But I didn’t really hate it, and my heart was racing at the fact that he’d trade a day of grueling work just to coerce me into walking with him.
Although the sun was about an hour from setting, it was still quite hot, and without the wind that the wagon provided, my bonnet didn’t keep me too cool. So I veered off the road and walked near the groups of trees, catching shade where I could. George stayed by my side, and when a wagon rumbled past, we both waved. It was the Ingersoll family and their three young boys. By the next morning, I was sure that word would get out who George was walking home today.
A second wagon went by, and I knew it would be the last one passing this way. That meant only silence stretched between us and the final half mile home. The longer we didn’t talk, the more awkward it seemed to say anything. I imagined George spending each Sabbath walking a different woman home, maybe for years to come, and the town finally giving up on George getting hitched to anyone. I laughed at the thought, but hadn’t realized I’d laughed out loud until George said, “What’s funny?”
I looked over at him, feeling sheepish. He did look nice in his Sabbath finery; his dark blue coat made his eyes look more blue than gray, and his shirt underneath was snowy white. Unlike the shirt that I’d last seen him in. I decided I enjoyed both of his looks equally, which of course made me blush for no reason.
George’s eyebrow quirked as he watched me. I looked forward again and said, “I was just thinking . . . Well, I don’t know how to say it without offending you.”
He slowed his step and touched my arm. “Will you tell me if I promise not to be offended?”
I stopped too, facing him. “All right.” I took a deep breath. “With all of the women you seem to enjoy flirting with, I thought that perhaps it might be ages before you settle down. In fact, you might be quite an old man with a significant limp and only half your teeth before you choose your bride. And that would mean there will be many, many Sabbaths when the townspeople pass by in their wagons and see you walking a woman home.”
George stared at me for a second, speechless. Was he mad? Offended after all?
He grasped my hand, and before I could pull away with indignation, he tugged me deeper into the trees until, even if a wagon did pass along the road, we wouldn’t be spotted.
He stopped and released my hand. For that I was grateful because I didn’t think I could endure much more touching by him. But then he raised his hands to my chin and untied my bonnet ribbons. He lifted the bonnet and tossed it to the grass.
“What are you doing?”
“Cooling you off,” he said.
“I’m perfectly fine managing my own body temperature.”
The amusement was back in his eyes, and I realized I had missed his teasing. I didn’t care for the serious-George quite as much as I thought I would.
Then he stepped to the side of me and pulled out the pins from my braided bun.
“George,” I protested, but it was in a weak whisper.
His fingertips brushed the back of my neck as he undid the braid. My body quivered at his touch. When the braid was undone, I realized I did feel cooler without the bonnet and without my hair being done up. A slight breeze stirred through the trees, and the combined shade made the temperature quite pleasant indeed.
But George wasn’t finished. He threaded his fingers through my hair, standing close enough that our bodies were almost touching.
My heart was pounding wildly. I knew he was going to try to kiss me again, but I couldn’t allow it, no matter how much pleasure it would bring.
I stepped away from him, and his hand fell to his side.
“We shouldn’t dally,” I said, my breath nearly gone. “My parents will be wondering about the delay.”
He just gazed at me, and I was not about to analyze the expression on his face, so I picked up my bonnet from the ground. “You can walk me home or stay here; it’s your choice.”
“Susannah,” he said, his serious tone giving me pause. “Why have you been avoiding me?”
Any trite answer died on my lips. Maybe it was time to be straight with him, once and for all. It was probably better considering we might be neighbors for a while and would likely grow old together in the same town.
“I won’t be one of your flirts, George,” I said, meeting his gaze full-on. “I’m not like Anabel or Constance. I’m not looking for a convenient husband or some kissing in a barn. I was perfectly happy on my own before you came around, and I intend to stay that way. So the fact that you traded fixing my father’s wagon to walk home with me tells me that you like a challenge and don’t like to be told no. But I’m not going to be your challenge—someone for you to drop whenever you find a new pursuit.” My hands were on my hips, and my chest heaving. To my dismay, I felt the tears start. I turned away, determined to put a good distance between us before any tears fell.
