Restless, she threw the afghan aside and moved to the stool by the fire. Her mind elsewhere, she reached for the spinning wheel, her fingers caressing the delicate spokes. The wood was warm to the touch, unusually warm. Slowly, the heat traveled from her fingers to her arm, from her arm to her chest. She closed her eyes and relaxed, her mind filled with a woman named Hannah Woodcock.
Chapter 19
Salem, Massachusetts, 1692
Hannah Woodcock understood that she was plain. All who knew her were in agreement. She had clear skin and fine blue-gray eyes but her teeth protruded over her bottom lip so that she couldn't quite close her mouth. Her figure was sturdy enough, but her neck was short and she had a way of leading with her head.
All of the above were not enough to keep her unwed and without prospects at five and twenty years of age. With the high mortality rate of women, there were enough unwed and widowed men in Salem Town and Salem Village to go around. If Hannah would consider the suit of Geoffrey Dale, a man with five young children, in desperate need of a wife, or Samuel Webber with grown children but still young enough to start another family, she would have been wed long ago. But she wouldn't consider either man, or any other for that matter, with one exception, and that was John March.
Hannah Woodcock had set her heart and mind on Jerusha March's oldest son some ten years ago, well before Abigail Blair had stepped off the deck of the Sealark and into the bosom of the March family. Hannah truly believed that John was hers, that they had an understanding between them. Would he have offered to take her up in his carriage when the weather was foul and she on her way home from Goody Turner's knitting circle? Would he have met her eyes and smiled, or offered his arm at the husking bee if he intended anything other than marriage? Would his sisters have been so friendly if she was not to be a member of the family? Hannah was so sure of her answers that she missed what was obvious to nearly everyone who paid attention in Salem Town. John March was smitten with Abigail Blair. It was only a matter of time before the matter was settled between them.
When the bans were posted that first Sabbath, nearly a year after Abigail arrived, Hannah nearly swooned from shock. She didn't remember walking home beside her mother or helping to set out the mid-day meal. She didn't hear her father and several of the town selectmen, among them John March and his father, Benjamin, arguing about the Charter and how prominent families would lose their land titles and how the restoration of the Charter had no binding legal authority anywhere outside of Massachusetts. She dropped the butter dish, shattering the fragile glass and ladled two servings of stew into one bowl and not enough for one into another. Her mother rapped her knuckles smartly, but Hannah barely noticed. All she could think of was John. All she could see was John, his level blue eyes, his kind, serious face, the strength of his hands, the timbre of his voice. He was hers. She deserved him. He'd toyed with her. Nay, John was a Christian, God-fearing man. It was Abigail who was at fault, Abigail with her unnatural, austere beauty, Abigail with her witch's eyes, a sure sign, the mark of the devil.
The seeds of hatred for Abigail Blair were sown that day. If it took years, Hannah would expose her. John would see the truth. In the end Hannah would prevail. She would be wife to John March. She would sit beside him at Meetings. She would bear his children and see to his every need.
For Hannah Woodcock, raised in the strict Calvinist tradition of predestination, Abigail Blair was a mistake, an unwanted interruption in the life that was Hannah's destiny.
Never once did she imagine that ten years would pass, ten years in which Abigail and John would marry and bear two children, ten years in which Abigail's skill at spinning, her knowledge of healing and herbs, her generosity of spirit would make her necessary in Salem Town, ten years in which Hannah waited, her hatred simmering for the opportunity to strike and expose Abigail Blair for what she was. But now, at last, her patience was to be rewarded. Increase Mather had returned to New England. Witchcraft was abound in Salem Village. Reverend Parris had afflicted children, as had the Walcotts, the Sheldons, the Booths, the Churchills, and the Putnams. Women of substance were among the accused. The March family had not stepped up to house the magistrates. Hannah could barely contain herself. Abigail's time was at hand.
