I must have fallen asleep, for I woke some hours later after all had gone to bed, screaming and thrashing, pressing a hand to my chest trying to stem the blood. All that blood that kept flowing from my heart.
“I’ve been shot. I have been shot!” And it felt exactly as I had imagined that it would.
“Hush you, now.” Mother was bent over me, trying to wrest my hands away from my heart.
“I have been shot.”
“You are fine. You are safe. All is well.”
“I have not been shot?”
“Nay, child. Be at peace.”
“But . . .”
She tugged at my hands.
I looked down at them to find that what she said was true. There was no blood. None. But how could that be? I could feel it all over my fingers. Daniel’s blood. If I could just keep it from coming out, then maybe he would live.
She brushed stray hairs away from my head and slipped my braid back behind my shoulder. “ ’Twas just a log in the fires that snapped. ’Tis nothing at all. Sleep now.”
I let her settle me back into the bed.
I glimpsed the faces of Mary and Nathaniel before I closed my eyes. They were pressed against the wall, the child held between them, looking at me with terror.
I closed my eyes. If I could just figure out some way to keep all that blood from coming out of his chest. I woke some time later, hands pressed to my own chest, held so hard, so fast, I could scarcely breathe.
Mother kept me in bed for two days in succession, as if I were a babe. She came every now and then to press a cool hand to my forehead, to feed me, to aid me to stand and use the chamber pot. And every so often, she repeated a single question. “Can you speak of it, Susannah?”
I would simply shake my head. And then slip back into sleep. Sweet sleep. It was the only thing I wanted to do. My dreams, the only place I wanted to be. When I slept I could see Daniel. I could hear him and smell him and taste him. But no matter how hard I tried, I could not touch him. Nor could I keep him alive. When I reached out to place my lips upon his, to put a hand to his hairs, that curly mane grown long and proud once more, all would crumble around me. And more often than not, I would wake screaming his name.
The third morning, early, I perceived Nathaniel waking from sleep. I was filled with my own wakefulness, though I had no desire to move about or leave the bed. I was imagining myself in Virginia with Daniel. I was envisioning the house that would be ours. And it was so comfortable there. So safe. I kept my eyes closed. It seemed vastly easier.
But then he spoke. “Susannah? ’Tis I, Nathaniel.”
I sighed. Opened my eyes and turned toward him. “Aye?”
“I have been thinking, Susannah.”
“About what?”
“About Simeon Wright and how it was that God saw fit to send him to rescue you.”
Simeon Wright? “Rescue me?”
“Aye. By taking you away from the captain. The captain seemed noble and he appeared to be . . . good . . . but . . . well, they say all was not as it seemed.”
I could not bring myself to speak.
“Though none of the rest of us could see that, God could. And He rescued you. Is that not grace?”
Grace?
“Remember how the great prophet Isaiah said, ‘Therefore will I give men for thee, and people for thy life.’ He did it. He sent Simeon Wright to rescue you from that heathen! Could this not be my experience of grace?”
A heathen? But Daniel was no heathen. He had known more of God than any man in Stoneybrooke. So like my grandfather he had been . . . in so many ways. God said He would give men for me? He had: one. But he had taken the wrong man!
I was not worthy of his life. I was not even good.
Only God is good; God is only good.
How could God be good? He had torn life away from the only man who had ever convinced me to proclaim His goodness. I could not keep myself from weeping. Nay, Nathaniel’s message was not one of grace. It was a hoax. A torture. The ultimate of cruelties. It was a hope turned in upon itself if my tormentor was now being lauded by all as my rescuer.
Later that morning there came a rapping at the door.
Mother left her work at the fires to answer it.
’Twas the deputy, Goodman Blake. He swept a quick glance around the place. “I have come for Susannah Phillips.”
“Why?”
“She is to be placed in confinement. In Newham.”
“In Newham! But the child is not well.”
The deputy lifted his chin against Mother’s protest. “ ’Tis been ordered.”
“By whom?” Her tone held a promise of woe for that authority.
“The selectmen.”
“She has not spoken, not truly. Not since . . . that day.”
“ ’Tis not for questioning. ’Tis to be . . . well . . .” The man dropped his gaze, shifting about on his feet. “She’s to be sequestered. Just for some few weeks until . . . well . . .”
“Then you will have to speak to her father.” Mother put a finger to his chest, pushed him back from the door, and shut it in his face. Then she turned toward me. “The time for grieving is done. Be up. And get dressed.”
I just lay there and blinked.
“Now! Unless you want him to drag you off in your nightclothes! Mary, help your sister.”
I threw off the bedclothes and swung my feet out to the floor.
Mary moved to find my stockings and skirts. My waistcoat and shoes.
My legs protested my weight and were slow to lend support to my standing.
Mary grabbed at my elbow to pull me upright. “Here.” She held out the shift to me, then sighed and pulled it down over my head when I was too slow to do it myself. “You are worse than the child!”
