He did not expect his sister to have those answers, but with any luck she might offer something of reason…something solid that might build a foundation of understanding. Of healing.
He found Abigail in the cooking room, her jaw set in a scowl.
“Good morrow,” he greeted her.
She did not bother to glance his way. “You are fortunate,” she muttered, “to be a man. Nothing is expected of you.”
He forced a grin. He and Abigail had never been particularly close, and he did not expect the direction of his conversation to change that, but perhaps time had softened some of those old hostilities. “The truth is to the contrary,” he said of a man’s expectations, “but you will believe as you must. Can you spare a moment?”
A flash of vulnerability colored her face, disappearing as quickly as it came. “If you order it. I cannot volunteer my time without risking punishment. Father is ill of his moods of late.”
“Does that have anything to do with the accusations you orchestrated?”
She glared, and he wished he could take back the unwise words. He wanted to forge communication, and laying accusations at her feet would not be conducive to that goal.
“Forgive me. I know he needs no such excuse.”
Abigail begrudged him a halfhearted smile. “What is it, Nathanial?”
“Is it true there was some trouble here before everything started?”
Her eyes narrowed, though the slits did not hide the surprise and worry that huddled there. “What sort of trouble?”
He glanced around. Seeing no one, he crossed the room until he could speak at a whisper. “Father had an altercation with one of his employees.”
Abigail regarded him with blatant suspicion. “Does he not always?”
“This was different,” he said, his voice firm. Perhaps too firm…he did not want to discourage her from talking, but he wanted her to know he was not taking mere stabs at scandal. He wanted her to know he knew.
She studied him for a moment. “Perhaps I know the one to which you allude.”
“If you do, then perhaps you can answer a question for me. Was it his child?”
Abigail’s jaw dropped. She looked quickly around before lowering her voice to the faintest of whispers. “Never speak of that.”
“I shall not have to. That is answer enough. How long after did the afflictions begin?”
“Mary began feeling poorly soon after.”
“At whose suggestion?”
Again, Abigail’s gaze snapped to his. “No one’s suggestion.”
“Father did not come to you in search of a way to distract from rumors?”
“I did not speak an untruth for him, if that is what you are getting at.”
“Perhaps he convinced you of an untruth.”
“Nathanial—”
“It is over, is it not?” Now it was he who spoke the untruth, for it could never be over. Not until everyone who had lived through it had passed on, and even then the stories would continue. “I just seek to understand what happened. I need to know why you said those things.”
“Then you would be wise to take care where you lay your blame. It began with Tituba.”
Nathanial nodded, somewhat relieved to hear some consistency in the retelling. But consistency in the repetition does not make it truth. “Perhaps, but were the accusations not yours? And then the testimony?”
She nodded with hesitance. “Yes, but my words were spoken from truth.”
“The physician woman, then? She put her hands on you? Then what? Came to you as a specter in the night?”
Abigail pressed her lips tightly together and crossed her arms over her chest. She said nothing.
He forced patience despite the fact he was losing ground. “Please,” he implored. “Help me understand what happened here.”
She looked down and busied herself with the task of tidying the table. “There is nothing to understand. The accusations were truth. If the accused were not the cause of our afflictions, then perhaps it was Tituba or another practicing witch. I was just as much a victim as were those hanged.”
Her final, selfish utterance stunned him so greatly that he required a moment to process it, and once he did, anger boiled dangerously close to the surface. He would not hit a woman, but in that moment he would be well content to have that bastard Jeremiah pass within striking distance. “You cannot expect me to believe you have suffered as much as they,” he said through a tight jaw and clenched teeth.
She shrugged with an indifference that further infuriated him. “I am still here and I face scorn every day. What do the dead suffer?”
Nathanial stared. How could his sister be so heartless? He had thought for a moment they had opened a dialog, but the way she smirked at him left him doubting her every word. It was a damned shame he learned more from strangers than his own blood, though in that moment he could only appreciate the detachment. He did not want to be one of them.
“There are rumors about you and Faith Downing.”
Though his mind came to clear, immediate focus, he was careful not to give her the swift reaction for which he suspected she hoped. Instead, he spoke causally. “What might they be?”
“That you were fornicating. In daylight, right in her yard.”
Fornicating? As if he was some kind of rutting beast, though was he not? Kissing in public was criminal in this town. How he longed to take Faith to a place where passion was not precluded by archaic laws of the small-minded—a place where love was celebrated rather than punished. And soon he would, but it would not be soon enough.
Nathanial spared his sister the explanation she expected, instead offering a grin at the memory brought on by her words. “Did the source of that rumor have a bloodied nose?”
Abigail nodded. “And both eyes were beginning to blacken.”
“Good.”
Her mouth twisted in disgust. She was her mother’s daughter, and she would loathe to hear such a thing—irony not at all lost on him. “You are an Abbot,” she said. “You cannot resort to such crimes.”
“Hitting him was no crime. In fact, I dare say it would have been more of a crime to leave him unscathed.”