She was so anxious to have it happen quickly that she nearly overstepped herself. Bearing a basket of wool, she pounded on the March's door, hoping that Abigail would be alone with the children, lovely children, too lovely and pink-cheeked and healthy in the bosom of a dreadful winter to be normal. And yet they were only girls. One would think a true witch would conjure up a boy for John. All men wanted boys. But perhaps Abigail was beyond clever. Perhaps she knew that too much good luck would look suspicious. Perhaps she had the girls to throw a shadow of doubt on her obvious guilt.
Abigail opened the door. When she saw who it was the words of welcome she'd been about to utter froze on her lips. She knew Hannah Woodcock was no friend to her. Nevertheless it was freezing outside and no Christian woman would keep a neighbor outside in weather like this. Besides, Nathanial Burke had come to see John. Whatever harm Hannah Woodcock wished on her could not come to pass when the sea captain was about.
"Come in Mistress Woodcock," she said, forcing politeness. "You are not the only visitor we have today. Captain Burke is here waiting to see John. I'm sure he will take pleasure in a conversation other than mine."
"I bring wool that needs spinning, but I will stay only long enough to warm my hands and feet." She nodded at the fair-haired man who worked to conceal his expression of dismay. "Good day, Captain Burke. I would not have expected you so late in the season. What brings you to Salem Town?"
"I have come to pay a visit to John. T'is a cold day for a woman to be out on an errand," he said when she was comfortable with a cup of cider and a hot brick under her feet.
Hannah nodded. "My mother refuses to be without Goodwife March's yarn. It appears to have qualities unlike any other. Where Goody Putnam's knots and pulls, it is not so with Goodwife March's. T'is almost as if she spins with magic." She was pleased to see Abigail's eyes widen with fear.
"Goody Putnam's yarn is spun with as much care as my own, Mistress Woodcock. To say otherwise would be to insult a woman of exquisite skill."
Hannah sipped at her drink, in no apparent hurry to depart. "Still, it seems odd that yours is always superior. Your skill is truly remarkable." She looked around, frowning at the two little girls playing quietly in the corner. "I see that your daughters are healthy."
"Very healthy, praise God," replied Abigail.
"I'll warrant God has nothing to do with it."
Abigail stared at her. "I beg your pardon, Mistress. Your meaning is unclear."
Hannah changed the subject. "I would have thought, since John is a selectman, your family would seek the honor of a magistrate's presence."
"We had no opportunity," Abigail said, her voice low, her cheeks aflame. "They were spoken for when John was in Boston."
"Still," Hannah began, "I would have thought—"
"Mistress Woodcock," Nathanial cut in. "Surely the March's house guests or are not your concern."
She looked at the captain with pure hatred. "You are quick to defend Goodwife March, Captain. Perhaps there is a motive beneath your chivalry."
"Enough." Nathanial rose. "I believe you have overstayed your welcome, Mistress Woodcock. We have had enough of your waspish tongue and your unfounded accusations."
"I have made no accusations."
"Nathanial." Abigail's voice, clear and low, interrupted. "I'm sure you misunderstand Mistress Woodcock's intentions. The winter has been a long and difficult one. We are all on edge. Let us begin again and behave with Christian charity toward one another."
Nathanial sighed. "Well said, Abigail." He bowed stiffly. "I beg your pardon, Mistress Woodcock. I spoke out of turn."
"No offense taken, Captain." She stood. "I thank you for your hospitality, Goodwife March. I'll be on my way now."
"John will be
sorry to have missed you," said Abigail, reaching for the woman's cloak. "I will tell him you called."
"Perhaps I'll meet him on my way home."
Abigail smiled. She knew the lay of the spinster's heart. "Perhaps you will. If not, I'll tell him you asked for him."
Hannah wasn't paying attention. Her eyes were fixed on something over Abigail's shoulder. Her mouth had dropped open and frightened whimpers sounded from the back of her throat.
Fearing the worst, Abigail spun in the direction of her visitor's gaze. A poppet floated in the air, hung suspended for a moment, and then dropped into Judith's outstretched arms.
