Salem's Daughter

by Maggie Osborne

  Tilting her head, Bristol listened to the familiar ring of faint bells drifting from the Coopers’ farm, and in a moment the slam of the buttery door as Noah rushed to pull the bell in the Adams’ yard. Almost immediately, William Grigg’s bell answered Noah’s, and the buttery door banged again.

  Each Sabbath dawn, Reverend Parris began the Sunday pealing by tugging the bell fronting the parsonage, until responding bells sounded from each direction. Those answering neighbors rang their bells in turn, until the next-distant farm heard and replied. Thus the call to worship traveled out to the villagers.

  “My last meeting,” Bristol murmured, her heart squeezing. Listlessly she brushed her red curls and tied them at her neck. She wouldn’t mourn the loss of Reverend Parris and his dry, complaining sermons, but she felt desolate at leaving the weekly gathering of friends and neighbors.

  Heart as heavy as her cloak, Bristol climbed into the wagon bed and settled next to Charity in the warm straw. Hannah handed the girls thick wagon quilts to combat the chill, then took her place on the high seat next to Noah. The horses pulled from the Adams’ yard.

  Sad eyes peeped over the quilt edge, and Charity asked, “You’ll leave this week, won’t you?”

  “Aye.”

  “Oh, Brissy!” Charity’s lower lip quivered, and her pale eyes moistened. “I’ll miss you with all my heart!”

  “I’ll miss you too, goose.” Bristol reached for Charity’s glove under the quilts, and she tried to smile, wishing Charity wouldn’t cry. Her own tears bubbled too near the surface to withstand an outburst from her sister.

  Bristol’s full mouth curved in a wry smile. All she needed to complete her disgrace was to arrive at meeting with red and swollen lids. Every eye in the village would be watching. She doubted a single soul in Salem Village remained unaware that she was being sent away.

  She sighed. “I’ll write, Charity, and you must, too.” She patted Charity’s hand. “Tell me everything that happens, no matter how small it seems.”

  Charity nodded, glancing quickly at her parents’ stiff spines above her head. She leaned close, cupping her hand, and whispered, “I’ll send word of Caleb.”

  “No!” Seeing Charity’s startled expression, Bristol softened her tone. She too flicked a hasty look toward her parents’ backs. “I never want to think about Caleb Wainwright again!” Deep inside, she wondered if she could actually live up to such a vow. He’d been only a whim, she reminded herself.

  “But, Brissy...” Charity frowned, puzzled.

  “That part of my life is over. I despise Caleb!” Stonily Bristol stared at patches of melting snow dotting the fields. Spring’s first tentative breath lay in the air. And she would not be here to smell the buds blossom in the apple trees. Or watch the honeysuckle unfurl. Did honeysuckle grow in London?

  “Brissy, what’s happened?” Charity’s eyes rounded, and the quilt dropped from her chin. “You saw him!” Amazed, then anxious, Charity darted a glance toward her parents. But the swaying backs above took no notice.

  Not daring an answer, Bristol stared at the passing fields, but a reply showed in the set of her jaw, in the angry betrayal deepening her eyes to jade.

  Charity’s thin mouth fell open. Timidly she leaned forward and touched Bristol’s sleeve. “Brissy, are you certain? You really... despise... Caleb Wainwright?” Her voice was incredulous.

  “I do!” Bristol answered emphatically. “I hope I never see him again!” Because of him, she’d lost her last chance at home. A dismal existence in England would be largely his fault.

  Charity’s face lit with a soft glow, and a rose-colored wash bathed her freckles. “Are you very certain, Brissy?”

  “Aye!” Bristol said between clenched teeth. Let Caleb tempt someone else to the lash. Let him use another’s body and turn the trust to betrayal. But not hers, not Bristol Adams’. Never again!

  Stammering and blushing furiously, Charity spoke in a rush, “If you’re certain... I mean, I think that I.... that is, if you and Caleb aren’t...”

  Bristol stared. “Charity! Are you saying you feel something for Caleb Wainwright?” She was astonished. Perhaps a small flame of passion burned in Charity’s breast after all. But Caleb!

  “Aye,” Charity whispered, plucking at the straw.

