A Good Place

Dedication: Helena’s Stories

ON A SUNNY July afternoon in 1998, we were driving from my sister’s house in Greensboro, North Carolina to our home near Charlottesville, Virginia. The road seemed endless ahead of us, and the sun and the miles traveled were making us sleepy. In the back seat, my husband was snoring softly. I was driving, and my mother was ‘riding shotgun.’

Probably to help me stay alert, Mom started talking about our old family stories. Some of them were familiar, but many were not. Not respecting any order of time or place, she told me stories set in North Carolina around 1800, France and England in the 12th Century, India in Victorian times, the remote island of St. Helena in the 1800s, California’s Sierra Nevada Mountains in the 1870s, and England in the 1780s. She talked about wars and shipwrecks; massacres and weddings; preachers and bandits; heroes and ordinary folk; despots of the benevolent and not-so-benevolent kind; wagon trains, horses, and rattlesnakes. And, she said, these are only some of the family stories.

I felt these were stories that needed to be preserved. I asked her who was related to whom, and she tried to explain ten centuries of a documented but not quite articulated family tree. I finally had to ask, Mom, is all this written down?

Oh, said she, rather breezily, I have several boxes and many bags, and some drawers of mixed clippings, copies of stories and family trees, letters and much more. All of them work done by your Aunt Grace, my Uncle Rob, my cousin Erina, myself . . . The list went on, naming family members I knew, and some I didn’t.

What these dedicated family researchers had not had, but we now did, was the great benefit of being able to do research in the Age of Information. The following December my husband and I drove from Virginia to Mom’s house in Texas to celebrate Christmas. We returned home a week later, our car loaded with the results of years of work by many people. There was a big project ahead.

I organized and entered all the data I could, used the files, the internet and hard-copy books as resources and after about two years ended up with a comprehensive, 2000+ member family tree, of which one line covered 38 generations, back to Charlemagne.

The family tree was a project I was glad to assemble. It couldn’t though, tell the stories behind the tree, some that were already in our family and others I found while doing this research. To me, the stories are especially important. Whether they’re rock-solid truth, fantastical or somewhere in between, our stories are part of our family’s identity and culture.

Twenty years after the start of the project, I still find the stories exciting. Some of them are inherently dramatic but most are just occurrences in the ordinary lives of ordinary people that gain drama and interest from their historical context. I promised Mom that I would someday write at least some of these stories from the perspectives of the people involved. Doing this involved much research, some guesswork, and often only sort-of justified assumptions. On the other hand, the more historical research I do, the more I am aware how much history has been fleshed out in exactly that way. I am happy to call Helena’s Stories historical fiction, but each tale contains at least one documented kernel of reality from another time. Toward the end of each book or story, Author’s Notes distinguish between recorded history and assumptions, and real versus fictional characters are identified. Past that, End Notes support historical information and offer further background.

There is nothing singular about my family: everyone’s ancestry is filled with stories. The struggles, successes and failures that underlie and create human growth and progress generate stories in every family that are worth remembering and handing on.

Mom died in 2004, but survives in the hearts of her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, and in her furtherance of the tales of our ancestors. It is to my mother, Helena, that I dedicate Helena’s Stories. She was a remarkable woman.

Acknowledgements

Writing a book is a big job, especially when it involves a lot of research. A Good Place was a short story that grew madly and blossomed into a saga. That was a complex evolution. I was helped along the way by friends and family, and I want to thank them.

My ideas folks and inspirers, without whom I couldn’t have gotten this done, include Marianne Shepherd, who started the whole ball rolling by prompting me to write instead of talking about writing. Both Susan Collins and Don Montagna read the story and each envisioned a novel. They have each helped me greatly along the rough trail of developing it. I asked my grandson Will to think up an idea for a pirate story and he made up a story that became the tale of the Bedelia. His story included Minton and Fred, the cannon activities, and letting the monkey out.

