Her Wicked Sin (14 page)

The whispers, though hushed, were painfully clear. They mingled with Willard’s quiet huffs, tainting the air alongside scents of sweat-drenched horseflesh and distant smoke.

When Lydia turned, the murmurs ceased. Standing before the group of women with whom Lydia had enjoyed warmth and friendship—their faces now bearing looks of horror and suspicion—filled her with dark dread. She could not think of anything to say, for the words could not be taken back.

Lydia scanned the now silent group for any sign of Goodwife Abbot, but saw none. The news neither relaxed nor worried her, for the poison had already spread.

They suspected her.

In the descended silence, the creak of an approaching wagon muddled with a steady hoof beat. A wagon fast approached. When it lurched into view, Lydia’s heart sank.

Rebecca and Thomas Mather.

Thomas’s saccharine grin left Lydia wary, but it was Rebecca’s smug smile and the prim placement of her hands in her lap that ignited the first sparks of anger. But, unwilling to make more of a scene, Lydia fought to tamp down her ire.

The wagon drew next to Lydia and stopped. Willard cocked an ear to the other horse, but otherwise showed no reaction.

The crowd had grown beyond the ladies of the mending circle. Their location in the center of Salem Village led to the gathering of numerous passerby, among them Andrew Bradshaw. Henry’s business with him must have been settled quickly, and though Lydia remained curious as to its nature, her only thought was that in the midst of what felt increasingly ominous, Henry was by now surely on his way to Salem Town.

She was alone, and the center of some very bad attention.

Rebecca stood and allowed Thomas to help her from the wagon. She came to Lydia with a reckless approach alongside Willard’s hindquarters, leaving Lydia to wish Willard would take notice and plant a hoof against the woman.

Though her thoughts were wicked, Lydia did not care in the least to quash them. And with her ire rising, she would be content to say them aloud, however unwise. But her thoughts were stolen by Rebecca’s presence.

“We have been in search of you, Goodwife,” Rebecca said.

“Indeed, you look poorly this day, Rebecca,” Lydia said sweetly. “Are you ill?”

Furor flashed in Rebecca’s eyes, but only briefly. “I am quite well. Perhaps your skills as a physician have lapsed. It must be the effect of spending your nights torturing children. Tell me, do witches suffer from lack of sleep or is there something you conjure to alleviate such woes?”

“If I could alleviate woes, Rebecca, be assured you would not stand before me now.”

From the silence that followed, murmurs grew. Lydia looked from Thomas—who remained in his seat on the wagon—to Anne. The young woman stared with sorrowful eyes, her clenched hand to her mouth. Andrew had quietly joined Eunice, and the two whispered quietly together.

Rebecca, meanwhile, had turned an angry shade of red. But if she had anything to say, her words were interrupted by an approaching horse.

The magistrate.

Lydia sucked in a breath. His appearance could not be happenstance, and if she had any doubt of that fact, it was erased by the way Rebecca’s rage melted into devious satisfaction. The rancid woman took a step away as the magistrate halted his horse at Lydia’s feet.

“Magistrate,” said Rebecca. “You remember Lydia Colson.”

The magistrate made a show of dismounting, though his pomp was unneeded. Countless eyes were already upon him.

Lydia’s breath caught.

“Goodwife Lydia Colson?”

She shook her head—not in denial of her identity, but of what his question meant. Because this simply could not happen.

He puffed himself up with a great deal of unfavorable splendor and speaking with volume enough for the whole crowd to hear, said, “Thou hast been charged with witchcraft.”

Though she expected this, Lydia nevertheless stood in stunned silence. When she found her tongue, it was to utter, “On what grounds?”

The magistrate looked down the length of his nose at her. “The Abbot children claim thou appeared in the night and pinched them until they cried. Thou chased the children, Goodwife, and sent thy familiars to taunt them. They have been properly examined by a neighboring physician and determined to be in otherwise good health. The evidence is firm. Thou wilst be taken to the jail…”

“No! You know not what you speak!” As she spoke, two men—neither of whom Lydia recognized—approached.

