Hour of the Witch(33)

“Is that why thou hast come to see me?”

Jonathan took a long swallow of the beer. “Yes, but also to share with thee the new blessing that has begun to grow inside Peregrine. And, of course, Thomas sends his greetings, Mary.”

“He is well, I trust.”

“Other than lonely without thee? I suppose,” Jonathan told her. Then: “A scrivener came to see him. Fellow named Hull.”

“Yes, Benjamin Hull. My family asked for his assistance.”

“He came to see us, too,” Jonathan continued. “Not a likable fellow. Expects me to make much of my noticing a bruise or two on thy face.”

    “He was doing his job. Some sorts of toil are more agreeable than others.”

“His questions offended me greatly. They offended thee, too, did they not?” he asked his wife.

She nodded, one hand resting protectively on her belly. Her eyes were moving along the walls, over the map of Boston and then the sideboard with the tankards and cutlery.

“I would ask thee to forgive Benjamin,” Mary said, “but it is I who caused the offense. And I am not sorry that my scrivener takes his work seriously.”

Jonathan looked at Peregrine and then at Mary. He was always so good-natured; Mary did not enjoy seeing him exasperated, his discomfort so apparent. “My father-in-law asked me to inquire plainly: now that thou hast had some time to ponder thy plan and the Court of Assistants is soon to convene, hast thy thinking changed?”

“No. It has not.”

“Thou hast been living at thy childhood home,” he said. Then he quoted scripture: “When I was a child, I spake as a child.”

“But when I became a man, I put away childish things,” Mary said, finishing the verse. “I was a child back in England. Not here. I put away my childish things when I boarded the ship with my parents and we sailed to Boston. Returning to my father’s house has not meant that I have climbed once more into my childhood gown with its leading strings.”

“I miss thee, Mary. We all do,” said Peregrine, changing their tack.

“I miss thee, Peregrine. I miss thee, Jonathan,” said Mary, and she felt a strange eddy in the room when she said her son-in-law’s name. She saw Peregrine was watching her, her head tilted ever so slightly. Did the woman suspect that Mary had unclean thoughts about her husband? For a second, Mary feared that she had revealed something in her voice just now—or over time, over all the meals and moments they had shared—but that wasn’t possible. It just…wasn’t.

    “But dost thou not miss Thomas? Dost thou not miss the natural order of living with a man?” Jonathan asked, and there was a peculiarly academic cadence to the inquiries. It was reminiscent of the voice of a pastor while preaching, asking questions with obvious answers.

And so Mary reached for her tankard with her good hand and took a sip, stalling. The truth was, she did not miss Thomas Deerfield in the slightest. But she couldn’t say such a thing in the presence of the man’s daughter. And yet the woman had to know how she felt. It didn’t seem likely, but Mary considered the idea that Jonathan was setting a snare for her, encouraging her to say something blasphemous before him and Peregrine. But there was also the opposite possibility: given both a daughter’s invariable love for her father and the protectiveness she might be feeling right now toward her own marriage, was Jonathan hoping that Mary would express remorse? It was ridiculous for Peregrine to experience even a waft of wariness: Mary posed no threat to her. Yes, she may have had inappropriate thoughts about Jonathan, but he was a man who was handsome and funny and kind. Any woman might. But she had no designs on him or interest in him in any fashion that was unnatural, depraved, or (yes) sinful.

The fact was, to admit before Thomas Deerfield’s daughter that she missed her father not at all would be hurtful. And yet Mary knew that what loomed at the Court of Assistants was going to be far worse. Finally, she put her beer back on the table and settled upon a question of her own: “Peregrine, thou art his daughter and thou lived with him for most of thy life. Thou witnessed his marriage with thy mother. What was his attitude toward her?”

“Toward my mother?”

“Yes. Toward Anne.”

Peregrine rested her second hand atop her belly and looked away. It was as if she feared Mary’s gaze alone could curdle the child growing inside her. “She was his helpmeet,” Peregrine murmured. “He was her husband.”

Mary sat up straight. She had expected a more enthusiastic defense of Thomas and Anne’s relationship. “Did he love her?”

“In his fashion.”

    “In his fashion?”

Jonathan looked back and forth between the women, and Mary could see that he was surprised, too. “Peregrine?” he asked.

“He loved her,” she said, backtracking, “as he loves thee, Mary.”

“Was he ever harsh with thy mother? Prithee, Peregrine, I beg for honesty.”

Once again, Peregrine’s stare wavered, and her eyes wandered around the room, resting this time on the Dobson painting of Mary’s grandfather. Then she stared into the fire in the hearth and replied, “No.”

“No?” Mary pressed. “Not once was he quick to anger?”

“Only in love.”