by Megan Chance
“What say you to this, Goody Good?”
“I was never in that man’s house,” the woman replied. “He lies to spite me.”
“Why do you not say the truth?”
“’Tis no truth I know.”
I listened in growing dread. It had been a dream. Yet, I could not help but remember how real I’d found it, how I’d burst from my bed to follow a figment of my imagination, how the window had been opened when it had been closed before, how solid she’d felt.
I had thought only the afflicted saw the specters. Only the girls in their torments. But William Allen was a hardworking man not given to flights of fancy, and his experience was enough like my own that I could not discount it.
’Twas then the word came into my mind: bewitchment. And this time it had a power I could not ignore.
Chapter 28
WHEN THE EXAMINATIONS WERE OVER, AND THE PRISONERS WERE led from the meetinghouse, and then the afflicted girls, I hurried after them. Tom had already forgotten his promise to return Charity to me; he had a tight hold on her arm as he led her down the path. When I rushed to him and stopped him with a shout, he looked disconcerted and faintly guilty.
“I had come to find you,” he said, though I did not think it was the truth. “Do you think it wise, Lucas, to take her back to your house now, given what has happened?”
I glanced at Charity, who was blank and exhausted. There was nothing in her eyes, not even recognition of me. She stood as one whose spirit had left her. “She is my daughter,” I said. “Do you not trust me to know what’s best for her?”
Tom looked flustered. “I have not questioned that. But this child called out on your wife’s sister, who lives with you. Until we can inquire into this latest accusation, I cannot believe ’tis safe for her to be there.”
“Where would you suggest?”
“There is room at my house—”
“No.” I took Charity’s other arm. “I will find a place for her myself.”
“As you wish. But it would be good to keep her close to the village for now. We will need all those who see the specters.” Tom stepped away, but before he had gone many feet, he stopped again and turned back to me. “What think you, Lucas?” he asked in a quiet voice. “We had all thought this would end after the first three were arrested. But there has been no relief. Mary Warren was afflicted today as well, and my own wife…” He paused, obviously pained. “My own wife has begun to see visions. If we are to believe Tituba, there are many more witches. Yet this time we are not talking of beggars or slaves. I think…we must tread carefully here. Shall we believe that your sister is one of them?”
I knew what he was asking me: whether or not I would deny my daughter, whether there should be a pursuit of the accusation against Susannah, if I would join them in it. I did not yet know how to answer him.
“Let me talk to Charity,” I told him.
Tom hesitated, and I saw the suspicion cross his eyes and knew that he, too, wondered about my relationship with my wife’s sister, that he believed I would try to influence my daughter to exonerate Susannah. Though I cared little for Tom, what I saw on his face wounded me. I found myself wanting to say to him, Do not be so quick to judge me. I am so uncertain.
I bit my tongue until he walked away. Then I looked again to my daughter, who stood listlessly beside me. “Shall we go home, Charity?”
She roused. The fear that came into her eyes was inescapable. “Home? Is she there?”
“Aye.”
“I cannot go there.”
I had meant to question her about Susannah, but with those words, there was no need.
The wind blew, cold and damp, and Charity shivered. There were few of my neighbors remaining; even Ingersoll’s had emptied, and so I led her there, seating her on a bench at the end of a table and gesturing to Sarah Ingersoll for a pitcher of beer. When it came, I poured some for myself and my daughter, but Charity pushed it away, saying that the smell nauseated her.
“Pray with me,” I said.
Charity looked at me with clear pale eyes. “Aye. We should pray for truth, Father. Though I wonder…Will you know it when you see it?”
She had never spoken to me such, and I was stunned into silence.
“You said the Devil has found your weakness,” she went on. “Do you really believe so, Father? I-I do not think I can fight him alone.”
I took her hand; her skin was so icy cold ’twas strange to touch it. I gripped her fingers to warm them. “I am still myself, Charity. I will not leave you to fight alone.”
