Susannah Morrow

by Megan Chance

  I was the only one who understood what she was. I must protect my family. That was my mother’s warning. But ’twas a task so big I did not know how to manage it. As I led Buttercup into the barn, I was shaking.

  When she was settled, I hurried back to the house. Susannah was at the hearth, and Jude was working with her hornbook, and neither of them looked up as I went inside. My aunt was putting the pottage for supper back on the crane to heat. As she did it, I heard the muffled boom from a cannon, and her feet did a little step—something I couldn’t quite explain, a shifting of toe to heel, the twist of her hips—so her bright russet skirts twirled about her ankles, barely missing a tongue of flame shooting from the fire.

  ’Twas as if the other things in the room simply faded away. I saw only her, and the fire in the hearth became a fire shooting sparks and cracking branches, roaring before me. She was a shadow dancing before it, her dark hair loose and falling over her shoulders, twisting and laughing while her skirts tripped over her legs, and she held out her hands to a man dancing beside her. A man so black and shadowed no light touched him.

  When the fancy left me, I felt weak, and my mouth was dry. It had only been my imagination, but it lingered in the firelight reflecting off the kettle and the pewter tankards on the table. I backed away, moving to the window, drawn to it, though I could not have said why.

  I saw my father coming from behind the barn. I watched him take off the long canvas frock he wore over his clothing and shake the sawdust from it. He glanced up, frowning when I met his gaze through the thick, greenish glass of the window. I resolved then to say something to him about Susannah. The thought made me so nervous I was twisting my skirt in my hands before Father even reached the door.

  “Is supper ready?” he asked as he came inside.

  Susannah barely turned from the fire. “’Twill be a minute more. I’ve just put the kettle on.”

  He went to the tableboard to pour a noggin of beer. He swilled it in three or four gulps and then poured another, sitting on the bench with a heavy sigh. At the end of the table, Jude kept her nose buried in her hornbook, and I waited in the shadows. I think I might have waited all night had he not looked over his shoulder at me and said, “What ails you, child? Is there nothing you can do to help your aunt?”

  “She’s fine as she is,” Susannah said. “The lights from the celebrations are a rare entertainment. She should watch them if she can.”

  I winced. My father wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and frowned with his thunderous brows. “Charity.”

  I stumbled in my haste to come away from the window. “I-I wasn’t watching the bonfires. I wasn’t.”

  He ignored me. He looked at Susannah. “God designates days of thanksgiving and humiliation. Any other holidays are only excuses for wasteful frivolity.”

  “Even God cannot expect a man to eschew sport completely, Brother,” she said, and I did not miss the slight smile on her lips, as if she were teasing or playing a joke.

  “We’ve the Sabbath for that,” Father said.

  “Aye, ’tis a restful day, indeed.” Susannah turned back to the fire, and her words lingered a little. Again I searched to find ridicule in her meaning, but I could not find it. My father did not look away from her, and in the dim light his expression was hard to read, but I told myself he’d heard it too, the tacit criticism, the words that didn’t mean quite what they said.

  This was the moment, I thought. He was suspicious of her, I was sure of it. I should touch his shoulder, I should say that I had something to tell him. I went up behind him and reached out my hand—

  “Have you a head for numbers, Sister?” he asked my aunt.

  The question seemed to come from nowhere. He was intent on her and had not seen me at all. I let my hand fall back to my side—the moment was gone already, so last. I realized he had missed the criticism I’d heard in her voice, and I could not believe it. I was unsure suddenly, and so I stepped away from him to watch his face.

  Susannah looked at him over her shoulder. She wore no cap, and the darkness of her hair glimmered red in the firelight. “Some. Judith had the genius of it, I’m afraid.”

  My father nodded and sighed. “Aye. I left it to her, and she was too good at it to change. But now…I can barely read her hand.”

  “I’ll take a look at the account books if you like. I’ve been reading my sister’s letters for eighteen years. I’ll be able to decipher it, at least.”

