"Your work schedule?" Maggie asked. She poured two mugs of dark roast, handed one to Penny and sat down across from her.
"Partly. The other part is Scott."
"Scott?"
Penny flushed. "I don't want him to see me coming in here, not with our history, his and mine."
"I see." Maggie stared thoughtfully into her teacup. "He comes in here, you know."
"Not much, I'll bet."
"No," Maggie agreed, "not much."
Penny looked at her, her glance moving over Maggie's face and resting on her hair. She opened her mouth and closed it again without saying anything.
"Go on," Maggie said. "You were going to say something."
"Never mind."
"Ok."
"All right." Penny frowned. "If Scott comes over here it's probably to see you. Except for this," she waved her hand to encompass the shop, "you're exactly his type."
Maggie stared at her. Maybe Scott was right. Maybe the woman was delusional. "Do you know me well enough to say such a thing?"
"I don't have to. You're calm and collected and organized. And you're lovely with those eyes and all that bright hair."
"I suppose there's a compliment in there somewhere."
"Are you interested?"
"I've never given it a thought. Would it bother you?"
Penny shook her head. "Not at all. I'm not even compelled to warn you away for your sake. You're smart enough to figure things out." She changed the subject. "Have you met your neighbors?"
"Not really. I've been working long hours. Deborah Summers invited me to a party, though. I understand you two were good friends."
Penny laughed. "Why would you say that?"
"She told me."
"You're not serious?"
"Yes," Maggie said, "I am."
"Deborah Summers and I dislike each other intensely. There's something strange about her." Penny shuddered. "She gives me the creeps. I know that's an awful thing to say about a handicapped person, but it's true." Penny lifted her chin and mimicked the blind woman. "I'm descended from the Woodcock's, one of Salem's first families."
It didn't occur to Maggie to doubt Penny's word. There was something innocent and guileless about Holly Hillyard's mother. For some reason Deborah Summers had lied to her. Why would she want Maggie to believe that Penny and she were friends?
"I'm sorry she's the only person who has extended herself," Penny continued. "She's not exactly representative of Salem's population."
"I've become friendly with Susannah Davies. Do you know her?"
"I can't say that I really know her, but I know who she is. She lived here, in this house, for years."
"You must be mistaken. She's a Wiccan, a small, auburn-haired woman in her late fifties
"I'm not mistaken, Maggie. She helped me with natural herbs. I see her all the time."
Penny continued to talk but Maggie no longer heard her. A strange chiming sounded in her ears and something hard and cold settled in her stomach. Dizziness overwhelmed her. Reaching for something, anything her hand closed over the spinning wheel.
Chapter 17
Salem, Massachusetts 1689
The child was beautiful, in the sharp-cheeked, fine-boned way of her mother's people. Abigail saw her own mother in the defined features, in the red whorls of hair growing from the tiny scalp, in the shape and length of her fingers and the lines dividing her palms. Then, of course, there were the eyes, the two colors in one face, the clear crystal blue and the deepest of browns. The lack of symmetry was almost too much to take in, even for Abigail who hadn't seen her own face since she left Barbados. Puritans did not approve of mirrors.
Abigail dressed herself each morning, pinning up her hair and tying her cap, pulling on her gown and apron, stockings and shoes without so much as a single glance in the front window, the only looking glass available in Salem Village, perhaps in all of New England. It was the child who brought it all back to her. She looked into the face of her babe and saw her past, the world she'd left behind. The ache in her heart was so pointed, so diamond sharp, that she learned to forcibly push it away to a private place where everything she'd ever known of beauty and color and music and literature was permanently stored to be brought out at a later time when she was far and safely away from this prison that had become her life. She did not include John in her bitter synthesis of those around her. John March was a good man, a loving man, a devoted father and husband, son and brother. She had no complaint with her husband.
