THE TIME HAD COME to put May's demise behind her. Living in peace with Gabriel was more important than mourning the past. Indeed she had little leisure for fretting. Daniel claimed all her attention, all her time. His crying shattered her sleep. She dragged herself from bed at dawn, which came earlier as winter lost its grip. She nursed the baby and boiled corn mush for breakfast. When Gabriel left to do his chores, she did hers, the same as before, except it took her at least twice as long, for Daniel had colic and she kept interrupting her sweeping and cooking to tend to his cramps. She lay chamomile compresses on his belly and gave him peppermint gripe water.
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.
Outside, Ruby barked, and was answered by a chorus of baying dogs. Gabriel was back. Snatching the damp handkerchief, she stuffed it through the opening in her skirt and into the pocket bag that hung from her waist. She turned stiffly as the door banged open and he stumbled in, water streaming off his deerskin hat and coat. Mud dripped off his sodden boots. His breeches, too, were soaked.
"Crossing the creek, I stumbled," he muttered. "The traps do weigh me down." He could hardly speak for his shivering. When he shrugged off the traps, they hit the floor with a clatter that made Daniel wail.
"Hush, don't cry." Hannah scooped him off the floor. "That is your father."
Gabriel pulled off his hat, spraying water across Hannah's face. With his damp hair plastered to his skull, he looked like a stranger come out of the woods.
"Get those wet things off." She kept her voice brisk and practical. "Hang them near the fire."
Soon he was stripped naked, shaking and chilled. Setting Daniel down, she took a cloth and rubbed Gabriel dry, working as dispassionately as she used to with her father's patients. She took one of the deerskins from the bed and wrapped it around his shoulders, then sat him down and gave him a pan of warm water in which to soak his feet.
"You are good to me, Hannah." He lifted his hand to touch her face.
"When the beans are soft, we can eat the soup." She made her voice sound gentle. She loved him, she believed him. She had told Banham she was wedded to Gabriel in her heart. The ring was back on her finger. "I will fry you some griddle cakes."
Daniel was still crying.
"Give him to me," Gabriel said.
"You are too chilled to hold him." Hannah picked up the baby, bounced him on her hip, and set him down again. Then she went into the pantry. They had nearly reached the bottom of the salt pork barrel, and she reckoned only a week's supply of corn-meal remained. How could this be? The previous year, the corn-meal had lasted until the first runner beans were ripe and the river was leaping with fish. But this winter had been long, the spring late, and nursing the baby gave her such an appetite. She was eating more than she ever had, and yet she kept getting thinner.
She heard Gabriel's footsteps across the floorboards, the clank of metal hitting metal. The baby cried again. Rushing out of the pantry, she saw Gabriel, still naked, picking the traps off the floor. "I cannot leave these here," he said. "The child might get at them." His face was white with cold and his teeth were chattering.
"Gabriel, you do not look well." She took his arm and led him to bed. "Rest here a while." She tucked him under the blankets and skins. "I will hang up the traps."
"On the pegs." He pointed.
The traps were heavy, massive, the metal slippery in her hands. Their jaws were shut now and couldn't snap her fingers. The rusted teeth had grown dull over the winter, but Gabriel would hone them again. He would oil and polish them, sharpen each metal point. A dull trap was far crueler than a primed one, though slow death from a broken bleeding limb was agonizing in any case. She couldn't help thinking of May's smooth white leg, her grave by the river.
***
That night, having recovered from his chill, Gabriel embraced her in bed. He kissed her the way he used to when they first fell in love. "We can still be tender, Hannah."
She kissed him back so he wouldn't think anything was amiss. When he pushed her thighs apart and stroked her, she wanted to tell him to stop. It was no use. Since having Daniel, her body below the waist had become a lifeless thing, her old hunger gone.
"Hannah, what is it? Don't you want me anymore?"
