“It would be an honor,” I said, my voice cracking a bit.
She squeezed my hand. “Thank you. His eyes were blue, and I’ve run out of blue thread.”
“My mother has every color imaginable. I’m sure I can match what you’ve already used,” I said. George shuffled behind me, and I glanced up to see a soft smile on his face. Our gazes locked, and my heart skipped a beat. Don’t think about him now, I commanded myself, and turned my attention back to his sister.
“Bless you, child,” Goody Martin said. “I have spent many months trying to finish it, but each time I begin . . .” Her eyes watered.
I leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Don’t fret about it now. I’ll return it soon, and you can tell me what needs to be unpicked.”
The woman smiled—a faint one, but a true one. “I’m not as nimble as I used to be, so I’m sure whatever your skill, you will out master mine.” She raised a shaky hand. “There, on the bureau, you’ll find the quilt pieces that I’ve started.”
I rose and crossed the small room, standing close to George as I inspected the squares. About four of them were quilted; the rest had yet to be started. “I’ll follow the pattern you’ve set,” I said.
Goody Martin nodded. “Thank you again, dear.” Her gaze slid to George. “Make sure you don’t send our guest away without a jar of preserves.”
“Yes, ma’am,” George answered, amusement in his voice. He crossed to her and kissed her cheek. “Rest now, I’ll return soon to check on you.” He scooped up Hannah, who beamed at him, then nestled against his shoulder.
“Don’t fuss over me, George,” Goody Martin said. “You’ve your own work to do without worrying about your sister.”
“I’ll get Hannah down for a nap, and then I’ll be back. There’s not a thing you can do about that,” he said with a laugh.
I smiled at the interchange. George was pretty good about bullying.
I gathered up the pieces and said good-bye. George grabbed a jar of preserves and handed it to me as he followed me outside.
Thanking him for the gift, I stopped at the door. “No need to walk me home. Your sister needs you.”
His brow lifted. “She practically kicked me out. You heard her.”
“Nevertheless, I’ll manage,” I said. “Besides, you’ve got to get Hannah down for a nap.” I glanced at her. “She’s a quiet child.”
He shrugged. “She imitates her aunt and stays quiet. I’m sure that will change if I marry again, especially if there are more children.”
I felt my pulse increase, so I changed the subject. “It shouldn’t be too long before I can finish the quilt. I usually sew in the evenings anyway.”
His gaze stayed on me. “Are you going to the annual celebration tomorrow night?”
I lifted a shoulder in a shrug. I might have been going if I was interested in dancing with any of the men from town. But there wasn’t anyone I wished to encourage.
I was settling in at twenty-five and enjoying it as a single woman. I could come and go as I pleased and didn’t have to worry about waking up in the middle of the night to feed a child.
George was still waiting for me to respond, an amused look on his face. Would he never stop laughing at me? “I hadn’t planned on going,” I said. “I’d rather work on the quilt for your sister.”
He leaned against the doorframe, watching me. “Don’t you like to dance?”
I flushed. I actually loved to dance. “There are a couple of men I’d rather not dance with. It encourages them, you see.”
He looked very interested now. “Which men?”
“Oh, I don’t want to say names.” I paused. “Thank you for speaking to your sister for me. I should be going.”
“Susannah,” he said, his hand grasping my arm as I turned.
I stopped, but did not look at him.
“What if I asked you to dance?”
My heart thudded, and I dared look over at him. “I don’t think you’ll have a free dance to offer me. What, with all the tittering women, your head will be spinning before the night is through.”
He considered for a moment, then said, “What if I did have a free dance?”
I stepped back from him, and his hand fell. “I guess we won’t ever know, will we?” I opened the door and let myself through, my face reddening at his chuckling.
But I held my head high as I walked away from him, even though I could feel his eyes burning into my back. I didn’t care if he laughed at me. If he wanted to invite me to a dance, it would be without any other women hanging on him, and it would be because his intentions were serious. I was not about to vie for any man’s attentions, even if it was George Martin.