They'd called the babe, Margaret. It was an English name. Disapproval was written on the stern features of Reverend Parris throughout the christening. He would have been pleased with a Puritan name, Prudence or Patience, Mercy or Charity. Margaret was a queen's name, a Papist name. Not that religion had a role in the choosing of her child's name. Abigail had been christened a Catholic as had all her people before her. But she wasn't rooted in the Papacy although that was the faith in which she was raised. It wasn't religious preference that turned her away from the Congregationalist teachings of her neighbors. It was their rigidity, their lack of pleasure, their ritualistic, insular belief that all who practiced differently were sinful and beneath contempt. The Reverend Parris and his followers had expatriated themselves because they were intolerant of any religion but their own.
Settling the babe in her cradle, Abigail sat down at her spinning wheel and examined the yarn she had spun for Rebecca Nurse. It was the white of bleached bone and very strong, perfect for the christening gown she'd planned for her newest grandchild. Abigail would take it to her this very day, after the baby napped, along with the aloe leaves she'd gathered. She would bring Judith and little Margaret. Although Rebecca was the matriarch of a large family, she was widowed and lived alone and therefore grateful for company.
"My, she's grown so since I last saw her." Rebecca Nurse lifted the baby from Abigail's arms and nestled her against her ample chest. "What an unusual face. You must have looked very like her when you were young, Abigail."
Abigail glanced down at Judith. "Rather more than like this one, I believe." She placed a hand on her older daughter's head.
Rebecca nodded. "Judith has always been a great help to you."
"Even more so, now that we have Margaret. She's learned to spot the herbs I need for healing."
"Good girl." Rebecca smiled at the little girl. "I've cornbread and sweet spring water. Would you care for a bite to eat and drink, child?"
Judith nodded.
Rebecca handed the baby back to Abigail. "Sit down and tell me what news you hear. I've been ill and time moves on without me."
Abigail glanced at her three-year-old. "I saw some wildflowers in full bloom at the edge of the clearing. Run outside and pick them for us. They'll be lovely on the table."
Obediently, the little girl left the room.
Goody Nurse raised her eyebrows. "What is it? Why did you send Judith away?"
Abigail sat down at the table. "There is trouble in Salem Village. The new minister, Reverend Parris has reported witchcraft in his house. He claims his daughter and niece are possessed by demons."
Rebecca's lips tightened. "Rubbish."
"T'is nothing to sneer at. No one is above suspicion."
"I'll not be a part of this and neither should you." She set the food on the table, glanced at the strained expression on Abigail's face and relented. "We are God fearing women, Abigail. We have no cause to worry. No one would dare accuse either one of us. You are the wife of a selectman and my family has influence throughout the commonwealth. We have done nothing to cause anyone to cry out against us. We care for the community. We feed the poor and cure the sick."
"That in itself is suspect," whispered Abigail.
"I have nothing do hide."
Abigail remained silent.
Rebecca Nurse frowned. "Is there something you wish to confess, Abigail?"
The younger woman's cheeks burned. "I am no witch, but I was raised in Barbados. The practices of my yout
h are foreign here. I learned things from the colored woman who was my nurse."
"Did you commune with the devil?" Rebecca whispered, her eyes wide.
"No. Never."
"What then? What did you do?"
"Made potions. Practiced spells. Always harmless, but still they were spells. I know the power of stones and the rhythms of the seasons. I can read the stars."
Rebecca sat down on a stool, her hands empty and still in her lap. "You must trust me a great deal to tell me this."
"There is no one else," Abigail said simply. "You are my friend. You despise these witch hunts as I do." She raised her eyes to Rebecca's face. "I came to warn you. There is a warrant to arrest you. Anne Putnam has cried out against you. She claims you came to her room and coaxed her into signing the devil's book."
"I don't believe it."
"I saw it. John left it on the table."
"John March would allow this?"
Abigail shook her head. "He argues against it. But there are those who believe it. The Reverend Parris is determined to ferret out witches. Spectral evidence is impossible to dispute. Anyone may claim to see one of us in her dreams while we are sleeping peacefully in our own beds."
"The Reverend Parris was not my choice. He is a tradesman from Barbados and although he attended Harvard, he has no degree. Perhaps he knows I spoke against him. He kept us waiting for a year and yet he wanted permanent title to the parsonage and its lands." She shook her head. "As for the Putnams, they want my land. They have held a grudge against me since the town fathers decided in my favor."