Tears came quickly and suddenly to her eyes so they shone blankly, like the surface of a mirror. She drew her hand from mine and hugged herself tightly, withdrawing from me.
Sarah Ingersoll came over. “Will you be having something to eat, Lucas?”
“No,” I said, and then as she made to step away, I stopped her. “Sarah…”
She glanced at Charity, who had put her head into the crook of her arms, obviously exhausted. “Whatever I can do, Lucas,” Sarah said kindly. “You know that.”
“Will you keep her here for me?”
Sarah hesitated only a moment. “Are you sure this is what you want?”
I did not pretend to misunderstand. There was no love lost between myself and the owner of the ordinary, Nathaniel Ingersoll, who was Sarah’s father. He was a deacon in Parris’s church, one of Tom Putnam’s best friends. Keeping Charity here was akin to leaving her with Putnam, except that now Ann Putnam senior was having visions as well. Here, at least, was Sarah’s cautious hand. She and I had been friends many years, in spite of the fact that her father and I disagreed on village politics. I could trust Charity with her. I did not doubt it.
“Aye,” I said. “If you would promise to care for her.”
Sarah nodded somberly. “I’ll care for her as if she were my own.”
Together she and I took Charity upstairs. There was a small storage room at the back of the house, with a bed surrounded by casks of beer and kegs of Canary and Malaga. When Charity was settled onto the mattress, I stood staring at her for a moment after Sarah left. I pressed a kiss to her forehead, and she did not stir, not even when I whispered again, “I will not let you fight alone.” Finally, I left her, quiet and spent in the dark little room.
Sarah waited for me outside the door. “I will see no harm comes to her,” she assured me, and I smiled my thanks at her and left the ordinary.
The moment I was outside in the cold gray of dusk, my thoughts turned to the woman who no doubt awaited me at home. She was a witch—Mary Walcott had called out her name; no wonder Susannah hadn’t wanted Charity to go to the questioning—she knew she would be named.
I hurried for home, running faster when I thought of Jude, alone in the house with Susannah, of what I must do. When I rushed through the door to find Susannah and Jude at the settle by the fire, a perfect picture of domestic harmony, I prayed I was not too late.
When Susannah saw me, she put down her mending and rose, coming toward me with an uncertain smile. Then she stopped, glancing past me as if she expected to see someone else. Her smile changed to a frown. “Where’s Charity?”
“I’ve left her at Ingersoll’s.”
“Would she not be safer at home?”
I heard the insincerity now. The sound of her voice was as a scraping on my skin.
“Is Charity very sick, Father?” Jude asked from the settle.
“She is sick with the pain of true righteousness,” I said, ignoring Susannah’s gasp.
Jude looked confused. “She said Auntie was a witch, but she’s no witch, Father; I know it.”
I said nothing; I could not. The despair I felt at her affirmation was overwhelming. I saw the way my daughter turned to Susannah, the bewildered plea on her face.
“Tell him, Auntie. Tell him you are not a witch.”
Susannah paused. To me, she said, “I am not a witch.”
I moved past her, saying, “’Tis late, Jude. I will see you t
o bed.”
Jude glanced again at Susannah. I moved to block her view and said again, “Come.”
She came to me then, but not without a reluctance that pained me. I took the bed warmer and filled it with coals, then led her upstairs, settling it between her sheets. I waited while she crawled into the trundle and together we said a prayer to God for strength and forbearance.
When I was leaving, I heard her voice again, small and quiet. “She is not a witch, Father.”
I went downstairs. Susannah stood at the table. “What is it?” she asked. “Why do you look at me so?”
“How else should I look at you after what happened today?”
“Come, Lucas, surely you do not believe—”
“My own daughter?”
She said quietly, “I am not a witch.”
“Nor are Goody Good or Goody Osborne by their own admission. If that is true, then what do those girls see? Why does Tituba confess?”
“Perhaps because your pastor beats her.”
“What of the girls, then? Do you accuse them of dissembling?”