Hannah moaned, lost consciousness and fainted dead away into Nathanial's lap.
Nathanial caught her before she slid to the ground. "What the... Abigail, what happened? Is she ill?"
Abigail thought quickly. "No, Judith," she whispered. "I have told you, t'is forbidden." She hurried to Nathanial's side and placed her palm on Hannah's forehead. "She is very warm. "T'is the fever. Lay her on the bed upstairs, Nathanial."
Abigail led the way, pulling aside bed linens and fluffing pillows. Hannah moaned and shook her head. "I saw it," she whispered, keeping her eyes closed. "I saw the child move the poppet through the air. It flew through the air."
Nathanial stood over her, his arms crossed. "You have the fever," he explained. "It brings your visions."
Her eyes opened. "I saw her," she insisted. "I saw the child move the poppet through the air."
Nathanial's eyes met Abigail's. She shook her head. "Hush now, Hannah," she said calmly. "You must rest. John will be home soon. I will send him up to speak with you. You know how he soothes you."
Hannah looked confused. "John will be home soon?"
"Yes. He will wish to speak with you. You know how he enjoys your company. Sleep now," said Abigail tucking a blanket around her guest. "Sleep and be well."
Downstairs in the kitchen the sweet smells of vanilla and cinnamon hung on the air. The children were subdued, playing quietly in the corner. Abigail turned the bread dough on the hearth and stirred the soup. "You are very quiet, Nathanial."
He frown furrowed his brow. "What do you make of this, Abigail?"
Carefully, she set the stirring spoon in its place. She would not look at him. "She has the fever. That is all."
"What did she see?"
From across the room, Judith looked at her mother. Abigail shook her head and the child looked away.
"Who knows what a woman in the throes of fever will see."
Nathanial crossed the room and gripped her shoulders, shaking her gently. "T'is a dangerous game you play, Abigail. They are set on burning witches. Be forewarned. John's position will not help you against the likes of Increase Mather. Why does the woman despise you?"
Abigail flushed. "Who are you to take up such a judgment?"
"It is as clear to me as your words are now. Hannah Woodcock holds you in contempt. Why is that?"
She tilted her head and looked up at him through her lashes. For Nathanial, the years rolled back and she was the girl he remembered, the girl on the Sealark with the bewitching smile, the one he measured all others by.
"There are no witches, Nat," she whispered. "You know that."
He cursed under his breath. "By all that is holy, Abigail, you try my patience. If John were not my loyal friend—"
"Hallo," a voice bellowed through the wooden door. "Abigail, Judith, Margaret, I am home."
Abigail laughed, ran to the door and threw it open. Her husband stepped inside, and held out his arms. She ran into them, forever stilling the declaration on the sea captain's lips. The children followed her example, clutching their father's legs, holding him immobile, wrapping their arms around his waist, his thighs, begging to be held, impatiently waiting until he finished embracing their mother. Finally, he relented, hoisting them in his arms, crushing them to his chest, kissing their rosy cheeks, tenderly stroking the small backs, noting the changes that had taken place in the se'enight he'd traveled to and from Deerfield. They stood there, the four of them, an entity of love and belonging and connectedness so complete and unified and insular that neither the woman in the bed upstairs, nor the man who was their friend could ever hope to breach it.
Eventually John noticed Nathanial. "Good day, my friend. T'is good to see you."
"As it is to see you, John."
"What brings you to Salem Town?"
Nathanial shook his head. "Merely a wish to while away the hours with a friend."
"Have you been here long?" John asked casually.
"Mistress Woodcock is here as well," Abigail interjected. "She had a spell. I thought it best to put her to bed."
"Is she ill?"
"In her head," Nathanial answered. "The woman sees absurdities."
"It is only the fever," Abigail reminded him.
"What kind of absurdities?"
Abigail stepped out of her husband's arms. "We could hardly question her, John. The woman fell down in a faint."
John set the children on their feet, his hand resting briefly on each small head. "Witchcraft abounds. We must be watchful."
