Hester(16)

“You’ve come from Glasgow?” one of the Americans asks.

“That’s right,” Edward says.

Darling lifts a candle to better show off his scar. I see my stitches running across his skin like a neat row of small black ants. I cannot shake the feel of the boy’s fingers on my wrist or the way he called the widow a witch.

“Then you’re a Scot?” the other man asks Edward.

Edward hooks a thumb into the watch pocket of his vest where I have stitched his name.

“Aye, that’s right.” He thickens his brogue like a showman. “And we’ve brought the captain good luck.”

“That may be,” the first man says. “But we had better luck handling the English than your countrymen did.” His tone is jocular, but his expression is not. I think he doesn’t like that we are Scots.

“I left home to find a better life,” says Edward.

“And how will you earn your living?”

“I’m a doctor—trained in healing, pharmacy, and surgery.”

He doesn’t look at me. I feel the small blade in my pocket, the very instrument Edward used for his first “surgery.”

“Will you be taking lodging here?” the man asks Edward.

“Yes, and I’ll establish a practice as well.”

“After you’ve come with me to Bermuda,” the captain says to Edward. His shirt is tucked and buttoned back up. He puts an arm around my husband’s shoulder. “We’ll see your good wife installed in a cottage, and then you’ll sail again with me.”

This is the first I’m hearing of such a plan. I see Edward hesitate, but I don’t believe it is on my account.

“I’ll commit one percent of my profits to you,” the captain says.

“Three,” Edward says.

“Too much,” the captain says. “My investors put up a small fortune and take five percent each. At one percent you might get as much as two thousand dollars.”

“Then one and a half percent, and we are agreed,” Edward replies.

The captain thinks for a moment, then grins. The men shake hands, light their pipes, and begin to drink whiskey. They order warm oysters and creamy potato stew, and neither says a word to me.

I’m gloomy now. Much as he has disappointed and troubled me, Edward is my husband. I know no one in Salem who will vouch for me, no one to walk or sup with. I’ve never been alone before, and I’m of two minds about it—just as I have been of two minds about so much since we ran from ruin.

“If you don’t mind, gentlemen, I will say good night,” I finally say.

The men barely give me a nod, then call for more whiskey.



* * *



IN OUR ROOM I take off my clothes and re-count the four gold pieces sewn into my petticoat, then hang the dress on a hook beside the bed. It’s been a long time since I undressed at my leisure, heard the clop of horses’ hooves and the sounds of a city, or felt solid ground beneath my feet.

I open the trunk and take out the dress that I concealed the day of our eviction. It’s embroidered with the same yellow-and-purple irises as my mother’s tea towel; I run my palm across them to soak in their strength and wisdom.

The chamber is cozy and quiet, and when I pull the blanket to my chin and close my eyes, I feel the sea rolling away. I recall the smells of Salem as we drew closer, the crowded market on the wharf. I think of the widow’s warning and the way the boys called her a witch. And I remember Mr. Hathorne’s eyes, the way he held my gaze and almost smiled.

This is the New World, and if I take good care then anything is possible—my needle, a new start, and even a man with a red-and-gold voice who spins around corners with his cloak flapping, just to steal another look at me.





Salem, 1656


The smattering of cottages along the narrow dirt lanes are modest, and the three ships in the harbor huddle together like dark birds sleeping in the tides. In the largest clapboard house in the new settlement, Goodwife Hathorne climbs into bed beside her daughters and bundles them under a stack of quilts.

Soothed at last by the brandy he dreamt of during battle, Major William Hathorne calls his oldest living son into his tiny study and hands him a well-worn book. John is fifteen years old—not as tall as his father but full of the same vigor. It is their first moment alone since the elder returned exhausted and shaken from the Indian wars in the northern woods.

“This is the book they use in England and Scotland to rout out witches and other bedevilment,” the major says. “We must rely on it to keep our people and plantations safe.”

John runs a reverent palm across the soft leather cover: A Discourse of the Damned Art of Witchcraft by William Perkins.

“Men of our station and property are God’s messengers charged with driving the Devil’s rule out of this heathen land,” his father goes on. “We must prepare to stand between Satan and the innocents.”

Long into the night young John Hathorne reads about the Devil and his minions: weak women easily led because they are alone or greedy; unbaptized savages seduced by Satan because they are ignorant of the Evil One’s wiles.

He sits at the edge of his narrow bed and makes careful notes in a marbled notebook. One day he may be called to do his father’s work driving Quakers and other demons out of Salem by lash, proclamation, and the strength of God.