Hour of the Witch(26)

The office was small, the walls whitewashed but barren. He had lined up his quills and inks as if they were soldiers on parade.

Hull opened the casement window, despite the chill, to allow more light into the room. Then he sat behind his desk, and they sat on the bench across from it. With great fastidiousness he flattened a piece of paper. Then he listened as they explained why they were there and how they were hoping he could assist them. When they were through, he sat forward and said, “Thou hast not told me of any witnesses to Thomas Deerfield’s cruelty.”

    “There are witnesses to the things he has said to me,” Mary said.

“Didst thou tell anyone after he beat thee?”

“My friend, Goodwife Cooper, noticed the bruises. So did my son-in-law, Jonathan Cooke.”

“That’s helpful.”

James Burden leaned in and added, “Mary’s mother and I did, too.”

“And Goody Howland? Perhaps she commented upon them?”

“She may have seen them too, yes,” said Mary. “But she is not likely to speak favorably of me.”

The scrivener folded his hands on his desk. Then: “Thou hast given me little time. The court meets in less than two weeks.”

“Wouldst thou proceed differently if there were a month or more?” her father asked.

“Art thou suggesting that we wait until the next session?”

“Perhaps,” James said.

But the idea of having to endure this purgatory, married but not, was too much for Mary. She wanted her divorce and she wanted it now; she wanted to be free. “How much work is needed?” she asked the scrivener.

“I will need to take the testimony of the witnesses and be sure some are present when the magistrates hear thy petition. That means finding them and interviewing them.”

“It is not a lengthy list.”

“No,” he agreed. “But it still takes time. There is, for instance, Catherine Stileman. There is Goody Cooper. There are the owners of the ordinaries where Thomas may have shown his tendencies to act badly when drink-drunk. That could be important, Mary, and it is an area I will pursue with vigor. I will also want to spend time with thy parents and thee to make sure that the court proceedings are not a mystery and thou art comfortable answering the magistrates’ questions.”

“I know Richard Wilder,” said her father, and it sounded to Mary like a boast. Apparently, it did to the scrivener, too.

“Thou knowest him as a friend,” said Benjamin Hull. “I doubt thou hast experienced him much as a magistrate.”



* * *





That night, Valentine Hill and his wife, Eleanor, came to supper, and Mary noticed that her mother did not have Abigail set the table with three-tined forks. They ate potatoes cooked in the hot coals and a wild turkey the girls roasted over the spit. Mary did not have much of an appetite, which she attributed in part to the way her life had abruptly grown unsettled and in part to the pain, which lingered in her hand. When she removed the dressing the doctor had placed on the wound the day before, the scabbing was unseemly and the bruise the color of blackberries.

Mary understood that Valentine and his wife were like her parents: wealthy and privileged in ways that few others were in Boston. The four of them knew John Endicott, the governor, well. They had pews close to the front of the First Church and often spoke with John Norton, the minister, directly about his sermons. But the Hills had hair that was entirely white, and Valentine had grown stout; Eleanor’s nose was red and her fingers gnarled with age. They looked considerably older to Mary than her own parents, but she wondered if that was a delusion.

After they had prayed and Abigail and Hannah had served them, the men spoke of the ships that were arriving and of their contents, and Mary’s mind wandered. Both her father and Valentine viewed their work as important to the colony, and the fact that it made them rich as proof of their sanctification. At one point, Eleanor Hill asked about the savages she had seen trading at the harbor that morning and wondered if the Indians from the praying towns might ever become commonplace. The men seemed uncomfortable with the prospect of Indians in a Boston church, but Eleanor persisted, until finally her husband smiled and said, “Thou dost sound as addled as our nephew. Henry, too, seems to give them credit for wits that God seems not to have bestowed upon them.”

When Mary heard the name “Henry,” she sat up a little straighter. “Henry Simmons?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Valentine Hill, spooning a piece of potato into his mouth and chewing with relish. “My nephew. Eleanor’s sister’s son. He arrived this year from Yarmouth. How dost thou know him?”

    “I know him little,” she said. “But one day he helped me when an oxcart nearly ran me over. I presumed he was a servant.”

Valentine shook his head. “His carriage is poor. But his mind is good. Excellent, in fact. Someday he may take over my business since we haven’t sons ourselves—assuming his attitude improves.”

“Were thou hurt by the oxcart?” her mother asked. “Thou said nothing of this.”

“Because there was nothing to tell, Mother.”

“But Valentine’s nephew assisted thee.”

She nodded.

“He’s a good boy,” said Valentine. “He is just too glib and too confident of his status in this world—and in the next. He is a bit of a leveler. Consorts with the damned and the poor and the savages.”