Her Wicked Sin (16 page)

Lydia stared onward. “Our eternal Father knows my truth.”

“Many have witnessed thy consort with the devil and his horse. The effects cannot be denied!”

“There has been no consort to witness,” Lydia insisted. “The horse is a fine animal, but of common flesh and blood. No devil’s creature. You cannot see the truth for the lies.”

“I cannot see all,” said the judge. “This is true. But the evidence is plentiful. Thou hast cast terrible pain over these children and people of Salem. Thou are resolved with familiar spirits. They are there now, with thy body, but seek others in their spirit form. It is thou who casts them to do harm, and thou who feeds these familiars from thy guilty hand. What defense doest thee have?”

Lydia swallowed her growing frustration and unease. “I have none but my word.”

“The word of a witch is worth little. Confess thy misdeeds and give glory to thy heavenly Father so thou may be forgiven for thy sins.”

The words rang true enough for the murder for which she privately acknowledged guilt, but she would not acquiesce to witchcraft. Of that, she remained innocent. “I am not guilty of the sin of witchcraft. I have nothing to confess.”

“Have thou temptations into witchcraft? Do you court familiars and wish harm upon others?”

“I do not.”

To that, Rebecca’s eyes narrowed and her lips widened into a dark smile. “To think, we welcomed her among us as neighbors. Confided our ailments and trusted her hand. The hand of a witch! Allowed into our lives and our church!”

At this profession, a great number of the observant fell into crisis, screaming and floundering.

“Tell us, doest thou not witness this?” the judge asked.

“I see their loss of control, though verily I am not the cause.”

“Do you suggest they feign their injuries?”

“They are of their own bodies and minds.”

“The physician Griggs has examined the Abbot children and determined there is an evil hand upon them. That they are possessed by the devil himself. Doest thou dispute his findings?”

“If he finds possession, it is not of my hand.”

“Doest thou testify these children act and suffer against their wills?”

Lydia raised her hands, frustrated for the redundancy of the exam. “As I have stated, I do not know why they do what they do.” But her words were buried under another round of the children’s fits and screams.

“Thou have eyes upon them. Doest thou believe they are affected by witchcraft?”

“No. I believe no such thing.”

“Perchance thy heart is good, but thy spirit along with thy familiars taunt these children. In such that thy apparition has been witnessed and is guilty, and thereby are thou.”

In the moment required for the words to sink in, Lydia stared at the faces—so many of them once friends—that filled the crowded room. She could not fault them for not coming forward to claim her innocence, for with that simple act, they too would be jailed. And then the weight of the judge’s decree landed on her shoulders, and she whipped her head ‘round to protest his condemnation.

Within seconds, the so-called afflicted mimicked her motion, jerking their heads and screaming.

“The evidence,” the judge said with a grand gesturing of his arms, “seethes from every corner of this room. Thou are decreed a witch, Lydia Colson, and sent to jail until such time as you are escorted to the gallows.”

Chapter Sixteen

Though Henry had traveled extensively and for great lengths of time, never had home felt so very foreign. His family’s city mansion did not boast the great spread of the country estate, but the proximity to the shipbuilding business allowed his father to keep observation over the family trade. Meanwhile, Henry’s mother was in a far better position to court the socialites, who in turn had paraded their patrician daughters for Henry’s inspection. The practice was a farce—it wasn’t as if Henry was to have a choice in his pairing—but it had mattered a great deal to his mother, so he had endured.

The news of his marriage, sent by courier, had surely come as a slight, if not a blow, and he did not look forward to her disappointment, but his parents of all people should understand. His mother had not come from wealth. In fact, she was near penniless when her first husband—Robert’s father—had died. Though no one felt the story any of Henry’s business, curiosity and a bit of snooping lent him enough snippets over the years to harbor some understanding of what had preceded his birth.

After the loss of Robert’s sisters, Robert’s father had descended with his grief into a downward spiral. He made a number of foolish business decisions that had left Henry’s mother in financial ruin, and it was then, in her most desperate time, that Henry’s father had fallen to her charms. They had married quickly and without the approval of their families, but John Dunham—having expanded on his father’s business of timber and fur trade into shipbuilding—was a man wealthy in his own right. His father—Henry’s grandfather—could not remove him from an inheritance he had largely built.

