Hester(42)

She leads me to two narrow chairs where we sit knee to knee.

“You’ve just come from Scotland,” Mrs. Silas says. It’s not a question.

“Yes.”

“Do you know why Sarabeth Cranford chased you out of her shop that day?”

I shake my head.

“She said the symbols and signs in your cape hinted at witchcraft. I don’t believe in such nonsense, but you ran off without looking back. I know that you have secrets, Mrs. Gamble.”

Nell said the Cranford sisters sent me away because I’m Scottish. But Mrs. Silas is saying something very different.

“You must tell me what trouble you’re hiding if you wish to work here,” she says.

I need money, and there is wealth and opportunity here. I understand the lady means to have a secret of mine before she will trust me.

“In my red cape I stitched a story from Scotland, a legend of Isobel Gowdie, who was accused of witchcraft.”

“And why would you choose that story for your own?”

I have but a moment to decide. Her words have no color and reveal nothing in hue or shape. Yet somehow, I know that the truth about Isobel Gowdie will be far less dangerous for me than her secret is for her.

“She escaped and lived. She had children, and I’m descended from one of them.”

Mrs. Silas contemplates me for a long while—long enough for me to see into her eyes and know that beneath her wealth and strength, she is afraid.

“Nell trusts you, and so will I,” she says at last. “I will pay you well for your work and your strictest confidence. This isn’t to be taken lightly. If you betray me, I’ll see that your husband’s reputation is destroyed. And yours as well.”

I’m unsure of what to say—thank you? I understand? I do not like it, but I have to work, and I know how to keep secrets. If this is the price, then I will pay it.

I do not let an instant pass before I nod.

“You will make the necessary alterations on my daughter’s gown,” she says.

Nell brings out a sumptuous gown of shimmering pink silk and organza decorated with deep pink and yellow roses. The roses appear to be velvet appliqué, but on closer inspection are embroidered with French chenille thread. Each bud and blossom is a tiny masterpiece.

As I follow Nell down the stairs with the dress, I hear a sweet, peachy voice say, “Mother, I would like to meet her,” and Mrs. Silas’s gruff “Not now.”

“Is she ill?” I ask Nell when we have reached the small sewing room on the second floor. “Why is she in the attic? Is she being punished? What has she done?”

“Charlotte’s with child,” Nell whispers. “Her mother’s kept her in the house since winter. She won’t leave until her wedding day.”

Nell tells me the wedding dress was made in Philadelphia, where the groom’s family lives and where the bride will live after the wedding. The gown must be worn, and there must be a public ceremony.

“His mother doesn’t know Charlotte’s expecting,” Nell says as I study the flowers that cover the dress. “Mrs. Silas feared she’d break off the wedding even though the child—Charlotte swears it—is his. It was all done through the groom and his father; they’ve been promised a new printing press to go with their news businesses.” Nell shrugs. “I suppose it’s payment for an expectant bride—spoiled goods, even though he’s the one who did the spoiling.”

“When is the wedding?” I ask.

“The ninth of July.”

“The bride will be well along by then. Why are they waiting so long?”

Nell leans close.

“This is how it has to be,” she says. “Poor Charlotte was sick with heartbreak, and it took longer than they hoped to settle things. I cannot tell you what I’ve seen in this house—you must understand that the Silas family is known everywhere, by everyone. We need someone who won’t gossip, Isobel. Even if the town suspects, they cannot know. I’m loyal to Mrs. Silas, and you must be, too.”



* * *



CHARLOTTE SILAS IS pale and delicate, brown-haired and clear-eyed. She’s younger than me by a year or two, the only daughter and the youngest of four Silas children—her brothers all married, at sea, or both, as Nell has told me.

“Your dress is very pretty.” Charlotte eyes my iris needlework. “I wonder what the ladies in Salem think of something so exotic and new.”

“I couldn’t say,” I tell her.

I fear her legs beneath the bedclothes have grown weak, but when I ask her to try on the dress she stands quickly and puts up her arms like a child. Charlotte is slender, which makes her condition more obvious than if she were plump. Thanks to the time in my aunt’s shop and the dresses I made for myself before I left my father’s home, I see right away what must be done to conceal the child.

“The extra fabric allows for flounces or a scallop ruffle across the bottom, but we’ll use it for the bodice and add a new ribbon for a decoration at the floor.” I pin up a length of the dress to show Mrs. Silas the effect it will make. “We’ll open the dress at the bosom and move the waistline up two inches so that it slopes in an empire that will hide the waistline without emphasizing any plumping of the midriff.”

I remember how my auntie Aileen imparted her wisdom as a matter of course rather than make a request or ask a question, and I summon that boldness now.