The questions were without easy answers, but clearly the truth lay with the Scudders. And though he wavered, he knew one thing to be true: he could not bear for Anne to think he had lied. So he had written to her, trying to explain his guilt in her brother’s death. Though Josiah had not actually been the one to lure Samuel to his death, it was Josiah who had led Samuel to the water’s edge that day. The waves had been of stunning proportion—so much so that even Josiah, who had feared the water since nearly drowning as a child, could not resist the sight that had rolled endlessly before him.
Then another boy joined them. Knowing of Josiah’s fears, he said Samuel must have the same coward’s blood. The taunting was weak, but Samuel needed very little prompting to edge toward the water, for he had long loved the sea.
I will if you will, he had challenged the other boy. And with pride at stake, both had headed into the breaking waters.
Only one had returned.
If Josiah had said something, or somehow drawn down Samuel, things would have been different. Samuel would be alive. But Josiah could not bring himself to speak up, and when Samuel had disappeared in the waves, Josiah had been too frozen by fear to go in after him.
The bay may have taken Samuel, but the fault still remained with Josiah.
Anne may not understand or care for his explanation, but he needed to explain. He hoped by now her anger would have cooled and that she might be willing to listen.
But she had not responded to his queries, and the courier said she had not been seen in Salem for some time.
The news troubled him and he made plans to go to her, though the decision, once made, sat with heavy dread in his throat. If she rejected him now—after so much time to reconsider—his heart would suffer yet another break. And if she could not be found, he would be devastated.
But no more so than if he did not try. Her rejection might destroy him, but living without her promised no greater fate.
After making arrangements with his employer, Josiah secured morning passage to Salem Town on a merchant’s wagon. He settled against a crate, feeling the dig of the wood that would assuredly rub harshly at his back with every jolt, and bit back a sorrowful smile. Hope had its way with him, filling him with the joy of again seeing her, but it could not overcome the worrisome message from a trusted messenger. Could Anne have left? And if so, where had she gone…and why? It mattered not. His only purpose was to find her. To prove his love for her.
The ride took much of the day, but by nightfall Josiah was standing outside the Scudder Inn. He adjusted his pack and touched the coin in his pocket. He had saved for weeks—it wasn’t much, but if it proved to Anne’s parents he could provide for her, it would have been well worth the endless toil to earn it.
Josiah paused near the front entry. Their guests would not have to knock to enter, but he felt overwhelmingly certain he was not welcome, so he opted to knock.
In short order, the door swung open to reveal Susannah Scudder. In just a few months, she appeared to have aged years. Her eyes were sunken and sad, and her skin had taken on even a greater pallor than before. Her frown might have been intimidating had Josiah not been worried of far greater things.
“You are not welcome here,” she said, her voice weak, tired, and oddly tinged with alarm.
Josiah blocked the closing door with his foot. “Please. It is a matter of great importance.”
The pressure against his foot eased, but she did not open the door. From the other side, he heard what sounded like a choked sob. “Anne is not here.”
So it was true. Josiah swallowed the lump in his throat. “I came to see you and Goodman Scudder. I would like an audience with you both.” When she didn’t respond, he added, “Please.”
“You owe him that.”
Josiah startled at the grated, weak voice that was at once familiar. The old woman. When the door opened, it was not Susannah but she who stood before him, her frame slight and stooped, but her eyes as brilliant as ever.
He had not known she could leave the corner chair, for he had never seen her anywhere else.
You owe him that. What could her words possibly mean?
No one spoke as Josiah followed the women into the kitchen. The old woman moved at a terrible pace, but the slow walk gave him time to assess the strange new dynamic in the home.
George Scudder sat in the kitchen, sitting far too near the fire for the warmth of the day. He looked at Josiah. With nothing in his tone or expression to indicate surprise, he simply explained, “My hands benefit from the heat.”
Josiah touched his brim in greeting. When the women sat, he removed his hat and joined them at the table. Still fighting the terrible lump in his throat, he said, “Is Anne in travels?”
“She is gone.” Susannah touched her temples and closed her eyes. After a shaky breath, she said, “She left some time ago. Her note indicated she would return, but not when.”
“Have you sent for her?”
Susannah shook her head. “She left of her own volition.”
Josiah sat back in surprise. He would not guess the Scudders would allow their daughter to carry off in such a way, but Anne was an adult, and verily not a woman who succumbed to convention. The night Anne had gone out to the gallows, Susannah had had much the same reaction. “Have you any idea where she is?”
“Anne’s whereabouts are none of your concern,” Susannah said tightly.
George placed a hand on her arm, though Josiah could not ascertain if the move was one of caution or assurance.
It mattered not. “I know not what has happened,” Josiah said, “but you must realize I am terribly sorry.” He took the money from his pocket and stacked it on the table in front of him. “It is not much, but I want you to see I can take care of Anne. I wish to take her as my wife, if she will have me, and if you will allow it.”
“Son,” said George, “Anne is not here.”
“If you will allow me to go to her—”
“There is nothing I can say to help you. We do not know where she is.”
