Read Online The Hearth and Eagle by Anya Seton - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Anya Seton
Ads: Link
Hunywood.”
She followed each word with her finger, her brows drawn together. Almost she got the sense of it, but she was not sure. A certainty born of love told her that here was no particular bad news, and that he had written the letter so that she might have an immediate token of him, and for this she bent her head and kissed the paper. But it was exasperating not to know precisely the meaning.
She considered a while, then nodded her head with decision. There was but one person in Salem who could read the letter, yet who would not smile at it or Phebe’s ignorance, one person to whose delicacy of understanding one would not shrink from exposing intimacy.
Phebe took the hearth shovel, dug into the earth in the corner of the wigwam, and pulled from its hiding place the key of her bride chest. This and Mark’s oaken chest stood in the wigwam with the precious provisions.
She drew out her best dress, a soft crimson gown with slashed sleeves, made of a silk-and-wool fabric newly fashionable in England, called farandine. She put on her wedding ruff and cuffs made of cobweb lawn trimmed with Mechlin lace, and she rejoiced that the day being so mild, she might dispense with the heavy hooded serge cloak which had done hard duty on the ship and was her only outer garment. Before donning her best lace-trimmed cap, she pulled her hair forward into loose ringlets about her ears and examined the effect in a small steel looking glass.
Then she set forth up the road toward the common, happy in the feminine consciousness of being suitably dressed for her visit. Not so elegant as to affront the gentry, nor in coarse sad-colored clothes like the goodwives and maid servants.
The weather was very hot, warmer than it ever was in England, and the lane was dusty. Soon she came to the village “green,” no green now but a square of trodden earth and brownish stubble. Some women clustered as usual around the well, gossiping while they drew water for their households. At the other end near the stocks—unoccupied today—three young men played at stool ball, ceasing frequently for thirst-quenching at the Ordinary near by. Idleness like this was naturally frowned upon by the magistrates, but the return of the
Arbella
and Governor Winthrop’s intent to remove all his settlers had relaxed supervision.
Phebe continued past the two-room houses belonging to Mr. Higginson and Mr. Skelton, past the Governor’s larger frame house, where there was much bustle of coming and going, for Winthrop was inside and holding conference, and on a little way up the lane to the next house which was that of the Lady Arbella.
She knocked timidly and waited. There was a scuffle within and suppressed giggles. At last the door was opened by a frowsy maid, her cap awry, her holland apron stained with the claret she had evidently been sampling. She stared sullenly at Phebe, impudence just held in check by Phebe’s clothing and dignity.
“Might I have a word with the Lady Arbella, if it’s convenient?” said Phebe.
“ ’er Ladyship’s resting,” answered the girl in her flat Lincolnshire twang. “She wants no company,” and she made to shut the door, staying her hand at the sound of a clear firm voice calling, “Who’s at the door, Molly?”
“Mistress Honeywood,” supplied Phebe. The maid shrugged, and walking two steps to the shut door on the right, imparted this information.
“Let her enter,” called Arbella. Molly stood aside long enough for Phebe to pass, then darted back to the house’s other room, the hall or kitchen where she rejoined her two companions by the wine cask.
Phebe entered the other room which was also the bed-chamber. The servants slept above the kitchen in the unfinished loft.
Arbella lay on a feather bed raised a foot from the planks by a rough pine frame. She wore only a bedrobe of transparent blue tiffany, but her pale face was bedewed. Her golden hair as it branched from her forehead was dark with sweat, and there
She followed each word with her finger, her brows drawn together. Almost she got the sense of it, but she was not sure. A certainty born of love told her that here was no particular bad news, and that he had written the letter so that she might have an immediate token of him, and for this she bent her head and kissed the paper. But it was exasperating not to know precisely the meaning.
She considered a while, then nodded her head with decision. There was but one person in Salem who could read the letter, yet who would not smile at it or Phebe’s ignorance, one person to whose delicacy of understanding one would not shrink from exposing intimacy.
Phebe took the hearth shovel, dug into the earth in the corner of the wigwam, and pulled from its hiding place the key of her bride chest. This and Mark’s oaken chest stood in the wigwam with the precious provisions.
She drew out her best dress, a soft crimson gown with slashed sleeves, made of a silk-and-wool fabric newly fashionable in England, called farandine. She put on her wedding ruff and cuffs made of cobweb lawn trimmed with Mechlin lace, and she rejoiced that the day being so mild, she might dispense with the heavy hooded serge cloak which had done hard duty on the ship and was her only outer garment. Before donning her best lace-trimmed cap, she pulled her hair forward into loose ringlets about her ears and examined the effect in a small steel looking glass.
Then she set forth up the road toward the common, happy in the feminine consciousness of being suitably dressed for her visit. Not so elegant as to affront the gentry, nor in coarse sad-colored clothes like the goodwives and maid servants.
The weather was very hot, warmer than it ever was in England, and the lane was dusty. Soon she came to the village “green,” no green now but a square of trodden earth and brownish stubble. Some women clustered as usual around the well, gossiping while they drew water for their households. At the other end near the stocks—unoccupied today—three young men played at stool ball, ceasing frequently for thirst-quenching at the Ordinary near by. Idleness like this was naturally frowned upon by the magistrates, but the return of the
Arbella
and Governor Winthrop’s intent to remove all his settlers had relaxed supervision.
Phebe continued past the two-room houses belonging to Mr. Higginson and Mr. Skelton, past the Governor’s larger frame house, where there was much bustle of coming and going, for Winthrop was inside and holding conference, and on a little way up the lane to the next house which was that of the Lady Arbella.
She knocked timidly and waited. There was a scuffle within and suppressed giggles. At last the door was opened by a frowsy maid, her cap awry, her holland apron stained with the claret she had evidently been sampling. She stared sullenly at Phebe, impudence just held in check by Phebe’s clothing and dignity.
“Might I have a word with the Lady Arbella, if it’s convenient?” said Phebe.
“ ’er Ladyship’s resting,” answered the girl in her flat Lincolnshire twang. “She wants no company,” and she made to shut the door, staying her hand at the sound of a clear firm voice calling, “Who’s at the door, Molly?”
“Mistress Honeywood,” supplied Phebe. The maid shrugged, and walking two steps to the shut door on the right, imparted this information.
“Let her enter,” called Arbella. Molly stood aside long enough for Phebe to pass, then darted back to the house’s other room, the hall or kitchen where she rejoined her two companions by the wine cask.
Phebe entered the other room which was also the bed-chamber. The servants slept above the kitchen in the unfinished loft.
Arbella lay on a feather bed raised a foot from the planks by a rough pine frame. She wore only a bedrobe of transparent blue tiffany, but her pale face was bedewed. Her golden hair as it branched from her forehead was dark with sweat, and there
Similar Books
