“Papa! Oh, Papa, my back... it hurts so much...” Every nerve shrieked protest, her knees rattled like twigs in a high wind.
Hannah’s warm hand brushed at the damp red tangle obscuring Bristol’s face, and Bristol felt the tremor in her mother’s fingers. “Shhh,” Hannah soothed. “It’s over now. Stand tall.”
Tentatively Bristol staggered forward, crumpling to the frozen ground at the first jarring step. Excruciating pain jolted upward into raw flesh. “I’m sorry, Mama, I...” A black wave rolled over her vision, then Noah’s stocky arms swept her up and his arm against her open back was more than her mind could withstand. Mercifully, the darkness closed, and Bristol fell into a faint against Noah’s wide shoulder.
Agonizing awareness rose intermittently throughout the eight-mile journey to Salem Village and home. Noah’s wagon bounced over rutted roads, shaking Bristol awake to find herself cradled in the warm straw of the wagon bed, covered with thick quilts. Even so, violent shivering racked her body when green eyes fluttered open.
“Oh, Brissy,” Charity whispered, her freckled face wet with tears. On the high seat above Charity’s head, Bristol blinked at Hannah’s stiff back and Noah bent over the reins, his gaze fixed on the horses’ backs. Bristol groaned and closed her eyes.
As the wagon bumped through the Adams gate, Bristol again battled past gray mists of pain. She stared with relief at the weathered boards and a wisp of smoke curling from the chimney. Here was safety, a haven from the world’s ills. Teeth chattering, she anticipated the cheery warmth of Hannah’s kitchen. Supper would be waiting. Perhaps a fragrant stew bubbling in the iron pots beneath the lug pole, filling the house with steamy good smells.
Slowly, drops of pain leaking from her eyes, Bristol struggled up on one elbow and lifted her face toward the tall pines rimming Noah’s fields. The forest rose in green silence, shrouded in snowy majesty. Quiet. Peaceful. No scorching heat. No blazing lacerations. No... Bristol toppled forward, washed in a tide of brutal pain.
She awoke to wincing agony when Noah laid her facedown in her bed.
“Careful!” Hannah’s voice was sharp. “Be careful with her!”
“Aye, woman! Do ye imagine I like this any better than ye do?” Noah’s work-hardened hands lifted Bristol’s mass of red hair, gently dropping the long curls upon her pillow. His whisper sounded harsh and pained. “‘Twas for the girl’s own good! She has a willful pride as fiery as the hair on top her head. Ye know as well as I, Hannah Adams, self-will has no place in a community. The common good, not self, is all-important! The girl must learn obedience to the common good! And humility.”
Hannah’s lips thinned into a line. “If she lacks humility after this disgrace, then milk pails can fly!” She fisted her hands on narrow hips and glared at her husband. “I’ll not be needing you for the healing,” she announced tartly, watching Noah stamp from the bedroom. “Charity, fetch the water and salt.”
“Aye, Mama.” Charity’s freckles stood starkly against a white face. She untangled her hands from her apron folds and scurried to do as her mother ordered, returning with a bucket of well water and a basket of tiny salt chips Hannah had prepared before dawn.
Hannah’s chest rose in a deep breath and her faded blue eyes flinched. She dreaded what must be done. Sighing, Hannah gently removed the cloak from Bristol’s flayed shoulders. As the cloak peeled away, Charity gasped and pressed a hand to her mouth before fleeing the room.
Hannah stared.
“Mama?” Bristol’s sob-choked whisper was nearly inaudible. “Mama, can I bear it?”
Hannah’s breath released in a rush, and she squared her shoulders. “Of course you can. You’re an Adams! Bite down.” She inserted a smooth oaken oval between Bristol’s teeth. “I’ve seen worse,” she added grimly.
Indeed she had. In her rounds as occasional midwife, Hannah Adams had observed all manner of human suffering. But Bristol was her firstborn, and that made all the difference. She wiped her hands on a long white apron and tucked an errant strand of graying chestnut hair beneath the edge of her dust cap. Further hesitation only invited infection and fever.
Bristol watched through blurred eyes, her mother wavering and fading as Hannah poured part of the salt chips into a cracked basin. Hannah sloshed the water until the chips dissolved, then immersed a clean rag and wrung it carefully.
