Hour of the Witch(84)

“That won’t be a problem.”

“Good. I look forward to the journey.”

“It seems that thou dost not fear the Hawkes,” Eliot observed. “I rather wish thou didst.”

“Why?”

“They barely tolerate me. I doubt they would tolerate my ministrations.”

“I understand.”

“I expect I will find thee sitting alone on a stump outside their farm when I return. Exiled from their house.”

“If they choose to be inhospitable, I will at least know that I tried.”

He looked at her left hand. “How is thy hand healing, Mary?”

“It is feeling better.”

Eliot turned his attention from her to the window, gazing at a pair of crows that were picking at the remains of a dead raccoon in the dooryard. “Well, as dangerous as the woods can be, at least thou wilt not confront a teakettle.”

“No,” she agreed. She could tell that he did not accept Thomas’s story. Most of the men of the city were of one mind: believe one thing and speak another. But Eliot, it seemed, wanted her to know that he knew Thomas had lied.

    “Art thou able to join me tomorrow?” he asked.

“Yes. Before dinner or after?”

“All day. I will leave at sunrise and return just before sunset. Is that a problem?”

“No.”

“Good. The praying town I will visit is neither far nor deep into the woods. But it will take us two or three hours to reach the Hawkes. So, expect at least five hours atop a horse. I will spend perhaps three with the Indians with the days already this short. View thy time with the family as but the first page of a catechism.”

“I am grateful.”

“And, prithee, do not suppose thou wilt accompany me always or often. Let us take this one day at a time. One journey at a time.”

“So long as I am glorifying God, I am at thy service.”

He studied her a long moment. “I may be rather large, but thou art rather small. I’ve a pillion: thou canst ride with me. But the path will be muddy with melted snow. Dost thou own splatterdashes?”

“I have stirrup stockings.”

“Fine. Be here at sunrise.”

She stood and thanked him. Thomas might say something cutting about how quickly the events were proceeding when she told him her plan, but he was unlikely to stop her. She now had the blessing of both Reverend Norton and Reverend Eliot. For all she knew, Thomas would, in fact, appreciate the idea that he needn’t return home for dinner, but could instead have an extra tankard or two at the tavern near the mill.



* * *





On her way home, Mary stopped at her parents’ house. She gazed up the stairs and thought of how much she had enjoyed living back here, despite the stress of her petition or the unease she had felt around Abigail after the girl had seen her and Henry kiss. She told her mother of her plans to meet the Hawke family the next day, and how two of the most esteemed men in the colony championed her decision. She knew her mother would tell people, and the more people who knew of the faith that John Norton and John Eliot had in her, the safer she would be against rumors—or even actual charges—of witchcraft.

    Her mother paused after Mary described her plans in detail. Mary could see that she was both proud and worried, which was essentially what Mary had anticipated.

“And thou art going tomorrow?” her mother asked, her eyes wary.

“Yes. I couldn’t be happier at the prospect.”

“Into the woods?”

“Not terribly far. Thou needest not fret. We will leave in the morning and be back by sunset. We will not be in the forest after dark. I view it as a small test to see if my aptitude matches my desire. I believe he views it much the same way.”

“I trust the reverend.”

“I do, too.”

“Still, Mary. Be careful.”

“My soul is in the Lord’s hands. I trust Him, too,” she said, aware after the words had left her lips that while what she was saying was not technically a lie, she was misleading her mother and using the Lord as a tool in her machinations.

“I will want to hear all about it. It is noble that thou want to help the Hawkes: keep thine eye on Heaven, but temper thine expectations.”

“I have no expectations,” she said, and she laughed. She almost said that she felt a calling from God, but a lie like that was too much. It was one thing to stand beside the fire: it was quite another to walk right into it. Instead she continued, “I will do what John recommends and heed his counsel. I expect to be useless tomorrow, but to learn much.”

“About the Hawkes.”

“Yes, about the Hawkes,” she agreed, though in her mind she saw monkshood. She hoped she would learn about that, too.



* * *





At home, soon after sunset, Jonathan Cooke stopped by the house while Mary and Catherine were preparing supper. He said he was hoping to see Thomas. His jacket was buttoned against the cold, and he had pulled his hat down far on his forehead.

    “He is due any moment if thou wouldst like to wait,” Mary told him. She tried to view him with charity, but she thought considerably less of him after what Thomas had told her. The idea that he had come to her husband for money did not trouble her, but the idea that he squandered a dowry gaming did. She was disappointed in him, so much so that a face that once had seemed handsome now struck her as rakish.