Her Dear and Loving Husband (20 page)

“‘What has he done?’ my father asked, his face red, his fists clenched. He was always angry at any public display of punishment, though he had seen plenty of it in England as well.   

“‘He missed a fortnight of church,’ I said.

“‘A whole fortnight. We can’t have that now, can we?’  

“My father’s lips were pulled and thin. The grimace in his eyes made him look like a stubborn old man, and the expression looked wrong on his easy features. He scoffed aloud when we saw George Pemberley, the elderly man’s frail legs struggling beneath him as he stretched his head and arms through another termite-infested stockade.

“‘And Old Man Pemberley too!’

“‘He fell asleep in church,’ I said.

“‘Fell asleep in church! Don’t they tickle the old men with feathers when they fall asleep in church? I know church attendance is mandatory, but I haven’t read a thing in Scripture that says we must stay awake.’

“‘Silence, Father,’ I said. I glanced at the people walking past on their way to somewhere else, paying little attention to us. ‘Someone will overhear you and you’ll end up in the stockade yourself. Or someone will accuse you of witchery and they’ll hang you as a wizard.’

“‘Nonsense,’ he said, ‘I’m an important man in Salem Town. I cannot be touched by their folly.’ 

“‘We are all vulnerable,’ I said. ‘That is what frightens me.’ 

“The further we walked the angrier my father grew. ‘These Puritans think they know everything about God, yet they know no more than anyone,’ he said. ‘They proclaim that they are God’s chosen people and only they understand God’s will. Anyone who disagrees with them is not only wrong but damned, they say, but we’re mere humans, James, even the Puritans, and none can know Our Lord’s will but He. Worse, they believe they can punish people as though they were doing Our Lord’s work for Him, but I believe ‘tis not our place to judge. Let he who is without sin cast the first stone, that is what Our Lord says, but the Puritans cast stones aplenty.’”  

“Was there a lot of public punishment then?” Sarah asked.

“There were stockades and whippings, even hangings meant to show the good citizens of Salem the wages of sin. The Puritans believed firmly in the wrathful, vengeful Old Testament God, the God who would send you to Heaven or Hell based not on your beliefs or actions but because He is God and knows best. They believed it was their duty to keep the sinful people obedient to God’s will, at least God’s will as they defined it. After all, they thought, whatever physical punishments they might administer would be less horrible than any hellish punishments God Himself would give.

“In those days there was feuding between Salem Town and Salem Village because, while the Puritan farmers in Salem Village could do little better than subsistence farming, Salem Town grew into a prosperous seaport. The people in the village disapproved of us in the town because we hadn’t come with the intention of purifying the Catholic influences out of the Protestant Church of England. We had come with the intention of creating our own way in the world, expanding our opportunities, and making profits. The Puritans thought we were not pious enough with our Christianity so they formed a church separate from ours. 

“If you disagreed with their views they banished you from the colony, sometimes in winter with little hope of survival. Sometimes they were kinder and put you to a quick death. They infuriated my father to no end. ‘I say let them have their own church,’ he said. ‘Let them teach their own children to be seen and not heard, and let them forbid their own children from playing as children should. Let them show their long, humorless faces to each other. I cannot stand to look upon them.’

“Many were unhappy with Samuel Parris, and they wanted him to give up the parish. ‘‘Tis their own folly for allowing someone as insufferable as Parris to head their church,’ my father said. ‘What an unlikable, selfish man. Fool!’ He said that last word as though he were spitting a foul taste from his mouth, slapping his hand in the air as though he were swatting at Parris himself. ‘I’m tired of their talk about Predestination. They think what we do in our daily lives doesn’t matter because God already knows who will be damned and who will be saved. I think what we do matters. Give unto Caesar what is Caesar’s and give unto God what is God’s!’”

“But didn’t they leave England to escape religious oppression?” Sarah asked.

“They left persecution and became the persecutors.” James shook his head, his eyes tight. “When the witch hunts started it became clear that no one was safe. When Rebecca Nurse was arrested, that was when I began to think that it might be time to leave Salem. Telling my father and my wife that Rebecca had been arrested was one of the hardest things I ever had to do.”

“Why?”