  Bristol turned the information in her mind. Caleb’s refusal to elope stuck like a thorn in her heart. She’d never forgive him... would she? Why should she care if Charity wanted him? Bristol didn’t want anything more to do with him. He’d cost her the home she cherished.

  That wasn’t all he’d cost. Bristol’s cheeks flamed scarlet, and she hid her face. Dark smudges shadowed her eyes from lack of sleep; each night she tossed in a quagmire of guilt and shame, regretting those moments in the settler’s cabin.

  Her first impulse was to warn Charity of the lash and the cabin in the woods, but she saw no way to speak of these things without revealing more than she could bear to. Or without sounding jealous of Charity’s interest.

  Charity’s timid eyes watched anxiously, containing a flickering hope which Bristol recognized. How often her own face must have looked like that! Poor Charity, she thought sadly. She couldn’t imagine Caleb courting Charity; the girl had set her heart for the moon.

  Impulsively Bristol squeezed Charity’s hand. “Beware his eyes and tongue. Papa is right, neither are to be trusted.”

  An inner radiance spread across Charity’s face. “Oh, Brissy, do you mean it?” she breathed. “You don’t mind?”

  Smiling, Bristol shook her head, submitting to Charity’s elated hug. Gently she disengaged herself, feeling a pang of guilt at Charity’s response. Bristol didn’t believe the remotest possibility existed that Caleb might be induced to court Charity. For one thing, Noah’s opposition stood in the way, and for another, Charity was... well, such a pallid little thing compared to Bristol.

  Ashamed of such vanity, Bristol shifted in the straw, feeling disloyal and contrite toward her sister. But, a devilish voice persisted, a vast difference did exist between the two.

  Uncomfortably Bristol realized she counted on this difference. It only appeared she made Charity a generous parting gift; in truth, she offered Caleb in full belief that her own position would not be weakened. If she chose to forgive, Caleb would be waiting.

  Changing her mind, Bristol turned to Charity. But she closed her lips at sight of Charity’s beaming happiness. No, she’d say nothing. Charity’s hopes would be punctured soon enough in the natural course of events. There was so little to brighten the lives of the village’s young girls, it could do no harm to allow Charity her dreams.

  Still, Bristol felt strange thinking someone else wanted Caleb, would be watching him in that special way. Noah reined the horses before the meetinghouse, putting an end to Bristol’s confused thinking. How could it be that she’d sworn to hate Caleb and now had second thoughts when she learned Charity wanted him? She brushed any tender thoughts out of her mind. All she need do was recall where she’d be spending next Sabbath to refresh her anger.

  Lifting her small charcoal foot warmer, Bristol held up her chin and followed her parents into the frosty meetinghouse. She slid into the children’s pew next to a starry-eyed Charity and settled her feet near the little stove. The service began. Bristol lifted her face, resolutely refusing to glance toward the men’s side of the room. However, she fervently hoped the tithingman found cause to strike a certain sandy head with the hard knob at the end of his long cane.

  Reverend Parris had chosen the book of Job for his morning text, and hearing, Bristol sighed. There could be no mistaking whom Reverend Parris cast as the modern-day Job. She fixed her attention on the pulpit, knowing today would stretch long, with more than the usual bickering and number of altercations during the noon break.

  From the beginning, Salem Village had been divided in opinion regarding Reverend Samuel Parris. The strutting little preacher’s supporters backed him solidly, but nearly half the village viewed their reverend as a pompous
fraud. He lacked previous preaching experience, they pointed out, he had no history of notable success in anything, and scant leadership ability.

  Nevertheless, his supporters countered, Reverend Parris was the best Salem Village had been able to entice, and they defended him staunchly. For his part, Reverend Parris fought the defectors with increasingly bitter sermons.

  Today, Bristol correctly guessed, the great firewood controversy would surface, thinly veiled, before the afternoon sermon. Her shoulders dropped. Not a person shivered in his pew who had not suffered countless firewood allegories many times previously.

  Reverend Parris continued to insist that each villager personally deliver firewood to the parsonage door, paying direct homage to the importance of the reverend. The Village Council, however, stubbornly viewed this demand as an imposition. Particularly as most of the congregation would be required to spend an entire day traveling nearly eight miles round trip to deliver their portion, and particularly as Reverend Parris had only to step from the parsonage door, walk one hundred yards into the forest, and pick up all the firewood any man might require.

