Condemn Me Not: Accused of Witchcraft

by Heather B. Moore

  “You were imprisoned because someone told lies about you?” Rebecca says with a shake of her head. “It seems our society has learned nothing.”

  “George posted the one-hundred-pound bond, and eventually the charges were dropped,” I say, the events of that year still making my heart ache. “But the damage was done—far more than what was done by William Browne. Although William Sargent was found guilty of slander, my reputation never recovered.”

  “And you had Christopher Bartlett to deal with later,” Rebecca says. She places her hand on my arm. “I’m very sorry.”

  I suppose I should see the irony in Rebecca Nurse offering comfort to her fellow-accused witch when she is also awaiting trial for witchcraft. I put my hand over hers and squeeze. “You are kind to apologize for the unapologetic.”

  Rebecca’s smile is brief. There is too much pain surrounding us for a true smile.

  “Tell me your story,” I say.

  “It’s just as everyone else’s. Life is full of challenges, and we but have to endure them.” She pauses. “My sisters Mary Esty and Sarah Cloyce were imprisoned too. Many years ago, my mother was accused of witchcraft, although she was never convicted. I suppose the villagers believed she was guilty of witchcraft and passed it down to her daughters.”

  I blow out a breath. “Is that why you pray all of the time?”

  Rebecca is quiet for a moment. “It might have been why I started, surely, but it brings me comfort in a world with very little comfort. With eight children, life is precarious.”

  “That I can agree with,” I say.

  “Francis and I married in 1644, and he built up a nice business of building wooden household items. We started out renting a farm of three hundred acres, but we were able to gradually buy it. He even served as an unofficial judge in Salem and as its constable.”

  “You sound like the perfect target for the Putnams with all that land.”

  “It’s true. We were involved with a number of land disputes with the Putnam family.” She clasps her hands together and says, “It was Edward and John Putnam who accused me first.” Her voice trails off, and I think she is finished with her story, when she says, “I am innocent, Susannah, innocent like a child not yet born to this world.”

  I reach for her clasped hands and take them in my own. “I know. I believe you, Rebecca.”

  Salisbury

  The wedding banns were read three Sabbath Meetings in a row. Of course my parents would never reject an offer made to their twenty-five-year-old daughter. They probably thought the day would never come. I thought the day would never come.

  George started on our house right away. I told him we could live with my parents for a while or stay with his sister, but he was determined to build something for me. We had a house-raising, setting the simple frame in place, and then he spent every spare moment, sometimes far into the night, sawing and hammering.

  After supper was cleared up, I’d often cross the field to watch him, handing him nails or doing odd jobs. The house was situated on the other side of the barn from the main house, and it was only two rooms. George said we’d get a bigger house later, or he’d build more rooms on when the children came. Every time he said it, I blushed.

  Little Hannah would stay with Goody Martin for now. George said his sister needed something to do, something to keep her thriving.

  As I approached the new house one evening in early July, I carried a rug that I’d tied. It would be the first article in our home. The kitchen area was complete, and as I came within view, I could hear the sound of the hammer coming from the single bedroom. I’d thought the wood planks were already set, so I wondered what George was doing.

  I walked into the kitchen, marveling that this place would really be ours. It was covered in dust and bent nails at the moment, but by the time we married the next month, I’d have it tidy.

  I entered the bedroom to find George building a bed frame. He was also shirtless, which I really couldn’t blame him for. It was the hottest time of the year, and the heat didn’t fade until long after the sun set.

  George looked up and stopped hammering. My breath caught, and I knew it wasn’t a good thing to be in our bedroom-to-be with him dressed like that—or rather, undressed. I hadn’t seen him without a shirt since that day in the barn.

  “You’re here,” he said, climbing to his feet. Perspiration glistened on his chest and arms, and I took a step back; he was a bit too male at the moment.

  I unrolled the rug I’d brought and shook it out. “Do you like what I made?”

