Her Wicked Sin (15 page)

Chapter Fifteen

Henry’s eyes watered from the tavern’s foul air. He found tolerable the overwhelming scents of alcohol and tobacco smoke, but the added stench of waste and filth turned his stomach. Knowing Lydia was shut in the deeper bowls of this horrid place made him want to tear down the walls in search of her, but Henry forced himself still. The situation was largely static, so there was little to be gained without forethought.

Lost in deliberations, Henry had not noticed the man who took the neighboring seat until the man spoke. Casually, he said, “Hear they arrested another one.”

Henry, still in Andrew’s well-worn clothing, nodded. “So they have.”

The man signaled for a drink and tapped the bar while he waited. “Good to clear the street of witches,” he said. “Terrible, the effect on those kids.”

The man spoke of Henry’s wife. Of her
honor
. Henry’s head began to throb under his borrowed felt hat, but he kept his frustrations to himself.

The stranger picked up the drink delivered by the barman and took from it a long pull. “And to rid the town of their families, all the better.”

This drew Henry’s attention. “What do you mean?”

After another swill, the man looked to Henry and answered. “If the prisoner does not confess, the next pursuit is to torture the family. Their admission is as good as that of the accused, and their money spends well.”

Henry’s hand clenched around his cup. Mindful of Lydia’s dislike of the drink, he only held it as a matter of circumstance but now felt compelled to take a hearty swig. When he brought down the cup, the man’s eyes were fixed on Henry’s face.

“Are you ailing?” the stranger asked. “You do not look well.”

Henry judged the man’s manner of speech and the good condition of his garments and determined he was not likely a drunkard. “Are you a physician?” Henry asked.

“More of an apprentice. I have accompanied Griggs, who was called upon to examine the Abbot children.”

“Did he determine they were afflicted?”

The man nodded. “Possessed by the devil himself. And it was the physician charged.”

“Griggs?”

“No, no. The woman physician of Salem. Colson, it is.”

Though he knew already of the answer, the mention of Lydia’s name seized Henry’s chest. He adjusted his hat in hopes of hiding his lack of indifference.

“She denounced upon her arrest,” the man continued, “but she will confess. The families are treated almost as badly as the prisoners. Confession is an act of mercy for all involved.”

It was the man’s second reference to the treatment of families. Though gossip of Lydia’s husband’s return had surely expounded, few of Salem’s residents had actually met Henry, and it began to sound as if this was a blessing. “Forgive me, for I am not familiar with the trials. What becomes of the families?”

The physician’s assistant looked fully at Henry before turning to see to his drink. “When prisoners cannot pay their costs, the families are expected to procure the funds. If they cannot pay, they are pursued until the funds are secured.”

“But shamed?”

“Yes. Great shame is earned by the association. It has always been the case, but particularly so with witches. Relations are beaten just as the prisoners, as a confession from one is as good as the other.” He paused for another swallow of his drink, then cast an appraising eye over Henry. “But for a pound, you can procure a day’s visit. Might be good to talk the witch into a confession. Save the…family some grief.”

The man’s strange tone lent Henry pause. Was he recognized? If so, was he known as Lydia’s husband or as the son of John Dunham, one of the wealthiest shipbuilders in all of New England? Unsure, Henry took the side of denial. “A pound!” He forced a dark laugh. “No witch is worth a fee.”

His companion cast a glance over his shoulder, appearing to seek someone, before returning his attention to Henry. “To a husband, perhaps.”

Henry snorted. “What man would lay claim to an association so shameful? Is it not a reason to disavow the union?”

The man stared long and hard. After another glance over his shoulder, he leaned close. “Is that what you plan to do, Mister Dunham? Disavow your wife?”

Henry jerked as if stung. Too late, he tried to control his response. “You are well mistaken, Good Sir.”

“There is a man who differs in opinion, though he appears to have moved on this night.”

Henry straightened. “What man?”

The stranger’s brow lifted. Surprise touched his features. “You offer no denial?”

“There is nothing to deny. I am but a traveler, and no less wary of witches than any of the townsmen who live among them. Who has told you otherwise?”

