Sarah shook her head. This was all wrong. She was the one who had committed the error. “But I . . .” Nick’s finger touched her lips, halting her words.
“I am the master of this household, and if I say that I was wrong, then you shall not contradict me. Do you understand?” Sarah nodded, and beneath the touch of his hands, her body was assaulted with fiery sensations she did not understand. What was it about this man that made her feel both safe and threatened at the same time?
“Now, I would like to eat my dinner in the company of a beautiful lady. Do you mind?”
Sarah shook her head slowly and wondered if he could hear the disappointment that pounded through her flesh. But before she could turn to leave, he was setting her chair to right and gently guiding her back to her place at the table. Had he meant then that she was beautiful? Numbed with confusion, she silently allowed him to seat her and watched as he returned to his place at the head of the table.
They ate in silence. Sarah had no memory of what passed her lips as, fascinated, she watched Nick sample each of the dishes presented. Never in her life had she beheld such an abundance of food. Even at the grandest of occasions, her Salem neighbors would have considered the meal extravagant and wasteful. Even her father, who had dearly loved his meat, would have frowned at the serving of four different kinds of fowl at the same meal. And such quantity! She thought, watching Wadsworth clear the platters from the table and sideboard. Why, a score of neighbors could have joined them and still the dishes would not have been emptied. Wadsworth returned with a tray of sweets, and Sarah could contain her amazement no longer.
“However do you eat so much and stay so fit?” Even as the words left her mouth she regretted them.
Nick smiled, liking the way her cheeks bloomed with color. “So you think I look fit?” His brow wriggled and his smile became a comical leer.
Refusing to be cowed, Sarah gave him a long, appraising look. “I think that if you consume many more meals of that magnitude, you’ll not retain your trim figure. Your breeches are already. . .” As his smile deepened, Sarah felt the words lock in her throat. Again her skin grew hot. What had she been thinking of to mention something so personal? If Nicholas Beaumont wished to wear breeches that fit like a second skin, it was his choice to do so. But it was certainly not her place to mention it. Stealing a glance in his direction, she watched his eyes turn a darker shade of blue. What was it about this man that caused her to say the first thing that popped into her head? She wasn’t normally flighty and indiscreet, yet he had only to look in her direction and she felt as if her feet no longer touched the ground.
“I think you need a sweet, little Sarah.” Nick winked. “Your disposition is growing tart.” Nick offered a fluted crystal glass the likes of which Sarah had never seen. He placed the confection before her and dipped her spoon into the creamy top. “‘Tis called syllabub.” He said, lifting the spoon to her lips. “A lemon cream mixture that sits on brandy.” Captivated by his smile and the soothing sound of his voice, Sarah obediently opened her mouth and felt the tart cream melt on her tongue. Their eyes locked as Nick slowly pulled the spoon from her lips.
The spell was broken as Wadsworth chose that moment to enter the room. Sarah immediately jerked back in her chair and wiped her lips with her napkin.
“I beg pardon, sir, but I thought you would want to know that Miss Ruby was at the door with a note from Mrs. Beaumont.”
Nick scowled and reached for the folded paper that Wadsworth offered on a small silver tray. He recognized the delicate scrawl of his grandmother’s hand and knew the contents before he even read the words.
Alarmed by the look on Nick’s face, Sarah could not contain her curiosity. “Is something amiss?”
Nick’s smile was tolerant at best as he refolded the note and tossed it onto the table. “ ‘Tis from my grandmother.” He explained and then turned to Wadsworth. “Is Ruby still waiting?” he asked.
The butler nodded. “She’s in the kitchen. Cook gave her a glass of buttermilk while I brought you the message.”
Nick rose from his chair, his jovial mood shattered. “Have Ruby tell my grandmother that I am already committed for the evening. I shall call upon her tomorrow at two as originally planned.” He turned toward Sarah. “Business matters demand my attention. But stay and finish your dessert. I’ve no doubt I shall see you on the morrow.”
As the door closed behind her host and his butler, Sarah reached for the discarded note. Her eyes grew wide as she scanned the contents. Jumping from her seat with the paper still clutched in her fingers, she turned first one way and then the other in utter panic. Wadsworth returned and his brow lifted, but Sarah was too distressed to care that he had caught her reading the master’s correspondence.
“Did he leave yet? Quick, tell him to wait, I can accompany him. I have some skills . . .”
The butler calmly began to set the dishes onto a tray he carried. “I believe Mr. Beaumont has gone to his study to resume his correspondence.”
Sarah jerked backward as if the words had been a physical blow. “But his grandmother is dying!” She offered the note in fingers that trembled.
Wadsworth set several more dishes on the tray.
“What can I do to help?” she pleaded. “Does Mrs. Beaumont live nearby? Has the doctor been summoned?”
Wadsworth straightened and gave her an appraising look. He had been with the Beaumont family for most of his life. And much of his success was based on his unwavering loyalty and his ability to understand people. He took in Sarah’s pale features, the tremor in her voice.
“It would be best, Miss Townsend if you were to return to your room. I’m sure that all will look brighter in the morning.”