My support folks were my wonderful husband Skip, my son and family: George, Lucy (who has been terrific!) and Will. I also had invaluable help and support from Fran Cecere and the Pen to Paper Writing Group (Windmore Foundation, Culpeper, VA), Nancy Montagna, my son Michael and his family, my sisters and brothers and cousins, (both in-laws and outlaws) for their interest and enthusiasm.

Feedback from writers Jennifer Bierhuizen, Fran Cecere, Don Montagna, and Penny Patterson identified gaps in time frame, point of view and logic, caught writing errors, made me think about the nature of dogs and water carrying, clarified sibling behavior in Siouan families and helped enormously.

And there were many other folks who read my newsletter and/or listened politely while I yammered on about this book for a year.

Thank you, you wonderful people. - C

A Guide for Readers

My goal in writing the Helena’s Stories series is to give an accurate sense of the lives, problems and activities of folks during different stages of history based on the bits of information we have about their roles. I also wanted to write stories that are interesting on their own accord, though, so didn’t want to load the stories down with footnotes. Based on readers’ feedback of A Perfect Plan and Rule, as well as this book, I decided to use an occasional numbered footnote as the story progresses, for definitions or clarification. Then, at the end of the book, the endnotes, sorted by chapter, go into more depth and acknowledge sources. I hope you’ll enjoy the result.

Characters

Allan Vinces (fictional): Owen Hughes’ master in England—a gentleman of Warwickshire.

Annie (fictional): An indentured servant brought to Virginia on the Marie Providence.

Arthur Evans (fictional): A lecherous and unscrupulous businessman living in Jamestown.

Askuweto (fictional): see Isaiah.

Chilam (fictional): A woman of the Monacan tribe. She was enslaved as an adult by Pamlico warriors.

Dim John (fictional): See Johann.

Edmund Foxe (fictional): A Puritan from Yorkshire. He was imprisoned for public fighting and transported on the ship Marie Providence.

Edward and Sarah Burgess and their sons (fictional): Katherine Burgess Powell’s cousins who lived in Kecoughtan.

Enape (fictional): see Isaiah.

Father Randolph (fictional): An English hidden Catholic priest.

Isaiah (fictional): A Mannahoac Indian. He was taken at age five in a Powhatan raid and lived as a slave. John Powell won him in a game of dice in 1618. Isaiah had no name of his own.

Johann (fictional): A wild man of the Virginia woods who kept an important secret.

John Powell (documented): Mary’s father, and the owner of Powell’s Fifty, who arrived in Virginia about 1612. In this book he is a veteran of the unofficial English involvement against the Spanish in the Low Countries during the late 1500 and early 1600s.

Jonathan Prater (documented b. 1630, d. August 1680): A restless and religious young man.

Katherine Burgess Powell (documented b. ca 1600): The young wife of John Powell, and Mary Powell’s step-mother. She arrived in Virginia about 1620.

Mary Powell (documented b. ca 1606): The daughter of John Powell, a settler in the early years of the English colony. In this book, she arrived in Virginia as a child around 1612.

Mistress Harris (fictional): A wealthy older widow living in Jamestown.

Owen Hughes (fictional): The eight-year-old son of Welsh servants. He was orphaned and was placed in indenture by his master.

Randall Martens (fictional): A friend of John Powell’s and an elder of the Anglican church in Kecoughtan.

Richard Shepherd (documented): The captain of the ship Marie Providence. He purchased contracts of indentured servants and sold them in the Virginia colony.

Tatacoope (fictional): A Powhatan warrior who led a raiding party in Elizabeth Cittie.

Thomas Prater (documented b. 1604-d. 1666): The younger son of a well-established Catholic family of English landholders. He arrived in Virginia as an indentured servant in 1622.

Thomas Prater Sr., (b. 1577-d. 1628) and Margaret Quintayne Prater (both documented): Thomas Prater’s parents. They were known to be Catholic, and lived at Eaton Water House, Latton, Wiltshire, England.

Wihá (fictional): Of the Mannahoac tribe at Tegninateo. Isaiah’s older sister.

