For a Lifetime

13

GRACE

JUNE 10, 1692

SALEM VILLAGE

Everything about today was somber. The weather, with gray clouds and cool temperatures. The ordinary, which had returned to its regular flow of customers since the grand jury had convened in Salem Towne and most of the accused were now in prison there. And my heart, which was heavy with the knowledge that the first person was being hanged on Gallows Hill this morning.

I stayed in the kitchen for most of the day, not wanting to hear the rumors and gossip in the dining room. I had baked all morning, and now our larder was full of pies, breads, cakes, and doughnuts. It was the only way I knew to keep my mind and hands occupied while Hope cleaned upstairs.

“’Tis done,” Susannah said as she entered the kitchen. She removed her steeple-crowned hat, having just returned from Salem Towne to watch the hanging. “The witch is dead.”

I swallowed the bile that rose in my throat and looked away from the gleam of triumph in Susannah’s eyes.

“What say you?” Susannah asked as she held her hat and stared at me. “Did you wish her to live and continue tormenting the afflicted?”

I had learned to guard my words, knowing that anything could be taken out of context or used against me, especially with Susannah’s accusations about my mother hanging over my head. “I wish that none of this had happened.”

“Bridget Bishop hath been a plague on this community for years.” Susannah took one of the sweet biscuits I had made earlier that morning and began to nibble on it. “She should have been convicted and hanged years ago when she was first accused, and mayhap none of this would have happened, as you said.”

I was preparing pottage for supper and had a small mound of root vegetables on the cutting board. I continued to cut the carrots, using my chore as an excuse not to engage with Susannah.

The testimonies and evidence against Bridget Bishop were ludicrous—no matter how long she had been a quarrelsome woman in the community.

A new form of physical evidence had been brought into the proceedings called the touch test. When one of the afflicted was in a state of agitation, the court would order the accused—in this case, Bridget—to touch them. If the touch calmed the afflicted person, it meant that Bridget had power over them—thus proving she was a witch.

Worse, the afflicted were now showing physical signs of torture. Bite marks, bruises, and pins stuck into their skin started to miraculously appear in court. Even John Indian cried out with bite marks on his body during questionings.

I recalled the words of the magistrates in the ordinary months ago.

“It will be hard to convince a jury without physical evidence,” Magistrate Corwin had said to John Hathorne and Father. But Hathorne had replied, “Do not fear. We will uncover the devil in each of them and have an abundance of evidence for the jury when the time comes.”

They were so convinced that the devil was at work in the village that they were willing to see what they wanted to see. They wanted to rid witchcraft from New England and truly believed they had found the center of activity. In their minds, if they could purify the village, no matter how long it took, they might eradicate witchcraft once and for all.

“Goodman Abbott hath not been here for several days,” Susannah said as she continued to nibble the biscuit, changing the subject.

What could I say? Isaac hadn’t been here, which made me wonder if he was in Sandwich. His spring planting would be done by now, and at any moment I anticipated his return. Would he have news of our mother?

“I haven’t discerned whether his interest lies in you or in Hope.”

I finally looked up at Susannah, meeting her calculating gaze. Was she trying to befriend me? Gossiping like she would with one of her friends or cousins? Or was she trying to use me to get information?

“And I haven’t figured out whether you’re in love with him or not,” she continued.

“Isaac is an old friend,” I said with a shrug, trying to be nonchalant. “He’s very dear to both Hope and me.”

“Men and women cannot be friends,” she retorted. “One or the other is usually in love.”

I wanted to deny her comment—but it was true. At least in this case.

Susannah leaned forward and said, “I think you are in love with Isaac.” A half smile tilted her lips. “I know how you can win him over. The same way I won your father’s hand.”

Her words jarred me, so I moved away to retrieve the large pot I would need to make the stew. “I don’t want to win Isaac,” I said, trying to make it obvious that I didn’t want her advice.

Where was Hope? She’d gone upstairs at least an hour ago. If she were here, Susannah wouldn’t be bothering me. The two rarely stayed in the same room together.

“You lie.” Susannah chuckled as she brushed the crumbs from her hands onto my worktable. “Get Isaac alone and show him you love him. Do whatever it takes to secure his offer of marriage. No man can refuse physical attention—especially if he believes it will continue once the marriage vows are spoken.” That smile of hers returned as she laid her hand on her womb in a motherly gesture.

I briefly closed my eyes as I grasped the handle of the pot and let out a breath.

