by Megan Chance
“That red paragon bodice your aunt was wearing at meeting. Can you get it for me?”
“What?”
“Can you get me the bodice?”
“You…you don’t mean…steal it?”
“No, you silly widgeon. I don’t want you to steal it. Just…Could you borrow it? For a night, ’tis all. There’s a man—”
“’Tis not mine to lend you, Mary.”
“Oh, don’t be so pious. It’s not as if you wouldn’t borrow it yourself if you had the chance. If Sammy were still here…why, you’d take it in a minute. Think how pretty you would look in it.”
“I wouldn’t take it.”
Mary’s eyes flared. “You know, Charity, sometimes you make me forget why I even like you. Mercy would do this. Betty borrowed a lace cap just last week. But you…You think you’re so much better than the rest of us—”
“I don’t,” I protested. “I don’t think that.”
“Then prove it.”
“Mary, this isn’t fair.”
“It’s not as if I’m asking you to do something so terrible. Just borrow it for a night. I’ll return it to you the next day. I promise it. She doesn’t even have to know.”
“’Twould be a sin to take it that way.”
“What’s one more to add to so many?” Mary smiled, but I saw the deliberation of it, and I knew I was losing her allegiance.
“I don’t want to borrow it,” I said desperately. “I don’t even want to touch it. She’s a wicked thing. Did you not hear me before? She’s an actress, I know it. And the way she looks at me—why, ’tis as if the Devil in her is waiting to trap me. Yesterday, I even saw—I think I saw…Mary…I…”
The kettle spat and bubbled up. Mary spun to look at it. With a small cry, she hurried over, grabbing up the spoon. The tendons in her arm bulged and went taut as she tried to stir the boiling jelly down.
“Mary.” Mistress Walcott’s voice came from the doorway. I jumped at the sound, startled, and turned to see her. She smiled at me and bustled inside, bringing Jude in with her. The wooden pail my father had made was filled with withered roots and vines. “Don’t tell me you’ve left poor Charity standing all this time without her cider?” She set down her cuttings and went to the tableboard to pour Jude and me a tankard.
She passed it to me first. I wasn’t thirsty—my stomach was in such knots I wasn’t sure I could drink it without vomiting, but I managed a few gulps before I handed it to my little sister. Mistress Walcott helped Mary lug the kettle off the fire. When Mary spilled jelly as she tried to pour it into the crocks assembled on the table, her stepmother grabbed the ladle from her hand.
“You graceless girl,” she scolded. “Do something useful now—go upstairs and bring that cloth I’d saved to give to Charity’s mother. Go on now.”
Mary’s face was sullen, but she hurried to do as her stepmother bade her. When she came downstairs again bearing a square of folded cloth tied with twine, I took it from her without catching her eye and bade farewell to Mistress Walcott.
“Mary will show you out,” she said. “Thank your father for the Fine pail. He’s to be praised for such work.”
I did not want Mary to show us to the door. I knew she would ask again about the bodice, and I did not know what to do. I felt the favor hovering between us, and I knew it for the test it was. I could not think of a way to escape it. When we got to the door, Jude went ahead, and I tried to say my good-byes hastily. Mary grabbed my elbow and pulled me back before I could, and whispered, “Remember what I said. Bring it to me next Monday.”
“Mary, I can’t—”
She smiled. “Charity,” she said slowly, “think how Mercy will tease you if she finds out what a frightened little rabbit you are. Why, she might just insist that you not come to our meetings anymore. If we can’t trust you—”
“Of course you can trust me,” I said, and there was a part of me that was ashamed of how anxiously I spoke, how I nearly cowered to keep her good opinion of me. “You can trust me.”
“Well, I believe you, of course,” Mary said. “But the others might not. They might want some kind of proof—”
“A red paragon bodice,” I said dully.
She smiled again. “We’re meeting at the parsonage on Monday afternoon. Don’t be late.”
Chapter 8
I NEARLY RAN HOME, PULLING POOR LITTLE JUDE BEHIND ME. THE sky was gray and the wind had come up again, heavy with the scent of fire smoke, littered with chimney ash that fell against my cheeks like soft dry snow, and all I could think was that it was the fires of Hell that fed it.
