When John Dunham returned, Henry accepted his greeting then waited nervously while his father reunited with Henry’s mother. Though Henry had waited so many days for this moment, he now wanted for time to steady, for he had much to consider in his plea and only one chance to get it right.
Unfortunately, the chance was not his to take.
John returned from Alice’s room with measured pace and a stern countenance. “What is this news of your marriage? Is the woman beyond her function?”
“No, Sir. Mother is correct. I have taken a wife.”
For a long while, John did not speak. When he finally looked again at his son, his features were tight. “Of what line?”
Henry considered his father’s terse question. “She is a woman, not a breed. And she is my wife. A physician, and of Salem Village.”
“A place of witches, it seems. I trust you know of the arrests?”
“I do, and that is what brings me here.”
John stopped and stared heavily.
After a long silence, Henry answered the unspoken question. “She has been arrested on charges of witchcraft.”
“And what do you expect in telling me this?”
Henry met his father’s eyes. “I want for you to contact Governor Bradstreet to secure her release.”
“You cannot be serious. You want me to go to shame our family name over your alliance with a… witch?”
“She is not a witch. The accusations are false.”
“No matter. The association itself is enough. This family will not align with a witch, and neither will you.”
“I am afraid your orders come too late,” Henry said quietly. “For she is my wife and I will stand faithfully behind her, even if you choose another path.”
“This path is yours, Henry, and I will not condone it.”
“Then we are divided.”
“We are more than divided. If you do not disavow this unholy marriage, you have turned your back on this family.”
Henry drew to his full height and looked fully upon the father who would have him no more. “If that is your choice—”
“Make no mistake. It is your choice. Not mine.”
“Very well, then. It is a choice I will make. Lydia Colson has my heart, and I will not cease to love her no matter what you try to take from me.”
“You will walk from your inheritance for this woman?”
“I will,” said Henry. “Without consideration, for she is my wife.”
“Then she has a fool for a husband,” John said. “And I am without a son.”
Chapter Seventeen
Henry did not linger in Essex. His father’s pronouncement clearly made, there was little to do but say goodbye to his mother. He renewed his promise to bring Robert home to her, his heart sagging in melancholic joy when her parting words were of interest of meeting Henry’s wife. He vowed she would.
After procuring a saddle for Willard, Henry filled the bags with coin and items for trade then set off in hopes of gaining an audience with Simon Bradstreet. Though Henry did not wish to soil his family’s name, he would not sacrifice Lydia at any cost. If he was condemned, he would maintain both heart and conscience, fighting until he could do no more.
When he arrived at the seat of Bradstreet’s authority, he was told the governor would not return for another day. The stalwart was eased, however, when the secretary of Bradstreet’s affairs appointed Henry the morn’s first meeting.
Still, Henry’s restlessness grew. He could not forget the look upon Lydia’s face when he had turned his back to her. He prayed nightly she could understand, but having confided her fears and heard his assurances the very morning of her arrest was timing at its most cruel. His betrayal was the worst kind, and he revisited it endlessly on the barstool where he sat, handling a drink he did not put to his lips. It was a near-meaningless gesture, but one he tucked close at heart. If he could give her nothing else in that moment, he would give her his abstinence from the liquor.
After a long and tumultuous night, he cleaned and dressed to meet with Bradstreet. The governor had a home in Salem and Henry wondered if that association would help or hinder Henry’s cause. Doubtlessly, it would have an effect.
Fortunately, he did not have to wonder long. Bradstreet saw to him promptly.
The governor, a man of extended years, greeted Henry with warm tone, strong posture, and a firm handshake. “It is good to see you. John has spoken of your many accreditations. Of Harvard now, are you not?”
Henry nodded. “My schooling there is finished. In fact, I am now of Salem.”
Bradstreet’s brow lifted, but the man said nothing.
“I will not use your time, Governor Bradstreet. My wife has been arrested in Salem. She is accused of witchcraft, and she is innocent. I wish for your assistance in freeing her.”
The governor looked to his desk, his face tired with age. “You may know I am opposed to these trials.”
“I did not, Governor, though your words fill me with hope.”
“Do not get ahead of yourself, son. I am but a face for the governing body. My deputy, Thomas Danforth, carries out much of the executive function. He exists in great favor of ridding the colony of those accused.”
“Sir, your reputation is untouched, and it is you who rightly governs. Not Danforth.”
Bradstreet steepled his hands on the desk and appeared to find much of interest in their combined figure. “You have been generous to not make excessive use of my time, so I will do you the same honor. I met last eve with your father over this very topic.”
The governor’s somber tone left hope falling within Henry’s chest. “And you will not be swayed?”
“I will not.”
“Sir, I beg of you to reconsider. This woman is innocent of these charges.”
Bradstreet leaned in his chair and rested his hands upon his breadth. “You do not understand, young Henry.”
“What do you mean?”
“John Dunham did not come to support your wife’s persecution. He came to petition for her release.”
