“I did not mean…of course we will go,” Anne grabbed a waistcoat for protection against the chill brought on by the rain, glancing at the stairs as she slid the garment over her clothes. Her mother had almost certainly returned to her quarters. Anne hesitated but a moment before choosing to leave without saying good-bye. Her anger had not waned, and now she had not the time to defend her decision to attend the hanging. Anne’s mother would verily argue the gallows were no place for a young woman, but the terrible truth was that one had found her way there nonetheless.
One of Anne’s dearest friends was about to die.
Anne could not let her die alone.
Chapter Nine
Anne and Prudence stumbled down the road, hand in hand. The pouring rain that had seemed to keep travelers away from the inn did not keep the crowds from gathering at the gallows. Tears could not be counted in the drench, but it quickly became clear how profoundly affected were many of the observers. The only joyful people among the group were in a tightly knit circle at the front. The Abbot girls. All but one younger than Anne, they stood smiling alongside their mother, each looking as if they awaited a grand event. The remaining villagers stood in silent, emotionless observance—among them Rebecca Mather, the woman who had pushed for Lydia’s arrest. Her lips were set in a slight tilt, as if she entertained a smile.
Fury balled in Anne’s chest. What a horrid woman. How could anyone find joy in something so cruel? And why would Goody Abbot bring her children to witness such an event?
Anne forced herself to look past them and found the remainder of the observers gazing on in stunned silence, their faces strained and bleak. She knew from having witnessed a previous hanging that some of those stern faces would erupt into cheers at the time of the execution.
Hot tears blurred her vision and burned trails down her cheeks. Though it was a terrible sin, Anne fervently wished for one of them to be next on the gallows before another innocent life was lost.
Anne had hoped that Prudence—and the merchant before her—might be mistaken about the hanging, but it was clear from the gathered crowd that the announcement had been made. She could only hope the mistake was in naming Elizabeth, but the crowd’s whispers seemed to confirm the terrible news. Elizabeth Burroughs. The name was repeated again and again amongst the gathered.
“It cannot be true,” Prudence whispered. “What are we to do? Elizabeth has never consorted with the devil. She has committed no crime. Not witchcraft or any other.”
“We cannot do anything.” The words came in quiet sorrow, for no matter how much Anne wanted to shout Elizabeth’s innocence and proclaim her a kind, gentle soul, doing so would only bring the accusations to her door. What was the cold, cruel place Salem had become? So many things were wrong with a place where neighbors could not defend neighbors and the accusations of a few were valued over the professions of many.
She did not have long to ponder, for shortly thereafter a commotion arrived.
In the turmoil, Anne watched, heartsick, as Elizabeth was led to the gallows. Among cries of “witch!” from the observers were cruel admonishments—words that in no way reflected the kind young woman who would die that day. When the rope was positioned around Elizabeth’s neck, verily the noose tightened around Anne’s own throat. What happened thereafter existed in a somber blur. The only sensations snapping clearly from the haze were the shouts of the crowd as the rope tightened, followed by the crack of wood when Elizabeth’s body weighted the noose.
Prudence let forth a choked sob at the sight of their friend swinging from the rope.
Anne could scarcely breathe for her sorrow. Elizabeth had wanted to marry and raise children—to be a proper goodwife with a well-kept, welcoming home full of babes and a bountiful garden. She had long dreamed of the man whom she would marry. He would be strong, she had said, and a farmer, just like her own father. He would adore Elizabeth, wanting for no other.
Verily, he would look at her the way Josiah looked at Anne.
Suddenly angry, Anne turned from Prudence’s embrace. Doing so, she caught sight of Elizabeth’s parents, her mother nearly to the ground sobbing and screaming her bitter sorrow at the loss of her child. Elizabeth’s father seemed absent in his comfort, for his attention was not on his wife, but directed toward the gray horizon. Rain began falling with new earnest, and Anne cried with the sky.
