The Vanishing Point (33 page)

Gabriel shared her bed again. They kissed and held each other, but she had persuaded him to wait until Daniel was a year old before she risked another pregnancy.

After the snow had melted and the river and creek began to flow again, free of ice, Hannah hoed the garden for the first time that spring. She pictured the procession of the year: first the crocuses, then the violets and wood anemones, the first tender shoots of lettuce, the apple and cherry blossoms. This season she could watch her son develop alongside the ripening corn and baby goats.

The fuzz on Daniel's head grew into ringlets, and the harsh
red mellowed into a pleasing chestnut. His eyes remained dark blue. Even with his colic, he kept growing. It made no sense to clothe him in anything but swaddling, otherwise she would be forever sewing new gowns for him. When the boy could sit up by himself, Gabriel lost his awkwardness around him. He loved to carry him on his shoulders and swing him in the air.

"Which one of us does he take after?" he asked one night, lying on the furs and holding Daniel aloft. "He has your hair and my eyes."

Hannah held her tongue. It was so plain to the eye—how could Gabriel not see it? Daniel was the image of his aunt May, robust and bonny, with her blue eyes and chestnut hair, her glowing skin, her appetite and willfulness. He would grow to be a handful, she thought wistfully. He would be tall and strong, as handsome as her lost sister. If he had been a girlchild, the illusion would be complete. However, she was grateful that he was a boy, grateful that he would never suffer what her sister had suffered.

***

One day when planting seeds in the garden, she sang a ballad that her sister used to sing.
If I could be faithful, then I would be true.
May's singing voice had been as lovely as the rest of her, but Hannah could hardly keep the tune. Still, she sang while Daniel watched from the willow-withy enclosure she had built him on the grass outside the garden. In his pudgy hand, he clutched a wooden rabbit Gabriel had carved. Ruby lay at his side, gnawing on a deer bone. If Daniel cried, she dropped her bone and licked him.

If I could be faithful.
Joan used to say that if an unquiet spirit troubled a person, then singing a song could put the spirit to rest. It was like soothing a fractious child.
Then I would be true.
Moist dirt stuck under her fingernails and embedded itself in the grooves of her palms. To spare her good cotton dress, she wore her oldest clothes while planting pumpkin and Indian squash, potatoes and maize, beans, lettuce, cabbage, and turnips, sweet basil and thyme, heartsease and foxglove, with the seeds she had saved from
the previous year. The smell of rain in the air made her cheerful, for the garden wanted watering. Pressing the last pumpkin seed into the soil, she sang a new song.

Three maidens a-milking did go,
Three maidens a-milking did go,
The wind it did blow high, and the wind it did blow low.
It tossed their petticoats to and fro.

It was a bawdy song, one of Joan's favorites. May would have laughed to hear Hannah sing it.

They met with some young men they know'd
They met with some young men they know'd
They were only asking them if they had any skill
To catch them a small bird or two.

Here's a health to the bird in the bush,
Here's a health to the bird in the bush,
We'll drink down the sun, we'll drink down the moon,
Let the people say little or much.

Ruby's barking interrupted her song. Hannah sprang to her feet to see the rider leap off his glossy bay mare. He bent over the withy wall of the enclosure and held out his hand to Daniel. "What a bonny boy you are."

"Keep your hands off my son." Before Richard Banham could doff his hat, she swept up Daniel in her arms. Ruby raced a circle around her and barked.

"Good day to you, Mistress Powers. I beg your pardon if I have caused you alarm."

Hannah's eyes raked past him to see if he had brought any men with shovels, but this time he had come alone. "What brings you here?"

He held his hat in front of his doublet. "I wanted to see if you were well. I would have come earlier had there not been so much snow." His clear brown eyes rested on her face. The wind stirred
his blond hair. His voice was like silver. "You look to be in good health. The child has grown into a robust young fellow. And you, I think, were in good cheer before your dog announced my arrival. I did hear you singing."

Hannah flushed. "I did not think my voice could be heard above the wind."

"I came this day to ask your pardon," he said. "Master Washbrook told me that I caused you much dismay on the occasion of my visit last autumn."

Hannah dipped her face, remembering how she had thrown her body on her sister's grave.

"Indeed," he continued, "I remember the instance with shame. I should have shown more respect for your condition."

