Roanoke (The Keepers of the Ring) (7 page)

The tedious boredom of the ship dissipated as she watched the disturbingly attractive Thomas Colman, and almost she hoped he would speak to her again. But on their eighth day in port, Simon Fernandes gave the order to make sail and the three ships left Cowes to cross the Solent for Portsmouth.

On the journey home, Jocelyn stood at the upper deck and felt the northward wind tug at her veil as resolutely as her interest in Thomas Colman tugged at her heart. But her destiny could not lie in Virginia, for it lay in England with her father. Thomas Colman would have to venture to the Indians alone, although she knew she would forever keep him in her thoughts and prayers.

The ocean breeze blew the ships back to Portsmouth in a matter of hours, and the seamen and passengers aboard all three ships crowded on the upper decks to catch a glimpse of the docks they had left only a week earlier. The seamen working on the docks recognized the standards on the ships and greeted them with snide catcalls: “Some long journey, fellows! Did our lady the sea prove too much for ye?”

As the
Lion
eased into her berth to take on fresh stores of food and water, Jocelyn jostled her way through the crowd on the deck, her hand firmly clasped around Audrey’s wrist. Simon Fernandes stood near the gangplank, ready to command the seamen who waited on the docks, and John White stood behind him. Jocelyn wasn’t about to let her uncle forget his promise.

“Our trunks!” Audrey squealed as Jocelyn drew her through the press of people. “Can ye be planning to leave without our things?”

“We’ll have them taken off soon enough,” Jocelyn promised. “But first
we’re
going to get off. I’ll not give my uncle an excuse to conveniently overlook us.”

A sailor positioned the gangplank between the dock and the ship
’s rail, then a uniformed soldier strutted across and briefly saluted Simon Fernandes. “I have letters for Master John White,” the soldier said, pulling sealed parchments from a leather pouch at his waist. “And I am to wait for a reply.”

Jocelyn waited, impatiently, while her uncle received his letters, broke open the seal of the first, and read it. “It seems our Sir Walter Raleigh writes to assure us of his and the Queen
’s prayers,” he said, his mouth curving into a wry smile as he looked at the men crowded around him. They burst into cheers as White bowed to the courier. “You may tell Sir Walter and Her Gracious Majesty that we are most appreciative and grateful.”

The second letter was smaller and not as heavily embossed, but Jocelyn saw her uncle
’s eyes mist as he read it. Instinctively, his eyes came to rest upon hers when he had finished the page, and she knew immediately what news the letter had brought.

She closed her eyes and heard the crowd part as he made his way to her. “I
’m sorry, Jocelyn,” he said, his voice breaking as he placed the letter into her hand. “Your father—my brother—died three days ago.” He embraced her briefly, and she opened her eyes to see that the other passengers stood in silent respect for their grief.

John White cleared his throat as he released her. “May God grant Robert the peace he deserves.”

“Make way!” The impertinent cries of the
Lion’s
seamen disturbed the silent crowd at the gangplank. Through the heavy, sodden dullness that surrounded her, Jocelyn felt herself being pushed out of the way as barrels of water and supplies were brought on board. Audrey’s hand held hers again, but this time Audrey pulled Jocelyn through the crowd and down a companionway to the lower passenger deck. Jocelyn sat for some time without speaking, then lay down and watered the straw mattress beneath her with futile tears.

“My father died alone, Uncle. You did wrong to bring me here.” She had come to his small cabin for a private confrontation.

“No, child, you are wrong,” John White whispered, correcting his niece even as he silently admired her courage in confronting him. Her eyes were red-rimmed from crying, and he envied her the freedom of tears. He had no time for grief and no privacy in which to vent it, though he had lost a dear brother and friend.

“Your father wanted you to come with me; he had been planning this for some time. If he had been well, he would have joined us on the journey himself, for he desired nothing more than to explore the New World . . .”

His mind wandered off into a happy memory of a discussion he and his brother had once shared, and only when Jocelyn cleared her throat did his thoughts return to her. “But I would not have you unhappy, dear girl,” he said, reaching out to clasp her hand in his. “If we can find you a position, mayhap as a governess for a noble family, you may remain in England. But we have not much time.”