And, various other fictional characters: Powhatans, Tutelos and Mannahoacs, a magistrate, a bounty hunter, a clergyman, settlers’ offspring and servants.

The Dogs

Bronson (b. 1621): One of the Powell family’s dogs: a male brown mastiff. Rufus’s son.

Daisy (b. 1620): One of the Powell family’s dogs: a female tan mastiff.

Rufus (b. 1614- d. 1622): The Powell family’s dog: a copper-colored male mastiff.

Young Rufus (b. 1649): The Prater family’s dog: a copper-colored male mastiff.

Contents

Dedication: Helena’s Stories

Acknowledgements

A Guide for Readers

Characters

Prologue

Latton, Wiltshire, England—1621

Chapter One: A Different Danger

Powell’s Fifty, Elizabeth Cittie, the Virginia Colony — June, 1621

Chapter Two: All Hallows

Powell’s Fifty — November 1, 1621

Chapter Three: The Raid

Powell’s Fifty — March 21, 1622

Chapter Four: Thomas Prater’s Decision

Eton Water House, Latton, Wiltshire — March, 22, 1622

Chapter Five: At Sea

Aboard the Marie Providence — Four months later

Chapter Six: Arrival at Jamestown

Jamestown — The next day

Chapter Seven: Powell’s Fifty

On the James River—The following day

Chapter Eight: Discoveries

Powell’s Fifty—September, 1622

Chapter Nine: A Package

Jamestown—Nine months later, June, 1623

Chapter Ten: Dim John

Powell’s Fifty—Two months later, August, 1623

Chapter Eleven: A Week in Jamestown

February, 1624

Chapter Twelve: Rumors

Powell’s Fifty — The following month, March, 1624

Chapter Thirteen: Edmund’s Choice

Powell’s Fifty — Six months later, September, 1624

Chapter Fourteen: Consequences

Powell’s Fifty — October, 1624

Chapter Fifteen: A Guest

Powell’s Fifty — November, 1624

Chapter Sixteen: Fools

Powell’s Fifty — July, 1625

Chapter Seventeen: Plans

Powell’s Fifty — Eleven months later, Summer, 1626

Chapter Eighteen: In the Woods

Powell’s Fifty — August, 1626 and Spring 1627

Chapter Nineteen: Abandoned, As It Were

Powell’s Fifty — October, 1627

Chapter Twenty: Isaiah Begins His Journey

Powell’s Fifty — October, 1627

Chapter Twenty-One: An Unwanted Visit

Powell’s Fifty — October, 1627

Chapter Twenty-Two: Below the Falls

On the James River — November, 1627

Chapter Twenty-Three: Isaiah Above the Falls

On the James River — November, 1627

Chapter Twenty-Four: Enapi

Tegninateo — December, 1627

Chapter Twenty-Five: Enapi’s Journey Home

Tegninateo — December, 1627

Chapter Twenty-six: Reunion

Powell’s Fifty—Winter, 1627-28

Chapter Twenty-seven: Evans

Powell’s Fifty—August, 1628

Chapter Twenty-eight: A Farewell

Powell’s Fifty—Five years later, Autumn, 1633

Chapter Twenty-nine: An Ending

Powell’s Fifty—Four years later, 1637

Chapter Thirty: Truly Alive

Powell’s Fifty—May, 1638

Epilogue

Prater’s Plantation—March, 1658

Author’s Notes: The Story Behind the Story

HistoricalBackgroundAuthor’s Notes: Historical Background

Religion

The London Company

Laborers

End Notes

Bibliography

Prologue

Latton, Wiltshire, England, 1621

THE STRIKING BEAUTY of the day was not enough to calm him. Seated on a low stone wall near Ampney Brook, Thomas buried his head in his hands. I cannot ignore it any longer: I’ll be eighteen soon. I must start my adult life. What will I do? What choices do I have?