  He walked toward me, making my heart pound, and I took another couple of steps back so that we were in the kitchen.

  “I love it,” he said, taking it from me and spreading it on the floor. “Looks perfect.”

  I admired the way the warm colors brightened the stark room already. I noticed a table that hadn’t been there before. “You built a table, too?” I asked.

  “I refurbished it, then I stained it,” he said, leaning against the wall. I dragged my eyes away from his bare torso and examined the table. Things were coming together in this small house, and in just a few weeks I’d be Mrs. George Martin. It was strange to think about.

  He came up behind me and wrapped his arms about my waist.

  “You’re sweaty,” I said, not daring to lean back for more reasons than one.

  “That’s because I’m building us a bed,” he said, right before he kissed my neck.

  I wanted to turn in his arms and press my mouth against his, which was probably not the wisest thing since he was still half dressed. Instead, I pulled out of his grasp and walked to the door before he could stop me. Once outside, I skirted the house, George watching me from the doorway.

  “It’s looking like a real house now,” I called to him.

  He grinned at me as I inspected the exterior. “You’re avoiding me, Susannah North.”

  I turned to face him, my hands on my hips. “Maybe you should put your shirt on, then.”

  He disappeared inside, then came back out a minute later, pulling on his shirt. “Better?”

  No, but I said, “Yes.”

  He laughed and grabbed my hand, tugging it toward him, then kissed my palm. “Sorry to make you nervous.”

  “I’m fine,” I said.

  “Excellent,” he said, leaning down and kissing my cheek. “I promise to be good, at least for a few more weeks.”

  My cheeks heated, and he laughed again. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll walk you home.”

  “Don’t you need to finish what you were building?”

  “You mean our bed? There’s still an hour of light left. Do you want to stay?”

  I couldn’t get the image of his bare stomach out of my mind. “I don’t think I should. Mother will be expecting me.”

  He slipped his hand into mine and nodded.

  I felt fortunate to find a man who made me want to be with him every moment, yet didn’t shy away from teasing me. But kissing him lately had been too intense, and even though we’d be married in a few weeks, I couldn’t let my guard down now. And he seemed to have no such reservations. I wasn’t sure what to make of that. He was certainly an experienced kisser; was he experienced at other things as well?

  It had been on my mind more than I cared to admit. To think of him with his wife made me self-conscious.

  George must have noticed I was quiet in thought. “It’s just me, you know,” he said, slowing his step. “George Martin—the man you’re engaged to?”

  I nodded but didn’t say anything.

  “You’re not changing your mind, are you?” he said.

  I looked up at him, and I was surprised at the genuine worry in his eyes. “Why would you say that?” But even as I spoke, I knew I didn’t sound too convincing.

  “Because you won’t let me kiss you,” he said softly.

  How could I tell him my worries? Would he laugh? Think I was a silly woman? Tell me it was none of my business?

  “We do kiss,” I sai
d.

  “For the last couple of weeks, you’ve turned away,” he said. “I didn’t want to make it a big concern, but I’d like to know why.” His fingers released mine, and he stopped walking.

  I took a couple of more steps, thinking of what I could say without sounding like a silly, naive woman. He walked to me and brushed my cheek with his fingertips. “Talk to me, Susannah. You’ve never had trouble before.”

  I stared at the ground, willing my eyes not to burn with tears. He’d always been a flirt; I’d known that since day one. But from the moment we were engaged, I hadn’t seen him talking to the other women like he used to, at least nothing more than simple friendliness. Maybe I was overreacting. Maybe this was what they called cold feet.

  But seeing the house almost complete and George working on our bed frame, half dressed, I realized that he would, indeed, be my husband. And I would be his wife. Was I ready to be so intimate with him? To change my identity for a man?

  “Susannah,” he whispered, his fingers tipping up my chin.

  The tears had fallen, and he brushed them away.