  My father looked into his beer, and for a moment, he looked so sad that my own heart sagged with him. “I would be grateful.”

  Susannah turned fully from the fire. “I don’t want your gratitude, Brother. If I am to stay here, I expect to do my share. I’ll earn my keep.”

  Father looked up again. There was something in his eyes then, though he was not looking at me directly, and it occurred to me that this was a conversation the two of them had had before, though I could not imagine when. “’Tis not an easy life here. This is not London.”

  She laughed; it was not a happy sound. “I’ve no wish for London.”

  “There are no niceties here.”

  “My sister lived without them for years. ’Twill not be a hardship for me.”

  “You should think well on this,” my father said. “Judith would not have required you make such a sacrifice.”

  My aunt looked oddly wistful, an expression that confused me until I remembered how tricky the Devil could be. “I’ve had months to think on it,” she said. “This is what I want. Do not tell me you could not use some help with the children.”

  “But I’m here for that,” I said before I thought. They both looked at me in surprise, and I braved on. “I’m not a child. You needn’t stay for me. I’m old enough to care for Jude and Faith.”

  “Charity, quiet,” Father said. “Your mother hasn’t been gone a fortnight. Do you think she would countenance such impertinence?”

  “N-no, sir.” I dipped my head, my fingers trembling. “I-I’m sorry, F-father. I…I didn’t think—”

  “Aye, you don’t think, Charity. That is the problem.”

  Tears blurred my eyes, and I dared not look at him. My tears would only make him angrier, I knew, and I could not explain them away. I could not say to him that Susannah was dangerous, that she fed the disobedience in my nature, that we should send her away. He would not believe me. I had to somehow tear away his blindness; I had to make him see.

  “Apologize to your aunt,” he said.

  I swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

  “Charity.”

  I did what he wanted. I looked up at her, into her face, so I could speak with the sincerity he expected, and suddenly my tears were gone and there was a coldness in my soul. She was watching me with a careful look that was as clear to me as the gentle eddies of Crane Brook where it bent past our farm. In her eyes, I saw her heart, and there it was: the Devil’s smile.

  She was dangerous. I knew to resist the pull of her and yet I felt it still. I knew what she was and yet I wanted her comfort. Satan knew me too well; he knew the things I craved, the things I longed for.

  I prayed for God to take Susannah away; I cared not how.

  “Forgive me,” I managed to say. “I am sorry for speaking to you that way.”

  “I am no monster,” she said to me. “I did not come into your life to take it over, Charity. I expect you to tell me how you feel. Only then can we respect each other.”

  I felt my father’s silence, and I felt the temptation in her words. I had never seen an actress, but I imagined she must be one of the best. Had I not known what she was, I would have believed the things she said completely; I would have trusted her with my soul the way I’d trusted my mother with it. She knew just what to say to bring my cooperation, and I had no choice now but to smile and pretend to give it.

  So that is what I did. “I will do better, I promise.” It was a small lie, mostly for my father’s benefit, because I could see that I was not the actress Susannah was, that s
he did not quite believe me.

  But she nodded and turned back to adjust the crane with our supper hanging from it, and I glanced over to my father.

  He was watching her, and there was an intensity in his gaze. His hand was clenched around his tankard so tightly that even in the candlelight I could see the whiteness of his knuckles. I felt as if I’d intruded on a moment so private not even he knew it existed, and I looked away quickly, ashamed and disturbed, though I had no idea why. For no reason that I could say, I thought of Sammy, of his large and loving hands. I felt a longing for him.

  The window to my soul was opening ever wider, and now I feared for my father as well. The Devil was called “the prince of the air,” and I knew why. I felt him in every breath of wind.