Elizabeth had been denied the chance to live, but Anne still had hers.
And no one—not even her mother with her expectations for propriety—would take that from her.
…
Josiah did not see Anne again in the house that afternoon. He wondered where she was, but he remained preoccupied by the old woman’s pronouncement of his surname. He longed to ask her identity, but did not feel comfortable asking anyone but Anne, and she was nowhere to be found. Still, his curiosity over her whereabouts did not turn to great concern until much later when he heard Susannah Scudder share terse words with her husband. She must have been worried, for she began the conversation despite Josiah’s presence in the room. Nevertheless, he sought to make himself small so as not to distract her from her speech.
“She left the kneading!” the goodwife proclaimed, as if the simple abandonment was mired in great sin. “And in this weather!”
George sighed, though his voice remained gentle. “Anne has a strong head, wife. Worry not for her.”
“How can you be without concern? She takes to the road, never concerned for the dangers of a girl alone in travels. There are men who would take quick advantage of a young woman without her defenses.”
“She most often travels with John, and she knows well the road. Our daughter is not defenseless. She has sound judgment and is thoughtful with her choices. Perhaps she was caught out by the weather and took shelter to wait it out. Why are you so fearful?” Despite his attempt at reassuring words, his voice was strained.
“But this weather! She should not be out there. She has a love for the road to the village,” Susannah said. “Whenever she is gone so late, she has verily taken for the path. And on this terrible night…”
Goodman Scudder looked to the darkened world outside the window, and Josiah followed his gaze. A damp fog existed over the storm-drenched land, lending an eerie feel to the black landscape. The clouds erased the moon, and the resulting pitch was enough to make Josiah shiver. Anne was fearful of the dark woods and its rumors. Though he was quickly becoming acquainted with her stubborn independence, he could not help but worry she might be in some kind of trouble.
“We cannot go after her,” the goodman said to his wife. “You are in no greater position than she, and my health prevents such travel. Have faith. Trust she will return.”
“I don’t want to sit here in faith! We have already lost—” Susannah’s words cut sharply, and the thick air descended into silence. Her mouth pressed into a thin, firm line, she tightened her arms across her chest. Several strands of hair had fallen from her bun, giving her a disheveled look Josiah suspected uncharacteristic of the otherwise severe, precise woman. The look in her eyes was one of great fear, something confirmed when she looked to her husband with blanched skin and eyes fraught with sorrow.
“She has never left unannounced,” the goodwife said, “and she would not tarry so late. She is not so careless. Something is wrong, George. I feel it. I cannot lose her.”
“We can arrange for our neighbors to search—”
“She will be branded a rogue! And then what will become of her?”
Josiah blinked. How could she want for Anne’s return and refuse help all the same? Though the goodwife’s earlier words against him still stung, her worry over Anne found firm ground in his own heart. He bit his tongue but for a moment before the words burst forth. “I will find her,” he said.
Both of the Scudders looked to Josiah with enough surprise to suggest they genuinely had not realized they shared his company. “I can find her,” he said again. “I can return her to you.”
Susannah wo
re a tear-stained mask of pain and distrust. In his short time there, she had questioned his intentions. Degraded him. Warned her daughter away. Would she allow him to go after Anne? To bring her home? And did it matter? For even if they denied him, he would risk his own standing to find her.
Josiah waited in the tense silence. He knew not whether Anne was actually in some kind of trouble or if her mother merely feared she was, but Josiah would risk nothing when it came to her. Only, by speaking up, he might be risking everything. Would Susannah refuse Josiah? Moving forward after such a denial would be difficult, if not expressly forbidden. Perhaps it mattered not. The old woman—whose identity Josiah had yet to learn—knew who he was. Everything teetered on one finely chiseled edge, and it seemed no matter which path he took, he would find himself in desperate freefall.
He looked into George’s eyes. “I will bring her home,” he said.
Goodman Scudder looked from his wife—who remained mute—to Josiah. “Thank you. My wife and I would appreciate that very much, son.”
