“For whatever it is worth,” he said, “my appearance did seem to spark a bit of life into your mother.”
Anne looked crossways at him, bursting into a smile when he failed his attempt to keep a straight face. “Really?”
“Your mother is no friend to me,” he said. “Rest assured, she still had it in her to attempt to shut the door in my face.”
“Why would she do such a thing?” she asked, but she was smiling.
“Well, she knows I am to blame for Samuel’s death, and that is probably enough. But she also knows I lured you into intimacies, and she doubtlessly blames me for your departure from Salem.”
“She does not know of my reason for leaving Salem. She would not blame you.”
Whatever his sideways glance, it left her bursting with laughter.
“I suppose,” she said when she had calmed a bit, “it might be your fault after all.”
“I suppose it might.”
“But when you go back with me, Mother will have something for which to thank you.”
“I would not spend much time in expectation of that, for if she had not already blamed me for your leaving, she will certainly know to do so after your return.”
“We have not talked of my return. What happens then?”
Josiah pondered a moment before replying. Her father knew of Josiah’s intentions and had very nearly given his blessing, but her mother was another issue. With Anne’s pregnancy, they would be expected to marry—a fact Josiah now lamented, for he wanted to offer more to Anne than a forced proposal. How had everything gone so backward?
Anne looked on expectantly.
“I want nothing more than to take you as my wife,” he said. “If you will have me.”
“I worried you would not want me. You left so easily.”
Her confession surprised him, but moreover, it tore at his heart. “It was not because I wanted to. I did it for you—not just because you asked me to, but because I could not bear to bring my past burdens to you. I could not risk your life. I still fear doing so, but I must learn of your grandmother’s knowledge.”
“The one thing I do know,” she said, “is my grandmother would not do anything to hurt me. If she knows of your past, she will keep it safe.”
Her words triggered something in him. “The day I returned for you, she told your mother to let me in, that she owed me that.”
“I wonder what she meant?”
“I know not, but your mother let me in.”
Anne laughed. “I suppose we will find out.”
She made it sound so easy, but his heart could not be as light.
That night, Anne led Josiah through the Dunham home to her room—a fact he did not realize until he stood in the doorway. A small vase overflowing with fresh flowers sat on a table, filling the room with an airy scent, but what he firstly noticed was her bed. When they had joined, it had been on a bed of her wet garments, by then soiled with dirt, over a hard wooden floor caked thick with dust. It had not been under the conditions he had long hoped, and verily her young dreams had not revolved around such circumstance.
Her dreams had probably existed right here, in this room.
“Will you stay with me tonight?”
Josiah looked over his shoulder.
Anne laughed. “Worry not. Our hosts do not object.”
He was not so sure, but they were leaving for Salem in the morning. He knew not what the day would bring, but he was grateful they had that night. “It would be my honor,” he said.
She blew out the candle and pulled him to the bed. As he settled onto the mattress, he wrapped her in his arms and held her close.
And prayed it would not be for the last time.
…
Lydia’s husband, Henry, would not hear of allowing them to take the long trip on foot back to Salem Town. Josiah worried not for himself, but for Anne and how two days of walking might affect her pregnancy. Henry either sensed his worry or was well familiar with it, as he took Josiah aside and assured him the greatest warrior was no match in ferocity to a woman with child. Lydia, in observation of the comment, gave Henry a sharp elbow to the side, prompting Henry to a sheepish grin as if she had well proved his point. He then arranged for a wagon and refused all of Josiah’s attempts to repay the kindness.
Anne was relaxed and happy on the trip, but the closer they drew to the Scudder Inn the greater Josiah’s tension. Fortunately, she seemed not to pick up on it. Despite his own misgivings, having her so close brought him great joy. She sat across from him, her legs stretched over the blankets provided as cushion. Her eyes were again a brilliant green, and that errant strand of hair blew with the wind, catching from time to time on her nose. She would push it away, almost absently, and again fix that beautiful smile on him. Otherwise, her hands rested on the gentle swell of her belly, and that was where Josiah kept the bulk of his attention.
His child.
It did not seem possible.
“Would you like to feel him?”
“Him?”
“Of course I cannot know for sure, but Lydia said if I have a strong feeling it is probably correct. She said that is often the way.”
Josiah stared in awe, unable to believe she carried a child. A child she believed to be a son.
“Come,” she said. “Sit with me.”
He did as she asked, shifting so he sat next to her. When she took his hand, his nervousness was as thick as the very first time they had touched. “Where am I to feel?” he asked.
“Here,” she said, placing his hand over her abdomen.
There, through her layers, a small, firm bump nudged him. “That is our babe?”
“Worry not, for I was similarly in shock. Every time I notice a change I cannot believe it. But Lydia assures me all is well.”
That news, at least, provided some solace. Verily, for Anne to be alone with her mother’s poor moods would have made her pregnancy more trying. He had not spent much time with Lydia, but had found her to be of great humor. “I am so sorry you felt the need to run away, but I am grateful you were not alone.”
“No,” Anne said, covering his hand with her own. “Not alone. And I shall not be alone again.”
