Trying to contain his frown, he met her at the door. “All is well,” he said. “Why were you out at this hour? Was something wrong?”
She looked from his face. Worrying her lip between her teeth, she said, “I thought I saw someone.”
He reached to clutch her shoulders, eliciting from her a gasp. Realizing his mistake, he relaxed his grip. “Apologies. I did not mean to return you to memories best forgotten. I am worried for you.”
“Worry not,” she said in well-shaken tones. “It was my mistake.”
“You must not walk into danger, Lydia.”
Indignation flashed in her eyes. “You seem to have lapsed, Henry. I have been alone for a long time, and never once have I chosen to cower. If I walk into danger, it is because I refuse to take a weak position.”
“You need not be weak to use practical thought,” he said, trying to gauge his words against her misplaced fear. “A woman is vulnerable among men.”
She stared, her face set well enough that he knew his approach held fault.
“Please, Lydia.” He softened his voice as much as he could muster considering the pace his heart maintained. “Know I care for you. It is not an insult to be loved. Together we can accomplish so much more than either of us can alone.”
Her shoulders eased, and her countenance soon followed. “I cannot come to rely on you,” she said softly. “Please understand.”
He wanted greatly to tell her it was she who needed to understand, but would not risk contention between them. Instead, he kissed her sweetly on the corner of her mouth. “As you wish,” he said, his voice melancholy to his own ears. Then he released her and went to secure the door. The sky offered no hint of morning, and he sensed the deepest chill of night had yet to set in. After checking the fire, he climbed into bed where Lydia had already burrowed under the covers.
He settled next to her and wound his fingers with hers. “My father,” he said after a long, quiet moment, “is so steeped with his wealth it is doubtful he remembers a life better.”
“A life better?” she asked, sleepy eyes widening in wonderment. “Do the rich not find their greatest betterment in further wealth?”
He smiled at her assessment. “I cannot speak for them all, but yes, the quest for wealth seems unending for most.”
“Then of what better life do you speak?”
“My father no longer knows the feel of grass soft under his feet. He does not pause to admire a breeze thick with the scent of flowers or the richness of spring’s first turn of soil. He knows not the chill of night or the true companionship of either man or beast, for all are servants to him. His time is not to be wasted on the small.”
“And you?” she whispered.
“I rather enjoy the feel of grass underfoot.” He absently rubbed her hand with his thumb and stared at the dance of light over the ceiling. “To be truthful, I find the expectations of his wealth a bit tedious. His rules are quit rigid, and should anyone refuse to bend to his ways he reacts most harshly.”
“What of your refusal to marry? Has he not reacted?”
“There are only so many well-heeled daughters in the Province of Massachusetts Bay,” Henry admitted. “Father grows weary of my refusals.”
“One day you will have to say yes,” she said quietly.
Henry let the words linger but for a moment before drawing her hand to his lips. Kissing it, he murmured, “Fear not, my wife, for I already have.”
…
Lydia took a deep, cleansing breath of morning air. The crisp beginning of day filled her with hope anew, softening the hard edges of days past, and was no better enjoyed than by horseback as she rode into Salem Village. She and Henry had begun the journey together, parting when he continued on to Salem Town to begin in earnest his search for his brother. While Lydia wished Henry well, her heart remained heavy.
Henry’s midnight utterance, though indubitably meant to offer Lydia comfort, did little of the sort. Rather than experiencing the surety of his vow for her, she was left with the empty expectation that no matter his intentions of the moment, their marriage was not to last. In time he would be called to the duties of his family, and his father’s unbending rule would never accept her as daughter-in-law. She hailed from a modest upbringing and had not married well. Her husband—who held no property of his own—had taken possession of her family’s land, saying the responsibility was too much for a woman. When she fled his abuse, she’d left behind any claim to the burned-out shell of her childhood. Now, while she owned property in Salem that she had paid for by her work as a physician’s assistant, it was modest to a degree sure to be under-appreciated by a man of great wealth. But that mattered not. Far more important was that it was free of the memories that haunted and terrified her.
