Hour of the Witch(82)

“He does. And Thomas? What are his feelings?”

“Thomas has no objections,” she lied. She wasn’t sure that her husband and John Norton had spoken a dozen words together.

“Well, then. I have but one more question.”

“Prithee, ask.”

“What were Henry Simmons’s designs upon thee?”

She hadn’t expected this, and reflexively stalled by asking in return, “Art thou asking why he tried to kiss me?”

“Yes.”

“I gave him no sign I was interested in a liaison of that sort.”

“I expected the magistrates to pursue that possibility with more curiosity than they did, Mary.”

She arched her back. “Speak plainly, Reverend. I will answer with neither prevarication nor falsehood.”

“Thou petitioned for a divorce because thou claimed that Thomas treated thee with needless cruelty.”

“Cruelty by definition is needless.”

He nodded. “Fair. But the magistrates determined that Thomas did not treat thee cruelly. So, if thou didst seek to break thy covenant with thy husband because he was…cruel”—and he emphasized the word as if it left a bad taste in his mouth—“but Thomas was in fact fair in his dealings with thee, then perhaps there was another reason why thou tried to sever thy marriage.”

“And my claim of cruelty was what? A pretext? A ruse?”

“It is a question a reasonable man might ask, yes. Caleb Adams thought it a possibility.”

    “No, Reverend,” she replied, struggling mightily to hide her exasperation, “I did not petition for divorce on false grounds. There has been no adultery between Henry Simmons and me.”

“Except for his attempt to kiss thee.”

“Yes. Which I resisted.”

“Thou hatched no conspiracy to malign Thomas Deerfield for thine own ends?”

“Most assuredly we did not.”

He clasped his hands behind his back. “Very well. I had to ask.”

She wanted to tell him that he had no such obligation, but held her tongue. When she said nothing more, Norton continued, “I will speak with John Eliot about thee and vouch for thine intellect and resourcefulness. He is a good man.”

“I am most grateful.”

“I know thou art, Mary,” he said. Then he added, his voice an eerie combination of menace and jest, “And when thou place the trenchers and cutlery on the table today, perhaps do not set before thy husband a fork.”



* * *





The reality that John Norton had brought up Henry Simmons, even suggesting that she had falsely accused Thomas of cruelty to try to achieve her divorce, led Mary to change her plans that afternoon. She had been hoping to walk to Valentine Hill’s warehouse by the harbor. It would have been brazen to ask the merchant how his nephew was mending—or, perhaps, even Henry himself if he had returned to work—but she had planned to present her inquiry as mere Christian charity. Henry had made a mistake attempting to kiss her, and she was going to extend to him her forgiveness. At least that was how she would have presented her visit to anyone who was paying attention. She would know the truth. So would Henry. He knew that she hadn’t resisted his advance.

Today, however, she didn’t dare venture to the waterfront. Perhaps next week.

But the sun was starting to break through the clouds when she left the First Church, and she could feel the temperature rising. A ship had arrived recently with tortoiseshell combs. Her mother had brought her one, and Mary had seen the way Catherine had coveted it. Some of those combs were likely for sale now at the apothecary. And so instead she went there to buy the girl a comb as a gift. On some level she was hoping to curry the girl’s favor, an endeavor that was pathetic if viewed solely in this manner. But it, too, was an act of Christian charity. It would make Catherine happy.

    And given the wolves she was about to unleash, that was a good thing.





The Devil is nefarious and can make evil a child’s plaything if he wants.

    —The Testimony of Valentine Hill, from the Records and Files of the Court of Assistants, Boston, Massachusetts, 1663, Volume I





Twenty-Six



Catherine did like the comb.

Over supper, Mary asked Thomas, with the girl present, if she might have his permission to tutor the children of the excommunicated Hawke family. John Eliot could escort her to and from their farm on his way to the praying Indians. Thomas had put his knife down on the table and stared at her, his eyes narrowed, his gaze suspicious. He asked why she had grown interested in the Hawke brood, and she told him that she had been inspired by the Reverend Norton’s most recent sermon. She added that the minister thought it was a fine idea for her to explore whether she had an affinity to assist with the children, and her next step would be to visit Eliot. Thomas questioned whether she thought it was reasonable for a woman to make so rash a decision without consulting her husband first, and she had responded—and she had rehearsed this sentence—that before she burdened him with the idea, she wanted to see if it was even a possibility. She added that Norton agreed it was a fine way for her to use the gifts God had given her to glorify Him, and this was, perhaps, why He had made her barren.