Puritan Read online

  Winthrop’s face creased in delight. ‘Then please, enjoy.’

  The diners fell silent as they slurped on their soup. When next Mercia looked up, she caught Winthrop looking at her with an inquisitive air.

  ‘I do not mean to stare,’ he said, ‘but – you look so like your father. I had noticed it in New York, of course, but only now you are sitting at a table like this, in a room such as this, has the resemblance seemed so striking.’

  ‘Let us be thankful the resemblance does not extend to his nose,’ joked Nathan, breaking off a chunk of bread. Across the table, Mercia gave the air a playful swipe.

  Despite his words, Winthrop was still staring. ‘It is not merely his appearance you have inherited, I believe.’

  ‘It is … about the only thing I have inherited, Governor.’

  His face saddened. ‘Again, I am sorry. I did not think.’

  ‘Do not be.’ She gave him a forgiving smile. ‘There is hope.’

  ‘More than hope,’ said Nathan. ‘The King has to help now.’

  ‘Then let us hope. And Governor, do not worry over your choice of words. I was being facetious.’

  Winthrop relaxed his perturbed countenance. ‘In truth I was rather poorly attempting to render you a compliment. What I mean to say, is that you have proven you have your father’s intelligence likewise.’

  She felt herself reddening. ‘Thank you. That gratifies me more than any comment about appearance.’

  Winthrop nodded; there was something behind it, she thought, a decision taken. So she was not surprised when the governor pushed back his chair and stood, waving Nathan back into his seat as he rose from his own.

  ‘I merely wish to fetch something. Please, I will not be long.’

  Mercia arched a questioning eyebrow as Winthrop left the room, but Nathan shrugged and fell back to eating his soup. She toyed with her own bowl, tracing patterns with her spoon as she thought about her father, a still unconquered sadness fighting her hunger for dominance. Then she felt a hand on her own; with no one else in the room, Nathan had reached across to comfort her.

  ‘Do not worry,’ he said. ‘Everything will turn out well.’

  ‘I hope so, Nat. It is … still hard.’

  ‘I know. But I am here to help.’

  She smiled, grateful for his presence. Then a confident knock resounded at the door and she pulled her hand from his, turning to look. Expecting the servant, she was surprised when a young man’s head appeared round the door, even more so when his inquisitive expression morphed into a frown on catching her eye.

  ‘Is the governor not here?’ he said.

  ‘He will be back shortly. Would you care to wait?’

  He looked her up and down, his broad-brimmed hat peppered with light rain. ‘I do not think so.’

  ‘Who are you talking to?’ A tall, brown-haired woman pushed past. ‘Oh, I see. Who are you?’

  ‘Good evening.’ Mercia nodded as she stood. ‘We are guests of the governor’s.’

  Nathan rose and bowed. ‘Nathan Keyte.’

  The woman shook the felt hat she was carrying in greeting. ‘You are not from these parts, I take it?’

  The young man set his face, staring at the ceiling. ‘We do not have time for this, Clemency.’

  She rolled her grey eyes. ‘As the governor is not here, I think we do. Where are you both from?’

  ‘By God’s truth!’ Letting out an expletive, the man turned to leave.

  ‘From England,’ said Mercia, undeterred.

  Clemency frowned. ‘Not … recently arrived?’

  ‘Why, yes.’

  ‘England?’ In the doorway, the man stopped. ‘Surely not with the royal fleet?’

  Nathan folded his arms. ‘What of it?’

  The man marched into the room, his thin coat as dotted with rain spots as his hat. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘As has been said, we are guests at the governor’s invitation.’ Nathan drew himself up, tugging at his collar to let the tip of his chest scar peek out through his shirt. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Someone with more right to be here than you do, stranger.’ The man kept his gaze constant, clearly unconcerned at the Englishman’s superior height and bulk. ‘I should take care folk do not misconstrue your reason for being in New England. Unless perhaps they would be right?’

  ‘A welcoming fellow, aren’t you?’

  ‘Percy.’ Clemency cleared her throat. ‘Percy, perhaps we should leave these people be and wait outside?’

  The man locked his eyes on Nathan a moment longer, but then he broke off, retreating towards the door. Clemency shook her head, mouthing an apology at Mercia before leaving behind him.

