Bewitching Kisses (Bewitching Kisses Series)

by RainyKirkland

  Chapter Twenty –Four

  "In here, witch." The rough shove sent Sarah reeling. She fell to her knees on the hard floor. "Tomorrow, the good women of Salem will come to strip you naked. They'll search every inch of your body to find your witch's tit. Then you'll be brought before the magistrates for your examination. By the time you return, the blacksmith will be ready with your chains."

  Sarah struggled to her feet. "You speak as if I will be found guilty."

  "You will," the jailer sneered.

  "But I have done nothing." She tried to keep the panic from her voice, for she knew if she gave into the fear that threatened, she would be lost forever.

  "That's what they all say." The younger of the two men stepped forward and grabbed her roughly by the hair. Her lace cap had been lost in the scuffle with the crowd and now he held a thick handful of hair, pulling sharply until tears came to her eyes. "If you know what's good for you, you'll not cause any mischief tonight. Do you understand?"

  Sarah watched the other man strike his palm smartly with his staff and understood perfectly. It was a warning. They would not hesitate to beat her if the felt they had a reason.

  The grip on her hair tightened. "Do you understand, witch?" Painfully she nodded. "Good, now get away from this door and stay away."

  Sarah found herself again thrust forward to land hard on her hands and knees. Her breath caught in her throat, for the air was thick with the sweet stench of humanity. Gingerly she again climbed to her feet and, as her eyes adjusted to the faint light, she nearly gasped aloud from the sight before her. More than fifty accused huddled together in a room not much larger than Agatha's parlor. Straw had been scattered about on the floor, but it had long since lost its freshness. There were no tables or chairs on which to sit. And as she moved about the room she felt the despair from those who surrounded her.

  "Is there water?" Sarah knelt beside a frail woman who looked up with vacant eyes and pointed to a bucket that rested on a high shelf on the far wall.

  Carefully, Sarah navigated around the bodies that huddled on the floor. Never had she seen such misery. Using the single cup that hung by a string, she dipped a small sip of water. But the odious liquid had no more than touched her lips when she spit it out.

  "Won't be any fresh water until tomorrow." Sarah turned to find a young woman of about twenty watching her with sad, knowing eyes. "They only bring water every other day."

  "They say we waste it," came another voice.

  "This is madness," Sarah snapped. "One bucket of water for all these people?"

  "It takes a while, but you'll get used to it" came another voice.

  Sarah felt their fear and desperation, and it moved her. She snatched the bucket roughly from the shelf and stepped to the door. "Is there someone to hear me if I call?"

  "Don't" came the panicked reply. "They don't like it when we cause trouble." "You're not causing trouble," she said firmly. "I am." Sarah used her fist to beat against the thick wooden door. "Jailer," she called. "Come quickly." Again and again she pounded until she knew her flesh would carry bruises. But at last she could hear the sounds of movement on the other side. Quickly she stepped back as the massive door swung open.

  "What's going on in here?" came the fierce snarl.

  Despite the frantic beating of her heart and her trembling knees, Sarah stood her ground. "Sir, there is no water in the bucket. Might we have more? I would be happy to fetch it to save you the effort."

  "You! I might have known." The water bucket was snatched from her hands. "So there's no water?" the man snapped. "Then what do you call this?"

  Sarah jerked back, but the foul water still caught her in the face. Instinctively her hands flew to her eyes, and they caught the vicious blow from the cane. Curled on the muddied ground for protection, Sarah whimpered in pain. She felt the man's boot nudge her middle but she couldn't move.

  "Some of you just take longer to learn than others," he taunted. "Ain't it a shame."

  Sarah heard his feet move, but her breath refused to come until she heard the door close behind him. Rolling over to sit, she tried to flex her fingers, but pain speared through them, making her gasp aloud.

