“Mistress Abigail had taken eggs and butter to the market to sell,” he said, indicating the basket and lifting it as if it were empty. “I found her walking home alone and decided it was my duty to see her to her door.”
“’Tis you who should beware. Her master protects her.” Silas’s words were clear—and deadly.
“I have no master,” Abigail said loudly. “Isn’t that what troubles you, Silas Grayson? That I answer to no man and continue to make a better profit on my farm than you do on yours? If you would stay home and tend your stock and your family instead of poking your long nose in—” She stopped with a grunt at the painful wrench Samuel gave her arm.
“Satan speaks with your tongue, woman. Beware, you will be found out and named. That is my promise to ye. The name of witch will be twined with thy own, and ye shall burn in hellfire forever.”
Silas whipped past them, his long legs churning.
“That wasn’t very smart,” Samuel said, his fingers holding her arm in a grip so firm that it actually hurt.
“I didn’t mean to be smart. He’s a jerk. A chauvinistic jerk. I’d like to get him back to my century for thirty minutes. I’d like to…”
“Swing from a rope?” Samuel propelled her forward as he started to walk on. “I didn’t realize you were suicidal.”
Now that her burning anger was cooling, she felt the chill of concern. Her actions had been foolhardy. But the man was unbearable. And she was from a place and time where a woman didn’t have to put up with such treatment. Unfortunately, she didn’t know how to get back to that place and time.
She glanced at Samuel, and in the moonlight saw that a thundercloud was sitting on his brow. He was angry with her, and for just cause. She’d endangered herself for the pleasure of irritating a man too stupid to waste energy on.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have done that. It was foolish.”
Samuel sighed, but his grip on her arm loosened and he gently rubbed the spot he’d held. “He could see to it that you’re killed, Abigail. We know him for what he is, but he has great power among the people here. He and his wife, Sarah, have only to point their fingers.”
“Or to persuade those young girls to do their dirty work.”
“That’s true.” Samuel pointed to her house, which had just appeared on the horizon. “I’ll bet he was searching your home again.”
Abigail didn’t even bother to show her anger. She had to accept the realities of 1692. She was a woman and she had no rights. Until she figured out a way to change things!
At her door Samuel put down her basket and allowed Familiar to jump out. Then he took Abigail in his arms.
“I’d give anything to stay here with you tonight.”
They kissed with a passion that made both of them feel breathless and light-headed, but Abigail ended the exchange.
“Silas will be counting the seconds until you return.”
“No doubt.” Samuel hid his growing concern.
“I’m going to prepare some more food for those people.” Abigail felt her frustration grow. Feeding condemned people wasn’t exactly her idea of solving the problem.
“When do you think we can expect to see our chanting friends again?” Samuel asked. “They must meet on a regular basis.”
“The new moon.” Abigail answered without thinking. It wasn’t until she felt Samuel’s intense gaze on her that she even thought of what she’d said.
“Well, I think the phases of the moon have something to do with the rituals.” She shrugged. “I must have read about it in some magazine or something. I don’t know how I know.”
Samuel lowered his more-than-curious gaze. “Abigail, think about leaving here.” He looked up and put his finger gently against her lips to stop her protest. “I listen to you and every word that falls from your lips condemns you. Tonight, when you confronted Silas, you sealed your fate.”
“No…” she broke in. “I was foolish to do that, but he hasn’t accused me yet.”
“Not yet. But when he does, no one can help you. Go to Boston. Plead with the governor in person. You’re a passionate woman, and I believe you can sway him if you go there yourself.” Samuel put everything into his own impassioned plea. He knew with dead certainty that Abigail would soon be named. Once Silas and the witch-hunters had her firmly in their grip, they would torture her with pleasure, and then execute her with a sense of holy purpose.