George’s stunning revelation jolted Josiah, but he was not deterred. “I will find her.”
Susannah released a humorless laugh. “You made that promise once before.”
“I brought her back.”
“Not until you had your way!”
Josiah froze. Anne had made the pronouncement herself, so it came as no great surprise that Susannah knew, but it was an unexpected turn. The words hung in the air, unclaimed.
She stared at him, her face a mask of cold. “It is true, is it not?”
He would not deny the truth. He could only hope to expect the same from her. Quietly, he asked, “Is that why you told her I killed Samuel?”
His question did not draw surprise, but why should it? He had known from the moment Anne asked about her brother that her mother had guessed his identity. The timing was far too suspect for it to have been anything else. And she had used the news judiciously, for Josiah had been neatly extricated from Anne’s life the moment he had gotten too close.
Susannah’s lack of a response was answer enough.
Josiah stood and, with a curt nod, let himself outside.
No one tried to stop him.
His chest hurt with the realization that he had no hope of earning her parents’ blessing. He never had. Susannah Scudder had been against him from the first day he had returned, and there was but one way he had ever earned her ire. He should have seen it from the beginning, but he had wanted his chance with Anne too much. He had waited so long for her. In his heart, he could not believe a love he carried for so many years could be denied.
And now, not only had he failed Anne, but he had taken her honor. Perhaps he had no right to seek her now, but if it was he who had caused the rift in her family, it was he who would heal it.
His determination renewed, he straightened his hat and stepped from the shadow of the inn, only to see George Scudder in his path.
“The shutters have held,” said the goo
dman, nodding to the windows behind Josiah.
Stunned, and wary, Josiah said. “I am glad to have helped.”
George did not appear angry with Josiah. In fact, he seemed as mild as ever…as if the exchange in the inn had not happened. Rather, the elder propped a hand against the wall and looked up toward the eaves. “They hold for now, but the shutters will need to be replaced.”
Josiah looked at the man, but read nothing in his expression. “I left the coin. If you need—”
“No, son.” George held out his free hand, revealing Josiah’s coin. “Take it. Find my daughter.”
When Josiah did not move, the goodman straightened and pressed the money into Josiah’s palm.
“Sir—” Josiah protested.
“I knew who you were the moment I saw you,” George said. “The years passed and with them came change, but one does not so easily forget. You have long been a part of this family, and Samuel’s loss did not change that.”
George had known his identity all along? Somehow, though he knew Susannah had held suspicions, he did not imagine the goodman had kept silent for so long. During their walk to the bay, George had not spoken to Josiah as if to a stranger. Suddenly, the odd conversation made sense…but one point disturbed him far more than it had before.
George had spoken of witches. And if the old woman knew of Josiah’s lineage, it made sense George would as well. But why would he speak such kindness under such dire circumstances?
Josiah met the goodman’s eyes. “You knew who I was and you allowed me into your home?”
George wore the same look of profound sadness he so often did, but now it was tainted with wistfulness. “What happened to my son was not your fault. The boy had his own mind. And clearly, so does my daughter.”
“I love her,” Josiah said quietly.
George reached to put his hand on Josiah’s shoulder. With a firm pat, he said, “Then find her and bring her home.”
At first Josiah could grasp nothing more than stunned silence. Had the goodman really just given his blessing to seek Anne? Josiah didn’t need it—he intended to find her with or without permission—but to have it meant much. “I will, Sir.”
George released Josiah and nodded. “I know you will, son. Thank you.”
Josiah stared after the goodman long after he shuffled into the house. Just as quickly as Josiah’s hope had faded, it rose—he might have a chance, after all. But that chance would have to come from Anne, and he had no idea where he might find her.
But he knew who might.
Josiah secured the coin and took the road to Salem Village, praying his hunch was right.
…
With her hands on her hips and her face set in a scowl, Prudence bore a striking resemblance to Anne’s mother. Prudence was much younger, of course, and her blond hair was several shades lighter than Susannah Scudder’s, but she had mastered the expression of disapproval.
“She made herself clear enough by leaving,” Prudence said. “Did she not?”
Josiah sighed. “She did not give me a chance.”
Her dubious look grated him. “What chance did you lack?” she asked. “Were you not the one to walk away from her? Did you not make the decision to leave?”
“She asked me to go. What was I to do?”
Prudence glared. “If you loved her, you should have fought.”
Josiah bit back an oath. No matter his frustration, he would not speak in such a manner to a woman, but the word fiercely tempted him. “I respected her then. I am fighting now.”
“No, you are not. You are asking a useless question, and weeks too late.”
“I beg of you, Prudence. I must see her.”
“Then wait until she returns.”
“And when will that be?”
“As soon as she has the ba—” Prudence’s eyes grew round as saucers, and her mouth matched until she snapped it shut.
Josiah froze. The implication of that single syllable—and Prudence’s reaction upon uttering it—hitting him firmly in the gut. “As soon as she has what?”
“She will return,” she whispered, her face terribly white.