  "Are you hurt bad?" The young woman's chain rattled as she moved to sit beside her. "You were lucky if all he got were your fingers." Gently she took Sarah's hands in hers. The knuckles were already swelling. Her touch was light, but Sarah still cried out in pain when the woman curled them into a fist. "Well, you can bend them with no bones poppin' out, so don't think anything is broken. Still, they're going to give you some trouble for a while. I think you'd best . . ."

  Her words were never finished, for at that moment they heard footsteps outside the door. Quickly the girl pushed Sarah flat and moved away.

  The jailer entered and dropped the bucket to the floor. "What's a matter, witch, cat got your tongue?"

  Sarah slowly turned and her violet eyes locked on the jailer. "Be careful," she warned softly. "For the book says, do unto others as you would have done unto you."

  The man took a slow step back as her icy words caused his flesh to chill. No one in his jail had dared to defy him, and now this little piece of fluff had challenged him twice. His eyes turned to the fresh bucket of water he had just carried in when her voice sounded again. "Don't even think of it."

  He took a deep breath and immediately began to choke on the foul air. "Damn," he swore, backing away, careful to avoid bumping the bucket. "This one might really be a witch."

  The door closed and the heavy bar dropped into place. Sarah began to tremble with relief. Never had she been so frightened. She drew up her knees and dropped her forehead on them.

  "Are you all right?" A hand gently touched her. "How ever did you get the nerve to speak to him that way?"

  Sarah raised her face and tried to still the frantic beating of her heart. "I can't talk," she gasped. "I can't seem to stop shaking." The girl moved, returning with a cup of fresh water. She held Sarah's hand to help her drink. The cool water tasted better than the finest wine on her parched lips, and the tremors soon began to ease.

  Sarah drew a shaky breath. "I was just so angry that he would take such advantage." She scrambled to her feet and looked at the squalor that surrounded her. "People shouldn't have to live like this."

  "But we're the accused," came a weary voice. "This is our lot in life."

  Sarah flexed her fingers again and tried to ignore the pain. "Your lot in life is to make the best of whatever you have," she said slowly. She grimaced from the weight of the bucket and the young girl was instantly there to take it from her.

  "My name is Jenny," she said shyly, carrying the bucket as the moved about the room to offer water.

  Nick fought to hold his tongue as they left the courtroom. Never had he seen such a travesty of justice. Hawthorne had insisted they attend, and now Nick understood why. In the face of fear, reason had fled completely. Hawthorne was right when he said they would rather find witches than the truth. When they were again on the Good Providence, Nick let loose.

  "Damn them all to hell," he spat, pacing about the small cabin, feeling the desperate need to strike something. "Those madmen have my Sarah."

  "And my Jenny," Hawthorne said quietly. He poured three brandies and joined Chris at the table. "There is no reasoning with these people. They believe whatever madness those children propagate."

  Chris took a deep drink, for the sight he had witnessed disturbed him deeply. "But why did they make that poor woman touch them?" he questioned. "I don't understand."

  Hawthorne shook his head and an ironic smile touched his face. "That my friends, is a test for witchcraft. If the child is afflicted and she is touched by the witch, then the diabolical fluid is passed back into the witch. Thus the affliction is momentarily stopped."

  "And that is used as proof?" Chris's voice held disbelief.

  Hawthorne nodded. "I could go and claim you to be a wizard. If I throw myself on the floor and twitch about, say that I saw you with
the devil and that you bade me sign the devil's book, they would come and arrest you. For proof I have only to twitch about until they place your hand on me. If I stop, I've just proved you to be a wizard."

  "My God," Chris sighed.

  "God isn't in Salem, if you ask me," Hawthorne said, looking from one to the other. "If he was, he wouldn't have let them take my Jenny."

  Nick pulled out a chair and joined them at the table. His eyes glittered with dangerous lights. "God might not be in Salem," he said quietly, "but we are. And I have a plan."

  Bone-weary, Sarah awaited the coming of the dawn. Her gown reeked from the rancid water that had doused her and her fingers, now stiff and swollen, throbbed constantly. Nick, come and get me, her mind cried again and again.

