The widow's war (6 page)

Lyddie snapped out of a nightmare about Edward in the well—Lyddie reaching for his coat sleeve and his arm coming off with the sleeve to hang limp in her hand—but it wasn’t the dream that had woken her, it was sound, a whole series of sounds: doors, voices, feet. She heard Nathan shout, “What the devil! Sister!” She slid to her feet, pulled her shawl around her, and felt her way to the keeping room.

Nathan stood at the door with a single candle held high, ushering in his brother Silas’s wife, along with her five children. The candlelight touched down here and there as they filed by, lighting up first a gold head and then a pair of pale eyes and then another, and another, until at the end of the line came the shadowed hills and valleys of the mother’s worn-out face.

“I’m so sorry, Brother, so sorry to trouble you, ’tis Silas, mad
drunk, come at me with a knife this time, and I didn’t know where to go at this hour. Have you room? Just for this night? He’ll be right as rain come morning.”

“Room! Good God, woman, look at the lot of you, I’m not an inn! There now, the whole house is up. Go on, go on, Nathan; you girls, back to bed with you. Ah! And now here’s my wife, and she just asleep after thrashing me about for hours.”

Lyddie stepped forward and cupped the two nearest girls’ shoulders. “These two might sleep with me and keep me warm.” She looked to Mehitable but saw nothing in her eye but the hard gleam of a reflected candle.

“Bethiah and I might share with Aunt Patience and our littlest cousin,” Jane said. “And Nate could take the two boys in with him. What say you, Father?”

“Oh, yes, yes, yes. All right. Move along, now, all of you. But I’ll ask you to make no habit of this, Sister.”

Mehitable spun around and returned to her room, leaving her children to deal with their respective charges. Lyddie guided her two young guests to her room. “What an adventure to be out in the dead of night,” she said. “Tell me, did you see any stars?”

They recounted the positions of the Seven Sisters, the Dipper, the Great Hunter, and by the time they were through they were settled under the blankets. They were quickly asleep, but Lyddie lay awake, reminded of the comfort of another warm body in her bed, until she took a sharp blow from a small elbow.

Silas Clarke arrived the next day to collect his family, his head slung low between his shoulders, but if he was expecting reprimand from his brother he received none that Lyddie heard; in fact, the matter was not discussed again until the next day, the Sabbath.

The Reverend Dunne’s sermon addressed God’s call, not to the righteous but to the sinners, the reverend declaring this call encompassed every one of them, for a sin in the heart was as great as a sin in the flesh. He concluded with a sweeping promise of redemption that tired Lyddie to the core, but it brought Deliverance Smith to her feet to confess her grievous sin of drunkenness and bad language.

Once outside Bethiah asked, “Why didn’t Uncle Silas get up and confess his drunkenness, Papa?”

“Because a man may take his drink,” Nathan answered. “Our sister makes too much of it, disturbing my peaceful home at the slightest suggestion.”

“I’d not call a kitchen knife a suggestion,” Lyddie said.

Nathan turned to glare at her before herding his family to the left, toward the inn. Lyddie turned right.

Mehitable called after her. “Mother! Where are you going?”

“Home. I’ve a great headache coming.”

Untruths did not sit well with Lyddie. As soon as she reached her room she went down on her knees to make herself right with God, but all the old words eluded her. She couldn’t beg forgiveness for her own actions until she forgave God his, and there it festered, until God in his infinite justice delivered the headache she’d feigned to avoid his sermon. But neither feigned nor real headache saved her; as soon as Nathan came home he took pains to seek her out, inquire solicitously after her health, and then quote the bulk of the reverend’s message, ending with a flourish: he who neglects God in this life will face his eternal wrath hereafter.

Lyddie continued her walks to the water, although for what reason she couldn’t say, as they did little to comfort her. If the sea lay calm she felt angry; if it roiled she felt despair; if it fell in a place between she felt unsettled and on edge, but still it drew her. On a day of rough seas she found her boots caught in the wash, and instead of moving back she moved forward, until her hem was caught and the water began to pull at her. At the feel of the pull she leaped back, but not before she got drenched to her thighs, and as her luck would run, on the walk home she ran into Eben Freeman just exiting the Cowett house.

“Widow Berry! What on earth has happened to you? Did you fall?”

“I forgot to mind my feet, is all. You were visiting the Cowetts?”

