Free Abiding Peace by Susan Page Davis Page B

forgotten me.”
    She jumped, almost dropping the dish. “Hush! You mustn’t come so near the house.”
    He edged away, into the herb garden.
    She still held the dish, and so she followed.
    He went to the shadows beneath a large maple and turned toward her. “Well, lass, bring it here.”
    She hesitated. Why had she even bothered to ask Jane about trust? She didn’t trust this miscreant one whit. “Nay. I’ll leave it here.” She stooped to set the dish on the ground.
    “What, afraid of me?”
    “Should I not be?”
    “I’ll not hurt ye, Christine.”
    She shuddered. He had never used her name before. Had he asked someone in the village the name of the young woman who worked at the parsonage? More likely he’d heard the children call out to her weeks ago. Or perhaps he’d heard Goody Deane use her name the night she called out when she’d heard his voice. Christine couldn’t remember, but it disturbed her that he acted so familiar.
    “Leave us alone.” She swallowed, hoping she could keep her voice steady. “This be the last time I will bring you anything.”
    “What? Ye cannot let me starve.”
    “Oh, but you can make us all live in fear.”
    He laughed. “I don’t see anyone acting fearful. Anyone but you, that is.”
    Her anger simmered. In the darkness she thought he smiled. “You say you’ll stop stealing, but you don’t. I’ve given you food and clothing and a blanket that were not mine to give. You’ve made me steal for you. Do you hear me? You’ve made a thief of me. This must stop.”
    “Can you help me stop?”
    “How would I do that?” she asked. He was toying with her, she thought, keeping her here in the shadows for his own purposes.
    “You could speak for me to one of the gentlemen of the village. Tell them to hire me.”
    “Whom could you work for?”
    “Anyone.”
    “The master at the brickyard?”
    “Perhaps, though it’s sorry work.”
    “Have you sought to hire on with the fishing captains?”
    He flexed his shoulders. “Seasick, I fear. Debilitating.”
    She nodded. He would make excuses for any real job possibility, she calculated. “Harvest will soon be upon us. I know farmers who could use a hand at haying and grain harvest. Shall I speak to them for you?”
    His momentary silence confirmed her assessment. He didn’t want to work. Not really. At least, not hard, sweat-inducing, energy-sapping work.
    “Certainly. But I shall need decent shoes and more food than you’ve been bringing me if I’m to slave all day in the sun.”
    “You new employer can feed and clothe you. I’ll spread the word tomorrow. What is your name? How shall they find you?”
    “Well, I …”
    Again his hesitation emboldened her. She stepped toward him. “Speak, sir. Shall I put it about the village that a strong laborer will go to the ordinary at noon seeking employment?”
    “Ye’re a bit hasty, miss. I’ve not eaten well for many a week. I’ve not the strength you seem to think I have.”
    “Oh, haven’t you? I’ve been kind to you. You know I have. Leave us. Just leave us. I won’t tell anyone you were here.”
    “Nay, I think not.” He stepped forward, and his face became clearer in the moonlight.
    “I tell you now, sir, I cannot provide for you any longer.”
    He moved swiftly, another step forward. Suddenly they were toe-to-toe, with a glinting knife blade between them.
    “You’ll do as I say,” he spat out in a low, raspy tone. “If you don’t, you’ll be nursing one of those little dark-haired girls tomorrow. See if one of them don’t meet with an accident.”
    “Christine?” Goody Deane’s sharp voice startled them both.
    The man glanced toward the house, over Christine’s shoulder, and melted back into the shadows beneath the tree.
    Christine drew in a ragged breath and turned around. “I’m coming, Tabitha.”
    “Who was that man?” The widow peered toward the garden. “Shall I run for the parson?”
    Christine reached her side. “Nay. He is