There was but one way to stop the gossip, and that was to derail it.
Henry coughed to draw their attention. “Please, my dear. Introduce me to your friend so we may put her distress to rest.”
Both women turned to him, one just as startled in appearance as the next. Lydia’s lovely countenance had strained with fright.
He bore his best smile and a fervent hope Lydia would not render him further useless when the opportunity arose. Addressing the visitor woman, he said, “Speak not of adultery, Goodwoman, for Lydia is my wife.”
Chapter Three
Lydia could scarcely believe Henry’s words. He, her husband? Though it mattered not, for the words, once spoken, could not be returned to their source. All at once she was extremely grateful she had never spoken to her neighbors details of her missing husband, for now no contradictions could exist. He had simply been gone, and now returned.
But Henry! The mere thought made her flush. And what of his departure? She thought his injury temporary—nothing that wouldn’t heal with a short rest. Would she next fall to disgrace in abandonment? It mattered not. Abandonment would not earn for her the penalty of death. She had risked much by joining his bedside, though she had performed no wrong. Was she guilty of misjudgment? Perhaps. While she had known his worry of her husband arriving carried no merit, she had laid no expectations on being called upon by Salem Village’s greatest gossip.
Rebecca Mather’s expression had left its accusing trait for one of exceeding curiosity. “It is very fine to meet you, Goodman. You have been gone some time.”
“In distant travels,” Henry said. “It is good to know we have neighbors of such attention. I worried for Lydia in my absence.”
“Rebecca,” Lydia implored, drawing the woman’s scrutiny from her guest. “Why do you call upon me at this hour? Is something wrong?”
“Oh! Goody Putnam’s babe. He is poorly. They need you right away!”
“Of course!” Lydia sought her coats, overly aware of Henry’s eyes upon her. To Rebecca she asked, “Have you a wagon?”
“My husband waits outside. Her girl ran for us at this awful hour. Something must be terribly wrong.”
“I can be there.” She looked to Henry. “Are you okay until I return?”
“I am. Be well, wife.”
Lydia ignored his teasing as best she could, though her view of him thrilled her like it had not before. Puritan law put to death adulterers, so as long as she remained married in the eyes of Salem she would not dare fornicate, husband or not. But this man with the chestnut hair and smiling eyes had shifted something deep within, and in doing so he had given them each freedom to explore in the ways of matrimony. Could she be so reckless? Her insides swirled with an excitement she dared not label.
She tucked herself within her coats, gathered her small bag, and accompanied Rebecca to the door. When Lydia turned to cast one final look at Henry, he lifted a hand, curling his fingers one by one, even as the door closed between them.
Outside, the spell lifted. Lydia hurried into the wagon with Rebecca to join Rebecca’s husband, Thomas, where he waited with Goody Putnam’s young daughter, Constance. A girl of seven years, she must be frightened this dark and windy night, for Rebecca Mather offered no comfort to anyone outside of her own devices.
Upon Lydia’s arrival, Thomas Mather jumped from his seat and offered his hand.
She responded to his kindness, accepting the boost. Once settled next to Constance, she looked to see Rebecca frowning mightily as she and Thomas found their places.
“What is the worry?” Though she wondered at Rebecca’s scowl, Lydia directed her question to the young Putnam girl as the wagon lurched forward.
“He is inconsolable,” Constance said. “He will not eat through his cries.”
Lydia patted the child’s arm. “His lungs are strong, then. Fear not.”
Rebecca watched the exchange with hawk eyes. Once Constance seemed to settle, Rebecca called to Thomas at the reins. “Did you hear Goodman Colson has returned?”
Lydia could not be sure with the winds, but she thought Thomas might have sighed. “From whom would I hear it but you, my dear?”
His words gave Rebecca grief, as she turned and placed her hands primly in her lap. “Is he Puritan?” she asked.
The sly tone gave Lydia pause. He did not look Puritan with the roguish length and style of his hair, but what was she to answer? “Neither of us are born of Salem,” she said, “but faith has led us here.”
