Susannah Morrow (11 page)

I prayed for God to take Susannah away; I cared not how.

“Forgive me,” I managed to say. “I am sorry for speaking to you that way.”

“I am no monster,” she said to me. “I did not come into your life to take it over, Charity. I expect you to tell me how you
feel. Only then can we respect each other.”

I felt my father’s silence, and I felt the temptation in her words. I had never seen an actress, but I imagined she must be
one of the best. Had I not known what she was, I would have believed the things she said completely; I would have trusted
her with my soul the way I’d trusted my mother with it. She knew just what to say to bring my cooperation, and I had no choice
now but to smile and pretend to give it.

So that is what I did. “I will do better, I promise.” It was a small lie, mostly for my father’s benefit, because I could
see that I was not the actress Susannah was, that she did not quite believe me.

But she nodded and turned back to adjust the crane with our supper hanging from it, and I glanced over to my father.

He was watching her, and there was an intensity in his gaze. His hand was clenched around his tankard so tightly that even
in the candlelight I could see the whiteness of his knuckles. I felt as if I’d intruded on a moment so private not even he
knew it existed, and I looked away quickly, ashamed and disturbed, though I had no idea why. For no reason that I could say,
I thought of Sammy, of his large and loving hands. I felt a longing for him.

The window to my soul was opening ever wider, and now I feared for my father as well. The Devil was called “the prince of
the air,” and I knew why. I felt him in every breath of wind.

The next day, I woke to an anxiety I could not lose. The memory of yesterday stayed with me. I could not look at Susannah
without seeing my own damnation in her sly smile; I felt lost. My father had gone early that morning, but I knew that even
had he been here, I would not have found the courage to approach him. Instead, my thoughts turned to Mary and the others.
They would listen to me; they would understand. As the morning hours passed, I grew to believe it more and more, until the
urge to go to Mary was so strong I would have made up any excuse to see her.

As it turned out, I did not have to lie. I’d just finished trimming the last of the wicks when Susannah asked me to run into
the village. Mary Walcott’s stepmother had a length of cotton for baby clouts that she’d never used, and she’d offered to
trade it for a new wooden pail. Within minutes, I was out the door, dragging Jude behind me before Susannah had time to notice
and protest. The pail my father had made for Mistress Walcott was sitting by the barn door, and I made Jude grab it up, and
together we hurried into town.

I walked fast to put the miles past us, so that Jude had to stumble and run to keep up. She huddled into her cloak and complained
the whole way, but I barely heard her. The two miles beyond the Walcotts’ to the Putnams’ were not such a great distance.
My spirits rose; it was almost as if I’d found Mary already.

Captain Walcott and his family lived only yards from the parsonage. Once we were there, I hesitated, wondering if I should
go on to the Putnams’ and stop back here on the way home, or stop now. In the end, the decision was made for me, and that,
too, was fortuitous, because I’d been leaning toward going on. But Mistress Walcott saw us coming up the hill and waved to
us from the garden, where she was clearing away the last of the dead vines.

“Come along,” I said to Jude with a sigh. “We may as well go up. She’s seen us.”

Jude’s face scrunched in a puzzled frown. “Isn’t this where we’re going anyway?”

I didn’t bother to answer her. Jude was not good at keeping secrets—I would not have brought her at all except that I did
not want her around Susannah. I’d been planning to keep her quiet with my best dire threats, but now there was no need of
it. Because as we went up the hill, Mary came out from the house. I stopped in surprise, catching my breath and then nearly
falling to my knees to praise God for making it all so easy. ’Twas as if He were pointing my direction. “Charity!” Mary called
out, raising her hand in greeting, and I hurried the few yards to where she stood. I was breathless when I reached her.

There must have been something in my expression, for her smile faded, and her hazel eyes darkened. “Why, what is it?”

“I’ve been looking for you,” I said in a low voice.

“I’ve been up at the sergeant’s. You knew that.”

“’Tis hard for me to get there.”

“And hard for me to leave.” She glanced toward her stepmother, who was straightening and wiping her dirty hands on her apron.
“Mother asked me over today to help with the preserving.”

