On the hearth was a large, crackling fire that radiated a welcome warmth. Enveloping the room was a mixture of savory aromas: some of them were coming from the kettle of pork stew simmering on its lug pole over the fire; others were rising from a large bowl of cooling corn pudding; but most were coming from the beehive oven built into the back of the fireplace. Inside, multiple loaves of bread were turning a dark, golden brown.

“I hope in God’s name I am not a bother,” Mercy said.

“Heavens, no,” Elizabeth replied as she took Mercy’s coat and directed her to a ladder-back chair near the fire. “You’re a welcome reprieve from the likes of these unruly children. But you have caught me baking, and I must remove my bread.” Quickly she hefted a long-handled peel, and with short, deft thrusts picked up the eight loaves one by one and deposited them to cool on the long trestle table that dominated the center of the room.

Mercy watched Elizabeth as she worked, remarking to herself that she was a fine-looking woman with her high cheekbones, porcelain complexion, and lithesome figure. It was also apparent she was accomplished in the kitchen by the way she handled the bread-making and with the skill she evinced stoking the fire and adjusting the trammel holding the kettle. At the same time Mercy sensed there was something disturbing about Elizabeth’s persona. There wasn’t the requisite Christian meekness and humbleness. In fact Elizabeth seemed to project an alacrity and boldness that was unbecoming of a Puritan woman whose husband was away in Europe. Mercy began to sense that there was more to the gossip that she’d heard than idle hearsay.

“The aroma of your bread has an unfamiliar piquancy,” Mercy said as she leaned over the cooling loaves.