I took three steps before he caught my arm.
“Susannah, you’re not one of my flirts.” His other hand went around my waist, forcing me to turn toward him. “Those other women are just friendly, and if it makes you envious, then all the better.”’
I stared at him. “You’re trying to make me jealous?” I gave a hollow laugh. “How can I be jealous if I don’t care what you do?”
He leaned down, his forehead nearly touching mine. “I think you do care.”
I pulled my arm from his grasp and used both hands to push against his chest. “Even if I did care, I won’t stand for it. I won’t be a part of your games.”
His hands grabbed mine, encircling them, and pulling me against him. “Then let’s stop the games and get married.”
I felt as if I’d stepped into a cold rainstorm.I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. I tried to step away, to put some space between his words to me, but he wouldn’t let go. He lowered his head and kissed my neck, then my jaw, then the heat of his mouth was on mine.
Since the first time he kissed me, I had tried to forget, but it all came rushing back in an instant. And if I thought his previous kiss was exhilarating, this kiss about made me pass out. It was familiar, yet new, and with all the stubbornness that had passed between us, there was a tenderness to George’s passion.
I kissed him back. I couldn’t help it. He’d just asked me to marry him, which told me that I wasn’t his flirt and perhaps he wouldn’t be spending the next thirty years walking a different woman home each Sabbath.
“Susannah, marry me,” he whispered against my mouth, and I was lost again. His hands moved along my back, holding me closer than I thought was possible. It was almost as if clothing didn’t separate us. “I’m not asking you lightly. I’ve been married before. I know what it takes, and I know what I want. I promise to never flirt with another woman again,” he said, drawing back, then kissing my forehead, my cheeks, my eyelids. “Unless it will get you to kiss me back.”
My eyes fluttered open. “You must not value your life.”
He grinned. Finally, that grin was back. “My life is yours to do with what you will.”
“You’re a brave man.”
“Perhaps,” he said, his finger running along my face, then down my neck, and along my collarbone. A new heat started inside of me. “But I heard that love does strange things to a man.”
I could barely breathe for the desire coursing through me. “Are you in love with me then, George?” Could it be true? What about his first wife? Was it like this between them?
“If it’s not love, then I’m truly doomed for life to follow after every step you take.”
“Even if those steps are short?” I said.
He chuckled. “I’ll go at your pace . . . always.” His hand moved up to my face, and thank goodness they did. I was about willing to let him break the commandments, if we hadn’t already. “I’m crazy about you, Susannah, and I can’t stop thinking about you—night or day. And if that’s love, then I’m definitely in love with you.”
“It might be love,” I hedged. “But how will you know for sure?�
� I thought about his first wife again. Had he said these things to her, too?
His lips moved into a slow smile. “We could probably come up with some sort of a test.”
I found I was caring less and less about what his relationship was like with his wife. I had him now, here, his arms around me. “Like pulling petals from a flower? Or writing me poetry?”
George’s brows drew together. “Flowers are better.” He stepped back and searched the ground for a wild flower. When he found a daisy, he picked it and held it out. One by one, he tugged off the petals: she loves me . . . she does not . . . she loves me . . .
I laughed when the last petal came up as does not.
“I guess that test failed,” I said.
“No,” he said, his eyes on me as he closed the distance between us. He broke off the end of the stem instead. “She does not.”
With one petal left, the answer was clear. I stepped into his arms and let the world shrink to just the two of us. I whispered, “She loves you.”
George lifted me up against him and kissed me achingly slow. When he broke away, every part of my body was numb. “It looks like I’ll be needing to speak to your father.”
[Following the tormenting of Susannah’s specter upon the afflicted girls in the courthouse, who are showing extreme suffering]
Magistrate: Who do you think is their master?
