The Schoolmaster's Daughter (24 page)

They both looked out into the square again.

“Do you suppose something's happened to Dr. Church?” Abigail asked.

“It's possible.”

They didn't speak for a minute, and then Abigail got up off the step, smoothing her skirt. “I should walk, because later I must get back home to help Mother. We are frequently entertaining Tories, and I am … I'm so fed up with being pleasant to them.”

Rachel got to her feet. She put her arms about Abigail and hugged her. “We shall be away soon, and I may not see you … for a good while.” They began to let go of each other, but then Rachel clutched at her more tightly, and said in her ear. “I suggest you walk by and visit Mariah Cole.”

“I've been meaning to, to pay my respects.”

Rachel released her, and, smiling, she said with some urgency, “Go—go see her.”

Abigail leaned back so she could study Rachel, look in her eyes. “I will, once I've regained my strength—the walk this far from the house has about exhausted me.”

“Yes, but visit her, soon.” Rachel pulled herself free and turned to open the door. “Soon as you are well enough.”

“You're usually so blunt. Why are you being so cryptic?”

“Consider it a symptom,” Rachel said, and then she laughed. “It has been too long since I've lain with my husband.”

“Boston won't be the same without you.”

“I leave our city in your capable hands.” Rachel entered the house, shutting the weathered oak door behind her.

Benjamin had spent several days recuperating in the shed behind Mariah's house. He lay on a bed of old sailcloth, surrounded by nets, buoys, anchors, block pulleys, clam rakes, shucking knives, coiled rope, and more rope. There were chipmunks, and the occasional rat. Seagulls' claws scratched on the roof shingles, and the few chickens in the yard behind the house squabbled as they pecked relentlessly at the dirt. Mariah insisted that he not venture into the yard until nightfall, as a matter of safety and propriety. She would not admit him to the house, but brought his meals out to him. Too often there were unexpected visits from people who wished to pay their respects, and it would not do to find that Anse Cole's daughter was not as she seemed, alone.

By mid afternoon it was very hot in the shed, the heat and humidity bringing out the smell of salt and fish, so that, sweating in his damp shirtsleeves, Benjamin thought of himself as a quahog, moist and formless, encased in its hard shell. He was dozing when he was startled by the sound of familiar voices. He peeked out through a wide crack in the door and saw that Mariah and his sister had come out the kitchen door to sit in two wooden chairs she had set by the chopping block. They sat there in the shade, facing the shed, a plate of gingerbread and two glasses of water on the block.

Mariah seemed to be attempting to stare right through the shed door, while Abigail paid her condolences. She was wearing her white linen dress, which she reserved for the warmest days of the year, and her hair was concealed beneath a yellow turban; the fabric had a gloss even in the shade. It gave her a foreign appearance, and her face, browned by the sun, seemed fuller for not having her dark curls draped around it.

Benjamin wanted to shout her name.

He wanted to pull open the door and hobble out into the yard, scattering chickens, giving his sister a fright and then an enormous hug. He wanted to tell her all about the fighting, about driving the British back to Boston, about working for Dr. Warren, about living among the men encamped on Cambridge Common. He wanted to tell her about Ezra, that he was safe and that they had become like brothers, brothers in arms. But then Benjamin realized that he could not tell her: he had promised not to say anything about Ezra to Abigail. Why would Ezra make such a request? What was being concealed? Or revealed? Benjamin retreated to his bed of sailcloth, lay down, and gazed up at the rafters, where spiders had woven elaborate webs, cluttered with the remains of dead bugs.

It was understandable, Abigail supposed, that Mariah seemed distracted as they sat in her yard. She looked like she'd gotten little sleep, and her posture suggested that she was thoroughly spent and weary. And nervous: her hands fidgeted in her lap (she wouldn't touch the cornbread and only occasionally sipped water), and her eyes stared hard about the small yard. She seemed afraid to look at any one thing for very long, and when she did look at Abigail it was a momentary, furtive glance. Baffling, but what did Abigail know about mourning, how it affected different people?