Truth slammed into him with enough force to knock the breath out of his lungs. He had not fathomed why Anne would wait weeks to leave home, but it suddenly made terrible sense. As soon as she has the…baby. “She is with child?”
“Josiah—”
“I know she is your friend and you want to keep her confidence,” he said, fighting to keep his tone even, “but I have a right to know if she carries my child.”
Prudence lowered her eyes. “She did not want to bring shame to her family.”
“She could not tell me of this?” But he already knew. She had had no way to contact him…and after he admitted to his part in Samuel’s death, she verily did not want to. “Where is she?” He drew a deep breath, trying to steady himself. “Please.”
She sighed. “All I know is that she went in search of the midwife.”
“What midwife? Here in Salem?”
“No. She was once of Salem, but she moved on.”
Josiah walked a circle, his frustration boiling over. He stopped directly in front of Prudence and looked her squarely in the eye. “I love Anne. I left for that very reason—because she asked me to, and because I will deny her nothing. But if I had known…Prudence, please. I need to see her.”
“What I said is the truth. I know not where she is. Only that she sought the midwife.”
He fought for patience. “And where does one go to seek the midwife?”
“I sent her to the Bradshaw home. Goodman Bradshaw kept the midwife’s horse when she left Salem, so I thought he might know.”
“Do you know if Anne ever found her?”
Prudence nodded. “She sent word.”
Relief flooded him, but it was short lived. “Do you know the Bradshaws?”
“Of course I know the Bradshaws. I have been in Salem the whole of my life.”
“Then come with me.”
“I cannot go alone with you. Have you not caused enough scandal?”
“Do you think they will send me to her if I go alone?”
Prudence sighed. “I should hope not. Let me gather some of my sisters for a walk. That should keep alive your sainted reputation.”
He snorted, but his amusement did not last. Anne carried his child. If she had been any other daughter in Salem, he would have been hunted down and forced to enter into marriage.
Leave it to him to fall in a love with a woman who chose to be the hunted.
Chapter Seventeen
Prudence’s sisters kept up a lively conversation on the walk to the Bradshaw house, largely saving Josiah from talk. His mind seemed to go in a thousand directions at once. Why would Anne not tell him of his child? However angry she had been with him, he could not believe she would keep him from knowing of her condition. He tried to placate himself with the logic that she had not known his location—perhaps she had gone before his letter arrived—but if she had sought him, Cambridge would have been the likely choice. But then what? Send a courier door to door?
He had left to protect her from his past, and in doing so had turned his back on not just her, but his child, their future.
“You have loved her for a long time.”
Startled, Josiah looked to Prudence.
“I know who you are,” she explained. “I thought you familiar when you returned, but Anne did not speak of you. She did not tell me who you were until she left.”
“I asked her not to speak of it. I wanted a chance to prove myself before everyone knew the past.”
Prudence huffed a breath. “You proved a great deal by leaving.”
“I did as she asked,” he said, wishing the little girls would return to their chatter and thusly end Prudence’s interrogation.
“She loves you, too.”
Josiah looked to Prudence. “What?”
“She loves you. She has for as long as I can remember. Here, this is the Brad
shaw house.” She gestured toward the nearest home, saving him the difficulty of a response.
The door opened ahead of their arrival. A woman perhaps a few years older than he stepped out, her belly round with child. Josiah had not realized how great was the population of women with child until he had been so directly affected by one.
“Prudence!” the woman exclaimed, wrapping her into a hug, then greeting each of the girls similarly. “What brings you here this day?”
Prudence shot Josiah a pointed look as she greeted the goodwife. “Eunice,” Prudence said, “This is…Josiah. Some time ago I sent Anne to you in hopes she might find Lydia.”
Josiah nodded as Eunice looked him up and down. Because he had spent but one day in Salem Village since his return, he did not expect she would recognize him, but for once he wished someone might. The scrutiny she afforded suggested she would not trust easily.
“How do you fare, Goodwife?” he asked.
The attention continued endlessly before she finally spoke. “Good morrow, Josiah.”
“I understand Anne found her way to the midwife,” Prudence said, “and now it is urgent Josiah find her as well.”
Prudence’s pointed use of midwife appeared to have gotten Eunice’s attention, for her expression changed anew.
Josiah knew not whether he should talk or remain silent so he could only pray he would not hurt his cause.
The goodwife spoke with clearly measured words. “As you know, Prudence, Lydia was sent from Salem. Revealing her location could put her at risk.” Looking at Josiah, she added, “As well as Anne.”
Prudence glanced at Josiah. “He can be trusted. His…interest in finding her should not be denied. But please, Anne needs your confidence as does Lydia. Neither wishes to bring trouble.”
Eunice had only begun to shake her head when Josiah spoke. “Please, Goodwife. She carries my child. When last we met she could not have known, and we lost touch. I cannot leave her to bear this child on her own.”
But for the noise of Prudence’s sisters climbing and shrieking on the fence, the silence rang loud. Josiah had just admitted a terrible sin, and it could have worked against him just as well as it could help. But he could not be denied his only possible link to Anne and his child.
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