“I’ll be brave,” Bristol vowed, trying to be convincing, but she couldn’t hold back a scream when the salt-soaked cloth touched the edges of her wounds and passed in cleansing circles over the rusty stains streaking her sides. Her teeth bit convulsively into the oaken oval; then she shuddered and sank into feverish oblivion.
Hannah’s eyes lifted briefly, and she nodded. Working rapidly, she took advantage of Bristol’s faint. She cleaned the oozing strips of pulpy flesh, then filled her palms with chips, trickling salt directly into the long crisscrossing wounds. If God willed it so; the scars would be slight, but scars there would definitely be. A lesson forever seared into flesh.
Finished, Hannah covered Bristol’s back with light bandages, then sank to the cold plank floor and folded her hands. Her prayer was one of thanks. As Noah said, God was for thanking, not asking. And Hannah thanked God the damage to her daughter’s back had not been worse. She thanked God for a caring husband and a snug house. She thanked God for her surviving daughters, forcibly turning her mind from the row of gray stones in the village cemetery where her sons slept. She thanked God for good health and a plentiful larder. And lastly, she slowly but firmly thanked God for giving her a temperate tongue.
Hannah struggled to her feet knowing her last words of thanks constituted a questionable maneuver. By thanking God for a temperate tongue, she fervently hoped he would grant her one—that she would bear her daughter’s suffering without casting words of recrimination at her husband. Sighing, Hannah stepped into the kitchen and propelled a pale-faced Charity toward the evening chores. To ease her own aching thoughts, Hannah busied her hands by stirring the pots. Then she poured flour from a stone crock and made biscuits. Regardless of trouble, her family still must eat.
Except Bristol. Nearly a week passed before Bristol could accept solid food without vomiting. During these dismal days she tossed and groaned in her bed, spiraling between painful cognizance and blissful black emptiness. However, each time her feverish green eyes blinked open, the pain seemed a little less, the healing begun.
On the eighth day, she was able to bear pillows against her back, and she sat up, sipping a tepid nourishing soup.
“How do you feel?” Charity inquired anxiously, a frown puckering her forehead.
Bristol adjusted her sore back with a grimace. “Better,” she answered. “I don’t know which pains more, the stripes or the salt Mama rubbed into them.” Bristol attempted a weak smile.
Quick tears sprang into Charity’s eyes. “Oh, Brissy, Mama wouldn’t dream of hurting you. She had to use the salt to—”
“Charity, you goose! I know, I know. I was only trying to coax a smile from you.” Bristol sighed. She should have known better. Charity, like Hannah, lacked any hint of humor. Frivolity didn’t align with Puritan thought patterns.
Bristol frowned at her hands. Somewhere along the years, a deficiency had developed in Bristol’s growth. Despite discouraging faces, moments occurred when she felt compelled to laugh or smile. She didn’t always see life as the dour, serious affair others determined to make of it. Caleb often told her the twinkle in her eye attracted him more than anything else. Her full lips twisted. She wouldn’t allow herself to think of Caleb just yet.
Charity blinked rapidly. “Were you being... uh... humorous, Brissy?” She colored with embarrassment and dropped her eyes. “I’m sorry. I never know if you mean what you say or... I try, but I just don’t see much to laugh at most of the time. And I...”
Bristol patted Charity’s hand, thinking affectionately what a dull stick poor Charity had become. Unless the conversation dealt with crops and rainfall and livestock and farm c
oncerns, Charity tended to remain silent. In another year, Charity would be the same age as Bristol, seventeen, and ready for courtship. In Bristol’s view, few desirable swains were likely to appear asking for Charity. With a look of genuine concern, Bristol studied her sister in the dim wintry light.
Shy and meek, Charity Adams shrank in the shadow of her vivacious sister. Like Bristol’s, Charity’s head was topped with Noah’s hair. But the curls tied at Charity’s neck gleamed a carroty orange rather than the striking red shimmer spread across Bristol’s pillow. On Charity, Bristol’s deep emerald eyes became watered green glass. And her freckled skin darkened to a spotted patchwork each summer, while Bristol’s creamy face remained clear.
Absently Bristol patted Charity’s hand. If only Charity possessed a whisper of humor to spark those serious eyes; if only a small fire of spirit lifted her thin chest, then perhaps Charity’s future would hold a brighter promise.