  The next day, I woke to an anxiety I could not lose. The memory of yesterday stayed with me. I could not look at Susannah without seeing my own damnation in her sly smile; I felt lost. My father had gone early that morning, but I knew that even had he been here, I would not have found the courage to approach him. Instead, my thoughts turned to Mary and the others. They would listen to me; they would understand. As the morning hours passed, I grew to believe it more and more, until the urge to go to Mary was so strong I would have made up any excuse to see her.

  As it turned out, I did not have to lie. I’d just finished trimming the last of the wicks when Susannah asked me to run into the village. Mary Walcott’s stepmother had a length of cotton for baby clouts that she’d never used, and she’d offered to trade it for a new wooden pail. Within minutes, I was out the door, dragging Jude behind me before Susannah had time to notice and protest. The pail my father had made for Mistress Walcott was sitting by the barn door, and I made Jude grab it up, and together we hurried into town.

  I walked fast to put the miles past us, so that Jude had to stumble and run to keep up. She huddled into her cloak and complained the whole way, but I barely heard her. The two miles beyond the Walcotts’ to the Putnams’ were not such a great distance. My spirits rose; it was almost as if I’d found Mary already.

  Captain Walcott and his family lived only yards from the parsonage. Once we were there, I hesitated, wondering if I should go on to the Putnams’ and stop back here on the way home, or stop now. In the end, the decision was made for me, and that, too, was fortuitous, because I’d been leaning toward going on. But Mistress Walcott saw us coming up the hill and waved to us from the garden, where she was clearing away the last of the dead vines.

  “Come along,” I said to Jude with a sigh. “We may as well go up. She’s seen us.”

  Jude’s face scrunched in a puzzled frown. “Isn’t this where we’re going anyway?”

  I didn’t bother to answer her. Jude was not good at keeping secrets—I would not have brought her at all except that I did not want her around Susannah. I’d been planning to keep her quiet with my best dire threats, but now there was no need of it. Because as we went up the hill, Mary came out from the house. I stopped in surprise, catching my breath and then nearly falling to my knees to praise God for making it all so easy. ’Twas as if He were pointing my direction. “Charity!” Mary called out, raising her hand in greeting, and I hurried the few yards to where she stood. I was breathless when I reached her.

  There must have been something in my expression, for her smile faded, and her hazel eyes darkened. “Why, what is it?”

  “I’ve been looking for you,” I said in a low voice.

  “I’ve been up at the sergeant’s. You knew that.”

  “’Tis hard for me to get there.”

  “And hard for me to leave.” She glanced toward her stepmother, who was straightening and wiping her dirty hands on her apron. “Mother asked me over today to help with the preserving.”

  There was an edge in her voice when she said this, a slight resentment, and I knew it was because Mary disliked her stepmother. I don’t think she had ever forgiven the woman for sending her out to the Putnams’, though ’twas a natural choice, because Mary’s own mother was long dead and her stepfather had no reason to want the child of his first wife around. Mistress Walcott’s brother was Thomas Putnam, who had many children and a sickly wife. He needed the help, while Mistress Walcott did not—she had Mary’s four half siblings there to help with her own infants.

  Mistress Walcott called out, “Thank goodness you’re here already, Charity. I’ve needed that pail for days now.”

  “Father just finished it this morning,” I called back. Then I nudged Jude and told her, “Don’t just stand there. Take it over to her.”

  I waited until Jude had gone out of earshot, and then I turned to Mary. “Can you talk a moment?”

  She sent a glance to her stepmother, then nodded. “Come inside. I’ve jelly ready to boil.” She called out, “Mother! Charity’s asked for some cider!”

  “She’s come a long way. Set some out for this little one too!” Mistress Walcott called back.

  I followed Mary into the house. The hall was sweaty and warm, with the tang of cranberries and sugar making my mouth water as I stepped inside. The kettle was hissing over the fire, and Mary hurried over to it with a sound of distress, and then calmed when she saw it was not boiling. She took a long-handled spoon and stirred it, and the steam rose into her face and sent the fine hairs peeking from beneath her cap twining into little curls. I had the small, envious thought that she was so pretty that even the damp flush on her face was sweet.

