Henry and Robert had never been particularly close. Only four birth years separated them, but the chasm was hastened with miles of resentment—every one of them confounded by what could not be changed: Robert’s father had been lost and Henry’s was not. Robert had wanted nothing of the expansive grounds on which he had been raised from his early years, and the sentiment boiled into blatant disrespect for his stepfather. Over time, Henry’s father had become increasingly less tolerant of Robert’s distaste until their relationship had been altogether severed, but there were some good memories among the bad. Feculence of the ship’s passage aside, the trip to London had been one of them.
In a family full of sisters on a ship with little to experience aboard but new and varying degrees of filth, Henry and Robert had finally been brothers. They had spoken of adventure and travel and where they hoped their lives would lead. They had procured enough whiskey for ten men, then, soused, discussed at great length which maiden each favored bending over a barrel. The latter exchange existed almost unending, as there was nothing else on the ship to so greatly capture the interest of young men as dreams of lifting a woman’s skirts—at least not until a month into their London trip when Robert saw those thoughts to fruition. His suppositions turned into great detail, and the young woman in question began casting shy looks in Robert’s direction. The affair had lasted until the day she had appeared bruised and battered, after which she had remained largely secluded in her cabin for the rest of the voyage. Robert had said she had taken a fall, to which Henry had enquired if from the mast for the damage so great. Robert took Henry’s question as a challenge to the maiden’s honesty, and thus had ended the bit of camaraderie established between brothers. Fortunately for Robert, the young woman’s injuries had not precluded her service, as Henry had caught glimpses of Robert visiting her quarters a time or two thereafter.
At the time, Henry had been most envious of Robert’s conquest. Now, Henry knew of the consequences of such an affair, and by graces above—and the belligerence of a stubborn horse—he also knew the feel of a woman’s pure desire. Though he would not discount the purported graces of the maiden who ministered to Robert on the ship, Henry also felt certain his brother had experienced no pleasure like what had been found within the confines of the marital bed. But even that expectation dimmed Henry, for he wanted his brother to have found inkling of those dreams he had shared as a young man. Verily, losing his father had been a tragedy, but casting aside his mother thereafter was a crime without excuse.
After a thorough tour of Salem Town, Henry made a final visit to the docks. The man of his earlier acquaintance stopped his labor to watch as Henry rode past, but neither man acknowledged the other and Henry still found no sign of Robert. With a sigh not of defeat but of determination, Henry tipped his hat and turned Willard, releasing the animal into a high-paced trot. Once they reached the outskirts where neither man nor beast crowded the roads, he gave Willard his head and breathed deeply the chilly air made into a stiff wind by the horse’s rapid gallop.
Perhaps the day had not been wasted, but one thing was made clear: Robert did not want to be found. Henry’s search would not end this day. Facing that singular fact, there was but one thing to do: go home.
But first he had a stop to make—one that would change everything.
…
Try as Lydia might, no amount of stabbing fabric with brass needle could shake the unease stemming from her earlier encounter with Goodwife Abbot, though she pondered it to great extent over her mending. They had never shared a cross word, so for such terrible accusations to stem from a woman who had many times called for Lydia’s aid came as a shock. She could not help but wonder if Rebecca Mather had a stake in the claims, though the Abbot children’s roles were most clear. Lydia did not favor speaking ill of anyone—let alone a child—but their unkempt appearances and devious, self-approving smirks did not marry well with her inner sensibilities. They took too much delight in Lydia’s fearful reaction—almost as if they counted accomplishment in their mother’s allegations.
Lydia hoped some of her frustrations would be lost with her activity, but no matter how fiercely she worked the fabric she did not find release. Worse, the hour had grown late and Henry had not returned. Had he found his brother? And if so, would she see him again? As much as she tried to prepare herself for that inevitable end, she could not fathom falsehood in Henry’s words or in the tenderness of his touch. But to think him hers for a lifetime seemed a grace beyond reach—one she could no more dream than forget.
Just as her mind closed on the thought, the rear door swung inward. Startled, Lydia jumped, sending the brass needle deep in her finger.
“We are in need of a mouser,” Henry said. He staggered slightly from the doorway, fumbling to close it behind. “Vermin already in the grain.”
Lydia jumped to her feet, the discarded mending falling to the floor. Ignoring his concerns over the feed, she clutched his arm and steadied him. “Are you hurt?”
“Fear not, lovely Lydia, for I am not damaged. It is merely the drink.”
Though his words were delivered with an affable, boyish smile, they struck terror within her. While she herself had given him drink to better cope with his injury their meeting night, the effect on her battered heart was far removed from the surge of fear she now experienced. To see him come through the door in such a way affected her so terribly she could scarcely force the breath from her chest. She released her grip on his arm and stepped well away.
Her distaste must have been evident, for his eyes widened and found focus on her face. “What is it?”
Lydia held up a shaky hand, needing him to maintain his distance. “Worry not. You merely startled me.”