Henry was not of the same fortune. Though he did own one modest property, he did not share his father’s drive for money above all else. It was not that he did not have the desire to grow his own wealth, but that he was fresh from his education and not yet willing to settle in a life predetermined by his father. The women who sought his hand seemed interested in little more than his station, and he found them in turn to be quite boring. It was no wonder Lydia had so enchanted him, for she was the first to look and truly see him rather than what she hoped he could afford her.

And he had left her. His chest ached with every thought of Lydia, but his abandonment was not in vain. John Dunham was a good friend of Massachusetts Bay Colony’s governor, Simon Bradstreet. Henry carried little doubt that word from the governor that the accused was of the Dunham family would remedy the unjust accusation. Henry counted that the shame warned by the physician’s assistant to Griggs would never come to fruition, for word of Henry’s marriage would certainly travel alongside news of Lydia’s freedom from the slanderous charges.

Upon arriving at the city house, Henry walked a tired but tenacious Willard through the narrow alley to the small day stable in the rear and handed the reins to a stable boy. As the young man saw to the horse, Henry exited the rear yard on foot and approached the house from the front, where he was immediately greeted by the house servant.

“Master Dunham,” the man known as Joseph said. “You have been well missed.”

Henry nodded. “As have you,” he said kindly. “Where might I find Mother?”

“Upstairs, bedridden to her quarters.”

Henry nodded his thanks. He had expected as much when she was not to be found in the parlor, which he could see clearly from the front hall. Henry ventured Lydia’s entire home would fit in his mother’s beloved parlor, but the thought did not turn his favor. Rather, as he glanced ‘round the opulent colonial home stretching an uncommon two floors overhead, he found he missed the cozy warmth of the single—though divided—room he had shared with Lydia.

He ascended the stairs to the second floor where his parents’ shared quarters were. There in the wide hall he met the maid, Elizabeth, who was most startled by his appearance. He held a finger to his lips, hoping she would ease in her recognition of him and maintain his surprise. “Is she well enough for a surprise?” he whispered.

Elizabeth nodded, beaming. “Use caution so you do not overly startle her,” she said, matching Henry’s quiet tones. “She will be most pleased to see you.”

“And where is Father?”

“He will return for supper.”

“Very well, then.” Henry nodded and finished the distance to his mother’s bedroom, whereupon he rapped lightly on the door. “Mother?”

Alice Dunham turned her head with shaky effort, though the moment her eyes fixed on Henry they turned wide with delight. “Is that you, son? Is my vision true?”

Henry entered and took a chair at his mother’s bedside. He reached for her and wrapped her fragile hand in a gentle grasp. “I have news, Mother.”

“You have found my Robert? Will I once again have my boys at my side?”

“Indeed, he is found. I will bring him to you, soon. But first there is something you must know.”

“What is it, child?”

“I have taken a wife. She is a physician and—”

“I hoped the message untrue. How could you have done this? You are not a rogue, Henry, but a man of fine manners and breeding.”

Henry chose not to take issue, for the argument mattered not. “She is lovely, Mother. You will adore her.”

“Please, then. Bring her in so I can meet her.”

“She is not here, but soon. Soon you will have Robert and perhaps even a grandchild to celebrate.”

“You have been gone but a few days.” Alice gave a tired, slow shake of her head. “How is it you have taken a wife with such haste? What are her lines?”

“Worry not, Mother. I love her and that is all that matters.”

“Your father will be loath to hear such things. Watch your tongue, for his desire is for a proper match.”

Henry leaned to kiss his mother on the forehead. “Then rest assured, Mother, for his desires have been properly met.”

…

Henry spent much of the afternoon reacquainting with his youngest siblings, each of whom met him with rowdy delight. He was subjected to news of their latest lessons and explorations, and in their never-ending childish spats he found a certain nostalgia that made him think reverently of the day he and Lydia would welcome a child. He was still well within those thoughts when word came that his father would not be home for days.