“I heard how there was a large gathering on the beach for your father,” she said, “and that they proved defiant when the redcoats ordered them to disperse.” Mariah only nodded, as though she didn't quite remember. “Your father gives us strength, you must know that, Mariah.”

The girl turned to her then, as if just discovering that she was not alone. “Everyone has been so kind.” She then shook her head. “No, I mean it, Abigail. I've been saying that to people who come by, but truly, I thank you.” Then she looked down at her hands, worrying in her lap.

“I must ask—” Abigail waited, hoping she would look up again, but she didn't. “You saw my brother? I hear that he landed here by boat and this was what brought on the incident with your father.” Mariah still didn't look up, though her shoulders seemed to lift and tighten, as if there was a need to fend off the next question. “Have you seen Benjamin since?”

Mariah looked up and stared at her, but did not answer.

“I know he was taken into custody,” Abigail said. “But he escaped and no one's seen him since.” She paused; Mariah's eyes were large with fear. “I hear he was not well treated, and fear that he might be injured.”

Mariah was on the verge of tears. She turned her head away, staring toward the back of the yard. Abigail picked up her water and finished it. Putting her glass down on the chopping block, she leaned forward. “Mariah, what is it?”

Tears welled up in the girl's eyes and ran down her cheeks. She shook her head.

“There's something … I know you're grieving, but there's something else—I can feel it.” Abigail waited, and then got up from her chair. “Well, I should be going.”

Mariah walked her to the fence gate at the side of the house, where they could see a woman and two little girls coming down the lane, both carrying baskets. “My cousin Anne,” Mariah said. “They've all been so good to me, bringing food and whatnot.” She waved, trying to smile, but when she looked at Abigail she seemed to come to a decision. “Listen, could you come back tonight?”

“Of course—”

“After dark,” she said, opening the gate for Abigail.

Family and friends visited Mariah throughout the afternoon and on into the evening. Children played in the yard, chasing each other, pestering chickens, while the adults sat in the shade of the house. On one occasion, Benjamin heard footsteps approach the shed, and he saw an eye—a child's eye—gazing through the crack in the door. It was dark inside, and Benjamin remained absolutely still, and quickly the child was warned by her mother not to go in the shed.

Then Mariah said, “It's full of dangerous things.”

“What things?” the girl asked, still standing in front of the shed door.

“Well, sometimes when a fisherman dies,” Mariah said. “His ghost comes back for his nets, so we don't want to disturb those things, just in case.”

The other woman laughed as her daughter ran from the shed, yelling, “You mean it's haunted? The shed is haunted?”

“Perhaps a little,” Mariah said. “I avoid going in there. It's so hot—won't you have some more water?”

And the little girl said, “Thank you.”

That evening Samuel came around to the house on horseback and, after paying his respects to Mr. and Mrs. Lovell, he and Abigail walked over to the Mall. He let his horse wander out on to the Common to graze while they watched the sunset beyond the trees. On the far side of the Common, soldiers had erected rows of tents near the banks of the Charles, and smoke billowed from their campfires.

“You didn't tell the truth, did you?” he asked.

“Pardon?”

“At the inquiry.”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you really go up Trimount alone?”

“That's what I said. Why won't you believe me?”

He stared out across the Common. The warm air was golden and there were moths and butterflies everywhere, flecks of sunlight. “This business about Munroe and Lumley. Believe me, if General Gage bothers to sit in on such a thing, then they mean to get to the bottom of it.”

“Why would you think I had—”

“There was something about the way you responded to certain questions.”

“You actually think I murdered Munroe?”

“No. No, I don't.” He began to walk down the Mall beneath the trees. “But I don't think they're convinced.”

“Smyth and Armbruster?”

“And Gage,” he said. “They were being very … deferential.”

“Because of my father.”

“Well, yes, because he's a loyalist and Gage is particularly fond of him. The general appreciates culture and learning. He envisions himself as possessing such traits.”

