Hour of the Witch(28)

“Perhaps, also,” Mary had added, “she will not make such an accusation because I am neither possessed nor a witch, and she knows this is the truth.”

    She saw Thomas glancing at her during the sermon, his face seeming to move with athletic skill from wistful to threatening. One moment it seemed that he missed her, his aging eyes imploring her to return. The next? His countenance was hard and mean, and she saw in him the man who one time had thrown her into the brick hearth. She saw as well his son-in-law, Jonathan, who was seated beside Thomas, and he was watching her, too. He had been working outside as a joiner on a new house, and his face was handsomely tanned. His wife, Peregrine, was but a few rows behind her. They were a beautiful couple. She was envious of Peregrine, she knew that, and she felt waves of both shame and desire, though she couldn’t have said which had a more pronounced undertow. But it was clear that her life would be at once easier and more pleasant if she were to spend her days (and nights) with a man closer to her age and disposition such as Jonathan.

When the service broke for dinner and the worshippers began to exit the First Church for their midday meals, Mary parted from her mother and Abigail and Hannah, and started after Catherine. She mumbled as her excuse that she hoped to avoid Thomas, but her mother must have seen that there was more to her sudden exit: Thomas was making no effort at all to work his way toward them through the crowd.

Mary saw the girl starting down the street toward her old house to prepare her master his dinner, and so she picked up her pace and overtook her where the marketplace began to merge with the homes of the city’s wealthier families.

“Good Sabbath to thee,” she said to Catherine.

The girl looked at her, more annoyed than alarmed. But she was polite: “Good Sabbath,” she replied, continuing to walk.

“The air is nippy this morning. Autumn has arrived.”

“It has,” the girl agreed.

“Is Thomas treating thee well? Are Goodman Howland and his wife?”

“Yes.” Then Catherine noticed the way that Mary was wearing a glove on only her right hand, and how the left was still wrapped in cloth, and said, “I heard of thy accident.”

    Mary shook her head. “Thou knowest it was no accident.”

“With the kettle,” the girl continued.

“With the Devil’s tines,” Mary corrected her, “and with thy master as the Devil’s agent.”

“Art thou accusing him of witchcraft?” Catherine may have been prone to overreaction, but she was not dim. She had heard the sarcasm in Mary’s tone and was responding in kind. Nevertheless, Mary replied carefully.

“Of course not. But I will accuse him of cruelty.”

“That is thy right.”

“Thou art a witness.”

“To what?”

“To the way I was treated. To the things he said and the things he did.”

Here Catherine stopped and looked down at the cobblestones. She sighed. “Yes, I heard him speak hard words on occasion, but most of the time it seemed to me he was reminding thee of thy station.”

Mary considered chastising the girl for her own temerity. But Mary was more interested in understanding Catherine’s mind this morning than she was in disciplining the servant for disobedience. “Dost thou believe I endeavor to transcend my station as helpmeet and wife?”

“I meant no offense. I only meant…”

“Go on.”

“I only meant that on occasion thou hast spoken with the surety of a man. When my master chastised thee, I believe it was in the hope that thou might rein in thy mannish presumption. His guidance was always administered with concern for thy soul.”

“He seems most concerned for my soul when he is drink-drunk.”

“But did he ever raise a hand to thee? Not that I saw. It does not seem to me to be in his character, which I find righteous and kind.”

“Was I not a good wife to him?” Mary pressed.

“He was a good husband to thee.”

    “Ah, he was a good provider. There I will not attempt to see thy mind changed. But that is not the only criterion. And thou chose not to answer my question. Why?”

Catherine sniffed. “Fine,” she agreed. “From what I saw, thou were a good wife. But I know also what others have seen.”

“What art thou suggesting?”

“I should not say more. It is just the talk of the gossips.”

“I thank thee for understanding and admitting that.”

“Thou owest me no thanks.”

“And tell me: was I not always a good mistress to thee?”

“Yes. Thou were.”

“Then let me ask thee plainly, Catherine: Dost thou believe I am possessed? Hast thou ever seen me behave in such a fashion that would suggest possession?”

“I have not.”

“Dost thou believe in thy heart that thou saw me performing a Devil’s rite or offering myself to Him as a handmaiden?”

“I do not want to speak of this on the Sabbath.”

“Then when?”

The girl said nothing and much to Mary’s astonishment started to walk away from her. With her one good hand she reached for Catherine and took hold of her arm beneath her cloak.

The girl was stunned and stood there speechless. She was pretty, so very pretty. How could she protect and possibly desire a man such as Thomas Deerfield, when the city had men such as Henry Simmons and Jonathan Cooke—oh, not those two specifically, but a servant of that sort—who were so much more suitable? And yet Catherine did feel something inappropriate for Thomas: Mary could see it clearly in the girl’s face.