Mama had always said I could not tell the difference between good and evil, that I was too easily misled. Mary made everything sound so simple—everyone else did such things all the time; ’twas not such an immoral thing to borrow a bodice. It would be returned the next day, and no one would be the wiser.…But I knew it was wrong to take the bodice, even for an hour, just as it had been wrong to take Mary’s advice when it came to Sammy.
I hurried faster, my breath coming hard and raspy. Jude was carrying the fabric Mistress Walcott had given us, and she dropped it twice trying to stay up with me. I could not make myself slow, though she asked me to again and again. When we finally got to our house, I stopped outside. I had nearly run to get here, and now I could not make myself go in.
Jude looked at me as if I were mad as she went past me to the door. “Are you going to stand there all night, Charity? I thought you wanted to be home again.”
“Aye. I’ll be in shortly.”
She gave me an exasperated sigh. “’Tis too cold for me.”
She opened the door and disappeared into the house, and I stayed there in the cold and felt the bite of the wind on my cheeks and through my cloak.
I heard a noise then, the thud of hooves, the rattle of wheels. I jumped, remembering yesterday, the spirit’s visit. When I saw a shadow moving through the woods beyond our house, I froze—in that moment, I was sure ’twas Mama’s specter coming for me. It felt as if my belly had dropped to my toes. But then the horse appeared from the woods, and I saw my father following alongside.
On any other day, I would not have waited for him, but when he came from the woods—no spirit woman, just my father, my savior—it felt as if God were pointing the way for me after all. I could almost hear the Lord’s voice thundering in my head: Talk to him. Now he will believe you.
Led by that voice, I hurried toward my father, my stomach twisting and churning. I nearly lost my courage when I saw the way he halted Saul and stood staring at me as if I’d lost my wits. I felt in that moment that maybe I had, that he would not believe me and ’twas foolish to even try.
“What is it, Charity?” he asked me as I came before him. “Why are you not inside? ’Tis growing dark.”
“A word with you, Father, if you please,” I said. At first, I was not sure he heard me, because he said nothing. But then he looked at me, and I had a quick vision—of waking to find him watching me as I slept, his face soft and tender—and I suddenly found myself mute. It was unbearable that I did not know if it were real or not, that I could not remember.
The expression left his face then; I wondered if I’d truly seen it, or if ’twas only a trick of my desperation. He sighed. “Come now, Daughter. ’Tis cold.”
“Oh, Father,” I whispered. “Father, I-I am afraid we have been cruelly deceived.”
“Deceived? How so?”
I saw how intently he was listening to me, and I…’Twas an amazing thing, to hold his interest this way. “She’s the Devil, Father.” The words came spilling out of me so fast I could not stop them. He was listening to me, and I trusted him. He was so much wiser than I; he would know what to do. “She’s trying to make us all believe she cares for us, but she’s lying. She hopes to bend us to Satan’s ways.…She’s an actress, Father. She’s an actress.”
He looked confused. “What are you prattling about?”
“I didn’t know how to tell you. I sa
w the spirit, and I’ve been so afraid—”
“Charity.” He said my name slowly, and I quieted. He took my elbow and gave me a little shake. “Slow down. Tell me clearly. Who is an actress? Whom do you accuse?”
The things I’d wanted to tell him faded in the strength of one thought. He was touching me. He was touching me, and even though his fingers hurt, I had longed for this so often and so many times that I could not bear the thought of him letting go. I stood there in stunned silence, unable to say the words that would let him release me.
He made a sound of impatience. “Now, Charity.”
“Susannah,” I said. Her name left my lips like an exhaled breath. I felt weak for having said it, as if the name itself had lent strength to my bones, and now that it was said, the strength was gone with it.
“Susannah?” My father dropped my elbow, and I swayed into him, falling against his chest so I could smell the scents of sweat and wood shavings on his rough wool cloak, so I felt his warmth against my cheek. I closed my eyes to drink in the feel of him, and he let me stay there. For one minute, I believed he wanted me there. I believed in the truth of his tenderness. I felt the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the faint brush of his hand. But I took it too far; I went to put my arms around him, and that was when he pushed me away. I could only stand there like a weak reed blown hither by the wind.