But was she really free?
The thought existed as a bitter double-edged sword, bringing back the whisper of a dark wind and causing her heart to shift and sputter. Her imagination in the night had again conjured her husband, and verily no greater evil could be found in the woods of Salem. Would her sins not cease to haunt her?
She reached to pat Benedict’s neck. The mount had remained true, not showing a reaction to her tension. Rather, he stepped evenly along, his footfalls a cadence in which she found comfort. Peace of mind was a sensation she deeply craved, for within the confines of her sleepless night she determined she would not take another day in worry of the rumors regarding the Abbot children. Whatever their cause, Lydia would hear it directly from the source.
Reaching the Abbot home required Lydia to ride the breadth of town, past the Salem Village Meeting House from which rumblings of witchcraft made increasing noise. Though Lydia sat faithfully every Wednesday and Sunday, the familiar structure took cold overtones in the face of the accusations, none of which she fathomed to be of merit. Lydia knew not the full story, but even if she imagined greater knowledge, she could not see how the very basis of the claims made sense. Betty Corey, accused for the sin of being a beggar, made a fine example of the callousness. Her sin—if one called it such—of poverty was no greater than that of her neighbors who did not reach out to treat her as their own.
Though Lydia had found a contented home among the Puritans, the mounting threads of accusations set her on edge. If they could find will to suspect their own, what of her? Only a year among their population, she would quickly become an outsider should trials be laid upon her stoop.
Unlike her early morning visit by wagon, travel through town at this wakeful hour was slow, as most who passed knew Lydia as the local physician and many came to greet her or enquire about Benedict. Some among them queried their aches and ailments, and to each she took time to make a response. Others cast over her with apprehension—an entirely new experience thusly leading her to believe the rumors of which Anne Scudder had spoken were already widely received, though no one mentioned them forthright. And, an undercurrent existed whereupon some of her once-friendly neighbors would not meet Lydia’s eye, and it disturbed her greatly. By the time her destination came into view she traveled in a dark cloud of apprehension and unease, but was no less determined to seek her cause.
The Abbot home boasted an unusual assemblage of rooflines and walls in a style that stood out from the typical saltbox conformation of its neighbors, making it rather easy to locate on her own and quite ominous in character. Lydia did not favor its appearance, though she found the chill appropriate to the misdeeds reported from within. Appropriately, her stomach churned as she dismounted and secured Benedict to a hitch outside the home.
The door to the house flew open upon her approach, revealing the four young Abbot children in their night clothes. Among the four girls not a strand of hair found its place, and young Deliverance had a face smeared with what appeared to be the congealed remains of her morning meal.
“Good morrow,” Lydia said, though the words were surely disguised by the cacophony of screeches the girls began in earnest. Lydia stilled in surprise, watching helplessly as the girls carr
ied on, spinning and twirling and screaming.
“Hush now!” Goody Abbot rushed the front hall, drawing to an abrupt halt when she saw Lydia standing on the front stoop. The goodwife crossed her arms over her bosom and stared acutely. With her dark hair drawn severely from her pale face and a pinched, narrow gaze, the woman was as cold as a deep winter morn. “And it is the witch herself.”
Lydia’s mouth dropped, inciting from the children another round of noise. In the midst of the screaming, Abigail ran herself into the wall repeatedly, howling more profoundly with each contact.
“That will be enough!” Goody Abbot turned to Lydia. “Are you here to see what you have done? Your visit is most foolish, Goodwife.”
“What I have done! You cannot believe this!” Indeed, Lydia could scarcely believe what she saw with her own eyes. “Why are they truant?”
“Is it not obvious? They are far too disruptive to attend to their work. You came into my home and brought evil upon them.” The final words were spoken at great volume with the Goodwife’s attention past Lydia toward the street.