“No.” Her response surprised him, and he lifted his brows in a questioning glance.

She took a step toward him as though being closer would help him understand. “I do not doubt my father’s wisdom, I only regret that I was not with him at the end. He died alone, Uncle John, and I pray God will forgive me for allowing that to happen.”

“You are not at fault, Jocelyn. Robert wanted you to go.”

She shrugged gently. “Since he wanted me to be here with you, I will trust his judgment.” She took a deep breath and gave him a wavering smile. “I will go with you and Eleanor to this City of Raleigh. England holds nothing for me, not anymore. You, Eleanor, and Audrey are my family now.”

He patted her hand in pleased surprise, and smiled as he recalled his first plan for his niece. Though Thomas Colman had apparently made no progress in the eight days since they first embarked, mayhap he could fare better in the weeks ahead as they crossed the western ocean
.

Seven

S
tanding alone at the bulwark of the
Lion,
Jocelyn watched the docks and chimneys of Portsmouth retreat into the horizon as the ship turned its bow to follow the sun. The aquamarine water of the English Channel rippled gently toward the shoreline, and though sea shanties echoed behind her as the seamen worked the sails, Jocelyn clothed herself in silence as she said goodbye to her father, her childhood home, and memories too painful to recall.

“By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, yea, we wept, when we remembered Zion,”
she quoted, recalling one of her father’s favorite psalms. “For there they that carried us away captive required of us a song; and they that wasted us required of us mirth, saying, Sing us the songs of Zion.”

The wind caressed her face as she watched sparks of light reflect off the deep blue of the water, and a tear slipped from the corner of her eye as she remembered the touch of her father
’s hand on her cheek. “How shall we sing the Lord’s song in a strange land?” she went on, choking on the words as if a hand lay at her throat. “If I forget thee, father, let my right hand forget her cunning. If I do not remember thee, let my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth . . .”

A sudden breeze and dip of the ship sent a cool splash of spray into the air and across her face. She did not move, welcoming the tears of the sea to join her own as she lifted her heart in prayer:

“To you, my Father God, I give these priceless memories. All I am, every dream I have ever known, came from the man who lies buried beyond these waters. I don’t know why you compel me to leave all behind, but Papa said you would give me grace to bear what lies ahead. But mark me, my Lord, and know my heart: I would as lief die as continue without that grace. Cover me, Lord, and hold me in the palm of your protective hand . . .”

Behind the shadow of the mizzenmast, Thomas Colman watched Jocelyn White stand with battleship solidity at the stern, her eyes on the distant and receding horizon. The gravity that had filled her eyes in the past week had bloomed fully into despair since the public news of her father
’s death, and Thomas knew something about desperation. Once, as she raised her hand to wipe a tear away, he thought about walking forward to comfort her, but common sense detained him.

If God ruled justly and honorably, this girl could not be meant for him. Why, then, did events conspire to push them together?

On their first departure from Portsmouth, Thomas had been shocked beyond words when John White pulled him aside and pointed to the petite brunette who stormed about the ship demanding to be taken off at the first opportunity. “That is your niece?” he had gasped, amazed at the girl’s beauty and her temerity. Any girl who had to be bartered in marriage should have been less than beautiful or past the age of youth, but Jocelyn White was rosy cheeked with energy, a vividly pretty young woman whose hair blew in silky tangles around stormy blue eyes. On that day her eyes had flashed with strength and anger, bowing neither before her uncle or the sallow-faced captain Fernandes.

He knew then that he could not marry her. If God was just, any wife meant for him should have been mealy-mouthed and plain, ill tempered or sickly.
‘Twouldn’t be fair to ask a stunning beauty to serve as the wife of a minister, or even to marry Thomas Colman, indentured servant.

But John White had held him fast and insisted:
“Soft, good reverend, but watch her, talk to her, make her trust you.”