“Of course you are not from here! You have been here scarcely a year—everyone knows. Though I must say, there have been a few wagging tongues as to the whereabouts of your husband. I suppose this turn will put them to rest.”
Lydia felt certain the tongue which wagged the most belonged to the woman seated across from her, but spoke it not. Her worries were split between the condition of the Putnam babe and Rebecca’s hint of scandal. Lydia had become too comfortable with her own ruse, and now she feared what damage the talk may have already caused. To appease her own worries, she patted Constance on the knee.
The child offered a wobbly smile through her tears.
Rebecca paid no mind. “Did you hear Betty Corey has been brought up on charges of witchcraft?”
Something deep inside Lydia shuddered. Witchcraft arrests had carried on for years, but this recent rash of accusations she found worrisome. “Betty Corey is but a beggar. Were she capable of witchcraft, would she not conjure a loaf of bread upon herself?”
“She is evil.” Rebecca sneered her distaste. “You can see it in the filth upon her face.”
Though she found the sense lacking, Lydia thought better of protesting. Rebecca thought herself of great importance, a status she thought earned by minding everyone’s business but her own. Lydia and her long-lost husband were sure to be the morning’s headline, if this longest of nights ever ended. First the Louder babe, then Henry, and now the Putnam child.
Fortunately, their trip neared an end. Constance sat up straighter as the dimly fire-lit windows of her home appeared round the next bend.
“Calm, child,” Lydia said. “All will be well.”
As soon as the wagon slowed, Constance hopped from it as a roughshod boy might, with no second thought given to her skirts. She kept to her feet, though, and fled to the home. “Mama!” she cried. “Goody Colson is here!”
Rebecca stared at Lydia as though they had unfinished business between them. Rather than endure the discomfort, Lydia rose and helped herself off the wagon, taking a good deal more care than had young Constance. “Will you await my return, Thomas, or are you on your way?”
“Of course I will escort you home. There is no place for a beautiful woman alone on this night.”
His words earned a look of filth from Rebecca, bringing Lydia immediate regret. There was no benefit to earning the other woman’s foul side. It would matter not to Rebecca that Thomas’s words were his own—Rebecca would lay accusation at the feet of her choosing with little reason as to fact.
“Thank you, then, Thomas.” With a quick nod of gratitude, Lydia followed Constance into the house and hoped Rebecca would see to her husband at their house just down the road, giving Lydia and the Putnam family their peace.
But little peace was to be found in the home, as the babe surely wailed the owls from the trees. Goody Putnam’s eyes were as wet as her child’s and not nearly as rested as those of her husband, who lay in the corner, steeped in careless slumber.
Lydia scooped the howling baby from his mother, who then sagged in relief. The young one squalled fiercely, giving Lydia easy observation. Seeing his gums bare, she pressed her finger to the swollen area and his cries soothed to a whimper. “There now,” she said, rocking him in her arms.
“Whatever did you do?” Goody Putnam peered at her child, who scarcely fussed. “He will not eat. I fear he’ll lose his strength.”
“His gums are causing him pain. Have you any whiskey?”
Goody Putnam waved
an arm at her husband. “If the lout hasn’t consumed it all. More and more, he drinks straight from the barrel, the sod.” Amid her grumbles, she set to finding a cup.
“Ssshh. There, now.” Lydia rocked the babe. “He’s starting to suckle my finger. He will be ready for you.”
Goody Putnam delivered the drink, and Lydia dipped a finger in the liquid, then applied it to the babe. “Just a bit on his gums, like this,” she said. “A firm touch will offer relief.”
“And this will help his screams?” Constance asked. She had stood in rapt attention through the exchange.
“It will ease him, yes.” Then to Goody Putnam, she said, “Just take care not to give him too much. He will need his desire for suckling.”
Goody Putnam took young James, who slurped at his mother’s finger in his mouth.
“It seems he has calmed enough to realize his hunger. I’ll leave you to care for him now.”