“Some of them. Mary Walcott, yes. The older Parris girl, probably.”
“And what of Charity? What of her?”
She had the grace to hesitate. “Charity is…troubled.”
“Aye. Troubled. As would any girl be who saw her father—”
She held up her hand to stop me. “Don’t say it, Lucas. Do not torture yourself this way. You cannot blame yourself.”
“Who else should I blame? You?”
She looked startled, as I had expected her to—how often was the Devil required to answer for his deeds?—and then she said, “Could it not be that no one is at fault? There are things that just happen, Lucas. Perhaps the stars lined up in just such a way, or the Fates—”
“I cannot attribute this to luck.”
“Charity’s troubles started long before last night. There is Sam—”
I heard the name and rage swept over me. “Do not dare impugn my daughter in my hearing again. This is none of Sam’s doing, but yours. Charity’s troubles began the day you set foot in this house.”
“You cannot believe that.”
“I cannot believe the other.”
Her voice was careful, devoid of emotion. “Charity has deluded herself.”
“The Devil would answer the same.”
“What would you have me do to prove my innocence?” she asked desperately. There was fear in her eyes, an expression that reminded me somehow of Judith. “I am your lover, Lucas. You can deny it, but that does not make it less true. Think of what we are to each other. Please…do not let your guilt delude you too.”
“That I should live with such sin—” I began.
“What is between us is no sin.”
I snorted my contempt at her words. “What would you call it then? Bewitchment? Obsession? I know what you have done to me. I had thought ’twas only a dream, but ’twas your specter instead, putting a spell upon me—”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Of course you do,” I said. “Did you not order your specter to climb onto me, to sit upon my hips in the dead of night, to hold me still so I couldn’t breathe? Did you not order it to say that you would have me, whether I willed it or not?”
“No,” she whispered. “No. I don’t understand you, Lucas. I never did such a thing.”
Her denial was fodder for the fire building in me. “I wondered why I saw no footprints in the snow outside my window when you left, but Tituba answered that for me. What long pole did you fly away on? Do you keep it in this house? Tell me, so I can burn the cursed thing.”
She shook her head. “I never flew on a pole. I never went to your bed, Lucas, not without your wanting me there. It must have been a dream.”
“What dreams have such real power? I could feel you. You were as real as you stand before me now.”
“Perhaps ’twas a very real dream, then,” she said, “but a dream, nonetheless. Things are not always what they seem, Lucas. You know that. When I first came here, I believed you beat your children and Judith.”
She was adept at this, this switch in subject, the turning back of guilt, the Devil’s trick.
“I cannot explain this by a misunderstanding,” I said. “Nor can you.”
“I have explained it. ’Twas a dream.”
“William Allen was visited by Sarah Good’s specter too. Do you know about that? Is it a trick all in the Devil’s service must learn?”
“I cannot answer that.”
“Cannot? Or will not? She did the same to him as you did to me. She sat upon him. She held him prisoner in his own bed for an hour.”
Susannah glanced away. “Such nonsense. Is that what was said at the examinations today? Is that what you would use to condemn me?” She looked back to me again. “You cannot do this. I know what you think, Lucas—if I’m the Devil, meant to tempt you, ’twill appease your guilt; ’twill absolve your sins. But there is no sin here, and I am not a sacrifice to be made to your God. I love you—”
“What can you know of love? You could not even bring yourself to marry the men you lived with. When you tired of them, you left. What can you know of the kind of love that keeps a man and woman together for seventeen years? What can you know of sacrifice?”
I used my words like weapons, battering her, and she went white with hurt. I buried my remorse with savagery—the Devil would turn my own emotions against me, and I would not give him the chance. I turned on my heel, starting to the parlor, but then I remembered Jude upstairs, sleeping and vulnerable, in danger now that Charity had exposed Susannah.
“I want you in the parlor tonight,” I said, “or in the cellar. I don’t want you near Jude. I will sleep out here on the settle to make sure you stay away from her.”