“Your aunt is not an actress, Charity,” he said gently.
I wanted to believe him, but his quiet voice was like the breeze before a storm; I heard undercurrents in it that made me look at him carefully. What I saw in his eyes sent my hopes scattering. He was not trying to reassure me—it was just that he did not believe me.
“Father,” I said desperately, “she has you fooled. She’s fooled us all—”
“She’s not fooling anyone. She’s no actress.”
“’Tis what she wants you to believe.”
“Do you think I cannot discover truth for myself? That I cannot see wickedness beneath my very nose?” There was such disdain in his voice, and I thought of the things I’d done, my own wickedness, and I was afraid again. I knew he could be fooled. I stood in front of him so he could not move while the horse blew soft, foggy breaths into the air and pawed the ground as if he were impatient to be back in the barn. I said carefully, “The Devil wears many pleasing faces.”
He made a sound, a short laugh, and shook his head. “Aye. And I’ve seen enough of them to last a lifetime.” He took my arm again, this time to pull me out of the way, and clicked at the horse to walk.
“Father!” I called after him. “Please!”
He stopped and turned to look at me while the horse walked slowly on. “Enough, Charity,” he said wearily. “Go inside.”
He did not believe me. I closed my eyes and tried not to cry, and the images came to me: my mother’s spirit stretching out her hands, Susannah singing Jude to sleep, Mary’s slant-eyed gaze, and the candle flame flickering in a bowl of water…
And Tituba. Tituba. Those girls need only one more to find the Devil himself.
My eyes snapped open. I watched my father lead Saul into the barn. Darkness came upon me, and in it, I heard again my mother’s voice. Beware.
’Twas that moment that took away my doubt about borrowing the bodice. I hadn’t changed my mind about not wanting to touch it, nor about how wrong it was to take it. But now I thought of it as a way to curry Mary’s favor—I would bring her the bodice, and she would have no choice but to help me with Susannah.
It became a matter then of when to take it, and how. I did not want my aunt to miss it, and so I could not keep it for very long. I planned for Saturday night, but I did not get the chance, and though I didn’t like to do something so dishonest on the Sabbath, it seemed I had no choice. But Susannah went to bed soon after we returned from meeting—I imagined a day of trying to seem pious was exhausting for her. She certainly looked pale and tired, and when Father suggested that she stay with us for the evening prayers, she snapped at him that she would be served better by rest, and disappeared up the stairs.
Except for the virginal, which stayed in the hall, tucked away in the corner behind the wool wheel, Susannah’s things had all been moved into our already crowded bedroom. Her trunks were large; the room was so full now, ’twas hard to walk through it. She kept most of her clothes in the chest shoved against the foot of the bed, and I did not dare try to go through them when she was in there, even as soundly as she slept.
Sunday night, I did not sleep well. My nerves were strung tight. The threat of Monday afternoon loomed large before me. I lay in bed beside my aunt and berated myself for waiting too long, and as the hours crept into deepest night, I was so desperate I nearly rose from bed to sneak into her trunk. Then she stirred, and I sank hopelessly again into the mattress.
When morning came, I tried to outstay her. I dallied over my dress; I fumbled with my hair and my cap. But she didn’t leave, and I knew she would not let me stay when she said, “Hurry along, Charity. We’ve plenty to do today. There’s the churning, and your father brought the malt from town yesterday for the beer.”
My heart sank. We would be brewing small beer today; I would be lucky to find a spare moment before afternoon, and even then, ’twould be nearly impossible to get to the parsonage. I suppose that thought should have brought relief; after all, if I could not get to the parsonage, I could hardly give Mary the bodice I hadn’t “borrowed.” But I knew she would suspect that I was avoiding her deliberately, and I knew her well enough to know the things she would tell the others. More than that, I could not bear the thought of delaying things any longer. My talk with my father had convinced me of that. I needed a shield against Satan. I had no choice but to find a way to get to the parsonage, bodice or no.
