Susannah Morrow

by Megan Chance

  She finished my thoughts softly. “You cannot marry me. I have not asked it. I will not. I do not need marriage.”

  “The law is clear. You are my wife’s sister. ’Tis the law—”

  “I understand well enough. I am no fool, Lucas.” Her hand came up to rest against my face. “It doesn’t matter. I am glad to be here. I was…happy to leave London.”

  “Why was that?” I asked quietly, half afraid of the answer, of Susannah’s revelations, which made me as uncomfortable as her secrets.

  “Robert was dead,” she said matter-of-factly. “His son did not want me there.”

  “London is a big city.”

  “Aye.” She sighed. “But it seems I’ve the heart of a country lass. I could not get Lancashire out of my bones. And so I left, to find it elsewhere.”

  I laughed. “To find it here.”

  She smiled back at me. “I was not certain, when I left London, that I would stay here. I did not think beyond the next tide.”

  “And now?”

  “And now…I will stay until you wish me gone.”

  “Just now, I cannot imagine that.”

  Her fingers trailed lingeringly through the hair on my chest, a light tease, though her expression went thoughtful. “Perhaps you do not know yourself as well as you think,” she said. Then, as if to ease her words, she leaned down to kiss me. She whispered against my mouth, “Again, Lucas.”

  I put my arms around her and rolled her onto her back and obliged her, but even as I lost myself in the sensation of her body, I felt a soft doubt that fed the guilt I could not quite appease, a quiet fear.

  Chapter 23

  I WOKE TO A POUNDING ON THE DOOR. THE ROOM WAS HEAVY STILL with night. I pulled my nightshirt over my head and stumbled groggily through the cold room, wrenching open the parlor door to see Susannah coming down the stairs. She glanced at me in question, and I shook my head and went to the door while she stood back, wrapping a shawl about her.

  “Who is it?” I called.

  “’Tis Sam Nurse, Lucas.”

  My daze cleared—I was suddenly wide awake. I grabbed my flintlock and pulled the door open, squinting into darkness barely eased by the faint glow of the snow. “What is it? Has there been an attack?”

  “God save us, no,” he said hastily. “’Tis nothing like that. There’s news. About the afflicted girls. Father’s sent me for you.”

  I looked at him in confusion. “But…the meeting. ’Tis not until this afternoon.”

  “The ministers have already been praying with the girls. Then late last night—they’ve seen witches, Lucas—or at least, the specters of some.”

  I heard Susannah’s gasp behind me. I stared at Sam. “They’ve seen what?”

  “Get dressed,” Sam said. “I’ll explain on the way. We must hurry.”

  Quickly I went to the parlor and dressed. When I came out, he was saying to Susannah, “…when the Hubbard girl and Annie Putnam were afflicted, they grew afraid. John Indian told his master of it last night, and the girls began calling out.”

  “What is this?” I asked. “What happened?”

  “The Indian woman made a witch cake,” Sam said, turning to me.

  “A witch cake?”

  “Mary Sibley suggested it to her. She and her husband mixed rye with the girls’ water and baked it to feed to the dog. ’Tis said such a thing will help discover witches.”

  “It seems to have worked,” Susannah noted.

  “Aye,” Sam said grimly.

  “Tom Putnam’s there?”

  “His daughter’s one of the afflicted. He’s there. And his brother Edward. Now we should go. Father has said ’tis too strange a sight. You’d best be prepared.”

  “It could not be stranger than what I’ve already seen.”

  “Let us hope that is true.”

  Sam and I nearly ran the distance to the parsonage. The ground was slippery and treacherous; ’twas a thin layer of mud beneath thawed and refrozen ice. When we arrived there, dawn came on full, breaking into a sky heavy with clouds. The parsonage door was opened by Parris himself.

  “Come in, come in,” he said in a high breathless voice. Behind him, in the hall, I heard voices, screams, Nicholas Noyes’s precise voice saying once, and then again, “Who is it? Who afflicts you?”

  Parris turned to go back to the hall, leaving us to follow after. I closed the door behind us, enclosing us in this place that sounded more like a madhouse than a parsonage.

