Hour of the Witch(51)

“I was just at the tavern,” he went on, “and I learned that thy scrivener took up much time with Ward Hollingsworth.”

“Good,” Mary said. Hollingsworth owned an ordinary that her husband patronized often.

    “I can assure thee, it was a waste of effort. Ward told me that he said nothing of consequence to the flea thou retained to assail my character.”

“We shall see tomorrow,” said Mary. She had read the testimony that Hollingsworth had provided Benjamin Hull. And while it wasn’t damning, the man had acknowledged that there had been nights when he had ceased refilling Thomas’s tankard.

“And there is this,” he went on, his voice grave. “I heard also that Rebecca Greensmith of Hartford told the magistrates there that the Devil has had much carnal knowledge of her body. She’s in prison.”

“That has nothing to do with me,” she said. “Besides, that is but tavern talk.”

“They’re going to hang her, Mary.”

“I repeat: that has no relevance to my petition.”

“I disagree. It will weigh heavy on the minds of the magistrates tomorrow. They know of the outbreak in Hartford and how the Devil has encroached upon their sanctuary. Even some good woman named Cole—Ann Cole—a woman of real piety they say, has taken to fits.”

“I lose no sleep over gossip,” she said, though she felt another of those sickening pangs of fear and doubt.

“Mary Sanford has already been hanged,” he reminded her, almost as if he could sense her dismay. “That is not gossip.”

“Catherine Stileman has done her worst. She made her accusations, and the magistrates took none of it seriously. Do I seem possessed to thee?”

“Oh, I know thou art not possessed. But I know also that the Devil likes to see the innocent chastened and the godly hanged. Likewise, it seems not to vex the Lord in the slightest to see the prideful dangle from the end of a rope or burn like so much cut brush. And Mary? Thou might be godly. But I know, too, the presumption that lurks within thy soul.”

“And thou knowest all this how? What special insights into the mind of the Devil and our Lord dost thou have?”

“Mary, that is enough,” her father rebuked her, and she turned to him in surprise. Her mother, beside him, looked frightened and ill.

    “Tomorrow,” Priscilla said, “the magistrates will hear from Goody Howland and Abigail. There are others. They will hear from thee, Thomas.”

Abigail looked up from the bucket at the sound of her name, but said nothing.

“They will,” he agreed.

“Dost thy lawyer know thou hast come to see us?” her father asked.

“No.”

James nodded, and once more Mary had the sense that although her husband was drunk and her father was irritated, they were yet in league. They were adversaries, this was clear; but she felt again the prickle she had experienced periodically over the past two weeks that there was plotting beyond her ken.

“Thomas, Father?” she began, looking back and forth between them. “Is there something I need to know? If there is, thou must tell me. ’Tis my life we are discussing, and it will be my life that the magistrates will be weighing.”

“Not thy life, little dove,” said her mother. “This is only a petition for divorce.”

“Only a petition for divorce?” Thomas barked, emphasizing that first word sarcastically. “Thou makest it sound but a dispute over the price of a bag of cornmeal! It is thy daughter’s life—and mine! It is our reputations. And, yes, Priscilla, thou knowest well it could be about thy daughter’s very survival if she doesn’t tread carefully through the swamp of the Town House and the vipers in their black robes.”

“Thomas,” her father said, but her husband cut him off.

“I will take my leave, James, fear not. And I will testify tomorrow and—I swear to thee—do what I can to end this madness.” He turned and started back down the walkway, stumbling once on a stone but catching his balance. He looked back to see if they had noticed, and then with extreme care climbed atop his horse.



* * *





When the three of them joined Abigail inside the house, Hannah was returning from the back with the animals. Suddenly the girl closed her eyes and pressed her palms flat on the tabletop, and allowed her chin to collapse against the base of her neck.

“Hannah,” Mary asked, “art thou in pain?”

The girl nodded and then turned toward the hearth. “I felt a most awful cramping, but ’tis not my time,” she whispered, grimacing. “I…”

“Go on,” said Abigail.

But Hannah fell to her knees and said, her voice doleful, “I’m going to be sick.” Mary and Abigail knelt beside her, Abigail rubbing her back, and Hannah brought her hand to her mouth. But then she gave in to the nausea and vomited into the hearth, amidst the hot coals but feet from the flames.

“I have been feeling a little seasick, too,” Abigail said to her, rubbing her back. “Not so bad as thee, but poorly.”

Mary brought Hannah a tankard of beer, but the girl shook her head. She sat back against the warm bricks and said, “I just need to rest a bit.”

Mary looked up at her parents, who seemed more alarmed than she might have expected.