Hour of the Witch(31)

    She avoided her father’s warehouse and tried to convince herself that she was but getting some air and wandering aimlessly. Yes, to be aimless was to court the Devil, but after all she had been through and what loomed next week, she felt she had earned a little purposelessness.

For a moment she stood on the cobblestones across the street from the door to Valentine Hill’s office, the warehouse stretching behind it along the wharf. She was, she realized, almost trying to will Henry Simmons to emerge—if he was even inside there, which was no guarantee. Was this reminiscent of a simple prayer or was she flirting with Satan? If Henry should see her through the window and come out, would that be a sign? If he should choose that moment to leave, unaware that she was standing there waiting, was that a coincidence, a temptation, or an indication of the good fortune that was nearing for her in this world and the sanctification that awaited her in the next?

But he didn’t emerge, and she felt the first drops of rain. She should go home and cocoon by the fire; it was ludicrous to have come here.

As she started away from the water, however, she saw Eleanor Hill—Valentine’s wife—emerge from the warehouse. The woman was bundled tightly inside her frock and her hood, her hands ensconced in a fur muff. “Good day, Eleanor,” she began. “I see thou art bundled up nicely against the chill.”

“And rain,” said Eleanor. “I fear this rain is a harbinger of the snow to come. It’s so cold. Art thou visiting thy father?”

    “No. I just wanted to smell the salt air. I just wanted to walk.”

“Then let’s walk and try to beat the worst of the rain. I would enjoy the company home. How is thy hand? Healing?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” Eleanor murmured, but her tone seemed distracted, as if suddenly her mind were elsewhere. Then Mary understood why: “The Amity docked yesterday,” the older woman said. “I can’t tell thee how many pipes of Portuguese Madeira were unloaded, but it was a great deal. Valentine put aside some for us for tonight. He loves it—as do I. Already I am sick of this season’s cider. I said I would bring some home and I completely forgot to retrieve a bottle or two. Come with me.” She pulled her hand from the muff and took Mary’s good hand in hers and led her back into the front of the warehouse, where her husband kept his offices, and there he was, Henry Simmons, and Mary felt a thrilling little rush in her chest. He was seated on one side of a large mahogany desk, more ornate than even the one her father used, with brass pulls and seating for chairs on both sides. He stood when he saw Eleanor and her, his quill in his hand and a thick ledger book open on the tabletop before him.

“Henry,” said Eleanor, “I forgot the Madeira. I believe Valentine left it for me in the near storeroom.” Then she said to Mary, “I shall be but a moment. I believe thou knowest Henry.”

“Yes,” she said, as Eleanor vanished through the door behind the great desk.

“Good day,” he said to her. “Here is a blessing I had not anticipated this rainy afternoon.”

She raised an eyebrow at his flirtation: he couldn’t possibly view her as an actual blessing. This was the third time she had spied him, and on each occasion he had been more suitably dressed than the time before: his doublet today was crimson, the material a Flemish mockado wool. His cuffs and collar were pristine.

“Good day, Henry,” she replied formally, though she pulled back her hood. She noticed a small tremor in her voice. Had it been apparent to him, too, in so short a sentence?

“My aunt and uncle have told me of thy troubles.”

    “My hand is much better. But I thank thee.”

“I was referring to the much greater tribulation.”

“Sometimes the Lord sees fit to test us.”

“That He does. But I am sorry nonetheless. I have not met Thomas Deerfield, but it sounds to me that thou will be well once rid of him.”

“It will be a life with improvements, yes,” she said, and she pointed at her left hand with the fingers of her right. “But it will not be the life I expected. Nor will it be one that will be easy.”

“God applauds toil. I think He rather expects it.” There it was again: a sentiment that on the surface would be at home in one of Reverend Norton’s sermons at the First Church but sounded peculiarly sacrilegious when it came from the mouth of this Henry Simmons.

“Did I see thee in church this Sunday past?” she asked him.

“If thou dost not recall, then clearly I am not making the impression I desire.”

“And what sort of impression is that?”

“Here in this place? Oh, a man most godly and chosen. Of course.”

“But one never can know that now, can one?”

“One cannot.”

“Hast thou joined the church?” she asked him.

“I have not. But I would point out that thy husband is a respected member and his behavior toward thee hast been something less than a model of Christian charity.”

“But thou wilt join?”

He nodded. “Yes. After all, someday I will be expected to manage this business.”

“That is no reason to join.”

He placed his quill down in its stand and thought long and hard before replying. “No,” he agreed finally, “it is not.”