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FEBRUARY 1618
On the day Jack and Nancy left for Harvest Hill, a pretty young Indian girl of about fifteen or sixteen years, with long, shiny black hair and black doe eyes, arrived at Catherine’s door. The girl spoke little English, but managed to tell Catherine she was called Lanneika. Catherine took to her at once, realizing she felt much the same kinship with Lanneika as she’d felt when she met Pocahontas.
Though she hated to, she had no choice but to put Lanneika to work at once washing the soiled bandages that had accumulated in a pile outside the front door. In the beginning, Catherine had not saved the soiled rags she’d used for Victor’s bandages, but her entire store of fabric scraps was now gone, and she saw nothing for it but to wash and reuse those that remained.
That morning, she left Victor alone long enough to walk to the stream with Lanneika, as much to show her where the stream was located as to help her carry back the heavy buckets of water to begin the arduous task of washing not only the stained rags, but a mountain of soiled linen.
Entering the forest with Lanneika, Catherine realized she’d not been outdoors since the accident. Glancing up, she was surprised to find the treetops still bare of leaves. She’d been cooped up in the house so long, she thought it must be spring by now, and she’d find bright green leaves on the trees, or at least the promise of them in the form of tiny new buds. But no, she pulled her shawl closer about her shoulders, the air felt quite chilly. Was it still January, or had February come? She couldn’t say for certain. Despite the cold and the leafless trees, she became enthralled by the fresh, clean smell of the air and drew in one long deep breath after another. The fragrant scent of wet leaves and the cool damp earth beneath her feet also served to revitalize her.
Back at the house, she chastised herself for enjoying the short respite and hurried again to Victor’s side.
Cleansing his wounds, applying her healing tinctures and ointments, and helping Lanneika prepare their meals were all that mattered now, and for days on end, it was all that occupied Catherine’s mind. She and Lanneika stayed busy from early morn till sundown when the soft-spoken Indian girl silently vanished for the day, only to quietly return the following morning. Catherine was grateful for her gentle presence but made a special point of keeping her from the sick room lest her dark-skinned presence upset Victor.
In those early weeks after Nancy and Jack left, one or another of the goodwives, who lived within hailing distance and who had to pass by Catherine’s door on their way to the stream for water, would rap at hers to ask after Victor.
“How does Goodman Covington fare today?” asked Goody Smithfield several days in a row.
One day after Catherine’s answer had remained the same for close on a week, Goody Smithfield replied, “Well, don’t ye worry none, missy, ye won’t be alone for long. With your looks, ye’ll have a new husband in no time.”
Though upset by the woman’s insensitive remark, Catherine’s murmured reply hid her true feelings. Thereafter, she instructed Lanneika not to disturb her when Goody Smithfield knocked at the door.
Another of her frequent visitors was John Fuller, who in the beginning seemed to profess a genuine interest in Victor’s welfare. But when Victor showed no signs of improving, Catherine began to suspect John was stopping by more to see her than to inquire after Victor. Oddly enough, she didn’t mind John’s visits as much as she did Goody Smithfield’s. It was comforting to have someone to talk to during those long evenings she sat alone before the fire, jumping up every few minutes to check on Victor when she heard his low moan coming from the next room.
“Victor is a lucky man,” John said on more than one occasion. “I can see ye’ve been a fine wife to him.”
“I am still a fine wife to him,” Catherine replied firmly the first time he said it.
She hadn’t known John before the day of the accident when he’d arrived with Deputy-Governor Argall after the men had searched the woods for clues. She hadn’t forgotten, or forgiven, Argall’s thoughtless remark, directed to John, she recalled, about how quickly she’d find herself a new husband when Victor passed away. But, after coming to know John, she realized there was no malice in him. He was a kind man and always asked before he left if she needed help with anything.
“No, thank you, John,” she always said, her voice tight and weary-sounding, even to herself.
There were mornings when Lanneika arrived before Catherine was awake and the Indian girl quietly set about preparing something for them to eat. Many times, Catherine had no idea what was in the concoctions Lanneika prepared, she just shoved the food into her mouth and in a daze carried a trencher of it into Victor, only to spend an hour or more urging spoonfuls into his mouth. On those mornings when he ate something, she was pleased; most days, he barely swallowed more than a bite or two. In no time, his once muscular frame diminished to little more than a skeleton. It broke Catherine’s heart to watch the life drain out of the strong, vital young man she’d married only a few short months before.