Sarah squared her shoulders and took a deep, calming breath. “Wadsworth,” she said quietly, “I am not a child to be protected from the tragedies of the world. I might be only ten and nine, but I have already tasted death. I have buried both of my parents. Now, you must trust me when I say that my presence will not be a nuisance. I possess some skills of healing and I wish to give assistance. So, will you help me or shall I leave and ask the first person on the road how to find the property of Mrs. Beaumont?”
Wadsworth returned to stacking the dishes. “The master’s grandmother lives about two miles down the road. ‘Tis a grand white house with pecan trees in the front yard. But you’ll not find the master there tonight. He’ll be in his study attending to his business.”
The note dropped from Sarah’s fingers as disbelief clashed with her confusion. “Mr. Beaumont has just received a letter saying his grandmother will not live out the night and you want me to believe that he has gone to his study to deal with business?” Her eyes narrowed in challenge. “Sir, the man who was kind enough to offer me shelter until my family could be contacted is not a man to sit idly by and wait death to claim a member of his family.”
Wadsworth set down his tray and made his decision. “Miss Sarah . . .” He said her name gently “I have worked for Mr. Beaumont since before we came to this house, so you know my word is good. Trust me when I say that all is well with Mr. Beaumont’s grandmother.”
Sarah shook her head and reached for the note, soothing it flat against the table. “But the letter says . . .”
Wadsworth slowly picked up his tray. “Mr. Beaumont has received that note or one like it at least once a month for the past ten years.”
Sarah flopped back down on her chair like a marionette with no strings. “Who would commit such a cruel act to say that a loved one was dying?” she shuttered. “Does his grandmother know of this horrible mischief?”
For the briefest moment Wadsworth’s face sank into a sad smile. “Mrs. Beaumont is the culprit.”
Sarah’s gasp echoed her disbelief. “Nick’s mother?”
Wadsworth quickly shook his head. “Oh, no, miss, the master’s mother and father both passed on when he was just a little tyke.”
“How horrible!”
Wadsworth glanced to
ward the door that led to the hallway. “ ‘Twas no great loss, miss. The master’s parents had no time for him anyway. They were both killed in a carriage accident and that’s when the master went to live with Miss Agatha.”
Sarah had no trouble picturing Nick a child, but when she tried to imagine her own childhood without the love and support of her father and stepmother, an aching void filled her chest. “Was she good to him?” she whispered, feeling the pain of Nick’s loss.
The butler nodded enthusiastically. “The old lady loved him dearly. But Miss Agatha, well, she’s a tyrant of sorts and them being two cut from the same cloth, there was bound to be trouble. When the time came for the master to move out on his own, Miss Agatha, she wouldn’t hear of it. She tried holding the family business over his head to make him move back but, like I said, the master is just as stubborn. He took his half of Beaumont Shipping and has expanded it more than three times over.” Wadsworth looked at Sarah in wonder. “Do you know in all these years, I’ve never heard him complain that half of everything he makes goes directly to his grandmother. I think he’s pleased that he’s found a way to give her things without her realizing it.”
“But the note . . . “ Sarah prompted.
The smile faded completely from Wadsworth’s pale face. “Miss Agatha suffers greatly from old age and can no longer get about on her own. The first time she sent a note, why, the young master dropped everything and rushed right over. There he finds his grandmother, fit as a fiddle and sitting up in bed. She was lonesome, she said, and felt poorly. The master, he didn’t say anything until it happened again about a week later. Now he just doesn’t go at all.”
“He never sees her at all?”
Wadsworth picked up his tray and turned toward the door. “The master sees his grandmother several times a week. In fact, she was here just this morning.”
Sarah rubbed her temples in confusion. “But if that is true, then why would she send such a note?”
Wadsworth pushed open the door. “Control,” he said quietly. “Miss Agatha just can’t give up the control.
For several minutes, Sarah sat alone in the dining room trying to understand a woman who would go to such lengths. Her fingers smoothed over the delicate penmanship as she searched for her answers. You are making a mistake, Mrs. Agatha Beaumont, she whispered to the empty room. She remembered the story her father had once told her about a young shepherd boy tending his sheep. When the lad had grown lonely on his mountainside he had called wolf, and the townsfolk had rushed to his aid. But there had been no wolf and it hadn’t taken long before the villagers began to ignore the boy completely. Sarah shuddered, remembering the tragic ending to the tale.
Quietly, she stood and smoothed her gown. On the morrow she would pay a visit to Mrs. Agatha Beaumont and tell her how distressing her notes were for Nick. Then again, she thought, what if the woman was truly ill? Filled with doubt and confusion, Sarah returned to her room.
I don’t understand these people, she thought, sitting upon the soft mattress of her bed and pulling her knees up to rest her chin upon them. I need to be home. Tears swelled but she blinked them back. Samuel, she sighed as her throat grew tight, who hated you enough to forge your name on such a document? If only I had a way to let you know that I am safe. Silently, she rocked back and forth. I’ll never forgive myself for the anguish I’m causing you, dear brother.
Chapter Five
Salem, Massachusetts
Ann Tate shifted anxiously on her wooden stool, her eyes never leaving Samuel Wittfield’s back as he hung his coat on the peg by the door.