She pulled the strings tight and tied them off. Then she aided my arms into the sleeves of my waistcoat. “Do not pretend that you need help with your stockings. I have helped you enough these past days! ’Twas me who tended you when Father was gone, when the captain was dead, and the day-girl abandoned me. ’Twas me who took care of the child. And you! Me who changed the clothes, changed the sheets while you were yet sleeping. When you would not wake, not even to use a chamber pot.” She shoved stockings toward me and then waited with growing impatience as I tied them with ribbons beneath my knees.
Mother came while I was stepping into my skirt. She stood there until I had fastened it about the waist, then she led me by the hand to a bench, combed out my hair, gathered it into a twist and set my coif upon it.
As she finished her work, the door banged open. Father strode through it, followed by the deputy.
“They wish to sequester her.”
“Why?”
Father turned to Goodman Blake, clearly waiting for an explanation.
The deputy spread his hands, as if groping for the reason.
Mother lowered her chin with a glower. “You burst in here of a morning and tell me you’re to take from me my eldest daughter and have not the decency to tell me why?”
“She’s to be placed on trial.”
“For what?”
“The murder of Captain Holcombe.”
40
THE INQUIRY INTO DANIEL’S death had fastened upon Simeon Wright as the defendant. There was no surprise about that, for he justly admitted he had done the killing. But what was unexpected was his defense. He claimed that it was my fault that he had done it. That he had come upon me with Daniel and that he had been driven beyond reason by the immodesty of my gown. Because he could not be held responsible for his actions, I would be. And so the case would be tried at the quarterly court in Newham when it met in two weeks’ time. It was there that I would plead for my life.
I was taken to Newham that day by oxcart. It was Goodman Blake, the deputy, who took me. I wish I could say that the ride to Newham was the luxury of which I had dreamt that fall day I had accompanied my father to market, but in truth, I very much wished I were walking. And that my destination was no
t a cell but the victualler’s or the milliner’s.
Once in Newham, I was removed from the cart and placed into confinement at the house of Selectman Miller. His wife, the woman I had met at the milliner’s shop, recognized me at first sight. I could see it by the flare of recognition in her eyes. I knew it in her sudden intake of breath when she looked upon me. But she said nothing. Not one word until the selectman had dismissed Goodman Blake and seen me secured into his own cell at the side of his house. Not one word until he had bid his wife adieu and left on other business.
It was then Mistress Miller sent her servants on some errand and dragged a chair over to the door that separated us.
“I place myself here with my mending so that we can speak. But be warned, if any shall ask, I never spoke to you.”
“Nor I to you.”
I could almost imagine her nod. “Were you not betrothed to Simeon Wright?”
I knelt before the door and put my mouth to the keyhole so that no one passing the lean-to would overhear us. “Aye.”
“And now you are being tried for the death of Captain Holcombe?”
“Aye.”
“I must tell you that I knew Captain Holcombe. We journeyed across the sea together. And if his life was lost at your hand, then I bid you good riddance straight to hell.”
“I did not do it.” How could I have done it?
There was silence for a time. And then she spoke again. “Nay.I thought not. You do not have the look of a murderess about you.But Mister Wright’s defense is your guilt in the incident. Or is it not true what I have heard?”
“ ’Tis true.”
“So what have you to do with it?”
“I was wearing . . . a gown.”
“Don’t we all? So ’tis a gown you were wearing . . .”
“Aye, when Simeon Wright tried to stop us on our way from town.”
“And where were you going?”
“Away. Anywhere. To Virginia. I could not marry Simeon Wright.
Even though I was pledged. He is not a man . . . he is a monster.”
“Aye. ’Tis that which I had heard. So you were off to Virginia?
’Tis where we had all hoped to land at the first. And you were wearing this gown.”
“A lovely gown. A gown of satin. Of ribbons and bows, with lace in abundance.”
“It sounds beautiful in the way of gowns.”
“It was. But not very . . . modest.”
“So it was no gown for a Puritan to be caught wearing.”
“Nay. It is said I incited Simeon Wright to lust.”
“I do not understand you people! Clothes are weapon and armor both. I have seen more corruption and more vice hidden beneath a sober, sad-colored frock in this colony than I ever saw in England. Modest dress covers a multitude of sin here. And the laws to do with them! One must not wear this sort of ribbon or that kind of lace. And beware the boot too great or the collar too long!”
“But you wear one . . . a gown very much like the one I wore. And none molest you.”
“None but my husband. But I am used to it. He takes me half in greed, half in shame at his own want and need. Nay, do not think that all is well for me. ’Tis only because I am the selectman’s wife none will accuse me to him. And he will hear no complaint. He parades me for all to see, but be sure that I answer for it. In private, where none can see.”
“Then there is no hope for me.”
“Who can say there is hope? Or no hope? You must pray. ’Tis what they have taught me.”
“I have little to say to God.”
“ ’Tis what I thought as well . . . at first.”
“But . . . I was at fault. In a fashion. ’Tis me, the reason for Daniel’s death. If I had not loved him . . . if he had not loved me.”
She tsked. And when she spoke once more, her voice sounded hollow. “I cannot believe that he still does not exist somewhere on this earth.”
Then she had not seen the body and all the blood that had ushered forth from his mortal wound.