He had left the house to have this talk with himself. It was much too easy to feel and think like a child in his parents’ home. But childhood was long since over, and Thomas Prater would soon turn eighteen. I welcome what I can have as an adult: my own family and . . . there was the problem. Thomas finished the thought. And what? Well, land can be the only answer. I want land of my own. I will work ‘til I drop to keep it, to tend it, to make it produce, even if I must do every bit of that work myself. Land is real, if I can get it. It is what I can someday leave to my sons.

If there was some tinge of doubt some behind this assertion, it was well founded. Thomas was no laborer and had no inkling if he could work a farm, assuming he could get one. He was a gentleman’s younger son from an old family: too old a family with too many heirs. Making the dilemma worse, his was a Catholic family, vulnerable to the shifting moods of a frequently hostile court.

The fields surrounding Eton Water House, his parent’s home, were wide, lush, green, and well cultivated. It made the place seem large and prosperous, but that was an illusion. The land belonged to many members of the large and constantly growing Prater family. His father was the younger son of a younger son with little enough to leave his heir, who was Thomas’ oldest brother.

Though he knew he might serve as a steward of land his brother would inherit, he didn’t want to do that. I want land that is mine. I will have it somehow. There must be a way.

Chapter One: A Different Danger

Powell’s Fifty

Elizabeth Cittie,[1] the Virginia Colony

June 1621

Mary Powell

IT IS NOT that I was a fearful girl. I never was. As a child, I almost lived in the woods and I climbed trees almost every day. Father called me his monkey. But then he married Katherine and she convinced me to be more cautious. We lived on the edge of the woods that bordered the James River. There, it was true that danger could erupt without warning. Bears, wildcats, venomous serpents, prowling Powhatan Indians, and wolves were more the lords of these woods than we English were then, or perhaps will ever be. They could bring danger to even so tame an activity as berry picking. The further from their house anyone went, the greater the risks.

So, when Katherine asked me to gather early-ripening berries after dinner one warm day in late June, I was properly cautious. I asked, May I take Rufus with me? A large dog couldn’t address every risk, but his presence made any such walk far more comfortable, and I loved our amiable old mastiff.

My stepmother looked up from the bread dough she was kneading. She was only twenty-one, and I knew she tried to sound mature and knowing as she said, Certainly take Rufus with you. I am sure I will not need him here. Then she grinned at me, teasing. And Mary—remember, of course, to wear your hat.

We’d had a set-to the day before regarding how often I needed to wear a hat. I rather liked my freckles, but Katherine deplored them. You must keep your skin as white and unmarked as you can. For a lady, a hat is essential in the summer. That’s true even in England. Just think how much more it is needed here, in this warm climate.

She was trying to help me to act like a lady and was in many ways gentle about it. But beneath that gentleness of hers was an iron conviction of what was right. Colliding with that conviction could be like flinging myself against a wall.

I had stood by the hearth, drawing deep breaths to keep my temper, trying not to start yet another argument, and telling myself to speak reasonably. I like wearing my hat at times, but not every day. I like to feel sun and air on my head. I was trying hard to be polite, and at fifteen, was painfully aware that it was my responsibility to behave like an adult.

I did not like being fifteen. At church, men looked me over much too closely, but then at home I was treated like a child and told to wear my, oh, I’ll just say it: my thrice-bedamned hat. I sometimes felt squeezed into behavior that could not fit anyone who loved freedom, especially any girl who did not like to think of a future spent behind a fence: running a house and obeying a husband.

I could see that my attitude was making Katherine angry: her lips were thinning. Our little confrontation over hats, of all things, was threatening to turn into a full-blown argument. My adult civility faded. I am up to this, I thought. I’m not afraid to fight.

Then Father, who had come in from the fields, stood up and put on his hat. I believe there’s a storm brewing in our house. I’ll find better shelter outside, by the river. He went out the door. That stopped us. We both wanted Father to be happy. We looked at each other ruefully and then talked through our squabble. Through the open door we could see him carrying his pipe and walking toward his favorite log at the riverbank.

