Hour of the Witch(101)
“I thank thee,” she said.
“I am not sure I deserve thanks. Thou dost not actually carry a message of forgiveness from Thomas and thee. Am I correct?”
“No,” she told him, wanting to be sure that his soul was as much at peace as she could leave it. “All I plan to do is reassure him that neither Thomas nor I harbor him any ill will. We want him to look up to the firmament, confident in his complete and utter exculpation—in our eyes, at least.”
She hoped he believed her. But after leaving, when she looked back at the warehouse entrance from the edge of the dock, she saw he was standing there, his countenance one of wistfulness and worry.
* * *
Mary reached the end of the dock and stared at the anchored ships and smaller shallops amidst the whitecaps, and inhaled the aroma of the cold, salty ocean. The boards here were covered in spray, and she envied the way that the men in their leathers were warm and dry—at least warmer and drier than she was.
“Who art thou looking for?” asked a sailor who could not have been more than sixteen or seventeen. He paused with her at the bottom of the angled plank that climbed up onto the Pelican’s hold. His face was pockmarked with pimples and he had wisps of hair above his lip, but his eyes were round and kind and the color of coffee.
“I thank thee for inquiring,” she said. “I am here for Henry Simmons.”
He raced up the plank like a squirrel, using his hands to claw at the footholds.
While she waited, she watched the seagulls, one in particular with a great bull chest who stood like a sentry at the end of the handrail. But she didn’t have to wait long. When she turned back to the Pelican, there was Henry, walking carefully down the plank in a leather doublet.
“Ah, ’tis my—and if I were a cavalier, I would have a far better and more appropriate word for it—friend,” he said, smiling.
“Mistress?”
“One kiss does not a mistress make.”
“Muse?”
“That would suggest I am a poet, not a”—and here he waved his hand dismissively at the boat behind him—“dockworker.”
“Thou hast responsibilities beyond that.”
“Someday, perhaps.” He looked toward the city. “What brings thee here? What has led thee to tempt the mobs?”
“And thine uncle. Do not forget him. He is most uncomfortable with my presence here.”
“Thou saw him?”
“I did. I asked where I might find his nephew. He was kind and told me.”
“I am sure he was sorely discomfited by the idea that thou were looking for me. If thou were inquiring about the arrival of a little rum or lime juice or salt? He would have approved. Nothing scandalous about importing luxury in my uncle’s eyes. But clearly that is not why thou hast come.”
“My father tells me a ship is due any day from the Indies. It will return there once it has finished its business in Boston.”
“The Amity, yes.”
“How big is it?”
He shrugged. “Not small, but not massive. One hundred and thirty tons, I believe. A crew of fourteen or fifteen.”
“And by the Indies, dost thou mean Jamaica?”
He nodded. “Art thou wondering if it takes on passengers?”
“Only two,” she answered.
“They would, though the accommodations would not be as comfortable as a bedstead in Boston.”
“That’s fine. I tend to doubt, given the ship’s origin and its destination, that among the manifest will be any forks.”
“No. Though I can’t imagine the sailors would know what to do with one if there were.”
“Well, they would know not to stab a lady’s hand.”
“They would know that,” he agreed.
“I think it would be fitting if I took one-third of the money Thomas keeps at the house.”
“I think it would be wrong. And it won’t be necessary.”
“No?”
“No. I need not a dowry from thee.”
For a long moment they stood in silence, staring out at the ocean. Then, almost as if dancing, they turned toward each other at the same moment and formalized their pact.
Mary Deerfield has been present at births with me and has always been most helpful. And the babies are breathing still.
—The Testimony of Midwife Susanna Downing, from the Records and Files of the Court of Assistants, Boston, Massachusetts, 1663, Volume I
Thirty-Three
Christmas came, unacknowledged in Boston, and went. Ships docked, unloaded their cargos, and took aboard pine timber, furs, and salted fish, but the Amity was not among them. Mary had a satchel packed with a little clothing—very little, because she did not want to billow the flames of rumor that she was in fact alive and had run off until it was too late—and a hairbrush that Thomas probably wouldn’t notice was missing. She would be ready to leave at a moment’s notice.
* * *
On the following Sabbath, she asked her father as they left church for dinner at her parents’ whether port traffic had slowed or the captains were reporting stormy weather.