Her Wicked Sin

by Sarah Ballance

  Robert was here, and he clearly knew of Henry’s life in Salem. Henry’s quest to find his brother could end here this night, but there was something far greater at stake.

  Decision made, Henry pulled from his person a tidy sum. He shook the stranger’s hand, leaving the coin in the other man’s possession when he freed the grip.

  The man looked to Henry in great surprise.

  “Please,” Henry said. “Spread these rumors no more.”

  “By now others may know, but not of my tongue.”

  “Understood.” Henry clapped the man on the back. “Fare thee well.”

  The stranger nodded and said nothing more, though his eyes were still upon Henry when he turned one last time to search the tavern for Robert. Seeing no sign of his brother, Henry touched his hat and left.

  Ignoring the lingering pain in his knee, Henry grappled to Willard’s back and, once settled, turned several tight circles, the stallion fighting the whole time for control. Seeing no one he recognized, Henry released his hold on the stallion’s head. Willard leapt forward in an unrestrained gallop, his hoof beats eating up the road to Essex.

  Henry did not look back.

  …

  Lydia could not remember more terrible days. Even in the time she had grown to fear her husband, she never had to face him long. He would stumble in late, drunk, and demand his evening meal. Some days he would use her and most he would beat her, but the drink rendered him without stamina. However brutal, the time would end.

  Her time in the jail did not.

  Her companion, who would not give her name, spoke little. When she did, she most often entered into strange claims and stories of interaction with the devil—stories she said with such conviction she must have believed every word.

  Lydia was unsure what to make of the woman’s tales, but she did not voice her doubts. The validity notwithstanding, she found she rather enjoyed having something to hear beyond the scuffle of rats. Often she thought she might go mad, and when she thought herself familiar enough that she might distinguish one rat from another, she felt the threat of that dark edge under her feet.

  Yet worse than being chained was when they would come for her. Though no one touched her intimately, the lewd grabs in the name of seeking a witch’s mark were endless. She had once again become the property of vile, disgusting sin, but as terrible as those unwanted attentions, her inability to forget Henry pained her more. He had cast her aside. Denounced her, and not for show, for he had not returned.

  Lydia had been given no window for her examination before the judge, but only a few days passed before she was collected and taken to Ingersoll’s Tavern. It seemed a lifetime since she had told Henry of the trials beginning there. To be the center of one threatened to break her, but she held fast to her faith. Her life had not been without real trials, and she refused to succumb to the falsehood of this one. But never had she been so threatened with humiliation. It seemed the entire of Salem packed the tavern or spilled outward into the street, and every man, woman, and child seemed to stare her way. Some wore expressions of curiosity, others wholly of disgust. Lydia kept her spine straight and her head high. Their opinions would not change her.

  Once inside, Lydia was taken aside and examined once again for the witch’s mark, this time by Goodwife Ingersoll, whose husband owned the establishment. The Goodwife reported no findings of a mark, an opinion contrary to those of her jailers but a relief all the same. When returned to the big, crowded room she found the eldest Abbot girl under examination by the judge.

  “Abigail Abbot, what say thou? Hath thou seen this woman Lydia Colson hurt thou?”

  Abigail looked firmly upon the crowd, eyes bright and wide. “Yes. This very morn she came to beat me for my words here today.”

  Gasps and murmurs erupted.

  “I was in jail this morning!” Lydia cried. “She cannot be believed!”

  The judge slammed a gavel upon his desk, sending the room into silence. “Thou will not speak unless spoken to, Goodwife.”

  Cries of “Witch!” spilled forth from the crowd, necessitating in another round of bangs from the judge.

  “Silence,” he demanded. “Lest ye be removed with haste from this room!” Turning again to Abigail, he said, “She came to thou this morn?”

  “Witnessed by my sisters. All of us—Mary, Susannah, Deliverance, and myself—saw her specter and were brought to pain from torment.”

  In this instance, Susannah, who was of about nine years, arched her back and screamed in pain. Shortly thereafter, Deliverance, who of about seven years was the youngest, fell to the floor and began to writhe. If she made a sound, it was not to be heard over the din.