Usually, Katherine and I managed to be patient with each other. We even liked each other quite well. Though she was not much older than I, she was trying to be a good mother to me, as was expected of her. And I was struggling to be a good daughter to her. That was not always easy in our one-room house.

I could not remember my real mother, who had died when I was a two-year-old, still toddling around in leading strings.[2] When I was five, after my dear Gramma died, Father and I were left by ourselves to care for each other. We crossed the ocean to the new colony and he raised me at the edge of the woods. In Virginia, everything was at the edge of the woods, and I for nine years I could love the freedom of the forests. England became a vague, distant memory.

Then, two years ago Father married Katherine. Our little house suddenly held three. For our first year together, Katherine and I circled each other carefully like two cats trying to decide if they would fight. But I could see that she made Father happy, and I even suspected that I needed her. My monthly courses had just started. I was suddenly a woman, but it was hard not still to feel half-wild. I feared that what she told me was right: I could not continue my childish, woodland ways and hope to marry a good man. I knew that I had to marry. That was my future, whether I wanted it or not.

She was gentle and caring and in time she and I became good friends. Even so, I felt sometimes that I had to resist her pressure to be a lady. The great unanswered question in my mind was, always, Why would I want to? Planters like us lived rough, demanding lives of constant work. We had little time for social contact outside of church services. And I could not marry a man from town: life in tiny, crowded Jamestown would be intolerable. So then, why should I need to be lady-like just to labor as a planter’s wife? It made no sense to me.

I couldn’t say which of us had won the prior day’s argument. We just decided not to fight, I guess. But, I set forth to pick berries that hot afternoon wearing my hat because I liked Katherine and wanted to help her. She was preparing for her own child, to be born at summer’s end. I thought it must be hard to be patient with a stubborn stepdaughter while your own little one is kicking inside you. I wondered how long it would be before I too would face the constraints of some man’s bed and tending to his household, perhaps raising his children by some deceased wife. And, those possible step-children might well resent my position.

I scratched Rufus behind his ears as we set out. Rufus, why must life be so complicated? He turned his brown eyes up to me, but didn’t seem to know the answer, either. All I knew was that I was in no hurry to surrender my freedom.

Soon I was walking up the river trail in the afternoon heat. Rufus’s copper red back became spangled with little stars of milkweed fluff as he plodded near me, loudly and happily snuffling his way along the verge. Though he made occasional forays among the trees following interesting scents, each time I called he would return to me to be petted. Rufus was a good friend and a fine dog.

Katherine was right. Newly ripening berries shone like jewels—brilliant red and purple—along the sunlit edge of the forest. It was a friendly, welcoming sight, though the woods behind the brambles remained dark and mysterious. I had realized lately, as I became more and more a young lady, that the woods were changing for me. When I was younger they had always felt welcoming. More often, now, the further I went from the house the more threatening they felt.

I experienced a pang of loss for the child I had been, but kept to the trail. Instead of yearning for the freedom I used to feel in the woods, I focused on the pleasant sound and feel of oyster shells beneath my wooden pattens. Those platforms that protected my shoes from wear tended to rock on rough ground, making balance just a bit harder. The crunch as they broke the shells we scattered on our pathways was extremely satisfying, though.

I was trying to stay in a good mood, but the heavy pattens, the cap and hat on my head, the weight of my dress and the steamy afternoon were reducing me to a stew of female misery. That was not Katherine’s fault. She was home pounding maize, which was much harder and hotter work. It was just what women had to endure, and men were just as badly off with their tasks.

How I longed to be the fearless girl I had been. I used to run into the woods behind the house to the little pool in our washing creek. I would strip every stitch of clothing off my body, and just lie in the water until I felt cool and clean. But I learned that was risky. The last time I did it, I got out of the water to find a copper-colored viper taking a nap right next to my clothes. I threw rocks at it until it went away. Standing undressed out of the water, though, and exposed to anyone who came by, was a horrible feeling. Of course, no one was likely to come through the woods, but I took the lesson to heart and didn’t go dipping any longer. I just stood in the creek as often as I could and washed quickly and properly. I wondered if I would have been better off never having had the pleasure of naked dips well out of sight of the house in the cool woodland pond.