April 30, 1692, Salem Town: Jonathan Walcott and Thomas Putnam of Salem Village swore a complaint against Rev. George Burroughs of Wells, Maine; Lydia Dustin of Reading; Susanna Martin of Amesbury; Dorcas Hoar and Sarah Morrell of Beverly; and Philip English of Salem for tormenting Mary Walcott, Mercy Lewis, Abigail Williams, Ann Putnam Jr., Elizabeth Hubbard, and . . . Susanna Sheldon. Hathorne and Corwin issued warrants for all the suspects, sent for Burroughs from Eastward, and ordered that the rest be brought before them at Ingersoll’s by ten o-clock the following Monday.
—excerpt from The Salem Witch Trials by Marilynne K. Roach
Salem Jail
The days pass in a stupor. And whatever we try, Sarah Good will not speak to us. We are left to pray and survive this place of hell moment by moment, hour by hour.
Elizabeth and I take turns forcing Sarah to eat a little each day. Her dead baby has been removed from the cell and given a pauper’s burial—not even a marker with a name. None of us were allowed to attend. We have watched over little Dorothy as Sarah is too despondent to do so.
At night, I dream of George and our children, and in the day, during my waking moments, I imagine him visiting me. He is always on the other side of the bars. I wish my imagination would bring him inside the cell. Perhaps angels, or ghosts, do not like prison either, no matter how strong their love for the ones left behind.
Rebecca Nurse’s family sends us bread and overripe tomatoes. She shares with all of us—just as we expect. As we sit together, gnawing on our bread and trying not to eat too fast, Sarah Wildes asks Elizabeth Howe of her life in Ipswich Farms.
“Your husband was blind, was he not?” Sarah Wildes says.
I am surprised at the frank question, but we have been confined together for so long, it’s impossible for reservations to exist any longer.
Elizabeth doesn’t seem bothered by the question. “He was blinded at age fifty,” she says in a soft voice. “And I ran the farm after that. Our neighbors didn’t care much for me anyway, so seeing me make decisions beyond a wife’s duty only grated on them more.”
“The Perleys?” Sarah Wildes asks. “Was it their daughter who had the fits?”
“Yes. Her name was Hannah.” Elizabeth turns her remaining piece of bread over in her cracked and filthy hands. “The girl claimed I was pricking her with pins from afar. The doctors said that the child was under an evil hand.” Elizabeth shoves the last of her bread in her mouth and chews for a moment.
From her corner, Sarah Good’s eyes are open, watching us. Her bit of bread lays untouched next to her on the floor.
“It didn’t take much else for one thing to lead to another,” Elizabeth continues after she swallows, “and when Hannah died, the Perleys found a way to prevent me from going to church.”
I shouldn’t be shocked, but I feel a wave pass through me anyway.
“That was only the beginning, I’m afraid,” Elizabeth said, sounding distant.
In the corner of the cell, Sarah Good picks up the bread at her feet and stuffs it into her mouth. We may not be able to get her to speak, but at least she won’t starve.
Elizabeth nods to Rebecca, her cousin. “Rebecca knows this well, and so might all of you. We are no friends with the Putnams. Years ago, my husband John asked the Putnams to produce deeds to the land they we
re claiming. Of course they couldn’t.”
Sarah Wildes scoffs. “The Putnams have hated my family for years.” Sarah Wildes, although she is from Topsfield, knows the Putnams’ wrath well.
Elizabeth pulls her thin knees up to her chest, as if to get comfortable, even though such a thing is impossible. “Not only did Thomas Putnam sign half of the formal complaints against accused witches, he also sits on the jury.”
Rebecca adds, “Once the Putnams accused me, the Perleys jumped in and revitalized their accusations against Elizabeth.”
With a sigh, Elizabeth looks toward the single window at the fading light. Another day has come and gone. Another day closer to our trials. “It seems the enemy list of the Putnams is long and extends to many towns.”
“They think they are the law itself,” Sarah Wildes says.
“And so they are.” Elizabeth rests her chin on top of her knees. “We are in here, and the Putnams are out there.”
