The Captive Bride (17 page)

When the simple fare was on the table, Gilbert said, “I must go to see Mrs. Hewitt over at Langley. She's not doing well. Would you like to go with me, Lydia?”

“No, I'll go later in the week, Gilbert. You tell her I'll make her some of that good strong rabbit broth she likes so well.”

“All right. I think I'll stay overnight. Be back by noon tomorrow.” They bowed their heads and ate quickly. “What are you going to do today, Rachel?”

“I'll help Mother this morning. Maybe I'll go to see Mercy this afternoon.”

Winslow gave her a sharp look, for she had been subdued, but he said nothing. After the meal he left, and the two women spent all morning cleaning house.

It was almost noon when Rachel glanced out the window and said, “Why, there's Grandfather! I wonder why he came back?”

Lydia looked up in surprise from where she sat at the table sewing. “I can't imagine. Maybe he changed his mind.”

Rachel stepped to the door and opened it. “What brought you back—?”

The words were cut off as if a noose had tightened around her neck. The man who stood there was not her grandfather—but so like him she was speechless!

He stood there, his bright blue eyes searching her face calmly, and he had the same wedge-shaped face, the same broad cheekbones and wide mouth as Gilbert Winslow—only this man was in the prime of life.

Lydia looked up to see why Rachel had broken off, and when she saw the two standing there, a fear ran through her. She rose and went quickly to the door. “What's wrong, Gilbert?”

She had no doubt that it was her father-in-law, for he had
the same tall frame, and the shape of his head was so like Gilbert's that it never entered her mind as she stepped forward that it was anyone but him.

Rachel stepped to one side, her eyes fixed on the man. He took one step forward and said, “Hello, Lydia.”

He stepped out of the brilliant sunshine and Lydia saw his features clearly for the first time. Her hand flew to her mouth and she felt terribly sick. She heard her heart pounding fast and hard, and the room seemed to sway. She closed her eyes and almost fell, but Rachel caught her, crying out, “Mother!” and she backed away from the door until the edge of the table caught her.

There was a sudden silence, and the three of them seemed to be frozen in place—or like a picture painted on a canvas. Lydia knew that as long as she lived she would see that scene: the brilliant April sun streaming through the windows highlighting myriads of dust motes that swarmed madly as if to escape the shaft of light—Rachel, pale as old ivory, staring at the tall man who had stepped inside and stood looking at her across the small room.

“I've—come back. Lydia.”

She tried to speak, but her mouth was so dry she had to lick her lips. When she finally found her voice, the sound was harsh and brittle, cutting the intense silence.

“I—we thought—you were—dead!”

Rachel gave a small cry, and Lydia saw the fear scoring her pale face. She moved quickly to stand beside the girl. Rachel placed an arm around her mother as if to steady her, but she herself was faint and dizzy with shock.

Matthew, too, was trembling, his ruddy face, burned with the sun, gray with strain. But he swallowed hard, his words coming slowly. “You need to sit down, both of you.” He grabbed a chair in each hand and shoved them toward the two women, saying, “Please—sit down, Lydia!”

Lydia sat down heavily, for the shock of his appearance had robbed her of strength. She had seen a man almost sever
his foot with an ax, and she had had the same lightheaded feeling as the scarlet blood had pumped out on the white snow. She closed her eyes and tried to pray, but nothing came. Her thoughts rolled wildly through her mind, but as she sat there, her breathing became more even, and she could feel her racing pulse slow to a normal rate.

She opened her eyes, took a deep breath, and carefully looked at her husband's face, repeating, “We thought you were dead.”

“I thought of sending you word that I was coming, but I had no one to send.”

Lydia stared at him; then she looked up at Rachel. “This is your father, Rachel.”

The two looked at each other, and neither spoke. Finally he said, “You are beautiful—” He broke off, bit his lip and said, “I'd like to sit down myself, if you don't mind.”

He stood there, and for all the strength he radiated, a vulnerability filled his face—a slight movement in his broad lips, just a trace of uncertainty in his clear blue eyes. Certainly not the brash Matthew Winslow Lydia had known. He did not move, but stood there as if he expected to be ordered out of the house.

