Eunice looked again to Prudence.
“His words are true. And Anne’s last words to me were of great affection for him.”
Josiah was startled by Prudence’s confession. Could it be true? Anne had been so angry…
“You have known me a great many years,” Prudence said, “and you know Anne has been like a sister to me. She will want to see him.”
Eunice sighed. “You should know, young Josiah, Lydia’s husband is of great means. If you seek to cause harm, it will come to no good end.”
“Anne knew not how to find me before she left. If she wishes not to see me, I will leave. But I need the chance, please.”
He prayed his sincerity showed, and it must have, for Eunice gave him direction to a nearby town. With a rueful smile, she added, “I trust you will explain my part in this. If so, please do so with apology.”
“I will.”
Josiah escorted Prudence and her sisters home before taking to the road after Anne. Prudence offered him no great farewell, but she did wish him luck. A grand gesture, considering. Then she herded her sisters to the house and Josiah was again alone, which is how he spent the next day as well. Other than a brief rest in the dead of night—where, hidden under the veil of darkness, he did not need to worry about who might come upon him—he did not stop until he reached the town of which Eunice had spoken. He asked the first man he saw for direction to the Dunham home, and but for a raised brow he was pointed the way without trouble.
From there, Josiah’s heart resided in his throat. Would Anne see him? Was she still angry? Would she still be there, or might she have moved on? The questions were rampant, the answers few. Then the house appeared through the trees, and his breath truly quit.
Josiah had prepared himself for having to talk his way through Lydia or her husband—or, with the Dunham name, perhaps a guard—in order to win an audience with Anne, but rather than another obstacle he found Anne herself. Even at the distance, he knew her immediately, and she must have sensed his attentions for she soon looked from her gardening. She stared at him for a long while before she spoke.
“Josiah?” Though he was still several feet away, he saw easily the word that fell from her lips.
A breeze ruffled her skirts and revealed the slight mound of her belly. His breath was sharp. Every word he had longed to say to her caught in his throat, and he could utter but one phrase. “So it is true?”
If she was surprised to see him, she hid the emotion well. “Yes.”
He wanted to go to her and sweep her into his arms and never again let her go, but she did not exude warmth and he did not want to upset her, so he settled for the painful distance between them.
“I just heard,” he said. “I had no idea.”
“I did not expect that you would, though there is little question as to who I may thank for breaking my confidence.”
He nearly said so many things—that her father had given his blessing or that Prudence had indicated that Anne still loved Josiah—but he wanted not for their help. He wanted to win her back on his own. “Blame her not, for the news did not come easily.”
Anne said nothing. She simply stood before him, that same stubborn tendril of hair lost to the wind, and his heart ached. He had not expected she could be so beautiful with her face set in trepidation.
“Please, can we talk?”
“You spoke an untruth, Josiah. What is there to say?” Her words were sure enough, but her eyes glimmered with unshed tears.
He hated that he had put them there.
“I need to explain why I left.”
“Your leaving requires no explanation.” She turned, but stopped when he put his hand on her arm.
“It does,” he said softly. “I need you to know why.”
She hesitated, and that was enough.
“My mother was hanged,” he said. “As a witch.”
Anne drew her hand to her mouth.
“Anne? Is everything all right?” A woman stood near the house, her belly obviously round.
Was every woman in his vicinity with child? Eunice’s warning came back to him, and he could only hope Anne would not have him removed from the property. “Please,” he said to Anne. “Just give me a chance to explain.”
She glanced at him, and he glimpsed the woman who had accepted him so fully the night they were intimate. It lasted but a moment before the sadness and distrust returned.
“I will go without question, after I explain. Just give me that chance.”
Anne sighed. “Come with me.”
She did not wait for him, and in the time it took for her words to register, he was already several steps behind. He jogged the difference, falling in step beside her as they approached the other woman.
“Lydia,” Anne said to the other woman. “This is Josiah. Josiah, Lydia Dunham.”
Lydia nodded to Josiah but did not address him. “Are you well?” she asked Anne, her otherwise innocuous question fiercely implicating Josiah.
Anne nodded. “I think I would like to talk to him.”
“Of course.” She looked at Josiah, kinder now. “If you need me, I will be close.”
“Thank you,” Anne said. Then, to Josiah, “We can sit over here.”
She led him to a nearby tree behind the house. Neatly maintained gardens made the space welcoming. A short distance back, horses grazed behind sturdy boarded fences.
“It is beautiful here,” he said as he sat on the bench she indicated.
Anne nodded. “It is hard not to feel at peace.”
“But you do not?”
“I try. I worry for my parents.”
“I saw them,” he said. “They are well, though I fear their sadness overcomes them. They do not know?”
She shook her head. “No. I could not bear to tell them. I did not wish to bring them more pain, but I was afraid for what the shame might do to them.”
“But will you not return?”
“Of course. If I return with the babe, our neighbors are not likely to know of the circumstances. It is my hope we can rebuild our family then…if they will have me.”