“There will be a babe come December,” she continued. “I pray a male heir to carry on Uriah’s name and business.”

Susannah was going to have a baby—my sibling. At the age of twenty-four, I hadn’t expected to have another brother or sister. But I wouldn’t be here when the child was born, so it mattered little to me.

“If Isaac is not to your liking,” she said, “I know of other men who would be interested in your hand. I can arrange things if you’d like. You’re old but not beyond child-bearing years.”

“What would you do if we married and left the ordinary?” Hope asked from the stairs leading up to our rooms. She paused, ice in her gaze as she stared at Susannah. “Who would cook and clean for you?”

Susannah’s shoulders stiffened at Hope’s arrival, and she lifted her chin. “Leah doth a fine job, and there are others your father can hire, girls and boys who need a home and work.”

“Leah.” Hope practically snorted. “She’s a hard worker, but I scarcely think she could manage this ordinary. One must be able to speak to customers.”

Susannah moved closer to Hope, her eyes narrowing. “Leah and I have grown much closer than you realize. She confides in me—talks to me all the time.”

“You lie,” Hope said, though I could tell she was trying to gauge whether Susannah was bluffing. “Leah speaks to no one.”

One corner of Susannah’s lips rose, and she shook her head. “You haven’t realized yet the power I hold over this house. Or mayhap you have, and you’re lying to yourself. A few well-placed trinkets and kind words are all it took for Leah to start speaking to me.”

Susannah turned and looked at me near the worktable. “You’ll both be surprised to learn what Leah hath told me—though I’m sure you can guess. Time will tell how I might use the information to my benefit.”

With that, she left the kitchen.

Hope scowled as she came down the rest of the steps and dropped her cleaning bucket and rags in the corner of the kitchen. “If anyone is a witch, ’tis her.”

“Hope,” I said in a warning voice, “she’s pregnant.”

Hope’s eyes widened, and then she rolled them. “Another thing she can hold over Father.”

“She has plenty already. Do you believe Leah has spoken to her?”

“No.” Hope shook her head adamantly. “She’s only bluffing to control us with fear.”

“I pray you’re right.” I handed her a plate with a slice of dried apple pie. “Will you take this to Father? He’s in the dining room.”

Without a word, Hope took the plate from me and left the kitchen.

I began to assemble the stew and was lost in the work when Hope reappeared.

“Father is speaking with Sarah Churchill.” She set down a cup harder than necessary. “Why is Sarah here? And why is she speaking with Father?”

I wiped my hands on my apron and left the kitchen to see for myself. As surreptitiously as possible, I peeked around the door and saw Sarah Churchill sitting at a table in the corner with Father. Susannah had joined them. They were speaking in low tones as Father passed a coin to Sarah, who nodded.

Quickly, I went back into the kitchen before they saw me.

Sarah was in her early twenties and was another refugee from Maine. She had been working for George Jacobs, Sr., when she had been overcome with spasms and torments. Goodman Jacobs had reportedly beat the affliction out of her, and she had recovered. Just like Mary Warren, the afflicted girls had then turned on Sarah and accused her of witchcraft. And just like Mary, Sarah had a change of heart and became afflicted again—this time accusing Goodman Jacobs of being a witch.

What was she doing with Father? And why had he given her money?

“I don’t like this,” Hope said as she shook her head.

“Nor I, especially after what Susannah said about Leah.” Unlike Hope, I wasn’t so sure that Susannah was lying.

Leah had said nothing to Hope or I since the night Ann Pudeator had come—but that didn’t mean she wasn’t talking to Susannah or Father. Ann had been arrested once and questioned, then let go because of lack of evidence.

I prayed she wouldn’t be arrested again.

Evening had fallen, and with it, a storm had arrived, shaking the windows in the ordinary. The taproom was full of people who had come to get the latest news about Bridget Bishop’s hanging. John was back, pouring drinks and telling everyone what he knew about the grand jury trials. He had been called as a witness in several of the cases. His wife, Tituba, was being held in the Boston prison, and there was no talk about her going to trial yet. Only those who claimed innocence were being tried. Those, like Tituba and Abigail Hobbs, who admitted to their allegiance with the devil, were left alone in the gaol. It appeared the magistrates believed they could rehabilitate those who were willing to confess and were not as concerned with them as they were with those they believed to be guilty and lying about their innocence.

