Susannah Morrow (21 page)

“She seems troubled,” Susannah went on. “Does she not seem so to you?”

“Troubled?”

“I’ve awakened several times in the night to see her staring out the window. There is a…distraction…about her.”

“She has always been an imaginative girl.”

“And you think that’s what this is?”

“She has been sensitive of late. Judith believed ’twas merely growth pangs.”

“Growth pangs?” Susannah laughed, but ’twas not an amused sound. “’Tis something different than that, I’ll warrant.”

“You should know better than her own mother?”

“I was a girl once. I am not blind.”

“Neither was Judith,” I said sharply.

Susannah nodded as if in agreement, but she was not finished; I saw her hesitation. “Has Charity a suitor?”

“A suitor? She’s but a child.”

“Have you looked upon her lately, Brother? She’s a young woman already—perhaps more than that. She has a worldly look in her
eyes.”

“That is absurd.”

She only tilted her head at me. “Is it? Look closer, then.”

I thought of my daughter, of her pale blue eyes lit with adoration, and I remembered when she was but six, how she used to
attend me in the barn until her mother put a quick end to it and started her on needlework. “You’ve known her less than a
month, and yet you think to tell me—who has known her her whole life—about the look in her eyes?”

“I recognize it,” Susannah said stubbornly.

“Aye. So you would.” My words were deliberately cruel, and when she flushed, I felt both satisfaction and shame.

“How often do you tend to your children, Brother, except to discipline them?”

I stared at her in disbelief. “Do you accuse me of neglect?”

“You would know best if that is true.”

“I am with my children nearly every hour. I do not take my duty to their souls lightly.”

She waved her hand, a quick dismissal. “That’s not what I mean. Did you know that she is seeing those friends of hers again?”

I went blank.
Those friends of hers.
Then I remembered the day of Faith’s baptism, Charity sitting with those worthless girls at the table at Ingersoll’s, Judith’s
words ringing in my ears.
We must keep her busy enough that she does not have time to tarry with them.
“I have asked her to stay away from them,” I said.

“Well, she has disregarded you in this.”

“She’s a dutiful girl,” I said angrily. “That you accuse her of disobedience—”

“Oh, Lucas, now ’tis you who’s blind.”

There was contempt in her words. I thought of the stories Judith had told me of her sister, and as I looked at her now, those
things were not hard to believe. I pushed aside my trencher and got to my feet. “You’d best watch your words, madam. You have
no place to judge me or my daughters.”

“You misunderstand. I didn’t mean to—”

“When you left your poor parents to chase after that yeoman’s son, did you mean to cause them such humiliation? Did you think
twice about what they would do without you?”

She blanched. “You know nothing of it,” she said in a strained voice.

“Nor do you know anything of this,” I told her. “I shall tend to my daughter in my way.” I went to the door, grabbing my cloak
from its hook and slinging it over my arm, not bothering to fasten it about my throat until I was out of the house, and she
was far behind me.

As I led Saul to the path, I tried to forget her words, but they stayed with me. I began to wonder: Had I been neglectful?
Was my eldest daughter moving beyond my reach? I decided no; how could she be? I was with my children every evening for prayers
and readings. Susannah knew nothing of this household. She was but a temporary visitor.

It seemed a short distance to the Nurses’ house, so lost was I in my thoughts. Francis’s home was one of the finest in the
village. It stood at one of the highest points, and the land was gentle and rolling down to the meadow, its stone walls and
rail fences well kept, as were the orchards that reached to the pine and birch forest beyond. The flax patch was full of cut
flax rotting away in the wet in preparation for gathering. Francis Nurse was elderly now and his wife frail, but between them
they were more industrious than many of my neighbors.

I led the horse to the barn and then made my way up the long, curving path to the house and knocked upon the heavy oak door
studded with nail heads. I stared up at the sundial carved into the wall above it until Francis opened the door. “Ah, Lucas,
’tis good you’ve come. Come in.”

He led me into the low-ceilinged hall with its vast fireplace and pristine wooden floors. Already at the tableboard were the
others, even Joseph Putnam, whom I’d thought to beat. “So I’m the last,” I said.

“Not by much,” Joseph assured me. “I’ve only just arrived. How do you, Lucas?”

“As well as I can,” I answered him, coming to the table.

“Ah, well, ’tis a difficult time, I imagine. ’Tis good you’ve a woman to help you,” Daniel Andrew said. I saw him glance to
Joseph Porter and the look that passed between them, and I felt my own face burn. So they, too, had been talking of her—my
own friends.

“For a time,” I told them, taking my seat. Francis handed me a tankard of beer. “Where’s Rebecca?”

“She’s been feeling poorly of late,” Francis said. “’Tis the wet.”

“Aye. ’Twill be a bad year for it too, I fear; I can feel it in my bones,” Joseph Porter said, rubbing his graying beard.

“’Tis a bad year all around,” Daniel said glumly. He was a young man still, a lawyer who served as selectman in Salem Town
as well—the only one of us who did. He ran his hand through his reddish hair and shook his head. “And this thing with the
church looks to grow worse still.”

I took a sip of beer. “How so? Tell me, how did the elders take our refusal to assess Parris’s salary?”

They each looked at the other—I was the only one who had not been at the last meeting. “What is it?” I asked, alarmed. “What
has happened?”

“’Tis why we’ve called the meeting,” Francis told me. “The church has filed suit against us.”

“Against whom?”

“The committee.”

“But that’s ridiculous.”

“So I’ve told them,” Daniel put in. “But they filed the complaint with the County Court last week.”

“Who’s signed it?” I asked, though I knew already who ’twould be.

“Nate Putnam, Tom Putnam, and Thomas Wilkins,” Daniel said.

’Twas the answer I’d expected. “Tom’s like a dog with a bone,” I said.