Jude hurried along after us as we left the bedroom. On the stairs, she pushed past me to Susannah. “Will you show me another stitch for my sampler today, Auntie?” she asked, tugging at Susannah’s sleeve.
I stumbled so that I had to put a hand on the wall to keep from falling. Auntie. I’d never heard Jude call her that before, and the look on my little sister’s face was bright and smiling as she looked up into Susannah’s eyes. Jude had always hated working on her sampler; it had taken all of Mama’s admonitions to keep my sister seated and quiet. I remembered that just the week before Mama died, Jude had murmured “Damnation!” while she was sewing, and for punishment, Mama made her sew for another hour. Jude had bit her lip until it bled, trying to unknot a terrible stitch.
“Aye, we’ll try one later,” Susannah said to my sister. She reached down, laying a gentle hand on Jude’s light brown hair. There was a possessiveness to the gesture that terrified me. “Perhaps you should try to work on the other one I showed you for a while.”
I stammered out, “B-but, Jude. You hate your sampler.”
“I love to sew now,” she said to me. “Since Auntie told me a song to sing while I do it. Do you want to hear it? It goes—”
“No,” I said quickly. “No, I don’t want to hear a song. And you’d better not let Father hear you sing it, either.”
Susannah threw me a quick glance over her shoulder, and I was sure I saw triumph in her gaze. I despaired; I had tried not to leave Jude alone with Susannah—there had only been the few times, not many.…But the Devil was strong, and, as my father had once said, children had so little defense against him. It made my task harder and more urgent. I would have to find a way to the parsonage. I would have to find a way to get hold of that bodice.
When we got downstairs, Father was already there, pulling on his boots. He stood by the door, as if he could hardly wait to go outside, though the frost was heavy on the windows, and the hall was so cold our breaths froze.
“Good morning, Brother,” Susannah said in her soft voice.
He jerked as if she’d frightened him, though we had been talking all the way down the stairs, and he had to have heard. He barely looked over his shoulder at us. “Good morning,” he said. He
put on his hat but not his cape, and I knew then that he was only going to the barn. It was strange that he would go like that before he ate breakfast.
I hurried past my aunt to the samp mill above the mantel, and pulled it down. “I’ll make breakfast quickly—”
He shook his head and waved me away. “I’ve eaten,” he said abruptly, and then I saw the half-empty tankard of cider on the table, the crumbs left from a hurried meal of bread—without butter, because we had still to churn some. Then, before we could protest, he opened the door and stepped out, and I had the fleeting impression of ice-washed trees and frost-gilded ground—the whole world in translucent white—before the door closed again and he was gone.
I stood frozen with my hand on the samp mill. Since I’d told him my suspicions about Susannah, he had dismissed every task I’d tried to do for him, as if my presence troubled him. He would not even look at me now. I poured corn into the samp mill and turned the crank, grinding my despair with every turn so vigorously that I saw my aunt look over at me in surprise as she skinned eels for our dinner.
I made my plans as we ate. As I sped through my other chores, I watched Susannah as she stirred the steeping malt for the beer. It was a careful task, one Mama had never let me have the care of. If the malt got too hot, the beer would sour; not hot enough, and there would be no flavor. Susannah went about it with her usual competence, and I resented her for that too, that she should be so good at everything. ’Twas as if she’d been born to this life. Before long, the hall was filled with stinking steam that sent my fine hair straggling from my cap and raised a sheen of sweat on jude’s cheeks as she rocked the dasher of the churn. Susannah never looked anything less than fresh and beautiful, and as I saw the way the curls of her hair escaped the hidden pins to dangle against her cheek, just so, impossibly beautiful, my resentment grew into a hatred so powerful I was nauseated with it. It seemed she sensed that too, and that she enjoyed the power she held over me, because she smiled when she gave me another task, and then another, as if she knew my plans and hoped to thwart them: Get the canary wine and the hops from the cellar, fetch a pumpkin and slice it up to boil for dinner, scoop some yeast from the old beer barrel, and get enough for the eels too.…