  My throat hitched, and finally the words came. “You’re too good of a kisser for it to be innocent. You’ve been married before. You’re experienced where I am not. For all I know, you could have been with a whole string of women before marrying.”

  He looked surprised, but that wasn’t any indication of innocence. “Are you asking which other women I’ve kissed?”

  I nodded, then shook my head. I was too embarrassed to continue this conversation. I turned from him, but his hand was on my arm.

  “I kissed a few women before marrying Hannah. But none of them were like you, and none of them made me feel like you make me feel.” He paused. “Not even Hannah, although she was a great woman and a great mother.”

  I let that settle into my heart. It made me feel a little better, but I was still unsure.

  “What about our wedding night?” I couldn’t look at him. My cheeks were so hot. “Will you be laughing at me?”

  His arms came around me, and he kissed my forehead. “Never.”

  I looked up at him then, to see the truth in his eyes for myself. “Promise?”

  “Of course. You don’t have anything to worry about with me. What about you? What other men have you been with?”

  I pushed against his chest. “How dare you ask me that, George Martin!”

  He lifted his hands in surrender. “You asked me. How is that different?”

  I was smoldering, both with relief and something else I didn’t recognize. “You know you are the first man I’ve kissed.” My stubbornness had kicked in, but it was better than my painful doubts.

  George grabbed me, laughing. I squirmed against him, but finally settled in his arms. “You’ll be safe with me,” he whispered in my ear.

  My face flushed, the heat spreading through my whole body. I released a sigh and let him hold me.

  “Don’t be nervous,” he said.

  “I’m not nervous,” I said. But I was.

  “I’ll take care of you.” He kissed me on the cheek, soft and sweet. “Trust me.”

  I wanted to cling to him, but I knew better than to start something that would lead to other things.

  “I love you, Susannah. Don’t forget that,” he said, as if he still felt compelled to convince me.

  “I love you, too.” I let my hand slip into his. We didn’t talk the rest of the way to my house, but we didn’t need to. Our hearts were in unison.

  Salisbury

  The morning of my wedding on August 11, I woke with a pounding headache. It might have had something to do with the fact that I was up half the night, sewing and restitching the dress I’d made over from my sister Mary’s dress. The alteration was not working. We were simply too different, and I regretted even trying to make it work.

  Finally, I gave up in the early morning hours and fell into a fitful sleep.

  The sun was streaming through my east window when I opened my eyes next, and I sat up with a start. My dress was nowhere near finished, and after seeing the crumpled heap on the straight-backed chair, I knew it was hopeless. I’d have to wear my Sabbath dress.

  “Susannah,” my mother called from the hallway as she approached my room. Her eyes widened when she stepped into my room. “You’re not even up yet.” She looked from me to the dress. “What’s going on?”

  Tears burned in my eyes, and I took a stuttering breath. “I tried to alter it, but it just won’t fit. I’ll be wearing my Sabbath dress.”

  Mother’s face pulled into a frown. “If I would have known sooner, we could have purchased fabric in town.”

  “No,” I said. “We can’t afford it, and there wasn’t time to make something new, anyway.”

  I climbed off my bed and took down my Sabbath dress from its peg.

  “I wish I would have brought my dress over from England,” she said.

  My parents had sold everything they could to buy passage.

  Mother opened her hand and revealed a cameo brooch her mother had given her. “You can wear this today—it will look lovely on whichever dress you choose.”

  She had worn it on her wedding day, and I knew it was her most valuable possession. “Thank you,” I said, hugging her. Mother was not a very affectionate person, but I couldn’t let this moment pass without an embrace. George had taught me that more than anything.

  Feeling downhearted, I heated water over the oven fire and filled up the bathing tub in the kitchen. I would be married this afternoon, yet I’d be dressed like any other Sabbath day. Mother crushed dried lavender in the water, then she left the room so I could have privacy. My father would remain in the fields until early afternoon when it was time for him to get washed up to go into town.

