Her Wicked Sin

by Sarah Ballance

  “Your logic appears true.” Lydia measured her words, biting back an edge of discomfort. Much ado had been made over Willard, and a second trip through Salem astride the so-called devil’s horse would only fuel the rapid rise of witchcraft rumors. But the charges were without merit, and surely she was not the only one of Salem to have previously noted the Abbot children’s abhorrent behavior. Furthermore, though she was but a year in the community, she was also well-respected as a physician and—save for Rebecca’s erratic moods—counted everyone she met as a friend.

  Still, her nerves did not dissipate.

  Henry, buoyed with his new plan, kept a rather cheery monologue of winter’s softening in the woods around them. Indeed, the darker cold had given way to the scent of fresh earth, a sure sign spring was on its way. Though Lydia did not look forward to the muck of the deep thaw, the warming sun made for a most welcome morning.

  “Worry not,” Henry said softly.

  Startled, she looked to him, whose height on Benedict was lower than hers on Willard. “What makes you think I worry?”

  “I am learning you more and more each day,” he said, drawing his horse to a stop at the crossroad where they were to part ways—he to Salem Town on a quest that could change everything, and she on to sew with the goodwives. Such disparity in every facet of their lives!

  Henry sidled next to her and managed to kiss her from his lower position. He’d nearly breached her mouth with his tongue before she got her wits about her.

  “Forget not where you are!” She gasped, though more from pleasure than indignation. “We are among Puritans. Affections are solely for private display.”

  “I did forget myself,” he admitted. After glancing around he gave her another quick kiss. “There is no one about. Your honor is preserved, though be assured I plan to rekindle my inappropriate display this very eve.”

  “I am warned,” she said. “And eyes may have been upon us after all. Look. There is Andrew Bradshaw.”

  “Just the man I wanted to see,” Henry said. “And worry not, for he will not dispel your honor.”

  “Why do you wish to see Goodman Bradshaw?” she asked, but the words were for naught. Henry had already spurred Benedict into a gallop to meet the neighbor.

  Lydia patted Willard, who danced beneath her in protest of being excluded from the race, and with a final glance down the road toward Salem Town, she gave Willard his head and proceeded to the tightly knit cluster of homes at the center of the farming town.

  She hoped it might be her imagination, but the additional attention brought on her this day was far from subjective in nature. Willard did his part in ensuring eyes were upon them by fighting for his head, moving sideways away from her leg when she did not give him rein. By the time they neared her destination, he had worked himself into a lather. She dismounted and tried to cool him down, but he pranced at the lead, not the least bit interested in settling. Defeated, she tied him outside the Cromwell house and hoped he would find the tree a formidable enough opponent.

  Lydia brought no mending of her own—what little she needed for herself she managed easily—so her purpose was primarily to help the other wives, many of whom had large families. Puritans were modest of dress and means, so even threadbare garments were maintained until they could be worn no more. Thus, the shared duties offered plentiful time for discussion, which encapsulated every subject from prayer to gossip. The unmarried girls would often sit together and giggle over the insinuations of the elders, who would sometimes speak plainly of topics untried to young ears, while women of child-bearing age found endless conversation over the antics of their babes.

  As the physician, Lydia answered a number of questions for the women—in particular the new or inexperienced mothers, many of whom were concerned over one minor ailment or another. As such, on most days a rush of questions greeted her upon arrival. This day the room stilled into silence. Nearly twenty faces swiveled, their stares blank and mouths agape. Lydia stood frozen until Eunice Bradshaw grabbed her arm and pulled her back out of doors.

  “You are here?” Eunice said.

  “Of course I am here!”

  “Lydia… the magistrate seeks you.”

  A chill wrapped Lydia in its cold grip. “He does not seek thoroughly, then, as I have not lain in secrecy.”

  Eunice looked over her shoulder, drawing Lydia’s attention to a number of faces pressed against the Cromwell windows. Even the elders of the group took witness, while to one side stood Anne Scudder, the young woman who had raced to warn Lydia that eve in the woods.

