I
COULD NOT THINK OF WHAT TO DO, ONLY THAT
I
MUST DO SOME
thing. My daughter had disobeyed me, she had met in secret with girls I had forbidden her to see, and she had lied to me about
it. Charity had never done such a thing before.
I waited until I felt I could contain my temper, and then I went to her bedroom. I did not give her time to find a way to
avoid me. I opened the door.
She was standing at the window, hugging herself, fingering the edges of her shawl. She looked alone, strangely forlorn. I
had to steel myself to discipline her.
“You have been seeing those girls, despite my commands not to,” I said.
She turned to me in surprise, and opened her mouth. I held up my hand to stop her.
“Don’t lie to me again, Charity. I know you have been meeting with them at the parsonage.”
“Mis-Mistress Parris has been ill.”
“And who better to comfort her than a group of gossiping girls?” I shook my head. “’Twill not do, Charity. I will not tolerate
lies. I will not tolerate such disobedience.”
She pressed her lips together, looking as if she might cry, and I hardened my heart against it. “I wonder at you. What is
it about them that compels you enough to disobey me? You know better than this. Are the lessons I’ve taught you meaningless?”
“No, Father. ’Tis just…Do not…Do not ask me not to see them. Please.”
“Your mother disliked them. Even were I to set aside her feelings, I have my own experience to consider. You were never a
liar before now.”
She bent her head and quietly sobbed.
I did not waver. “’Tis a sin, and one I do not take lightly. Nor should you. You will keep yourself home for the next two
weeks and study the text I will give you. We will pray that God forgives you. You are not to see those girls again.”
I had expected more tears, pleas to rend my heart, but ’twas as if I’d said some spell, some word that miraculously calmed
her. Her sobbing stopped. Slowly she lifted her head, and I found myself staring into eyes still wet but amazingly composed.
Again I had the sense of my daughter full grown. This was not a child standing before me now.
“As you wish, Father,” she said. “Forgive me. ’Tis Mama’s death.…I have felt alone, or I would not have turned to them.”
She stole my self-righteous anger, my need to discipline. “Aye. Well…you are not alone, Charity. God has given you a family
who loves you, and His grace is bountiful, should you submit to His will.”
Charity nodded. Her glance slid to the window, as if something caught her attention there.
“There is one other thing,” I told her. “It disturbs me to see the way you disrespect your aunt. She is here to help you.
Now that your mother is gone—” I broke off, disturbed by the sudden fear on Charity’s face. “Charity. Child, is something
wrong?”
She swallowed. “Nothing, Father. I understand.”
“Very well,” I said. “I will give you the text tonight.”
She was quiet as I left her. I told myself all was well—I had disciplined her; she had asked for forgiveness. She was my child
again.
Yet later, as I wrote for her the Bible text I meant for her to study, I could not rid myself of the sense that I had not
soothed her at all.
For several days, there was little talk of anything but the recent Indian attacks. Men were on edge, jumping at every unexpected
noise, and we moved about in groups, guns always at the ready. But as the nights passed without incident, and the snow kept
falling, whitening the hills, making movement across fields easy to spot even from far away, the fear and the dread became
only a vague and pervasive apprehension. ’Tis the nature of man to lose interest in a threat that does not soon materialize,
so the talk of Indians faded, replaced with gossip about little Betsey Parris and her strange illness.
Whatever malady afflicted her, it had not grown better. Instead, the child had retreated into a world where she was impossible
to reach. She spoke in gibberish; she scrambled around as a dog or a monkey, hiding beneath chairs and in darkened corners,
screaming out when anyone approached her. These were all things I heard, because I did not see the child myself. Though I
dismissed much of it as gossip, her illness worried me, especially given the fact that Charity had visited the parsonage often
these last months.
As with the other men in the village militia, I’d taken my turn at the watchhouse in the past. Now, in spite of the fact that
the villagers’ fears over Indian attacks had eased, we continued with the doubled watch, and so my turn came more frequently.
I was glad of it. I had been happy twice to draw the evening watch and leave the care of my household to Sam and some of the
others. It kept me away from the house when I was at my most vulnerable. I had found myself touching Susannah more and more
often, finding excuses to brush by her in a doorway, to lean back slightly as she served me just to feel the slight brush
of her skirt against my back. ’Twas the kind of touching that is inevitable in close quarters—yet I could have avoided it.
I wanted to, but my body would not obey my mind in this. The knowledge of what I’d seen in her eyes, the hint of reciprocated
desire…
The blockhouse was low to the ground and thick-walled. We kept the heavy battens open on either end as two of us sat huddled,
each stationed at one while the icy winter air and snow blew inside. There was a fire in the hearth, but it was nothing against
the cold; it served only to heat bean porridge for a hasty meal.
Daniel Andrew had drawn the evening watch along with me, and we had long since ceased talking. Each of us was too concerned
with staying warm and keeping an eye on fields that began to fade into dusk, or shadows that imitated movement as they were
blown by the wind.
I could barely feel my hands through my gloves, and my face was cold, my lips dry and chapped. I was numb by the time John
Rea and Joseph Hutchinson came to relieve us.
“We’ve seen nothing to worry you tonight,” I told John as Daniel and I readied to leave.
“Seems the only worries to be had lately keep bound to the parsonage,” Joseph muttered.
Daniel’s expression was grim. “How is the child today?”