“As I said, he appears to have moved on. He was able to offer great detail of you, however.”

“Describe him.”

The stranger looked on, wordlessly.

“Was he of fallow hair?” Henry asked, his tone growing urgent. “With an arm of little use?”

Slow acknowledgment crept across his companion’s face. “It seems he may know of you after all. Is it true, then? You are of the Dunham line?”

“Henry!”

Lydia
. Stunned, he turned to see her in the hall, her clothing disheveled and her hair wild about her face. He nearly crumbled at the sight of her, but he fought to harden his features. If his companion’s precautions were true, claiming Lydia could only hurt her. But he could not ignore her freely, so he dipped his head in slight acknowledgment and lifted his drink as cries of “Witch!” broke out among the men packing the tavern.

From the corner of his eye, he saw a constable grab her and drag her into the depths of the prison. Never had Henry felt such pain in denial, but he could not help her without his freedom, and he knew not what confines he would face in admitting his position as her husband. Anonymity could be a blessing for them both, but it came at a terrible cost.

And he would make it right.

Through the din of drunkards, he turned to the stranger. “Do you know where this man has gone?”

“If you are Dunham, worry not for this man. I saw how she looked at you. If you have indeed taken her as your wife, your family’s name will soon be in shambles, and the business will follow. The best thing you can do is rid yourself of all association of Salem and be on your way.”

Henry considered the stranger’s advice, weighing heavily the options handed him.

Robert was here, and he clearly knew of Henry’s life in Salem. Henry’s quest to find his brother could end here this night, but there was something far greater at stake.

Decision made, Henry pulled from his person a tidy sum. He shook the stranger’s hand, leaving the coin in the other man’s possession when he freed the grip.

The man looked to Henry in great surprise.

“Please,” Henry said. “Spread these rumors no more.”

“By now others may know, but not of my tongue.”

“Understood.” Henry clapped the man on the back. “Fare thee well.”

The stranger nodded and said nothing more, though his eyes were still upon Henry when he turned one last time to search the tavern for Robert. Seeing no sign of his brother, Henry touched his hat and left.

Ignoring the lingering pain in his knee, Henry grappled to Willard’s back and, once settled, turned several tight circles, the stallion fighting the whole time for control. Seeing no one he recognized, Henry released his hold on the stallion’s head. Willard leapt forward in an unrestrained gallop, his hoof beats eating up the road to Essex.

Henry did not look back.

…

Lydia could not remember more terrible days. Even in the time she had grown to fear her husband, she never had to face him long. He would stumble in late, drunk, and demand his evening meal. Some days he would use her and most he would beat her, but the drink rendered him without stamina. However brutal, the time would end.

Her time in the jail did not.

Her companion, who would not give her name, spoke little. When she did, she most often entered into strange claims and stories of interaction with the devil—stories she said with such conviction she must have believed every word.

Lydia was unsure what to make of the woman’s tales, but she did not voice her doubts. The validity notwithstanding, she found she rather enjoyed having something to hear beyond the scuffle of rats. Often she thought she might go mad, and when she thought herself familiar enough that she might distinguish one rat from another, she felt the threat of that dark edge under her feet.

Yet worse than being chained was when they would come for her. Though no one touched her intimately, the lewd grabs in the name of seeking a witch’s mark were endless. She had once again become the property of vile, disgusting sin, but as terrible as those unwanted attentions, her inability to forget Henry pained her more. He had cast her aside. Denounced her, and not for show, for he had not returned.

Lydia had been given no window for her examination before the judge, but only a few days passed before she was collected and taken to Ingersoll’s Tavern. It seemed a lifetime since she had told Henry of the trials beginning there. To be the center of one threatened to break her, but she held fast to her faith. Her life had not been without real trials, and she refused to succumb to the falsehood of this one. But never had she been so threatened with humiliation. It seemed the entire of Salem packed the tavern or spilled outward into the street, and every man, woman, and child seemed to stare her way. Some wore expressions of curiosity, others wholly of disgust. Lydia kept her spine straight and her head high. Their opinions would not change her.

