Hester(39)

When Felicity has gone for the day, Abigail says, “Don’t test her, Isobel. Mrs. Adams’s family’s been here a long time—she can be a vengeful sort if she thinks she’s been wronged.”





Salem, 1691


Winter is coming, and the squabbling village has failed to pay the Reverend Samuel Parris the monthly stipend for his ministry duties.

Leaving Sunday meeting pale and exhausted after hours in the pulpit, the reverend finds twelve-year-old Ann Putnam standing separate from her parents and siblings, her eyes glazed and blazing. It is well-known that the child’s father is engaged in a bitter battle with John Proctor over a disputed patch of timberlands, but Putnam is an ally in favor of paying Parris what he’s owed, and so Parris kneels and puts a hand on the girl’s damp forehead.

“You’re safe here,” Reverend Parris says. “The word of God defends us against savages, neighbors, witches, spells, hunger, and strife.”

Bedraggled and shivering, the too-thin girl looks behind Parris to where Tituba and her husband, John Indian, are waiting. For a frightful second Ann’s eyes roll to the back of her head, and just as quickly she is righted.

Parris doesn’t know that Ann has already spoken of witches tormenting her father in Maine. That she pointed a shaking finger at a trio of Indians and cried out for the Lord to protect them all from Satan’s evil. But soon enough he will see it for himself—first his own daughter and niece, then Ann and her cousin, will cry out in anguish at the sight of Tituba.





TWELVE





On the first warm day of April I walk through town to a crooked path lined with hawthorn trees that form a long hedgerow along the woods. The blossoms are coming in hard new buds, the branches as yearning and twisted as I feel.

I’ve suffered theft and secrets, lies and threats, since coming to Salem. There’s been abuse of my skills and suspicion at the way I speak. My only pleasures have been roaming the Marine Society Hall among the treasures, my time at work with Mercy or on the gloves, and the hour—for in truth it has amounted to little more—I have spent with Nat.

Yet it’s Nat who looms largest in my mind and Nat to whom I wish to speak of all that perplexes me here. And because I dare not ask for him at the coach offices, I must linger where I might spy him in the open.



* * *



WEARING A FRESHLY aired dress, I make my way to the Charter Ale House where the shipping news is posted on a board each day, and pretend to study the announcements.

I read and reread bulletins about the Grand Turk, the Quest, the Friendship, and the Rising Sun while keeping one eye on the passersby and hoping Nat will be coming from the postal window as he usually does on a Monday morning. Men and women come alone and in pairs to read that the Pallas has just come from Virginia, and the Kahawa Freeman is selling lots of silk and painted china from the port of Cantos. Seamen check to see how much longer they have in port, and shop owners and investors anxiously scan for updated news of their awaited cargoes. Some give a little clap or cheer when they find what they are hoping for; others sigh in disappointment.

After what seems like hours, Nat finally comes into the square carrying a book under each arm. I’m proper, even demure, as he makes his way to me.

“I haven’t seen you in many days,” he says. “How goes your time at the shop?”

I’d like to blurt out my complaints about Felicity, but decorum ties my tongue. “All is well.”

“And your work—have you finished your…?”

I’m delighted by how naturally we fall into step together, and by the way he asks about the gloves without naming them.

“They’re in the shop window.”

“But you’re not pleased?”

I don’t think my expressions are transparent, yet he easily reads my face.

“Her price is extravagant,” I admit. “And what she pays me is pure thievery.”

We’ve walked out of the square and are headed north, where the streets thin quickly and the legal and accounting offices are replaced by storehouses and barrel makers’ workshops. A boy with a hoop runs toward us, and Nat gives a little shout to direct the boy out of our path.

“Felicity Adams is a shrewd woman,” he says.

“I’m learning from her.”

“Are you?” There’s his familiar half smile. “What are you learning?”

“The price of goods and services,” I say. “And what might be popular among the fashionable ladies. Also, it seems I’m learning that needlework is meant to be a pleasantry.”

We stop near a candlemaker’s shop, where the air smells of tallow and fire.

“I’m sorry you took that badly,” he says. He puts a finger to my basket, just as I once imagined him touching the button on a dress I never made.

“The hawthorn flowers you stitched are quite lifelike,” he says quietly. “I never properly thanked you.”

A pair of ladies brushes past us, and I take note of bright red cherries embroidered on a white shawl.

“Salem ladies are wild for fruit on shawls and sleeves this year,” he says, following my gaze.

“How would you know that?” I’m surprised, but pleased.

“My sisters sometimes speak of fashion.”