She told herself that she believed Gabriel, she trusted him; he had sworn his innocence. But this young man seemed so good-willed, it was hard to take Gabriel's word against him. Even his father, Paul Banham, had shown her kindness. His father was a rake, it was true, but Mrs. Gardiner, it seemed, had been a willing party. He had never troubled Hannah with unwanted attentions.

Her son stretched out his hand to Richard Banham, showing him his wooden rabbit.

"What is the child's name?"

"Daniel."

When Banham smiled, Daniel smiled back, jiggling his legs excitedly against her hips. First he had charmed her dog, now he charmed her son.

"I do believe," he said, sobering again, "that Tabitha, our midwife, might have spoken to you indelicately. She is skilled at her work, but sharp-tongued. I wanted to inquire about your welfare before I left last time, but it seemed immodest to visit a woman in childbed."

"You are kind to think of me." Hannah hugged Daniel tighter and smoothed his curls.

"If Mr. Washbrook is here, I will pay my respects to him, too."

Hannah shook her head. "He has gone into the forest to gather his traps."

"A pity," he said after a moment's silence. "My family sent a gift to you." He went to his horse, opened the saddlebag, and returned with a stoppered clay jar. "This is a pot of honey from our bees. My stepmother tells me it is the best thing for soothing a child's raw throat."

"I thank you." After setting Daniel on the grass, she took the pot from his hands. "I haven't tasted honey since I left my father's house." She thought of the two hives Joan had kept at the bottom of the garden.

Daniel looked up at Richard Banham with wondering eyes. She supposed this must be a fabulous event to him, considering that the only two people he was used to seeing were his parents.

"He is a beautiful infant," Banham said. "Indeed, there is something of your sister in him. Forgive me," he added hastily as Hannah turned away and set the honey pot on the grass. "I did not wish to make you fret."

So he saw it, too. He saw the resemblance that Gabriel refused to recognize. "You must have met my sister." Hannah spoke cautiously.

"Five years ago, I believe it was," he said. "The Washbrooks had brought their tobacco to our landing. Your sister was a new bride then, I think. Everyone said how handsome she was. Her bearing was very proud, yet her face was soft and kind. I remember she delivered a letter to the ship. It must have been addressed to you, Mistress Powers. She told me she had a younger sister back in England whom she loved and dearly missed."

Hannah pressed her fist to her mouth. She couldn't keep it in anymore. She began to sob helplessly.

"Mistress Powers," he said in alarm, "I had no wish to make you weep."

She took a few paces, filling her lungs with air, trying to regain self-control. "Did you come to torment me about Mr. Washbrook again? Is that your game?"

"Do you think it a game I play with you?" He sounded hurt.

"He said he was innocent. He swore he never harmed her. He swore an oath on the Bible."

"Mistress Powers, please. I did not come here to make trouble. I honor your loyalty to the man. Mr. Washbrook is most fortunate to have won your affection."

When she turned to face him, he held out a handkerchief. She took it from him and wiped her eyes. When the fine cambric touched her cheek, she remembered Gabriel's words.
He said you were a good woman and I did not deserve you.

"I thank you." She tried to give him back the handkerchief, but he waved his hand.

"Keep it."

She regarded the crumpled cambric. He probably had more handkerchiefs at home, possibly a whole box of them.

"I've no wish to vex you as I did last time," he said. "But my conscience moves me to repeat my offer. Would you let me take you and your son back to my father's house? Your little one will have a playmate. My stepmother has a boy only a few months older than your Daniel. In truth, my sisters are silly, empty-headed creatures, but I think you would like my stepmother. She is lonely and longing for companionship. You would make her very happy if you accepted our hospitality. She wanted to come with the midwife this winter, but she was feeling poorly."

Hannah looked to the woods where Gabriel was collecting his traps.

"Do you ask me to abandon Mr. Washbrook?" Daniel started fussing. Soon she would have to nurse him.

"
Abandon
is a very strong word. Let me speak plainly. You believe Mr. Washbrook to be innocent. I grant you that we have no solid proof against him. Let me say for argument's sake that I share your conviction in his innocence. I would still make you this offer. Would it not be best for you and your son to live in society again? The almanac forecasts much rain this summer. In our climate, that means contagion."