Her explanation did not rid his face of its concern, but he did not approach. Instead, he found the table in a series of unsteady steps and sat in his favored chair.
A bit unsteady herself, Lydia nervously smoothed her skirts and was quickly reminded by the discomfort in her fingertip of her injury. This gave cause to examine the wound, whereupon she found nothing but the tiniest speck of evidence—entirely disproportionate for the amount of pain it caused. Still, she was grateful for the distraction.
“It is your former husband, is it not?”
Lydia looked from her finger to Henry, her mouth forming a little O. Quickly, she snapped it shut.
“He was a drunkard.” Henry looked to his hands where they sat folded on the table and shook his head. “I should have known.”
“No,” she said, approaching him. “You have done no wrong. I am sorry to lay my old worries upon you.”
“They are not old worries if they haunt you still.”
“No matter. They have no bearing on what is now.”
Henry pushed from the table and, taking careful steps, met her where she stood. “Everything we bring to our union has bearing. I am deeply sorry for any angst I have caused.”
Bit by bit, tension eased from her chest and limbs. “Worry not. You are a far different man.”
He captured her hand in his and led her to the bed. Sinking onto the straw-stuffed bedtick, he pulled her to his side. “Perhaps if you tell me of him, you will relieve yourself of some of the pain.”
Lydia hesitated. “Surely you do not wish to hear the details.”
“Verily, he is a bastard. The worst I can want is for his dispatch, so it is most convenient he has already met his fate.” He touched her chin, drawing her attention from the floor to his face. “No matter how deserved his end, it is still a great burden you have been unable to share to this day. Please tell me.”
Tears heated her eyes—not for the horror of her past, but for the gentle nature of the man at her side. After a long moment, she cleared her emotion-thickened throat and fought for beginning words. “I was just a girl,” she said. “Nearing the age of matrimony, as talks prevailed of finding a suitable husband. During this time I traveled with a friend and her family to Boston, whereupon days later a letter found me. I
t related the loss of my parents and siblings in a fire that destroyed our house. There was nothing left.”
With his thumb, Henry wiped the moisture from the corner of her eye. “I cannot imagine your loss. You must have been devastated.”
She nodded and took a shaky breath. She did not want to linger on those dismal thoughts. “I met him days later still in Boston. He promised all of the security and love I mourned so deeply, and I was weak. I just thought of how my mother wished me to marry and the possibility of it gave me the only peace I had found in the dark days since my family was lost. Looking back, there was something of him that left me with unease, but at the time my world had fallen and I needed someone to whom I could cling. But not long after our joining, he began to change in earnest. He expected coition with frequency, but it was without tenderness. He demanded of me, and when he finished he would become physical and order I admit my censure of him, for he had a scar and insisted I could not look at him for the ugliness of his wound. The scar did not trouble me, but in short time it was he I could not bear to face.”
Henry had taken to gently stroking her hair and shoulder and she found herself leaning heavily into his warmth. “I am so sorry, Lydia.”
“He—my cycle stopped a number of times. He would call me filthy names and batter me when I was late, day after day until I bled again. But the last time…”
“It’s okay,” Henry said. He looked positively mournful, and even in her state of mind his compassion encompassed her with warmth. “I am so sorry.”
“The last time I kept it hidden. I foolishly thought a child would give me someone to love. Perhaps even change him. I should have known.” She rubbed her face with her hands and took a deep breath. “He never bothered to remove my clothing when he used me, so the secret held for many months, though he often berated me for fattening. But one day it happened again. He beat me so forcefully to the stomach, he must have known. The baby came later that night, and it was far too early. He was gone. And when I looked upon the perfect face of my little boy, I had to end the man who killed him. I waited until he was asleep from his stupor and I beat him. Just as he had me, over and over until he did not wake. I—I killed him, Henry. With my own hands.”
The confession coiled and struck at her. She never thought she would utter those words aloud, yet they had come so easily and opened a vulnerability she thought long buried. But she trusted Henry.
“You are a brave woman, my wife.” Henry held her, the silence comfortable around them. Several moments passed before he spoke. “And what of his remains? How did you escape suspicion?”
“I left him there while I sought a suitable burial place for my baby. Once my little boy was at rest, I returned for the lout. It took much of the night, but I dragged him through the woods—far enough the wolves would find him before any man. Then I gathered what fit in a satchel and rode hard for that night. Before dawn, I released my horse and continued the journey on foot. I altered my name and learned midwifery from a physician along the way, but could not escape my worry. I needed more distance from my crime, so I left there and continued on to Salem Village where a physician was needed. I had just enough to make my home here, where I have been a year now.”
Henry said nothing, but words were not needed. He held her in such a way that not even the faint smell of whiskey could undo the tenderness and love born of his touch, though his arms carried the protective strength of iron. The sensations did not seem they should mix, but they so wholly belonged in this man she could see no other way. But her thoughts were not content, for there was one thing she must know.
