Hour of the Witch(25)

She raised her hand, which was still wrapped in cloth. “Here is the evidence. Thou canst not lie when the truth is this plain.”

“It was the gooseneck on the teakettle, Mary.”

For a moment she was dumbfounded by the brazenness of his lie. Finally, she gathered herself and asked, “Art thou saying thou plunged a teakettle spout into my hand?”

He rubbed his eyes. Then he dropped his arms to his sides and met her gaze. “I did not move quickly enough when thou tripped with the kettle. I should have caught thee. I am sorry. I will forever see thy tumble and the way the gooseneck gashed thy hand when thy body fell upon it. If I were a younger man, perhaps I would have been able to spare thee such pain. I beg thy forgiveness as only a sinner can.”

“Art thou going to lie so shamelessly? Dost thou honestly expect me to return to the home of a brute and a liar?”

“I am grateful that the water was not scalding,” he continued.

She was astonished by his temerity. Was he actually going to claim that she had tripped while carrying the kettle? “No,” she said firmly. “That was not what happened at all.” She saw Abigail glance at her mother; the girl was uncomfortable, unsure whether she should be present but unsure as well how to leave.

“Prithee, help Hannah with the animals,” Mary’s mother said to Abigail, and the servant, visibly relieved, left for the back of the house. Then Priscilla Burden looked at her son-in-law—a peer, really, in terms of age—and continued, “Thou art playing a dangerous game with thy soul.”

“More dangerous, Priscilla, than thy husband bringing three-tined forks into our community? More dangerous than thy daughter using those Devil’s tines for witchcraft? Thy family risks bringing down God’s justifiable wrath upon all of Boston. I am but a man who hopes to bring home his wife, where God and magistrate alike know she belongs.”

“We are all sinners, yes. But some of us are more loathsome than others,” her mother said.

    “I am no witch, Thomas,” Mary added.

“Catherine seems to fear thou art.”

“She is mistaken.”

Thomas nodded. “I agree. I would not want thee back if I shared her beliefs. But, still, an accusation can weigh heavy.”

“Even one from her?” asked Priscilla. “A servant with years left on her indenture?”

“The greatest sin is pride, Priscilla,” Thomas said, his voice uncharacteristically ruminative. “We all know this. I have none. I know my frailties and my failures. I apologize with all my heart for the harsh words that on occasion I have said to thee, Mary. But, Priscilla, rest assured that I have never struck thy daughter and most certainly would I never attack her as she suggests with those Devil’s temptations that thy husband insists on importing.”

“I want thee to leave,” Mary said to him, fighting hard against her tears. She wanted to say something, and she wanted to say it without visible lamentation—because she knew she would never regret the words she was about to speak. “I hope never to be alone with thee again.”

“That is not thy right.”

“It is when thou hast attacked me.”

“Thou art my wife.”

“And today thou art my husband. But that will change. Mark me, Thomas Deerfield, that will change.”

“Think on that, Mary. I know thy mind is but…”

“But what? White meat?” she asked, finishing his sentence for him. “Is that not what thou believest?”

He smiled, his face the older but still handsome visage she recalled from days that now seemed as far distant as childhood. Then he shook his head and said, “I know thy mind is sharp and thou hast always been a fine helpmeet. I am grateful that thou hast been in my heart in the past, and I believe thou wilt lodge there again. I will leave thee tonight in the good care of thy parents.”

She nodded and presumed they were done. But her mother, it seemed, had one more question for Thomas.

“Tell me, prithee,” Priscilla asked. “Where is Catherine?”

    “She is at my house. I presumed mistakenly that Mary would be returning home, and so I retrieved her from Peter Howland’s. But since Mary is not coming back with me, I am unclear where Catherine will go.”

“There are gossips,” said Priscilla.

“I agree. Also, there are laws. I expect Peter and I will come to an accommodation where I will pay for Catherine’s lodging in the evenings and she will return during the day to tend to the animals and cook and clean. I believe it will be a short-term accommodation, because I expect my wife will soon enough see the absurdity of her accusations and return home—where she belongs and where God expects her.”

He put back on his hat and said good night. Then he climbed onto his horse and disappeared into the dusk that was falling upon the city by the sea.



* * *





The next morning, Mary and her father met Benjamin Hull at his office, arriving there at the same moment as the scrivener. He was wearing a waterproof cloak of camlet that had been dyed red, and when he hung it in his office, Mary noted that his collar and cuffs were spotless, as white as the single cloud Mary had seen against the cold, blue sky as she and her father had walked there. The man’s doublet was a lush green. There was nothing dowdy about the scrivener, including his black beard, which looked sculpted perfectly to his jawline and chin. Mary guessed that he was a decade older than she was.