He amazed himself when he began to shadow her movements; he had never intended to follow White
’s orders. But Jocelyn White fascinated him; was it the allure of forbidden fruit? I’faith, this girl was not like the other women aboard ship. They collected themselves in small knots below deck and talked or giggled or wrung their hands in endless worry and boredom. But Jocelyn rarely spoke to anyone save her maid. She usually walked below or on deck with a book or parchment in her hands, and often he spied her writing at the table in her uncle’s small cabin. What was she writing? Letters? To whom? Did she keep a journal? What in heaven could she find worthy of writing about on this horrid ship?

On one late afternoon he stood outside the window of John White
’s cabin and peered inside. Miss White sat at the desk, her face like gold in the flickering light of sunset, her eyes concentrated upon the parchment under her small hands. Once or twice she sighed as she wrote, what was she thinking? She put the pen down, and, fearful of being seen, Thomas jerked away from the window.

After a moment, he gathered the courage to look in again. She had rolled the parchment into a tube, then she leaned toward the small porthole in the cabin and thrust the rolled parchment through it. Startled, Thomas strode to the ship
’s railing in time to see the parchment unfurl in the wind and flatten itself upon the face of the billowing ocean.

What kind of woman wrote letters to the sea?

His fascination for her became a spying game; there was little else to do while aboard ship. Her young maid naturally caught sight of him, and doubtless alerted her mistress, and on that humiliating afternoon when he finally gathered courage enough to speak to her, he had done nothing but offend her. Bumptious fool! He should have known better to approach her like one of the ill-mannered seamen.

Smarting under that humiliation, he renounced his fascination with Jocelyn White and consigned himself to fifteen years of celibate servitude. Apparently God had a more severe plan in mind for Thomas Colman than the dedication required of a minister.
‘Twas obvious that God wanted him to subject his heart, his eyes, and his physical desires to the tyranny of slavery. He would do it, and gladly, for he deserved no better.

After the girl
’s scorching rebuke, a few days passed without event. Thomas stayed below deck in the men’s section of the ship, never once allowing his eyes to lift in search of the girl. All was well until God began to test his resolve. William Clement, an occasionally charming bloke who spent most of his time eying the serving women, whispered one afternoon that the fair niece of John White had asked in particular about the Reverend Thomas Colman.

Thomas found it difficult to remain aloof from Clement
’s taunting suggestion. Of the hundred or more men aboard ship, why would the girl notice him? Was his infatuation for her so obvious that the other men thought to bait him with rumors and false hope?

But ofttimes on sunny afternoons when the sailors were willing to let passengers above deck, he roamed the ship and felt bright eyes upon him. When he turned suddenly, there she stood, caught in a nervous blush.

By themselves, these adolescent boy-girl games could not have turned him from his steadfast intention to forget Jocelyn White. But when John White read the letter announcing his brother’s death, the girl exchanged maidenly blushing for the mantle of mourning. Watching from the crowd, Thomas read her grief in the line of her shoulders, in the broken way her head lay on her uncle’s chest, the helpless curl of her hands.

Still, surely God could not intend for Thomas to fulfill John White
’s secret contract of marriage. So why, then, did his heart yearn to comfort the suffering girl who stood crying at the rail as Portsmouth faded from view?

Jocelyn did not know how long she stood at the ship
’s rail, but Portsmouth had long disappeared when she felt a warm hand cover her own. “I know ‘tis not easy for you,” Eleanor said, squeezing her cousin’s hand gently. “I have my husband and father with me.”

“
‘Tis not only my father I grieve for,” Jocelyn stuttered, fresh tears springing to her eyes. “But our way of life. My father’s books, my studies—they are all I have known. In truth, Eleanor, I do not know what to expect in this Virginia of yours, and I fear I am not equipped to face it . . .”

Eleanor smiled and lightened her voice. “I
’faith, we will have everything English, dear coz. We are not going to the wilderness to live as savages, but to build an English colony. We are taking our way of life with us. You will find that in time our City of Raleigh will be as prosperous as London. My father will be the governor, my husband an assistant or at least a justice of the peace.”

“But—” Jocelyn paused. The question would seem self-centered, but she had to know. “Eleanor, I am not married, nor am I bound to a family as a servant. What will become of me?”