Josiah was not so sure—at least in regards to him—but he would soon know, for the Scudder Inn came into view.
Anne took a deep breath. “I hope they forgive me.”
“They will,” he said. He had little doubt of that. “They have missed you greatly.” He stopped short of saying how plain the devastation was upon their faces, for he did not want to fill her with guilt.
When the wagon came to a stop, Josiah helped Anne from the box. Much to his surprise, she did not release his hand as they bade farewell to the driver and approached the inn.
The front door opened ahead of their arrival, revealing both of Anne’s parents in the threshold. Susannah’s eyes lit with joy…until they settled on Josiah.
And even under her scrutiny, Anne did not release his hand.
Josiah swallowed his nerves and stood straight. He met Susannah’s piercing glare with a nod, which she ignored as easily as she shifted her attention from him to her daughter.
In that simple gesture, his hopes fell.
Anne did not drop his hand until she neared her father, at which point she left Josiah to throw her arms around him. They did not exchange words, but Josiah sensed none were needed. When she broke free of her father she approached her mother, who looked ready to dissolve.
“I am home now, Mama.”
Josiah had never heard Anne refer to her mother in such a way. It must have been something held from long ago, for Susannah’s tears fell freely then, but still, her mother did not smile.
George’s hand landed on Josiah’s shoulder. “Thank you, son.”
“Do not thank me yet,” Josiah murmured, ignoring the subsequent look of confusion on George’s face.
His words had come in good time, for Susannah took one look at Anne’s waistline and turned white. “You
are…with child?” she stammered. “Is that why you left?”
Anne turned from her mother, nodding, her eyes glistening. “Father…”
“Please come in. Both of you. We need to sit,” he said, sounding a bit dazed. “There is much to discuss.” He ushered them inside the inn and into the parlor. Anne’s grandmother was there in her usual spot, her gaze intensely upon them.
Josiah hoped the woman would unnerve him less now that he had confessed the secret of his mother’s death to Anne, but the truth eased him little. He still needed to win the Scudders’ favor, and if the woman revealed his connection to witchcraft it was unlikely that would happen. Josiah himself would not grant his blessing with the way of Salem’s accusations and arrests. Anne may have dismissed his past as the past—and any reasonable person would leave it there—but these were not reasonable times. As much as he loved Anne, it was still he who could bring her the most harm.
Susannah was staring at him, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. “You are not welcome here.”
So much for the woman’s softening opinion of him. Clearly he would not win her approval with the mere act of returning her daughter…nor could he blame her. Perhaps she sensed the danger he brought into the home, or maybe her grudge for Samuel’s death was too well rooted for forgiveness.
Anne placed a hand on her mother’s arm. “Speak not with haste, Mother. You have misunderstood Josiah.”
If possible, Susannah’s frown deepened. “I have misunderstood nothing. He is the reason your brother is dead. When confronted, he told you so himself. And now…”
“Yes, because he feels terribly for what happened to Samuel. He has carried the guilt for all these years, but do you not see? It was Samuel who chose to go into the water. No matter his actions that day, Josiah did not do that.”
“It matters not.”
“How can it not matter? You have condemned this man for something that is no fault of his own.”
“Was he not there? Did he not beckon Samuel to the water?”
“Mother!”
“And verily that child you carry is entirely his fault. I will not have him in my home.”
“That is enough, Susannah.”
The room fell to a deathly still as George approached his wife.
“The fault for Samuel is not Josiah’s. He did not beckon Samuel to the water. It was another lad by the name of William Dyer. He confessed to his father, who in turn sent him to pray for forgiveness.”
Anne gasped. “You knew? You knew this all along and you let her blame Josiah?”
“Anne, honey, she knew.”
Caught in the storm, Josiah could do nothing but stare.
“Then why, Mother. Why did you let me believe it was Josiah’s fault?”
“You sent him away because he told you it was his fault. He admitted it.”
“Enough.”
The terse, harsh word came from the corner. From Anne’s grandmother.
“Do not sacrifice your daughter for yourself.”
“Mother!”
“Tell him the truth, Susannah.”
Josiah knew not what to expect from Susannah, but it was not for her to dissolve into tears. He and Anne shared bewildered looks as George—who seemed as confused as the rest of them—tried to take his wife into his arms.
She waved him away.
“Tell him,” said Anne’s grandmother. Her eyes nearly glowed with their intensity.
Josiah and Anne exchanged glances. What could Susannah possibly have to say that could affect them? Something that would breed her anger…something for which she might blame him? Was whatever she was to say the reason she did not want Josiah in her home? Anne’s grandmother’s warning about guilt returned to him, adding to the muddle of confusion.
Susannah pressed her hand to her mouth, then turned so her back was to them. She walked to the window before she spoke. “Your mother…Josiah. She was my friend.”
His mouth fell open. “What?”
She turned so she faced him. Her face was awash in sorrow. “That is why I wanted to keep you from Anne. Not because of Samuel, but because I was afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
“Afraid you would find out and turn my daughter against me.”
Anne had neither moved nor spoken since her mother’s announcement. Was she as deeply shocked as he? Surely Anne had known nothing of this, for she would have told him. The very notion of their mothers having been friends…but what of their connection? There had to be more that stood between them.
