Susannah Morrow (15 page)

None of this seemed to bother Mary. As we walked up to the door, and I heard talk from within, the shadow of the house seemed
to block out the sky, and I shivered, feeling even more strongly that ’twas a bad idea to be here. But Mary was already inside.
There was nothing left for me to do but follow.

The smell of beer and sweat filled my nostrils, heavy and thick after the cool air of outdoors. There was a long table in
the middle of the room, and when we walked in, the men sitting there turned to look at us. At the far end of the room, Elizabeth
Proctor was pouring a tankard of beer. She was John Proctor’s third wife, only thirty or so to his sixty, and pretty in a
worn sort of way. She was usually pleasant, but today she frowned when she saw us. She brought the tankard to one of the men
at the table and wiped her hands on her apron as she came over to us.

“I had not thought to see you here,” she said. “Is there—has someone sent you for something?”

“No,” Mary said. “We’ve come for beer.” She tossed her head and unbuttoned her cape to show the bright red of the bodice.

I saw the startlement in Elizabeth Proctor’s eyes, and then the speculation. “Does your uncle know you’re here, Mary?”

To her credit, Mary flushed. “He cares little for what I do,” she said, and there was challenge there, in her words and her
voice; she stared right into Goody Proctor’s face as if daring the woman to throw us out.

It did not seem to faze the goodwife. She looked at me. “And what of you, Miss Charity? Does your papa know you’re out here
on the Ipswich Road?”

I hardly knew how to answer her. It turned out I did not have to. One of the men from the table stood up and came sauntering
over. I did not recognize him at first, but when I saw his eyes, and the angle of his jaw, I knew him for his father’s son.
Robert Proctor.

“Is there a problem, Elizabeth?” he asked quietly.

His stepmother’s mouth tightened. She gave a quick little shake of her head.

Beside me, Mary smiled. “Why, Goodman Proctor,” she said. “’Tis a long time since you’ve entertained us with your presence.
What brings you from Ipswich today?”

He glanced at her, and his glance stayed. His eyes were full of that red bodice—he could not look away from it…or her. It
was like a charm holding him hostage. “Forgive me. Do I…?”

“Mary Walcott,” she said with a bob. “And ’tis us you must forgive. ’Twas a long walk, and my friend and I only meant to appease
our thirst. Had I known there would be so many important men here, we would have walked on without disturbing you.”

“And they’ll be walking on again, as soon as the beer is drunk,” Elizabeth Proctor said.

Mary gave her a truly venomous glare.

“’Tis a pity,” Robert Proctor said. “A pity.”

He went back to his table then, but slowly, and once he sat down, he kept looking at Mary, who preened in that red bodice
like a robin in the springtime. Together we sat on a bench against the wall, and Elizabeth Proctor served us the beer and
leaned close to whisper, “Quickly now. I won’t be flayed alive by your parents for keeping you here. Drink up and be gone.”

I was ready to do as she said. In spite of the long walk and my dry throat, I was not thirsty at all. I could barely swallow.
But I forced myself to gulp that beer until it was half gone, and I was dizzy and warm from it. When I looked over at Mary,
she was sipping slow and easy, and when a bit of the thin, bitter foam caught on her lip, she licked it off with that pointed,
delicate cat’s tongue of hers. Her eyes never left Robert Proctor’s. When I glanced over at him, I saw he was staring at her
with that hungry look I knew too well—I’d seen it in Sammy’s eyes, and I knew what it meant. In spite of the fact that it
was not directed at me, my belly warmed, and heat came into my cheeks.

“Let’s go, Mary,” I whispered to her. “We should not have come here.”

Mary did not even look at me. “Goody Proctor will have to throw me out herself before I go. Do you see how he’s looking at
me?”