  I undressed, then settled into the warm water. Tomorrow morning at this time, I’d be a married woman—a woman experienced in love.

  I flushed at the thought. I bent my head forward, letting my hair float on the surface of the water, then I let my fingers pull the strands beneath the surface. The scented water felt heavenly, and I slid lower in the tub, letting the water rush over me.

  Then I scrubbed my scalp and rinsed out the lather. Mary would be coming by to fix my hair, so at least I’d have one thing special for this day. By the time I climbed out of the tub and dried myself with a cloth, I felt more relaxed and less frustrated about not having a real wedding dress.

  By the time I had dressed, I heard Mary’s wagon pulling up. I flung open the front door and hurried to her side to help her down from the wagon. She was positively glowing in her pregnant state.

  “Oh,” she said, her eyes narrowing as she studied me. “You’re wearing that.”

  “Don’t give me grief, now. I’ve barely slept at all trying to get your dress to work. There’s nothing for it, though.”

  Mary pursed her lips and bustled inside the house, as much as her awkward shape would let her. She headed straight for my bedroom and picked up her discarded gown. I came in beside her, my arms folded across my chest.

  She examined the dress for a moment, then turned to face me. “You’re right. There’s nothing more to be done. I was sure it could be remade.” She sank to the bed and held it against her chest. “It was a lovely dress.”

  “Sorry I picked half of it apart,” I said, sitting next to her on the bed. “Perhaps I can stitch it back together, and you can pass it on to your daughters someday.”

  Mary gave a small shrug, and she glanced at the door, then back to me. “Did Mother give you a talking-to about the wedding night?” she asked.

  The back of my neck felt warm. “I’m twenty-five, Mary, not a girl of seventeen or eighteen. I know a thing or two.”

  “Oh?” She raised her brows so high they nearly touched her hairline. “Do you? Have you been up to no good?”

  I slapped her arm. “Of course not. I meant that I don’t need any advice from you, and especially not Mother.”

  Her mouth stretched into a smile. “George wi
ll school you, eh?”

  “Mary!” I stood and crossed the room, putting distance between us. “It’s none of your concern.”

  Mary raised her hands and laughed. “All right. I’ll be quiet. But if you have any questions, I’ll be happy to tell you how to please your husband.”

  My mouth dropped open then, and she stood and left my room, carrying her wedding dress with her. I stared after her. Should I ask my sister for some words of wisdom? No, I thought. I couldn’t stand her knowing what my questions might be.

  By the time we reached the Meeting House, my heart would not stop pounding. My hair had been intricately braided by Mary and intertwined with flowers, and I wore my mother’s cameo with my pale blue Sabbath dress.

  I noticed right away that the Martins’ wagon had not arrived, and my breathing doubled. What if he changed his mind? What if something befell them on the ride there? Wedding guests had already arrived, most of them friends of my parents.

  Orlando came to greet me, leaning in to kiss my cheek. It was very forward of him, and I blushed, but his smile was sweet. I saw Constance in the background, a smile on her face. It seemed the two were getting on well together, and I was pleased for them both.

  The magistrate arrived, and still the Martins were not there. Now I knew that my mother was worried, although my father looked quite unfazed. Mary sidled up to me and grasped my hand. She didn’t need to speak; we were both thinking the same thing.

  I left the Meeting House and stood in the hot afternoon sun that was sliding west. And then I saw the wagon. Relief pulsed through me, loosening the knots in my stomach.

  All the Martins were in the wagon. Little Hannah sat between George and Goody Martin. My heart soared. There had been talk of Eve coming, but neither my mother nor I took it seriously. We had not seen Goody Martin at more than two Sabbath Meetings since they moved here.

  My gaze met George’s, and my heart soared anew. It was as if the love I knew he felt for me reached across the space between us as if no one else was around. I wanted to be with him, and him only, while everyone else faded away.