  Lydia frowned and crossed her arms against the sudden cold. The day of Anne’s warning seemed so very long ago, yet mere days had passed. And so very much had changed. In the turmoil, Lydia had nearly forgotten the mysterious stranger who sought her, but the memory chose that moment to creep forth, adding to her growing unease.

  A sharp whinny pierced the morning. Lydia spun to see Willard rearing, his neck bending against his ties. She rushed to him, calling his name in hopes of calming him. But the huge black horse would have none of it. His hooves sliced the air recklessly, though they did not deter Lydia’s approach. She grabbed a dangling leather and prayed the horse would find his manners before he flung her senseless.

  She got her wish. As soon as she took the reins, Willard planted all four feet and hung his head to nuzzle shamelessly at her skirts. Relieved, Lydia turned to speak to Eunice and was shocked to see a crowd spilling from the Cromwell house.

  The devil’s horse.

  Only a witch could hold such power over a beast so wild.

  The whispers, though hushed, were painfully clear. They mingled with Willard’s quiet huffs, tainting the air alongside scents of sweat-drenched horseflesh and distant smoke.

  When Lydia turned, the murmurs ceased. Standing before the group of women with whom Lydia had enjoyed warmth and friendship—their faces now bearing looks of horror and suspicion—filled her with dark dread. She could not think of anything to say, for the words could not be taken back.

  Lydia scanned the now silent group for any sign of Goodwife Abbot, but saw none. The news neither relaxed nor worried her, for the poison had already spread.

  They suspected her.

  In the descended silence, the creak of an approaching wagon muddled with a steady hoof beat. A wagon fast approached. When it lurched into view, Lydia’s heart sank.

  Rebecca and Thomas Mather.

  Thomas’s saccharine grin left Lydia wary, but it was Rebecca’s smug smile and the prim placement of her hands in her lap that ignited the first sparks of anger. But, unwilling to make more of a scene, Lydia fought to tamp down her ire.

  The wagon drew next to Lydia and stopped. Willard cocked an ear to the other horse, but otherwise showed no reaction.

  The crowd had grown beyond the ladies of the mending circle. Their location in the center of Salem Village led to the gathering of numerous passerby, among them Andrew Bradshaw. Henry’s business with him must have been settled quickly, and though Lydia remained curious as to its nature, her only thought was that in the midst of what felt increasingly ominous, Henry was by now surely on his way to Salem Town.

  She was alone, and the center of some very bad attention.

  Rebecca stood and allowed Thomas to help her from the wagon. She came to Lydia with a reckless approach alongside Willard’s hindquarters, leaving Lydia to wish Willard would take notice and plant a hoof against the woman.

  Though her thoughts were wicked, Lydia did not care in the least to quash them. And with her ire rising, she would be content to say them aloud, however unwise. But her thoughts were stolen by Rebecca’s presence.

  “We have been in search of you, Goodwife,” Rebecca said.

  “Indeed, you look poorly this day, Rebecca,” Lydia said sweetly. “Are you ill?”

  Furor flashed in Rebecca’s eyes, but only briefly. “I am quite well. Perhaps your skills as a physician have lapsed. It must be the effect of spending your nights torturing ch
ildren. Tell me, do witches suffer from lack of sleep or is there something you conjure to alleviate such woes?”

  “If I could alleviate woes, Rebecca, be assured you would not stand before me now.”

  From the silence that followed, murmurs grew. Lydia looked from Thomas—who remained in his seat on the wagon—to Anne. The young woman stared with sorrowful eyes, her clenched hand to her mouth. Andrew had quietly joined Eunice, and the two whispered quietly together.

  Rebecca, meanwhile, had turned an angry shade of red. But if she had anything to say, her words were interrupted by an approaching horse.

  The magistrate.

  Lydia sucked in a breath. His appearance could not be happenstance, and if she had any doubt of that fact, it was erased by the way Rebecca’s rage melted into devious satisfaction. The rancid woman took a step away as the magistrate halted his horse at Lydia’s feet.