Uncomfortable being the center of such intense scrutiny, Charity cleared her throat. “Would you like to play Wish?” Her face brightened. The rules for Wish were simple. One player stated a wish, the other guessed true or false based on his knowledge of the player. The game was both revealing and entertaining.
Bristol sighed. They had played at least one hundred games of Wish in the past few days, it seemed. “Very well.” She smiled. Wish was Charity’s favorite pastime.
“You first,” Charity urged.
“Hmmm. I wish I could live in Salem Village all my life,” Bristol said. She felt a twinge of guilt, as the truth seemed all too obvious.
“False!” Charity crowed, clapping her hands. “I’ve seen how you stare at the ships in Salem harbor and heard you wonder where they’re bound for.” She smiled. “My turn.”
Annoyed and surprised, Bristol shook her head. “Wondering is not wishing. I really do want to live here. This is home! Why on earth would you think I’d want to leave?”
Confused, Charity gave an apologetic shrug. “I’m not sure. Except... I sense a restlessness in you, Brissy. I don’t know. I always imagine you marrying a wealthy merchant or maybe a sea captain or... someone important.” Her cheeks pinked. “I think maybe you’d like to sample more of the world than Salem Village can offer.”
Bristol laughed. “No merchants or sea captains, Charity. I only want to marry Caleb and be a farmer’s wife.” Her face sobered at the mention of his name, and she glanced miserably at the quilts. After the whipping, would Noah ever agree to allow Caleb to court?
Charity lowered her voice and darted a glance at the closed bedroom door. “Caleb Wainwright rode over to talk to Papa,” she whispered.
Bristol’s head snapped up, and arrows of pain shot along her shoulders. Eagerly she leaned forward, her heart quickening. “He did? Why didn’t you tell me sooner? What happened? What did Caleb say? Oh, Charity, tell me!” Her emerald eyes glowed, and her thoughts whirled. If only Noah agreed to let them court! If only! She’d bear her lash marks proudly if she could be with Caleb openly!
Charity’s eyes darkened with sympathy. “Papa told Caleb”—she stumbled over his name, her cheeks turning pink—“Papa said Caleb must never ride here again. Papa said Caleb’s father should have insisted Caleb be whipped as well.”
Bristol stared, unable to believe what her ears heard. “But... but Papa couldn’t have sent Caleb away like that! He just couldn’t!” Her voice rose in dismay, her green eyes brimmed. “Why? Why would Papa do such a cruel thing?”
Shyly Charity reached for Bristol’s cold hand. “Papa doesn’t mean to be cruel, Brissy, he’s only doing what he thinks best. Papa believes Caleb is the cause of your troubles. He told Caleb he dishonored you by engaging in public conversation, enticed you to disobey the rules of common good.” Charity’s color deepened. “Papa said Caleb seduced you into a... a flirtation!”
Helpless tears spilled past Bristol’s long lashes. “But Caleb couldn’t speak out for me! He won’t receive his mother’s land parcel until next month. He has nothing to offer until then!”
Her heart ached. Despite having nothing to offer, despite knowing Noah would refuse, still Caleb had courageously confronted Noah and asked for her even now. He dared this for her sake. And he had been refused. Bristol shook her red curls. It was unthinkable.
Bitterly she struck the quilts, sending a sharp tremor of pain up her spine. “It isn’t fair! All this for a few words! A few words!” A guilty inner voice reminded her this wasn’t a strict truth, but she ignored it. “Papa hates me, he doesn’t care if I’m happy or not!” Tears flowed down her cheeks.
Shocked, Charity took both Bristol’s trembling hands. “You don’t mean that, Brissy, you’re upset now, but—”
“I do mean it! Charity, I... I love Caleb Wainwright! And now Papa’s told him never to come back!” She sobbed against Charity’s shoulder, not seeing the wince of misery pinching Charity’s face.
“Caleb...” Charity arranged her expression. “Caleb Wainwright is a good man.” She hesitated over the next words, her tone not convincing. “But Salem Village is filled with fine men.” She stroked Bristol’s shining hair, careful not to touch the wounded back. “As beautiful as you are, Brissy, you can have your pick of all the men in Salem Village, and Salem Town too.”
Bristol sobbed, her heart cracking into fragments. Next to the pain of losing Caleb, the ache along her back dwindled to nothing. “But I love Caleb, only Caleb!”