The news devastated Henry. His options were few. He briefly considered trying of his own accord to obtain an audience with Bradstreet, but he was not secure enough in his ties with the governor to hope for a positive outcome. Moreover, with such a slight chance for the governor’s help, he did not want to socially levy the news of his marriage before he made aware his own father. However John Dunham took the news, Henry respected his father enough to ensure it came from Henry and not as a result of gossip.

Six days passed. Six days of wondering and hurting for Lydia, knowing her every moment must be spent in misery. Numerous times Henry walked behind the house to the day stable with intentions of collecting Willard and then his wife. It would be so easy to pay the fee and procure her for the day. They would take Willard and Benedict—whom Henry trusted had remained in Andrew’s capable hands—and be far from Salem before she was due back at the jail. But though Henry knew he had the funds readily available to enable her escape, he did not wish that life on her. She had run once, and though he found himself grateful to have found her as a result, he wanted nothing more than to free her of her burdens.

When John Dunham returned, Henry accepted his greeting then waited nervously while his father reunited with Henry’s mother. Though Henry had waited so many days for this moment, he now wanted for time to steady, for he had much to consider in his plea and only one chance to get it right.

Unfortunately, the chance was not his to take.

John returned from Alice’s room with measured pace and a stern countenance. “What is this news of your marriage? Is the woman beyond her function?”

“No, Sir. Mother is correct. I have taken a wife.”

For a long while, John did not speak. When he finally looked again at his son, his features were tight. “Of what line?”

Henry considered his father’s terse question. “She is a woman, not a breed. And she is my wife. A physician, and of Salem Village.”

“A place of witches, it seems. I trust you know of the arrests?”

“I do, and that is what brings me here.”

John stopped and stared heavily.

After a long silence, Henry answered the unspoken question. “She has been arrested on charges of witchcraft.”

“And what do you expect in telling me this?”

Henry met his father’s eyes. “I want for you to contact Governor Bradstreet to secure her release.”

“You cannot be serious. You want me to go to shame our family name over your alliance with a…
witch
?”

“She is not a witch. The accusations are false.”

“No matter. The association itself is enough. This family will not align with a witch, and neither will you.”

“I am afraid your orders come too late,” Henry said quietly. “For she is my wife and I will stand faithfully behind her, even if you choose another path.”

“This path is yours, Henry, and I will not condone it.”

“Then we are divided.”

“We are more than divided. If you do not disavow this unholy marriage, you have turned your back on this family.”

Henry drew to his full height and looked fully upon the father who would have him no more. “If that is your choice—”

“Make no mistake. It is your choice. Not mine.”

“Very well, then. It is a choice I will make. Lydia Colson has my heart, and I will not cease to love her no matter what you try to take from me.”

“You will walk from your inheritance for this woman?”

“I will,” said Henry. “Without consideration, for she is my wife.”

“Then she has a fool for a husband,” John said. “And I am without a son.”

Chapter Seventeen

Henry did not linger in Essex. His father’s pronouncement clearly made, there was little to do but say goodbye to his mother. He renewed his promise to bring Robert home to her, his heart sagging in melancholic joy when her parting words were of interest of meeting Henry’s wife. He vowed she would.

After procuring a saddle for Willard, Henry filled the bags with coin and items for trade then set off in hopes of gaining an audience with Simon Bradstreet. Though Henry did not wish to soil his family’s name, he would not sacrifice Lydia at any cost. If he was condemned, he would maintain both heart and conscience, fighting until he could do no more.

When he arrived at the seat of Bradstreet’s authority, he was told the governor would not return for another day. The stalwart was eased, however, when the secretary of Bradstreet’s affairs appointed Henry the morn’s first meeting.

Still, Henry’s restlessness grew. He could not forget the look upon Lydia’s face when he had turned his back to her. He prayed nightly she could understand, but having confided her fears and heard his assurances the very morning of her arrest was timing at its most cruel. His betrayal was the worst kind, and he revisited it endlessly on the barstool where he sat, handling a drink he did not put to his lips. It was a near-meaningless gesture, but one he tucked close at heart. If he could give her nothing else in that moment, he would give her his abstinence from the liquor.

After a long and tumultuous night, he cleaned and dressed to meet with Bradstreet. The governor had a home in Salem and Henry wondered if that association would help or hinder Henry’s cause. Doubtlessly, it would have an effect.