“On a matter of business. I’m sorry, but you make me ask…others have mentioned…you walk often to the water?”

“Now and then. I’m surprised to see you here.”

“I’ve been much in town. Or do you mean here, at Cowett’s? I’ve some business with him.” The lawyer smiled. “In fact, Widow Berry, the business has to do with you.”

“Me?”

“He’s agreed to divide the woodlot.”

Lyddie stopped walking, the better to think what she was feeling, and although several of her emotions remained clouded she was able to identify strong curiosity among them. “What persuaded him?”

“I haven’t the least idea. But you’ll have your shoe buckles soon, now.”

“How soon?”

“Quite soon. We pass the papers on the woodlot first, of course, but then we move right on to the house sale.”

“You say ‘we’?”

“I should say ‘we’ for the first part only. Once the woodlot is divided it’s on to Esquire Doane and nothing to do with me.”

“Or me.”

“You enter the second part only, Widow Berry. You’ll be required to sign over your dower rights to the property. Now watch where you step or you’ll wet the rest of you. And as we come again to the subject, I wonder, might you not think of a safer place to walk than the shore? Especially in such weather?”

“I might.”

He peered at her a moment. “Widow Berry, if you would excuse me…If I might say only…I, too, have lost a partner in life, and I believe I know something of the circumstance in which—”

“Excuse me, Mr. Freeman, but you know nothing of my own particular circumstance. You may have lost a wife, but you did not lose your home of twenty years, nor the right to manage your affairs.”

“I…Indeed. But consider, Widow Berry. A lone woman—”

“Does not turn overnight into a witless fool. Must I remind you again of the many months I managed alone while Edward was at sea?”

“I beg your pardon. I did not mean—”

Lyddie exhaled with violence. “No, I beg yours, Mr. Freeman. It appears this is not a good day for me to attempt sociability. I’ll say good-bye.” She pushed her legs hard and drew away from him. He could have easily caught her up; she considered it a sign of some understanding that he didn’t attempt to do so. But before she made the distance too great he appeared to change his mind and came running.

“Widow Berry, I would have you know, I’m acquainted with your skill at management. Your husband often boasted of it. But a woman temporarily alone and a woman widowed…it’s quite different.”

“In the law, yes.”

“In the law and in life. But in either case, please remember, if you should ever have need, I am at your service.”

Lyddie had no time for the necessary thank-you. Deacon Smalley had just rounded the turn, and Lyddie had no interest in witnessing any of his joy over the sale of Edward’s house. She decided to reverse direction and continue her walk. She took a long loop, and by the time she reached the Clarke house her skirt was nearly dry, but Eben Freeman was only just stepping up the path ahead of her. As it happened, Nathan was just coming down, and Lyddie had no stomach for an encounter with either of them; she stepped into the lee of the barn, thinking they would go directly to Nathan’s study and she could slip inside without notice, but where the men crossed in the path they stopped.

The conversation began with some back and forth about the weather: the wind would blow off in a day; no, it would take two, as it was in the main from the north; no, it was east all afternoon;
at which point Freeman cut it off with, “And how fares Mrs. Clarke?”

“She fares well.”

“And the Widow Berry?”

“Ah! And to what end do you ask that question?”

“To what end! To the end of determining how she fares. To the end of adding a small note of pleasantry to an otherwise dry conversation.”

“Hah! Very well, then. Allow me to inform you that the Widow Berry fares nicely. Very nicely, indeed. She keeps herself neat, she remains fit, there are those who yet consider her handsome; I’ve no doubt she’ll stay but briefly in my stable.”

“You appear to mistake me, Mr. Clarke. I inquire after your mother-in-law, not your horse.”

“My horse! Hah-hah! Very clever, Freeman. But let me assure you, my horse would cost you a good deal more, and without certain benefits. You’ve been a single man a long time now, Freeman, some would say too long a time—”

“I’ve a devoted sister waiting dinner for me, and I cannot linger,” Freeman said. “I’ve stopped here on my way only to tell you that Sam Cowett has decided to divide the woodlot.”

“What the devil! What’s turned him?”

“That was not for me to determine. I’ve also run into Smalley and took the liberty of telling him the news. He would indeed like to purchase. I do not represent him, you understand, but as I was coming this way I agreed to pass on the communication.”

“Well, well, the bearer of good news on all fronts. I thank you, Freeman. Come in and take a dram to celebrate.”