The magistrate turned toward the crowd, as if giving a sermon. “Belligerence, Goodwife Colson, is the work of the devil. An honest woman would make no such denial.”

Lydia waited until he turned from his survey of the gatherers. When he faced her, she spoke firmly. “An honest woman wrongly accused most certainly would!”

The magistrate’s stringent glare made no admissions to her side. “Take her!” he bellowed, gesturing to his men. “And if she fights, ready the shackles. She will be most comfortable alongside Tituba. They can trade stories of dealing with the devil himself.”

Lydia held the man’s smug gaze as the jailers wrenched her by the arms and roughly dragged her toward the door. She initially struggled, but quickly decided to waste not her fight. She had not the strength to overcome two men.

Willard turned his large head and called after her, but did not move. The reins had fallen to the ground. Lydia hoped someone would see to him, but his reputation as the devil’s horse would more likely get him harmed. She prayed not.

The thickly gathered crowd parted as she was led through. Rebecca Mather stood with her arms crossed and her face pinched, lips curled into a knowing smile. Lydia caught sight of Martha, as well as Eunice and Andrew Bradshaw. Eunice worried her hands together while Andrew comforted her with an arm around her shoulders.

Catching the man’s eye, Lydia called, “Tell Henry. Please!”

The jailer to her right shoved her. “Save thy words, witch. No one wishes to be aligned with such evil.”

The man to her left spat a gruff laugh tinged with the scent of alcohol. “Then I shall alone bear the burden of searching for the witch’s mark.”

The witch’s mark
. Lydia had heard of this so-called evidence. Any imperfection of skin would do, and she had plenty after her husband’s beatings. Hope faded.

“Contrarily,” said the first man, his filthy gaze leaching over her, “that is one risk well worth taking.”

Lydia’s heart tumbled, landing in shards in the pit of her stomach. This could not be happening! These men were not Puritan of heart. They were cruel shells of men—
they
were evil, not she! She clung to that mental assertion during the walk to the jail, which sat in its own filth near the bank of the North River. She wanted not to be seen in such a state—held and accused—but refused to hang her head in shame. They could parade her as a witch all they willed. The truth would not be altered.

But her determination wavered at the jail. The building stood wide and tall, a pocked frown over Salem. To be held in the jail was a death sentence in itself, as many of the accused died without ever seeing trial. The bitter irony was that Lydia belonged there—not for witchcraft, but for murder.

The thought stayed with her as the jailers pushed her to a small room of crude walls. When they drew pause, the men exchanged terrible glances. “Remove thy dress,” one said with a sneer.

Lydia crossed her arms. “I will not.”

“It is not wise to be obstinate. Either remove thy clothing or force us to subdue thou.”

Subdue
. They would beat her. Trembling, with her head held high, Lydia made haste of removing her clothing. She wanted not to show herself, but she would not give the men the pleasure of slow enjoyment.

They wasted little time in putting their hands on her. As much as Lydia wanted to force shut her eyes and make her jailors disappear, she did not. She would not hide within herself, so she bore the humility of each man’s roughshod handling. They took particular time in searching around her breasts, taunting her with their observations.

“Hast thy ever seen a nicer pair of witch’s teats?” one inquired of the other.

“Verily, the devil chose well with this one.”

Lydia fixed her attention to the battered wallboards and thought of Henry and how he would surely punish these men. But would Henry come for her? Or was she a burden now? His family was one of the wealthiest in all the colonies. Would he distance himself so as not to have his prominence tainted by the accusations against her? Would he disclaim her as his wife? Though their handfasting had no witnesses, he had presented himself as her husband many times before their neighbors. The joining would be recognized, but it mattered not if Henry left her. All of Salem could shun him and not affect the true livelihood he left behind. Although she clung to his promise, the realization of how easily he could shed her left her hollow and empty inside.

Though having thoroughly inspected her, one of her jailers chose the moment to part her thighs with his grubby hand. Lydia sucked in a breath, but had little more time to react before the magistrate walked through.

“Dress her!” he barked.

“Worry not,” Lydia said, wrenching free of the jailors as soon as their attention turned. “I am perfectly capable of dressing myself.”