“He was such a man for amusement. And for laughter. I always felt safe when he was near. Believe me, you do not want to discover yourself alone with sailors.” She stitched on in silence for a while. I heard the prick of her needle and the pull of yarn through canvas.“He made you feel safe as well.”
“Aye. He did.”
“He must have loved you to have run away with you. He was always one for a gallant gesture, but very rarely did it ever come at risk of reputation. I suppose you all thought he was some sort of heathen cavalier with those great boots and curling hair and drooping hat.”
A tear slipped down my cheek and dangled from my nose before dropping to my chest. It was joined by dozens of others, which wet my neck with their number. “We did. I did. At first.”
“His looks were deceptive. I tried to turn his head a time or two, and though I could open his mouth in laughter, I could never convince him to open his arms. Not to me.” She sighed. “You won him honestly, then . . . and it does my vanity no good to realize that he preferred you to me.”
“We were to marry. Just as soon as we could leave the colony.
’Twas the reason for the gown.”
“To leave this Puritan life behind.”
“Aye.”
“In a respectable sort of way.”
“Aye.”
“It was a good plan. It would have worked.”
“ ’Tis what he thought.” But then, he had not reckoned on Simeon Wright.
All they that take the sword shall perish by the sword.
It happened just as Daniel had said it would.
But where is your sword, God, when it comes to Simeon Wright?
“You must speak. We will go to Newham for the trial and you must speak.” Thomas had put down his spoon and his knife and trained his gaze upon me.
I quailed under the weight of it and could not look at him. “Do not make me go back there. I cannot.”
“But your father has long been gone from that town. And you were there. You were there when the captain was killed.”
“Aye. But what did I really see?”
“What did you see?”
My eyes faltered when I tried to meet his gaze. “The whole thing.”
“Then you must speak of it.”
“Why? It will not matter. He will win just the same.”
“Not if you speak.”
I lifted my eyes to him. “But if I speak, then he might hurt you. And that would be even worse.”
“If you do not speak, then Susannah Phillips will surely be convicted. And how could that be just?”
Just? Nothing was just. Not one thing in this world. Only blessed, favored people ever looked for justice. The rest of us knew how cruel this world could be. How could it be just for a child to be born to a father like mine? How could it be just for Captain Holcombe to be felled by a monster like Simeon Wright? And how could it be just for Susannah Phillips to be faulted for it? I no longer looked for justice. I wished only to survive. And if survival required silence, then that is the price I would pay.
41
MISTRESS MILLER KEPT ME warm and she kept me fed, but I had nothing to do and time aplenty to spare. I had grievances and they were many, and so I began once more to talk to God. My prayers were halting at first. Supplications whispered through tears.And then, as the days passed, they became treatises on the injuries that had been done to me and the offenses I had suffered. At the hand of God himself.
If He were going to take Daniel from me, the least He could have done is left me something to remember him by. I no longer had the scarf, I no longer had the gown. I had nothing at all. And so I hoped against all hope, I prayed and pleaded for the impossible, for one small miracle. I hoped and prayed for Daniel’s child. God had done it once for his blessed mother; why could He not do it again?
He owed me so much. And I had asked for so little.
Did I not have faith, though it be small as a mustard seed?
Did not my back ache? Were not my breasts growing more tender with every passing day? I was alone, kept in the darkness of the lean-to, and so I began to talk to the child I decided was growing inside me. I spoke to him of his father. I told him the story of when we first met. Of how Daniel had walked into Stoneybrooke from the wood, as wild as any bear. I told him of savages and silk scarves. Of conversations. Of kisses in the moonlight, underneath the stars.
I lived each day for a week in that illusion, and then my dreams were shattered once more. I went to the corner to make water, and after I did, I knew utter desolation. My monthly courses had come and dissolved all of my hopes. I gathered my skirts to my face and keened like some mad she-wolf at my misfortunes.
Later, after Mistress Miller had tried and failed to comfort me, after the neighbor’s shrieks for silence had stopped, my voice grew hoarse and my tears dried up. I spent the night in wakefulness, mired in the thought that Daniel was gone.
Forever.
And I could not escape the knowledge that I was soon to die. How could the trial have any other outcome than my conviction? I was not the woman the gown proclaimed me to be, but I might as well have been.
I had feared that people would discover what I was truly like beneath my pretense of goodness, but they might as well have. Which were worse? The sins I had committed or those I might have, given the chance? I no longer cared what anyone thought. They assumed the worst, and there was no reason not to let them. Not anymore.
I did not fear death. I might have, had I still believed that God loved me, that He took any sort of notice of my life. And I did not fear judgment, for I had just as many things of which to accuse God as He had to accuse me. Neither did I fear my reputation. I had not done the things of which I was accused, but given the opportunity, I might have. Nay, my anxieties were not for myself; there was little to live for with Daniel gone.
I worried most about my family. I worried they might be driven from town. I worried that no one would buy Father’s wares. That Mother would be dropped from her whang. That no one would take Mary to wife . . . and no one give their daughter to Nathaniel in marriage.
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