Anne’s mother opened her mouth, then promptly snapped it shut. Finally, she offered a short nod. It was all Josiah needed.
He’d find her.
But when he did, would he be forced to let her go?
Josiah pushed away the concern and let himself outside. The sky still wept rain, though not as heavily as before. Town had grown quiet but for the drunkards spilling from the tavern a good distance down the road. Though Josiah suspected Anne was more likely to head to Salem Village than to the taverns in town, he knew the taverns were a good source of information. If there was news to be had between the two locales—something important enough to keep Anne away—it was likely to have been reported by a traveling merchant and thereafter to have swept through the taverns like wildfire.
The direction paid off more quickly than he could have imagined.
Josiah was still several paces from the nearest tavern when a fellow well into his cups began shouting about a hanging. His companions’ responses, less slurred, chilled Josiah to the bone.
“Another o’ ’em witches gon’.”
“Nothin’ like a good hangin’.”
Josiah stopped in his tracks, then broke into a run toward the tavern.
“Please, Goodman,” he said, addressing the drunkards, praying one would listen. “Who was hanged? What was the witch’s name?”
Both men stilled, staring at him. Finally, one said, “Lizbons…Loozens. It don’ ma’er, boy. ’Nother one gon’…swunged a migh’y bout in tha wea’er.” To that, he raised his cup, spilling in the process a great deal of its contents.
A hanging. Had Anne somehow heard of it? He had been through town hours earlier himself and had not caught word. Anne had not left the inn that morning, had she? Perhaps it mattered not. Travelers and borders frequented the establishment—not at the rate they did the taverns, but word could spread just as well.
Lizbons. Josiah’s limited reintroduction to Salem left him with no chance of reconciling the semblance of a name with a person. But did it matter? Anne had been of Salem the whole of her life—whoever the victim, Anne was likely to know her. He did not know if she would prefer to attend a hanging or avoid it, but the timing was suspect at best. And she was not a woman who could watch someone die—even a stranger—without being affected. She was far too caring to face death so callously.
Anne must have gone to the gallows, but surely the crowd had long dispersed by this late hour. If she had not returned, the most likely answer was that she had traveled to the village, but why would she have not told her parents of her plans?
It mattered not, for the gallows were along the road. His direction would be the same.
He had just turned for the road when a third voice stopped him in his tracks.
“Her name was Elizabeth.”
A man stood outside the tavern, nearly invisible in the darkness. When Josiah didn’t respond, the man spoke again.
“Elizabeth Burroughs.”
Disbelief ricocheted through Josiah. He knew of Elizabeth. Anne knew Elizabeth. She had spoken of her the day he had returned. Though her words had been few, they had carried much affection for her friend…and a great deal of sorrow for her arrest. “She was hanged?”
“This very day,” replied the stranger. “At the gallows right alongside the road.”
Josiah’s heart plummeted. Anne would be devastated.
He had no greater of an idea where she might be, but he knew without a doubt which way to run.
Chapter Ten
Long after Prudence left for home with the merchant, Anne lingered in the woods near the hill. The hour had grown late, the storm no less vile, and she knew her parents would worry, but she was an adult. They could not speak of arranging her marriage transaction and at the same time find her too childish to tend to herself—something they would learn soon enough. In the meantime, she needed to sort her thoughts. Neither her determination nor her grief waned, and the only thing she saw clearly was her future with Josiah. It did not seem fair her parents could take that from her. It was only through faith and prayer they would come to a decision about her future, but Anne worshipped the same God as did they. Why would their answer be different from hers?
How could it ever be anyone but Josiah?
The dark sky wept, leading to waste any chance of her garments drying. She had been damp for hours now. She cared not for the added weight of her clothing and discomfort of the rain. Her grief kept her numb to the elements. Loss was a way of life, but the burden was unjust. First Samuel, and now Elizabeth. With so many whispers and rumors and accusations flying about, who would be next? Not Josiah. She would not risk another loss, no matter how much her mother insisted otherwise.