Fortunately, he did not have to wonder long. Bradstreet saw to him promptly.

The governor, a man of extended years, greeted Henry with warm tone, strong posture, and a firm handshake. “It is good to see you. John has spoken of your many accreditations. Of Harvard now, are you not?”

Henry nodded. “My schooling there is finished. In fact, I am now of Salem.”

Bradstreet’s brow lifted, but the man said nothing.

“I will not use your time, Governor Bradstreet. My wife has been arrested in Salem. She is accused of witchcraft, and she is innocent. I wish for your assistance in freeing her.”

The governor looked to his desk, his face tired with age. “You may know I am opposed to these trials.”

“I did not, Governor, though your words fill me with hope.”

“Do not get ahead of yourself, son. I am but a face for the governing body. My deputy, Thomas Danforth, carries out much of the executive function. He exists in great favor of ridding the colony of those accused.”

“Sir, your reputation is untouched, and it is you who rightly governs. Not Danforth.”

Bradstreet steepled his hands on the desk and appeared to find much of interest in their combined figure. “You have been generous to not make excessive use of my time, so I will do you the same honor. I met last eve with your father over this very topic.”

The governor’s somber tone left hope falling within Henry’s chest. “And you will not be swayed?”

“I will not.”

“Sir, I beg of you to reconsider. This woman is innocent of these charges.”

Bradstreet leaned in his chair and rested his hands upon his breadth. “You do not understand, young Henry.”

“What do you mean?”

“John Dunham did not come to support your wife’s persecution. He came to petition for her release.”

…

Each day since Lydia’s condemnation as a witch had been longer than the last. Every time the door swung open she feared she would be taken to the gallows, and she was too far embedded in the darkest corner of the jail to hear gossip from the tavern. If not for the shackles she would have long ago reclaimed her freedom—the risk of capture mattered not, for she would be dead either way. Escape at least gave her a chance, but she was seldom allowed freedom from the chains.

Then, inexplicably, it was granted.

In the dark of night, Lydia was taken without explanation to the magistrate’s office.

With a face leaden with disdain, he said, “If thou value thy life, Goodwife Colson, take my words to heart. Leave here this night. Leave Salem, and do not return.”

Lydia gasped, but quickly swallowed her shock. “I am released?”

“By order of the governor, Goodwife. Rest assured thou hath no friends here. Thy freedom is dependent upon thou disappearance, and verily, thou will disappear in one manner or another. Make the choice thy own.”

Stunned, Lydia nodded.

Without further word, the magistrate escorted her to the jail’s rear door and opened it.

She stalled, taking deep breaths of air untainted by the stale filth to which she had become accustomed. Though her clothing still carried heavily the odor of her imprisonment and the air was so clean it nearly burned her nose, she could not break her immediate addiction to its clarity. Never had the dark of night been so immensely beautiful.

“Make thy choice, Goodwife.”

Startled to realize she was still in company, Lydia turned to the magistrate. “Thank you,” she said.

He narrowed his eyes and stared fiercely. “Save your words, for if given my choice thou would remained chained with the rest of the damned. Now leave.”

Taken aback, Lydia nevertheless found her feet and stepped into the cold night. Her legs were unsure, but she forged on and in time they found their strength. And as she walked toward her home, she could not help but see the world anew. Never had the air felt so pure or the ground so solid beneath her feet. It was the first night since her husband’s death she had not feared facing the dark alone, though it saddened her to know she truly did walk alone, for Henry was verily gone.

Henry
. And then the magistrate’s words truly sank in.
By the order of the governor.
Was Henry behind her release? His family with its influence could gain an audience with Governor Bradstreet, himself a Puritan of Salem. Could it be? But why would Henry not come for her?
Shame
. He had denounced her—cruel words she knew of her own ears. Perhaps guilt led him to procure her release, but the shame of which he had spoken kept him from her side.

Lydia pushed away the disheartening thoughts. She could love Henry for all he had given her, but refused to wallow in what he had taken away. She once again had a second chance, and though she knew not where she would go, she would go with strength.