“I am much obliged to your kindness, Goody Colson,” said the relieved mother, sinking into a chair, the babe turning already for her breast.
“Think nothing. It is a pleasure to offer some comfort.”
Still in her coats, Lydia lifted her bag and turned to go, only to see Rebecca standing at the door, bracket faced. “Oh,” said Lydia. “You startled me.”
“Thomas insisted on waiting at the ready.” Rebecca’s voice was as cold as her hardened scowl. “He seems quite taken by you.”
Lydia ignored the accusation and brushed past to see Thomas at the buckboard. He stepped down and graciously extended his arm to help her onto the wagon. His smile would have lit the night, at least until it touched on his wife. The look the two exchanged might have splintered the cold air into ice.
“Dawn is nearing,” said Thomas. He took his seat and gathered the long driving reins with a slap of leather against horse rump. “Walk on.” He called to the horse.
The wagon jolted ahead. In between patches of trees Lydia was able to discern the lightening of the sky. Indeed, the new morn crept upon them. She had been awake nearly a day, and thought nothing sounded better at the moment than her own bed.
Or the man within it.
Lydia had managed to put thoughts of Henry aside, but with every one of the horse’s brisk strides she drew closer to the inevitable. How long would her guest be content to purport this ruse? And for what purpose?
“Oh, I nearly forgot!” Rebecca reached for Lydia’s arm, all traces of contempt gone with whatever turn her mind had taken. “There has been a man asking about you.”
“A man? Who?” There were very few outsiders in the relatively quiet farmlands of Salem Village, though the population of adjoining Salem Town offered a bit more variety with the seaport and merchant trade. But what interest a stranger might hold in her, she could not guess.
“I know not, but he was most interested in the young physician woman with the flaxen hair. Not the elder whose placement you took. He was quite certain of that.”
“I am sure he just needed tending, then. Perhaps a midwife is needed.”
“Perhaps.” But Rebecca’s concession did not match her suspicious eye.
Lydia sat uneasily at her appraisal. Though she had at one time counted Rebecca as a friend, the woman’s need to stir everyone’s business wasn’t of favor. And now she seemed to have a bee in her bonnet where Lydia was concerned. She was not to be blamed for Thomas’s kindness, and she had certainly never encouraged his attentions. In so far as Lydia could tell, Thomas was a kind man of pure intentions who was unduly punished in having to lay with Rebecca each night, though Lydia would never say as much.
“Whatever happened to Goody Sibbes?” Rebecca asked, speaking of the village’s previous physician. “She spent many years with us, then one day she just left. And there you were at the ready to fill her place. Unusual timing, was it not?”
Tension crept through Lydia. She moved not, but for the jolt of the wagon. “I heard word Salem Village was in need of a midwife. I never met Goody Sibbes, though I’ve heard wonderful talk of her.”
Rebecca’s eyes narrowed. “And you just left your home for a strange place? Without your husband? I’ve wondered something, Lydia. How did he know to find you here?”
“I… I left word.”
“A husband does not take kindly to a wife carrying ‘round his roots like her skirts. What of his lands?”
“His lands are his own and still where he left them,” Lydia said, grateful her words were honest. “I knew not when he would return, and midwives are greatly needed. My work here is a service to the village.”
“An invaluable service indeed,” Thomas spoke. “We of Salem are most grateful for your attentions.”
“Of course we are,” Rebecca snapped to her husband. “Some more so than others. But it is amusing how it all worked out, is it not?”
Lydia craned her neck, hoping to see her home in view. The notion was futile with the bend in the road, though she knew the land well enough to ascertain they were close. And how she longed to return. In leaving the house, Henry had been a complication. Now, after the hurtful tones and accusatory glares from Rebecca, home would provide a welcome solace.
Rebecca’s attentions did not shift.
Lydia swallowed her unease. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“It is rather interesting how things revolve around you, my dear Lydia. You come to our village, a stranger, and soon are a central figure. You defend the charges brought upon Betty Corey, though you have no stake in her wares. And just this eve, your simple touch quieted the Putnam babe where even his own mother could not offer comfort.”
