Hour of the Witch(5)
She reminded herself that at twenty-four she was not so very far from being a young girl herself, even though she was a grandmother and married to a man whose beard looked always to be dusted with hoarfrost. Thomas’s daughter, Peregrine, and her husband already had two children, including a girl just old enough to sit atop a horse if the animal was led to walk slowly.
By the time they were through with their scripture and psalms and had moved on to the sermon, she was staring transfixed at the women who were married and healthy and still young enough to bear children. She would watch as well the women her own age who were cradling their toddlers or their infants in their arms, such as Ruth Sewall, the birth of whose baby, Richard—a name too big, she thought, for a child so small—she had attended that summer. For a long moment, she found herself fixated upon Peregrine and her two little ones, and she felt her own mother grasping her hand and squeezing it, motioning with a nod to pay attention to the pastor.
It grew clear as the morning dragged on that today was going to be one of those Sundays where it would be all she could do to focus on the prophecies and the lessons, but she would try her best. She checked her coif to be sure that it was masking her bruise, took a deep breath, and watched the reverend with his sharp beard and long face, listening as he spoke today of merit-mongers and civil men who might be outwardly just and temperate and chaste, but who were deluding themselves if they thought a few good words could atone for their sins.
* * *
Peregrine and her husband, a young carpenter with a complexion that showed the scars of a ferocious childhood battle with smallpox, and their children came for dinner between the church services. Her husband was named Jonathan Cooke, and though he was Mary’s son-in-law, he was six months older than she was. She liked him and, along with her daughter-in-law, laughed heartily at his jokes about wild turkeys and lobsters and the other ridiculous-looking animals that were staples in their food here. Jonathan was handsome, with hair the color of sweet corn (like mine, Mary had thought when they were introduced) and a body that was tall and trim. She had seen him building a house that summer, working without his sleeves, and saw that his arms were browned by the sun and the hair there bleached almost white.
Jonathan had lived in the colony about as long as Mary, nine years now, but he continued to allow himself an occasional off-color jest, as if he were still in England. Mary didn’t know if Peregrine had understood these sporadic double entendres when he had started to court her years ago, but now that she was a married woman, it was likely she did. Thomas worried that Jonathan lived beyond his means but agreed he was ambitious: someday he wanted a business of his own and carpenters working for him. Given the way the city was expanding, spreading in all directions but into the sea, that seemed possible.
Thomas included Catherine’s brother, William, in his prayer before they ate, and Mary watched the servant girl nod her head silently. Neither Catherine nor William had yet joined the church, and while Catherine seemed to enjoy the service, Mary had heard people presume that William had only attended when he’d been well because it was the law. She felt an unexpected and undeniable ripple of pride in both her husband’s eloquence and his generosity. There were some men today who knew William yet wouldn’t have remembered to include him in their prayers.
“I thank thee,” Catherine said when he was finished, and she looked at Thomas with gratitude.
“It’s nothing. Really.”
“No, sir. It was a—”
“I’m not a physician. It’s all I can do for thy brother, but I am happy to do it. May the Lord yet show him mercy.”
“Amen,” Jonathan said, and he started to dig with his spoon at the salmon that had been set before Peregrine and him, and to break off pieces into smaller bits for his children. Then he turned to Mary and asked, “Where is that bruise from? It looks like it must hurt.”
“Oh, yes,” Peregrine said, and she reached over and with the very tips of her fingers pushed the edge of the cotton cloth farther back behind Mary’s ear. Mary might have stopped her—brushed her daughter-in-law’s hand aside and said it was nothing, nothing at all—but she was stunned by the realization that her coif had loosened, and already her mind was reeling with prayer: Prithee, God, let the ties have slackened only when I was helping Catherine to get dinner on the table and not while I was in church. Prithee, God…
“Was it a fall?” her daughter-in-law was asking, and she looked over at the stairs that led to the chambers on the second floor.
“No,” Mary said, wishing she had thought about this sooner. She couldn’t possibly say she had bumped into a cloak peg again. Not a second time. No one would believe that. “It—”
“It was the spider,” Thomas said, referring to their massive wrought-iron frying pan with legs. “It was my fault entirely. With Catherine gone last night with her brother, I made a feeble attempt at helping Mary get our supper. I bumped her with one of the struts when I lifted it—when I was trying to be of assistance.”
“It’s a wonder thou hast no burns,” Jonathan said, incredulous though relieved.
“It wasn’t hot,” Mary reassured him, not exactly lying, she decided, because last night the spider honestly was cool. “We were just having a bit of pease pottage,” she went on, “so I wasn’t even heating the spider.”