Abigail felt herself listening. What Samuel said made sense. Her letter had been impassioned, but she had always been better at arguing her ideas in person. Maybe her role was to go to the governor. She absolutely didn’t want to be imprisoned. Her stomach roiled at the mere thought. And she would be of no help to anyone if she was locked away.
“I don’t want to leave you here,” she said. “Is it that I’m being selfish to stay?”
Relief was like a cool hand on Samuel’s forehead. “Go to Boston. Bring the governor back here, to Salem Village.”
“And you? What about you? What if they accuse you in my absence?” The idea of such a thing made her heart hurt.
Samuel’s smile was wry. “I have no property, and I am an appointee of the governor. That’s no shield, but it does make Silas and the others think twice before they point the finger at me.”
Abigail still hesitated, but his argument made sense. That much she had to acknowledge. “I’ll think more about it,” she promised.
Samuel swept her into his arms and kissed her with a deep hunger. “We have to put an end to these trials so we can turn our attention to figuring a way to get home. I seem to remember such things as hot showers—for two, beds big enough—for two, and charming little romantic restaurants with excellent wine—for two.”
“Hold me, Samuel,” she whispered, pressing her body against the solid strength of his. “Hold me tight. I’m afraid we’ll never get home.”
AT FIRST LIGHT Abigail rose from her short, corn-shuck mattress and stretched. Her body ached from tension and the terrible bed. Samuel had left her the night before with promises that they would find the key to return to the future. The words were nice, but it had been his touch, his kisses, that had finally calmed her fears. He was the only thing, except the peculiar black cat, that she liked about 1692.
During the long hours of the night, she’d decided she would pay a visit to the governor. But she’d also decided that she had to have some hard facts to take with her. It wasn’t enough to go and beg for his intervention. He’d think she was a fool. What she needed was hard evidence that someone was deliberately manipulating the witch trials for personal gain. Somehow, she intended to get that information.
She hurriedly dressed and completed her chores, then searched her limited wardrobe for a disguise. She settled once again on the boy’s clothing she’d worn before. With a proper hat and some tight-fitting undergarments to compress her breasts, she’d pass as a boy. She was tall for a woman, but slender enough. And with a little carefully applied dust to hide her soft complexion, she’d be able to attend one of the trials. She had to have specific detail to make the governor believe her.
As she walked to the village she tried to make her body mimic the walk and demeanor of a teenage boy. If it were 1995, she’d need a swagger, a boom box and some three-hundred-dollar athletic shoes. In Salem Village, it was a completely different story. As she neared the village, she observed the stiff, formal manner in which even the young people moved. She did her best to assume the role and fell into the milling crowd that awaited the opening of the stone building where the trial of another witch was to be held.
Though she searched the crowd for Lucinda Edgarton, Abigail could not find her. Feeling more alone than ever, Abigail pulled her hat firmly down on her head and prayed that she wouldn’t have to remove it in the hearing room. What were the rules for hats in 1692?
She fell in behind four women who looked as stern and unpleasant as the dour men who made up the group. Salem Village was not a place where a smile greeted the day.<
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When the spectators were finally allowed to enter the building, Abigail did her best to blend with the crowd. She made it past the man who stood at the door, examining all who entered as if he could find the mark of Satan upon them by simply looking.
As she entered the doorway, she felt a slight release of tension. Once in the room that served as a court, she shifted to the back and took a place among several young people.
A few curious glances were thrown her way, and she realized she’d miscalculated. Everyone in the village more than likely knew each other. Especially the young people. How would she explain herself?
“Are ye a stranger to Salem Village?” a boy of about seventeen asked her, his glance openly curious.
Abigail considered pretending to be mute, but was afraid it would get her accused of witchcraft. The horrid thing about wild accusations was that anyone with any type of infirmity could be accused on “physical evidence.”
“From Boston.” She lowered her voice and mumbled.
The boy’s curiosity deepened. “Will you be living here in Salem?”