I stayed in the kitchen, sewing a torn seam in one of my aprons, since my other work was done for the day. The food had been served, the pots and pans and dishes had been washed, and I would not be needed again tonight. Leah was in the taproom, helping John.

Hope sat near the hearth, reading her Bible, a contemplative look on her face. Despite all the authoritarian rules, the elders encouraged everyone to read the Bible for themselves. There was no other time in history with a better literacy rate than in Puritan Massachusetts for that very reason.

I loved that Hope was searching for answers, trying to understand. But I worried that she was floundering, like a wave tossed in the ocean, uncertain what to believe. If I knew anything about the nature of God, it was that He was a solid rock, a firm foundation to build upon. I hoped she would gain that same understanding. I longed to ask if she wanted to talk about her questions, but I didn’t know if I had the answers she needed. Her journey with God was unique and personal—and unlike my Puritan elders, I did not think I could force her to accept what I believed.

The wind picked up, howling like a wild animal around the eaves of the ordinary. I glanced out the window and shivered, grateful for the safety and warmth of our little kitchen—though some of the afflicted had told Susannah that there were specters all around the ordinary. One of the local boys had even tried to defend Abigail Williams when she came to visit Susannah, drawing his rapier to attack the specter of George Burroughs in the taproom. It was getting harder and harder to believe the whole thing was foolishness. Though I knew some were using the witch trials for nefarious reasons, there were others who were genuinely plagued by mental and emotional turmoil.

A light rapping sounded at the back door, causing both Hope and I to glance up.

I set my sewing aside and rose on unsteady legs. I had been hoping and praying that Isaac would return. Was this him now?

Opening the door, I found him standing in the pouring rain, his clothing soaked through and his hat misshapen. He removed it and placed it over his chest—and he’d never looked dearer to me than in that moment. His eyes shone with warmth, even if he was freezing.

“How do you fare, Grace?” he asked with a broad smile.

“I am happy now.” I pulled him into the warm kitchen, shaking my head. “Why have you come on a night such as this?”

“To bring good cheer.”

Hope rose, setting her Bible on the chair, a smile on her lips.

“Good evening, Hope,” Isaac said, nodding in her direction.

“Good evening,” she responded, giving him her full attention.

It was the first time in years that Hope had seemed happy about Isaac’s appearance. Both he and I paused for a second, and I suspected that he noticed the change, too.

“Here,” Hope said as she moved her Bible to the worktable and pushed her high-backed chair closer to the fire. “Warm yourself while I get you something to eat and drink.”

Isaac took a seat on the chair. He watched as she went about the work of preparing a meal for him, pleasure on his face.

I stood back for a moment, frowning slightly. What had changed? Why was Hope so attentive to our old friend? It was I who usually waited on him.

I grabbed a linen cloth for him to towel off his hands and face, though he would have to sit in his wet clothes until he could get home to change.

He took the cloth and wiped his face before saying, “I have just now returned from Sandwich with news that will encourage you.”

Hope paused and turned from the plate she was preparing—her gaze catching mine.

I swallowed the nerves that bubbled up as I pulled a chair nearer the fire to sit beside him. “And?”

He glanced at Hope. “I’ll wait until you’re both ready.”

Hope finished the plate and poured a cup of mulled cider for him before joining us at the hearth. She handed the meal to him and pulled a chair over for herself.

“What did you learn?” she asked, leaning in, speaking in hushed tones.

He set his cup on the floor and balanced the plate on his lap. When he met my gaze, and then Hope’s, he smiled. “Your mother’s family is alive and well—and there are many of them.”

I briefly closed my eyes as I leaned back in my chair, thanking God that we might have answers. Finally.

“I met your mother’s sister, Pricilla Baker, and she was eager to learn about you both. She said that all these years, she hath wondered where you were.”

“She didn’t know our father?” I frowned. “How could that be?”

Isaac shrugged and shook his head. He hadn’t touched the food on his plate yet.

“Are they still Quakers?” Hope asked.

“Yes. The whole family, as far as I can tell.” He slipped his hand under his doublet and pulled out an envelope. “Your aunt sent this letter for you.”

He wasn’t sure who to hand it to, so I took it.

“They are eager to meet you,” Isaac continued. “I’m sure your aunt will tell you everything in her letter.”

Hope rose from her chair and came to stand behind me as I broke open the seal. Isaac began to eat his meal as I gingerly unfolded the damp piece of paper, my heart beating so fast that I put my hand over my chest.