Susannah: If they be dealing in the black art, you may know as well as I. I desire to lead myself according to the Word of God.
Magistrate: Is this according to God’s Word?
Susannah: If I were such a person, I would tell you the truth.
Magistrate: How do you know? He that appeared in the shape of Samuel, a glorified saint, may appear in anyone’s shape.
Magistrate: Do you believe these do not say true?
Susannah: They may lie, for aught I know.
Magistrate: May not you lie?
Susannah: I dare not tell a lie if it would save my life.
Magistrate: Then you will speak the truth?
Susannah: I have spoken nothing else. I would do them any good.
Magistrate: I do not think you have such affections for them whom just now you insinuated had the Devil for their master.
[Elizabeth Hubbard flinched and murmured that Susannah had pinched her hand. Others shouted that her specter was on a beam in the courthouse.]
Magistrate: Pray God discover you, if you be guilty.
Susannah: Amen. Amen. A false tongue will never make a guilty person.
—Susannah Martin’s Examination, May 2, 1692
Adapted by Marilynne K. Roach, author of The Salem Witch Trials
Salem Jail
The next few days bring sweltering heat. It has not even been a week since Bridget Bishop was hanged, and we awake to the clanging of the metal door from the next cell. I sit up with a start, regretting the sharp movement. My neck throbs, and for a moment, I am disoriented.
Then I hear the clang again, and voices reach me.
“He is dead,” says a man whose voice I don’t recognize.
“What happened to him?” another voice. This one’s the jailer’s.
The other women in the cell are stirring, and I climb to my feet, aiding myself with the wall. As I shuffle to the bars to see what is going on in the neighboring cell, a new smell arises above the dank—the smell of death.
My heart sinks as I see the jailer drag Roger Toothaker from his cell. His once sturdy body is thin and brittle from only a month in jail. It doesn’t take long for the body to fold in on itself in protectiveness. Mr. Toothaker’s eyes are closed—a merciful observation. Does this mean he died in his sleep?
“Oh, Lord. Have mercy,” Rebecca whispers, coming to stand by my side.
Mr. Toothaker’s cell door is closed and locked, although his body remains in the corridor. A group of men have gathered, and I realize they are the coroner’s jury. Holding their lanterns high and peering down at the body, one of them says, “His death is natural. He is an old man, after all.”
The other men nod and continue staring down at the body for a moment.
Natural? I choke on the word. When has being imprisoned for witchcraft, starved, and neglected ever been a natural way to die?
“Contact his family,” the coroner says. “If the family wants him back for burial, they can pay his jail bill first and carry him out themselves.”
I watch in disbelief as the coroner and his men exit the jail and leave Roger Toothaker’s body behind. Even in death, the man isn’t given any respect.
I turn away from the scene of death and meet the gazes of Elizabeth and Rebecca. They’ve come to see for themselves what is going on.
“Is there nothing we can do?” Rebecca whispers.
The jailer is at the other end of the prison somewhere, so I say, “Let’s wait to see if his family comes. If they don’t, perhaps we can raise the money for a burial.” Even as I speak, I know it is likely impossible. But how long will they leave Mr. Toothaker’s body in the corridor?
A movement against my skirts startles me, and I look down to see little Dorothy clinging to the cell bars. She is staring at the body on the other side. What must be going through her head, I do not know, but it’s impossible to protect her mind and eyes from the grim sights and sounds of our quarters.
“Come,” I say to her in a gentle tone. She lets me take her hand and lead her deeper into the cell, away from Mr. Toothaker’s lifeless body. Sarah Good has her eyes closed, her head resting in the crook of her thin arm.
I sit a few feet from Sarah Good and settle Dorothy on my lap. The little girl nestles against my breast, and for a moment, I feel comforted. If I could but close my eyes and imagine that I’m at home in Amesbury with a healthy grandchild curled on my lap. If I could but turn the fetid scents of human waste and rotted food to the smell of a fresh-plowed farm, new peas, and sunburned cheeks.