  By way of compromise, the Council voted a six-pound increase in the reverend’s yearly salary, deciding to settle the matter by providing funds to purchase firewood, generous funds. Thus the reverend would have his firewood, stacked and split, at no inconvenience to himself, and no parishioner would be forced to a long cold ride. An equitable settlement, most felt.

  With the exception of Reverend Samuel Parris. The fight raged on. Any congregation worthy of calling themselves saints should be willing, even eager, to deliver their pastor’s firewood in person. The issue was a question of respect. Such deference was a pastor’s just due.

  Weekly, some accusing reference surfaced in the words flowing from the pulpit: “God,” shouted Reverend Parris, “allowed his chosen one to suffer, to be spit upon and defiled and abused by Satan.”

  Not a person in the congregation mistook who assumed the role of Job and who acted Satan. Satan deprived Job of firewood. Several chins firmed along the pews, and more than one pair of eyes took on a steely, defensive glint.

  “And where is Satan today?” Reverend Parris paused dramatically and hefted the paunch above his breeches. His small raisin eyes bored into the shuttered faces. “Look about you! See Satan hiding behind self-satisfied smiles, jeering the saints in this very house of God! See him here! I assure you, Satan walks in Salem Village as surely as the pines stand in the forest!”

  Goodman Giles Cory jumped up to announce noon break, and a breath of relief fogged the frigid air in the meetinghouse. Everyone sprang to his feet gratefully, stamping away cramped muscles, smiling hesitantly at neighbors. Everyone knew the reverend referred to those depriving him of firewood when he shouted Satan dwelled in Salem, but... one couldn’t be absolutely certain; unexplained events did occur. Hadn’t Goodman Thomas Putnam’s crops been blasted last summer, burning in the fields, when all around him the plots yielded bountiful harvests? An ounce of caution and a watchful eye were clearly indicated, firewood or no firewood.

  One watchful eye cared more for a head of sandy hair than speculations about Satan. Carefully Bristol averted her face from the men’s side of the room, lingering with friends until the meetinghouse cleared. Only then did she submit to Charity’s impatient tug.

  She’d glimpsed Caleb from the corners of her lashes, but she refused to meet his eye. Each morning, to her shame, she’d run to the well, her heart leaping with hope of discovering a white scrap tied to the bucket; and each morning she’d been disappointed. Caleb would not alter his decision to let her sail. Bristol tied her hood with angry, jerky movements.

  Only when she was certain Caleb and his ailing father walked enough ahead to prevent a chance encounter did she wave to her friends and follow a small group of Parris supporters to the parsonage.

  Pausing at the door, Bristol looked briefly toward Ingersoll’s tavern across the lane. There the majority of the congregation fled for warmth and a steaming mug and a fortifying bite. Did Caleb stare from those steamed windows, or did his blue eyes scan the room in search of a new pretty face? Bristol’s mouth set, and she stepped into the parsonage, giving the door a little slam behind her.

  As always, the conversation focused on local politics, with each man offering an opinion to explain the ruptures within the village. Bristol folded her hands in her lap, prepared for a lengthy redundant discussion.

  “We need to be a town in our own right,” Thomas Putnam insisted, his open rural face intense. “Only when Salem Town grants us autonomy can we hope to solve the village problems fairly!”

  Old Francis Nurse rumbled agreement. “Everyone here is suing someone else, and we have to look to Salem Town to settle the issues, when they know nothing of underlying causes.” A lively discussion of Goodman Nurse’s property disputes followed; then Reverend Parris deftly turned the conversation to the merits of parishioners delivering firewood. A few eyes hardened. Even among this small group of like minds, serious differences of opinion simmered below the surface.

  Bristol sighed. Sometimes Salem Village reminded her of a sleeping volcano, tempers and animosities held temporarily in check but rumbling and bubbling just out of sight. The political and personal ground appeared to be always shifting, always uncertain, always threatening eruption.

  To the relief of most, Reverend Parris hefted his stomach and offered the noon prayer. Table conversation would be of a lighter nature.

  All the women contributed dishes to Elizabeth Parris’s Sabbath table, not cooked on Sunday of course, but diligently prepared the evening before.