  “Magistrate,” said Rebecca. “You remember Lydia Colson.”

  The magistrate made a show of dismounting, though his pomp was unneeded. Countless eyes were already upon him.

  Lydia’s breath caught.

  “Goodwife Lydia Colson?”

  She shook her head—not in denial of her identity, but of what his question meant. Because this simply could not happen.

  He puffed himself up with a great deal of unfavorable splendor and speaking with volume enough for the whole crowd to hear, said, “Thou hast been charged with witchcraft.”

  Though she expected this, Lydia nevertheless stood in stunned silence. When she found her tongue, it was to utter, “On what grounds?”

  The magistrate looked down the length of his nose at her. “The Abbot children claim thou appeared in the night and pinched them until they cried. Thou chased the children, Goodwife, and sent thy familiars to taunt them. They have been properly examined by a neighboring physician and determined to be in otherwise good health. The evidence is firm. Thou wilst be taken to the jail…”

  “No! You know not what you speak!” As she spoke, two men—neither of whom Lydia recognized—approached.

  The magistrate turned toward the crowd, as if giving a sermon. “Belligerence, Goodwife Colson, is the work of the devil. An honest woman would make no such denial.”

  Lydia waited until he turned from his survey of the gatherers. When he faced her, she spoke firmly. “An honest woman wrongly accused most certainly would!”

  The magistrate’s stringent glare made no admissions to her side. “Take her!” he bellowed, gesturing to his men. “And if she fights, ready the shackles. She will be most comfortable alongside Tituba. They can trade stories of dealing with the devil himself.”

  Lydia held the man’s smug gaze as the jailers wrenched her by the arms and roughly dragged her toward the door. She initially struggled, but quickly decided to waste not her fight. She had not the strength to overcome two men.

  Willard turned his large head and called after her, but did not move. The reins had fallen to the ground. Lydia hoped someone would see to him, but his reputation as the devil’s horse would more likely get him harmed. She prayed not.

  The thickly gathered crowd parted as she was led through. Rebecca Mather stood with her arms crossed and her face pinched, lips curled into a knowing smile. Lydia caught sight of Martha, as well as Eunice and Andrew Bradshaw. Eunice worried her hands together while Andrew comforted her with an arm around her shoulders.

  Catching the man’s eye, Lydia called, “Tell Henry. Please!”

  The jailer to her right shoved her. “Save thy words, witch. No one wishes to be aligned with such evil.”

  The man to her left spat a gruff laugh tinged with the scent of alcohol. “Then I shall alone bear the burden of searching for the witch’s mark.”

  The witch’s mark. Lydia had heard of this so-called evidence. Any imperfection of skin would do, and she had plenty after her husband’s beatings. Hope faded.

  “Contrarily,” said the first man, his filthy gaze leaching over her, “that is one risk well worth taking.”

  Lydia’s heart tumbled, landing in shards in the pit of her stomach. This could not be happening! These men were not Puritan of heart. They were cruel shells of men—they were evil, not she! She clung to that mental assertion during the walk to the jail, which sat in its own filth near the bank of the North River. She wanted not to be seen in such a state—held and accused—but refused to hang her head in shame. They could parade her as a witch all they willed. The truth would not be altered.

  But her determination wavered at the jail. The building stood wide and tall, a pocked frown over Salem. To be held in the jail was a death sentence in itself, as many of the accused died without ever seeing trial. The bitter irony was that Lydia belonged there—not for witchcraft, but for murder.

  The thought stayed with her as the jailers pushed her to a small room of crude walls. When they drew pause, the men exchanged terrible glances. “Remove thy dress,” one said with a sneer.

  Lydia crossed her arms. “I will not.”

  “It is not wise to be obstinate. Either remove thy clothing or force us to subdue thou.”

  Subdue. They would beat her. Trembling, with her head held high, Lydia made haste of removing her clothing. She wanted not to show herself, but she would not give the men the pleasure of slow enjoyment.