  In the hall, the four girls were in the throes of agony. The littlest child, nine-year-old Betsey Parris, cowered under the table, barking a sharp punctuation to the moans of Elizabeth Hubbard, the doctor’s niece, who grabbed her plump arms and moaned as if someone pinched her mercilessly.

  The prayers John Hale tried to say were drowned out by their cries. Sam and I went to stand beside Francis, who watched from the corner. Tom Putnam and his brother Edward were there, along with William Griggs and one or two other villagers. I saw the slave woman, Tituba, in the corner, though her man was nowhere to be seen.

  “Who afflicts you?” Noyes asked again, leaning close to Abigail, who screamed in his face.

  “She pinches me! Stop hurting me!” she screamed. Her voice was too high, hard to listen to. She grabbed her throat, her pale gray eyes bulging as she gasped for breath.

  “Dear Lord, this is untenable!” Parris cried.

  Beneath the table, Betsey barked and scratched upon the bench.

  Parris spun on his heel. He took two steps before he stopped and put his hands to his head as if the noise made him mad, and then he glared at Tituba in the corner. She cowered the moment his gaze found her, bringing her arms up over her head in a way so familiar to me that I cringed.

  But he did not hit her then—perhaps ’twas the presence of us all that kept him from it. Instead, he cast his fist at her ineffectually. “What hell have your evil ways wrought?”

  “None, Master. None.”

  “You liar!” He spun away, as if too furious to look upon her another moment. “You stupid woman! You and Mary Sibley both!”

  John Hale walked calmly over to her. “Tell us again what happened.”

  Slowly she raised her head. “I tell you all this already. There is no more to be said.”

  “It is still not clear to me.” Hale touched her arm. “No one will hurt you. You have nothing to fear.”

  Her dark gaze shifted to the girls. No doubt she thought there was much to fear in this place.

  “Two days ago, Goody Sibley says me and John should make a witch cake,” she said. “So I get some of Betsey’s water and mix it with the rye and bake it to give to the dog. Goody Sibley says if there be witches, the dog will show it.”

  “What happened when you did this?”

  She hesitated. Her glance went to Parris and then slid back again. “The dog, he eat it some. Not all.”

  “Did he show signs of bewitchment?”

  “I saw nothing strange in him.”

  “No,” Parris interjected bitterly. “Instead, two other girls became bewitched. My own children are seeing specters where there were none before.”

  As if on cue, Abigail, his niece, howled louder and screamed, “No! No! I will not!”

  Tituba shuddered. “I did not mean for this, Master. I did not know.”

  Hale sighed and turned away. “It seems you might be right, Samuel. The witch cake must have been responsible for revealing to them the specters.”

  “Can there be another cause?” Parris asked. “The foolish woman has invoked the Devil to reveal himself. Look at them! Can anyone doubt it?”

  “I will not sign your evil book!” Abigail shouted.

  Little Annie Putnam rose, her cap falling from her head, her nearly white hair falling over her shoulders. Her arm was so stiff as she pointed that the cords of her muscles defined her skin. “Nor I! I won’t sign it! I won’t!”

  Noyes rushed closer, his dark eyes intent. “Who is it that asks you to sign? What book? W
hat do you see?”

  “A woman! The devil’s book!” Annie screamed. Then she, too, put her hands to her throat. She stuck out her tongue. It snaked to her chin, an impossible length. We gasped in unison, aghast, horrified.

  Tom rushed forward. “She is choking! Help her! Can you not help her?”

  John Hale grabbed his arm, pulling him back. “Stay, man. You must not interfere.”

  “’Tis not your daughter!”

  “Stay!”

  Noyes thundered, “Who afflicts you?”

  Annie’s eyes widened. ’Twas clear she was being prevented from speaking by some force we could not see. Behind her, Abigail gasped. “Look! Look who is there beside her!”

  Noyes turned to her. “Who does this? Who hurts her?”

  “I do not know. Oh…I cannot tell! ’Tis the Devil.…Oh! There is the dark man.…”

  Beneath the table, Betsey screamed. Parris lunged for her, falling to his knees, cracking his shoulder on the edge of the table. The child scampered away like a disobedient dog trying to escape a master—dodging beneath the bench, snapping at her father’s hands. He became like an animal himself, trying to grab her.

