It was the prospect of meeting his father as much as being cooped indoors on a sunny afternoon that was making him fretful, so Mrs Gookin took him on her knee and stroked his thick blond hair and spoke of the man who would soon walk through the door – of his goodness and kindness, of his strength and bravery, of his important work for the government in London, where he had been summoned by the Lord Protector himself. ‘He loves you, Nat, and God will make it so that you love him.’
‘What’s a Lord Protect Her?’
‘Protector. He was the ruler of England and America, a great man.’
‘Like a king?’
‘Yes, like a king, in a way, only better, because he was chosen by parliament. But the Protector is dead now. That’s why your father has decided to come home.’
Nat’s eyes widened. ‘If he’s dead then who will protect us?’
It was a good question, and one to which Mrs Gookin found herself temporarily stuck for an answer. She spoke over his head to her daughter. ‘Elizabeth, go to the attic, there’s a good girl, and see if your father is coming.’
She ran upstairs and returned a minute later to report that the ferry boat was still moored on the opposite bank and that there was no sign of anyone on the road.
From then on, the children took it in turns every so often to climb the stairs to the attic and play lookout, but each time they came down frowning with the same answer, and gradually an awful conviction grew in Mrs Gookin that her husband would not be coming after all, else why would he not be here by now? That perhaps the student had been mistaken and that the ship had not arrived; or that it had anchored but he was not on board; that either he had never embarked from London in the first place or that some calamity had befallen him during the long Atlantic crossing; that he had been taken ill and died and had been buried at sea.