  ‘What was that about?’ said Nathan, staring at the now empty doorway.

  ‘I do not know.’ Mercia shook her head. ‘I thought you were about to start a fight there.’

  ‘With that whelp?’ He breathed out, relaxing his shoulders. ‘Besides, I don’t think the governor would appreciate blood on his table.’

  ‘Well, whoever he was, he did not like the idea we came with the fleet.’

  ‘I suppose why would he? People here are bound to be uneasy now the Duke of York’s soldiers are roaming the old Dutch lands to their west. The Duke has no love for New England and you can bet they know it.’ He sighed, rubbing at his neck. ‘But that does not excuse incivility to you.’

  ‘Indeed it does not.’ Winthrop came back through the doorway, clutching a piece of paper. ‘I am sorry about Mr Lavington. I have told him I will talk with him later – after my dinner with you.’ He smiled, the simple act dissipating the tension Mercia realised had filled the room. ‘Now,’ he continued, ‘shall we resume our conversation? And please, do not think all New Englanders are as impatient as our friend there.’

  Mercia eased herself into her chair. ‘We were musing he might be concerned at the Duke’s takeover of New York.’

  ‘Indeed he might, Mrs Blakewood. But let us discuss something of greater interest.’ He leant across the table to pass her the paper. ‘Tell me. What does the Blakewood mind make of this?’

  Pushing aside her bowl and napkin, she studied the ragged parchment. The edges were tattered and dark, as though they had been soaked. Scrawled across the paper, in ink that had run somewhat, ran an unintelligible sequence of letters:

  RNLENRDFRXSHI O

  She looked up. ‘A puzzle?’

  He inclined his head. ‘Assuredly that. It was found in the pockets of George Mason, the minister from Meltwater who drowned. I wondered what you thought of it?’

  She ran her eyes over the letters. ‘Not much. It reminds me of the ciphers my father would employ when he was writing something he wanted kept secret.’

  Winthrop leapt up. ‘Precisely what I thought. This is a code, but in heaven’s name I cannot fathom it or think why Mason would be carrying such a note. He was a simple man, by all accounts, devoted to his scripture, not to matters that would require such riddles as these. Peculiar, as I said before.’

  She stared again at the strange sequence, her curiosity firmly piqued. ‘You have tried substitution, or a Caesar cipher, of course?’

  Winthrop fairly beamed. ‘Briefly. But to no avail.’

  Nathan peered over her shoulder. ‘A Caesar cipher?’

  ‘A method of encryption,’ she said, still looking at the paper. ‘Said to have been used by Julius Caesar himself. It moves each letter forward in the alphabet by a set amount.’ She twisted her head to look up at him. ‘For instance, if the Caesar cipher is two, then the letter A would be written in code as C. B would be written as D, and C as E, and so on.’

  ‘And if the cipher were three, then A would become D, and B would be E?’

  ‘That is right. But it does not apply here, apparently.’

  ‘No,’ sighed Winthrop. ‘I am not sure if that space between the I and the O is significant, but I cannot see how.’ He looked at her. ‘It does not remind you of anything your father would have used?’

&n
bsp; She shook her head. ‘I am afraid not. But he only ever used such codes in two cases, as far as I know. When he was writing of a secret matter to his fellows in army or government, and when he was indulging his scientific interests. Not that he would ever share such knowledge with me.’

  ‘A pity.’ Winthrop was almost bouncing on his old heels. ‘But I think I hear someone coming, no doubt my wife.’ He retook his seat. ‘We can talk more of this another time.’

  Hearing footsteps approach, Mercia turned to the door. A smiling woman soon entered, her simple black dress fronted by a sharp white apron. Although not young, her face sported fewer creases than Winthrop’s: Mercia guessed she would be around fifty years of age.

  ‘Good evening, everyone,’ she said. ‘I am delighted you are able to stay with us.’

  Winthrop beamed with pleasure. ‘Mrs Blakewood, Mr Keyte, this is my wife Elizabeth.’

  Elizabeth glanced at the paper on the table. ‘Discussing your theories again, John?’

  He held out his hands. ‘They seem to find it interesting.’

  ‘I am glad.’ She gave a mock sigh. ‘But perhaps – not at the table.’