Charity patted Bristol’s head until Bristol sat up, sniffing and wiping her dripping eyes. Charity lifted a helpless hand. “In time...”
“In time I’ll feel exactly as I do now! I’ll always love Caleb Wainwright! I’ll live and die an old maid, a thornbark, before I’ll have anyone else.” Fresh tears pricked her lids. A picture of Caleb Wainwright shimmered in her mind; she saw his strong young face, the set of his broad shoulders, the thick sandy hair curling at his neck. “Oh Caleb!” She buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking.
Sympathetic tears glistened in Charity’s pale eyes, and she wrung her hands in her apron. “Maybe you could ask Pa to reconsider,” she offered haltingly, not believing for a moment that Noah would weaken. “He always listens, Brissy. Maybe...”
Bristol’s lovely wet face lifted, and she stared at Charity with rising hope. “Aye!” Desperately she seized on the idea. “When this has calmed over, maybe Papa will hear reason. Aye, of course he will!” She nodded slowly, sniffing and dabbing her eyes. Her full lips firmed with determination. “Aye.” Bristol’s wavering smile lit the wintry room. “That’s precisely what I’ll do! But first, I need my strength.”
Feeling instantly better, as she always did when she had a purpose, Bristol attacked the soup bowl as if each eager bite brought her closer to Caleb Wainwright.
And each day she grew stronger and felt better. Healthy enough to experience a pang of guilt when the rooster sang in a new dawn and she remained idle while her family rose to the chores of a new day. She felt restless, anxious to resume her place in the family. Anxious to confront Noah.
Beyond the wall next to her pillow, Bristol heard early stirrings from her parents’ bedroom, the soft sounds of Hannah moving in dawn darkness, then a whisper of the bedroom door opening and closing. Curled near Charity’s warmth, Bristol listened to her mother’s firm footsteps moving purposefully across the kitchen, rattling the wood box, poking a carefully banked fire into morning life, stirring the kettles, and lighting oil lamps. These sounds knit the fabric of Bristol’s life; each morning her day began with these comforting homey noises. She smiled and snuggled deeper into the feather bed, glancing at Charity’s carroty curls tumbled at the top of the quilt.
In a moment, Noah dropped to his knees on the cold planking and Bristol heard a low murmur of morning prayer. She strained to hear, as she had most of her life, unable to distinguish his words, but knowing for a certainty that Noah requested no favors from God.
God charted each individual’s life from birth to death, and the path could not be altered.
Thus, asking help or favors was a futility; one could only thank the Lord for charting a favorable path. Regardless of how favorable or unfavorable the path might appear at any given moment.
Bristol sighed and stared at the dark ceiling beams overhead. She herself was guilty of slipping in a request now and again. She thought of Caleb Wainwright. If God was in a happy mood—that is, if God were subject to moods—then perhaps he’d hear her pleas and alter her pathway just enough to include Caleb. Bristol shivered, hoping these weren’t blasphemous thoughts.
The bedroom door interrupted Bristol’s morning prayer, and she peeked through a sweep of lashes to see Hannah tiptoe into the room. Even in the faint dawn light there could be no mistaking Hannah’s tall form. Smiling into the quilts, Bristol decided she would recognize Hannah’s ship-mast-straight figure anywhere.
Hannah Adams’ erect posture reflected an indomitable nature that years of hard work and the loss of five sons had done little to diminish. She faced life squarely, long ago stripped of any fanciful illusions. The gray threading Hannah’s chestnut hair had been earned.
But Bristol seldom noticed the gray. Hannah’s energy made it difficult to concede she was no longer a young woman, even though her blue eyes blurred and squinted over her close work. To Bristol, Hannah would always be... well, Hannah. Steady, unruffled, diligent in all duties; Hannah Adams embodied the practical spirit of work and thrift that John Calvin’s teaching sought to instill in all the Puritan women.
And Hannah strove to inspire such attitudes toward work and accomplishment in her daughters. She leaned over Charity, her callused hand gently moving the sleeping girl’s shoulder. “It’s dawn, missy,” Hannah murmured. “Time to be about.”
Charity sat up, yawning and scrubbing her pale eyes. “I’m awake, Mama, thank you.”
Hannah straightened her back, as stiff and erect as the lodgepole pines crowding the forest. “We’ll allow Bristol another day of sleep.” She turned to the door.
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