Abigail hesitated. “I’m in search of work.” The others were looking at her with more than a few questions. She was saved as the members of the court, Samuel among them, entered the room. There was little preamble as Magistrate Jonathan Appleton brought the room to order. Abigail’s concern about the boys fled as she turned her attention to the trial. Appleton was a porcine man who wore his excesses on his face.
In the grim pilgrim village of Salem, he’d foregone his powdered and curled hair, but Abigail could tell by the way he carried himself that he fancied the ways of the British barristers and judges. He did love his moment of drama.
The prosecutor, Caleb Hawthorne, was the extreme opposite. He was a lean man with a razor-blade nose and a sneer that showed his contempt for excesses of any kind—except punishment. Every line in his face spoke of a cruel nature. As he glanced around the packed room, Abigail felt his gaze brush hers. It was as chill as a touch from the grave. When she looked up and saw his eyes lingering on her, she thought her heart would stop completely.
Samuel, too, noticed the exchange of glances, and when he turned to see what Hawthorne was looking at, he blanched. He recognized Abigail instantly.
“What are the charges?” Appleton’s voice was snappish, demanding the attention of the other players in the drama.
Hawthorne turned back to his business, and Abigail let her breath out until she heard the prosecutor’s next words.
“We charge Elizabeth Adams, a known sinner, with consorting with the devil. It is commonly known that the accused has abandoned her own people to live in the company of red savages. She now consorts openly with the Dark One, using his powers to heal our enemies and to torment the children of Salem Village.”
Abigail pressed herself into the wall as she heard the clanking of chains. The dark-haired Elizabeth Adams, her dress torn and her hair wild and disheveled, was dragged into the courtroom.
Once she was in front of the table where the magistrate and the other members of the court sat, Elizabeth shook off the men who had dragged her. She faced the court, her shoulders squared.
“I am innocent of these charges. In all my life I have done nothing but try to help other people. My own as well as the Indians. If you persecute me, you are persecuting an innocent woman, and I pray the wrath of God will fall upon you one and all.”
“Silence!” Appleton thundered at her. “Prove yourself innocent, then, witch!”
Samuel stepped forward. “It is the duty of the court to prove her guilty.”
“Not a difficult task,” Hawthorne said, nodding to the murmurs of approval that broke out in the spectators. “I will prove her guilty and by the end of the day, she will hang beside the bones of the other witches.”
Chapter Ten
Fear for Elizabeth Adams’s life kept Abigail paralyzed and pressed against the wall as the proceedings continued.
The trial was a mockery, a sham. Hawthorne, his cold eyes assessing Elizabeth, took delight in reading the charges, which included eyewitness accounts from Mary Wadsworth and Emily Waters. With great detail, they told how they had seen the Dark One sitting beside the fire in Elizabeth’s house. The girls said the devil had been rocking Indian infants in his arms, curing them of smallpox.
Elizabeth was also charged with fornicating with a savage—a charge to which no one could bear eyewitness evidence, but such details hardly mattered in Magistrate Appleton’s courtroom.
There was a long list of lesser charges, which Hawthorne read. As he noticed that the interest of the audience was slipping, he called out for the two girls to be brought in.
Abigail was struck by the demure way in which the girls entered the room from a side door. Eyes cast down, hands clasped in front of them, they made the picture of perfectly well-behaved teenagers—for 1692.
As soon as they came near Elizabeth, though, the change was instant. They began screaming and crying, throwing up their hands as if they were being struck by terrible blows.
As they fell to the floor and began twisting and thrashing, they shouted, “Make her stop! Make her stop!”
Mary screamed in pain and cried, “She’s biting me, please, make her stop!”
The crowd around Abigail surged forward, their emotions brought to a boil.
“Hang the witch!” someone cried. “Hang her now!”
“Filthy woman!” another yelled. “Hang her and burn her body as the savages do. If she wants to lie with them in life, let her lie with them in death!”
The young boys beside Abigail stirred but remained silent. Looking into their eyes, though, she saw the same fevered desire for blood. What had come over these people?