Lydia nodded. “Of course.” She watched as he pulled the third chair from the table and sat down. There was something eerie about him, for he was not the eighteen-year-old she had pictured in her mind for years, but a heavier man, stronger, with an assurance and steadiness in his gaze that was foreign to her memories of him as a youth. There was an air of authority in him, as if he were accustomed to being obeyed, yet his face bore a look of simple humility. His hands were brown and corded with muscle, and as he moved there was a suggestion of tremendous power, ready to leap into action at an instant's notice. He had a white scar that began over his right eyebrow and disappeared into his thick hair, and another on the side of his neck shaped like a fishhook.

He was dressed in knee breeches and boots, a waistcoat
of dark red velvet, and a dark-brown coat of fustian with silver buttons. His shirt was of white linen; he held a felt hat with a wide brim and high crown. There was nothing to mark him as to profession, but the clothes, though not new, had been expensive.

He let the silence run on as the women stared at him, enduring it quietly, and not taking his own eyes off them.

“I know it's a shock, my walking in like this.” He hesitated then said very quietly, “You can't know how I've longed to see you all these years, Lydia.”

“But—we thought you were dead!”

He stared at her, then nodded. “I suppose that would be natural enough, not hearing from me all this time. But I couldn't write!”

Lydia twisted her hands together, trying to conceal the trembling, but the anger in her voice betrayed her as she said, “You let me think all these years that you were lost at sea!”

“Lost at sea?” he exclaimed, lifting his head. “Why would you think that?”

She stared at him in disbelief, and her lips grew pale as she pressed them together. “You left on that whaling ship—I've forgotten its name—but it went down with all hands!”

His mouth dropped open, and he tried to speak, but the words would not come. Finally he swallowed and said, “As God is my witness, Lydia! I never once
thought!
Why, I was signed to go on the
Intrepid
—but at the last moment I changed my mind and took a berth aboard a schooner headed for Africa. I never knew—not until this minute—that the whaling vessel sank!” He got to his feet and began to pace nervously back and forth, twisting his head to one side in a familiar motion that Rachel had seen in Gilbert Winslow a thousand times.

“By all that's holy, I never thought of such a thing—not once!” He shook his head, then said, “I was almost mad, Lydia, in that prison, you must remember how my mind was going.”

“I—remember,” she said slowly, her eyes cold as steel.

“That day, the day I sent for the justice, I was in a fever, maybe you remember that, too? It seemed to burn what little will I had out of my soul! So when I signed the paper promising to never preach again, I was numb. I think I went mad. I remember Bunyan trying to talk to me, but it was like—it was like I was under water, in a way. I was moving slowly, and I couldn't see through the haze.”

“Why didn't you come home?” Lydia demanded, and such pain filled her eyes that he bit his lip and looked away. “Oh, why didn't you just come home, Matthew?”

“I wanted to, Lydia—and that was where I started. But I was out of my mind. I—I knew you and Father would never understand what I had done! I suppose if I had been rational, I might have done it, but all I could think of was the shame of it! So I wandered around for a while, and then the idea just came to me—to leave the country and get away from it all.”

He stopped, finding it difficult to explain. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he wiped the perspiration from his brow. “That's what I did, Lydia,” he began again in a hoarse voice. “I went to the house, got my clothes and some money—then I got on the coach and left Bedford. Couldn't bear seeing you.”

Breathing heavily, Lydia waited for him to continue, but he said nothing more. Finally she asked, “And then? Where have you been all these years?”

As he turned to face her, she saw something in his eyes she did not recognize. He hesitated, then answered quietly, “I can't tell you now. You would not be proud of my life for the past fourteen years, Lydia.”

Anger suddenly coursed through her and she got to her feet. “And that's your explanation for deserting your wife and child?”