She stared at me in disbelief. “You cannot mean it.”
“Aye, I do. What choice will you make? The parlor? Or the cellar?”
She paused, and then she said quietly, “The parlor.” I stepped back from the door and motioned for her to go to it. She hesitated as she passed me. I held firm.
Chapter 29
I WOKE TO THE SOUND OF SUSANNAH TENDING THE EIRE. I SAT UP, sore from a night on the settle, disoriented.
There was a knock on the door.
Susannah jumped and spun around, spilling a handful of meal onto the hearth in her surprise. Clearly, she thought it was the warrant for her arrest, and I knew it could be. Wearily I made my way to the door.
I was not sure whom I expected to see. One of the constables, perhaps, or Tom Putnam. Even Samuel Parris would not have been a surprise. But when I opened it to find Nicholas Noyes standing on the doorstep, I was perplexed. “Parson. ’Tis an unexpected visit.”
“Forgive me for coming at such an early hour, Lucas,” Noyes said. “I’ve come to talk to your sister.”
I ushered him in, saying, “Susannah—’tis Nicholas Noyes. The parson from town.”
She stood stiffly, her hands clenched tightly before her. “Good morning, sir,” she said. She let silence fall after, and ’twas loud and uncomfortable.
Noyes shuffled within it. “I-I’ve been asked to speak to you regarding our poor afflicted ones.”
“I know already of their accusations,” she said. “Have you come to arrest me?”
He shook his head and smiled wanly. “This needs care, as I’m sure you realize. There is no point in haste—no one wishes to make arrests in error. The whole village greatly admired your sister. Even in town, we knew of dear Judith’s good works.”
I understood then why he was here, what he hoped to gain. Susannah was no beggar, no scandalous woman, and no slave. My family was respectable, and she was a part of it. Despite their suspicions, and the girls’ outright accusations, they were wary now of making a mistake.
I saw Susannah’s puzzlement. “Are you saying…’tis my sister’s reputation alone that has saved me?”
“We would take care in this,” Noyes s
aid again. “And to that purpose…I’ve come to take you to Thomas Putnam’s house.”
“Why?”
“Three of the girls are there. Little Annie, of course, and her cousin Mary Walcott. Mercy Lewis as well. John Hale and I have been counseling caution. We believe ’twould be wise for you to talk to the girls.”
“You want me to talk to them?” Susannah’s eyes, her voice, radiated skepticism.
“We’d like to see if perhaps there has been…a mistake. You understand, we would be sure in this.”
“Do I have a choice in this?” she asked.
Noyes looked at her. “’Twould be best, I think, for you to talk to these girls.”
“You did not answer my question. I asked you: Do I have a choice in this?”
“No. I’m sorry.”
Susannah took a deep breath. Then she took off her apron. Her hands smoothed over her skirt, went to her hair—’twas as if she primped for company. I could do nothing but watch her, even as she turned to me one last time before she grabbed her cloak and went with Noyes out the door. Her expression was as blank as Charity’s had been yesterday, and I felt the familiarity of that look as a chill that cut straight into my bowels.
I was too weak in this, and dangerously alone. I needed help. Guidance. Someone to give me the strength to keep my children safe. There was only one man I could trust with my deepest fears. Sam Nurse.
I took Jude to the Penneys’ house, where I left her with Hannah and Faith. I instructed her not to return home until I fetched her. Then I went to find Sam.
I told him everything. My friend listened to the whole, sordid tale, and then he nodded in silent understanding, and I did not feel so alone. Together we went to the magistrates, and I told my tale again—without saying to Jonathan Corwin the one thing that mattered. That Susannah and I had been lovers was a sin I could not admit—to tell Sam was one thing; to write it down for my neighbors to gossip over…that I could not do.
Sam stood at the back of the room, silently supportive through the three hours I was there. After I’d told my story, Corwin sat silently, reading over my words as he rubbed his closely shaven beard. The red-gold hairs glinted in the candlelight.