Hour of the Witch(100)

If thou should marry once more, I urge thee: be decent and be kind. Our time on Earth is but brief and we sail with but little knowledge of how our Creator marks the winds.

Sincerely,

Mary



She did not accuse Thomas of any crime so that he would share the note wide and far. But she could not resist the dig at the men who had refused to pay her heed, and she knew her remarks about the city leaders would not stop him from taking the letter first to the reverend and then, with John Norton, to the constable. She imagined them searching for her. In her mind, she saw the men on horseback, riding across the snow and dodging the low branches in the woods. But they wouldn’t find her.

Before blowing out the candle, she hid the note at the bottom of her chest with the two small forks and the bottle that once held wolfsbane. She would date the letter when she was ready. When it was time.





Am I a harlot or a witch?

    —The Testimony of Mary Deerfield, from the Records and Files of the Court of Assistants, Boston, Massachusetts, 1663, Volume I





Thirty-Two



As she walked toward the harbor, again taking the long way to avoid the Town House, she thought of the map of the New World that hung in her parents’ home. There had always been options, and now she and Henry would discuss them. Imagine throwing a pebble into a pond and watching the ripples fan out in ever-widening circles. There was Rhode Island. There was New Amsterdam. But the world was vast, and Mary knew that she needed distance from Boston if she wanted to begin again. She craved separation from this city that so nearly had led her into the embrace of the Devil and the deaths of two people, only one of whom she knew for certain was a monster. But she also wanted to start again far from that bench full of small-minded and petty magistrates, and from the ogre to whom she was married.

And she wanted to start anew with Henry Simmons.

She had told him nothing of her plan to murder Thomas and see that Catherine was blamed for the crime. She had simply determined his support was unwavering and warned him not to worry about her when the likes of Goody Howland started their crow-like cawing.

She recalled something her father had said about a ship that was due before Christmas—a holiday that meant nothing at all here in Boston—but it was a date on the calendar that her father happened to have used as a reference when he mentioned the shipping schedules. The vessel was arriving from the West Indies and then going to return there. Her father knew the captain.

Mary wasn’t sure of Henry’s assets, but she knew that he had some. Still, he had not yet come into his inheritance. She was unsure what he had saved.

    But he was resourceful and smart. They would figure it out.

Her new plan was that the two of them would disappear to Jamaica when that ship her father mentioned returned there. The island had been under British rule seven years now. Once the weather grew safe enough to travel back to England, probably by March, she and Henry would journey there on a different vessel.

Her parents would know she was alive, but no one else. They would not approve of her decision to leave Boston, and they would fear mightily for her soul. But they would be relieved that she no longer needed to fear Thomas Deerfield or the innuendo that trailed women who stood up to the men who ran the colony and led, invariably, either to exile or the hanging platform.



* * *





Valentine Hill was seated behind his desk when Mary arrived at the warehouse. She saw no sign of Henry. The old man stood when he saw her.

“Good day, Mary. To what do I owe the pleasure? Hast thou also been to thy father’s?”

“I am going there, too,” she said. She hadn’t planned on visiting her father, but she might now for the sake of appearances. “I have come to see Henry.”

For a long second neither of them said a word. Then Hill placed his hands flat on his wide desk and looked down at the ledger there. Without meeting her eyes, he said, “Is that wise?”

“Art thou worried about the gossips?”

He looked up. “No. I am worried about thee. Why dost thou want to see him? May I ask?”

“Yes, thou hast every right. I have been praying much, and I want him to know that Thomas and I both forgive him.”

“I can tell him that, Mary. And I would be happy to. ’Tis a gracious sentiment.”

“Prithee, may I tell him myself?”

He smiled sadly, an avuncular kindness in his eyes. “Of course. Thou art a smart girl. But, I must confess, I fret that I am enabling the Devil—or, worse, my nephew.”

    She nodded at his small joke, but she replied, “If the Devil wants me, He will not come in the guise of thy nephew.”

“I wish I were as confident as thee.”

“Thou art my father’s friend,” she said, and she pulled off her glove and pointed at the back of her left hand. “See this bruise and this scar? No witch’s teat. ’Tis the mark left by a fork, bruised once more after Thomas banged my hand the other night against the corner of a nightstand.”

He looked at it and then rubbed his temples. “I know not if I have any hope of seeing Heaven—”

“Or I.”

“But the Pelican docked late yesterday. Henry is on the second wharf. He is with the boys there.”