"I know that. John knows that as well."
"What shall I do? T'is too late to send for my sons and I cannot set out for Plymouth or Deerfield on my own." She lifted her chin. "No, Abigail. I have done nothing wrong. I shall allow them to interrogate me. God will protect me."
Abigail leaned forward. "I beseech you, Rebecca. Nathanial Burke has docked the Sealark in the harbor. Book passage and you will be safe."
"I'm wet." Judith stood in the doorway, her hair and clothing damp with rain.
Rebecca hurried to the door and lifted the little girl into her arms. "Come in, child, and dry by the fire. You shall have warm milk and honey with your bread. T'would be a dreadful shame if you were to take cold. What were we thinking sending you out in the rain?"
"It only just rained," confided Judith.
"We can be grateful for that."
Settling the child on her lap with a cup of milk and a wedge of cornbread, Rebecca looked over the top of her head at Abigail. "We'll speak no more of it. This is my home. I'll not run away. It will come to nothing."
Abigail looked into the fire, her face severe and anguished. "There is another way."
"What is that?"
"Take on the role of accuser. Claim to be affected."
"By whom?"
Abigail did not immediately answer. She thought back to her first miserable years in Salem and the small kindnesses that linked her to Rebecca Nurse. The hot brick for her feet that first bitterly cold winter when she nearly froze to death sitting through Reverend Hawthorne's dreadful sermons. The lace handkerchief to carry at her wedding had belonged to Rebecca. Time and again the comfort of her cozy home, a slice of apple bread and a sympathetic ear became Abigail's refuge in those early days when she had wept her heart out at the very thought of seven years bondage to Jerusha March. And when Abigail gave birth to Judith and Margaret, Rebecca was there, too. She was the first to hold the babies in her arms, to lift them toward the light, to welcome them to the world.
At what price is friendship redeemed? The question was one Abigail had long considered. Rebecca was closer to her than her own mother had been. She could not turn away when she might be harmed. She wet her lips and turned her blue-brown gaze on the older woman. "As you have said, John is a selectman. If I were to be cried out against, it would go easier for me than for you. If the worst happens, Rebecca, tell them I led you astray. Tell them what I have told you today."
"I will not listen to such talk. Do not speak of it again. You have children. I am an old woman, Abigail. Remember that." She kissed the top of Judith's head. "Now, look at what this child has done, finished all her milk and bread. We must think of a proper reward." She tilted her head and pretended to be deep in thought. "I know. There is a poppet there on the shelf." She nodded at the rag doll on the mantel. "Would you like to take it home, Judith?"
The little girl nodded.
"Can you reach it?"
Judith slid off Rebecca's lap and ran to the mantel where she easily plucked the doll from its perch.
"That's a good girl. Aren't you the clever one?" She looked at Abigail. "Mind what I say, lass, and look to yourself. I will be fine. I have more than one trick up my sleeve."
"Send for your sons, Rebecca. Promise me you'll do that."
Rebecca Nurse nodded. Suddenly she looked every bit her age. "I will do that. I give you my word."
* * *
Maggie woke to an acrid smell in her nostrils and Scott Hillyard's face, grim and pale, hovering over her. "She's coming out of it," he said.
"Thank God." Penny Hillyard appeared in her field of vision. "Maggie, are you all right? We were so worried."
Maggie struggled to sit up.
"Whoa, there, not so fast." Scott eased her back down on the couch. "Take a minute."
"What happened?"
"You fainted. Penny called me and I brought you some smelling salts." He produced a small flashlight from his shirt pocket, turned it on and shone it into her eyes. She flinched. "Your pupils are dilated but they're responding properly and your pulse is good. Have you had fainting spells before?"
"Never," Maggie said emphatically. "I haven't had much to eat today. Maybe that's it."
"Maybe." Scott sat back. "When did you have your last period?"
"I'm not pregnant, if that's what you're asking. If I am it would have to be an immaculate conception."
Scott laughed. "Fair enough. Maybe it is just a lack of food, or maybe you're anemic. It might be a good idea for a checkup. Do you have a family doctor here in Salem?"