“He did nothing wrong.” She spoke with such feeling he suddenly wondered if she had her sights on him. His father had land, and though Abigail was a bit young for marriage, Nathanial had heard enough from their father to know he would welcome such an arrangement. Frankly, Nathanial thought Abigail and Jeremiah would be well matched.
“What of your actions with Faith?”
He shrugged. “I kissed her.”
Abigail’s lips flattened until they nearly disappeared, her arms pressing more tightly than they had before. Before she had a chance to voice her reasoning, Nathanial’s father entered the room and wasted no time in greeting.
“Is it true you and the Downing girl are engaged?”
Abigail’s eyes grew round as saucers.
“What of it?” Nathanial bit out, though privately he could not begin to figure from where the news came. Surely Jeremiah would not spread such a story when it only served to dispute his own lies. “You parlayed your involvement as my father. I need not ask for your permission.”
Richard took Nathanial’s arm and once again pulled him from his sister, then from the room. When they entered the parlor, Richard shut the door before he spoke. “Forget permission. That was a bloody brilliant stroke.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“She lost her mother—”
Bastard. “If Faith is the woman to whom you refer, she lost her aunt.”
He waved a hand. “It matters not. By agreeing to marry you, she has exonerated this entire family.”
A feeling of growing dread tangled with the inherent wariness that came with his father’s proximity. “How so?”
“Her approval, son. If she takes the name, our entire family will be free of scrutiny. You are a better strategist than I ever thought possible, for you will end this for
us for certain.”
Nathanial’s heart sank. He brushed off his father’s attempts to shake his hand, as if some great deal had just been acquired. He had never intended his proposal as a way to benefit his family. His father was a pompous, arrogant man and would no doubt use the situation as proof in his campaign to clear the family name. The effort would be futile, but apparently Richard Abbot was too foolish to realize twenty murders could not be forgotten by the joining of two hands. Nathanial knew better, but would Faith? She had made clear Nathanial’s last name was not the only reason she would not marry him. There were more reasons. The odds were already stacked against him, but in the face of his father’s misguided assumption, a new worry formed.
If she felt as did his father, would she even give him a chance?
…
Faith picked up the spoon she had dropped and wanted nothing more than to hurl it across the room. Imagining the thud as it hit the wall gave her the first moment of satisfaction she had experienced since Nathanial had left. It was a realization that annoyed her to no end. She should be at ease. She and her mother had a home, a warm fire, and food to eat. They could never fill that empty spot at the table, but they were doing okay. Healing. She saw that now.
Nathanial had helped her to see that.
I want to share my life with you.
You will stand at my side because you wish for it, and not because you see no other way.
Was that true? He had said she was strong, but she had never seen herself in such a way. She had merely done what she needed to survive, and while that might fit someone’s definition for strength, the truth was Nathanial had found in her the greatest weakness she had ever known.
He had made her want for him.
Frustrated, Faith gave in to her urge to throw the spoon—not at the wall, but the table, where it landed with an unsatisfactory thump.
“What bothers you, child?”
She turned to see her mother smiling. Faith had nearly forgotten she was there. She would never have done that before she had tasted Nathanial. Tasted passion. She pasted on a smile, knowing her mother would see right through it. “You had a good day out?”
“I did, as you well know because you asked me upon my return.” She paused, her face alight. “I must say, however, the best part of my day was my talk with Nathanial. His asking for your hand has brought me great joy.”
Faith stared imploringly. “How can you think that is a good idea?”
“He is a good man. You forget, I knew him well. He was a daily visitor to this home.”
“Yes, and then he left for four years and came back as an unfamiliar man.”
Felicity’s gaze drifted toward Ruth’s chair, and Faith wondered if she had done so with purpose. When she spoke, she did so quietly. “I have seen nothing to indicate his heart has changed.”
“But other things have,” Faith said, still following the direction of her mother’s attention. “What if he demands I leave Salem? He has no love for the people here, and I have no desire to be anywhere else. I cannot leave here. I cannot leave you behind. I cannot leave Aunt Ruth.”
Felicity shook her head. “Worry not for your aunt. Heal, Faith. Heal. Nathanial has much to offer, and I am an old woman. My end years will be much better to know my daughter has found the stability afforded by such a good man.”
Faith found herself blinking back unexpected tears. She quickly turned and busied herself with the meal, though her mother’s words stayed close as she served the meal and cleaned up afterwards. She helped Felicity to bed, then faced her own.
The place where Nathanial had touched her. Where he had made her want. She had come so close to allowing it. Did that mean her heart could be his in spite of their differences? As she pondered the thought, a motion through the window caught her eye. It took but a moment for her to recognize him, and a moment longer to realize what he was doing—carrying chickens to deposit in the henhouse. She smiled to herself. Once the animals roosted for the night even the wildest among them were easy to catch. She should have thought to do exactly as he did, yet she had not. And here he was, with so many unsure words between them, seeing to her chickens…just as he’d seen to their house.