  They wasted little time in putting their hands on her. As much as Lydia wanted to force shut her eyes and make her jailors disappear, she did not. She would not hide within herself, so she bore the humility of each man’s roughshod handling. They took particular time in searching around her breasts, taunting her with their observations.

  “Hast thy ever seen a nicer pair of witch’s teats?” one inquired of the other.

  “Verily, the devil chose well with this one.”

  Lydia fixed her attention to the battered wallboards and thought of Henry and how he would surely punish these men. But would Henry come for her? Or was she a burden now? His family was one of the wealthiest in all the colonies. Would he distance himself so as not to have his prominence tainted by the accusations against her? Would he disclaim her as his wife? Though their handfasting had no witnesses, he had presented himself as her husband many times before their neighbors. The joining would be recognized, but it mattered not if Henry left her. All of Salem could shun him and not affect the true livelihood he left behind. Although she clung to his promise, the realization of how easily he could shed her left her hollow and empty inside.

  Though having thoroughly inspected her, one of her jailers chose the moment to part her thighs with his grubby hand. Lydia sucked in a breath, but had little more time to react before the magistrate walked through.

  “Dress her!” he barked.

  “Worry not,” Lydia said, wrenching free of the jailors as soon as their attention turned. “I am perfectly capable of dressing myself.”

  The magistrate glared but said nothing. To her relief, the men stepped off. She slipped quickly into her clothing, hugging herself tightly once covered. Already the filth of the jail seeped through, staining her in such a way she felt she would never be pure of it.

  “Put her away,” the magistrate said. “And lest thou have designs on leaving, witch, know the penalty for escape is death.”

  Numb, Lydia forced herself to nod as the two jailers shoved her toward the hall. As she was pushed deeper into the grimy bowels, she made out the magistrate’s orders upon an unseen man.

  “Call upon her family to cover her expenses,” he said. “Give her nothing until then.”

  Lydia trembled inside. Surely Henry would be reached, and he was a man of great means. He could doubtlessly afford the sum demanded by the magistrate, but her arrest had surely humiliated him, and when word spread, so would the shame.

  The question did not lie in his ability to come for her, but whether he would come for her.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Having determined he would learn nothing as a rich man, Henry took upon himself to reduce his appearance to that
of a commoner. Though the young man disputed pay, Henry provided Andrew Bradshaw a fine sum to borrow a pair of breeches and a topcoat, both well worn from many days of honest labor. Though relatively few Puritans owned horses, he did not relinquish his mount. Rather, he hoped the modest gelding would allow Henry to blend well enough to learn something of his brother’s whereabouts. Henry had little to go upon—just the trusted word of a business associate and the unconvincing denial of the docksman—but it had to be enough.

  Henry’s marriage to Lydia may have been created from haste and impulse, but it mattered not. He wanted her for his lifetime, and if she did not fancy his estates he would happily spend his every waking day in her modest home. As long as she was near, he was whole. But first thing was first.

  He had to find his brother and bring him home.

  Henry headed first to the wharf. Thick with tradesmen, the area bustled with merchants offloading cargo. Henry regretted his association with his own brother to be so distant he knew little of his preferences, but suspected the taverns looked good for information, as it was seldom difficult to extract conversation from a man drunk with ale.

  Without drawing the first curious eye, Henry found a stable near the river and procured day stabling for Benedict, who seemed none too concerned once he found a pile of forage into which to poke his head. Though Henry wanted to remain as inconspicuous as possible, he well overpaid for Benedict’s board in hopes the horse would be treated well for the duration. He knew not how well schooled the proprietor in the ways of a good tip, but hoped the extra money bought an amount of privacy. If not, there was small chance Henry would stay ahead of the talk, especially considering his unobtrusive state.

  He tugged tighter the unfamiliar felt hat and headed into the first tavern at hand. Two-storied and square, the building had the typical plain exterior. Inside, the dank air smelled of alcohol. Aside a foursome at a corner table, Henry was alone with the barman, whom he assumed to be the proprietor.