“Shall I read it out loud?” I asked Hope.

“No. I don’t want anyone to hear. I can read it from here.”

I lifted the paper to the light from the fire so we could both read.

Dearly Beloved Girls,

I cannot tell ye how surprised and pleased I am that Goodman Abbott hath brought word that ye live. It is a long-held prayer answered, and we are giving glory to God Almighty for this blessing. I am certain ye have a lot of questions, and I pray I can answer them. But I am afraid I cannot say everything I want in this letter.

My desire is that ye know that thou art loved and thought of often by everyone in our family. When Tacy married, she left our lives completely. We did not know who she had married or where she had gone, and when she came back to us, with ye in hand, we were so happy to see her, we did not demand answers she was unwilling to give.

Ye cannot imagine our sorrow when Tacy was hanged in Boston, nor our mourning when we learned that her husband had taken ye away. We had no right to claim ye, and no way to know where ye had gone.

Ye can imagine that we have many questions, as well. Questions I cannot ask in this letter. I have spoken to Goodman Abbott and have arranged a time to come to Salem Village. Ye have a cousin who lives in Salem Towne, though she hath left our family much like Tacy did, and we have not spoken to her in two years. I long to see all my nieces when I come, so I shall be in touch with Goodman Abbott as the day draws near. We will not tell ye the time since we understand the danger besetting ye. When the day comes, Goodman Abbott will see that we are reunited.

Pray, thank Goodman Abbott for his loving kindness. If it had not been for him, I am not sure we would know if ye were still alive. He is a truly good man.

With all my love,

Aunt Pricilla

I lowered the letter, but Hope must not have been done, because she took it out of my hands and brought it to her chair on the other side of Isaac. When she finished, she looked up at me, and then at Isaac.

“Thank you,” she said, laying her hand on his arm. “This means so much to Grace and me.”

He put his hand over hers, warmth in his gaze. “I was happy to meet your mother’s kin. They are a pleasing family—you look like them.”

Hope smiled as she removed her hand.

“I think we should burn the letter,” I told her. “It wouldn’t do if someone found it.”

Nodding, she leaned forward and put the letter into the flames. “Is there nothing more you can tell us?” she asked Isaac.

He shook his head. “I fear not. Pricilla and I agreed that it would be best for you not to know the hour of her arrival. I will come for you on that day, and you can meet at my home.”

“We are grateful for your help,” I told him. “If there is anything we can do for you, please let us know.”

He moved his leftover stew around his plate with the fork, then looked up at me. “I require nothing from you.”

When he looked at Hope, his expression changed, and the longing in his gaze was so keen, so heartbreaking, I rose from my chair to busy myself with gathering more wood for the fire.

My pulse thrummed as I waited for him to speak, but silence filled the room. When I finally looked back, he was handing his empty plate to Hope.

“Thank you for the food. It was delicious,” he said as he lifted his cup and drank the cider.

“Grace prepared it.” She smiled at me. “She’s the best cook in the colony.”

Isaac glanced my way. “Thank you, Grace.” He stood. “I must return home and change out of these wet clothes.”

He said farewell and left the ordinary, walking through the rain and darkness to his horse, tethered nearby.

I closed the door and turned to Hope. “What was that?”

She brought Isaac’s plate and cup to the bucket of water on the worktable to rinse them. “What?”

“Your behavior toward Isaac—you were kind.”

She frowned as she wiped the plate with a linen rag. “I’m not usually kind?”

“Hope.” I stood with my hands on the back of the chair I had been sitting in. “You know what I mean.”

She set the plate and cup on the worktable and turned to me, leaning against it. After sighing, she said, “I realized that I’ve been unfair to Isaac. I have no reason to treat him poorly.”

“What brought this realization about?”

She lifted a shoulder and moved her chair back to the table. “A lot of things.”

“Have your feelings toward him changed?” I held my breath, wondering what she was thinking.

“I do not love him, if that’s what you mean. But we have such little time left here. Why continue to be unkind to someone who has been a good friend?”

I nodded, though I was still leery of her motive. I wasn’t sure what had caused Hope’s change of heart, but I prayed she would continue being thoughtful toward him. He deserved all the kindness we could give him.

If it wasn’t for him, we wouldn’t know our mother’s name or her family. We wouldn’t know that she had been hanged for being a Quaker and not for being accused of witchcraft.

And soon we would know much more.