He flinched, but faced her blazing eyes steadily. “If there were a reason for my behavior, Lydia, don't you suppose I'd give it? But I have none.” He straightened his heavy shoulders
and implored, “I've come to ask for your forgiveness, Lydia— and for yours, daughter—but don't ask me to account for my life! Forgive me—that's my only request.”

Lydia stared at him for several minutes, and then she began to tremble violently. Rachel watched, dumbfounded, for she had never seen her mother lose control.

“Forgive you!” Lydia spat out. “Just like that, Matthew Winslow, you expect to walk back into our lives and take up where you left off fourteen years ago?”

Winslow's head jerked as if he had been physically struck. “I can understand, Lydia—”

“Understand? You understand nothing!” she interrupted. “Once I thought you dead, I was free from the anguish of your desertion. I could go on with life, forgive your memory, give myself to God. But here you are again, and—”

Lydia stopped short, her face flushed. She breathed deeply once or twice, fought for control, then finished in a whisper, “Sin it may be, Matthew, but I cannot pretend to forgive you when my heart cannot accept you. I—I can't think clearly—”

He got up at once. “I don't wonder.” He picked up his hat and stood, a tall shape against the sun that caught him in a yellow beam. He started to speak, then shrugged. Rachel saw a dark look of fatalism cloud his eyes. He looked at the two women and asked, “Where is my father?”

“He's gone to Langley,” Rachel said. “He'll be back tomorrow at noon.”

“I'll be on board the
Carrington,
just offshore,” he stated. “If he will see me, tell him to send word.”

“I'll tell him ...” She paused, not knowing how to address him.

He gave her a slight smile and said, “You are indeed lovely, Rachel.”

Then he wheeled and left without another word. Rachel watched him walk rapidly down the street until he was out of sight. She turned to look at Lydia, and said, “Mother—I can't believe it!”

Lydia whispered, “Nor I, child.” She walked over to the door and stood looking down the street. Then she turned, her shoulders sagging, and she began to weep.

“Mother! Are you all right?” Rachel ran to her mother and held her close. For a long time great sobs racked her mother's body. Finally she took a deep breath, wiped her eyes, and pulled away.

“I must go to Gilbert,” she said numbly.

“I'll go with you!”

“Rachel—would you mind if I went alone?”

Rachel sensed that there was a need in her mother that only Gilbert Winslow could meet, so she said, “Of course. You'll have to hurry to get there before dark.”

Ten minutes later Lydia stood at the door and in an unexpected move embraced Rachel, then said, “How do you feel, Rachel? I won't leave you if ...”

“I'm fine, Mother, really. It's just so strange—to have a father.”

Lydia glared at Rachel. “You don't have a father. Matthew Winslow gave up all rights to that name when he ran away fourteen years ago!”

“I suppose so—but it's different.” Rachel shook her head. “No matter
what
he's done, he's
real.
”

Lydia bit her lip and said gently, “Rachel, I have done my grieving over your father. To me he died before you were born. Now he comes back and begs for forgiveness. I hardly know how to forgive him. But I will not let him hurt me again—nor
you!
”

“Yes, Mother,” Rachel said quietly. “You must hurry; it'll be dark by the time you get there.”

“We'll be home early in the morning.”

Rachel watched her mother until she was out of sight, then stood there, uncertain and filled with such emotion that she could not be still. She threw on a coat, and all afternoon she walked the shore, looking often at the ship that lay offshore, thinking of the tall man who had appeared out of the past.

“My father.” She said the title aloud as she continued to look at the vessel until darkness began to descend. The fog soon swallowed the ship, making it invisible, so she turned and walked slowly back to the cottage, filled with an emotion she could not identify—a mixture of hope, joy—and fear!

CHAPTER TWELVE

A NEW MAN

Rachel slept no more than the barn owl that kept calling all night. For three hours she tossed about on her bed, then finally rose and dressed. Her mind was confused, filled with wild thoughts and an emotion she could not define. She had long ago accepted the fact that she had no father, but for him suddenly to appear made her somehow angry.
He could have come home before this!
she thought as she waited for Gilbert and Lydia to arrive.
If he had loved me and my mother, he would have come!