Yet, she refused to give up. Despite the fact that there were warmish days when the sun shone brightly but Victor lay inside shaking violently from chills, and nights when the blustery wind blew icy cold yet he lay in bed delirious and convulsing with feverish tremors, she persevered. She grew so weary tending him; she more than once nodded off when, long after sundown, she’d sit before the fire eating spoonfuls straight from the pot of whatever Lanneika had left for her to eat.
As the days passed, she found that even with Lanneika’s help there was so much to do every day, she decided to delay the opening of her school another while longer. Besides, she reasoned, despite the fact that she and Lanneika had already scattered clean rushes on the floor several times over, the house still reeked with the malodor that emanated from Victor’s leg, and the smell would no doubt repulse the children.
The only good thing to come of replacing the soiled straw on the floor was that she and Lanneika discovered the hiding places of dozens of the blue and purple glass beads Catherine had dropped when she fell from the ladder that day on her way down from the loft. Catherine recalled Noah telling her the beads were valuable to the Indians, and although Lanneika gathered up dozens of them, she quickly handed them over to Catherine rather than attempt to stuff them into her own pockets. Catherine began doling them back out to her as payment for her services. Lanneika seemed pleased with her reward and never asked for anything more from her employer.
On those rare days when Catherine’s ointments seemed to keep Victor’s pain at bay, she felt encouraged with his progress. When his mind seemed fairly lucid, she would sit beside him and listen to him talk, mostly about his plans for the new mill. She’d nod and smile hoping to lift his spirits, hoping that by doing so, it might help heal his wounds. But as the weeks passed, she knew in her heart that even though his words were positive and the dream in his mind still alive and well, the veil of sadness that always dropped over his eyes told her he knew as well as she that nothing he spoke of would ever come to pass, that his days on earth were fast drawing to an end.
As one long day blurred into another, she began to wonder how Victor managed still to cling to life. Each day she awoke fearful she would turn over to find her husband lying motionless by her side, the shooting pains he’d so often complained of having at last stilled his heart. He was a strong man and determined to survive, but in the end, the lethal arrow wounds finally claimed his life.
Catherine was at her husband’s side the morning he died. She’d just brought in a bowl of warm broth and was holding the spoon to feed him when, of a sudden, his eyes sprang open. He gazed full at her; then a small smile appeared on his face, his head fell to one side, and Catherine knew he was gone.
Because she didn’t know what else to do, she sent Lanneika for Reverend Buck, who came at once. When he arrived it was decided to remove Victor’s body straightaway, rather than lay him out at home. There were no flowers to place beside the body, and her supply of pine-knot candles had dwindled to near nothing. The English custom of burning candles for three or more days and nights, said the reverend, was viewed in Jamestown more as a waste than a tribute to the loved one.
“Best to have done and get on with your life,” the reverend concluded sadly. But he did say a prayer for Victor’s soul and also one for Catherine, which comforted her.
Still, once Victor’s body had been taken away, a fog of gloom settled about her. Inside, she felt numb and sick at heart. It was almost a relief when weariness overtook her long before that day drew to an end, and without thinking she crawled back into bed, some part of her believing that if she took a short nap, she’d wake up and find everything returned again to normal. Nancy, with her quick smile and merry chatter, would be there and also Jack, with his twinkling brown eyes and hearty laughter. And Victor. They were all going to services the next day, weren’t they? They’d leave the instant the church bells pealed.
As she drifted off to sleep, Catherine was vaguely aware of Lanneika closing the window covering in her bedchamber, but only seconds later it seemed, vivid images of Victor’s bloody, pus-filled wound jarred her awake. Alarmed, she sat bolt upright in bed. How could she have fallen asleep when surely Victor needed . . .? But where was he? Suddenly she realized it was pitch dark both inside the house and out. And there was no one in bed beside her.
