist. If God held her life so tenderly at age seven, where was he now that she was seventeen and in desperate need? Gazing toward the rough ceiling of her house, Jocelyn mouthed a silent prayer for help and strength as tears flowed from the corners of her eyes and mingled in her hair.

The next morning, Robert White read a letter from his brother, then waited for Jocelyn to leave for the marketplace. When he was sure she had gone, he rang the bell by his bedside to summon Audrey. The girl had always been shy about coming into his sickroom, but with Jocelyn out of the house, she had no choice.

“Yes, Master White?” Audrey asked, peering from behind her apron as if the thin fabric would shield her from his contagion.

“You must do three things for me,” he said, struggling to strengthen his voice. He chose his words carefully so that he would not waste his precious breath with explanations. “Pack Jocelyn’s trunk with her clothing, and pack your things as well. Say nothing to her of this.”

“Yes, Master White.” She turned as if to go, but Robert called upon inner reserves of strength and commanded her to stop. She halted in mid-stride and turned timorous eyes toward him.

“An herbal remedy will arrive from the apothecary today. You are to take it and secretly mix it into your mistress’ breakfast drink on the morrow. The drink will make her sleep. A carriage from Portsmouth will arrive at mid-morning. You will have Jocelyn placed aboard, with her trunk, and you will board as well. If she wakes on the journey, you will give her more of the drink so that she sleeps again.”

Audrey
’s blue eyes flew open at this unusual request, but Robert believed she intuitively knew the reason for this less-than-forthright means of transporting his daughter. “Will we be staying in Portsmouth for some time, Master Robert?” the maid finally asked, curiosity overcoming her fear.

Too tired to speak, he nodded. She did not need an explanation. John would handle things once the girls had reached Portsmouth.

That night he dreamed of his schoolroom, then awoke with a start in the gloom of dawn and waited impatiently for the sun to rise. He heard movement in the front chamber—Jocelyn and Audrey had risen, and soon Jocelyn would drink the apothecary’s potion. He had said his farewell to his daughter as he gave her the ring, but he worried that Audrey’s devotion to her mistress would undermine his plan.

Within an hour after sunrise, Audrey rapped lightly on the door, then opened it and stood with her hands folded and her eyes downcast. “Jocelyn is sleeping, Master White. She is dressed and the trunks are by the door.”

“Help me dress, then, Audrey,” Robert called, pulling himself out of bed. He swung his thin legs from the mattress to the floor and felt his courage leave him for a moment as he tried to stand.
God, give me the strength to do what I must to aid my stubborn child.
Audrey timidly held a loose robe open for him, and Robert fought his way to a standing position, then enfolded the robe around him.

Audrey did not offer her arm, but scampered out of his way, and Robert clung to the walls as he made his way into the front room. Jocelyn lay on her mattress, her long hair askew, but she had dressed for the day and looked presentable enough to travel. “She will need shoes on her feet,” he pointed to Audrey, “and a veil for her head. If perchance someone sees you, it must appear that she is a lady asleep, not a captive hostage.”

“I understand, sir,” Audrey answered, scurrying to get her mistress’s shoes.

Robert lowered himself to a stool and coughed gently into a handkerchief as he stared at his only child. She was so beautiful, and so like her mother! Her dark brown eyes, fringed now in sleep with a thick row of sooty lashes, could change his mood from melancholy to merriment with a single twinkle. Her nose was slender and fine, and her delicate mouth the perfect punctuation point for her lovely and graceful features. A fallen ringlet of her hair threw her brow into shadow, and he resisted the impulse to run his fingers through her curls one last time.

He was sending her away to live. Though she would be angry and possibly heartbroken by his treachery, she would not die from his contagious disease, nor would she waste her life in sorrow mourning his death. John had already made arrangements for Jocelyn; his letter held glowing words about a suitable candidate for her husband.