  Bristol eyed the groaning table without interest, knowing no matter how tempting the food, each bite would stick in her throat. She lacked the heart for this last meal at the parsonage. Dinner chatter rose around her, and hands reached and bowls passed along the long table. A lavish array of food passed beneath Bristol’s nose: hot pumpkin soup, fried eel, cold mutton, cornmeal pudding, slow-cooked baked beans, buttery squash, whortleberry swish, venison pasties, and flaky white sheets of roast turkey.

  Staring at the slab of turkey on her trencher, Bristol recalled the Frenchman in the woods. Had she known her efforts with Caleb to be wasted, would she have allowed that Jean Pierre his stolen kiss? She pictured him sitting atop the black stallion, wild turkeys swinging from his saddle. And she remembered the odd feeling in the pit of her stomach when he pulled her from the snowbank. Circles of hot color dotted her cheeks; now she understood her own response. The Frenchman had been strikingly handsome.

  Of course, I wouldn’t let him kiss me, she told herself vehemently, wondering why she’d had such a thought. Still... At least the Frenchman made no pretense of his intentions. Whereas Caleb... Recalling that day reminded Bristol of the attendant humiliations. First Jean Pierre’s teasing laughter sounding in her ear, then Caleb’s refusal after she had... Bristol shook her head angrily and stabbed the suddenly offending turkey.

  “My, my,” Martha Cory murmured, lifting an eyebrow. “Aren’t we testy today!” She spooned a bite of corn pudding into her mouth. “If you want my advice, you’ll submit to your punishment gracefully. You brought this grief upon yourself. You should thank your pa the punishment wasn’t worse!”

  Shoulders sagging, Bristol listened to Martha Cory’s unwelcome flow of advice. Goody Cory took it upon herself to be the village conscience, dispensing judgment and advice with equal vigor.

  “Children today haven’t an ounce of sense! At least most.” Martha paused for breath, her snapping eyes pointedly telling Bristol which child she meant. Bristol dropped her eyes. “Some folks’ could learn a lot from little Ann Putnam over there.” Goody Cory nodded toward quiet, sober ten-year-old Ann Junior. “Ann is such a comfort to her mother! Why, that child runs the Putnam house like a woman three times her age. There’s a lesson there!” Martha leaned forward, squinting at Ann Junior. “I believe I need to mention Ann’s hair. She has more of it pinned under her cap than is decent
in a young girl. I’ll speak to her.”

  “Hmmm.” Bristol chewed at the sawdust turkey. Ann Junior had to run the Putnam house, like it or not. Ann Senior proved generally incapable, falling into continual nervous depressions. Bristol glanced down the table toward Ann Senior. Ann Senior toyed with the food on her trencher, her distracted gaze directed out the frosty window toward the village cemetery.

  Bristol sniffed. Hannah had lost as many babies as Ann Senior, but you didn’t find Hannah Adams wandering the lanes in a strange demented state looking for the witch responsible. A lesson to be learned, indeed!

  Her last meeting was proving a large disappointment. None of the girls her age had been invited to the parsonage, and Goodwife Cory was her dinner partner. The day sank from bad to worse. Grimacing, Bristol decided to try her luck with old Rebecca Nurse. She swiveled and shouted into Goody Nurse’s ear.

  Rebecca’s little face lifted with a quick smile. She reminded Bristol of a withered brown apple left in the sun to ripen into a thousand cheerful wrinkles. “What?” Rebecca answered in a loud voice. “What is it, dear? I’m a tad hard of hearing, you know.”

  Bristol smiled. “I said, do you like the baked beans? Mama made them.”

  “Do I take greens? Aye, dear, when we have them, but I don’t believe Elizabeth has any today. Wrong season, you know.” Goody Nurse patted Bristol’s knee with her soft veined hand and returned to her trencher. Bristol’s breast rose in another sigh, and she gave herself up to Goody Cory’s persistent stream of complaints and admonitions.

  When the meal ended, the adults congregated before the reverend’s hearth, which contained a feeble parlor fire—one more reminder of his continuing battle on the firewood front. The children were dismissed to the kitchen. In Puritan New England, children included all unmarried girls regardless of age, a restriction the girls resented, but not today.

  Immediately, five young faces brightened, and the girls gladly excused themselves in favor of the reverend’s large warm kitchen.