Dazed, Josiah sank into a chair. “You knew my mother?”
Susannah nodded as she sank into another chair. “I never had a truer friend.”
“You made me send Josiah away for this?” Anne cried. “Because of a friendship?”
George put a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Tell them, Susannah. We have had enough of secrets and sorrow in this house.”
“There’s more?” Josiah’s head throbbed. Of all the people who could know of his mother, Susannah was perhaps the worst. She would not start rumors of her own daughter—of that he was convinced—but she would know exactly how to keep Josiah away. His greatest worries had been realized…his past would keep him from Anne, and now his child.
Susannah must know the whole terrible truth, for that explained how Anne’s grandmother would know.
Anne looked at her grandmother. “You said it was the guilt that ruined her. You were speaking of Mother?”
“She was,” Susannah said. She took a long, shaky breath. “I remember when you were born. Verity—that was Josiah’s mother—was so happy and so, so proud.” She looked at George. “It was as we were first courting.”
Josiah looked to George. “You knew my mother as well?”
He shook his head. “Back then, more than now, courtship took place in the parents’ home. I am from here, in town. My wife came from the village. Though I spent time in her home, we remained there under the supervision of her parents. I did not come to know her neighbors until after we were married.”
“What do you know of Josiah’s birth?” Anne asked.
“He was a beautiful baby,” she said. “And big. Fair haired with a strong grip and a loud cry. The rest of us lamented we would have to cover our ears, but not your mother. No matter your volume, she would not put you down. Your mother loved you so, so much.”
Josiah had never been so taken aback. His father had spoken of his mother in such a cold manner, and though Josiah had never fully understood why, he could only hope it was due to his grief. To hear Susannah speak of his mother with such warmth and sorrow dissolved something hard and terrible inside of him—something that had become such a part of him he had not realized he held it until he was suddenly free.
“Thank…thank you,” he said. “Thank you for telling me about my mother. No one has ever spoken of her in such a way.”
Susannah shook her head. “Your gratitude comes too soon.”
“What do you mean? What have you done?” Though Anne’s words were intended for her mother, she shot a tense look in her grandmother’s direction.
“You grew poorly, and Verity was frantic. She had the physician see to you, and though she and your father could ill afford it, she called for a doctor from another town. Travel then was even more difficult than it is now, but she cared not for the expense. It was a terrible burden on your father, but he coped as best he could.”
Josiah peeled back threads of memories he had long buried. He never dreamed he would have the chance to get to know his mother in this way, and though the story was certain to take a dark turn—as had his mother’s life—he still treasured the chance to know more of her. “My father said she sought the help of a native.”
“Yes, the Indian woman. She was a good friend. They had crossed paths in the woods at one time—neither one knowing what to make of the other, until your mother presented her with a parcel of bread she had carried, and from the goodwill, grew a friendship. Such relationships were
frowned upon, for Puritans were not to consort with the natives, you see. But Verity had her own ways and would not refuse a friend because of such nonsense. When the Indian heard of your illness, she brought a remedy from her medicine man. Such…potions were…they were considered the work of the devil, but you grew weaker with each passing day. Verity said there was no risk too great for your life.”
Anne leaned forward. “So she gave him the medicine?”
“Indeed. And just as the Indian assured, the babe—you, Josiah—returned to health.”
“What was in the treatment?”
“We never knew. It mattered not to Verity—only that her babe was well—and to my knowledge, she never again saw the Indian.” Susannah looked to her hands clasped at her front. “She never had the chance. Word of Josiah’s recovery spread, and from that point, things happened fast. Some time ago there were witch hunts in Hartford, not so terribly different from the ones claiming Salem at this time.”
“This happened before?” Anne asked, her hand to her mouth.
“Yes, three decades past. A similar tragedy, and terribly ironic that the accusations began over the death of a child when your mother was only trying to prevent one.” She shook her head. “People do not see fit to learn from their mistakes, though I suppose I am no exception.”
“What happened to Verity, Mother?”
“At that time, people had not forgotten the Hartford witch hunts, or the many before them. I know not who started the rumors—I suppose that knowledge belongs only to the guilty party—but talk spread fast. Verity was quickly accused of consorting with the devil in order to heal her child.”
His mother had been the talk of gossip. How could his father ever think the secret of her accusation was hanged with her? “But the healing medicine,” he said. “Had it not been documented?”
Susannah looked at Josiah in surprise. “Your education has served you well. Yes, John Winthrop the Younger—the governor of Connecticut, but also the son of Massachusetts’ governor—returned from England with knowledge of natural healing. He was greatly respected, and as chief magistrate, he oversaw the Connecticut court. He put an end to the executions and to some extent calmed fears, though not all were convinced. The unease persisted, especially in the more rural areas. Salem, too, is a great distance from Connecticut, and the talk never really ceased. Nor did Massachusetts abide by the standards of John Winthrop’s court, so any reprieve granted there was not afforded to the people of Salem.”
An Unexpected Sin (Entangled Scandalous) Page 15