She spent the remainder of that long night huddled before the low-burning fire in the hearth, her bed rug drawn tightly about her shoulders as she sat staring into the flames, her eyes feeling as red-rimmed as the embers. Was the nightmare over, she wondered, or was she still dreaming?
In a daze when the sun came up the next morning and Lanneika reappeared, Catherine ate the corn porridge the Indian girl set before her, then put on the fresh gown Lanneika laid out for her on the bed. Seated again before the hearth, she wordlessly allowed the Indian girl to brush the tangles from her thick, copper-colored curls.
When Adam and Abigail, Nancy and Jack, and the Morgans all arrived, she walked silently alongside them to the church on the green. It was an especially cold day, and, although Catherine didn’t particularly feel the chill, she noticed little puffs of air coming from everyone’s mouths as they spoke in hushed tones. She had no idea why the patterns made by the feathery white puffs fascinated her so, but it kept her mind occupied, so she didn’t fight it.
Upon entering the dank-smelling building, it surprised Catherine that the church was nearly full, but Abigail leaned over to tell her that Victor was not the only Jamestown colonist being eulogized that day. Influenza and lung fever had claimed the lives of three other settlers. All would be laid to rest that day in the stretch of land recently designated as Jamestown’s cemetery.
When the short service concluded and the four pine coffins were carried from the building, Abigail turned to Catherine.
“While Adam and the other men take the coffins to the cemetery, I thought we women could help you pack your belongings. Adam thinks it best you return to Harvest Hill with us today.” Her tone sounded as if she were speaking to a child.
Catherine felt like a child, hurt, bewildered, not knowing which way to turn or what to do with herself now that Victor was gone. It still seemed as if the horrible ordeal was not yet over, the long days and endless nights a hazy blur that would never end. But . . . it had ended, hadn’t it? So why did she feel so tired and listless, as if all the life had been drained also from her body?
“Catherine,” Abigail said. “Did you hear me, sweetie?”
“Hmmm? Yes, of course. Whatever you and Adam think best.”
“Well, then . . . ” Abigail said briskly. “We’ll just go and get your things and be ready when Adam and the men come for us.” She glanced around for Margaret and Nancy and upon spotting them standing a few yards away, said to Catherine, “Wait right here for me, dear.”
Catherine said nothing. Her head felt as heavy as lead. Nothing about this nightmare was real. She heard other voices around her, but nothing anyone said made sense. None of their words penetrated the dark fog that filled every corner of her mind. She wished they would all go away and leave her alone. Yet, she didn’t want to be alone. She was afraid to be alone. Not realizing what she was doing, she edged closer to a group of women standing nearby talking quietly amongst themselves.
“Well, I suppose we shall all gather here again in a day or two,” one woman said, her bonneted head shaking sadly. “I only just learned Richard Benson’s little daughter Charity passed away this morning. And her new babe not yet one week old.”
Catherine blinked. The woman’s words seemed to jog something in her mind. She edged a few steps closer.
“They say her husband is beside himself with grief. Such a handsome young man.”
“I suppose Charity’s mama will raise the babe. Was it a boy or girl?”
“A precious little girl. You know her first one, a boy, was killed in that awful hurricane we had last spring.”
“I’d forgotten that. What a terrible shame. Charity was a taking little thing with her blonde curls and big blue eyes.”
Catherine stopped listening. Suddenly, her breath grew short and her heart began to thunder like a drum in her chest. Suddenly, she felt fully awake and aware. Dear God, in Heaven, was it true? Noah’s wife Charity was dead?
And, Victor also gone.
She didn’t stop breathing hard until long after she and the other women had reached her front door. Upon entering the house, Abigail walked straight through to Catherine’s bedchamber and knelt down to draw her valise from beneath the bed.
“Catherine, dear, you’ll need to tell me what you’d like to bring with you.” Abigail’s voice sounded muffled from her position on the straw-strewn floor. Suddenly she sat back on her heels, sniffed and pulled a face. “My, I daresay we need to open the window in here.”
Catherine was already across the room flinging the window casing aside. A gust of fresh cold air swept in and she filled her lungs to capacity. Turning to face her sister-in-law, she said, in quite a steady tone, “I’ve changed my mind, Abigail. I intend to stay right here.”