Hour of the Witch(118)

“No one was going to believe that nonsense.”

“Thou art quite right. No one did,” she said. “So, thou hast come to say thou art sorry. For what? For the beatings and the cruel words?”

“I always administered to thee with love and the hope that thou wouldst dilute thy pride with obedience.”

“Fine,” she said. She wasn’t going to argue.

“Thy spell, Mary. Why wouldst thou try and hex me? Look how this has ended. And it couldn’t have ended any other—”

“I didn’t, Thomas,” she said, cutting him off.

“Art thou going to insist even now, hours before thou wilt be swinging from a noose, that Catherine—”

“No.”

“Then what? That it was me? It wasn’t me, Mary.”

“But thou were the target. Of this I am sure. I understood this only today, but I know it now as surely as I know my own face in the glass.”

“Thou knowest this how?” he asked, leaning back against the damp stone. He waited. And so she did, too, unsure whether she should share with him what she had deduced, or whether she should let Peregrine try again and, perhaps, this time succeed. Thomas Deerfield deserved to die. But what would happen to Peregrine in the next life if she murdered her father? On the other hand, what would happen to her in this one if she told Thomas what she knew?

    She rubbed her arms with her hands. She was cold. So very cold.

The truth was, they preached that a doctrine of works was a fallacy, but they all believed in their hearts that evil on earth suggested one was damned. Did the magistrates suppose that a hanged witch ever wound up beside Jesus Christ in the celestial firmament? Of course not. In her mind, she heard herself informing Thomas, her lips thin, Thine own daughter detests thee with the heat of a blacksmith’s fire. But she did not say that. She would write Peregrine, as she had planned, tell her what she believed was the truth, and then walk with her head held high to the gallows. Someday after she was gone, in the next world, perhaps, she would learn what had transpired here in Boston. She rather hoped so.

“Thou hast grown quiet,” he said finally.

“I have nothing to say.”

“Thy scandal has scarred me, too—and will forever.”

“No,” she corrected him. “We are mortal. Nothing that touches us or we touch here is forever. Even rocks are rubbed small by the river.”

He chuckled dismissively. “Thou hast become a poet in thy last hours.”

“Some white meat ages better than others,” she said. She supposed it would be the last thing she would ever say to him. He turned, put on his hat, and left. They were man and wife, but they hadn’t touched once.



* * *





And then Spencer left, too. He said he was going home and hoped she would sleep. She finished her two letters and prayed. When she rose, her back hurt. The days in the cell had done their work.

As she stared into the blackness beyond the bars, she saw a flickering light and supposed that Spencer had not left, after all. But she heard at least two sets of footsteps, and they were moving quietly. And suddenly there stood Rebeckah Cooper and Peregrine Cooke. The women were almost lost in the dark of the jail.

    “I am flattered that our farewells will be here rather than when I stand tomorrow on the scaffold,” she said through the bars, “but how and why art thou here?”

Goody Cooper glanced at Peregrine and then surprised Mary by pulling out the keys to the door. She opened it, and the two of them entered the cell. Mary backed away from them reflexively, stunned. She started to ask how they had the keys and what they were doing, but Goody Cooper placed her index finger on Mary’s lips, silencing her, and they each embraced Mary in turn. When they pulled apart Rebeckah said, “Thou art trembling.”

“I am unsure whether it is cold or fear. It’s probably a stew made of both. Thine uncle has allowed this? Spencer gave thee his keys?”

“He did.”

“Do not be afraid,” said Peregrine.

Mary offered a small smile. “Dost thou know my destiny when the noose has done its work?”

“My father is the Devil,” she said.

The words hung there a moment, and Mary realized that the woman had spoken them before; when she looked at Goody Cooper, she understood that Peregrine had shared them with her friend.

“Thou knew?” Mary asked Rebeckah.

“Peregrine told me.”

Mary gazed at her daughter-in-law. “How badly did he hurt thee, Peregrine? How badly did he hurt thy mother?”

“It was no horse that broke her neck.”

“She—”

“He knew she was plotting. Thou were not the first woman in his circle to visit the likes of Constance Winston.”

“And thee?”

“He never beat me. Only her. He did things to me that were worse. Far worse. Unnatural things that I told no one until this Sabbath, when I told Rebeckah.”

The other woman looked at her boots, unable to meet Peregrine’s eyes.

Mary reached down and handed her the letter. “My father was going to deliver it to thee tomorrow. There was enough light in the candle to write it. I believe there is enough now for thee to read it.”

    Peregrine nodded and unfolded the paper. As she was reading, Rebeckah said, “Thou spoke well at the Town House.”