Smiling to herself, Faith slipped out the back door and closed it gently behind her. Nathanial heard her and looked up, returning the grin. He ducked inside the henhouse, reappearing seconds later without the poultry. “I know not how many nights of introduction they will require, but soon they will enter on their own. There are nesting boxes inside for the eggs, so in time your search will be contained to those four walls.
“Thank you,” she said. “Your kindness is much appreciated.”
“I should apologize,” he said, his words gentle. “For earlier. I never meant to suggest your honor had been compromised.”
The topic was uncomfortable. He had no right to suggest she had given herself to another man—no more right than he had to assume she would fall at his feet and beg him to take her anywhere his wandering heart desired. “If you did not mean to suggest it, then why did you?”
He offered a crooked grin. “I am quite embarrassed by the truth, but I suppose it is the least of what I owe you. Your kisses…they unwound me, and I could not fathom how someone without experience could entice me in such a way.”
“Is that the truth?”
“It is.”
She fiddled with her skirts. She managed to evade looking at him for a moment, and then her curiosity got the better of her. “You do not find me boring?”
“No, little one,” he said softly. “Never have I felt a touch like yours. I am as thrilled by your touch as I am your intelligence and sharp tongue.”
“A sharp tongue could be problematic.”
“Indeed, but your wit enthralls me. Come,” he said, “I want to show you something.”
Faith looked around, her heart and mind protesting in unison. Not too long ago, Salem had been even more dangerous at night than it had by day. “In the dark?”
“The moon is bright.”
She had to concede that point. The moon beamed down over them like a second sun. She crossed her arms against the growing chill. He warmed her. Made her long for something more than what existed in the four small walls in which she had barricaded herself. “Show me.”
“It is not far,” he said. As he spoke he shed his coat and settled it over her shoulders.
She breathed deeply, enjoying his scent emanating from the fabric, and fell into step next to him. “Not too long ago, walking at night would have begged trouble.”
“Are you so sure it does not now?”
She looked at him sharply, but he was grinning. “I suppose you are the trouble in question?”
“You are quick to trust, little one.”
“And you should not be so quick to judge. You have proven yourself a gentleman.”
“Any man can pretend for a short while.”
She pressed together her lips so she would not smile. Had she not had this very exchange with her mother? Only then it was she who had argued, and now it was Nathanial while Faith defended. Perhaps she should have been wary, but she found the turnover delightful. “The body may fool, but the eyes never do.”
“I must agree,” he said. “Such observations are learned in my trade.”
“Then you know Jeremiah is not to be believed.” She held her breath, waiting for Jeremiah’s name to cast a pall over their exchange. But it did not.
Nathanial nodded. “I do. And you know of my sincerity.”
She hesitated. “I suppose I should, but why me? I have nothing. My mother pays a stipend to reside in the home, but we own no property.” She knew her argument held a flaw, for women were forbidden from owning property—Nathanial would not gain land from any marriage transaction, not just one with her—but she still could not fathom why he would hold interest in her.
“Property is essential to security,” he said. “And security is the key to happiness. Marry me, and you will want for no
thing—you will have everything life has to offer. What more could you ask?”
“That’s a wishful notion, Nathanial,” she said softly. “But I want a man who wants for me, not one who only seeks more riches. A man who understands that a fortune means nothing without love, and that the most important things in life are those which cannot be purchased.”
“But without stability, there is suffering. Love will not put food on the table or provide shelter from the storm.”
After several long moments, she spoke. “Your life has taken you far from Salem, but I have never traveled farther than the harbor. I cannot imagine you have gone so far and have not found anything more suitable than what you left behind.”
“Have you considered the whole of my journey was to bring me back to you?”
Her face grew hot, and she was grateful for the cool night that whisked the heat from her face. “I might if you had ever shown an interest in me before you left.”
He laughed. “Is that what you thought? That I had no interest in you?”
“I…suppose.”
He stopped and drew her around so she faced him. “I adored you, but last we met you were a girl of sixteen and I was a man of twenty and one. To pursue you would be to dishonor you, your mother, and your aunt. I wanted for you, but I could not bear to repay your aunt’s kindness in such a way.”
“You seem truthful,” she admitted. She had not fathomed the answer could be so clear. So logical.
Blue eyes saturated her. “Have you any reason to believe otherwise?”
She turned and began walking, though she knew not where they were headed. His attention was too much—too sincere. Not that she did not believe him, but after months of living in fear and heartbreak, the prospect of anything good in her life scared her as much as it thrilled her. She knew not which aspect to embrace.
He caught up easily.
“If your words are true,” she said, “then you have already left me once.”
“You were not mine to leave.”
“Your family was your own, and you discarded them.”
He put a hand on her arm, drawing her to look at him when he spoke. “Do not make light of the fact that they first discarded me. It was they who ceased ties…not I. I would never walk away from a promise, Faith. My father cast me aside. That is why I left, and you are the reason I returned. I have never walked away from a commitment, and you have my assurance I never will. Now, to whom do you pay the stipend for your home?”
The Sins of a Few (Entangled Scandalous) Page 8