Something rustled in the undergrowth and Rufus bounded off, barking delightedly in his deep voice. This time he ignored my call to return. Confident he’d catch up with me in a while, but feeling a bit abandoned, I continued picking berries. My basket was nearly filled by the time I reached the limit of Father’s land and I soon was ready to turn toward home.

Suddenly, a figure emerged from the Robbins’ property, coming ‘round the bend in the path ahead of me. I was startled—not many folks lived near here—and was not sure who it was until he drew closer. Then I recognized that puffing breath and squat form. Soon after, I could smell the sickly stench of the man who did business with Father and our neighbors and who occasionally called on our family.

Good afternoon, Mr. Evans, I said politely.

He paused before me sweating profusely, wiping his face and neck. Good afternoon, Miss Powell, he panted.

I had to turn my eyes away. It was hard not to stare at the tufts of hair growing out of the man’s ears and nose. This warm day, sweat was nearly pouring from beneath his hat.

Sir, I fear you might be ill. Are you, um, unwell? I hope that you have not walked too far in this heat.

No, no. I am fine. My barge is being loaded with timber at the Robbins’ pier. He paused, catching his breath. Then, with a flourish, he removed his hat and attempted a bow. My dear Miss Powell, I always find any distance between us onerous, he stated in a coy, affected manner.

Oh my, he looked so peculiar. I could hardly keep from laughing.

Pointing to a fallen log at the side of the path he said, But even from your neighbors’ it is a long walk on such a day. Come, let us sit in the shade so I can recover. We shall, well, talk for a few minutes.

Arthur Evans was Father’s agent who sold our timber, pitch, and tobacco. Living in Jamestown, he had better access to shipping and selling opportunities than we planters did. Since Father had received his land grant only two years earlier, we still were working very hard to get established. Katherine and I primarily managed the house and garden while Father and Isaiah, our Indian slave, toiled all of each day except Sunday clearing woods and growing crops. Mr. Evans, who styled himself an expert on such matters, took over selling our products for a share of the sales. He negotiated rates with the sea captains and delivered our cargo to the ships. He had apparently become quite wealthy by entering into similar agreements with a number of planters and had recently purchased two African slaves: strong men who could handle the heavy casks of tobacco and piles of timber. Father said that despite his substantial fees, Evans’ services were worthwhile until we were better established. I felt I must be cordial to this unlikeable but useful man.

I put my basket on the ground and sat gingerly on the log as far from him as I could, but he slid toward me. I was uncertain what I should do. I did not want to be rude but could not stand him being near me. It made me feel sickened and a bit frightened.

Evans turned to face me. My dear, I’m sure your good father has told you that he and I are discussing my taking you as my bride.

I was terrified for a moment. What does he . . .what? Evans tried to take my hand, but I evaded him, not knowing how to answer his statement. I could not imagine being married to that horrid man. I had seen his prior wife, who had died young and childless. She had been a sad, defeated-looking woman.

I straightened myself, took a deep breath and rallied my spirits. I was certain Father would never contract me to anyone without first talking with me. And he would never, could never, condone such a horrible marriage. He just would not allow it. Not knowing what to say, I sat still and said nothing.

You did not know? That is a shame. We should be making, ah, well, plans by now. Evans placed a hand on my knee. Its clammy dampness seemed to penetrate my skirt and petticoat, and I shuddered with fear and disgust. My heart was starting to pound.

Sir, I must . . . I was becoming more and more afraid of him and wanted only to get away. I started to stand, but he grabbed me by my wrist and pulled me roughly down toward him. It was a struggle to stay on my feet and keep my balance.