There was an edge in her voice when she said this, a slight resentment, and I knew it was because Mary disliked her stepmother.
I don’t think she had ever forgiven the woman for sending her out to the Putnams’, though ’twas a natural choice, because
Mary’s own mother was long dead and her stepfather had no reason to want the child of his first wife around. Mistress Walcott’s
brother was Thomas Putnam, who had many children and a sickly wife. He needed the help, while Mistress Walcott did not—she
had Mary’s four half siblings there to help with her own infants.

Mistress Walcott called out, “Thank goodness you’re here already, Charity. I’ve needed that pail for days now.”

“Father just finished it this morning,” I called back. Then I nudged Jude and told her, “Don’t just stand there. Take it over
to her.”

I waited until Jude had gone out of earshot, and then I turned to Mary. “Can you talk a moment?”

She sent a glance to her stepmother, then nodded. “Come inside. I’ve jelly ready to boil.” She called out, “Mother! Charity’s
asked for some cider!”

“She’s come a long way. Set some out for this little one too!” Mistress Walcott called back.

I followed Mary into the house. The hall was sweaty and warm, with the tang of cranberries and sugar making my mouth water
as I stepped inside. The kettle was hissing over the fire, and Mary hurried over to it with a sound of distress, and then
calmed when she saw it was not boiling. She took a long-handled spoon and stirred it, and the steam rose into her face and
sent the fine hairs peeking from beneath her cap twining into little curls. I had the small, envious thought that she was
so pretty that even the damp flush on her face was sweet.

Sweetness was a word that did not keep when it came to Mary. My thought vanished the moment she turned to me with her assessing,
slanty eyes and her thin-lipped frown. “All right, then, we’ve only a few minutes. What do you want? This isn’t about the
other day, is it? What have you done, Charity? Gone and told someone?”

“No. No, of course not. I gave my word.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve broken it.”

I was stung by her scorn. “Not this time.”

“Then what?”

“It—it’s about my aunt.”

“Your aunt?” She looked surprised. “What have I to do with her?”

“You were right about her,” I said breathlessly, glancing toward the door to make sure no one came in. “I think she is an
actress.”

“Really?” Mary drew herself up with a smug, triumphant little smile. “I knew it. Does your father know too, then?”

“I don’t think so. ’Tis what worries me.”

“Why, I’m amazed. I wouldn’t have thought he would miss such a thing.” She paused, and then she laughed in great amusement.
“But then, he didn’t even know his own daughter was playing the trull with his apprentice—”

“Mary!” Mary was rarely so coarse.

“I’m only complimenting you, Charity. When you feel like keeping a secret, ’tis true you keep it well.”

“It…I never meant for that to be a secret.”

“No, of course not. Did you not wonder, Charity, why Sammy wanted you to keep it so? I would have thought he would court you
openly instead of stealing your virtue in a barn.”

I wanted to sink through the floor at the loudness of her voice, at the things she was saying. I said in a hoarse whisper,
“Not so loud, Mary. What if someone should hear?”

She shrugged. “No one is near enough to hear us.”

“If they should come through the door—”

“Tell me, Charity—” Mary leaned as close to me as she could while still stirring the jelly. “Those things that Sammy wanted
you to do…Did you do them? Did he like it?” She lifted her fine brows suggestively.

I wanted to squirm away from her; I was sorry I’d come. The things she said brought memories so clearly into my head that
the sharpness of them hurt. I was sure she must be able to see in my eyes the things Sammy and I had done, the things she
knew he had urged me to do, because I had gone to her for counsel. Mary had gleefully encouraged me to give in to him.
If you love him, Charity, you’ll do whatever he asks. Do you want to lose him to someone who can satisfy him that way when
you will not?

I made myself turn away, and Mary laughed and said, “It’s just that I’m jealous, Charity. We all are. Why, except for Mercy,
you’re the only one of us who’s felt a man’s touch.”

“I would not have done it had you not advised me to,” I said. My voice was so thin it seemed to disappear into the hiss of
steam from the pot.

“But you were glad of it, weren’t you? You would do it again if you could.”

“No.” I shook my head violently. “No, I wouldn’t.”

“If Sammy came back into town—”

“He won’t be back.”

“He won’t?” She paused. I felt her looking at me with that thoughtful stare, though I did not dare look back to her. “How
do you know that?”