Eleanor gave her a bright look of eagerness. “I’faith, you’ll live with us, of course, until you want to be married. Think you that you should wither on the vine and misspend your youth? Shame on you, coz. I believe my father will find you a suitable husband, and you will be very happy.”

For this Jocelyn had no answer. Until her father
’s illness, she had always believed he would arrange a marriage for her with a man much like himself. Her chosen husband would have been a teacher or a writer, and after their marriage she would have lived with two men with whom she would share reading and laughter, discussions and opinions. In the course of a fortnight, however, that domestic vision had vanished and she had nothing but fear with which to replace it.

Eleanor patted Jocelyn
’s hand again, then pressed her palms against her expanding stomach. “Only God knows what will become of all of us,” she said, a breath of anxiety in her own voice. “But my father says we must needs trust in God’s goodness, and in the strength of our English way of life.”

Eleanor looked up, and the niggling thread of worry fled from her voice. “You will find a husband, dear Jocelyn, a gentleman who deserves you. You will establish a home and raise children and do all the things your sainted mother would have done had she lived. In time, your grief for your father will ease, and you will find the happiness we all seek.”

“A gentleman?” Jocelyn laughed and closed her eyes. “Forgive me, dear Eleanor, but where am I to find such a man? This ship is filled with nothing but common passengers, crude seamen, and married gentlemen who do nothing but sit and dream of the riches they hope to reap from their export companies. So unless God can form a man of dust and breath yet again . . .”

Eleanor leaned forward and pinched Jocelyn
’s cheek. “Trust in God, dear cousin, and keep your eyes open. There are, I’m sure, gentle folk on board who do not dress in the satin doublets and silken hose of wealthy gentlemen, nor do they speak as you do, but they are gentle all the same.”

“Would that such a one would find me,” Jocelyn breathed, leaning forward on the ship
’s railing. “For I am well aware that I am the only unattached woman on this ship. There are times, cousin, especially when I must walk among the sailors, that I feel vulnerable—”

“You know my father will always act as your protector.”

“Still—” Jocelyn hesitated, not wanting to sound critical of her uncle’s efforts. She chose her words carefully. “He is very busy about the colony’s affairs. He cannot be constantly by my side, nor do we talk every day.”

“For conversation you have your maid, and me,” Eleanor replied, her brown eyes dancing. “On any day when I am not waylaid with seasickness, feel free to talk about whatever you wish. And know this—not a man aboard would dare insult or harm you, for they know you are John White
’s niece. So what could possibly worry you?”

The future. Loneliness. Death.
The replies sprang easily to Jocelyn’s lips, but she bit the words back. Her secure and lively cousin would not understand. So Jocelyn smiled as if she had been a mere child frantic over harmless shadows on the wall and returned Eleanor’s reassuring embrace.

On the sixth of May, the
Lion
and her two consorts arrived at Plymouth where White welcomed fifteen colonists from the southwest of England. The newcomers, all men, included Manteo and Towaye, two American Indians who had crossed the ocean with Ralph Lane to present themselves to Sir Walter Raleigh and other investors in the colonial venture. The two savages had traveled throughout England at Raleigh’s expense, and were now welcomed to the fleet with great pomp and ceremony. John White himself ventured off the
Lion
to welcome them, but they and the other newcomers were housed aboard the smaller flyboat.

Jocelyn watched the ceremony of welcome from the deck of the
Lion
, curiosity overcoming her grief. These were the first Indians she had ever seen, and she found them remarkably like the sketches her uncle had made in his journals. The taller of the two Indians, the one called Manteo, had a flat nose, coarse black hair, and dark brown eyes with the shining quickness of a robin’s. His companion looked much the same; indeed, they could have been brothers. Neither wore the doublet and hose of the English, but breeches of a supple leather, loosely fitting woven shirts, and cloaks. Aloofness covered both of them like a mantle.

After John White
’s welcome, the Indians regally crossed the gangplank to Captain Edward Spicer’s flyboat. The other arriving colonists, heavily laden with trunks, tools, and baskets of possessions, followed the savages on board. When the Indians disappeared into the hold of the ship, Jocelyn turned from the suddenly uninteresting sight and nearly stumbled into a man standing close behind her.