  ‘You are right. Mrs Blakewood, if you could …’ He waited for her to pass him the paper. ‘Thank you.’

  Elizabeth took her seat. ‘Did you like the soup?’

  ‘Very much,’ said Mercia, as Nathan rushed to agree. ‘You had some yourself, I hope?’

  ‘In the kitchen. In a New England home we have to help out. Even the governor’s wife.’ The door creaked open, an unseen person’s arm holding it ajar while the two servants entered with food and fresh ale. ‘Now, we usually eat earlier, but you have had a long journey. Try this rabbit. We have fried it in breadcrumbs specially.’

  The clattering of forks and knives betrayed the guests’ hunger. Nathan sliced into his meat with enthusiasm; Mercia took efforts to be more decorous as she relished the delicious gravy, but she enjoyed the meal all the same.

  ‘So tell me, Mrs Blakewood,’ said Elizabeth. ‘How fares England of late?’ She leant into the table. ‘And how fares it for we women? John has been back many times since we came here, but I have not returned since I arrived in, oh, ’35.’

  Mercia considered her reply. ‘I suppose most women are hopeful we will no longer turn to war to solve our differences. War with ourselves, that is. The King seems secure enough on his throne now to prevent another such conflict. But I should say that women are carrying on much as before.’ She smiled. ‘The head of the household, in other words.’

  ‘A woman with opinions,’ said Elizabeth. ‘No wonder John admires your courage.’

  Mercia blushed. ‘I am flattered.’

  ‘As well you should be. After all, you are dining with the most esteemed man in all of Connecticut. This year he was elected governor for the seventh time.’

  Winthrop tutted. ‘Come now.’

  ‘My husband is too modest. He has done much to improve our lives here, as well as our relations with England. There was little love for us there when I left.’ She looked down at the table. ‘Even when Cromwell was in power, he did not seem to care much for us. And now, there is a King who must despise us. Tell me.’ She glanced up again. ‘Do you think we are safe?’

  ‘We women?’

  ‘We … Americans. We who sailed the ocean to be free to worship Christ.’

  ‘Oh.’ The ringlets of her hair bobbed as she shook her head. ‘In truth I do not know. It is for men like your husband to decide that.’

  ‘Then I am sure we will be well protected.’ Elizabeth smiled, regaining her spirits. ‘What with the Indians and the Dutch, I suppose one’s own countrymen are easy to handle.’

  ‘I think I prefer the Indians,’ said Winthrop. ‘Less … duplicitous.’

  Elizabeth took a sip of her ale. ‘Enough of this. John has not had time to tell me what brought you to New York.’

  ‘Elizabeth—’ he began.

  ‘No.’ Mercia straightened her napkin. ‘It is well to talk of it. I came to America to restore my family home.’

  Elizabeth rested her chin in her palm. ‘John knew your father, I think.’

  ‘We met from time to time,’ he agreed. ‘Whenever I was in England. We shared an affection, Mercia, for those scientific interests you mentioned just now.’

  Mercia raised a surprised eyebrow. ‘I did not know you were so close.’

  ‘Not close, particularly, but we corresponded. He liked to be informed of developments.’

  A happy image of her father working in his study came to her mind, but she could see her hostess’s eager face. She turned back to Elizabeth. ‘In short, then. You will know that the King’s father amassed a great collection of art.’

  ‘Ah, the first Charles.’ Elizabeth shook her head. ‘Now there is a man who mistrusted us. So many sailed here in the’30s because of him.’ She puffed out her cheeks. ‘The Great Migration.’

  ‘It meant you avoided the war.’ Mercia closed her eyes for a moment in remembrance, thinking as she often did of the family, of the friends, she had lost. ‘But my story.’ She took a deep breath. ‘When the troubles with Parliament began, and the old King moved his capital to Oxford, you may recall how he took his favourite paintings with him. Then long after, when Cromwell was in power, those same paintings were stolen. As his advisor, my father was appointed to investigate, but he found no trace.’ Her throat drying, she sipped at her ale. ‘The years went by and the monarchy returned, the old King’s son now on the throne. Anyone who had been close to Cromwell was in danger. My father kept to himself, but earlier this year he was arrested.’

  Elizabeth reached out a hand. ‘I was very sad to hear what happened. From what John has said, he was a good man.’