  “Who afflicts you?” Noyes cried again.

  “Tituba, get yourself here now and help me!” Parris snarled.

  The little girl cried out, screaming, curling into a ball, her dark curls hiding her face. “Oh! Oh! Titibee!” she cried—’twas a most piteous sound, torturous. “Titibee!”

  John Hale gasped. Parris went still, as did Noyes. “What is it?” Noyes asked. “What did she say?”

  Suddenly Abigail screamed out, parroting her cousin. “’Tis Tituba! Aye, ’tis her! Oh, leave me be! No! Oh, she is pinching Annie! Aye, I can see her now!”

  “No!” Tituba’s eyes went wide in disbelief. She shook her head. “No, ’tis not me. They be mistaken. Look at me. I stand right here. I do nothing to those girls.”

  Annie Putnam’s own scream was bloodcurdling. Large red welts began to rise on her arms.

  It was impossible to believe, yet I saw it with my own eyes. I was struck dumb at the power of it. I could not look away.

  “Child, can you not tell us who afflicts you?” Noyes said to Annie Putnam, and the girl cried, “’Tis Tituba; ’tis her!”

  The slave woman did not move, even as all eyes turned to her. She did not try to run when Edward Putnam broke from the rest of us and went to the back door, clearly meaning to prevent her escape. She did not stop shaking her head. Her words were like a chant. “’Tis not me. They be mistaken.”

  Elizabeth Hubbard had not ceased her convulsions on the floor. “Who is it tormenting Elizabeth?” Noyes asked Annie. “Is that Tituba’s specter as well?”

  Annie froze. She looked to Elizabeth and shook her head. “No. No, ’tis someone else.”

  “Who? A woman?”

  “I…I do not…” She looked upset, confused. “I cannot tell.”

  “Is it a woman or a man?”

  “A…a woman.”

  “An old woman?”

  “Aye,” Annie said uncertainly. “’Tis an old woman.”

  “’Tis Sarah Good!” Abigail called out.

  Quick fear came into Annie’s eyes. “It is. It is. Sarah Good. She is hurting Betty!”

  Parris stood from where he’d been under the table, without his daughter, who still cowered and shook beneath the bench, moaning, “Titibee. Titibee.”

  “Are there others?” John Hale asked.

  “Many others!” Abigail said, and those strange eyes of hers seemed to glow. “Oh, there are three. Three women. ’Tis Tituba and Goody Good and another! I can see them! They are dancing around Betty. Oh, stop! Stop! Leave her be! Oh, leave her!”

  Three women. Those of us watching moved back as if all pulled by a single string. The evil in this room was in the very press of the air; ’twas nearly impossible to breathe. To think there were specters within inches of us…I did not want to believe it, but I didn’t know what else to think. Judith had not trusted these girls, yet had she meant Betsey, who was a mere child of nine? Or Annie Putnam, who was twelve? Those were girls closer in age to Jude than to Charity—I had never seen Charity with either of them. Even so, I could not look at them and think they were in any way dissembling. The welts still shone on Annie’s arms. I had seen with my own eyes her tongue stretch to a prodigious, unimaginable length. How could this be a lie? How could this be anything but Satan’s torments?

  I glanced to Sam and then to Francis, and I saw that they felt what I did, that whatever doubts we’d had were gone. The village had surely been chosen by the Devil. My own worry for my daughter grew until I could not stay a moment longer. I grabbed Sam’s arm to get his attention, and whispered, “I must go. Do you need me still?”

  He shook his head and whispered back, “We’ll stay until they name the third.”

  It seemed evil itself followed me from that wretched house on the path toward home. The darkness of the woods was nerve-racking, but even the openness of the fallow cornfields held the sense of impending disaster, of an evil laid so thick on the air that the entire village must be breathing it. I knew for certain after today that we were all afflicted. Witches in Salem Village. Tituba and Sarah Good, and one other.

  When I reached my own door, I was cold to my very marrow. I came inside, stamping the wet snow from my boots, my fingers clumsy as I fumbled with the fastening of my cloak. When I went into the hall, Susannah was at the fire. Jude looked up from sweeping the hearth. When Susannah saw me, she stopped short. “What is it?” she asked in a hushed voice. “Lucas, what has happened?”