“No, thank you. I must be off. My regards to—”

“Rest assured, I’ll inform the Widow Berry of your deep regard.”

“I meant to say Mrs. Clarke. But you may of course pass them to the widow as well.”

It was little consolation for Lyddie to learn that at the age of thirty-nine she could still blush like a virgin.

The next day Lyddie picked another route to walk. She crossed the road to the mill and continued along the creek, but had gone some distance before she became aware of her surroundings, and once she did, she was astonished. The maple and cherry had popped out in pink knobs, and green spikes glittered among the brown mat of grass. She stepped over a log, peered into the water, and soon enough she saw the gray-green shadows of the first alewives. It was April. They had shed March at last, and she had barely noticed. Lyddie stood in a trance, watching the fish, wondering how much of the world she had missed in her preoccupation with her own circumstances. She had spent too many days like those herring, struggling against the stream. The fish heading upstream were not destined to lay their eggs, no matter how they hurried; many men lay in wait to net and salt and dry them and pack them into barrels to feed the slaves in the West Indies. But the herring going downstream were free to pass at will, as it was believed among the fishermen that the downstream fish were poison. So why not turn and let her own poisoned soul float in the direction that would cause the least trouble to everyone?

When Lyddie got home she found Mehitable out among the chickens collecting eggs. With spring came so much more work; surely Mehitable would have some for Lyddie. She approached Mehitable with fresh eagerness.

In the bright light of day Mehitable’s skin looked pale and tightly drawn, the veins showing clearly at the temples. Lyddie felt the old drop of fear in her chest. The skin was such a thin thing to protect the life’s blood; so many ills could stop the vital flow from within and
without it. Lyddie went up and removed the basket from Mehitable’s arm. “Let me take on this chore, Daughter. And perhaps the buttery.”

Mehitable smiled more easily than she had in some time, and for a minute Lyddie thought they’d come at last to a peaceful blending. “I’ve finished with the eggs, Mother, and Jane’s at the buttery. But there is an errand you could do for me. Cousin Betsey is short on eggs for her pudding. Take her this basket. Stay to dine. She asked it specifically. She says Mr. Freeman is in need of fresh conversation.”

“If it’s fresh conversation he’s after, you’d best send Jane and leave me the buttery.”

“No, no, I don’t think so.” Again, the smile.

So, thought Lyddie, they all work to empty the stable together. She drew a shallow breath and exhaled evenly, slowly.

“I refuse you only this, Daughter,” she said, “and for reasons I can’t at this moment explain. But I beg you, ask me to aid you in some other way. I’ve no fondness for idle hands.”

Mehitable’s face closed up. “Well, then, you’d best return to your stockings.”

Lyddie was tightening her bed ropes when she heard several male voices in the study, and soon after, a call for her to attend. She dropped her bed key and hurried in to find five men standing around the table in a sweep of grayed and balding heads that dipped and smiled at her like gone-to-seed dandelions. She knew Deacon Smalley and Griffith and Eldred, the two neighbors on Clarke’s side of the millstream feud; the last man was introduced to her as Esquire Doane. As soon as greetings were dispensed they looked in unison at the table. A paper lay on it. Lyddie had never seen the paper before, but she knew what it contained the same way she had known the faces of each of her children before they were born.

“’Tis all arranged, Mother,” Nathan said. “Deacon Smalley takes it all off our hands. We wait on nothing but your signature.” He
dipped the pen and extended it to Lyddie, but her step flagged, as if a stone wall surrounded the table.

“Mother,” her son said a second time, more sharply, which was a mistake; his tone planted Lyddie’s feet hard on the ground.

“Widow Berry?” Mr. Doane said more kindly. “You do understand the law requires you to sign?”

Lyddie stepped forward, read the paper, and saw it was as she had suspected.

I, Lydia Berry, relict of Edward Berry, relinquish all dower rights to the dwelling house and buildings on the parcel of land, said land being bounded westerly and northerly by the public road, southerly by that lot belonging to Theophilus Smalley, and easterly by that lot belonging to the Indian Sam Cowett…

The Indian Sam Cowett, who had caused her to be here, by dividing the woodlot, and thereby indirectly creating this paper. An odd thought popped into Lyddie’s head. What would James Otis say of Sam Cowett? Was obeying only those laws written on your heart the same as doing as you pleased? And did Sam Cowett actually do only as he pleased? Could anyone?