"Are you in agreement with these witch hunters, my friend?" asked Nathanial.
John March hung his hat on a peg near the door. "I could use a cup of that cider, Abigail."
She poured a cup and handed it to him. He drank quickly. Not until the last drop was finished and his cup refilled, did he reply. "I am neither in agreement nor in disagreement, Nat. I would rather it pass us by entirely and I will do everything in my power to assure that my family remains uninvolved. It is to that end that I ask about Hannah Woodcock. She bears Abigail a grudge. I would not want that to color her testimony should it come to that."
"Abigail is a saint in this community. Why would Mistress Woodcock hold such a grudge?"
John folded his lips tightly. "We do not hold with saints and other Papist terms."
Nathanial Burke was on the verge of throttling his friend. Only the presence of Abigail and the children dissuaded him. "You have not answered my question."
"T'is a personal matter."
"Perhaps it should not be so personal. Perhaps if the reason were revealed, there would be no fear of accusation, only a greater understanding of where the path jealousy among women may lead."
John's lips twitched. "You are wise and very quick, my friend."
"I sat at your table long before you and Abigail were wed. Hannah Woodcock's aspirations were well known throughout Salem. My fear is that not everyone remembers as I do."
"I will protect my family. Have no fear of that."
Nathanial stood. "I am glad to hear it. I am on my way to see your father. Shall I carry a message from you?"
"There is no need. I shall visit him tomorrow."
Abigail looked up from her spinning. "I thought you would dine with us and stay the night."
He grinned. "There is already a guest in my bed, and she is not one I would care to share with."
John laughed. "Have a care, Nat. Darkness falls quickly in winter."
Abigail stood in the doorway with John's arm around her, watching until Nathanial disappeared around the bend. She looked up at her husband and smiled tentatively. "It would be kind of you to look in on Hannah. You know how she dotes on you."
He sighed. "Only you would be considerate of such a harridan. Why did she come here today?"
"To bring her wool for me to spin."
"I'll warrant she had more on her mind than wool."
"Go up to see her, John," his wife coaxed. "She will only blame me if you do not."
"Very well. I will do it for you. If it were up to me, I would boot her out into the snow."
He climbed the stairs slowly, regretting every step, mentally cursing Hannah Woodcock and her timing. John wanted a hot meal, to see Abigail's face across the table and to watch his children play at his feet. Hannah did not figure into his plans. She never had. He thought it was past time he told her so.
H
annah was sitting up in bed when he entered the room. At the sight of him a look of such delight lit her features that he hadn't the heart for brutal honesty. He stepped close to the bed. "How are you, Hannah?"
"The most dreadful thing, John. I fear that your children are bewitched."
His features hardened. "Nonsense. You are tired. They are children, too small for such things. You have the fever. That alone causes you to imagine the impossible."
"I saw the poppet fly through the air into Judith's arms. She called it. I know she did."
"Would not a witch save her powers for more important things?"
"T'is important for a small child. What would you have her do? Walk on water?"
John's words were measured and low. "Listen to me, Hannah, and listen well. I am Judith's father. Never, in all the days I've known her, have I seen her cause poppets to fly through the air."
"You are a man. You are away much of the time. It is Abigail who would know her daughter better."
"Abigail and I are of like mind. Neither of us has witnessed what you say you have seen. Abigail is a healer. She claims you have the fever."
"Place your hand on my brow, John. You will find no heat."
His mouth tightened.
"Are you afraid to find the truth, or is it something else that keeps your hand at your side?"
John shook his head. "I do not wish to cause you pain nor embarrassment, but there are words that must be said between us. Long ago, before Abigail and I wed, you misunderstood my friendship." He drew a deep breath and looked away, through the window, at the slate gray sea, at the white crests topping the waves like snow-peaked mountains. John March knew himself for what he was, a coward who had for too long, allowed this woman her imagination. "I did not love you, Hannah Woodcock. If Abigail had never come to Salem, I still would not have asked you to be my wife."
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