“Because it meant that the madness was inescapable. When we arrived back at my father’s house I finally told him what had happened to Rebecca. When I finished he said nothing. For the longest time, not a word, and my father was never short for words. He stared at his work desk as if he didn’t recognize it. He stood up and paced the room, there and back, there and back. ‘These people are superstitious and they frighten me,’ he said. ‘They believe everything bad that happens in their lives is the Devil’s work, and they look at everything as if it contains some hidden message from God that must be deciphered through the Bible. Yet I believe we must be more afraid of human nature than any supernatural being. The Devil himself cannot do more harm to us than we do to ourselves.’ 

“My father fell silent again. Then he asked, ‘Are you still considering returning to England?’

“‘Aye,’ I said. ‘After this now I think we must be on our leave as soon as possible.’

“‘What says Elizabeth?’

“I shrugged. ‘I haven’t yet asked her,’ I said.

“‘As the husband you don’t have to ask. You have to decide. She must do your bidding. ‘Tis your right as the head of the family.’

“‘I won’t force her to go somewhere she doesn’t want to go. Besides, I don’t recollect your making any decisions without first asking Mother.’

“My father laughed. ‘Too true, Son. We have both been swayed from reason by the love of a beautiful woman. Just remember my offer to you and know it still stands. If you choose to return to England I shall assist you however I can.’

“When I told Elizabeth about Rebecca she was devastated, as I knew she would be. She was stirring supper in the cauldron when I arrived home, and she knew as soon as I walked in that something was wrong. We discussed leaving Salem and returning to England, but nothing was settled. She had a hard time on her journey here, and she wasn’t ready to leave.”

“Why?” Sarah asked. “She must have been frightened by what was happening here.”

James shook his head. “It hardly matters now. A few days later she begged me to go to Rebecca’s pre-trial, and I agreed. I couldn’t believe the stories I heard about the trials because they were too absurd, and I wanted to see what was happening for myself.”

Suddenly, in the back of her throat, slivering up her spine to the base of her skull, Sarah felt a torment, a throb of a scream unlike anything she had ever known. Her hands went to her head, pushing her temples, thinking she could stop the ache with more pressure. James caressed her cheek, smoothed her hair. He had such compassion in his eyes.

“That’s enough for tonight,” he said gently. “Let me walk you inside.”

“Tell me the rest.”

As distressing as it was, though she felt the chains slithering behind her as if they meant to catch her by surprise, she needed to hear the story.

“Sarah…”

“Tell me.”

He shook his head, but she wouldn’t be swayed. The determination in her eyes must have softened him. “All right,” he said. “But let me take you inside. I can see you’re cold.”

Inside Sarah’s house, James went into the kitchen, scanned her cupboards, and found a box of hot chocolate. He poured water into the kettle he found on the stove and pulled a mug from the shelf. Sarah said nothing, watching him from the sofa in the living room. When the kettle whistled he poured the water into the mug, added two tablespoons of cocoa powder, stirred it together, and brought it to her. While she sipped her drink he found a throw blanket on the recliner and set it around her shoulders. He sat next to her and took her hands.

“Perhaps I should go,” he said. “You look tired.”

“Please, James. I don’t know why, but I have to hear the rest of the story.”

She put the mug on the coffee table. He put his arms around her shoulders and pulled her close, his cheek resting on top of her head.

“On March 24, 1692 my father and I went to the meetinghouse in Salem Village to see Rebecca’s pre-trial examination. Before I left the house that day, Elizabeth told me that if I could get close enough I should tell our friend that we were praying for her and keeping her close in our hearts. I told Elizabeth I didn’t think I could get close enough since Rebecca was being held as a prisoner, but I would try. I knew that people speaking out on behalf of the accused were often accused themselves, but I was afraid of the man I would be if I allowed such fears to prevent me from offering comfort to my friend.  

“It was settled in the meetinghouse when my father and I walked in, the normal hum of conversation. The afflicted girls sat calmly, waiting. The judge, John Hathorne, was accompanied on either side by two assistants, making five imposing figures seated like royalty at the front of the room. Samuel Parris, who encouraged his daughter and her friends in their accusations, was ready to record the events of the day. How I loathed that man. Then seventy-year-old Rebecca, bound in chains, was dragged in by the pock-faced constable.”

“She was chained?”