Numbly she kissed him. If she pretended to feel something, it would comfort him. While he kept stroking her insistently, she closed her eyes and imagined Richard Banham. His face and his fair hair. The way he had looked at her when he said, I did hear you singing. The hurt in his eyes when he said, Do you think it a game? She sat behind him on the mare, wrapped her arms around his chest as the mare moved beneath her, taking them through the forest. If such thoughts were traitorous, at least no harm could come of them. Richard Banham was so far beyond her reach, she might as well be dreaming about the King.
The old hunger awakened, her body unfolding, opening up. Waves moved through her, mounting until they crashed. Eyes still closed, she blindly kissed Gabriel, reached out to stroke him, and whispered his name.
***
The next morning as the rain drummed down, Gabriel sat by the fire and sharpened his traps with the same whetstone he used for his hunting knife. He worked with patience, humming under his breath. He did not seem the least bit concerned about dwindling cornmeal.
Meanwhile Hannah washed the dirty clothes in rainwater. "What will happen when the rent collectors come?"
Gabriel nodded toward the rain-blurred window and laughed. "Let them try coming upriver in this weather."
Hannah thought of the path young Richard had taken through the forest. Soon the way would become treacherous. His mare would sink up to her knees in the mud.
"We cannot stay here forever," she said, scrubbing mud out of Gabriel's breeches. "One day they will come and drive us off the land."
Gabriel did not miss a single stroke of stone against metal. "The land stretches on forever. They might drive us from this house, but I could build another one. We will just wander out of their reach. Remember, Hannah, we are not like other people. We are not beholden to anyone."
***
The cornmeal ran out, but Gabriel told her they would never be hungry. He went into the forest and returned with a plump rabbit. When he slit its belly, there were six little rabbits inside.
Rain kept falling. Each evening at twilight, Hannah crushed snails in the garden before they could destroy the seedlings. While waiting for the garden to grow, they supped on eggs, goat's milk, and new dandelion leaves. Gabriel slaughtered a kid goat. Hannah thought of the jar of honey hidden inside her trunk.
She hoed eggshells and chicken manure into the garden, hacked up the bloody kid bones with Gabriel's ax and mixed them into the soil, too. The earth demanded blood. When the apple and cherry trees blossomed and the first strawberries ripened, she told herself they were over the worst. But the rain also brought a terrible crop of mosquitoes, far worse than anything she remembered from the previous year. Even in the house, with the door and windows closed, there was no escape. They came down the chimney and through the chinks in the walls. Their bites covered poor Daniel's skin and left him howling. She had to coat him in bear grease. At night Daniel screamed with teething pains. She fed him goat's milk, chicken broth, and mashed strawberries. It was time he was weaned; the erratic diet had dried up her milk. As long as he ate and kept growing, she could hope. She prayed over him as he learned to crawl. By the time the cherries were ripe, he seemed more like a little boy than a baby. Summer dragged on, bringing more mosquitoes. They whined in Hannah's ears each night, even plagued Gabriel, who had seemed impervious to them before.
When she looked back to the previous summer, Hannah began to believe that it was only the buoyancy of their new love that had raised them above the hardship. As the garden grew, she picked caterpillars off the young cabbages. She and Gabriel fought the insects over every ear of maize, praying they would have enough to see them through the winter.
***
One sweltering afternoon, when she was pulling tassels off the maize, the dogs began barking wildly. She swung around to see Richard Banham and his horse at the garden gate. The sun shone on his golden hair and dazzling white shirt as he stroked Ruby. In his withy enclosure, Daniel squealed at their visitor.
"Good day to you, Mistress Powers. I see your son has flourished since I saw him last." He extended his hand to Daniel, who seized his thumb and grinned.
Tingling with gratitude, Hannah came to the gate. His voice was sincere; if he said her boy looked healthy, then it must be so.
He rested his hand on the gate, a few inches from hers. "I did come again, as promised."
"Sir, you are kind." Basking in her visitor's company, she smiled, then lowered her eyes. "Truly."
"How does your garden grow?"
She waved her hand toward the maize. "Every day I pluck off the caterpillars and weevils. A daily battle, it is. I do not know how people get on when they have acres of tobacco besides."