“They would never turn their backs on you,” he said. He longed to gather her in his arms, but he dared not breach the fragile bridge they had built between them.
“Your mother,” Anne said. “Will you tell me?”
He nodded, only marginally grateful for the change of subject. The topic was no less difficult, but the fact it centered not on his betrayal of her made it somewhat easier to stomach. “I know very little of what happened,” he said. “My father only answered my questions so he could forbid me to ever speak of her again.”
“That is terrible,” she said softly.
He shook his head. “I say that not to evoke sympathy, but just so you will understand there are some questions to which I will never have answers.”
“Of course.”
The sorrow in her eyes guilted him. “My father said I was sick,” he began. “At just a few months old. Inconsolable. My mother called for the physician, of course, and when he could not heal me she called for another. Nothing seemed to work.”
He had her attention fully now. She seemed to have forgotten her anger with him as she leaned forward and looked at him in earnest.
“When left with no other choice, she turned to a remedy she received from an Indian woman she had befriended. Apparently such friendships with the natives were deeply frowned upon, but my mother was not entirely concerned for propriety…at least as my father tells it.”
“Few are as concerned with propriety as others would like,” Anne said with a small smile. “How was the remedy? Were you healed?”
Josiah pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. “I have never told anyone this story,” he said, finding the words difficult. “My father said I was a different baby overnight.”
“And somehow this good news…was not.”
Josiah shook his head. “No. They accused her of practicing witchcraft.”
&
nbsp; “She was executed for seeing to your health?”
“Yes, but she was not arrested or tried. There are no records of it. I verified this myself while in Cambridge.”
“And this is why your father blamed you for your mother’s death? Because you were a sick baby?” Her voice had taken on a sharp, angry edge, but at least this time she sounded angry on his behalf.
He shrugged. “As he told it, yes.”
“This is terrible,” she said. “And I am sorry for your loss. But it was a long time ago, and certainly you do not remember her. Why do you feel it a reason to lie to me?”
“Do you not see? My mother was hanged as a witch. With the accusations in Salem…I feared my past might somehow fall on you, just as Elizabeth’s lineage led to her death.”
Anne’s visage dimmed visibly with the mention of her friend’s name, but she did not falter. “But you said there are no records.”
“My father told me to keep it in confidence, and that no one knew. After you sent me away, I returned to Cambridge and worked with a barrister. The position allowed me the opportunity to search records. I looked for word of her death or an arrest, even though my father assured me there were none, but found nothing. That seemed to confirm my father’s words. No one knew.”
A slight frown marred her pretty face. “Then why do you worry for me?”
Josiah sighed. “Because someone does know.”
“What do you mean, someone does know? Who?”
“The woman who occupies the front room of the inn.”
Anne’s mouth fell open, and she quickly pressed a hand to her lips. “My grandmother? Are you sure?”
“I suspected she was a relative of yours. There is little mistaking the brilliant hue of the eyes.” A smile traced his lips, though his heart remained sad. “She told me herself.”
“Are you quite sure? She is sometimes confused. Perhaps she overheard word of the hangings and spoke out of turn.”
Josiah shook his head. “She knew my mother’s name, and she knew she was hanged as a witch. And with what happened with Elizabeth…I could not risk it. I wanted to fight for you, but what if word got out that you were to marry the son of an executed witch? I know not how your grandmother has this knowledge, but she may not be the only one.”
“She is from Salem,” Anne said quietly.
“And it makes sense gossip would have spread then as it does now. Salem is to this very day obsessed with its witches, and it matters not how beloved its neighbors. The accusations sense no barriers.”
“I understand your concern,” she said, “But why did you not come to me?” Anne shook her head. “Why did you lie?”
He sat back, confused. “Your grandmother spoke of my mother just minutes before you asked me to leave. I was stunned, and Elizabeth had just died for a crime no greater than that she was descended from a witch and one of the goodwives had a dream. In that moment, with your grandmother’s words so recent, all I could think about was not letting that touch you.”
“No, Josiah. I understand why you didn’t tell me about your mother.”
“Then of what falsehood do you speak?”
Her stare threatened to cut right through him. “You said you killed Samuel, and I want to know why.”
…
Anne’s heart pounded. Would he tell her the truth, or would he evade her?
She still could not believe he had come to her. He had frequented her dreams, but each morning when she woke she had found herself terribly alone, her heart broken anew. When she had first realized it was he who stood before her, her heart threatened to burst, but then the truth cut through her joy and she endured his loss as if for the first time.
He may have come for her, but he was still the man who had lied—not to keep from losing her, but so that he would.
To his credit, Josiah’s mask of confusion only deepened. “I did not lie. He is gone because of me.”
Anne’s heart twisted in her chest. “But you did not kill him.”
His honey-brown eyes filled with sorrow. “He was taken by the sea. You knew that.”