I looked down into my beer. Outside, I heard the low and not so distant rumble of thunder. “It’s going to storm. If we don’t
leave now—”

“Go then, if you want. But I’m staying.” Mary rose abruptly. I stared after her as she walked to the table where Robert Proctor
sat with men I did not know. She leaned down to whisper something to him. He laughed, and told the other men to move down
on the benches, and they did, making room for her to sit there beside the man she wanted. From the hearth, Elizabeth Proctor
scowled.

I felt the storm coming closer; I heard the thunder in my head. All I wanted was to disappear into the wall, to quietly leave
and turn back the hours so I had never set foot into this place where I should not be. I prayed that Goody Proctor would not
see fit to tell my father.

I heard Mary laugh, and then another man, a younger one, rose from the table. I thought he was leaving, because he was moving
toward the door, but then I realized I was sitting on the bench near the door and he was coming over to me. I froze, my tankard
halfway to my mouth, and stared up at him while he smiled down at me.

“Your friend doesn’t want you to be alone,” he said. “Come, sit with us.”

I swallowed hard. They were men sitting at that table, not the village boys we were used to, all of them older than Sammy
had been, and at twenty he’d moved far too fast for me. Each step of the way with him, I’d been drowning, and I did not want
to think of what Mary was doing now, of the danger she was in. Robert Proctor was thirty years old—the things he must know
that Mary did not. How afraid Mary should have been. As afraid as I was when I looked at this man standing before me.

“I don’t think so,” I said, ashamed at how weak my voice was, just a whisper with no force to it.

“Come along now, girl, of course you shall.” He reached for my arm. I felt his fingers close around it, warm, strong fingers,
and I had a flash of Sammy’s hand closing around me just that way, pushing me to my knees—

I jerked away so hard the beer splashed from my tankard and onto his breeches. His smile went thin. “Now, look what you’ve
done,” he said. “I’ve a mind to—”

I saw his mouth move, but a rumble of close thunder filled the room, taking over his voice. I felt a rush of wind that chilled
me to the bone, but I was inside—there was no wind here—and in confusion, I turned to see the door opening, and someone coming
in, a woman—

My aunt Susannah.

T
HE ORDINARY WAS EERILY SILENT; THE ONLY SOUND WAS THE WHIP
ping howl of the wind. Susannah shut the door, and the moment she did, I heard the rain come crashing down, almost as if it
had waited only for her to find her way to shelter. It seemed the clouds had been too heavy to contain it another moment and
had let it all fall at once.

My aunt seemed not to notice—not the rain nor the silence. Her face was serene and calm, not a single hair out of place as
she lifted the hood of that startlingly blue cape. She smiled, and that smile released me. I drew back into the shadows of
the corner and prayed she would not find me there. If she went to Goody Proctor, I could be out the door before she saw me.

The man who had been standing before me moved. For a moment, I thought I was doomed to disaster. Susannah began to turn toward
him. I held my breath as if it would somehow make me invisible, but then Robert Proctor rose. She glanced at him, and ’twas
all I could do to keep from crying in sheer relief. She hadn’t seen me. Not yet. If I had my way, she never would. If she
would just turn her back completely to me for a single moment, I could make the door.…

Then I saw her stiffen. I saw what I had forgotten, and why there would be no escape, not today. Susannah was staring at Mary,
at that glowing red bodice.

Robert Proctor grinned at my aunt. “It seems you just missed the rain. Would you care to sit with us? We’ve a spare seat at
our table.”

Susannah’s eyes flickered from Mary; she smiled at Robert Proctor as if she hadn’t a care, and shook her head. “Thank you,
no. I won’t be staying.”

Goodman Proctor pressed his hand to his heart. “Ah. I am disappointed. Is there nothing I can say to convince you not to hurry
away?”

“I’m afraid not.” She nodded toward Mary. “But it seems you’ve someone there already to ease your disappointment.”

Robert Proctor glanced at Mary and said, “You misunderstand. She’s only sharing a tankard with us.”

“Why, I’m glad to hear it. ’Tis good to know a man of your experience is not dallying with someone of such tender years.”
The words were delivered with a honeyed tone, but Robert Proctor flushed. At the table, I heard Mary gasp, and when I looked
over at her, she was nearly as red as that bodice.

