Hour of the Witch(12)

“Mistress!” she heard someone yell. “Prithee, wait!”

She turned, not supposing that she was the mistress being hailed, and saw a fellow her age dodging horses and people as he crossed the street, intent on catching her. He was balancing a basket of apples on his shoulder with one arm and carrying a book with the other. He was wearing baggy, open-kneed breeches and a coarse, hempen shirt. He was handsome, his cheekbones a ledge and his thick hair coal. She presumed he was a servant.

“Dirty sheep stealer, he was!” the fellow hissed when he was at her side. “A bloody scalawag! Did he hurt thee?”

“Hurt? Why would I be hurt?”

“I feared either the oxen had stomped thy foot or the cart had run into thee.”

    “No, neither occurred. I was splattered, that’s all.”

“It’s getting as bad as London.”

“Oh, it’s not that bad.”

“I hope that’s true,” he said, putting down the basket. “I know London. I know well how filthy that place can be—especially the part where I was lodging for a time.” Then he handed her the book he was holding. “Thou dropped this when that cart nearly hit thee.”

“I thank thee.” The book was the lengthy poem about Judgment Day. There was an awkward moment when it seemed she would continue home. But she didn’t.

“I have read this Wigglesworth,” he told her. “The Day of the Doom.”

“Will I appreciate it?”

He smiled so broadly that she wondered if he was going to laugh. “They’ve printed great numbers in London, most of which they are exporting to New England. Dost thou appreciate the terrors of those destined for Hell? Then, yes. It is more sermon than poetry. A lot of cutoff hands.”

The remark made her think of her son-in-law because it was the sort of thing someone was more likely to say in England than here. “How long hast thou lived in Boston?”

“Six months.”

She was not surprised.

“There was still snow in the shade when our ship docked,” he continued. “I grew up in Yarmouth. Fisherfolk: ina, mina, tethera, methera, pin.” He raised his eyebrows and grinned mischievously.

“For whom dost thou work?”

“For Valentine Hill.”

She nodded: the merchant was a friend of her father’s, roughly his age, and just as blessed with good fortune.

“My father is James Burden,” she said.

“I know the name, most certainly. And I can see thou just saw him.” He nodded at her basket of treasures.

“I did. These are—”

“Trinkets is all,” he said, finishing her sentence. “I understand. Mr. Hill’s daughters are likely to greet the arriving ships, too.”

    “I was not greeting the ship. I was visiting my father.”

“Forgive me, I meant no disrespect,” he said, and though his voice was contrite, his eyes were amused. Once again she thought he might laugh.

“None was taken,” she answered.

“Dost thou need an escort home?” He bowed slightly, a movement that would have been imperceptible had she not been looking right at him. “My name, should thou ever need me, is Henry Simmons.”

“Why would I ever need thee, Henry Simmons?”

“Another incident with an oxcart, perhaps?”

“There shan’t be another of those. I shall take care.”

“I pray ’tis so,” he said. “Now, I know thy father is James Burden. May I inquire: What is thy name?”

“Thou mayest.” She waited a moment, teasing him. Finally, she said, “Mary Deerfield. My husband is Thomas Deerfield. He owns the largest gristmill in the North End.” She wasn’t precisely sure why she was telling this Henry Simmons that she was married and who her husband was and what he did. But she had the sense it was because there was something considerably more forward in this conversation than she was accustomed to.

“I hope thy new”—he glanced into the basket, and when he saw beside the books the petticoat and the bodice and the transparent tiffany silk, he looked away—“articles give thee good use.”

“I thank thee for seeing to me,” she replied.

“Oh, it was the most fun I’ve had since…since the Sabbath.”

She turned, blushing, unsure whether she should be flattered or view the remark as the profanity it was, and when she did she was surprised to see that not more than a dozen yards away stood the ever judgmental Goody Howland. Mary paused because she had never run into the woman this close to the wharves, but the moment passed and she started toward her, pleased that she might have company on the walk home. Beth, however, was irked. She was scowling, her nose wrinkled as if the smell of the sea was distasteful to her, and then Mary understood that her neighbor was frowning at her.

“Beth, is something troubling thee? Has something happened to William?” she asked, wondering if Catherine’s brother had just gone to either God or the Devil.

    “William will die, but he hasn’t died yet.”

“Then what?”

The woman shook her head. “Thomas Deerfield is a good man. He deserves better than that sort of behavior from his wife.”