Lydia turned, noticing a small gathering of passersby. Too late, she realized the show Goody Abbot put on for her neighbors created witnesses of many accord, but Lydia stood her ground. For every person who made something of these witchcraft claims, she prayed one would attest to Lydia’s very ordinary stance on the Abbot’s stoop. “Perhaps,” Lydia said, “they have fallen ill. Shall I examine them again?”
Goodwife Abbot nodded curtly. “They have been examined, this time by two qualified physicians—one from Salem Town, and the second traveling from Dorchester. Both assured the children’s good health. The only lingering explanation is they have been affected by witchcraft, which matches quite well their claims.”
“Goodwife, please. What claims?”
“You come to them in spectral form, pinching them until they scream and cry. And just last night they came upon you in the woods. You were astride a great black horse—the devil’s very own.”
Lydia stomach clenched. “He is my husband’s horse. He is a fine animal, but of the same flesh as any other.”
“Say what you will, Goodwife, but the proof is before you.” Goody Abbot turned, waving an arm at her four girls, who had stilled, presumably in observation. Now they began screaming again in earnest—so much so that Benedict even at a distance jerked his head and pinned his ears in the away direction.
“I have not been alone these days,” Lydia said, hoping the truth of her explanation could rise above the shrill bedlam. “Perhaps they are mistaken.”
“They have seen your spectral form. Your physical form might well remain in its place while your witch spirit haunts others.”
“Surely you must know this defies all sense!”
“Do not expect me to explain your sins. You have aligned yourself with the devil’s work, and the talk is now thick with your misdeeds. Our town will soon be rid of you and your poisonous like and our families saved from your sin.”
Fear took deep root in Lydia’s belly. “You speak as if from the pulpit,” she said.
“And you quiver as if in fear. What do you have to hide, Goodwife?”
“I hide nothing,” Lydia said. But her voice faltered in acknowledgement of her most heinous crime.
A faint smirk worked Goody Abbot’s lips. “Your transgressions are a matter of record. My children, ruined as they are, will testify to your crimes.”
“My crimes?”
Goody Abbot stepped into her home and reached for the door. Just past the stout woman her four children looked on without fit or movement, each one wearing an innocent smile as the door swung shut.
Lydia’s heart and stomach churned at a rampant pace. Surely they could not bring charges upon her. She had done nothing deserving of accusation. But Lydia expected the same for Betty Corey, the poor beggar who had been accused. And the others, fine women of Salem but for the slave woman who admitted her crimes. What was this fever sweeping the quiet village of Salem? She knew not its cause, but feared very much the result.
If she stood accused, she would lose far more than her husband.
She could lose her life.
Chapter Eleven
Willard was a ball of fire beneath Henry as they entered the bustling dockside portion of Salem Town. Men bickered their trades—some with good nature, others harsh in their tones—and all well-encased in the stench of idle water and decomposing fish. The morning, though cold, seemed to catch and hold the foul smells, leaving Henry to think with discontentment of the odor a thickly heated summer afternoon might bring.
Much of the activity stilled as he rode past, no doubt to gaze upon Willard’s exceptional stride. Henry doubted the men had seen such a gait on a horse, as a number of decades had passed since pure Friesians had arrived in New Amsterdam to the south. It was yet another door opened, as in truth Henry had not realized how closed his privileged life had been until he felt called upon to wander in search of his brother. Though Henry had traveled extensively, never had he tarried in the arena of the common man. His father had instilled the sense to hurry past what he referred to as the unfavorable slump of society, effectively distancing his son from much of what his world had to offer.
Henry took in a deep breath of rotting air and forced the smile from his lips. Verily, the words he shared with Lydia had been true. He could not claim how recently he learned them to be fact, but it mattered not. His discoveries captured the whimsy of boyhood even as his body strained to be husband and man. They made for a wonderful medley of sensations, and through Lydia he had taken on a whole new discovery of himself.