Banham was about to say something when the dogs started up again. Hannah took a step back from the gate when she saw Gabriel coming. He had been chopping wood and carried the ax in one hand.
"What brings you here?" Gabriel slapped the blunt end of the ax against his palm. "Did your father send you?"
Banham bowed. "Good day to you, Master Washbrook. I come with a gift for your household."
"We need no gifts from you."
"Gabriel." Hannah's throat was dry and tight.
Eyes locked on Banham, he ignored her.
Richard Banham's eyes moved warily over the ax. "This gift, I fear, might be indispensable in the next weeks." He cast a quick glance at Hannah before looking back at Gabriel. "I bring no trifles this time, but a pound of cinchona bark in case your supply runs low."
"What do you mean this time?" Gabriel's eyes were on Hannah now. "Do you mean to say you have come on previous errands bearing trifles?"
"Only the honey, Mr. Washbrook. I had assumed Mistress Powers told you."
"Honey." His voice was incredulous. "What do you say to this, Hannah? Did he come with a gift of honey for you?"
"Mr. Washbrook, I rode out in early April, only to ask after her welfare." Banham spoke with quiet diplomacy, like his father. "It was meant in the spirit of being neighborly."
Even with her eyes closed, Hannah could feel Gabriel's stare. "You concealed both the gift and the visit from me?" he asked her.
Somewhere in the farthest reaches of her mind, she saw her sister spinning. May did not see her, did not look at her anymore. May had washed her hands of her.
"Mr. Washbrook, I hardly think this is cause for you to berate the woman."
Hannah cringed and stumbled away. So that was how Richard Banham thought of her—simply as Gabriel Washbrook's woman.
"Mister Banham." Gabriel mocked his civil tone. "I think it is time for you to leave."
Something inside her snapped. "Listen to yourself!" The anger surging through her gave her the courage to look Gabriel in the eye. "Why must you make everyone your enemy?"
The muscles in his face twitched.
"Will you make me your enemy as well?" she demanded. Marching out the garden gate, she climbed over the wall of Daniel's enclosure, picked him up, and went to Banham. "Sir, on my son's behalf, I accept your gift."
Richard Banham looked from her to Gabriel. His eyelashes, she noted, were sandy and thick. He went to his saddle bag and pulled out a cloth sack, which he handed to her.
"I thank you," she said. "God willing, we may one day be in a position to repay your kindness."
"Hannah!"
She had never imagined he could raise his voice to her like that, but she stood unflinching, her eyes not moving from Banham's face.
"Madam, do not speak of repayment. A gift is just that, a gift, freely given in the spirit of being a good neighbor."
"God willing, we will be better neighbors to you." She kept her voice strong. "Please give my regards to your family."
He bowed. "I will, Mistress Powers." Then he bobbed his head stiffly in Gabriel's direction. "Good day to you, Mr. Washbrook."
Her feet were rooted to the ground while she watched him mount his mare, one slender leg rising over her back. She watched him ride off. The mare's long tail fluttered gracefully.
"I scarcely think I know you anymore." Gabriel's breath touched the back of her neck.
She shivered but did not turn. "Nor I you." Holding Daniel on her hip with one arm, the cinchona bark in the other, she headed toward the house.
Gabriel came behind her and grabbed her arm. He took Daniel and set him down on the grass. She held on to the sack of cinchona bark with her free arm, clutching it like a shield.
"Why did you not tell me of his visit?"
"Because you hate him and all his family, but he was only being kind."
"Kind!" His mouth twisted. "He visits you in secret." Gabriel's fingers sank into her arm. "I saw the way you looked at him."
Hannah gritted her teeth. "Let go of me."
"I am losing you," he said in disbelief, "to that whoremonger's son."
She avoided his eyes.
"I never thought you could turn on me like that." Pain shot through his voice. "You are besotted with him. Deny it."
"My mind is my own. Don't you dare upbraid me like that. I am not your wife. I never vowed to obey you."
"You do begin to take after your sister."