As if on cue, a breeze cuts through the window, bringing with it the scent of green leaves and moist earth. I close my eyes for a moment, breathing it in, remembering my farm in Amesbury. What would it be like to touch the summer grass? To sift the rich warm soil through my fingers?
From the corner, Sarah Good shuffles to her feet. We all look over in surprise. She doesn’t meet our gaze as she crosses to us and settles next to me in our haphazard circle. Her daughter, Dorothy, also rises from her place and follows her mother. She nestles against her mother like a small bird. Sarah Good doesn’t even acknowledge Dorothy’s presence, but she doesn’t push the girl away either.
For a moment, none of us speak, and then Sarah Good speaks up, looking at Sarah Wildes. “What of the Putnams? How did you know them?”
Sarah Wildes draws her round face into a bitter scowl. “Does it truly matter? They accuse who they will.”
We all nod at this, but Sarah Good is staring at Sarah Wildes with such interest—the only alertness she’s shown in days—that Sarah Wildes continues, “I always made people nervous. Said I was too friendly of a person. Wore a silk scarf, as if that is any sort of crime. But I was brought to court for being too friendly with Thomas Wardell in 1649. And the year I married my husband, John, in 1663, I was brought to court again. It was no secret that my husband’s first wife’s sister hated me because John married me only six months after his wife died, who had borne him nine children. Her sister’s name was Mary Goulds Reddington, and she started the first rumors. It will be no surprise to you that she’s related to the Putnams.”
I think of my father, who remarried Ursula. And of my own husband, who had been a widower before marrying me. “It’s not so unusual for a man with children to want another wife quickly,” I say.
“That may be, but there was already plenty of bad blood between John and his former wife’s family,” Sarah Wildes says. “In 1685, John had testified against his brother-in-law, Lt. Gould, when Lt. Gould complained about Royal Governor Edmond Andros. Gould was charged with treason, and there’s been not a speck of forgiveness between the two.”
“And I heard your son was the arresting constable,” I say.
Sarah Good’s eyes widen at this.
“No,” Sarah Wildes says. “Marshal George Herrick arrested me, but my son, Ephraim, who is the constable at Topsfield, arrested Deliverance Hobbs. Deliverance named me as a witch to get out of her own charges.”
Sarah Good puffs out a disdainful breath of air. “If you lie and accuse another of witchcraft, you are exonerated. If you tell the truth, you are imprisoned.”
“But that’s not the worst,” Sarah Wildes says with a nod. “My husband’s daughter Sarah Bishop and her husband, Edward Bishop, were also arrested, along with his other daughter Phoebe.”
We are all quiet at that. Sarah Good looks thoughtful, and I am grateful she isn’t retreating again. There is only so much a heart and mind could handle. “God did say he would not give us more trials than we can bear.”
My heart twists at the misquoting of scripture, one I’ve heard throughout my life. “No,” I say softly. “The scripture in Corinthians doesn’t say that.”
Sarah Good peers at me, her brow pulled into confusion. I wish I could comfort her in this small thing, but it is better that we speak in truths.
“God says that he will not suffer us to be tempted above our capacity to resist,” I say, feeling all eyes on me, although I am looking at my clasped hands.
“That’s it, then?” Sarah Good says. “So we can be tried beyond our ability to endure?”
I raise my head to meet her gaze. Her blue eyes are intent on mine, filled with determination—which I’d rather see any day in place of despair. “Yes,” I say. “I believe we can be tried beyond our endurance.”
My voice is the only sound in the cell. But instead of the realization of my words making the women’s heart shrink even smaller, a resoluteness passes through us. I reach for Sarah Good’s hand, and she clasps mine tightly. Then she reaches for Sarah Wildes’s hand, who reaches for Elizabeth’s, who takes Rebecca’s hand, until we have completed a circle.
“May God have mercy on our souls,” Rebecca whispers as she bows her head and begins to pray.