The woods were exceptionally dark this night, and though Anne frequently walked the route, it seemed less familiar somehow. Perhaps it was not the road, but something inside her that had shifted—certainly that was the case. Still, the dark forest filled her with the kind of unease born of witch hunts and strangers waiting, seeking signatures and souls.
As if the sky shared her mood, it let loose with another torrent of rain. Blinded by the deluge, she stumbled. Lightning flashed. Home was just past the bridge—several minutes away yet—but she could not bear to go there. She did not want for her mother’s lectures.
She wanted for life.
The weight of her sorrows pooled like the rainwater at her feet. Lightning feverishly split the sky and thunder roared.
A second flash indicated someone on the path ahead of her.
Anne froze but for the rush of her breath. Seconds later, another bolt revealed a shadowy figure. Then the night again drew black, and over the noise of the rain Anne had no idea where the dark figure had gone.
Then she heard her name.
“Anne! Is that you?”
Josiah? “Josiah!”
Somehow they found each other in the dark, wherein she fell into his arms. Though he, too, was soaked to the bone, his presence was one of utter warmth and security. The muddy ground felt inexplicably solid beneath her feet, and though her worries did not abandon her, a gentle calm filled her—an assurance that what she wanted was right.
Josiah was right.
“I heard of Elizabeth,” he said. His lips brushed her ear when he spoke. His concern—the hushed urgency of his tone, the tenderness therein—found the broken pieces inside her and made them want to be whole again. He gave her hope.
Anne knew not what to say. She felt to the bone the pain and injustice of her friend’s death, but witnessing it had freed Anne’s own path. She was an adult of twenty years and her life was her own. She would always love and respect her parents, but her mother’s insistence that Anne stay away from Josiah was without merit. Josiah had never wronged or dishonored her.
She could not imagine he ever would.
“I feared for you.” Josiah pulled away until she could see his face. He wore sorrow, but it was mixed with traces of relief. Even with rainwater
running down his face and his hair stuck flat to his head, he was still the most thrilling man she had ever seen.
Thunder cracked and lightning split the sky, the sound so close and so terrible Anne jolted from Josiah’s arms. “I cannot go home. Not yet.”
“Your parents are worried.” His lips tipped up. “Worried enough to give their blessing for my search.”
“Then they trust you will keep me safe. Please…stay with me.” She prayed he would understand—or that he would support her desperation even if understanding was too much.
He looked ruefully down the path. “We need to get you to shelter.”
Her knees nearly buckled from her relief. “I know of a place.” Anne took his hand and ducked into the woods. Several yards off the road waited a cabin long forgotten by most. It sat in disrepair with a leaky roof, but it was sturdy enough to expect there remained a dry spot inside where they could wait out the weather.
Off the main road, the howling wind through the branches pounded them mercilessly, but the farther into the woods they went, the less brunt the force. She did not relinquish her grip on Josiah until they approached the broken stoop, at which point she used both hands to attempt to force open the door. Age had sagged the roof and slanted the walls, and with each of her infrequent visits she had experienced more difficulty with the threshold.
Josiah quickly took over the task. In one hard shove, they both tumbled through onto the dusty floor. As suspected, the roof leaked in a number of places but the cabin was shelter and that was enough. The sound of the storm was muffled by the walls, though the rain pounded relentlessly. For a moment, Anne was at ease.
Then the walls closed in, and all the pain and fear of the day seemed to collide in that moment. She hugged herself but could not stop the uncontrollable shaking that had taken over her body.
Josiah pulled her close and just as abruptly stepped back. Though the day was humid and warm, his wet clothing lay like ice against hers in the damp, cold chill of the room. She stood, teeth chattering, while Josiah looked around the cabin’s single room. His eyes lingered in the direction of the stone hearth occupying one wall.
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