She hugged the sack of cinchona bark to her chest. "What are you saying, Gabriel?"
"You heard me."
"You mean to say that if ... if I cross you, I will meet the same end?"
He reeled backward.
"In a grave by the river?" She raised her voice to a shriek that made Daniel whimper. If she was being cruel, it was to punish him for the way he had chastised her in front of Banham, her one and only well-wisher.
"There it is!" His voice broke. "You would never believe, even when I swore an oath on the Bible. No words of mine will ever be good enough to convince you. Why do you not just call me a murderer to my face instead of meeting that yellow-haired fop behind my back?"
The dogs gathered around them and howled. Ruby nuzzled Daniel and licked his face.
"If you believe I killed her, you can go. Now." He pointed to the woods into which Banham had vanished. "Take the child and run after him. Mayhap he will hear your cries and come back for you."
Wrenching her arm free, Hannah let the sack of cinchona fall and picked up the crying child. She buried her face in the crook of his neck. "Hush-a-bye."
"If you think they would treat you better than their servants..."
"Enough."
"They would call you a whore and our child a bastard, as surely as they call me a murderer. You know well what would happen if you put yourself in their hands."
She started walking away from him.
"Within the year, you would be big with Paul Banham's child, for they say that no female in his household sleeps in peace. Ah, but you prefer the son to the father. And I saw the way he looked at you."
Hannah swung around. "In pity," she said. "He looks at me in pity." She moved away from him as fast as she could with the screaming child in her arms. He could easily have caught up with her, but he let her go.
She dashed past the garden and the empty servants' shacks, leaving the cleared land behind. A trail of hoof prints and broken branches led into the forest. Could she still catch up with Banham? She whooped and shouted. Let him hear and turn back. She would allow him to take her and Daniel with him. She cried out as loudly as she could. Only the rushing river and the wind in the trees answered her.
She hugged Daniel, kissed away his tears. It wasn't an impossible distance to walk, but it was already late afternoon, judging from the sun's position in the sky. If she attempted the journey, she and the child would be caught out in the forest after dark. Flies buzzed around her head. She was too numb to swat them away. She didn't know how long she stood there, a damned woman, lost in that place between leaving and turning back. When she thought of facing Gabriel, her anger made her half blind. Daniel on her hip, she blundered down the paths, which eventually led her to the creek. Beside a shallow eddy, she stripped off his swaddling and soiled clouts, then bathed him, rubbing cool water over his hot sticky skin until he stopped crying. She sang to him until the fearful look left his face. If she could shift her shape, she would take the form of a bear that could provide for her cub on her own, defend him with teeth and claws. Why had God cursed human females by making them so vulnerable?
Soon Daniel was hungry. The only thing on hand to feed him were the raspberries that clustered at the creek bank, but she was reluctant to give him too many for fear of making his bowels run. When the sun dwindled behind the trees, the mosquitoes grew vicious. In the last light of day, she carried him back to the house.
***
The door was propped open. The dogs, gathered near the porch, leapt to greet her, but she lurched through their midst, ignoring Ruby's quivering face. The smell of frying fish drifted over the threshold. Gabriel stooped in front of the fire. Sweat dripped off his face. Bruised dark circles rimmed his eyes. The look he gave her was haunted, as though he feared she had truly deserted him.
"You must be hungry," he said, voice choked.
After changing Daniel into a clean clout and swaddling, she sat at the table. Gabriel poured her a mug of goat's milk, which she spooned into Daniel's mouth.
When the catfish was golden brown, Gabriel cut it in two, giving her the bigger portion. He watched her eat, the way he had when she first came to his house. When Daniel cried, he took him before she could protest. How trustingly her son nestled in his father's arms, how tenderly Gabriel held him. For the first time in her life, she thought she had grasped the meaning of the word mystery. The longer she knew Gabriel, the more of a riddle he became. She would never unravel him. There was too much of him for her to comprehend.
"If you ever speak to me again as you did today, I will leave you," she said, "and never come back."