  Sweetness was a word that did not keep when it came to Mary. My thought vanished the moment she turned to me with her assessing, slanty eyes and her thin-lipped frown. “All right, then, we’ve only a few minutes. What do you want? This isn’t about the other day, is it? What have you done, Charity? Gone and told someone?”

  “No. No, of course not. I gave my word.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve broken it.”

  I was stung by her scorn. “Not this time.”

  “Then what?”

  “It—it’s about my aunt.”

  “Your aunt?” She looked surprised. “What have I to do with her?”

  “You were right about her,” I said breathlessly, glancing toward the door to make sure no one came in. “I think she is an actress.”

  “Really?” Mary drew herself up with a smug, triumphant little smile. “I knew it. Does your father know too, then?”

  “I don’t think so. ’Tis what worries me.”

  “Why, I’m amazed. I wouldn’t have thought he would miss such a thing.” She paused, and then she laughed in great amusement. “But then, he didn’t even know his own daughter was playing the trull with his apprentice—”

  “Mary!” Mary was rarely so coarse.

  “I’m only complimenting you, Charity. When you feel like keeping a secret, ’tis true you keep it well.”

  “It…I never meant for that to be a secret.”

  “No, of course not. Did you not wonder, Charity, why Sammy wanted you to keep it so? I would have thought he would court you openly instead of stealing your virtue in a barn.”

  I wanted to sink through the floor at the loudness of her voice, at the things she was saying. I said in a hoarse whisper, “Not so loud, Mary. What if someone should hear?”

  She shrugged. “No one is near enough to hear us.”

  “If they should come through the door—”

  “Tell me, Charity—” Mary leaned as close to me as she could while still stirring the jelly. “Those things that Sammy wanted you to do…Did you do them? Did he like it?” She lifted her fine brows suggestively.

  I wanted to squirm away from her; I was sorry I’d come. The things she said brought memories so clearly into my head that the sharpness of them hurt. I was sure she must be able to see in my eyes the things Sammy and I had done, the things she knew he had urged me to do, because I had gone to her for counsel. Mary had gleefully encouraged me to give in to him. If you love him, Charity, you’ll do whatever he asks. Do you want to lose him to someone who can satisfy him that way whe
n you will not?

  I made myself turn away, and Mary laughed and said, “It’s just that I’m jealous, Charity. We all are. Why, except for Mercy, you’re the only one of us who’s felt a man’s touch.”

  “I would not have done it had you not advised me to,” I said. My voice was so thin it seemed to disappear into the hiss of steam from the pot.

  “But you were glad of it, weren’t you? You would do it again if you could.”

  “No.” I shook my head violently. “No, I wouldn’t.”

  “If Sammy came back into town—”

  “He won’t be back.”

  “He won’t?” She paused. I felt her looking at me with that thoughtful stare, though I did not dare look back to her. “How do you know that?”

  “I-I don’t…really,” I lied.

  “You mean…one morning you woke up, and he was gone. He just…disappeared into the night. Is that the truth of it, then?”

  “That’s the truth of it,” I told her.

  I don’t know if Mary saw that lie too. I don’t know what she saw. All I know is that she left the long-handled wooden spoon spinning in the jelly, and stepped over to me, putting her steam-hot hand on my arm so it nearly burned my cold skin. The empathy in her face was such that I forgot the meanness of the other things she’d said to me.

  “Oh, my poor Charity,” she said. “What sorrow his leaving must have brought you. No wonder you did not want anyone to know—why, he used you and left you, and what else is there for you to do but wonder how you displeased him?”

  “Aye,” I managed to choke out, because in a way that was true enough. It had not taken much to make Sammy go. Not nearly as much as I’d hoped it would.

  “Well, I won’t say a word,” she whispered. “It will be our little secret. But you must promise to do something for me.”

  I drew back, wary again. “What?”