Starbuck wondered how in God’s name he was to correct Thomas Truslow’s egregious misunderstanding of both theology and the civil powers. “If she is to be married,” he insisted, “then she must go before a magistrate and—”

“God bears a bigger clout than a magistrate.” Truslow turned and walked away from the grave. “Sally will be married by a man of God, and that’s more important than being wed by some buzzard of a lawyer who just wants his fee.”

“But I’m not ordained!”

“Don’t start that excuse again. You’ll do for me. I’ve heard you, Mister Starbuck, and if God don’t listen to your words then he won’t listen to any man’s. And if my Sally is to be married, then I want her to be properly married by God’s law. I don’t want her roaming again. She’s been wild, but it’s time she was settled down. So you pray over her.”

Starbuck was not at all sure that prayer could stop a girl roaming, but he did not like to say as much to Thomas Truslow. “Why don’t you take her down to the valley? There must be proper ministers there who’ll marry them?”

“The ministers in the valley, mister”—Truslow had turned to stab a finger hard into Starbuck’s chest to emphasize his words—“were too high and goddamned mighty to bury my Emily, so believe me, mister, they are too high and goddamn mighty to wed my daughter to her boy. And are you now trying to tell me that you’re also too good for the likes of us?” His finger rammed one last time into Starbuck’s chest, then stayed there.

“I think it would be a privilege to perform the service for your daughter, sir,” Starbuck said hurriedly.

Sally Truslow and her boy came just after dark. Roper brought them, leading Sally on the horse. She dismounted in front of her father’s porch where a lantern-shielded candle burned. She kept her face low, not daring to look up into her father’s face. She wore a black bonnet and a blue dress. She was slim waisted, not yet showing her pregnancy.

Beside her was a young man with a round and innocent face. He was clean-shaven, indeed he looked as if he could not grow a beard if he tried. He might have been sixteen, but Starbuck guessed he was younger. Robert Decker had sandy coarse hair, trusting blue eyes, and a quick smile, which he struggled to subdue as he nodded a cautious greeting to his future father-in-law. “Mister Truslow,” he said warily.

“Robert Decker,” Truslow said, “you’re to meet Nathaniel Starbuck. He’s a man of God and he’s agreed to marry you and Sally.”