Slowly Susannah walked over to the table. She looked right at Mary. “I shall be home tomorrow afternoon. Will I see you then?”

I had never seen Mary so ill at ease. My aunt only smiled and said again, “Tomorrow?”

“Aye,” Mary said sullenly. It had been many years since I’d seen her so angry, not since, as children, her stepmother had
chastised her in front of a young and handsome Joseph Putnam for spilling a bucket of berries. She had paid her stepmother
back the next day by setting the cow loose to trample through the garden, and I wondered now how she would take revenge for
this—whether it would be my aunt Susannah or me who would have to pay.

Susannah straightened. She said, “Charity, ’tis time to come home,” without turning around, and again I was not surprised.
’Twould have taken a miracle for her not to have seen me, and I suspected now that she had known I was here even before she
opened the door. I had the uneasy sense that somehow the bodice had given us away, that it had led her here, though I could
not explain how. God made miracles all the time, and as for Satan—what powers could he give those who had joined in covenant
with him?

I put down my beer and rose to follow her, not daring to look at Mary as I left. Susannah did not even turn to see if I was
behind her as she put up her hood again and went to the door.

She pulled it open, and the rain stopped, just that sudden. A ray of sun burst through the gray clouds overhead to cast its
weak light on the sodden ground, and then was gone again, leaving only the dark sky and the wicked wind that billowed her
cloak—the only spot of color in the whole horizon. Outside waited Jack, saddled and pillioned, and I stared at the mule in
shock—it was so seldom we rode, if ever. We walked everywhere because the mule and the horse were needed for work. The sight
of him now told me that my father knew I had disappeared, and though I’d never doubted otherwise, I could not keep the tears
from coming to my eyes.

“Is Father very angry with me, then?” I asked.

Susannah shut the door behind us and looked at me. “He thinks I’ve gone to pull flax, and that’s what I intend to let him
believe.”

I stared at her in stunned surprise. “What?”

She mounted Jack and held out her hand to help me onto the pillion. “Come. We’ve not much time.”

I looked at her outstretched hand, and I was afraid. I did not understand why my father did not know I was gone, why she had
not told him. My suspicion that it had somehow been the bodice that led her grew so strong I could not make myself disbelieve
it.

Susannah sighed impatiently. “Come, Charity. Unless you’d prefer your father discover you’ve gone missing.”

“How did you find me?” I asked stubbornly.

“Jude was worried for you. When I called you for dinner and you did not come, she told me you’d gone.”

“She did not know I was coming here.”

“No. But while I was searching for you, I ran into your friend Mary Warren.” Susannah smiled slightly. “She is very bad at
telling lies, and it seemed ’twas a relief for her to tell someone where you’d gone.”

Mary Warren. Running errands. I remembered the way she’d looked at Mary when we talked about Robert Proctor, as if she did
not quite approve.

It all made sense. But still…

“It was not the bodice?” I asked.

Susannah’s smile faded. “Ah, the bodice. ’Tis true that bodice and I have found each other time and time again. But in this
case…’twas Mary Warren, Charity. Now, come, before it starts to rain again.”

I did not let Susannah’s explanations soothe my fears or my suspicions. I knew already how clever she was. So I was wary as
I took her hand and mounted behind her on the lumpy pillion.

She set Jack to a faster trot, and so ’twas impossible to talk as we rode, and that was fine with me, though I was burning
with questions and misgivings.

The road veered off through the trees, into darkness made worse by the heavy overcast sky. I waited for Susannah to set Jack
to a faster pace, to race through the woods, with its shadows and demons, as I did, not slowing until there was nothing but
barren fields and a road clean of shadows behind. But she slowed the mule, and said over her shoulder, “Now, Charity, why
don’t you tell me what happened?”

Her words struck terror into me. “I owe you no explanations. I’ll leave the story for my father.”