“Yet he ships his wife overseas.”

Samuel didn't answer. He walked with his hands clasped behind his back, and as a couple of soldiers passed by in the other direction he acknowledged their salutes with a curt nod.

“He may be cultured and learned,” she said, “but he's also highly suspicious.”

“He has good reason to be. We are surrounded here in Boston—you only have to look out at the hills of Dorchester and Charlestown. Things are bad and they're going to get worse. There's a distinct tightening of discipline, and when soldiers go missing—or end up dead—it's something that can't simply be overlooked.” He stopped walking and turned to her. “I don't believe you had anything to do with Munroe's death, but I think you know more than you're letting on. I feel it. I felt it during the inquiry.”

Abigail began to walk away, back in the direction of her house.

“They will find out,” Samuel said. “Smythe and Armbruster, they will find out, and if they aren't satisfied, they're not above arranging things to their liking.” She stopped walking. “They're not above it, Abigail,” he said. “Schoolmaster's daughter or not. They need to show results.” He came to her then and waited until she looked up at him. “Lumley's the key. They're searching hard for Lumley, and when they find him they'll determine how they want to play it.” He took her by the arm. “Listen, they're suspicious of me as well. I had to work things to get on that inquiry, and they know I'm your … advocate.”

“How do they know that?” she asked. “How, Samuel?”

“They just do. We've been seen together enough, like this, and, well, I'm no better at dissembling than you are.”

He took her hand then, and she didn't pull away. “I do—I did appreciate how you handled the questioning, you know,” she said. “Almost as much as how you came to visit me when I was confined to bed.”

“I would like to think that you injured your head simply so that I could visit your bedchamber. That it was all a ploy.”

She smiled, but then she said, “You do realize how difficult this is for me?”

“Consorting with a British officer? Yes, I understand.”

“You have been kind and generous to me, but—”

“But whatever good qualities I possess, they're obscured by this uniform.”

“It's difficult to see who you really are.” He glanced at her, and she realized he was hesitant to say something. “What?”

“There's something else,” he said. “Someone else.” When she turned toward at him this time, he continued to walk with his head lowered, his hands clasped behind his back. She realized he was afraid to look at her. “Someone who has broken your heart.”

“How—”

“I just know. I can sense these things. On one hand, I'm very sorry for you, but on the other I'm rather grateful. This—whatever it was, whoever it was—has driven you toward me, and for that I'm grateful.” He looked at her now, quickly, his eyes earnest but wary of surrendering too much.

“You're right, Samuel. This is not easy, none of it. And now this inquiry. Sometimes I felt they were looking at me as though I were guilty simply because I am a woman, or because I am a Bostonian. Or both.”

“I know it's very hard on you—though they'll never mistake you for, what was her name? Molly Collins.”

“It's not like that.”

“No. It would be easier if it were. A simple transaction, which soldiers understand, and nothing more. This …
this
is no simple transaction for you?”

She shook her head. “Far too complicated. I see it—when I go to market, it's in the eyes of vendors. The butcher used to give us a choice cut, but now … And Bostonians can be more effective in what they don't say and do. Too often now, as I walk the streets, they will just look away and pass in silence.”

He touched her elbow gently, and then let go. They went out on the Common, where he gathered up the reins and led his horse back toward School Street. It was nearly dark when they passed the granary, which loomed above the burying ground. When they reached the brick wall which enclosed the granary yard, Samuel tied the reins to a hitching post and led Abigail behind a lilac bush.

Benjamin was awakened by footsteps, coming across the yard. It was dark and he sat up. He couldn't tell how much time had passed since Mariah had brought out some supper, and then a pan of water, lye soap, a towel, and one of her father's shirts. It felt good to be clean, to wear a shirt that had been laundered and ironed—so much so that he had been reluctant to lie down in it. But now the shed door latch clicked and he got to his feet, reaching for his cane and raising it as his only means of defense.