Emily and Mary had taken a breather from their antics. While the audience yelled and cried, they remained on the floor, pretending to be in a trance while they caught their breath.
“May I question the accusers?” Samuel’s question was so softly put that Appleton tried to ignore it. But Samuel repeated it.
The audience, realizing that something was happening among the officials, quieted down. All strained to hear Samuel’s soft-spoken question.
“Question the girls.” Appleton waved a fat hand and adjusted the bow of his formal suit.
Samuel approached Mary. “Rise, Mistress Wadsworth, the court addresses you.”
Mary started to thrash and moan, but before anyone could stop him, Samuel reached down and pulled her up by her arm. His voice was soft but steely; his gray eyes sparked with his fury. “Stand and restrain yourself,” he said with a threat in his voice.
Stunned, Mary stiffened her wilting spine and stood erect and still.
“In making accusations against Elizabeth Adams, you claim that you saw Satan in a rocking chair before her fire, holding an Indian infant in his arms?”
“I saw it.” Mary’s gaze darted around. When she saw that the crowd was on her side, she visibly relaxed. “That’s what I saw, and you can’t make me tell a lie.”
“I have no desire for you to lie.” Samuel smiled at her, but it was not a pretty sight. “So, Mistress Mary, who was with you when you saw these things?”
“No one.”
“You were alone?” Samuel rechecked the fact.
“Indeed.”
“Is it often your father allows you to traipse the woods alone at night? Is he not concerned for your safety?”
“I demand that you halt these questions!” Caleb Hawthorne was red in the face and furious.
Samuel ignored the prosecutor and turned to face the audience. “Is it not a fact that the young women of Salem Village are well cared for? Is it not a fact that a loving father makes sure his daughter is safe within the confines of their home in the late hours of the evening? Is it not a fact that the young women here are guarded and not allowed to run wild in the night, especially when there are reports of Satan in the village?”
His questions had drawn frowns upon the faces of the spectato
rs, but it had also brought complete silence. Mary Wadsworth cast about the room, looking for someone to help her out of the spot she was in.
“Where was your father, Mary?” Samuel asked.
“He was home…tending to the leaky roof.” She nodded. “No one can fault his care of me. He looks out for me, he does.”
“Then you escaped from your home without his permission? Surely a good father would not have given his consent for you to go out into the night alone? Which means that you are a disobedient child, a child who defies the authority of her father. Perhaps a child who might be said to draw the attention of…” He paused for dramatic effect. “Satan?”
Trapped again, Mary sought help, but none was forthcoming. Emily Waters had slowly sat up to watch with dread what was happening to her friend.
“Oh…oh, I don’t feel well.” Mary started to sink to her knees, her eyes rolling up in her head.
Samuel was too quick for her. He grabbed her arm and forced her back to her feet. “Stand up, Mary,” he said, his voice a whip. “While you charge a woman with witchcraft, I bring the charge of liar against you.”
Abigail saw what Samuel could not—the harsh emotion that passed across Caleb Hawthorne’s face. He clenched his fist at his side but remained silent. Beside him, Magistrate Appleton had gone white.
So, it was worse than she feared. All of the court except Samuel were either completely corrupt or stupid. In this case, one was as bad as the other. Samuel was wasting his breath—and endangering his life.
Mary stood rigid under Samuel’s glare. On the floor, Emily began to crawl away. Samuel stopped her with one angry command before he turned to address the quivering Appleton.
“These young women are not ill. They are not being tormented in any fashion, except by their own consciences.” Samuel saw the futility of his plea as soon as he looked into the magistrate’s eyes.
“The defense you bring on behalf of a woman known to cohabitate with a savage is interesting indeed,” Appleton said, the fat around his jowls creased from the pressure of his disapproving frown. Once again, he adjusted his bow. “You give the appearance of a man caught in a spell of some sort.”
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