As for his father’s approval of Lydia, Henry would be unwise to feel he could set his foot and make his father bend. But Henry did hold hope there would be eventual acceptance, as he favored the lands for the future of his own children. His and Lydia’s. The thought filled him with such elation he found himself frightened by the emotion. What if she found him a temporary solution and nothing more? He could not look into her eyes and conjure such a thought, but she was not there to look upon for reassurance.
Rather, he had on approach a gruff, bearded man whose clothes were stained in the telltale hues of blood and guts. His stiff-legged stride might have been imposing had Henry not sat heads above.
“Good day, Sir,” Henry said as the stranger stalked roughly upon him.
“Who ye work fer?” the docks man said, his arms folded across his front. “We don’ need the likes of ye causin’ trouble for the workin’ lot of us.”
“I am not here on business,” Henry replied, trying to steady Willard, who refused to still. Prancing and snorting, he made a terrible show of himself, drawing attention from all corners.
The man stared, a frown etched into his sun-leathered face. “Ye have no business here.”
Henry did not know if the words were a question or a proclamation, but he did not wish to ire the man. “I am seeking my brother,” said Henry. “I am told he works at the docks.”
“No man o’ yer kind o’ means employs here,” the man advised. Gesturing to what appeared to be the stain of fish innards, he added, “Who chooses this? Perhaps he don’ wish to be found, to be sendin’ ye on such a search.”
“Perhaps not, but we ask nothing of him but to see his mother in her illness.”
The man seemed to consider Henry’s words. “Do ye brother have a name?”
“Robert Carter,” said Henry. “Though he may use an alias.”
“A great many do.” The stranger shrugged. “I don’ see yer likes around here often, but if I see ye again we can talk if I learn this Robert wishes discovery.”
The cryptic reply left Henry in suspicion the man knew exactly of whom Henry spoke, but his inclinations mattered not. He would not see information from this man. Henry had not mentioned his brother’s most notable feature—a limp arm—and chose now to keep the information close. If word got back to Robert he was hunted so specifically, he might be all the more difficult to find
.
Henry swallowed frustration. “While you consider if Robert wishes to be found, know there is coin in exchange for information.”
The news gave his companion pause, but did not break him as Henry expected. The man simply nodded curtly and walked off with a staggering gate. Was he drunk?
Frowning, Henry turned Willard and headed away from the waterfront as he considered his next step. There were dozens of other men working, but the man who came forth seemed to think himself the spokesman of the group. With the others under scrutiny, each averted eyes before meeting his gaze. Henry did not expect he would glean any more information from them that day.
Having drawn away from the docks, he traveled more or less parallel to the water’s edge, taking in the austere lines and edges of the tall ships at port. There were few at this time, which both narrowed and seemingly made less possible Henry’s search. If his brother could not be found among such a small grouping of men, then what of Henry’s chances of finding him at all? The man who had spoken knew of Robert—the uneasy shifting of his eyes proved evidentiary—but mention of coin had not been enough. This likely meant either Robert had traveled on to places unknown or his friend’s loyalty extended far beyond the unnamed value Henry offered. Considering the man’s offer for further discussion should Robert favor discovery, Henry tended to believe the former.
And there were few other places to look this day. Late winter brought few in trade to the small port, as winter’s harsh days brought more ships to the larger and more sheltered ports of Boston and New Amsterdam to the south. Activity was sparse away from his initial point of approach.
Though prospects looked dim, Henry rode over much of the town grid, hoping against odds he would happen upon his brother’s familiar face. Thanks to an onshore wind, the salt and mucky scent of the ocean freely courted him. At one time the smell had been one of adventure, but several weeks in the waters between Boston and London had changed his perception. Even the wealthy passage aboard ship afforded no luxury, so he feared consideration of the scourge of conditions for the common man. But for all of the filth, there, tucked among his memories of the voyage, were those of Robert.
Her Wicked Sin Page 10
