Hour of the Witch(60)
Endicott looked at the magistrates on either side of him, fixating first on Richard Wilder and then on Caleb Adams. Adams ruffled his hair and told the governor, “This is Valentine Hill’s nephew. Henry Simmons.”
Endicott said, “The one Mary Deerfield is accused of—”
“Yes,” said Wilder, and Mary had the sense that he was interrupting the magistrate so Endicott would not give voice to the crime. “Good day to thee, Henry,” he continued. Then he said to the constable, “Valentine Hill’s nephew poses no threat. We are not under attack. Thou canst stand down.” The constable rocked back and forth on his heels and toes, glowering at Henry, but retreated.
“Sir,” Henry continued, “I am grateful for thy time. I have come here to give account of my behavior and atone for my sins.” He looked at Abigail, who was wiping at her eyes with her sleeve, trying to gather herself.
The governor nodded. “Abigail”—and the girl visibly flinched at the sound of her name—“we thank thee for thy candor. Thou art finished and can return home.”
The girl bowed and then withdrew, choosing a path to the stairs that kept her as far from Mary and the Burdens as possible. If Mary were not fixated on Henry, she thought she might have gone to the girl and told her that she had said nothing untrue and to think well of herself. But there wasn’t time and, besides, Henry was about to speak.
“Henry, what hast thou to add?” asked Wilder.
Henry spoke without hesitation. “I am but a crumb of dust and unworthy of thy attention. I cast myself on the mercy of the court though I deserve none. Yes, I tried to kiss Mary Deerfield, just as that honest and fine young servant told thee. But we did not kiss, and the reason is that Mary resisted my advances. She said, and she said so without hesitation, that she was married and would not be seduced into an adulterous moment that would shame her before this community and before her Lord and Savior.”
Wilder crinkled his eyes almost good-naturedly. “So, thou art saying that we do not need to add adultery to her ledger?”
“That is correct.”
“But only to thine?”
“Yes.”
Wilder whispered something Mary couldn’t hear to the governor and then spoke softly to Caleb Adams. She felt a roaring inside her ears, a blacksmith’s flame, and thought she should rise up and admit that she, too, was a sinner, every bit as culpable and as rich with blame as Henry Simmons. She should tell them that Henry was lying, and though he was lying to protect her, it was still an outrage to the Lord. She started forward but felt her father’s grip on her upper arm, his fingers long and firm, the tentacles of the sea monsters sometimes drawn to great effect on the maps. He was squeezing her arm hard: she understood that she was to remain where she was. And so she did, hating herself even more for what she defined in her mind as a stomach-churning concoction of cowardice and obedience.
“Was this the only time that thou tempted Mary?” the governor asked.
“Yes. The only time.”
“And she resisted?”
“She did. Most capably and most determinedly.”
Adams turned to the other men: “Should we ask the servant girl to return? See if she will corroborate what this man is saying?”
“No, Caleb,” said the governor. “We needn’t do that. This is Valentine Hill’s nephew. I believe we can view his narrative without skepticism.” Endicott then leaned over the balustrade and said, “There was clearly no fornication. I think a lashing will suffice. Tomorrow at ten a.m., Henry Simmons, thou art ordered to appear in the square where thou wilt be whipped”—and he paused ever so briefly—“fifteen times on thy bare back.”
He nodded, and Mary thought of the Quaker she’d seen flogged, though his lashing was far more severe and he was paraded down the streets. But she’d seen other men and women whipped, their backs reddened and ravaged and scored until they looked more like butchered meat than a human’s torso. Mary glanced one last time at her father, and he shook his head slightly. She was quite sure that she alone had seen the gesture and knew what it meant. And though she was awash in grief and self-loathing, and though she knew that if she hadn’t been damned before she probably was now, she stood silent and still and waited to see what would happen next.
* * *
But there wasn’t anything next; there wasn’t anything more. There were no more witnesses to hear, no more testimonies to examine.
The governor said, referencing the small room where Mary and her parents had first met with Richard Wilder, “We will retire to the quills and discuss the petition. Has Thomas Deerfield returned?”
The constable reported that he hadn’t.
“Retrieve him, prithee.” Then he said to Mary, “This deliberation shouldn’t take long.”
“Wouldst thou suggest we retire for dinner?” her father asked.
Endicott rubbed at his fingers, which Mary could see were badly swollen at the joints. “No,” he said. “My hope is that we can render a decision quickly.” She glanced at her scrivener, worried that a decision that seemed obvious to the governor boded ill for her, but hoping in her heart she was mistaken. The scrivener, however, did not return her gaze, and his countenance was inscrutable.