Sarah’s hand went to her throat and she felt a stutter in her chest. For a moment, until she could breathe easily again, she thought she was having a heart attack. She looked around, searching again for the chains she felt slithering everywhere behind her, but all she saw was James, the worry in his eyes, the stillness in his features. He took her hands, stroked her fingers, brushed her curls from her face, soothing her fears away with the gentleness of his touch. 

“Yes,” he said. He waited, his concern for her everywhere on his face.

“I’m all right,” Sarah said. “Tell me the rest.”

“As soon as Rebecca appeared the afflicted girls began to flail and scream and bark and moan and cry, setting the scene with the flair of master actresses. Judge Hathorne glared like a reigning king across the courtroom, scanning his loyal subjects. Then he asked twelve-year-old Abigail to explain her accusations.    

“‘Just this morning she accosted me,’ Abigail said. ‘She’s tormenting me.’

“‘Who,’ asked the magistrate, ‘is tormenting you, Abigail?’ 

“‘She is,’ said Abigail. She pointed at Rebecca.

“Several men from the village were called as witnesses, and each of them claimed to have seen Rebecca engaged in some form of witchery. ‘I saw her specter try to strangle someone,’ one man said. ‘I know her specter bedded several men from the village,’ said another. One elderly farmer said, ‘I saw her turn into a bird the color of the sky during a storm.’ When the judge asked the fifth man what he had witnessed concerning Rebecca he responded by saying, ‘What is that you say? Her specter is putting her fingers into my ears and I cannot hear you.’ 

“Suddenly others were yelling that Rebecca had accosted them as well. I looked at my father, wanting to say something that would help the absurd scene make sense, but I was mute. My father was speechless as well. By the end all Rebecca said was that she did think the writhing girls were possessed and she couldn’t help it if the Devil appeared in her shape. It was enough of a confession for Hathorne to order her held for a trial. I never did get close enough to speak to her.”

“What happened next?” Sarah asked.    

“The verdict from the jury came back Not Guilty, but after the decision was announced the girls threw fits and the decision was reversed. Rebecca was convicted. She was excommunicated from the church and executed on Gallows Hill. Elizabeth and I accidentally stumbled upon that horrible scene, and afterwards I had this throbbing in my skull telling me that I must get my family out of Salem, I must. I felt a stricken panic settle at the base of my throat as a tightening in my airway. I tried to rationalize the fear away, and I decided I was being paranoid and foolish. Of course the madness of the witch trials wouldn’t touch us, I thought. There was no reason it should. I must have switched a dozen times from deciding that we should stay in Salem where we had built a comfortable life to thinking that we must flee for England immediately. After Rebecca’s pre-trial I decided I should take Elizabeth and leave Salem behind forever. I begged her to leave, but she insisted on staying until…”

Sarah was startled when James stopped. He looked tired, which was unusual for him. It was still a few hours until dawn.

“What happened next?” she asked.

James shook his head. “I’ll tell you another time.”

“But…”

He kissed her forehead, letting his lips linger.

“I promise, Sarah. Another time.” 

He didn’t leave. He pressed her close to him, resting her head on his shoulder, her cheek on his chest. He pushed her dark curls from her face and stroked her face from her temple to her chin. She had a flicker of a reminder that the chains were still there, always there, but she felt comforted because James had his strong arms around her, keeping her safe. With the exhalation of her breath she released her fear and fell asleep in his arms. When she awoke in the morning he was gone.

CHAPTER 17

The puddle-colored sky threatened rain as Sarah walked to Pickering Wharf. A nor’easter would drop soon, the news said, and residents along the coast should prepare for flooding. But the winter weather didn’t keep her from her mission. Clutching her clothbound journal, the angry wind whipping her lips and cheeks raw, she walked to Wharf Street, alongside the gray-blue buildings with the white trim. She walked past the coffee shop and the florist, around the crafter’s market and the Rockmore Drydock. She felt the water sprinkle around her, but she wouldn’t turn back. When she finally reached the Witches Lair, she froze. She couldn’t bring herself to go inside. She turned from the store and walked toward the antique dealer, but she chided herself for weakening. She knew what she had to do. There was no turning back now. When she arrived again at the Witches Lair Olivia was waiting by the door.