“Come, Doane,” Nathan said. “She’s no experience with legal documents; show her the place to sign.”

Doane stepped forward. “Here, Widow Berry. You affix your name here, and Mr. Eldred and Mr. Griffith bear witness to it.”

“And you, Mr. Doane? Do you sign as well?”

“No, no, I’m here only as Mr. Clarke’s legal representative.”

And Lyddie’s unbiddable thoughts flew off again, this time to Eben Freeman.
In law and in life…I am at your service.
Dear God, did she dare? And what would it get her? Nothing but time, a few more minutes or hours or days before she was forced to put that pen
to that paper. She lifted her eyes to meet her son-in-law’s. “And where is my legal representative?”

“Good God, Mother, what need you with a legal representative?”

“Did not you just say it? I’ve no experience with legal documents. Best send for Mr. Freeman.”

“Nonsense, Mother, ’tis all just formality. Tell her, Doane.”

Esquire Doane smiled at Lyddie. “Perhaps your son has neglected to explain it to you in such a way that you may have a full understanding. Let me do so now. If you wish to have your funds, you must sign your consent to the sale. There, I think that says it most simply.”

“Very simply, Mr. Doane. Wouldn’t you even say perhaps too simply? By ‘funds’ I take you to mean in this case my widow’s thirds, or the profits on one-third the sum received from the sale?”

“Exactly, Mother,” Nathan said. “Now let’s get on, shall we?”

“And if the house were not sold, I should retain life use of one-third the property?”

Nathan smiled. “And what use could you possibly make of a third the property?”

“The same use I made of it before. Shall we send for Mr. Freeman now?”

“Good God, you can’t be serious.”

“I think we’d best send for Freeman,” said Doane, and from there the conversation moved around Lyddie as a storm circles its eye.

Clarke: “I’ll not waste my time in this!”

Smalley: “I would have us address any legal problems that might arise, now versus later.”

Doane: “There are no legal problems; get her attorney here and he’ll assure her of it.”

Clarke: “I want this done now!”

Eldred: “I doubt Freeman’s even in town.”

Smalley: “No, no, he’s at his brother’s house yet.”

Doane: “Go ahead, Clarke, send one of your servants for him and get this over with.”

Clarke: “First I take time out of my business and now I must take it out of my household as well?”

Doane: “If you prefer to schedule this meeting for another date—”

Clarke: “And pay for your time double? Time I shouldn’t have had to pay for at all if Freeman hadn’t been such an old woman over taking on a little extra paper?”

Doane: “Indeed? In that case—”

Clarke: “Oh, the devil take it! Jot! Where the devil is Jot? Jot! Go to Shubael Hopkins and fetch us back Freeman. Tell him the Widow Berry wants him; that should set him running.”

There followed a span of time during which none appeared willing to approach Lyddie except the lawyer Doane, but Lyddie was sorry he bothered, for otherwise she might have excused herself from the room. Lawyer Doane chattered on about the differences in the weathers between Satucket and Boston, the likelihood of rain, and the condition of the roads, until Jot returned with Eben Freeman.

Lyddie had not really expected him to come, but she was glad, very glad to see him. He was the tallest, if leanest, man in the room, and adding him to Lyddie’s side of the table went a good way to correcting the imbalance.

Doane gave a brief summation, during which Freeman controlled his features well, shooting only one look at Lyddie for confirmation.

As soon as Doane ceased speaking, Nathan Clarke took it up. “If you think to make mountains out of molehills, Freeman, you’ll find
yourself in want of earth to move around. This is nothing but a lack of understanding.”

“I’ve noticed no lack in the widow’s understanding,” Freeman said. “By the condition of her husband’s will she’s perfectly within her right to retain her use of a third the property, in addition to her keep and care—”

“Which keep and care she will receive, once she puts pen to paper.”

“Which keep and care she will receive
whether or not
she puts pen to paper.”

Nathan gave a crusted laugh. “Very well, Freeman, how do you see your client managing her property?”

“If she were to set up her fire in the easterly corner of the keeping room hearth, and keep a table and chair and cupboard at that end, and put her bed in the southeast chamber, and take charge of the pantry, as well as a corner of the barn for keeping of her cow, I think she would be well within the strictures of the will and the laws of the colony.”

“Indeed. And who shall muck out the cow’s corner and harvest its hay and chop her wood? Does she think herself rich enough to hire out such chores?”