“’Tis enough that we are against the pastor, that my brother should be for him,” Joseph Putnam said with a small smile. “Tom
would sooner see me dead than agree with me. Uncle Nate’s no better.”

“It would be easier if you were the only reason,” Francis said. “But you were too young to be the start of this dispute.”

“What do we do then?” Daniel asked. “I must warn you, ’tis our own pockets at risk here. If the council were to decide in
their favor, we could be fined for neglecting our duties.”

“What are the chances of that?” I asked.

Daniel looked glum. “I wish I could say they were bad, but the County Council is impatient these days with any who take issue
with rules laid by the General Council. And the contests between the town and the village are well known and numerous. I fear
our luck cannot be good.”

“But the principle—”

“They’ve no patience with the high-minded,” Daniel interrupted sharply. “They’ll see only that we’ve refused to assess the
tax for Parris’s salary—and that is our main duty as a committee, mandated twenty years ago.”

“The man cannot remain,” Joseph Porter said angrily. “Demands for firewood, demands for gold at the pulpit, and that just
the start. Lucas, you have said that he demanded gloves at dear Judith’s grave, and others have said the same. Gloves! As
if this were Boston! Parris’s biggest concern is for his own comfort. ’Tis obvious he cares little for his congregation. He
has already broken his covenant with us.”

“They won’t see it that way.” Daniel sighed. “But I shall do my best to persuade them, you know this.”

We all nodded, a few said “aye,” but the news Daniel gave was bleak indeed. I was incensed by it, and voted with the others
to stay our course—the principles we stood for were worth the threat of any fine.

During the meeting, I had forgotten all about Susannah, about the argument we’d had, but the moment we rose from the table
to leave, those thoughts returned.

I did not look forward to going home. I took my time about it, though I had things to do, another spinning wheel yet to finish,
and a cupboard for a man in Salem Town. Susannah’s worries about Charity nagged at me. Again I felt the full weight of the
responsibility Judith had left on my shoulders, and the relief of knowing Susannah was there to help was suddenly no relief
at all. My conscience was sore and troubled. I came out of the woods to the path leading up to the house and saw Charity standing
there outside our door, staring at me as if she’d seen the Devil in my shadow.

Charity is troubled.
There was a moment, something I saw in my daughter’s gaze that made me think Susannah was right, but then it passed. I wondered
if I’d truly seen it.

Charity said, “Father, a word with you. I’m afraid we have been cruelly deceived.”

She had always been an imaginative child, a dramatic child. Now her words were so serious, so grave, and there was an intensity
in her expression that I suddenly realized I had not seen for many years, and I wondered why. Had it simply been that she
had outgrown the days when a broken go-cart had brought paroxysms of grief, or a dusting of snow exclamations of awe? Or was
it something more, something I’d missed?

She was talking again, too quickly to understand until she said, “She’s an actress, Father. An actress.”

“Charity,” I said, in that way I’d used often when she was just a child, trying to calm her through a tantrum or tears. I
took her elbow to make her listen. “Who is an actress? Whom do you accuse?”

I had thought she would name one of her friends, or perhaps someone from outside the village or on the Ipswich Road. I did
not expect it when she said, “Susannah.”

I was stunned. Then I realized the rumors must have followed Susannah already to Salem Village. I wondered how that could
be, who could have known.

It was some moments before I realized I was holding Charity. I had not held her this way since she was a baby, and I hoped
God would forgive me for keeping her there a moment more. Then, I knew I could not spoil her. ’Twas my duty to keep her strong.

Gently I pushed her away, and told her the truth in the kindest words I could. “Your aunt is no actress, Charity.”

She was a child, caught up in a melodrama of her own making. Sensitivity was her flaw. The world would tear her to pieces
if I could not give her the strength to fight it, so I made my voice hard and put an end to her accusations and her exaggerations,
and then I left her.

But my daughter’s wounded expression did not leave me. Her words echoed in my head, along with the image of my neighbors talking
among themselves, that glance Joseph Porter and Daniel Andrew had exchanged. The rumors were in the village now, and I knew
I must do something to stop them. For my daughters, I told myself. To protect their innocent bodies from insinuations of wickedness.
To keep their futures unsullied. For my daughters.

I
WAITED UNTIL AFTER OUR EVENING PRAYERS, UNTIL THE CHILDREN
were in bed. ’Twas a dark night, and the house seemed darker still, the encroaching shadows creeping through the windows
to crawl across the floor, the firelight an uncertain bulwark against it. I lit a candle, and then another. When Susannah
looked at me in surprise, I took up one of Jude’s boots and my cobbling kit and made to repair it. “There is not enough light
for this,” I told her.

“I welcome it,” she said as she scrubbed the trenchers. “It seems that here…’tis always so dark. I’m surprised you’re not
on your way to bed yourself, Brother.”

“I’ve shoes to repair.”

She paused a moment, and then said, “Aye,” and I thought I heard the knowledge of my lie in her single word. I wondered why
I hadn’t just said the truth, why I was hesitating. I was here because I had to talk with her; why not discuss this and be
done with it the sooner?

“And…” I turned Jude’s boot over in my hand, noting the wear of it, the stretch of a seam, the way the dark impression of
her little foot marked the leather. “And too…I wish a word with you.”

“Ah. Without the children hearing?”

“Aye.”

“How important this must be, then, to spare them the sound.”

I looked up to see that she faced me. She held a trencher before her like a shield. It was still wet, and water dripped silently
onto the brick hearth; its sound was lost in the crackle of the fire.

“They’ve been wounded enough by it already,” I said.

“Wounded?” She frowned. She set aside the trencher and came toward me, pausing at the end of the table. “I don’t understand.”

“When I returned today, Charity told me that she’d heard rumors in town.”