  The judge slammed the wood slab with his gavel and turned to Lydia. “Goodwife Colson, here are four of the affected. Abigail Abbot testifies to your damage of her. What doeth thou say?”

  Lydia sat straight and true. Speaking clearly, she said, “I state before my eternal witness and all those present, I am innocent of these charges.”

  “She rides the devil’s horse!” came a voice from the crowd.

  “Where is her husband? Even he denounces the witch!” cried another.

  A man came forward from the rest.

  “What say ye, Goodman Putnam?” asked the judge.

  Putnam was the name of the babe Lydia had seen to the night she met Henry. Upon closer inspection, she recognized him to be the drunkard husband, father of baby James and young Constance who had come alongside Rebecca Mather to fetch Lydia.

  “The witch came in my house. Settled the babe when ‘is own mother could not stop his cries. E’r since, I have been wracked with ails.”

  Lydia bit her tongue, lest she inform the misbegotten drunk he brought forth his own ailments.

  The judge again addressed Lydia. “Goodman Putnam brings forth credible information. As physician, thou hast treated the babe in question?”

  “I did treat the babe, James Putnam, while Goodman Putnam laid stricken drunk alongside the far wall. He and I shared no communication that night nor any other. I am innocent of his accusations.”

  “Thou admits affecting the babe?”

  “I treated the babe. I advised his mother such a way to calm him, as is my duty as a physician.”

  “Thou see and hear those who accuse thou. Are these accusations true?”

  Before Lydia could utter her rejection, the youngest Abbot girl, Deliverance, put forth a loathsome scream. Again, the room erupted into outbursts.

  This time Lydia raised her voice and cried out among them. “These accusations are unfounded and untrue!”

  The judge banged the gavel. “Doest thou practice this witchcraft?”

  She waited until the noise died. “I do not.”

  “She meets a man in finery! A stranger in the night, he comes with his book and his big black horse the likes of which Salem has ne’er seen.”

  From the crowd, one cried, “The horse… I have seen it. It is true! Oh, help save us from this witch!”

  At the accusation, the children again fell into fits.

  Lydia threw her hands up in disbelief.

  The wails increased.

  The judge again banged his gavel. Over the din, he announced, “Doest thou see what thou hath done? Doest thou see the affected?”

  Rebecca Mather stepped forward, and in her cold demeanor the room quickly fell to silence. “She has affected my husband with her treacherous ways.”

  Lydia’s breath caught. Would Rebecca dare accuse her husband of adultery right here in this forum as she had in private? The damage, once applied, would not be undone.

  The other woman held court, every eye in the tavern upon her. “She has hurt us greatly, and without cause or reason. She is a ruinous witch without conscience. Look at how she lies steadfast to your face. To all of us!”

  Lydia stared onward. “Our eternal Father knows my truth.”

  “Many have witnessed thy consort with the devil and his horse. The effects cannot be denie
d!”

  “There has been no consort to witness,” Lydia insisted. “The horse is a fine animal, but of common flesh and blood. No devil’s creature. You cannot see the truth for the lies.”

  “I cannot see all,” said the judge. “This is true. But the evidence is plentiful. Thou hast cast terrible pain over these children and people of Salem. Thou are resolved with familiar spirits. They are there now, with thy body, but seek others in their spirit form. It is thou who casts them to do harm, and thou who feeds these familiars from thy guilty hand. What defense doest thee have?”

  Lydia swallowed her growing frustration and unease. “I have none but my word.”

  “The word of a witch is worth little. Confess thy misdeeds and give glory to thy heavenly Father so thou may be forgiven for thy sins.”

  The words rang true enough for the murder for which she privately acknowledged guilt, but she would not acquiesce to witchcraft. Of that, she remained innocent. “I am not guilty of the sin of witchcraft. I have nothing to confess.”

  “Have thou temptations into witchcraft? Do you court familiars and wish harm upon others?”

  “I do not.”