As it is, there is a small girl on my lap who needs as much comfort as I do. The women in our cell are either asleep or quiet. It seems we have become numb to the tragic death of Roger Toothaker, even before his body has been disposed of.
The sun rises, and the light shifts. If a morning meal is coming, it could still be hours away, and all we can do is wait. We cannot command anything or anyone. Waiting is our new life. Waiting to be fed. Waiting to be tried. Waiting for what comes next. From my vantage point, I can see the feet of Roger Toothaker, and I think on what I know of his life. Too little, I realize. Not enough. I should have spoken to him more. Perhaps offered him comfort. Perhaps found out about his family.
Now it is too late.
Rebecca Nurse comes and settles by me, her praying done for the time being. I glance over at her bent fingers, gnarled with age, spotted with wisdom. There is not much difference in our hands, as we were born in the same year.
She turns her head toward me and says softly, “This place takes the troublemaker out of all of us.”
I am surprised at her statement, and it makes me smile. “Can’t cause much trouble on this side of the bars.”
Her return smile is faint, but it’s there. “Tell me of who Susannah Martin is out in the world, who she is outside these walls.”
“Calling me a troublemaker is highly accurate. I’ve never been one to keep my opinions to myself,” I say. “My stepmother and my husband could certainly attest to that, if either of them were here today.”
“When did it start for you?” Rebecca asks.
I look past her, to where Sarah Wildes is curled on her side, having fallen back asleep after the commotion Mr. Toothaker’s death caused. “I suppose it’s been over thirty years now. In 1660, we were living in Amesbury, and William Browne accused me of tormenting his wife, Elizabeth.” I pause, the ridiculousness of it burning in my chest even now. “With my spirit, of course. As if my spirit had nothing better to do than float around and torment. Browne said I was the cause of his wife’s insanity.”
“Ah,” Rebecca says. “What happe
ned with the charges?”
“Nothing at the time,” I say. “It just caused an upheaval with some of our neighbors, but I wasn’t too fond of them anyway. Years later, my husband had to fight for my place in the Meeting House. Seems that some of my neighbors sided with Browne.” I lift a shoulder, then sigh. “I shouldn’t have dismissed it so easily though. Browne was one of my accusers.”
Rebecca raises her eyebrows at this. “After all these years? What did he say?”
“The same things he said over thirty years ago,” I say, leaning my head against the stone wall. “It’s a wonder he remembered so much, but apparently, he spent the years thinking of little else. He claimed that I would appear at his house as a bird and peck at his wife’s legs and torment her.”
“And the court believed him.”
I exhale slowly. “Yes. Although William Browne was not my only nemesis.”
Across the cell, Sarah Wildes shifts in her sleep, then turns her head. Blinking her eyes open, she takes in the surrounding scene. Rebecca and I are the only ones awake in our cell, and Mr. Toothaker’s body remains in the corridor, unclaimed.
Without a word, Sarah rises and comes over to sit by us, next to Rebecca.
I continue my story. “After the mess with William Browne, William Sargent Jr. became my tormenter.” I shake my head at the memory. Even now, it seems unbelievable that a person could say such awful things about another person. “He claimed that I gave birth to an illegitimate baby and then killed it.”
Rebecca stares at me, her eyes wide.
“I was arrested and put into jail. My husband, George, wouldn’t stand for it, not for even one moment. The same day as my arrest, George filed suit against William Sargent for slander. And then George filed suit against William’s brother, Thomas Sargent, who said equally nasty things.”
“Like what?” Rebecca asks quietly, leaning closer to hear.
But I don’t care who hears my story. All of the women in this cell have proved their merit. They will not accuse another in order to free themselves. “Thomas Sargent called my oldest son, Richard, an imp and my second son, George, a bastard.”
Condemn Me Not: Accused of Witchcraft Page 10