"I know, Hannah." He looked at her so sorrowfully that her eyes filled with tears.
Daniel nodded off to sleep against his father's shoulder. After tucking the boy into bed, Gabriel returned to the table and sat across from her.
"If it pleases you, we will be friendly with the Banhams. You have been lonely here long enough. I see how it pains you. If it would make you forgive me, I will take you downriver to pay a visit." It tore at her to see how much those words cost him. On her account, he was prepared to bury the grudge he had inherited from his father along with this land and the rents he couldn't pay. "I am sorry, Hannah. I beg your pardon." He folded his hands, as if in prayer, and rested his forehead on them.
***
Hannah used Banham's honey to make cherry preserves. Then, a fortnight after his visit, Gabriel took her down the river, as promised. She carried the stone crock of cherry preserves in a basket packed with straw so it wouldn't crack on the boat journey. At Banham's Landing, she held the present before her, an offering in exchange for the gifts they had received, to prove that she and Gabriel could be gracious.
In his father's arms, Daniel babbled his excitement at the sight of all the new faces that came out to meet them. Hannah tried not to lose her composure under the observation of so many eyes, among them those of the midwife and the two manservants who had come bearing shovels, accompanying their master on his first visit. She prayed it would not be too awkward facing Richard Banham after he had witnessed her fight with Gabriel.
That morning she had bathed and used precious sugar for sugar water to tame her unruly curls. Despite the heat, she had ironed her good cotton gown. Gabriel had insisted on wearing his buckskins as though this were any other day, never mind the fact that he possessed good breeches and a decent waistcoat. Yet it was a miracle that he had agreed to come at all. Hannah had thought it unwise to protest his choice of attire.
As they neared the gabled wooden house with its shutters drawn against the July heat, a door opened. Richard and his kinswomen stepped out. The Banham girls were as jarringly pretty as she remembered, pink and white as apple blossoms, except this time there were only two of them.
Richard hailed his guests. "Master Washbrook, you do honor us with your visit." He made no attempt to hide his incredulity.
Gabriel nodded—the closest he would come to bowing. "It is Hannah Powers who honors you. She has come with a gift for your family."
While Gabriel remained bolt upright, Hannah curtsied, then held out the basket with both hands. "I have made cherry preserves with honey."
Bowing stiffly, Banham kept his attention on Gabriel. "You are both welcome here. I am sure my stepmother will be delighted to receive your gift."
Banham's overlooking her so completely left her punctured. Had he lost all regard for her after she had played the shrew by screaming at Gabriel in front of him? Or was this his way of showing deference to Gabriel, whose temper and jealousy he feared to incite?
"A present for your household," she said after Richard had introduced his stepmother and the twin sisters, Alice and Nell.
Mrs. Banham seemed a trifle nervous, the color high in her cheeks, but she also seemed genuinely happy to have visitors. "Most thoughtful of you, Mistress Powers, and how good to meet you at last. Our Richard has told me much about you."
Hannah took Daniel from Gabriel's arms. "This is our son. I hear you also have a boy only a few months older."
They stood eye to eye, young mother to young mother. For all her youth, Mrs. Banham was sallow-faced and hollow-cheeked. When she smiled at Daniel, Hannah observed that one of her eye-teeth was missing. But her neckcloth was filmy with Flemish lace and she wore pearls at her throat.
"Had we known you were coming, we would have waited until your arrival to serve dinner," she said.
Hannah's protest that they were not hungry was lost in the shuffle of feet as they were shown into the house. The whitewashed hallway was refreshingly cool, the oak floorboards polished to a shine. Mrs. Banham opened a door to a bedchamber where a flaxen-haired boy fisted a rattle under the watchful eyes of his nursemaid. The boy's eyes widened when he saw Daniel.
"This is our Edward." Mrs. Banham reached down to stroke the child's downy head.
Hannah set Daniel on the floor beside the other tot, who reached out a shy hand to touch Daniel.
Mrs. Banham guided Hannah out of the room and shut the door. "Don't fret about leaving him. If he gets hungry, the wet nurse will tend to him."