“She thinks you rich enough, Mr. Clarke. You’re charged by her husband’s will to keep her in comfort. Now in the case of the Widow Howland, ‘comfort’ was determined by the court at forty cords of wood a year, eight bushels of Indian meal, two of rye, eighty pounds of beef, fifty of pork—”

“Mr. Doane,” Nathan said, “pray, put a stop to this nonsense.”

Mr. Doane gazed at Mr. Freeman. “I make the eighty pounds of beef to be high. In the case of the Widow Selew—”

“Hang the Widow Selew!” Nathan said. “What care I about the Widow Selew? ’Tis all mad chatter, Mr. Doane, I assure you. Do you
imagine a woman of her age would give over such easy life under my roof to live alone in squalor?”

“Squalor?” Lyddie said. “You think your wife’s parents lived a life of squalor? You may keep your chaise and your silver porridge bowls and your servants. You may even keep your eighty pounds of beef. I’ll take the wood and the hay and the meal and my third of the house to live in.”

Freeman’s head whipped around, his features at last unbridled. “A minute,” he said. “Gentlemen, you will excuse us a minute,” and without ceremony he grasped Lyddie’s arm, drew her from the study and into her room, closing the door behind them.

“My dear madam,” he said, “what are you about?”

“I’m about governing my life, Mr. Freeman.”

“When I spoke just now…but surely you knew? I spoke to give pause, to perhaps achieve some small addition to your keep and care. I in no way recommend a course of separation from this household. Why, it would be madness.”

“Very well, then, call me mad. But take no blame on yourself; you didn’t invent this idea, in fact, you’ve done nothing but shown me a way to remove several obstacles. With ample wood and grain—”

“No, no, no. The law is one thing; the other is the practicality of the situation. Do you think for a minute that by casting yourself outside your son’s care—”

“He must care for me wherever I am. Did you not just say so?”

They stood and stared across the foot of space between them, like two people who had just met by surprise in the road, one come from a wedding and one from a funeral. Standing so close, Lyddie noticed that the lawyer’s queue was caught up in his collar. He’d ridden out in such haste he hadn’t settled his coat on his shoulders; he’d taken a good piece out of his day on her behalf; she owed him a great debt that she had no means to repay. She could do nothing for him but reach up and lay flat his queue, but the simple gesture loosed another
flood of emotion across his features; as she removed her hand he caught it in his own long fingers.

“Widow Berry. Lydia. You see? I say your given name, speaking to you now as a husband would if he were present. As your husband would. He talked of what he wished for you, what he felt was best for you—”

“And you agreed with him? That my best happiness lay in my son Clarke’s home?”

The eyes flickered away.

Nathan Clarke shoved open the door. “All right now, you’ve had your little chat. Come, Mother, and sign the paper. Doane must be off to Barnstable this hour.”

“I shall be glad to sign a paper,” Lyddie said. “As long as it’s one written up to the specification just now outlined by my lawyer.”

Lyddie might as well have stuck Nathan with her knitting pin. She had some trouble believing that her own son-in-law would say such things, not only to her, but also to Eben Freeman. It drove all the visitors from the house in quick order, except Eben Freeman, whose presence did nothing for Lyddie but draw half the venom. Even Mehitable’s soft tones served as nothing but kindling, although she did manage to entice her husband out of their presence, if not out of their hearing.

“’Tis done!” Nathan roared from the next room. “Over! Finished! I’ll not have her in front of my eyes! I’ll not have her at my table! She’ll find out what kindness she’s forfeited! Let her sleep in the barn with the bloody cow if she wishes!”

Eben Freeman cleared his throat. “I wonder if you might like to dine with my sister and me. She’s often suggested it.”

Lyddie accepted.

Betsey greeted her cousin with the kind of welcome Lyddie recognized as that of a woman whose husband had just left for a season on
the Canada River. Eben Freeman attempted to portray the events of the morning in the lightest possible manner, but Betsey’s eyes immediately turned the size and color of pewter porringers.

“You’ll stay the night,” she decided. “Let the man cool. We’ll send Eben back with a message so they won’t fret about you.”

It seemed like a good idea to Lyddie. No doubt it seemed a better one to Mehitable; when Eben Freeman returned he carried a sack for Lyddie in which her daughter had packed two skirts, two shifts, one gown, her hair comb, her letter book, and four pairs of stockings, both winter and summer.