“Well, Samuel, are you going to take all afternoon, or are you going to tell us what happened?”
Samuel fought back the grin that hovered at the corners of his mouth. Stone-faced he turned to his wife and their neighbor. “I presented the evidence to the Reverend Mr. Noyse, the Reverend Mr. Parris, and the magistrates.” Slowly Samuel pulled out his chair and wearily sat at his place at the head of the table.
Feeling a sudden chill, Elizabeth wrapped her shawl more tightly about her shoulders.“Samuel, ‘tis unkind to keep us in suspense. Tell us what they said. What was their verdict about Sarah?”
Samuel folded his rough hands as if in prayer. “Reverend Parris said that under the circumstances we witnessed, Sarah must be considered a witch. We are to notify the magistrate immediately if her human form appears again.”
“Dear Lord in heaven.” Elizabeth flopped back in her chair, her face pale as parchment.
“Well, what did you expect?” Ann demanded shrilly. “Did we not see Sarah turn into a cat with our very eyes?”
Elizabeth rubbed her temples with fingers that felt like ice. “I did see the cat in her bed,” she whispered. “Samuel?”
Samuel Wittfield shook his head. “I was standing in the hallway when I heard your cries. By the time I reached you . . .” His voice choked, and Samuel looked away.
“Well, I saw it all.” Ann declared emphatically. “One minute Sarah was sitting in her bed, then within a blink she’s gone and a black cat is standing on her nightdress. You might as well face it, Samuel Wittfield . . .” She paused for effect. “Your sister is a witch.”
“Stepsister.” Elizabeth snapped, reaching for her husband’s hands. “They carry none of the same blood.”
Ann pulled her chair closer to the table. “Why do you think Sarah’s name was missing from Tituba’s list?”
Samuel shrugged his shoulders. “Tituba is but a slave. I’m sure the Reverend Mr. Parris has tried to instruct her, but we must remember, she’s been influenced by the devil. Today at the trials, she spoke of riding between Sarah Good and Sarah Osborne as their specters flew through the sky in search of mischief.”
“They flew through the sky?” Elizabeth’s voice quivered with apprehension.
Samuel nodded solemnly. “Tituba said she stood at the reverend’s back door when they appeared and bid her to join them on their broom. She said she refused at first, but they pinched her and struck her with a stick until she agreed. Her back is covered with fresh welts, so her story must be so – “
“But what of Sarah?” Ann interrupted. “She turned into the devil’s familiar before our very eyes.” The widow’s voice was tinged with awe. “Why would she show herself to us in that way?”
“I can’t say I’m completely surprised.” Anxiously, Elizabeth’s eyes darted to the shadowy corners of the room. “Jonathan always encouraged Sarah to speak her mind. And they always went way over to Topsfield for services.”
Ann’s eyes narrowed as her imagination took hold. “Yes, but did you never wonder why Jonathan Townsend did not get on with the Reverend Mr. Parris? Somehow he must have suspected that if they prayed in Salem, the good minister would route out the evil that he and Sarah harbored.” Ann stood up and reached for her cloak. “I think we should attend the trials tomorrow. We should leave early in the morning to get good seats before the magistrates arrive at noon. I’m a God-fearing woman, but I would see for myself those whom Tituba spoke of.” For in fact, no matter how she tried, Ann couldn’t imagine the hefty Sarah Osborne seated on a broom.
“But what of Sarah now?” Elizabeth shivered with anxiety and fear. “Should not the good people of Salem be warned that she stalks as a cat?”
“The reverend will announce it from the pulpit on Sunday.” Samuel shook his head sadly. “All will be warned to beware of a sleek black cat that could be Sarah.”
Elizabeth shuddered. “I shall never forgive her.” Her voice was low and full of venom. Samuel turned to his wife. In the firelight her eyes were hard and glittered with hatred. “I shall never forgive Sarah for the disgrace she has brought upon this family.” She squeezed Samuel’s hand. “And I shall never forgive her for the injury she has caused you, dear husband.”
Samuel patted his wife’s hand, and for the first time that evening, he allowed a contented smile to touch his lips.
Chapter Six
Middle Plantation, Virginia
Wadsworth greeted him in the study with a fresh pot of coffee and a dower expression.
“ ‘Tis a beautiful day, Wadsworth, is it not?”
Wadsworth nodded silently. He understood all the master’s quirks except this one. Rousing from his warm bed when the sun had just touched the sky with its light had never brought him joy, and he often thought that had the situations been reversed, and he the master, he’d stay snuggled beneath the covers until he was called to the midday meal. Wadsworth struggled to keep his eyes open as he poured coffee into a pewter mug.
“I’d like you to instruct Mrs. Killingham to prepare a tray for our guest.” Nick continued as he began to shift through his papers. “I’ll take it up to her myself in about an hour.”
Wadsworth paused in the doorway, his brow wrinkled in a frown. “For Miss Sarah?”
Nick sipped the hot brew. “Yes, and ask Mrs. Killingham if any of our strawberries are ripe. I have a taste for them this morning.”
Wadsworth took a step back into the study. “But Miss Sarah is already up.”
“She’s what?”
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