Hour of the Witch(48)

Daniel Winslow sat forward and asked, “Might that explain why she is barren?”

“No. Women who’ve had smallpox and measles bear children all the time.”

“Then why?” asked Caleb Adams. “We have been given no reason to believe from the testimonies provided thus far that Thomas Deerfield and Mary do not have normal conjugal relations, as did Thomas with his first wife, Anne Drury.”

“Well, Mary has petitioned for divorce. It seems to me that suggests their conjugal relations are anything but normal,” the physician said, and the men in the room chuckled, but Mary could only blush and stare down at her shoes. The idea they were discussing Thomas’s and her conduct in their bedchamber was devastating: Benjamin had warned her, but still she was unprepared for the idea that their coupling—or not coupling—was being debated in court. She felt queasy and ashamed, and she was tired of the attention.

    “I think, Dr. Pickering, thou knowest what I am suggesting,” said Adams. “But let me be clear: is there a moral putrescence that may be the cause of her barrenness?”

The physician waved one of his hands as if the notion were a fly and he was brushing it aside. “Mary Deerfield may be barren, yes, but is she unclean? I will not dissemble and suggest that I know. Only our Lord and Savior can say why she has never been with child.”

“I see,” said Adams.

“I hope so,” said Pickering.

“So, thou didst examine Mary’s hand, yes?”

“I did.”

“And?”

“It was broken. It’s healing. Had she called me sooner, perhaps it would be further along. But she and her mother, like many presumptuous women, felt themselves sufficiently trained to manage it. In all fairness, there is little to be done for a broken bone in the hand other than leave it be. It’s not as if I could have set it back in place. The bones there are all so small.”

“What caused it?”

“I know only what has been presented to the court. Thomas Deerfield says she fell on the spout of a teakettle. Mary insists he stabbed her with a fork.”

“The Devil’s tines,” corrected Caleb Adams.

“Cutlery,” said the physician.

“Thou couldst not tell from the wound whether it was a tine or a spout that broke the skin?”

“I could not.”

“Dost thou have an opinion?” asked the governor.

“Only that it was a grievous injury. But, at least, it was not made worse by womanly care.”

    “Thou treated Catherine’s brother, William, true?” asked Adams.

“I did, yes.”

“How?”

“He was bled and cupped. We purged him. We gave him eggs. Fennel. Rum. I thrust boiled and dried toad dust into him. Into his nose. We tried spiders. But it was his time, and nothing changed the trajectory of his disease.”

“Art thou aware that Mary Deerfield was bringing him her simples?” pressed Adams.

“Yes,” he said, drawing the word out, and Mary heard the great dollop of derision he had managed to wedge into that single syllable.

“Prithee, thy thoughts?”

“She is neither healer nor midwife. Her simples may not be of the Devil, but neither are they healing. Her teacher was that old woman who lives out by the Neck. And I believe no midwife would ever allow so barren a womb to be present at a birth.”

This was factually wrong, and Mary could abide his contempt no more. “Four times I have assisted midwives at births! Four times I have been present!” she said to him and to the row of magistrates behind the bench. “Why is this even an issue? Aren’t we here because Thomas Deerfield broke my hand with a fork? Because Thomas Deerfield would—”

“That is enough, Mary, we have heard from thee,” said the governor sternly, raising his voice to cut her off. Then he glanced at the other magistrates before turning back to her, his tone softer and almost mischievous, “and I am confident we will hear from thee again. Now, this time belongs to the doctor.”

“Oh, I have nothing more to add,” said Roger Pickering, and he rolled his eyes. “May I go and have my supper?”

“Thou mayest.”

As he left, he nodded toward Mary in a manner that seemed deferential, but she knew was meant to be condescending. She took a breath to gather herself after the governor’s chastisement.

“Is Jonathan Cooke present?” asked Winslow.

“I am,” Mary heard her son-in-law call out, and he stepped forward. He looked more somber than she had ever seen him. There was no twinkle in his eyes as he was sworn in. Hull had told Mary that Jonathan’s testimony implied that he thought it possible on at least two occasions her bruises had been inflicted by his father-in-law. Consequently, no good could come for him from speaking here today: either he savaged his father-in-law or he added a lie to his ledger.

    “We have but a few questions for thee,” said Richard Wilder. “Apparently thou noticed bruises on Mary Deerfield’s face.”

“Yes. I did.”

“How often?”

“Twice that I can recall.”

“There may have been more than two times?”

“Yes, sir.”

Caleb Adams leaned in toward Jonathan. “What did Mary say was the cause of her injuries?”