She shook her head and fought back the tears that had become her constant companion. “All these years, and no one would tell me how he died. And I might never have known, but before I left home I asked my mother what happened to him that day.”
Josiah rubbed his face with both hands, knocking his hat askew in the process. She wondered if it was the same one he had lost that night in the mud.
The night their child had been made.
“He drowned,” he said gently. “He went into the water and never emerged.”
“But how? What happened that day?”
Josiah’s eyes seemed to focus on a distant object—perhaps to the past. “There was a terrible storm at sea. Word was that the waves touched the sky. Samuel said he was not to go to town, but I wanted to see the water. I begged him to go with me.”
“Why? You were terrified of the water.”
“I still am. I cannot get near a creek without growing dizzy with fear.”
“Then why?”
“I have asked myself that very question for years. The day was so clear and bright. I could not fathom such a display as was promised. And if it were true, I knew I would not have to get close.”
“But you did?”
“Not at first. The other boy—William Dyer—knew of my fear. He called me a number of things I will not repeat in your company, but none made me want to go near the water. I suppose he found me boring, for he turned on Samuel.”
“Samuel was not afraid of the water.”
“No. But William used the same taunts. Samuel was not one to back down from a challenge, so when William said Samuel must be the same as me, Samuel took offense. They grew rowdy. Samuel said William himself was too afraid, so William extended a dare. If Samuel would go in, so would he.”
“And?” The word came at but a whisper, for she knew what was to come.
“They both went in. And when Samuel disappeared in the waves, William came from the sea and he ran.”
“You did not go near the water?” When Josiah shook his head, she continued. “Then William was the coward, not you.”
Josiah took her hand. “No, it was me. Please believe me, for I tried to go in the water, but I could not. I made it into the surf until I stood wet to my knees and faint with panic. The water was so angry, and Samuel was gone from sight. He had not been visible for some time, by then. I backed away. I left the water, but I also left Samuel. He is dead because of me. Do you not see? I did not kill him with my own hand, but the outcome is all the same.”
Her heart could not stand another break. “Josiah, listen to me. Samuel killed Samuel. Not you, and not even William, however cruel his part. Samuel made the decision to go into the water.”
He looked to their joined hands. “He did not want to go there that day. He went because of me.”
“He was sixteen. Nearly a man. Besides that, would you have gone if you had known what would happen?”
“Of course not.”
“Then stop blaming yourself. Please, for I do not blame you and neither does Mother.”
Josiah shook his head. “Your mother does blame me, Anne. That is why she dislikes me. I thought her distaste was without cause, that I would only have to prove myself. But she knew me all along as the one who killed her son.”
Anne shook her head. “No. She thinks you were the one who lured him into the water. That is how I knew you were untrue when you said you killed him—because I knew you would never beckon to him in such a way. Do you not see, Josiah? If we tell her the truth, we have a chance.”
Hope diluted the sorrow in his eyes, but the sorrow was not lost. “She has made her stand clear. I will fight for you, and I will do it with all I have left in this world. But I will step aside before I create further hardship.”
“There is no hardship in the truth. I left so I would not bring shame to them. I will return with child, but with the child’s fat
her. And they will verily give blessing to our union, for that is the way. That is what you want, is it not?”
“I can say with my whole heart, sweet Anne, that I want nothing more.”
“Then it is settled. We will return to Salem. My hand is yours to have—you need only ask for it.”
Though he did not appear sure, he nodded his agreement. “It will be my great honor,” he said.
She cared not for the questions in his eyes. Much had been left to chance, but verily this was a sign her path was finally true.
She was going home, and Josiah would be there with her.
Chapter Eighteen
Josiah wished fervently he shared Anne’s confidence that her parents would agree to their union, but he could not shake the feeling their meeting would not go as planned. Even if her mother did take the view that he was not responsible for Samuel’s death—and that was something with which Josiah himself had yet to come to terms—there was still the matter of her pregnancy. Taking liberties out of the confines of marriage was sin enough. But for him to have abandoned her in a state of pregnancy…it mattered not that he had not known, or that she had ordered him to leave. His actions remained unforgivable. And because of him she had left her family for weeks—yet another loss, and the fault undeniably his.
He did not hope for a warm welcome.
Anne, however, was jubilant. She simply radiated joy, and there was no greater blessing than to see the genuine hope in her eyes—none greater, that was, than the gentle bulge of her belly. He could not keep from looking as they walked together across the expansive yard after sharing the evening meal.
“It was good of the Dunhams to welcome me into their home.” He did not add how he could only imagine what they might think of him after having to take Anne in, but it mattered not, for they had been wonderfully kind.
“They are perhaps the most wonderful people I have ever known,” Anne said. She glanced at him with smiling eyes. “As terrible as the accusations were for Lydia, she is genuinely happy now.”
That was all he wanted for Anne. Had he stolen her chance for such happiness?
“How were my parents?” she asked.
An Unexpected Sin (Entangled Scandalous) Page 14