…
Each day since Lydia’s condemnation as a witch had been longer than the last. Every time the door swung open she feared she would be taken to the gallows, and she was too far embedded in the darkest corner of the jail to hear gossip from the tavern. If not for the shackles she would have long ago reclaimed her freedom—the risk of capture mattered not, for she would be dead either way. Escape at least gave her a chance, but she was seldom allowed freedom from the chains.
Then, inexplicably, it was granted.
In the dark of night, Lydia was taken without explanation to the magistrate’s office.
With a face leaden with disdain, he said, “If thou value thy life, Goodwife Colson, take my words to heart. Leave here this night. Leave Salem, and do not return.”
Lydia gasped, but quickly swallowed her shock. “I am released?”
“By order of the governor, Goodwife. Rest assured thou hath no friends here. Thy freedom is dependent upon thou disappearance, and verily, thou will disappear in one manner or another. Make the choice thy own.”
Stunned, Lydia nodded.
Without further word, the magistrate escorted her to the jail’s rear door and opened it.
She stalled, taking deep breaths of air untainted by the stale filth to which she had become accustomed. Though her clothing still carried heavily the odor of her imprisonment and the air was so clean it nearly burned her nose, she could not break her immediate addiction to its clarity. Never had the dark of night been so immensely beautiful.
“Make thy choice, Goodwife.”
Startled to realize she was still in company, Lydia turned to the magistrate. “Thank you,” she said.
He narrowed his eyes and stared fiercely. “Save your words, for if given my choice thou would remained chained with the rest of the damned. Now leave.”
Taken aback, Lydia nevertheless found her feet and stepped into the cold night. Her legs were unsure
, but she forged on and in time they found their strength. And as she walked toward her home, she could not help but see the world anew. Never had the air felt so pure or the ground so solid beneath her feet. It was the first night since her husband’s death she had not feared facing the dark alone, though it saddened her to know she truly did walk alone, for Henry was verily gone.
Henry. And then the magistrate’s words truly sank in. By the order of the governor. Was Henry behind her release? His family with its influence could gain an audience with Governor Bradstreet, himself a Puritan of Salem. Could it be? But why would Henry not come for her? Shame. He had denounced her—cruel words she knew of her own ears. Perhaps guilt led him to procure her release, but the shame of which he had spoken kept him from her side.
Lydia pushed away the disheartening thoughts. She could love Henry for all he had given her, but refused to wallow in what he had taken away. She once again had a second chance, and though she knew not where she would go, she would go with strength.
The walk home was long but the night young and the road quiet. A number of times she felt someone with her, but upon turning saw nothing. Conceding she had simply grown unaccustomed to the sounds of the nighttime forest, she forged ahead, her heart as light as it had been since the first time Henry had taken her as his own and shown her pleasures she had not dreamed could exist. Then she remembered, and her hand drifted to her belly. Could she be with his child? It was a bit early to suspect, but the thought of a child with Henry’s impish smile and dark eyes thoroughly warmed her.
Her mood did not darken until she came upon her house and found the pasture empty. Of course she had not expected to see Willard or even Benedict, but the vacancy nonetheless spread to her heart. Still, she was home, and though the bed she shared with Henry awaited, she would not linger to acquaint with it. She needed to wash and be on her way before dawn. She wished desperately for Benedict—and suspected he might have found a home with Andrew and Eunice Bradshaw—but would not take him from her neighbor. Even if he was merely boarded there and had not been offered as a gift, his disappearance would rouse far too much suspicion. So she would go, this time on foot. But first, she needed to free herself of the prison filth.
The buckets in the pasture still held water, so Lydia carried enough to the house to bathe. She could not heat the water—a fire would draw far too much attention—but she cared not. She brought the water inside to fill the wash tub and undressed. She discarded the soiled clothing—hoping she would never again see their likes—and began to scrub herself. Though unfathomably cold, the water made her feel wonderfully alive, and it was the first clean water she had seen since her imprisonment.
She knew not how much time she took to clean, but did not stop until she finally began to feel free of the jail. She used her bed cover to dry and dressed quickly to combat the cold. Upon checking the window and determining night remained deep, she sat upon the bedtick and smoothed the linen, her heart aching and bursting all at once.
Do you miss him?
Lydia’s eyes shot open. When had they closed? Had she dozed? She pressed a hand to her face, then her neck. Her skin was still damp, her hair wet, so she had not slept. She rose to her elbow and peered throughout the dark room, her heart thundering.
From the edge, a shadow emerged.
“You lay with him. In this very room and in that very bed. And you think of him still.”
The coarse, harsh voice turned her blood to ice. Never had she heard such hatred. Not since… No. She had to be dreaming. “Go away,” she said. “Go!”
“Where is your surprise, wife? You have been quite busy in my absence, you adulterous…witch”
She begged of herself to reason, but she could not abate the fear that left her stunned in place. Though the deepest shadows had yet to release their hold on her visitor, there was no doubt the voice—the terrible hatred—belonged to him.