“Tell me,” she said, “why you stayed away this night to drink.”
He froze, ending his gentle, ongoing caress.
A chill ignited within her that quickly spread to every limb. She did not know from where the feeling came, as he had merely paused in his ministrations, but the cold grew to a fearsome lump in her chest. “Henry?”
“It was partly from cowardice,” he said.
She pulled away to see him. “You drank from cowardice?”
“It is not my finest admission, nor is it a great secret of any man, yet is of truth. Drink lends courage where it is lacking.”
“Forgive me, but I have never considered a man within his cups to be a courageous one.”
He laughed. “You are not without insight. Perhaps one is better considered reckless.”
“Very well then. For what purpose did you seek recklessness?”
His smile grew. “I’ve sent a message of great importance to my family.”
Joy and fear expounded through her entirety. “Your brother?” she whispered. “He is found?”
“No, though I have reasonably confirmed his presence in Salem Town.”
“I’m sorry your luck was not better, though the news is not without merit. You will find him, Henry. I know you will.”
“I will,” he said, gently fingering a loose strand of her hair. “And then we will have even more to celebrate.”
Lydia considered his words, unsure of his meaning. “What do you celebrate now?”
“It is why I wrote home, my love. I have sent word to my family of our union.”
She gasped, then surprise turned to horror as her encounter with Goodwife Abbot came rushing back to her. “You cannot, Henry.”
He grinned, his pride foolish. “I already have.”
Horrified, she jumped to her feet. “I will ruin you!”
Henry stared, blinking several times as if trying to steer himself in her sudden storm. “I thought you would be pleased.”
“You do not understand. Your station—”
“My station is that of your husband,” he said, the words firm.
“No!” she cried. “I can only bring shame to you. To your family.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
Lydia fought to look him in the eye, though the urge to seek the floor raged within her. Summoning the words took all of her courage, for even as she struggled with their impact, she knew their inevitable result. Once informed, Henry would have nothing to do with her—if not by his own decision, then certainly by the demand of his father. No man would risk his wealth and reputation for the likes of what she had become.
Who she had become.
“What Anne Scudder said. It is true.” She took a deep breath and prepared herself, even as his face contorted with understanding.
“Lydia—”
“I am accused, Henry. They say I am a witch.”
Chapter Twelve
Henry reached for Lydia, but she would have none of it. Fear raged in her eyes, lighting them like embers on the hearth, but she did not relent to his embrace.
“You must go,” she said. Simple, crushing words.
“I will not.”
Tears glittered, on the verge of falling, but they must have been as stubborn as the woman herself, for not one released.
“This untruth does not change my desire for you.”
“You do not understand,” she said, brushing away his further attempts to hold her. “They insist upon the truth of their evidence.”
“What evidence?”
“That each night I come to the children to pinch and poke and torture them and bring upon their misbehavior.”
“Recent nights as well?”
“That is what was implied, yes.”
“Lydia, you have been with me these nights.”
She frowned and looked to her skirts, which she twisted in her grip. “It matters not.”
“How can that not matter?”
“They say I come in spectral form, with my body elsewhere. That I haunt them as a ghost.”
Henry suddenly felt as if he knew the ails of a drowning man. “Is this to be believed?”
She sighed and wrung together her hands. “You have not been here long. Perhaps you are not familiar with the accusations.”
“Accusations of witchcraft transcend centuries. I cannot ascertain to their truth, but of their existence
I am aware.”
“But here, Henry. Here. The trials have begun at Ingersoll’s Tavern, and it is the word of Goodwife Abbot I am to be among them.”
“You are no witch, Lydia, and you have practiced no witchcraft. You will be cleared.”
“It is not so easy. Even the most respected elders of Salem, once accused, stand alone. No one will come to my aid when to side with a witch brings charges to the one who defends. And even if I am cleared of these, the accusation will taint you, Henry. It will taint your family!”
Henry’s chest tightened. He worried less for his reputation than for his wife, but his father worried for nothing more. With word on its way, if it was indeed true that Lydia would be accused, there was little doubt Henry’s father would learn of them and respond with furor.
Henry considered his options.
“Why don’t you come with me up north? Mother would love to meet you, and while you become acquainted it is most likely things will settle here.”
Lydia had her head down, but upon his words she looked to him. “I am not running, Henry. This is my home.”
“But is it not foolish to face accusations of which you are innocent?”
This time she met his stare with fortitude. “It is because I am innocent I will see this through. But I do not wish to damage your name.”
Henry stood, sober then, and walked to the window. Looking through the polished glass into the thick darkness, he rubbed the back of his neck and laughed.
“Henry!”
He turned to see her beautiful blue eyes wide with shock and mouth slightly agape. “Do you not see the irony?” he asked.
“Is that what you find in this? Irony?”
“Yes, Lydia. Consider this fully. You are so worried for a name you do not even know.”
Her Wicked Sin Page 11