Salisbury
I did not see George for the better part of the week while I worked on his sister’s quilt. Mary and her family came into town for the dance and stayed at our home so they could attend market day as well. The next morning, she filled me in on the dance. I couldn’t imagine Mary doing much dancing in her state; she had probably enjoyed the goodies more than anything.
I dared not ask about George directly but listened for any hints so I could dissect them later when I was alone.
“You should have come, Susannah,” Mary said. “You know all the single men were there.”
“You sound like Mother. I thought she’d faint dead away when I told her I wasn’t going. She even planned to loan me her good shawl.” We were sitting out on the porch, shelling a half bushel of peas between us. We would put up most of them, but save a dish for tonight’s supper.
Mary placed a hand on mine to stop my shelling. “Why are you avoiding talk of marriage? You didn’t used to.”
I pulled my hand away and resumed shelling. “I’m tired of it, I guess. I mean, look at me . . . I’m as round as a barrel, and everyone knows that the pretty girls marry young. That leaves girls like me to marry the widowers.” My eyes burned, but I plowed on. “I don’t want to raise another woman’s children the rest of my life. And I don’t want to marry someone who I’ll be serving hand and foot in a few years because he’s too old to work anymore.”
Mary stayed quiet, watching me.
The information wasn’t anything new, but I hadn’t put it all together before. I continued, “When I watch the younger women flirt with the men, it makes me tired. I don’t flirt, Mary, and I’m not about to change now.”
“Mr. Kimball asked about you.”
I shrugged. Maybe a year ago, I might have been interested, but not since George moved into town. Of course, I couldn’t let Mary know that. The men I might have once considered seemed lifeless and dull compared to George. “He’s a nice man, but not for me.”
“And Mr. Parris asked about you as well,” Mary retorted. “You can’t judge them so harshly, Susannah. We are all God’s creatures, and we are not to judge each other.”
“I’m not judging,” I said, wondering if I was somehow sinning by refusing to be interested in a marriage partner. “I’m being selective.” Yet, even as I said it, I knew it wasn’t true. I planned to wait until all prospects were dried up, and I could be officially termed a spinster. It had worked for other women, and it could work for me.
“George Martin spoke to me as well.”
My gaze snapped up, and Mary chuckled. “I thought that might get your attention.”
“Not at all. I’m just wondering how his sister’s doing. She had a bad spell the other week.”
She gave a knowing nod. “Mother told me about the quil
t you are finishing for her.”
I hoped that the heat growing in my face wouldn’t flame up. I hadn’t told my mother the quilt was in memory of George’s dead son, just that I was helping to finish it because of Goody Martin’s poor health. “She’s a good lady and a kind neighbor. Besides, I need all the blessings I can get, it seems.”
“George is a handsome man, Susannah, and he’s a hard worker. Devout, too.”
I couldn’t disagree, so I said what came to my mind first. “He’s all that, I’m sure, but he can’t be taken serious. He’s a terrible flirt.”
Mary laughed. “He said the same thing about you.”
My hands stilled. “What?”
“It’s true,” Mary said, shaking her head with amusement. “He asked if you were actually staying home, and when I said you were, he said he thought you were doing it just to spite him.”
I was quick to answer. “I did no such thing.”
“He said you were a terrible tease and your way of flirting was to deny him any chance to spend time with you.”
My mouth fell open. “If that’s not the most backwards thing I ever heard. He just can’t accept no for an answer.”
Mary’s smile widened. “Are you really telling him no?”
“Of course I am. I’m not interested in a man who enjoys having a dozen women dangling after him.”
“He does have all the women worked up, but I don’t think he’s necessarily enjoying it.”
“I’ve seen it with my own eyes,” I said. “He has smiles for anyone who pays him the least attention.”
“Yes, but he has eyes for only one of them.”
“Anabel will be pleased.”
Mary smacked my knee. “You’re impossible.”
I laughed, but inside I was fuming. George Martin didn’t know who he was dealing with. He might have the courage to say those things to my sister, but he would regret every last word, I’d make sure of it.
Condemn Me Not: Accused of Witchcraft Page 7