  The room slumbered peacefully, but Sarah knew she would not sleep, for now she held the truth. She had spent the night moving quietly among the prisoners, trying to give comfort or restore faith that had deserted. And as their stories poured forth, she had listened. It hadn't taken long for the pattern to appear, ad as each piece of the puzzle fit into place her outrage grew. These people weren't witches, but the victims of Church politics and bitter land disputes. How was it that no one had noticed before? She wondered. Five of the afflicted came from two families. They lived to the west of the meeting house and had been in favor of the Reverend Mr. Parris. The accused lived east of the meeting house. Again and again she listed the names and circumstances in her mind. Of the church committee members twenty families had been against hiring Parris, and of those seventeen had now been arrested for witchcraft. Her head dropped to her knees. Nick, where are you? she cried. I need you.

  She felt the warmth before she saw it, that first beam of sunlight that filtered through the space in the high window. It touched her and she gloried in its heat.

  "I know what I am about now," she whispered. "I have found the answer to the madness." The ray of sunlight grew brighter, haloing her with its brilliance. Sarah heard those behind her begin to stir. "Give me strength," she prayed, kneeling in the light. "Give me the words to make the governor understand."

  The door to the jail crashed open, and Sarah flew to her feet. The others, snatched from their sleep, cowered in fear, for in their minds it was the jailer returned and that always meant trouble. Blankets were pulled over heads, and those in the corners huddled more to the shadows hoping not to be noticed.

  Sarah knew she stood, but she was sure she must be dreaming, for when she looked up, Nick was standing before her looking every bit the pirate. He wore a sash over one eye and a thick black wig that reached low on his shoulders and covered much of his face.

  "You," he pointed with a long sword. "Out."

  She resisted the urge to fling herself into his arms as relief flooded through her. An instant later she was dangling over Chris's shoulder as Nick stood guard at the door. He, too, sported a gigantic wig, and as he stepped from the jail, the wind pushed it against her nose, making her sneeze repeatedly.

  "Will you be quiet?" Chris hissed, setting her quickly in the wagon. Hawthorne captured his prize, and within minutes the wagon was full and flying down the roadway.

  In what seemed like a lifetime but in reality was less than an hour, they had bid farewell to Captain Hawthorne and his wife, and both the Good Providence and the Fleetwood had weighed anchor.

  Sarah stood on the quarterdeck and watched the last of Salem Harbor fade from view. When Nick moved to stand behind her, she leaned back against him.

  "You shouldn't be up here without a cloak," he said gently, folding his arms about her.

  "I must bathe first," she said. "I fear I smell something fierce."

  Nick sniffed her hair and chuckled. "That you do. You've been through a trying ordeal, my dear, and it's only fitting that I should help you."

  She smiled and locked her arms over his. "Nick, I need to ask a great favor of you." She felt his body stiffen behind her.

  "I'm not taking you back there," he said. "When that crowd carried you off, I almost lost my heart. I'll not willingly go through that again. Don't ask that of me."

  Sarah turned in his arms. "Would you take me to Boston to speak with Governor Phips?"

  Nick scowled down at her. "Why?"

  Quietly she told of her night in the prison, recounting the tales and drawing the pattern of names. "I think I can persuade him to put an end to it," she said desperately. "Please let me try."

  Nick rubbed his forehead against hers. "We have no choice," he said quietly, emphasizing the word we. "We can't stand by and let this madness continue. I will do everything in my power to help you as long as you are not put in danger. I will not risk that again for all the wealth in Virginia."

  Sarah felt her heart swell with pride. "Have I told you lately that I love you, Mr. Beaumont?" she whispered.

  "Not often enough, Mrs. Beaumont," he sighed against her lips. "Not nearly often enough."

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The stone bench on which she sat was cold but Sarah made no move to rise. Fall had moved through Virginia, painting the leaves a fiery red and brilliant orange. With sad eyes she gazed about the garden. The last of the summer blossoms were gone, but then, so many things that had once filled her life were gone; the whimsical stories of Rebecca Nurse stilled forever by the hangman's noose, her stepbrother Samuel dead, her house in the village burned to the ground. She shivered as much from the memories as from the bite of the wind. Leaves, dried and brittle, snapped free from their moorings to swirl about, and the gentle rustling sound of their flight filled the air.

