Hour of the Witch(93)

“A bottle? A finished tincture?”

“Yes.”

“But why? Why would he do such a thing for me?”

“Thou hast brought our family many gifts. And, yes, because thou art a friend of Constance.”

“I am overwhelmed with gratitude. I know not what to say.”

Esther pointed at the book in Mary’s hands. “All of thee dost speak much of lambs and love, but thy actions…” She stopped and shook her head, the repugnance unmistakable.

“Prithee, continue.”

She sighed. “Thy actions? Thou art wolves, Mary. All of thee who shunned us: thou art wolves.”

    Mary didn’t defend herself. She didn’t defend her people. If Esther was mistaken, it was only in that she was comparing them to wolves instead of snakes.



* * *





The next day, when Mary passed Rebeckah Cooper’s dooryard, there was Peregrine weeping in her friend’s arms. Mary asked what had happened, the idea crossing her mind that this had something to do with Jonathan. His gaming or card playing had landed him in the stocks, or some sailors had beaten him over his debts and left him bloodied.

The two women parted, and Peregrine wiped at her eyes with a handkerchief with delicate blue flowers on one corner.

“It’s the child,” said Goody Cooper. “The baby inside her has, according to the midwife, died.”

“Oh, no, Peregrine, I am so sorry,” Mary told her, and she forgot her supposition this had to do with the woman’s husband or that Peregrine had expressed her fear that Mary would try and seduce Jonathan. She even put aside her belief that the woman might have tried to poison her. All she felt was sorrow. She hugged Peregrine, a reflex, and though the woman did not resume her crying, she melted into the embrace.

“?’Tis God’s will,” said Peregrine, her words stoic but her tone despondent.

“I know. And there is comfort in that knowledge. But, still, thy ache is real.” And then Peregrine described the physical pain and the bleeding she had experienced yesterday, and how only this afternoon she had left the house. She still felt weak.

“There will be other children,” Rebeckah said to her.

“There will,” she agreed, and Mary knew she believed this—and should. Then Peregrine said she had work to do before supper and had to return home. Goody Weybridge was with the girls, and, apparently, that older woman’s patience was a short candle that burned fast.

After Peregrine had started down the street, Rebeckah shook her head and said, “It is good that thy divorce was not allowed.”

    Mary was baffled by the remark, which seemed an utter non sequitur. And she said so, asking the woman to explain what she meant.

“Isn’t it obvious? If thou were alone—a woman unmarried, no longer wed to Peregrine’s father—it would be just one more reason to suppose thou were possessed.”

“Because Peregrine’s baby died?”

“Yes! First William Stileman and now this baby! Mary, ’tis obvious: some people would say for sure thou were a witch!”



* * *





Constance Winston sat back in her chair and pulled from her apron the small tincture bottle. Her girl was outside, and so it was just the two of them.

“And that’s it?” Mary asked, her heart beating fast in her chest.

The older woman held the bottle of poison in her hands as if it were a jewel. “What thou hast accomplished is not insubstantial,” she said.

“I did nothing. I merely followed thine instructions and went to meet the Hawkes.”

“I was hoping at best that Edmund would provide thee the plants and I would make the potion. The idea that thou convinced Esther—”

“I traded with Esther,” corrected Mary. “It was a trade. Remember, I returned with boots and cloaks for her children.” They were drinking tea, and the mug was hot and warmed her fingers. It had snowed last night, and she wondered if it would snow more on her walk home from the Neck. “I want to be forthright in my negotiations and relations: art thou sure that Edmund wants nothing more from me?”

“The Hawkes think little of most of the men who live here in Boston. If there is one less? He would not weep.”

“I have the sense thou wilt not shed any tears, either.”

She smiled. “Now, people—the right people—know of thy friendship with John Eliot?”

“They do. I speak of it often.”

    “Excellent. They hanged another witch in Hartford.”

“I heard,” Mary said. “Goody Cooper believes it is well that my divorce was not granted. She suggested it would cast a deeper shadow upon me as a woman untethered.”

“Rather like me.”

“No! I only meant—”

“Goody Cooper is right. I am not offended,” Constance said. “View thyself as a hawk soon to be free of its jesses.” Then she uncorked the bottle and sniffed the poison, adding, “?’Tis monkshood. And something more.”

“More?”

“Edmund told me that he wants there to be no doubt when a wolf’s at the door. ’Tis wolfsbane and another most efficacious poison. He suggested it works quickly.”