He stopped abruptly. "Have you heard of the diseases we have here? The flux and the fevers?"

Hannah nodded.

"Last year we were lucky. I did not hear of many outbreaks, but I fear this summer will not be so kind. If you and Mr. Washbrook should both fall ill, what would happen to your child?"

Hannah remembered May's description of Cousin Nathan's high fever and shakes that had culminated in his death. "We have the bark of cinchona."

"And if you are both too weak to make the remedy? Of course, you must know that small children are at the greatest peril to disease."

She hugged Daniel tighter and kissed the top of his head.

"I do not think Mr. Washbrook would begrudge you for wanting to live amongst others again, especially for the health and safety of the child. He could visit you whenever he wished."

All she had to do was say yes. She could go into the house to nurse Daniel, then pack a small satchel. For an instant, it seemed within her grasp—she in her good cotton dress, seated with Mrs. Banham at the tea table. If the lady had a new baby, she couldn't be as old as her husband. She might be close to her own age. It would be such a joy to have companionship, to confide her thoughts and worries about Daniel to another mother. To lead a regular, civilized life, no longer isolated in the wilderness like some outcast.

Gabriel would come back from the woods to an empty house. She could find a piece of paper somewhere and write him a letter, leave it beside the pot of honey.
My dear Gabriel, I have gone to live with the Banhams.
It would be like stabbing him in the heart. How could he bear such a betrayal?

Richard Banham seemed to sense her discomfort. "Perhaps you wish to discuss the matter with Mr. Washbrook first. If you wish, I could return tomorrow."

She shook her head. "No, sir. I know he would be against it. He would not want me and the baby to live in your house." There seemed no point in varnishing the facts.

Banham let out his breath. "The man does cling to his grudges."

Hannah dropped her head. She wondered what would happen when Gabriel lost his leasehold. It would happen eventually, even if the Banhams bore nothing but goodwill toward them. The rents on the land had not been paid since 1690, the autumn her sister had died. Regardless of all the furs Gabriel had collected, they could not afford to keep the plantation. They were squatters.

"Is there nothing I can say to convince you?" He was certainly patient, almost as if he were paying court. Immediately she blushed and pushed the ridiculous notion away. Richard Banham would never court a woman like her. No doubt his father would find him some highborn virgin whose portion included several hundred acres.

"No," she said. "I am wed to him in my heart even if not in a church. My place is beside him." Her ringless hand moved up and down Daniel's back. She had left her pearl and ruby ring in the Bible box lest she muck it up with garden dirt.

Young Banham bowed. "I shall leave you in peace. But if you will pardon the liberty, I shall pay you another visit in the summer to see how you and the child fare." Clapping his hat back on his head, he mounted his horse.

Hannah raised her face to the bruised sky. "Travel home in good speed, sir, before the rain comes."

He waved to her before trotting back into the woods.

The clouds seemed low enough to touch the treetops. Hannah imagined them opening to drown her. Heavy rain would make the bay mare's hoof prints vanish; Gabriel would never have to know Richard Banham had come to call. She would hide the honey at the bottom of her trunk and dole it out only if Daniel had a cough.

***

Rain lashed the roof. Stirring the soup of beans, onions, and salt pork, Hannah prayed that the downpour wouldn't wash out the seeds she had planted. Their winter provisions were nearly gone.
This summer, I fear, will not be as kind as the last.
Richard Banham's words lingered in her mind. She imagined the rain pelting his golden head as he spurred his mare through the forest. God willing, he would make it home safely without catching the grippe.

She had washed his handkerchief and hung it over the fire to dry. His initials stood out, embroidered in bold crimson. Had his stepmother or one of his sisters sewn him the handkerchief, or had he ordered it from a shop in Oxford? He must have cut quite a figure dressed in the black robes of a scholar. What would it have been like to be courted by a learned man, a man of the law? She dropped her spoon into the soup, then scalded her fingers when she fished it out. The heat and smoke from the fire were making her dizzy. She imagined herself legally wed to a man who owned an entire shelf of books. If she betrayed Gabriel, it was only in her thoughts. It was the loneliness that was making her half mad, the doubts and rumors hanging over them like a cloud. Surely people had been driven to lunacy by enduring less than what she had been forced to bear. Her sister buried in unhallowed ground as though she were a criminal or a suicide.