The magistrate glared but said nothing. To her relief, the men stepped off. She slipped quickly into her clothing, hugging herself tightly once covered. Already the filth of the jail seeped through, staining her in such a way she felt she would never be pure of it.

“Put her away,” the magistrate said. “And lest thou have designs on leaving, witch, know the penalty for escape is death.”

Numb, Lydia forced herself to nod as the two jailers shoved her toward the hall. As she was pushed deeper into the grimy bowels, she made out the magistrate’s orders upon an unseen man.

“Call upon her family to cover her expenses,” he said. “Give her nothing until then.”

Lydia trembled inside. Surely Henry would be reached, and he was a man of great means. He could doubtlessly afford the sum demanded by the magistrate, but her arrest had surely humiliated him, and when word spread, so would the shame.

The question did not lie in his ability to come for her, but whether he
would
come for her.

Chapter Fourteen

Having determined he would learn nothing as a rich man, Henry took upon himself to reduce his appearance to that of a commoner. Though the young man disputed pay, Henry provided Andrew Bradshaw a fine sum to borrow a pair of breeches and a topcoat, both well worn from many days of honest labor. Though relatively few Puritans owned horses, he did not relinquish his mount. Rather, he hoped the modest gelding would allow Henry to blend well enough to learn something of his brother’s whereabouts. Henry had little to go upon—just the trusted word of a business associate and the unconvincing denial of the docksman—but it had to be enough.

Henry’s marriage to Lydia may have been created from haste and impulse, but it mattered not. He wanted her for his lifetime, and if she did not fancy his estates he would happily spend his every waking day in her modest home. As long as she was near, he was whole. But first thing was first.

He had to find his brother and bring him home.

Henry headed first to the wharf. Thick with tradesmen, the area bustled with merchants offloading cargo. Henry regretted his association with his own brother to be so distant he knew little of his preferences, but suspected the taverns looked good for information, as it was seldom difficult to extract conversation from a man drunk with ale.

Without drawing the first curious eye, Henry found a stable near the river and procured day stabling for Benedict, who seemed none too concerned once he found a pile of forage into which to poke his head. Though Henry wanted to remain as inconspicuous as possible, he well overpaid for Benedict’s board in hopes the horse would be treated well for the duration. He knew not how well schooled the proprietor in the ways of a good tip, but hoped the extra money bought an amount of privacy. If not, there was small chance Henry would stay ahead of the talk, especially considering his unobtrusive state.

He tugged tighter the unfamiliar felt hat and headed into the first tavern at hand. Two-storied and square, the building had the typical plain exterior. Inside, the dank air smelled of alcohol. Aside a foursome at a corner table, Henry was alone with the barman, whom he assumed to be the proprietor.

“What can I get you, Friend?” the barman asked.

“Rum will do,” Henry said. “And some information, if you have it.”

The man did not respond until he’d placed a cup in front of Henry. “What kind?”

“I’m looking for a man. Name is Robert Carter but he may be known by another version of it.”

The barman shrugged. “We have many transients. Few have names.”

“He has a scar,” Henry said. “On his right arm. He uses it limply.”

A spark of recognition shifted in the other man’s eyes, then quickly dulled. “Like I said, few have names.”

Henry took a long but shallow swallow of the drink and set down the cup. He then removed a generous amount of coin from his pocket and placed it on the counter. It was likely enough to drink handily for a week, but Henry needed something far more potent than the weak alcohol the barman served.

He needed information.

The barman’s eyes widened at the money between them.

“Few may have names,” Henry said, looking from under his brim. “But some do.”

“Indeed,” said the barman, eyes still upon the coin.

“Light hair and light eyes. Rather hard to forget once you’ve seen them. The scar on his arm extends to his hand, but even if you miss it, the weakness is easy to notice.”

“I may have seen him around,” the barman said.

“And where might I find him?”

“He works the ships’ cargo. I know because when he comes in the other men give him a bad time of his arm. Tell him they should pay half because he only does half the work.”

Henry pushed the coin closer to his new friend, but did not release his hold upon the stack. “Does he come here often?”