  To that, Rebecca’s eyes narrowed and her lips widened into a dark smile. “To think, we welcomed her among us as neighbors. Confided our ailments and trusted her hand. The hand of a witch! Allowed into our lives and our church!”

  At this profession, a great number of the observant fell into crisis, screaming and floundering.

  “Tell us, doest thou not witness this?” the judge asked.

  “I see their loss of control, though verily I am not the cause.”

  “Do you suggest they feign their injuries?”

  “They are of their own bodies and minds.”

  “The physician Griggs has examined the Abbot children and determined there is an evil hand upon them. That they are possessed by the devil himself. Doest thou dispute his findings?”

  “If he finds possession, it is not of my hand.”

  “Doest thou testify these children act and suffer against their wills?”

  Lydia raised her hands, frustrated for the redundancy of the exam. “As I have stated, I do not know why they do what they do.” But her words were buried under another round of the children’s fits and screams.

  “Thou have eyes upon them. Doest thou believe they are affected by witchcraft?”

  “No. I believe no such thing.”

  “Perchance thy heart is good, but thy spirit along with thy familiars taunt these children. In such that thy apparition has been witnessed and is guilty, and thereby are thou.”

  In the moment required for the words to sink in, Lydia stared at the faces—so many of them once friends—that filled the crowded room. She could not fault them for not coming forward to claim her innocence, for with that simple act, they too would be jailed. And then the weight of the judge’s decree landed on her shoulders, and she whipped her head ‘round to protest his condemnation.

  Within seconds, the so-called afflicted mimicked her motion, jerking their heads and screaming.

  “The evidence,” the judge said with a grand gesturing of his arms, “seethes from every corner of this room. Thou are decreed a witch, Lydia Colson, and sent to jail until such time as you are escorted to the gallows.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Though Henry had traveled extensively and for great lengths of time, never had home felt so very foreign. His family’s city mansion did not boast the great spread of the country estate, but the proximity to the shipbuilding business allowed his father to keep observation over the family trade. Meanwhile, Henry’s mother was in a far better position to court the socialites, who in turn had paraded their patrician daughters for Henry’s inspection. The practice was a farce—it wasn’t as if Henry was to have a choice in his pairing—but it had mattered a great deal to his mother, so he had endured.

  The news of his marriage, sent by courier, had surely come as a slight, if not a blow, and he did not look forward to her disappointment, but his parents of all people should understand. His mother had not come from wealth. In fact, she was near penniless when her first husband—Robert’s father—had died. Though no one felt the story any of Henry’s business, curiosity and a bit of snooping lent him enough snippets over the years to harbor some understanding of what had preceded his birth.

  After the loss of Robert’s sisters, Robert’s father had descended with his grief into a downward spiral. He made a number of foolish business decisions that had left Henry’s mother in financial ruin, and it was then, in her most desperate time, that Henry’s father had fallen to her charms. They had married quickly and without the approval of their families, but John Dunham—having expanded on his father’s business of timber and fur trade into shipbuilding—was a man wealthy in his own right. His father—Henry’s grandfather—could not remove him from an inheritance he had largely built.

  Henry was not of the same fortune. Though he did own one modest property, he did not share his father’s drive for money above all else. It was not that he did not have the desire to grow his own wealth, but that he was fresh from his education and not yet willing to settle in a life predetermined by his father. The women who sought his hand seemed interested in little more than his station, and he found them in turn to be quite boring. It was no wonder Lydia had so enchanted him, for she was the first to look and truly see him rather than what she hoped he could afford her.

  And he had left her. His chest ached with every thought of Lydia, but his abandonment was not in vain. John Dunham was a good friend of Massachusetts Bay Colony’s governor, Simon Bradstreet. Henry carried little doubt that word from the governor that the accused was of the Dunham family would remedy the unjust accusation. Henry counted that the shame warned by the physician’s assistant to Griggs would never come to fruition, for word of Henry’s marriage would certainly travel alongside news of Lydia’s freedom from the slanderous charges.