"No."
"I'd volunteer but I don't think you'd go for that."
"Not at all."
"Scott's a very good doctor," Penny said.
"He's also my neighbor and a friend. I'd rather not deal with that."
"I understand completely," Scott agreed. "I can give you some recommendations, if you're agreeable."
"I'd appreciate it, but there's no rush. There's nothing wrong with me."
Scott looked at her thoughtfully. "What were you doing prior to your losing consciousness?"
All she wanted was for the two of them to go home. "I don't remember."
"We were talking about the people who live around here," Penny said.
Scott wrapped his stethoscope around his hand. "That doesn't sound particularly ominous."
"It wasn't." Maggie sat up. "Look. I appreciate the concern. I really do, but there's nothing wrong with me. I need food and sleep, that's all. You've been very kind, both of you. I'd appreciate some recommendations for a family doctor, but it's certainly not an emergency."
Scott stood. "In that case, I'll be going." He looked at his ex-wife. "You never did tell me how you happened to be here when this happened?"
"Maggie and I met a few months ago, when she first moved here," Penny said. "My car wouldn't start and she invited me in to wait for a taxi. I told her I'd be back to visit."
Suddenly Maggie was angry. "I was under the impression that you were divorced."
Scott looked surprised. "We are."
"Why, then, would she have to explain anything to you?"
His smile was forced. "You're right. She doesn't." He picked up his bag. "I'll see myself out."
The door clicked and Penny released her breath. "I can't believe you said that to him," she whispered. "I was terrified."
"Why?"
Penny shuddered and rubbed her arms. "You don't kno
w Scott. He can be terribly cruel."
Maggie's impression of Scott Hillyard did not include cruelty. Serious, maybe, determined, even opinionated, but never cruel. "Are you saying he was abusive?"
"Oh, no. Nothing like that," Penny assured her. "It's just that he has the ability to make me feel so small and ridiculous, almost stupid. It's impossible to argue with him."
"I don't feel that way at all."
"I can see that," Penny said reverently. "You're very like him, you know."
Maggie's startled look brought an instant apologetic explanation. "That certainly didn't come out right. I meant it as a compliment. You're amazingly strong, Maggie, and determined. I admire you tremendously. I hope you believe me."
Penny's sincerity made it impossible to believe otherwise. "Thank you," Maggie said, and changed the subject.
Later, over a healthy portion of scrambled eggs and toast with marmalade, Maggie sat at her kitchen table and pondered Penny's statement, trying to remain objective. Was it a compliment or a character defect to be compared with Scott Hillyard? More than likely it was the latter from Penny's perspective. After all, she'd divorced the man and was obviously the better for it. But, in general, what would someone else say, someone other than Penny?
Immediately she thought of Susannah Davies. Susannah was wise and mature, unassuming and intelligent. She was also secretive and, if Penny was to be believed, deceptive.
There had been numerous opportunities to reveal that she'd lived in Annie's house. Why had she kept it to herself? What was her motivation to teach Maggie to spin since it certainly wasn't money? Who was Susannah Davies and why did everyone look blank and confused whenever her name came up?
Chapter 18
Maggie closed up early the evening of Deborah Summers' party to bake cookies. At eight o'clock she dressed in black jeans, boots and a white sweater, hoping California casual was appropriate for a New England gathering. Gathering her purse, the macadamia-sugar cookies she'd baked and a multi-colored shawl, she walked down the street to the Summers' cottage.
It was completely transformed. Japanese lanterns swung from tree branches, candles flickered on tables invitingly placed around the yard, generously spaced heat lamps warmed the air, delicious smells emanated from the house and people stood in small groups laughing and talking. No one looked familiar. The familiar dread of social gatherings rose in her throat. What was she thinking? In the months since she'd opened her shop, she had no opportunity to involve herself in anything other than managing her store. People came to her because they needed something. Because they were customers, talking to them came easily. Her confidence had soared. She'd forgotten the anxiety that comes from walking into a crowded room without knowing a soul. She wasn't soaring now.
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