He came to her fully then, all at once familiar and foreign. She had thought him done, and the reason must have played readily over her face, for he addressed her as if she had spoken those very words aloud.
“You nearly killed me, witch. And then you betray me by spreading your legs for that… bastard.”
Too late, she found herself cornered. Lydia trembled from head to toe, but she would not let this man—the husband she had thought dead—intimidate her. He had already taken far too much. Her hands clenched tightly the linen. She stared him down, prayerful to remain unyielding—to reclaim what he had taken from her with every strike against her flesh. But deep inside she knew she was no match for him, so for all her show of bravery she frantically searched for escape or for something to use as a weapon.
He towered over her, but she did not back down. Her position seemed to anger him, for even in the dark, fire leapt from his eyes.
“It is you who consorts with the devil,” she said, daring his rage. She was no longer a victim. If he came at her, she would have the advantage, for she knew now he was a coward hiding behind his fist.
Her strength of heart far outweighed his.
“You are a cold, cruel man better left to rot in the woods.”
His smile was terribly of peace. “He spilled his seed in you, did he not?”
“Speak not of Henry.”
Still wearing a sick grin, he began to push against her, herding her backward. “Are you with bastard child, my dear? Shall I remedy your womb from this curse?”
Too late, she realized his strategy. Slowly, inch by terrible inch, he was trapping her to the bed. “The quandary I face,” he said, “is whether I wish to follow him between your filthy legs before I rid you of the possibility of his child.”
Lydia shook her head, the horrible implications of his words terrorizing her. “You will not touch me,” she said.
But he was there, caging her handily, reaching to rip away her dress.
It was her nightmare, but this time she would dictate the end.
This time, while he fumbled with his weak arm for purchase beneath her skirts, she swung at his head with all of her might, hell bent on ending it.
Chapter Eighteen
Home.
Henry had never felt the word as profoundly as he did when Lydia’s small house came into view. Even Willard whickered heartily and tossed his head. Henry patted the stallion’s neck. “I know how you feel, boy.”
He wasted no time in relieving Willard of his tack and securing him in the paddock. The ride had been a long one, and after coming off a sum of money, he learned from the magistrate Lydia had been released. Expecting she would have gone home, Henry’s anticipation had grown with every turn in the road in hopes he would see her, but when at long last the house had come into view he decided the very best place to find her was tucked into bed. He pictured her serene against the pillow, her hair loose and begging for his fingers to capture the strands as one kiss spilled into another. His groin tightened painfully at the very thought, and he prayed she would give him an audience. He had abandoned and denounced her—and she had witnessed the horrible words—but if she allowed him to explain…
From the back porch, shadows of motion through the window caught his eye. Lydia! His heart soared, then crashed mightily when he realized there were two people inside.
She was in the bed they shared, and she was not alone.
Quickly, Henry averted his eyes. Every profane utterance he had ever known blasted through his mind, a great number of them spilling from his lips. How could she do this? Nothing he knew of his wife would indicate her capable of such a thing.
Then, through his broken pride, Henry’s sensibilities returned. A stranger sought her. Was it a mere coincidence she feared being watched? Clarity slammed into him.
Henry threw open the door and launched himself the short distance to the bed, landing in a flurry of grunts and strangled cries. Even blind with fury, he could quickly discern the man’s coarse limbs from Lydia’s, whose shaky breaths and choked tears brought rage to Henry’s blows.
&
nbsp; The assailant held his own, managing a blunt force against Henry’s head that left him seeing stars. Caught off guard by the blow, Henry was thrown sideways. He landed painfully on his shoulder, but his intensity did not waver. He reached through the dark until he fastened a hold on the man’s clothing and yanked hard, pulling him off balance and slinging him to the floor. Before he could recover, Henry rolled on top, pressing his opponent solidly under his weight.
The intruder did not continue the fight, but his limp indifference did not offer solace.
Henry struggled for breath. To Lydia, he said, “Have you a candle?”
He heard her scurry over the wood floor and, after some fumbling, the strike of flint followed. The moments before first light appeared seemed endless, and when Henry could finally view her in the weak light he searched frantically her face. “Are you okay?” he asked.
She nodded, lip pressed firmly between her teeth, but would not look at him. Instead, her attention sat fully upon the man caught between Henry and the floor.
He followed her gaze to his captive. When Henry’s eyes fell upon the man’s face, several terrible seconds passed before he could move.
No!
Stunned to see his brother’s face, Henry pushed away, struggled to his feet, and looked to his wife.
She stood, trembling, arms crossed protectively over her abdomen. She did not return his attention.
Henry found his voice. “Are you hurt?”
“I… I do not think so.”
He could not resist going to her. He pulled her close, and though he held her gently he felt as if he could never let her go. “I am so sorry. So, so sorry.”
Her Wicked Sin Page 16