  “Where’s Charity?”

  “Upstairs. She went to fetch some dried cod.”

  I hurried up the stairs, nearly running into Charity as she came down. She looked distracted and ill, her hair lank, her nearly colorless blue eyes the only tint in her face. She carried two stiffened pieces of codfish, and when she saw me, she stopped short, nearly dropping them.

  “Father, you’re back,” she said.

  “Give the fish to your aunt and come with me into the parlor,” I commanded her, and her expression went wary, which broke my heart, that my own daughter had somehow lost her trust in me. But she nodded and did as I asked.

  I closed the parlor door gently behind us. I motioned for her to sit at my desk.

  “These girls…These friends your mother and I forbade you to see…Who was among them?”

  She churned the fabric of her skirt so hard I thought ’twould surely tear.

  “Which girls?” I demanded again.

  “M-Mary Walcott,” she said slowly. “Betty Hubbard and Mercy Lewis and Mary Warren, who works over at the Proctors’. Lately there has been Susannah Sheldon.”

  Not Betsey Parris. Nor Annie Putnam. Not Abigail Williams. Of the four girls afflicted, she had named only one. But one could be enough. Slowly I asked, “Were there no others? When you met at the parsonage, were the pastor’s children there as well?”

  She frowned. “I hardly saw the girl and boy.”

  “What of Betsey? Or Abigail?”

  Charity went quiet. Her eyes went blank, as if she had fallen inward. “Charity,” I said softly, “did you meet with Betsey too? Or Abigail?”

  Her gaze came back to me. “Oh, tell me they have not died.”

  “They are not dead.”

  She reached out her trembling hands across the table to me. “We must leave this place, Father—we must leave, you and me and Jude. We must take Faith and leave before he finds us too.”

  “Before who finds us?”

  “He is looking,” she said. “I feel him every day, searching my heart.”

  “Who do you speak of, child?”

  “The Devil.” Her voice lowered, her lips trembled as she spoke the word. She was clearly terrified.

  “God protect us,” I murmured.

  Tearfully she whispered, “You are in danger, Father. We are all in danger.”

  I could not help myself. I gathe
red her into my arms, and she grabbed hold of me and held me close as if afraid that I would be whisked from her. “I will not let him touch you, Charity,” I whispered to her, thinking of little Betsey Parris scrambling back from her father’s hands, of Tom Putnam racing—too late—to keep his daughter safe. “I have been to town already to arrange for you to go to Daniel Poole’s.”

  She pulled away, blinking, uncomprehending.

  “’Tis best, I think, that you leave the village for a while. Goody Poole will be happy to have the help, and the children—”

  “You are sending me out?”

  I took a deep breath. “Aye. Now that your mother—”

  “You cannot make me leave you. You cannot take me from my mother.”

  “You are leaving me only for a short time, and your mother has been taken from you already,” I reminded her gently. “You are closer to her in her place in Heaven—”

  “She is not in Heaven,” Charity said.

  “She is with God, child. She was too good not to go.”

  “She is not there, I tell you!” Her voice rose, high, shaking. “’Tis my fault she stays. Every day, I hear her voice! ’Tis my fault. ’Tis my sin that holds her.” She was shaking badly now, her face gone so pale there was no color, her eyes wild.

  “Charity—”

  “’Tis evil that’s here now. I could not keep it from her. I will not let it take you. I can’t leave you here alone.”

  “I am hardly alone. There is Jude, and Faith is just next door. Your aunt is here.”

  I thought Charity would swoon. I reached for her, but she grabbed the edge of my desk, steadying herself. “’Tis how she wants it. To be alone with you. To corrupt you…”

  “Child, I do not understand you.”

  “You cannot make me go!” She screamed the words. “I will not go!”

  It took all my strength to say calmly, “You will pack your things, and be ready to go to town on Saturday next. I will hear no more about it.”

  “No. No, you don’t understand.…”

  “I understand well enough. You are my daughter. You will do as I say.”

  “But…But you need me. Father, you don’t understand. There is…evil…here.” She put her hands to her face and crumpled before me, sobbing.