A Girl Called Samson (2)

“I do indeed. It is a heritage you can be proud of.”

“My father is a Samson. There was a Samson aboard the Mayflower too. Henry Samson. Mother said he came to the New World all alone.”

“He must have been very brave.”

“Yes. But my father is not brave.”

Reverend Conant did not disagree, and I sank into shamed silence, embarrassed by my admission.

“Do you know your Bible?” he asked, as if offering me redemption.

“Yes. And I have memorized the catechisms.”

“Oh?”

I began to prattle off the questions and answers outlined by the Assembly of Divines.

“My goodness, child!” he interrupted after several minutes of recitation. I was not finished, but I stopped. Widow Thatcher had been unimpressed by my achievement. She’d scolded me for my pride. I expected the reverend to do the same.

“That is highly commendable,” he said instead. “Very impressive.”

“I can keep going,” I proposed, biting my lips to hide my pleasure. “I know it all.”

“And can you write?” he asked.

I hesitated, slightly deflated. Reading was easier than writing, and Widow Thatcher had wanted me to read to her, sometimes for hours on end, but she hadn’t been keen on me scratching away at my letters.

“I can,” I said. “But not as well as I read. I need more practice.”

“It is one thing to read another man’s thoughts. It is another to express one’s own. And paper is expensive,” the reverend said.

“Yes. And I have no money.” I was surprised that he’d even asked. I was a girl, after all, and a servant, but his queries made me hopeful.

“Do you think the Thomases might allow me to go to school?” I asked.

It was his turn to hesitate. “Mistress Thomas is sorely in need of help.”

I sighed, unsurprised. I would not be going to school.

“But I will bring you books, if you like,” he offered.

I came close to toppling from my perch behind him.

“What kind?” I blurted, though I hardly cared. The Bible, the catechisms, and a collection of maps and journals that had belonged to Reverend Thatcher were the only books Widow Thatcher had in her house. I read them all out loud to the old woman, even the journals, though they were filled with sermons and little else. The pages my mother had copied from the records of William Bradford were much more interesting, but I dearly wanted something new.

“What kind of books would you like?” the reverend asked.

“Stories. I would like stories. Adventures.”

“All right. And I will bring paper and ink as well so you will have the means to practice your writing. You could compose letters.”

“Who will I write to?”

He didn’t respond immediately, and I feared I’d been impertinent. Widow Thatcher often accused me of such, though I’d always performed every task to exactness and only spoke when spoken to.

“I would like someone to practice with,” I explained. I was hungry for a friend. I’d spent the last five years with old women who were spent and weary. “Perhaps Mistress Thomas will allow that.”

“Perhaps.” He said no more on the matter, and I did not allow myself to hope that he would do as he promised.

“The Thomases live about two miles from town. It’s a good stretch of the legs. Nothing more. They have a farm, a pretty place. You might find it very agreeable.”

I looked beyond my misery enough to take in the day around me. The mud of early spring slowed our journey, and the earth sucked at the horse’s hooves, but the morning sky was turning blue, the sun had begun to warm my back, and the breeze stirred my pale hair. I’d spent too many days shut inside, hovering near Widow Thatcher so her every command could be attended to. The world beyond those stifling rooms and stagnant air had called to me, and my limbs and lungs had longed for speed and motion. If I’d thought the reverend would allow it, I would’ve asked to be let down so I could run alongside the horse. I loved to run. But the road was churned up from travel, and I had no confidence that my wishes would be considered, so I swallowed them.

The first time I got a glimpse of the house in the middle of forest and fields, I felt a glimmer of hope. It was well kept, and the windows made a friendly face with the front door and the little gate that separated the yard from the road. The door flew open upon our approach, and a woman, her skirts in hand, ran to greet us, a little black-haired boy on her heels. A burly man, a hat on his head and his sleeves rolled as if he’d just stepped away from his labors, called out to the reverend as we drew to a halt.

“Don’t be afraid, Deborah,” the reverend said gently. “You will not be mistreated here.”

Boys tumbled out of the barn and came in from the fields, boys of all sizes, though most appeared older than me. Reverend Conant seemed to know all their names and greeted each one, but I didn’t know which name belonged to whom. There were so many, and I had very little experience with other children, especially boys. They watched their father help me down from the mare, though it was not an inability to disembark as much as trepidation that had kept me rooted to my seat instead of sliding to the ground.

Deacon Jeremiah Thomas wore two frowns, one on his brow and one on his lips, but his wife, Susannah, a woman who barely reached his shoulder, was his opposite in every way. His soberness, I would come to find, was not cruelty. He was not jolly, but he was just, which was a far better quality in my opinion. Susannah Thomas smiled at me and grasped my hands.