Hour of the Witch(47)

“But we do not know that Thomas ever struck his wife,” her husband’s lawyer reminded everyone. “Prithee, let us not forget that.”

“Mr. Bristol is quite right,” said Caleb Adams. “Reverend, may I ask thee about Catherine Stileman’s other accusation?”

“Of course.”

“Let me begin with the most basic of womanly roles and womanly desires. What does it mean that Mary Deerfield is barren?”

“Do we know that she is?”

“My observation is that she is twenty-four years in this world and has been wed to Thomas for five. She is otherwise healthy and strong. And she has yet to produce boy or girl, while Anne Drury, Thomas Deerfield’s first wife, produced three children, one of whom lives still.”

Again, the reverend paused to consider his response. “I see the reality that Mary Deerfield has not been blessed with children as no indictment of her behavior. I see no indication this is divine retribution. She has shown great faithfulness. The Lord may yet reward her with offspring,” he said.

“Faithfulness to the Lord or faithfulness to her husband? The Apostle Paul—”

“Yes, the Apostle Paul was clear about what is exemplary in relations between a man and his wife: Their duties. Their obligations. Their compassion. Mary Deerfield has behaved in no way I am aware of that suggests a faithlessness.”

“Except that she has asked for a divorce.”

“And, as thou knowest well, Caleb, that might matter to others, with their mistakes and misunderstandings of God’s word. It has no bearing on us here in Boston.”

The magistrate looked chastened. “Yes,” he said. “True. But I am not questioning Mary Deerfield’s right to divorce. I am trying to get at something else. Forgive me for meandering off the path.”

“Thou dost not need forgiveness.”

    Adams looked intensely at Mary and then back at John Norton. “Mary Deerfield, dost thou want a child?”

The question caught her off guard since this time belonged to the reverend, one of the most important men in the colony. “Yes, sir,” she answered. “I do want children. I have yet to serve our Lord as a mother: the fashion to which He would desire and for which I have been made.”

Adams nodded and said to Reverend Norton, “Let us return to Catherine Stileman. She said she believes that her mistress was hoping seed would take root in her womb if she conspired with the Devil. What dost thou make of such an accusation?”

“There is no question that we see the Devil’s work in the temptations He dangles before us all, and most clearly in the inducements He offers the nulliparous—those persuasions He will offer the barren,” he answered. “But we have no reason to believe that Mary Deerfield has made such a pact. As we heard earlier, no one has seen any signs of possession in the woman.”

“No,” agreed the magistrate. “We have not. At least not yet.”



* * *





The governor looked at Richard Wilder, who, in turn, looked at Daniel Winslow. They leaned in together, murmuring, and then John Endicott said to Mary, “Thy scrivener presented us with the written testimony of Dr. Roger Pickering. Is the physician present to address the court’s questions?”

From the back of the room a gentleman called out, “Here. Present.” And a moment later the doctor had pushed himself to the front of the crowd and was standing beside her. “Good day, Mary,” he said.

She nodded. According to her scrivener, he had said nothing damaging about her, which was why Hull had entered the testimony into evidence. But when he had examined her hand, she also had the sense that he was not especially fond of her as a person, either because he occasionally kept company with Thomas and her husband had said disparaging things about her, or simply because she came from privilege and it rankled him.

    “Good day, Roger,” the governor said.

“Is it now?” he asked. “It’s cold and damp. And look out the windows at how dark it already is. The sun fell fast today behind the hills.”

“Thou art not enamored of autumn?”

“I am not enamored of cold and damp,” said Pickering. “My bones feel too well what’s coming next.”

The physician was known for his cantankerousness, but he was also respected for his kindness and humor with the dying and the sick. People jested about his ill temper, because he did himself. He was roughly fifty years old, his hair white, his skin as leathered as a sailor’s. His wife had died twenty years ago, and he had never remarried. His children lived now in New Haven.

“We have but a few questions for thee,” said the governor. “This should take but little time.”

“It’s warmer in here than out there,” he said, and he pointed at the gabled window nearest him. “There is no need to rush me back outside into the dusk.”

The governor smiled. “We have thy remarks to Benjamin Hull in regard to Mary Deerfield. We thank thee. Thou hast been brought here also because of the testimony of Catherine Stileman and how it relates to Mary Deerfield’s request for a divorce. Thou knowest Mary. Had thou ever treated her prior to whatever incident led to the wound on her hand?”

“Yes. Never for anything serious. Her body seems ruled by blood: her humour sanguine. She can be fiery. She has survived both smallpox and measles admirably.”