“I-I don’t…really,” I lied.

“You mean…one morning you woke up, and he was gone. He just…disappeared into the night. Is that the truth of it, then?”

“That’s the truth of it,” I told her.

I don’t know if Mary saw that lie too. I don’t know what she saw. All I know is that she left the long-handled wooden spoon
spinning in the jelly, and stepped over to me, putting her steam-hot hand on my arm so it nearly burned my cold skin. The
empathy in her face was such that I forgot the meanness of the other things she’d said to me.

“Oh, my poor Charity,” she said. “What sorrow his leaving must have brought you. No wonder you did not want anyone to know—why,
he used you and left you, and what else is there for you to do but wonder how you displeased him?”

“Aye,” I managed to choke out, because in a way that was true enough. It had not taken much to make Sammy go. Not nearly as
much as I’d hoped it would.

“Well, I won’t say a word,” she whispered. “It will be our little secret. But you must promise to do something for me.”

I drew back, wary again. “What?”

“That red paragon bodice your aunt was wearing at meeting. Can you get it for me?”

“What?”

“Can you get me the bodice?”

“You…you don’t mean…steal it?”

“No, you silly widgeon. I don’t want you to steal it. Just…Could you borrow it? For a night, ’tis all. There’s a man—”

“’Tis not mine to lend you, Mary.”

“Oh, don’t be so pious. It’s not as if you wouldn’t borrow it yourself if you had the chance. If Sammy were still here…why,
you’d take it in a minute. Think how pretty you would look in it.”

“I wouldn’t take it.”

Mary’s eyes flared. “You know, Charity, sometimes you make me forget why I even like you. Mercy would do this. Betty borrowed
a lace cap just last week. But you…You think you’re so much better than the rest of us—”

“I don’t,” I protested. “I don’t think that.”

“Then prove it.”

“Mary, this isn’t fair.”

“It’s not as if I’m asking you to do something so terrible. Just borrow it for a night. I’ll return it to you the next day.
I promise it. She doesn’t even have to know.”

“’Twould be a sin to take it that way.”

“What’s one more to add to so many?” Mary smiled, but I saw the deliberation of it, and I knew I was losing her allegiance.

“I don’t want to borrow it,” I said desperately. “I don’t even want to touch it. She’s a wicked thing. Did you not hear me
before? She’s an actress, I know it. And the way she looks at me—why, ’tis as if the Devil in her is waiting to trap me. Yesterday,
I even saw—I think I saw…Mary…I…”

The kettle spat and bubbled up. Mary spun to look at it. With a small cry, she hurried over, grabbing up the spoon. The tendons
in her arm bulged and went taut as she tried to stir the boiling jelly down.

“Mary.” Mistress Walcott’s voice came from the doorway. I jumped at the sound, startled, and turned to see her. She smiled
at me and bustled inside, bringing Jude in with her. The wooden pail my father had made was filled with withered roots and
vines. “Don’t tell me you’ve left poor Charity standing all this time without her cider?” She set down her cuttings and went
to the tableboard to pour Jude and me a tankard.

She passed it to me first. I wasn’t thirsty—my stomach was in such knots I wasn’t sure I could drink it without vomiting,
but I managed a few gulps before I handed it to my little sister. Mistress Walcott helped Mary lug the kettle off the fire.
When Mary spilled jelly as she tried to pour it into the crocks assembled on the table, her stepmother grabbed the ladle from
her hand.

“You graceless girl,” she scolded. “Do something useful now—go upstairs and bring that cloth I’d saved to give to Charity’s
mother. Go on now.”

Mary’s face was sullen, but she hurried to do as her stepmother bade her. When she came downstairs again bearing a square
of folded cloth tied with twine, I took it from her without catching her eye and bade farewell to Mistress Walcott.

“Mary will show you out,” she said. “Thank your father for the Fine pail. He’s to be praised for such work.”

I did not want Mary to show us to the door. I knew she would ask again about the bodice, and I did not know what to do. I
felt the favor hovering between us, and I knew it for the test it was. I could not think of a way to escape it. When we got
to the door, Jude went ahead, and I tried to say my good-byes hastily. Mary grabbed my elbow and pulled me back before I could,
and whispered, “Remember what I said. Bring it to me next Monday.”