Hannah was about to object to leaving her son with strangers when she reminded herself that this was the way of the gentry; infants and children were confined to the nursery until they were old enough to command adult manners. At any rate, she imagined it would be good for Daniel to share the company of another little boy.
In the parlor, servants arranged a circle of cherrywood chairs around a matching tea table. The shutter slats let in just enough light to reveal the room's elegance while still keeping out the heat. The massive looking glass over the mantelpiece reflected crystal candlesticks and walls stenciled to mimic patterned silk. A slender-legged spinet occupied one corner.
"The girls are accomplished musicians," Mrs. Banham said. "Perhaps later they will play for us."
Hannah gazed in awe at the wooden instrument, inlaid with ivory and different woods. She had never heard spinet music, though Father had described it for her, saying it sounded sweeter than the flute. Had May ever sat in this room and listened to the Banham girls play?
Servants produced a tray of buttered wheaten bread and red currant tart with clotted cream, which must have been left over from the main meal of the day. Mrs. Banham poured the tea herself with careful attention, as though this were what she had been born to do.
"Some prefer India tea, but I think China tea is the finest in the world. My father was a tea merchant, and that was what he always said."
She served the guests first. When she handed Gabriel a porcelain cup as fragile as an eggshell, he held it uneasily, as if afraid he might crush it.
Though it was comfortably cool in the room, Alice and Nell flapped their lace fans. Hannah wondered whether they did it out of habit or boredom. The soft hiss of moving air stirred the ash-blond curls around their white throats. Eyes darting over the top of their fans, they kept looking from her to Gabriel and back again. With his buckskins, sunburnt face, and long black hair, he looked like an Indian wandered out of the woods. His face was stoic, thoughts and mood well concealed.
Mrs. Banham made a great show of passing out the victuals, though she ate nothing herself. Her hands kept fluttering at her sides. She reminded Hannah of a high-strung horse. Any little noise or commotion might cause her to bolt.
"I believe you met the girls once before, Mrs. Powers?"
"Indeed I did," said Hannah. "And their sister. I believe her name is Anne."
"Anne is now married and in Virginia," Nell said. Then she lowered her eyes and fanned herself briskly.
"You must miss her." Hannah tried to soften toward the girls.
"She writes to us," said Alice. "But we've not seen her in over a year."
"I know what it is," Hannah said, "to miss a beloved sibling."
Silence fell on the room, heavy as a bear trap's jaws closing and cutting. The Banhams looked at Gabriel, who held his head without blinking. Hannah cursed herself.
To change the subject, she turned to Mrs. Banham. "I trust your husband is well."
A stricken look passed over the lady's face.
"You must pardon my father's absence," Richard said, addressing Gabriel. "He is in England on business of the West India Company."
Hannah caught her breath. To think the wealthy could sail back and forth across the Atlantic as if it were a mere river. The memory of the home she would never see again rived her.
The subject of her errant husband left Mrs. Banham out of sorts. The teacup trembled in her hand, splashing brown liquid into the saucer. Hannah searched for words that would brighten the conversation.
"Mrs. Banham, if ever you are in need of physick receipts, I would be most happy to assist. If colic ever troubles your son, I can mix for you an efficacious gripe water."
"The colic was nearly his death this spring." Mrs. Banham raised her handkerchief to her eyes. "I buried one little boy already. The seasonal ague took him."
"I am sorry, madam." Hannah's face went hot. "Forgive me. If ever I can help you in any way..."
The lady's eyes were downcast, lost in sadness.
"Drink your tea, Mother," Alice said, "before it gets cold."
"All is well on your property, Mr. Washbrook?" Richard asked.
Gabriel nodded.
Nell and Alice traded a covert look.
"Your gown, Mrs. Powers, is most handsome," Nell said, eyes flashing. "And so is your ring."
"Thank you," Hannah replied, flustered.
"India cotton," said Alice. "It looks to be of the finest quality." She regarded Gabriel's buckskins and then went back to fanning herself.
