Hour of the Witch(32)

“Wilt thou be there on Sunday next?”

“Most definitely.”

“Good.”

“May I ask thee something, Mary?”

    “Certainly.”

“For what dost thou pray when thou considers thy petition before the Court of Assistants?”

“I do not pray about that.”

“No?”

“I prayed for years for a child and I have none. I prayed for months for William Stileman to get well and he died. Since my childhood I have prayed for the living and the dead, and—”

“And thou hast seen no prayers answered.”

“It is not that,” she corrected him. “It is my acceptance, finally, that our Lord has His plan for us and it is not for me to try and influence His vision. We cannot—and so it has come to me of late that there is no reason to appeal.”

“I have heard it argued that prayer does not change God’s mind; rather, it changes us.”

“The act.”

“Yes, the act.”

“I will ponder that idea.”

He nodded. “And thou wilt be an agent of thine own destiny by divorcing Thomas Deerfield.”

“Just as I was my own agent when I married him. We are flawed; we make mistakes. We try our best to correct them.”

And now when he smiled, she could see it was only with approval, and though it was vain to feel this way, the rush of happiness it gave her was as real as the rain that was drumming now on the roof of the warehouse or the way her hood was bunched behind her neck. “My first sense of thee was accurate. It takes more than a brute with an oxcart to stop or slow thee,” he said.

“Or,” she replied, “a brute with a fork.”

It was then that Eleanor returned with her Madeira. She looked back and forth between Mary and her nephew, and Mary wondered if the older woman could see the way her conversation with Henry—part frivolity, yes, but in equal measure something more substantive—had left her face joyful and flushed.





A husband who strikes his wife or is peevish with her puts to lie his profession of faith and has smashed soundly divine law and dishonored our Lord and Savior.

—The Testimony of Reverend John Norton, from the Records and Files of the Court of Assistants, Boston, Massachusetts, 1662, Volume III





Eleven



On Saturday, Mary’s daughter-in-law, her husband, and their two small children surprised her when they came to her parents’ house to visit. Mary was at the spinning wheel when Peregrine, Jonathan, and the girls appeared in the afternoon. Her father was at his office at the docks, and her mother had brought some broken pewter to the tinker for repair. Abigail was starting supper, and Hannah was outside milking the two cows. Through the curtains Mary saw the family walking beside Jonathan’s horse, the children riding atop the pillion on the animal. She stopped work and went to greet them, opening the front door and welcoming them into the warmth of the parlor. The girls were three and four, and Jonathan lifted them off the horse and handed them to Peregrine, who plopped them onto the walkway. They raced like puppies past Mary into the house.

Peregrine rubbed her hands together and commented on how quickly the weather was changing. Jonathan—and Mary was struck, as she was always, by what a handsome man he was when he pulled off his Monmouth cap—was telling Abigail how wonderful the turkey smelled as it turned on the roasting jack.

“?’Tis good to see thee, Mary,” Jonathan then said, as he took Peregrine’s cloak and hung it on a peg on the wall opposite the chimney.

Mary motioned at the chairs around the table and suggested they sit.

“Peregrine believes that she is again with child,” Jonathan continued. “?’Tis a blessing, yes, but neither of us had anticipated how tired she would be so early on.”

    The news was a small blow to Mary. She had expected that Peregrine would be pregnant again soon; it had been three years since Amity was born. She paused momentarily at the reminder of all she would never have.

“That is lovely to hear,” she said to her daughter-in-law, joining her at the table. She alternated her gaze between Peregrine and Jonathan, and told them, “I am very happy. Thou dost deserve such a gift.”

“We are grateful,” agreed Jonathan.

“May the months pass easily, Peregrine. And if thou art not blessed with a boy, may the young one be as beautiful as this pair,” Mary said, motioning at the girls as the two of them and their father stared at the painting and the tapestry on the walls. This sort of largesse was rare, and Mary knew that Jonathan Cooke could not provide such elegance for his family, but it had always been evident that he craved it.

“In my family, the babies come quick,” Peregrine volunteered.

Abigail handed the three of them tankards of beer before Mary even had the chance to ask her to bring the guests drink. Then the girl, sensing that this was a private matter, offered to take the two children outside to see the animals. She said that she and Hannah would watch them.

“And how hast thou been?” Peregrine asked Mary when the three of them were alone, her tone grave.

“As well as can be expected.”

“My father-in-law is deeply saddened by this separation,” Jonathan told her. “It sounds as if thou art, too.”