Constance

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Patricia Clapp. Constance

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For those special descendants of Constance Hopkins, my family

Except for one, all of the people in this story existed just as you find them here. The exception is Minnetuxet, who slipped in quietly and refused to leave.

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I want to feel civilized cobbles under my feet, and look out of the diamond-paned window in my little bedroom, and hear the mongers crying their wares. I want to push through the crowds in Petticoat Lane to buy a bit of lace or ribbon, and watch a London wedding—the shy bride and proud groom going into the church, followed by parents and friends and families. I always thought that someday I would be married in the same way, but these psalm-singing folk from Leyden believe that marriage is a civil thing, with no need for churching to make it proper.

If I stay in this fearsome land—and if ever I marry—’tis most likely that old Governor Carver will mumble some few words over me and that will be the end of it. And what matter, after all, since whom would I marry? Gangling John Cooke, no older than I and prone to spots? Handsome John Alden, with eyes for no one but Priscilla Mullins, even though that pallid minx Desire Minter follows him step by step about the ship? Edward Dotey or Edward Leister, Father’s two bondsmen, who plague me and tease me and vow they will swoon for love of me? Hardly likely! Father says there will be a stream of ships bringing new settlers. It may be. But it seems to me that any who come here of their own free will are addled in the head, and not such as I would choose for a mate.

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