  She gazed down at the official document she clasped in her hand, and though it carried the seal of the governor, her eyes again filled with sorrow. Such a waste. Such a tragic waste. The sun left its hiding place in the gray, cloud-filled sky and Sarah basked in its warmth.

  "Why are you sad, my daughter?" came the gentle words to her mind.

  Sarah's eyes welled with tears. "I failed," she whispered to the wind. "I know now I was sent to stop the witch trials, but I failed."

  "The hangings are done. No more will find their death at Gallows Hill. The tree has been cut down . . . the witch hunt is over."

  "But there were no witches in Salem, and twenty innocent people lost their lives. Nineteen taken from their homes, their loved ones, and poor Giles Corey. . ." Sarah's tears began to course down her pale cheeks. "Giles Corey pressed to death because he would not denounce his faith. What madness makes decent people do such things to one another?"

  "Greed and the want of power. It overshadowed their faith . . . that same faith they strove so hard to profess."

  Sarah turned her troubled face to the sky. "Why wasn't I able to do more?"

  "You brought the madness to an end."

  Sarah shook her head. "I spoke to the governor and he did nothing."

  For a moment the wind swirled in an angry gust around her. "You must have faith, my child" came the gentle rebuff. "Oftimes the heart hears what the mind denies. Yours were the words that took the clouds of doubt from the governor's eyes. Spoken from the heart, you reached him where others failed. The document you hold that stops the killings was the result of your intervention. I will hear no more self-reproach. You have done well."

  Sarah turned her face to the sun, and its warmth dried her tears. The light intensified, surrounding her with its brightness, and a light, airy feeling seeped into her awareness. She felt as carefree as the leaves that glided with abandon on the whims of the wind. And suddenly she remembered a time past when there was no time . . . and her body grew lighter still. For an instant she felt free of her earthly bonds . . . and in that moment she remembered the reality of her being.

  "Do you wish me home now, Father?" Her eyes pressed closed dreading the answer, for she couldn't bear the thought of leaving Nick.

  The sunlight intensified, growing warm on her face, cloaking her in peace and tranquility. "You have always been one of my favorites, Sarah, but alas, your task on earth is not yet completed," ca
me the gentle voice.

  Sarah looked up with desperate hope in her eyes.

  "Do not be distressed, my child. I know that Nicholas Beaumont now claims your heart. But the love you share is pure, Sarah, and in that you give me glory. It will be your great-grandsons that help to form this new land." The sunlight started to slip away and Sarah blinked rapidly. "Be at peace, my child," the wind seemed to whisper.

  Sarah looked down at the document signed by the governor and felt contentment. There would always be a part of her that would ache for those now gone, but with memories they'd never be forgotten and with faith the horrors would never occur again. Taking a deep breath of the crisp fall air, she gazed about with new eyes. This is my home, she thought with startling clarity. And as the words echoed again in her mind, her hand pressed to her stomach in wonder. "I'm going to carry Nick's baby," she thought. Heady sensations washed through her, erasing doubts and the pain of the past. She tried to imagine holding a child and her face took on a wistful, dreamlike stare.

  Nicholas Beaumont rounded the corner of the house to find his wife sitting alone in the garden. Her face radiated a beauty that startled him with its intensity. For so much of his life he had been alone; now he had Sarah. He shuddered to think how close he had come to losing her. But we're home, he thought, and his step quickened as he moved to join her.

  "You received the news," he observed, smiling down at her and taking the document from her fingers. "Have I told you how proud I am of you?" He pulled her gently to her feet and enfolded her in his arms.

  Sarah blushed and gazed up at him. I shall never tire of looking at this face, she thought, and when I am old in years and feeble in mind, I shall still find comfort with this man.