Once inside, Lydia was taken aside and examined once again for the witch’s mark, this time by Goodwife Ingersoll, whose husband owned the establishment. The Goodwife reported no findings of a mark, an opinion contrary to those of her jailers but a relief all the same. When returned to the big, crowded room she found the eldest Abbot girl under examination by the judge.

“Abigail Abbot, what say thou? Hath thou seen this woman Lydia Colson hurt thou?”

Abigail looked firmly upon the crowd, eyes bright and wide. “Yes. This very morn she came to beat me for my words here today.”

Gasps and murmurs erupted.

“I was in jail this morning!” Lydia cried. “She cannot be believed!”

The judge slammed a gavel upon his desk, sending the room into silence. “Thou will not speak unless spoken to, Goodwife.”

Cries of “Witch!” spilled forth from the crowd, necessitating in another round of bangs from the judge.

“Silence,” he demanded. “Lest ye be removed with haste from this room!” Turning again to Abigail, he said, “She came to thou this morn?”

“Witnessed by my sisters. All of us—Mary, Susannah, Deliverance, and myself—saw her specter and were brought to pain from torment.”

In this instance, Susannah, who was of about nine years, arched her back and screamed in pain. Shortly thereafter, Deliverance, who of about seven years was the youngest, fell to the floor and began to writhe. If she made a sound, it was not to be heard over the din.

The judge slammed the wood slab with his gavel and turned to Lydia. “Goodwife Colson, here are four of the affected. Abigail Abbot testifies to your damage of her. What doeth thou say?”

Lydia sat straight and true. Speaking clearly, she said, “I state before my eternal witness and all those present, I am innocent of these charges.”

“She rides the devil’s horse!” came a voice from the crowd.

“Where is her husband? Even he denounces the witch!” cried another.

A man came forward from the rest.

“What say ye, Goodman Putnam?” asked the judge.

Putnam was the name of the babe Lydia had seen to the night she met Henry. Upon closer inspection, she recognized him to be the drunkard husband, father of baby James and young Constance who had come alongside Rebecca Mather to fetch Lydia.

“The witch came in my house. Settled the babe when ‘is own mother could not stop his cries. E’r since, I have been wracked with ails.”

Lydia bit her tongue, lest she inform the misbegotten drunk he brought forth his own ailments.

The judge again addressed Lydia. “Goodman Putnam brings forth credible information. As physician, thou hast treated the babe in question?”

“I did treat the babe, James Putnam, while Goodman Putnam laid stricken drunk alongside the far wall. He and I shared no communication that night nor any other. I am innocent of his accusations.”

“Thou admits affecting the babe?”

“I
treated
the babe. I advised his mother such a way to calm him, as is my duty as a physician.”

“Thou see and hear those who accuse thou. Are these accusations true?”

Before Lydia could utter her rejection, the youngest Abbot girl, Deliverance, put forth a loathsome scream. Again, the room erupted into outbursts.

This time Lydia raised her voice and cried out among them. “These accusations are unfounded and untrue!”

The judge banged the gavel. “Doest thou practice this witchcraft?”

She waited until the noise died. “I do not.”

“She meets a man in finery! A stranger in the night, he comes with his book and his big black horse the likes of which Salem has ne’er seen.”

From the crowd, one cried, “The horse… I have seen it. It is true! Oh, help save us from this witch!”

At the accusation, the children again fell into fits.

Lydia threw her hands up in disbelief.

The wails increased.

The judge again banged his gavel. Over the din, he announced, “Doest thou see what thou hath done? Doest thou see the affected?”

Rebecca Mather stepped forward, and in her cold demeanor the room quickly fell to silence. “She has affected my husband with her treacherous ways.”

Lydia’s breath caught. Would Rebecca dare accuse her husband of adultery right here in this forum as she had in private? The damage, once applied, would not be undone.

The other woman held court, every eye in the tavern upon her. “She has hurt us greatly, and without cause or reason. She is a ruinous witch without conscience. Look at how she lies steadfast to your face. To all of us!”