The Ninth Daughter - By Barbara Hamilton Page 0,71

on poor Pattie, condemned to glean behind her erratic reaping these days. John came home to dinner late, when the meeting was done, with the news that none of the consignees had yet resigned his position, and that the Governor was still refusing to let the Dartmouth leave port. “Some of the men are returned, from the villages,” he said, ladling the thick stew of chicken out onto the plates held by Johnny to serve parents and siblings. “We’re meeting again, at the Green Dragon, at eight tonight. I beg your pardon, Portia, for deserting you again this way . . .”

“Then unless you wish me to behave like Mrs. Hazlitt,” she said, “and cling weeping to your coat, may I send to Bess, to pass the evening in her company?”

Bess—born and raised, like Sam, in Boston—brought her daughter Hannah with her, a lively girl of seventeen, with her father’s broad shoulders and sturdy build and her father’s quicksilver mind. Both had heard already all about the expedition with Surry into the North End, so there was little explanation necessary. All Abigail had to do was say, at the right point in the exclamations of horror and shock, “The curious thing was, someone spoke of Abednego Sellars as having bought herbs of this Mrs. Fishwire. Surely not Mr. Sellars the chandler? Why, he is a deacon!”

“Nab,” said Bess, wisely shaking her head, “you’re the smartest woman I know, and married to the most long-headed man of my acquaintance, yet it’s plain you come out of a country parsonage. A whited sepulchre,” she said, with an expression that added, There are plenty of those around.

Abigail leaned forward in the deep gold light of the work-candles, with an expression of rapt fascination, and had the whole of Abednego Sellars’s business and personal life deposited neatly in her lap.

Abednego Sellars did indeed have a ladyfriend in the North End, though probably not the same ladyfriend he’d had eighteen months ago at the time he’d made an exhibition of himself for the amusement of the inhabitants of the Love Lane Yard. “He’s a man full of juice,” sighed Bess. “When Penny Rucker married him back in ’52, my Ma said he’d make her weep, and it’s sure he has. Even then he liked his dram, for all he’ll get up at meetings of the Session and roar against drunkenness before the face of the Congregation. Goes up to the sailors’ taverns in the North End, where he thinks nobody knows him, as if Sophy Blaylock’s cousin doesn’t run the Queen of Argyll and gossip worse than any woman in the town. These days—” She shook her head again, and made a little noise, as if urging on a recalcitrant horse.

Pattie got up to put more hot water in the teapot. Bess had brought a quarter of a brick of good Dutch East India Company oolong, respectably smuggled and ambrosial after many months of coffee and sassafras.

“He’s always seemed so respectable,” lamented Abigail encouragingly.

“There’s a good many men in this town who seem respectable,” chimed in Hannah. Like her mother, she didn’t seem particularly put out by this fact. Abigail wondered if she guessed about her father and Surry.

The picture emerged of a man of lusty appetites, of quick temper, of sharp acumen where money and business were concerned; a man disinclined to keep rules where they interfered with what he considered his rights as a man, whether those rules were laid down by the Crown or the Congregation. He had many cronies, and made friends easily; was on good terms with one of his daughters, but the other two tended to be bitter over his way of life. His one son had gone to sea, and had been taken from his uncle’s ship off Barbados, and pressed into the British Navy. Steps had been taken to get him out, but he had died before he could return home.

Abigail asked, “When was this?” no longer wondering at the man’s dedication to the cause of rights for the colonists.

“Three years ago?” Bess paused in her sewing—baskets of sheets, shirts, the children’s clothing lay on the big kitchen table between them, the eternal work of a household. Abigail didn’t wonder at it, that Mrs. Tillet had pressed poor Rebecca into servitude to keep up with extra stitching for money. “Sixty-nine, maybe? I remember he vowed then that he’d mend his way of life—that was the same year there was trouble with the elders of the Congregation. But