Hour of the Witch(57)

“And so thou made a decision to intervene?” asked Adams.

“I did. I saw Mary Deerfield showing sympathy for a Quaker, and I was disappointed and appalled,” Willard answered.

“Hast thou ever seen her behave in such a strange fashion?”

“Women who are barren often act strangely. It would be like an owl that couldn’t fly: it would be antithetical to our Lord’s purpose, and the animal would, by necessity, go mad,” he pontificated, and Mary wanted to throw up her arms in aggravation that the old man was allowed to make such pronouncements. The magistrates seemed to be absorbing the statement as if it were gospel wisdom, when Wilder finally spoke.

“Thou art speaking opinion only,” he said. “Thou art not speaking as a reverend.”

“I read the Bible faithfully.”

“I am sure thou dost,” Wilder said, and the governor thanked Willard and told him he could leave.

“May it be possible, governor, for Thomas to add another witness?” asked Philip Bristol as Willard was exiting the Town House.

John Endicott waved the back of his hand dismissively, but said, “Fine, Philip. Fine. But, prithee, let us proceed with haste.”

“Yes. Of course,” said the lawyer. He looked over his shoulder and motioned for a woman to come forward, and Mary saw that it was Peregrine Cooke. She had seemed tired to Mary the night before, but she looked beautiful this morning, and Mary attributed her loveliness both to daylight and to the grace that came with carrying a child. It was as if even her face had grown rounder in the last few days, as her body had started to accommodate the baby inside her. The sight of the woman caused Mary a pang of envy, and she lamented the state of her soul that she could begrudge Peregrine this happiness.

    But the woman’s presence also caused her mother to whisper something into her father’s ear, and when Mary raised an eyebrow inquiringly, her father just shook his head. “Tell me,” she whispered.

“How dare Caleb Adams—or anyone—suggest that my daughter would ever consort with the Devil, while that one knowingly tried to poison us,” Priscilla replied softly.

“We don’t know that,” her father said. “And, by the light of day and with the evidence that only Hannah was sickened, I tend to think she tried to poison no one.”

“I disagree,” Priscilla muttered.

“Thou art Thomas’s daughter, correct?” Daniel Winslow was asking.

“I am. My name is Peregrine Cooke,” she said, tucking a loose strand of her almost apple-red hair back beneath her coif.

“And what dost thou wish to say?”

“I don’t wish to say anything, sir. I am here because my father’s lawyer urged me to be present.”

“Well, then, prithee, tell us why thy father’s”—and here Winslow sighed before saying the word with unhidden scorn—“lawyer has prodded thee onto this stage.”

“He asked me to answer thy questions.”

Winslow looked at the magistrates. “Do we have any?”

There was an awkward pause before Caleb Adams took the initiative. “Didst thy father ever strike thy mother?” he asked.

She looked out the eastern window before replying, “I never saw my father strike my mother.”

“And thy father raised thee well?”

“He read the Psalter every morning to my mother, my brother, and me, and then to my mother and me after my brother passed.”

Mary noted that these were not likely the categorical responses that either Bristol or the magistrate had expected.

“Peregrine,” Adams pressed, “thou sayest that thou never saw thy father hit thy mother.”

She nodded.

    “Didst thou ever see him diminish her with words that were cruel or in a fashion that was profane?”

“Not in a fashion that was profane.”

“But cruel?” asked Wilder.

“Cruel is a relative term, Richard,” Adams said. “We might have different interpretations of the word. But profanity is an absolute, and Peregrine has made clear that Thomas never diminished his first wife in a manner that was profane.”

“Fair,” observed the governor, and Peregrine did not dispute this. Her gaze was blank.

“When thou were fourteen years old, thy father shot his horse because it kicked and killed thy mother. That seems to me an indication of the breadth of his affection for Anne,” said Adams.

“Dost thou have a question hiding in that recollection, Caleb?” Wilder asked, his tone almost good-natured.

“No,” Adams admitted. “I was young then. I still remember how moved I was.”

By a man shooting his horse, Mary thought.

Wilder leaned forward. “Peregrine, since thy father married a second time, hast thou ever seen bruises about Mary Deerfield’s face?”

Peregrine’s hands were clasped before her, almost as if in prayer. Mary waited. The court waited. Finally, she replied, “Yes.”

“Go on.”

“On the side of her face.”

“Dost thou know the cause?”

“My father or Mary explained them as thou hast heard. One time in the night she walked into a clothes peg. Another time there was a bruise from the spider.”