They had uttered nothing discourteous, but their sly smiles said it all. This unkempt man who dressed like a savage and who had neglected the rents for four years had somehow managed to clothe his woman like a lady of quality. The Banham girls seemed to find this hilarious.
Hannah struggled not to weep in humiliation. To think she had yearned for female companionship for so long. Their brother shifted uncomfortably in his chair but did not rebuke them for their disrespect.
"I prefer China tea to India tea," Mrs. Banham prattled on like an addled old woman. "Mr. Banham prefers India tea, but I say China tea is the best. My father was a tea merchant. He gave me a silver tea chest for my wedding."
"Have a piece of tart, Mother," said Alice in a too sweet voice.
"The colic was nearly Edward's death." Sloshing tea, Mrs. Banham rocked herself back and forth like a Bedlamite. "Two children born, one already buried. The flux eats me like a vulture. I was married off with a good portion, you know. It paid for two thousand acres in Virginia." Her eyes shone with a febrile glaze.
Nell snatched Mrs. Banham's teacup before it could be dashed to the floor. "Our stepmother has her fits and spells. It will pass. Won't it, Mother?"
"It's the excitement of having visitors," said Alice. "She says she can't bear another day of loneliness and then, when we do have visitors, she gets overwrought."
"Does she need physick?" Hannah asked. "There are herbs which can soothe a troubled humor."
"We have physick in plenty." Richard stared at the opposite wall. "Mercury and laudanum."
Mrs. Banham emerged from her mournful reverie with a jerk of her neck. She fixed Hannah with a stare. "I imagine one day the pair of you will finally fare to Anne Arundel Town to address the magistrates and atone for what you have done." Her face had gone hard and mean.
"Magistrates, madam?" Hannah thought of herself and Gabriel being interrogated. The graves by the river. The testimony of a thief. She burned, unable to hide her dread. Alice and Nell perched on their chairs like hunting falcons.
"To place the banns!" Mrs. Banham exclaimed. "Surely you intend to wed before another unhallowed child is born."
Hannah's spine slumped. Everything went out of her.
Gabriel spoke, startling everyone. "It grows late. If we would travel home by daylight, we must leave."
When he caught Hannah's eye, she thought he had been right about the Banhams all along, that in shunning them, he had been trying to shield her from their malice and condescension. Though the Banhams had nearly reduced her to tears, Gabriel remained in full self-possession. "I thank you for your kind hospitality." His irony cut through their pretense.
Following his example, Hannah did not curtsy or even incline her head before walking out of the room. Instead she sought to carry herself with Gabriel's proud indifference. Reaching the hallway, she burst without knocking into the bedchamber where she had left Daniel and found him playing with a painted wooden horse. The other boy slept while the nursemaid rocked his cradle. He looked pale and sickly. At any other time, Hannah would have offered physick, but now she just swept her own son into her arms and carried him away.
Richard spoke to Gabriel in the hall. "I apologize for my stepmother's affliction, which causes her to say improper things."
Hannah took her place at Gabriel's side. The Banhams no longer had the power to humble her, and Richard no longer had the power to slight her. Before God, all men and women were equal. This was what Father believed and what Gabriel had taught her better than anyone could. The glamoury eye saw beyond the finery in this household to the corruption that gnawed at its core. The Banhams were a sorry excuse for a family. The father was a libertine, and the stepmother was possessed of a troubled mind. Alice and Nell were biding their time before their father married them off to planters, who might well hold their dowries in higher esteem than their beauty and accomplishments. If Richard retained any spark of character or integrity, it was by virtue of his being a young man with all the liberties of his class. But only his money set him apart from Gabriel.
"Goodbye, Mr. Banham." She looked at him boldly until he went red in the face and bowed to her.
That night, when they had returned to their own home and after she had tucked Daniel into bed, she led Gabriel to the pile of furs by the hearth and let him unlace her gown. She pulled him down beside her, and it was as if they had never fought. When he kissed her, she laughed and twined herself around him, happier than she remembered she could be.