The wagon took a bend in the road, bringing into view Lydia’s house. She inwardly sagged with relief, though kept her spine straight for Rebecca’s benefit.
Lydia spoke not a word until the wagon creaked to a stop. “Thank you for your kindness, Goody Mather,” she said, the formal airs and cool tones as far as Lydia would go in voicing her displeasure. She stood and helped herself off the wagon, only to meet Thomas on the ground.
“I shall walk you to the door,” he said, offering his arm.
Lydia side stepped his gesture. “That will be quite unnecessary,” she said.
“Yes, Thomas,” Rebecca told her husband. “Take charge of your horse. I am content to walk Goodwife Lydia to the door.”
Rebecca’s return of formality sent chills through Lydia. Clearly her hackles were roused, but Lydia knew not what had spurred the other woman’s cold nature. Just last week they had spent hours making butter side by side, and though Rebecca had been thick with her gossip, she had not been unkind in her talk. Now, her demeanor was worrisome, but perhaps it was the late—or early—hour of a sleepless night that altered her.
At the door, Rebecca put her hand on the knob before Lydia could reach it. “I do hope,” the other woman said, “you will be content to minister to your own husband from this point on.”
“Whatever do you mean?” Lydia asked, her surprise genuine.
“Your defense to my face surprises me. Just this day I have seen your transactions with Thomas, and in front of his wife! What you must do behind other doors, Lydia, I dare not think.”
“Rebecca! This is nonsense!”
Rebecca offered a guileless smile. “Take care, Goodwife. Those different among us will pay for their wicked ways, for it is they who dance with the devil, and it is all in our best interest to cull the peculiar.”
“And you imply that I am one of the peculiar?”
“Indeed, my dear Lydia. Men, children, babes… it matters not. Your influence is most curious.” Rebecca took a step in the direction of her husband, but just as Lydia sought a breath the woman turned and faced her once more.
“Some,” she added with hushed regard, “might even call it bewitching.”
Chapter Four
Lydia eased from the frigid, dawn-tinged night into her home, sagging with relief when the door closed on Rebecca Mather.
“All is well?” Henry asked, startling
her.
Some of her misgivings parted in unexpected relief. The intimacy of his sleepy greeting should not have felt so proper, but with his gentle voice and warmth of expression, he offered a natural tonic to Rebecca Mather’s hex over Lydia’s patience. Why he had not drifted into sleep she did not know, but she found herself exceedingly grateful for his company.
“Well enough,” she said, her admission weary to her own ears.
“Will you sleep,” he asked, “or do the duties of the morn keep you from rest?”
Lydia placed her medicine bag on a table and shed her coats, grateful for the opportunity to focus on something other than the implication of Henry’s words. “I may rest, though I have but one bed.”
With a childlike grin easing his weary bone-tired countenance, he said, “And we have been caught sharing it once already tonight. Have you another argument?”
Was that a hint of humor in his tone? She busied herself with the waning fire before turning her attention to her guest. “What is it that you suggest?”
His eyes twinkled without mercy. “That you join me, wife.”
She blinked countlessly. “Have you been in the rum?”
“Nary a drop more than you have provided by your own hand,” he assured her. “But I think it prudent we reunion in shared quarters, lest the wind blow through with a second neighbor prone to gossip.”
Lydia’s thoughts leaned toward the contrary—that she would be wise to retreat—but Henry was not the sort of man from whom a woman fled. No, his attentions were to be prized—she knew it not from fact, but rather from a craving he fostered deep inside her.
Softer now, he said, “I assure you I can be trusted.”
Oh, but that was not her worry! She had fallen for his subtleties, for the thick, corded muscles of which she had only been treated a glimpse. For the quiet confidence of his tone. For his strong wit and teasing tongue. And the long forgotten feelings he had roused.
She approached him under an unwelcome siege of bawdy thoughts. This man was not the one who hurt her. It was not he who had made her suffer the hand of his beatings.
Her Wicked Sin Page 3