  ‘A clever man too.’ She rubbed at a knot in the table. ‘Before his … execution … he shared his knowledge of the paintings with me, hoping if I could locate them somehow, I might regain favour with the King.’ She looked up. ‘Father may have been on Cromwell’s side but he was a practical man above all. He knew my uncle would seize our family’s manor house when he died. He reasoned the King could help me win it back.’

  ‘So Mercia being Mercia, she began to investigate,’ continued Nathan. ‘The paintings led us here, to America, and Mercia uncovered who had stolen them.’

  She nodded. ‘The King was desperate to get his father’s art back. He advanced his invasion of Dutch America so we could sail here with his fleet to retrieve it. We succeeded at no small cost. But I have met my side of the bargain. Now it is for him to be true to his own word.’

  ‘He will,’ smiled Nathan. ‘Or King or no, he will answer to me.’

  After supper, the two women left the room, leaving Winthrop to converse with Nathan over a case of rum he had acquired in New York. Entering what Mercia supposed was a parlour, a rustling from a fireside chair made her catch her breath: the exact same sound had preceded the end of that troubled Manhattan night from which she had barely managed to escape. But the woman who rose from the chair was nothing to do with the events of that place. Mercia hurried to hide her discomfort behind a querying smile, waiting to be formally introduced.

  ‘Mrs Carter.’ A tone of surprise – irritation perhaps – studded Elizabeth’s words. ‘I did not know you had stayed. The servants should have told me.’

  It was the same brown-haired woman from before, her pale face burning in the light of the flames. ‘No, Elizabeth, I knew you had company. I was happy to wait.’

  ‘As ever you are a forgiving guest.’ Elizabeth turned to Mercia. ‘Mrs Blakewood, this is Clemency Carter. And this is Mercia Blakewood, the daughter of one of John’s old acquaintances.’

  ‘Mrs Blakewood.’ Clemency gave a tiny bow. ‘It is pleasing to meet you more properly. Although I have already heard something of you from your manservant, Nicholas. He was quite charming. Such … startling eyes.’ She shook her head. ‘I apologise for earlier. Percy can be a little eager.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Mercia noticed E
lizabeth frowning at Clemency’s words. ‘The governor and his wife have been kind enough to allow us to stay while we visit Connecticut.’

  Clemency smiled. ‘That man I saw is your husband?’

  ‘A friend. I have a son, but I am widowed.’

  ‘Then we have something in common already. I lost my husband too.’

  Elizabeth reached down to stoke the fire with a poker; embers whirled into the room and up the chimney. ‘Well, you are very welcome here, Mrs Blakewood. ’Tis a blessing to have a child in the house once more.’ She pulled herself up, a supporting hand on her lower back. ‘Is all well in Meltwater, Clemency?’

  She blew out through pursed lips. ‘As well as can be. Standfast and Renatus are vying to be minister now.’

  ‘That was expected.’ Elizabeth straightened her back. ‘You rode down with Standfast, I take it?’

  She nodded. ‘Yesterday. He wanted to be the one to bring the news, but Percy and I had planned to come in any case.’

  ‘John only heard of George’s death this afternoon. It has shocked him somewhat.’

  ‘I was with him at the time,’ said Mercia. ‘You are from Meltwater also, Mrs Carter?’

  Clemency waved a hand. ‘Call me Clemency. And yes, it was we sorry three who brought the news of Mason’s death here. There was rather a commotion when he was found in the river.’ She grasped the back of a leather-bound seat. ‘But enough of sadness. Shall we sit?’

  As they settled into chairs Mercia looked around the compact parlour. Nothing like as plush as the sitting room even in her own small cottage at home, let alone the manor house she hoped to reclaim, the room was still fresh and pleasant. A dresser in the corner was stocked with fruits and plate, the dark walls lending the room a comfortable, wintery feel.

  ‘Clemency is one of John’s many women,’ Elizabeth was explaining. Mercia sat back, confused, and the older woman reddened. ‘I mean one of the women who distribute his medicines.’

  ‘Oh.’ Mercia relieved the awkwardness with a laugh. ‘This is to do with the governor’s scientific work?’ She inched her chair closer to the fire. ‘He seemed most enthusiastic about it earlier.’