too dismissive to be believed. “The records of a nightmare she suffered in her captivity. Not fit for publication.”
“Nevertheless.”
“I don’t have them anymore,” Prudence said. “I got rid of them.”
“That’s the truth?” the deputy governor asked her.
“Aye, Goodman Fitz-Simmons. As the Lord is my witness. I got rid of them.”
“I am relieved to hear it,” Stone said. Then, to his two companions, “I told her and told her. Burn them, I said. They’re only causing you trouble.”
“Again,” Fitz-Simmons said. “You are the master of your own house, are you not? You should have cast them into the fire yourself.”
Prudence tried one more time. “Master Bailey, please. My daughter was taken from my arms.”
“How terrible to suffer the loss of a child,” James said. “I am truly sorry.”
“But she’s still alive. The Indians have her, and I need her back.”
He frowned. “Your account made no mention of it. I’d assumed that once she’d been taken—”
“I tell of it in the missing chapter.” If only he had checked his pockets. Prudence’s voice rose in despair. “Don’t you see?”
“Don’t listen to her,” Stone said. “The babe is dead.”
“She’s not!”
“Dead or alive, it doesn’t matter,” James said. “I’m not here to look into the disappearance of children in the war, only to confirm the honorable death of Sir Benjamin. I am sorry, good woman, I really am.”
He didn’t sound sorry, he sounded indifferent. Just like the rest. Either they thought she was deluded, or they didn’t care.
Knapp looked triumphant, Stone and Fitz-Simmons relieved.
“Go on,” Stone said to Prudence. His tone was gentler than before. “Tell Anne I’ll be home shortly.”
Utterly defeated, Prudence turned to obey.
“Well, then,” James said. “Give me my commission. And may I have my cloak? It’s wretched cold in here.”
“Very well,” Fitz-Simmons said. “You are dismissed. And your heretic companion as well. Neither of you may speak to the widow without either myself or the reverend present.”
“Understood.”
Prudence slipped out the door. She drew her cloak against the cutting wind, sharp as a blade, that came in off the harbor. It had gained strength and swept the smoke of a hundred chimneys west, toward the bare winter forests. The air tasted clean with a hint of brine.
So that was that. She’d lost her recollections about the fate of her dearest Mary. And not only was James oblivious to her need, he seemed not to care.
Her daughter would be almost three now (she refused to consider the alternative possibility) and speaking only Nipmuk. No matter. Prudence had learned enough of the tongue in her captivity to say the most important thing. She had learned the words in captivity and practiced them daily in the months since she’d escaped to freedom.
Dearest child, I have come for you. I am your mother.
C HAPTER S EVEN
Later that afternoon, Prudence couldn’t help but glance at the thick, blown-glass windows as the shadows lengthened outside. Almost dusk. No sign of the two strangers from England. Not for hours.
The days had drawn short with the coming of late December, and it was only a few hours after the lighter midday meal when the women of the Stone household began preparing for supper. Children lit tallow candles and tended the fire while Prudence and Anne slid loaves of bread into the oven, together with a pair of large corn puddings to bake.
Reverend Stone sat at the table, penning letters to the ministers of congregations in Gloucester, Plymouth, and Roxbury. He looked up only to dip his quill or to blow on his hands and flex his fingers.
Anne and Prudence went to the pantry to fetch the Dutch oven. The two servant girls were chopping turnips to add to the two whole chickens, plus peas, carrots, and onions to cook in the broth.
“Will Master James be at supper?” Lucy asked.
Anne gave her a sharp look. “Don’t you worry.
“Nevertheless.”
“I don’t have them anymore,” Prudence said. “I got rid of them.”
“That’s the truth?” the deputy governor asked her.
“Aye, Goodman Fitz-Simmons. As the Lord is my witness. I got rid of them.”
“I am relieved to hear it,” Stone said. Then, to his two companions, “I told her and told her. Burn them, I said. They’re only causing you trouble.”
“Again,” Fitz-Simmons said. “You are the master of your own house, are you not? You should have cast them into the fire yourself.”
Prudence tried one more time. “Master Bailey, please. My daughter was taken from my arms.”
“How terrible to suffer the loss of a child,” James said. “I am truly sorry.”
“But she’s still alive. The Indians have her, and I need her back.”
He frowned. “Your account made no mention of it. I’d assumed that once she’d been taken—”
“I tell of it in the missing chapter.” If only he had checked his pockets. Prudence’s voice rose in despair. “Don’t you see?”
“Don’t listen to her,” Stone said. “The babe is dead.”
“She’s not!”
“Dead or alive, it doesn’t matter,” James said. “I’m not here to look into the disappearance of children in the war, only to confirm the honorable death of Sir Benjamin. I am sorry, good woman, I really am.”
He didn’t sound sorry, he sounded indifferent. Just like the rest. Either they thought she was deluded, or they didn’t care.
Knapp looked triumphant, Stone and Fitz-Simmons relieved.
“Go on,” Stone said to Prudence. His tone was gentler than before. “Tell Anne I’ll be home shortly.”
Utterly defeated, Prudence turned to obey.
“Well, then,” James said. “Give me my commission. And may I have my cloak? It’s wretched cold in here.”
“Very well,” Fitz-Simmons said. “You are dismissed. And your heretic companion as well. Neither of you may speak to the widow without either myself or the reverend present.”
“Understood.”
Prudence slipped out the door. She drew her cloak against the cutting wind, sharp as a blade, that came in off the harbor. It had gained strength and swept the smoke of a hundred chimneys west, toward the bare winter forests. The air tasted clean with a hint of brine.
So that was that. She’d lost her recollections about the fate of her dearest Mary. And not only was James oblivious to her need, he seemed not to care.
Her daughter would be almost three now (she refused to consider the alternative possibility) and speaking only Nipmuk. No matter. Prudence had learned enough of the tongue in her captivity to say the most important thing. She had learned the words in captivity and practiced them daily in the months since she’d escaped to freedom.
Dearest child, I have come for you. I am your mother.
C HAPTER S EVEN
Later that afternoon, Prudence couldn’t help but glance at the thick, blown-glass windows as the shadows lengthened outside. Almost dusk. No sign of the two strangers from England. Not for hours.
The days had drawn short with the coming of late December, and it was only a few hours after the lighter midday meal when the women of the Stone household began preparing for supper. Children lit tallow candles and tended the fire while Prudence and Anne slid loaves of bread into the oven, together with a pair of large corn puddings to bake.
Reverend Stone sat at the table, penning letters to the ministers of congregations in Gloucester, Plymouth, and Roxbury. He looked up only to dip his quill or to blow on his hands and flex his fingers.
Anne and Prudence went to the pantry to fetch the Dutch oven. The two servant girls were chopping turnips to add to the two whole chickens, plus peas, carrots, and onions to cook in the broth.
“Will Master James be at supper?” Lucy asked.
Anne gave her a sharp look. “Don’t you worry.
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