The walk home was long but the night young and the road quiet. A number of times she felt someone with her, but upon turning saw nothing. Conceding she had simply grown unaccustomed to the sounds of the nighttime forest, she forged ahead, her heart as light as it had been since the first time Henry had taken her as his own and shown her pleasures she had not dreamed could exist. Then she remembered, and her hand drifted to her belly. Could she be with his child? It was a bit early to suspect, but the thought of a child with Henry’s impish smile and dark eyes thoroughly warmed her.

Her mood did not darken until she came upon her house and found the pasture empty. Of course she had not expected to see Willard or even Benedict, but the vacancy nonetheless spread to her heart. Still, she was home, and though the bed she shared with Henry awaited, she would not linger to acquaint with it. She needed to wash and be on her way before dawn. She wished desperately for Benedict—and suspected he might have found a home with Andrew and Eunice Bradshaw—but would not take him from her neighbor. Even if he was merely boarded there and had not been offered as a gift, his disappearance would rouse far too much suspicion. So she would go, this time on foot. But first, she needed to free herself of the prison filth.

The buckets in the pasture still held water, so Lydia carried enough to the house to bathe. She could not heat the water—a fire would draw far too much attention—but she cared not. She brought the water inside to fill the wash tub and undressed. She discarded the soiled clothing—hoping she would never again see their likes—and began to scrub herself. Though unfathomably cold, the water made her feel wonderfully alive, and it was the first clean water she had seen since her imprisonment.

She knew not how much time she took to clean, but did not stop until she finally began to feel free of the jail. She used her bed cover to dry and dressed quickly to combat the cold. Upon checking the window and determining night remained deep, she sat upon the bedtick and smoothed the linen, her heart aching and bursting all at once.

Do you miss him?

Lydia’s eyes shot open. When had they closed? Had she dozed? She pressed a hand to her face, then her neck. Her skin was still damp, her hair wet, so she had not slept. She rose to her elbow and peered throughout the dark room, her heart thundering.

From the edge, a shadow emerged.

“You lay with him. In this very room and in that very bed. And you think of him still.”

The coarse, harsh voice turned her blood to ice. Never had she heard such hatred. Not since…
No
. She had to be dreaming. “Go away,” she said. “
Go
!”

“Where is your surprise,
wife
? You have been quite busy in my absence, you adulterous…witch”

She begged of herself to reason, but she could not abate the fear that left her stunned in place. Though the deepest shadows had yet to release their hold on her visitor, there was no doubt the voice—the terrible hatred—belonged to
him
.

He came to her fully then, all at once familiar and foreign. She had thought him done, and the reason must have played readily over her face, for he addressed her as if she had spoken those very words aloud.

“You nearly killed me, witch. And then you betray me by spreading your legs for that…
bastard
.”

Too late, she found herself cornered. Lydia trembled from head to toe, but she would not let this man—the husband she had thought dead—intimidate her. He had already taken far too much. Her hands clenched tightly the linen. She stared him down, prayerful to remain unyielding—to reclaim what he had taken from her with every strike against her flesh. But deep inside she knew she was no match for him, so for all her show of bravery she frantically searched for escape or for something to use as a weapon.

He towered over her, but she did not back down. Her position seemed to anger him, for even in the dark, fire leapt from his eyes.

“It is you who consorts with the devil,” she said, daring his rage. She was no longer a victim. If he came at her, she would have the advantage, for she knew now he was a coward hiding behind his fist.

Her strength of heart far outweighed his.

“You are a cold, cruel man better left to rot in the woods.”

His smile was terribly of peace. “He spilled his seed in you, did he not?”

“Speak not of Henry.”

Still wearing a sick grin, he began to push against her, herding her backward. “Are you with bastard child, my dear? Shall I remedy your womb from this curse?”

Too late, she realized his strategy. Slowly, inch by terrible inch, he was trapping her to the bed. “The quandary I face,” he said, “is whether I wish to follow him between your filthy legs before I rid you of the possibility of his child.”

Lydia shook her head, the horrible implications of his words terrorizing her. “You will not touch me,” she said.

But he was there, caging her handily, reaching to rip away her dress.

It was her nightmare, but this time she would dictate the end.

This time, while he fumbled with his weak arm for purchase beneath her skirts, she swung at his head with all of her might, hell bent on ending it.