somber but serene, a melody that seemed to mirror her daughter’s recent mood. When she complimented her on it, Etáin said, “It is a Quaker hymn that I found in some of the music Hugh brought from Philadelphia last month. It is called ‘The Right of Conscience.’”
“It is pensive,” remarked Madeline McRae, “yet untroubled. Are there words to it? There must be, if it is a hymn.”
“Yes, but they are not worthy of the melody, which is fine enough. One can attach one’s own words to it, so that it becomes a private hymn.”
Some mornings later, as Etáin donned her cloak and bonnet, her mother asked her what errand she was going on.
Etáin first finished tying the ribbon of the bonnet beneath her chin and the cord of her cloak. Then she faced her mother and said, “I shall not return to England with you and father.”
“I see.” Madeline McRae let her needlework rest on the shop countertop. She knew what her daughter meant, knew what had distracted the girl for the past few days, knew better than to inquire, and knew that this was all she would learn for the moment. She searched for a question to ask. “How…are you to go on this errand?”
“I shall walk. It is not far.”
“Do you wish me…to accompany you, my girl?”
Etáin shook her head. “I must go alone.” She paused. “I will return before midday. When is Father coming back from Yorktown?”
Ian McRae had gone downriver to see a tradesman about some goods the man had purchased on credit. The mother said, “Perhaps, tonight. Ifnot, then by tomorrow morning.”
“You shall both be pleased.” Etáin leaned over the counter and bussed her mother on the cheek, then turned and left the shop.
Etáin walked up Queen Anne Street out of Caxton. She crossed the stone bridge at Hove Creek and turned west on the public road that followed the creek. The countryside was quiet, except for the lowing of cattle searching for forage, and the sound of an ax somewhere chopping wood. She met no one on the road, and was glad of it. The world and the morning seemed to be her own. She hummed the melody of the Quaker hymn.
She reached a narrow log and plank bridge; such a bridge crossed the creek to each of the plantations on the north side, from the Otway place to Cullis Hall and the eastern part of Queen Anne County. She walked passed that bridge; it led to Meum Hall.
She crossed the one to Morland Hall and followed the path that meandered through the fields, past the tenants’ homes, past the cooperage and tobacco barns and the prizing machine. She found Jack Frake and John Proudlocks in the stables harnessing a cart for a trip to Williamsburg for supplies that were not to be found in Caxton. Both men were startled to see her, Jack, of course, more so than Proudlocks. She nodded to the latter, and smiled at Jack. Jack knew that only some extraordinary reason could have caused her to walk this distance, alone, so early in the morning.
He took her inside the great house, to his study. Etáin removed her bonnet and laid it on the desk, and undid the cord of her cloak. She said, “Father has been recalled to England by his firm. He must close the shop.”
“I did not know that.”
“The letter arrived yesterday. He and Mother will return in the spring.”
Jack let a moment pass before he asked, “And you, Etáin?”
This time Etáin let a moment pass. She said, “You are the north, Jack. I will marry you, if you still wish that.”
“If I still wish…?” Jack reached out and embraced her. They kissed for a long moment. Then they stood for another long moment, holding each other. Jack, his face pressed to her hair, said, “I…had not expected you to decide so soon…. ”
“Nor had I,” said the girl. “Father said I could stay, provided I marry.”
“I see.” Jack held her shoulders and spoke to the face he loved so much. “Of course, you have told your parents.”
Etáin shook her head. “No. Not even
maman
. Father is in
“It is pensive,” remarked Madeline McRae, “yet untroubled. Are there words to it? There must be, if it is a hymn.”
“Yes, but they are not worthy of the melody, which is fine enough. One can attach one’s own words to it, so that it becomes a private hymn.”
Some mornings later, as Etáin donned her cloak and bonnet, her mother asked her what errand she was going on.
Etáin first finished tying the ribbon of the bonnet beneath her chin and the cord of her cloak. Then she faced her mother and said, “I shall not return to England with you and father.”
“I see.” Madeline McRae let her needlework rest on the shop countertop. She knew what her daughter meant, knew what had distracted the girl for the past few days, knew better than to inquire, and knew that this was all she would learn for the moment. She searched for a question to ask. “How…are you to go on this errand?”
“I shall walk. It is not far.”
“Do you wish me…to accompany you, my girl?”
Etáin shook her head. “I must go alone.” She paused. “I will return before midday. When is Father coming back from Yorktown?”
Ian McRae had gone downriver to see a tradesman about some goods the man had purchased on credit. The mother said, “Perhaps, tonight. Ifnot, then by tomorrow morning.”
“You shall both be pleased.” Etáin leaned over the counter and bussed her mother on the cheek, then turned and left the shop.
Etáin walked up Queen Anne Street out of Caxton. She crossed the stone bridge at Hove Creek and turned west on the public road that followed the creek. The countryside was quiet, except for the lowing of cattle searching for forage, and the sound of an ax somewhere chopping wood. She met no one on the road, and was glad of it. The world and the morning seemed to be her own. She hummed the melody of the Quaker hymn.
She reached a narrow log and plank bridge; such a bridge crossed the creek to each of the plantations on the north side, from the Otway place to Cullis Hall and the eastern part of Queen Anne County. She walked passed that bridge; it led to Meum Hall.
She crossed the one to Morland Hall and followed the path that meandered through the fields, past the tenants’ homes, past the cooperage and tobacco barns and the prizing machine. She found Jack Frake and John Proudlocks in the stables harnessing a cart for a trip to Williamsburg for supplies that were not to be found in Caxton. Both men were startled to see her, Jack, of course, more so than Proudlocks. She nodded to the latter, and smiled at Jack. Jack knew that only some extraordinary reason could have caused her to walk this distance, alone, so early in the morning.
He took her inside the great house, to his study. Etáin removed her bonnet and laid it on the desk, and undid the cord of her cloak. She said, “Father has been recalled to England by his firm. He must close the shop.”
“I did not know that.”
“The letter arrived yesterday. He and Mother will return in the spring.”
Jack let a moment pass before he asked, “And you, Etáin?”
This time Etáin let a moment pass. She said, “You are the north, Jack. I will marry you, if you still wish that.”
“If I still wish…?” Jack reached out and embraced her. They kissed for a long moment. Then they stood for another long moment, holding each other. Jack, his face pressed to her hair, said, “I…had not expected you to decide so soon…. ”
“Nor had I,” said the girl. “Father said I could stay, provided I marry.”
“I see.” Jack held her shoulders and spoke to the face he loved so much. “Of course, you have told your parents.”
Etáin shook her head. “No. Not even
maman
. Father is in
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