“Regularly over time, but not in the last several days.”

“Who can tell me where I might find him?”

“You can try the docks, or you can wait until the men end their work for the day and any tavern will do.” With another glance at the money, he added, “But you are certainly welcome to return here.”

Henry slid the coin toward the barman but did not display it. “This stays between us.”

“If that is your price, it stays exactly as you say.”

“Very well then.” Henry released the coin, turned up his drink until empty, and dropped it to the bar. When the barman reached for the glass, Henry held up a hand, indicating he had enough. He nodded toward the other patrons, none of whom seemed to pay him mind, and exited the tavern.

Robert’s location was confirmed. Henry felt it in his bones.

Still determined to fulfill his curiosity, he had walked a block in the direction of the water when he heard his name called by a familiar voice. He turned to see Andrew riding up on…
Willard
?

Before Henry could react further, Andrew and Willard were upon him.

“What is it, Andrew? Where is Lydia?”

“Forgive me for borrowing your mount,” the young man said breathlessly, “but I have not a horse of my own and I knew you would want this news with haste.”

“It’s fine, Andrew. Tell me, where is Lydia?”

“Denounced as a witch,” Andrew said. “The magistrate collected her and took her to jail.”

The words could not be real. Though his insides dulled and writhed, Henry wasted no time in acting. He removed from his pocket a large sum of coin and handed it to Andrew, who had already slid from Willard’s back. “Take this,” Henry said, pointing in the direction of the stable where Benedict waited. “My horse is there—a bay gelding with a star. I grossly overpaid his board for the day, so someone will remember. If they will not allow you to take him, offer this in bribe. Bring him home for me.”

“I will,” Andrew said, offering Henry a leg up.

Henry put his foot in Andrew’s joined hands and, with the boost landed easily on Willard’s bare back. Without further transaction, he dug his heels into Willard’s sides and the stallion burst forward at a gallop. Though he drew the attention of every bystander on the streets of Salem Town—effectively ending Henry’s ruse of a common man—Henry did not care.

He would find Lydia and put an end to this witchcraft nonsense, and if that meant ruining his chances to find his brother, so be it.

…

Even within the confines of jail, God-fearing Puritans were trusted. There were no bars or locks, and it was a wonder a great many prisoners did not simply walk to their freedom, though the magistrate had made clear upon his exit if she escaped, she would be found. And likely killed.

The room in which they left her reeked of filth, but if she could not smell it she would consider it by appearance simply plain and in need of a scrubbing to remove the dirt and cobwebs from its corners. Though it furnished a chair, Lydia was too restless to sit, so she paced the floor. She walked hundreds of tight circles, during which she tried to maintain reason—she was innocent, and Henry would come for her—but no amount of settlement could ease the ache.

As Henry had said, witches had long been maligned and persecuted. But in recent days here in Salem, already three had been arrested. Three among them! Something horrible was happening, and Lydia had no hope of freedom if neighbors known for many years were accused and jailed. Already the day felt hours too long, and though she could not determine the passage of the sun from her prison, she did note the voices from the tavern grew loud. The greater activity indicated the approach of evening, when working men joined the drunkards within the ill reputable walls. Thinking she might overhear conversation, Lydia stilled to listen by the door.

Doctor arrested
.

Hang ‘em all
.

Burn them in hell.

From there, a painfully lively, brutish exchange ensued over whether the accused should be burned or hanged. Lydia winced, but did not give up her position at the door. Soon the two men moved on to lewd discussion of the bar maid, and Lydia’s attention drifted, whereupon it landed on two words.

Witch’s cake
.

Lydia knew of the cake. Made from rye and the urine of the girls who first claimed affliction of witchcraft, it was fed to a dog. The process was to cause harm to the witch or witches who affected the girls, but common sense would suggest the only one harmed by such a procedure would be the dog. The nonsensical aspect did little to settle her fears, however, for the very people who believed so wholly in the validity of such an experiment were the ones who would determine her fate.

