Hour of the Witch(90)

There he was in the doorway to the office at the front of the warehouse, the storeroom before him. Henry Simmons was standing with a ledger in his hands, surveying the empire of goods as if it were his. He was motioning for a pair of burly young men to deposit an ornate highboy against a wall with equally well-crafted lowboys and dressers and desks. All of the furniture was exquisite, well beyond what they produced here in New England. But, she knew, it was only a matter of time before they had cabinet makers here who were sawing and sanding and joining work this grand.

Henry turned when he saw her, a wave of alarm passing over his face. But he put the ledger under his arm, glancing back once to be sure that the highboy was being placed where he wanted, and went to her.

“Mary, why hast thou come?” he asked in lieu of a greeting. There was no anger in his tone, but his apprehension was evident. “I asked my aunt to bring thee my letter.”

“Thine aunt is kind, but she never mentioned the letter. She—”

“Dear God, did it fall into the wrong hands? Is that why thou hast ventured here?”

“No, worry not. I read it. It was beautiful,” she told him.

He exhaled, a great sigh of relief. The two men passed them on their way back to the end of the wharf, where others were unloading the ship and stacking its inventory on the pier. Henry motioned toward the vessel. “?’Tis the brig Jamaica Wind. She’s a beauty. Carries eighty tons. This shipment? Furnishings and furniture of a sort seldom seen here.”

    “Seldom seen here in the past. But seen now with increasing frequency.”

He smiled and raised a single eyebrow. “Art thou judging, Mary?”

“Not at all.”

“Tell me, then: why hast thou come? Thou knowest the dangers.”

“I would say I know the impropriety of it. But, Henry, there is an ocean between an impropriety and a danger.”

“Not here.”

“Perhaps,” she agreed. “But I view it as a good deed: I am giving the gossips something new to discuss. They must be in dire need since I am no longer a figure at the Town House.”

“Is that really thy desire? To be the subject of ghastly stories?”

“No,” she answered honestly. “Rest assured: I took the long way here. I avoided the market and the Town House completely.”

“I am glad,” he said.

“I have come because I have an idea.”

“Oh?”

“Thy letter gave me hope. And that is a great gift.”

“That is comforting, so long as it has not emboldened thee to recklessness.”

“Oh, but it has,” she said, and now it was her turn to smile. Two more sailors approached, together hauling a crate that was almost the size of a chicken coop, and Henry turned away from her to show them where to deposit it.

“So,” he said, returning his attention to her. “What recklessness art thou contemplating?”

And she told him nothing but that she saw a way out, a way to escape her marriage. But before she proceeded, she wanted to be sure of his commitment. She watched as his face transformed in stages from curiosity to surprise and then alarm: not because he was not committed, but because, he said, he did not want her taking undue risks. But she could see that he was taking her seriously and that he was supportive.

“Tell me what thou art planning, so I can help,” he said.

“No. I must be a hawk gliding solo above my prey.”

    “But—”

“?’Tis the only way we can have a future together,” she said, cutting him off. “Dost thou trust me?”

“The psalms suggest we trust God.”

She felt a spike of fear that she had lost him—that he doubted her. But then he arched an eyebrow and smiled. “But, in this case,” he continued, “I am comfortable putting my trust in a goddess.”



* * *





On her way home, she stopped at the cobbler in the market that everyone in her circle used, and bought the warmest boots the fellow had for the two Hawke girls. She noticed that his apprentice was hammering a pair of wooden heels into a rather nice pair of women’s shoes, and considered briefly how impractical they were here and now.

“And for whom might these be?” the shoemaker asked, referring to the boots. “I believe one pair might be for thy granddaughter. Peregrine’s older girl. Am I right?”

She shook her head. “They might fit her well, but they are for another child. The smaller pair is for her younger sister.”

“Oh?”

“I was out by Natick with Reverend Eliot the other day. He took me to meet a poor family on his way to the praying Indians. These are for their girls.”

He was about to place the pounds she had given him into his money box. But when he heard the boots were charity, he paused. He started to return the money to her, but she held up her hand to stop him. “No,” she told him. “That is a most Christian gesture. But thou paid good money for the leather and fur, and then worked hard to fashion them into these shoes. ’Tis a gift.”

“Thou art a good woman, Mary,” he said.

She smiled and said, her tone oozing a modesty that she didn’t feel, “We know well that a gospel of good works is but the path to Hell. I am a sinner like the rest of us.”