  Upon arriving at the city house, Henry walked a tired but tenacious Willard through the narrow alley to the small day stable in the rear and handed the reins to a stable boy. As the young man saw to the horse, Henry exited the rear yard on foot and approached the house from the front, where he was immediately greeted by the house servant.

  “Master Dunham,” the man known as Joseph said. “You have been well missed.”

  Henry nodded. “As have you,” he said kindly. “Where might I find Mother?”

  “Upstairs, bedridden to her quarters.”

  Henry nodded his thanks. He had expected as much when she was not to be found in the parlor, which he could see clearly from the front hall. Henry ventured Lydia’s entire home would fit in his mother’s beloved parlor, but the thought did not turn his favor. Rather, as he glanced ‘round the opulent colonial home stretching an uncommon two floors overhead, he found he missed the cozy warmth of the single—though divided—room he had shared with Lydia.

  He ascended the stairs to the second floor where his parents’ shared quarters were. There in the wide hall he met the maid, Elizabeth, who was most startled by his appearance. He held a finger to his lips, hoping she would ease in her recognition of him and maintain his surprise. “Is she well enough for a surprise?” he whispered.

  Elizabeth nodded, beaming. “Use caution so you do not overly startle her,” she said, matching Henry’s quiet tones. “She will be most pleased to see you.”

  “And where is Father?”

  “He will return for supper.”

  “Very well, then.” Henry nodded and finished the distance to his mother’s bedroom, whereupon he rapped lightly on the door. “Mother?”

  Alice Dunham turned her head with shaky effort, though the moment her eyes fixed on Henry they turned wide with delight. “Is that you, son? Is my vision true?”

  Henry entered and took a chair at his mother’s bedside. He reached for her and wrapped her fragile hand in a gentle grasp. “I have news, Mother.”

  “You have found my Robert? Will
I once again have my boys at my side?”

  “Indeed, he is found. I will bring him to you, soon. But first there is something you must know.”

  “What is it, child?”

  “I have taken a wife. She is a physician and—”

  “I hoped the message untrue. How could you have done this? You are not a rogue, Henry, but a man of fine manners and breeding.”

  Henry chose not to take issue, for the argument mattered not. “She is lovely, Mother. You will adore her.”

  “Please, then. Bring her in so I can meet her.”

  “She is not here, but soon. Soon you will have Robert and perhaps even a grandchild to celebrate.”

  “You have been gone but a few days.” Alice gave a tired, slow shake of her head. “How is it you have taken a wife with such haste? What are her lines?”

  “Worry not, Mother. I love her and that is all that matters.”

  “Your father will be loath to hear such things. Watch your tongue, for his desire is for a proper match.”

  Henry leaned to kiss his mother on the forehead. “Then rest assured, Mother, for his desires have been properly met.”

  …

  Henry spent much of the afternoon reacquainting with his youngest siblings, each of whom met him with rowdy delight. He was subjected to news of their latest lessons and explorations, and in their never-ending childish spats he found a certain nostalgia that made him think reverently of the day he and Lydia would welcome a child. He was still well within those thoughts when word came that his father would not be home for days.

  The news devastated Henry. His options were few. He briefly considered trying of his own accord to obtain an audience with Bradstreet, but he was not secure enough in his ties with the governor to hope for a positive outcome. Moreover, with such a slight chance for the governor’s help, he did not want to socially levy the news of his marriage before he made aware his own father. However John Dunham took the news, Henry respected his father enough to ensure it came from Henry and not as a result of gossip.

  Six days passed. Six days of wondering and hurting for Lydia, knowing her every moment must be spent in misery. Numerous times Henry walked behind the house to the day stable with intentions of collecting Willard and then his wife. It would be so easy to pay the fee and procure her for the day. They would take Willard and Benedict—whom Henry trusted had remained in Andrew’s capable hands—and be far from Salem before she was due back at the jail. But though Henry knew he had the funds readily available to enable her escape, he did not wish that life on her. She had run once, and though he found himself grateful to have found her as a result, he wanted nothing more than to free her of her burdens.