My dear, there is no reason for us to wait to, well, consummate our love. He held my wrist tightly, leering up into my face. His free hand plucked at my neckerchief, trying to expose my bosom. I was glad that I had pinned the kerchief firmly in place that day. Evans’ voice was oily. You need not be afraid. If I put a baby into your belly, we will marry all the sooner.

He pulled my wrist further until I was nearly falling over. Consummate love? I felt nothing but disgust. I looked desperately along the path. Not surprisingly, there was no one in sight. I was alone with this horrid man holding me in place, pawing at me and now trying to reach his free hand under my skirt. How can I escape him? What should I do?

I suddenly realized I was letting him rule me, and anger replaced my fear. This terrible man was trying to make me his victim. I could not care about his business with Father: I had to protect myself. Twisting my wrist out of his grip, I stood furious above him, imagining myself an avenging angel. Sir, you, you smell horrible, and you have an ugly spirit. You shall not have me under any condition!

I picked up the basket, spun around and walked away from him as quickly as possible, trying to contain my fear and keep my dignity.

Mr. Evans struggled to his feet and followed me, his breath puffing. He alternately entreated and threatened. You cannot deny me, little chit. Your father relies on me. And, I am wealthy. You would want for nothing. I will soon build myself a fine brick house in Jamestown, two stories tall with tight, finished floors. That is more than any plantation brat deserves.

I wanted to drown out his words. I shouted, loudly. Never! Never! Rufus must have heard fear in my voice. He raced from the woods to my side, tongue lolling, looking up at me in a puzzled-dog way.

Behind me, Evans panted out, You know your father will make you marry me. I will cut him off if he doesn’t. He won’t be able to ship his tobacco. When I kept walking, his voice took on a wheedling tone. We should be friends, Mary. I um, yes, I love you, my dear. Come back. We can talk.

Annoyed with myself for trembling, I just kept repeating, Never! For reassurance, I laid my hand on Rufus’s broad head. Sensing my fear and anger the mastiff stopped and turned, growling and bristling, placing himself between me and Evans. Already big, Rufus looked twice his size, as lethal and frightening as any wolf.

Evans paused, alarmed. "Now, Miss Powell, there’s no need to turn your beast on me. You, foolish girl, you must comport yourself more graciously. No gentleman of quality would ever marry such a badly behaved young woman. You will end up married to some rude churl, bearing his filthy brats and keeping house in some, some cabin, on a rough plank–no–a dirt floor!"

I had no more to say to him. I kept walking briskly toward home, trying to get away from him but also wanting to seem unafraid. I was taking deep breaths, keeping Rufus close beside me and did not dare turn to see if Evans still followed, but did not hear him any longer. I forced myself not to run, and later was proud to discover that I had not spilled any of the berries.

It was horrible. By the time I had returned home I had regained my composure, but had trouble staying calm while telling Katherine about the incident with Mr. Evans.

My stepmother listened calmly and carefully while she ground maize beneath our big oak tree, rotating and pounding dried corn with the heavy, suspended log pestle. She stopped, wiped sweat from her face with her apron and gently put her arm around my shoulders, drawing me into the house to sit. Grinding is hot work on such a day. But, I have done enough for today. Let’s both rest a little. You’ll feel better being indoors, too, for a while. You’re safe now, Mary. Mr. Evans will not dare to try anything here, and we have Rufus. Pour us some ale and we’ll both rest a bit. I will return in a moment.

She went out to scrape the newly ground meal into our mixing bowl. She tipped the hollowed log on its side to brush out any maize dust and crumbs that remained and pulled the rope suspending the heavy pestle, tying it off well above even Father’s height. The chickens rushed to scratch at the crumbs on the ground.

I watched through the doorway, feeling bad to have broken into her work. Grinding maize was a chore we both hated, and Katherine had taken that chore and given me the easier work of picking berries. I’m sorry. I will be fine. I don’t mean to interrupt your work.

Katherine came in, smiled at me and sat at the table. It makes no matter. I truly was ready to stop. She laid her hand on mine. "You are still trembling. That terrible