Heart heavy, she leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. Dare she risk walking out? She was not at all familiar with the layout of the jail, so the idea was foolish to start. But the charge of spectral evidence could not be overcome, and her chances of escape—no matter how slim—were surely better than those of surviving a trial she could not win.

From the tavern, a deep, familiar voice caught her attention. “…shamed?”

Henry!

But not the warm tones to which she had become accustomed. She strained to listen.

“…a pound!” Obstreperous laughter followed. “No witch is worth such a fee.”

“Henry,” Lydia whispered. “No.” She fought to hear more, but could not determine with which of the many voices he held conversation. Laughter provided bursts of distraction, further disorienting her.

“What man… lay claim… shameful.” His voice. Through the thin opening and the din, he sounded of disgust.

Tears heated her eyes, but she did not entertain the thought of succumbing. Perhaps Henry’s words were chosen for reason. He had only been in town a few days, and when not at her home he had spent much of his time in travels to Salem Town. This tavern—one of the more undesirable due to its location at the jail—was likely full of strangers.

She reconsidered his promise made that very morning and thought no more. Throwing open the door, she stepped into the hall and shouted his name.

Every man within view at the end of the narrow length of hall turned her way. For several beats she did not see Henry, but then she found him with a companion at the close end of bar. She anticipated his surprise or relief, but all she received was a cold, piercing glare. He shook his head—his only acknowledgement of her—then turned away, lifting his drink to his mouth.

His name formed soundlessly on her lips, but the silent call did not return his attention to her. He took not a glimpse, not even when the first cries of “Witch!” rang from the back of the room. The jeer was quickly picked up by the mass of them, everyone seeming to turn on her at once.

Everyone but Henry.

She was so stunned she did not resist when a constable grabbed her and jerked her away from the tavern, far from her room. Far from the husband who claimed her no more.

Lydia thought she could pay no worse for her mistake than to see Henry’s dismissal of her, but the deeper the constable led her into the jail, the more she realized the error of her judgment. Deeper into the scourge, the rats were so emboldened they did not scurry from their approach; instead, they merely lifted their heads to watch as Lydia passed.

“Thou hast been warned not to make escape, Witch.” Without ceremony, he shoved her ahead into a long, dark room. At distance, a figure sat against the wall. Rats moved freely through the room’s filth and stench.

Lydia fought to keep down her stomach’s contents.

Her jailer led her to a set of shackles affixed to the wall near the other prisoner. She was a woman. Another accused of witchcraft? Could this be Tituba, as the magistrate had indicated upon Lydia’s arrest? Whoever the prisoner, she did not look up as Lydia was shackled and left. Once the jailer’s footsteps faded, the only sound was that of the vermin. Just as Lydia thought she’d go mad from the sound, the other woman spoke.

“Are you a witch?” The woman’s voice was of a foreign—or perhaps native—tongue.

Lydia cast a long, suspicious look at the floor before sitting against the wall. “Accused, but wrongly.”

“Confess. Ask for forgiveness, and you might walk free.”

“But I am not a witch!”

“It matters not. Your days in here will bring endless harm.”

“No more harm than a false confession.”

“You are wrong. If you do not confess, your family will be harassed to pay your fines and tortured for admission of your sins.”

“My fines?”

The woman gave a humorless laugh. “You are charged with more than witchcraft. You must pay for your room, your food and water, and even the shackles you now wear.”

“And what if I cannot pay?”

“As I said, your family will.”

Lydia waved away a curious rat, the horrible implications of her companion’s words weighing heavily. Snippets of the earlier conversations from the tavern surfaced. “A pound.”

The other woman peered through dark eyes, but did not respond.

“It was said no witch is worth a pound. Do you know what that means?”

The woman lifted a shoulder. “It is known for the price of one pound your family may buy your freedom for the day. Perhaps the price is too high for whoever spoke those words.”

The words crushed Lydia. One pound was no amount of money for Henry—how easy it would be for him to take her from this place. She as his wife would take his name, and verily they would remain free from further onslaught. But he had not looked her way.

Lydia was on her own.

But she refused to feel sorry for herself. She was guilty. And now truly, horribly, it was time to pay.

Not for witchcraft, but for murder.