“The same.” Joseph shook his head. “I will say this: Parris seems honestly concerned about the girl.”
“Aye, of course he does,” John said. “He would not like it bandied about that ’tis the minister’s house the Devil chooses
to visit.”
The words were lightly said, but I frowned at John. “The Devil? Who has said anything about that?”
“No one yet,” John said. “But they will if this thing spreads. Memories are long and unforgiving. There’s still those won’t
go near Sarah Good because of the gossip that she brought the pox all those years ago.”
“She’s nothing but a helpless beggar,” said Daniel. “A bad-tempered woman, to be sure, but there’s no evil in that.”
“I’m just saying…Folks’re unsettled. They’re frightened enough now over Wells and York—they’ll turn on Parris soon enough
if it goes beyond his house, especially now that the older girl’s ailing. He knows that. I’m guessing ’tis why he’s so weepy-eyed.”
My alarm heightened. “The older girl’s ill as well?”
Joseph nodded. “Aye. Parris’s niece. Leaping and yelling and shivering—”
“My wife says ’tis quite a sight,” John put in. “Near frightened her to death.”
I met Daniel’s gaze and saw in his expression what must have been in mine. I was disturbed at this news, and not just because
of Charity. John was right about one thing: The people in the village were not only superstitious, they also did not forget
or forgive easily. There was enough strain between us all now, especially with the Indian scare. ’Twould behoove us to try
to calm the waters.
“I’ll pay a visit to the parson myself,” I said. “Has he thought to call the doctor?”
Joseph shrugged. “I had the feeling he wanted to keep this quiet.”
“’Tis too late for that, I’m afraid.”
Together Daniel and I left the watchhouse. Dusk had fallen, shadowing our faces. Our frosty breaths were like a fog; it made
it hard for me to see Daniel’s expression as he grabbed my arm, halting me before we had gone more than ten feet down the
path.
“It seems strange—does it not—that this has all happened now? The timing is unfortunate, what with the suit before the court.…”
“…and his dwindling supply of firewood. Aye.” I nodded. “’Tis suspect.”
“His daughter’s but nine. The niece is…what? Ten? Twelve?”
I shrugged. I had no idea. I barely remembered what she looked like. Bossy, I thought, and had a sudden vision of her herding
the other Parris children from my house the day of Judith’s funeral.
“Has he enlisted his children’s help, I wonder?” Daniel asked.
“Perhaps we are too suspicious. What possible good can this do him? John is right: Suspicion can be too easily turned in Parris’s
own direction. To involve his daughter—’tis too uncontrollable.” I shook my head. “No. I’m willing to believe this is as he
says: a strange illness. Until I’m convinced otherwise.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” Daniel said, though he was doubtful still, and his green eyes were troubled. “I’ve no daughters of
my own as yet; I do not know how biddable a girl might be.…”
I was silent at this, though he must have expected a response from me—a man who had only daughters. But I did not know what
to say. Two months ago, I would have scoffed at the idea of such dissembling in a well-raised girl. But now…Now all I could
think of was Charity’s pale face and shadowed eyes. Now I knew the answer.
Too biddable.
I was troubled as I left Daniel and made my way home. My thoughts were so full I was hardly aware of the cold walk. I know
only that when I reached my own door, ’twas dark, and I had gone the entire way without thinking once of Indians, with my
gun slung casually over my shoulder. When I stepped inside, it was quiet, candles snuffed. Everyone was abed already. ’Twas
past bedtime, and I had not known it.
There was a movement in the darkness beyond me, a sound, and I realized I was not alone. I hung my hat and cloak, and then
stepped slowly past the jut of the cellar door, fully into the hall, and I saw the single candle burning.
“Susannah.”
“Lucas,” she said, rising from the table. She seemed nervous. “I thought you might be hungry. And…’tis a cold night. You must
be freezing. I thought to…to leave a fire for you, and so I could not go to bed.”
I stood there like a fool, until I finally gained control. “Thank you. I’m here now…to watch it. If you would rather seek
your bed—”
“No.” She shook her head. “No. I’m not tired. Let me get you something to eat.”
I was tired and confused, my heart troubled, so I nodded to her and made my way to the table. When she brought me a steaming
trencher, along with a slab of bread and some beer, I motioned for her to sit across from me.
We sat in silence for some moments. Once food was brought before me, I realized I was hungrier than I’d thought, and the pottage
was hearty and good. Susannah waited quietly until I paused, and then she said, “What news is there from the village?”
“The Parris girl is not better.”
“Ah.” She sighed. “I had hoped ’twould be over by now.”
“’Tis worse than that. It seems the niece is now afflicted as well.”
“Abigail?”
“Is that her name? I’d thought to go over to the parsonage tomorrow.”
She nodded and said, “I’ll go with you. I’ve had some practice nursing. Perhaps I can be of help.”
“Nursing?” I was surprised. “Judith told me nothing of that.”
“Judith did not know everything in my life. Though I’m sure she believed she did.” She turned as she said it, as if afraid
to show me her face. “A man I knew, a surgeon who studied next door to us, needed help for some months. I was…happy…to give
it.”
If she had been anyone else, I should not have thought twice at her explanation. I would have accepted it and gone on, one
more puzzle piece neatly in place, one more thing to know about her. But all I heard was:
A man I knew,
and my mind leaped to the biblical meaning of that word.
“Lucas—”
“Go to bed.”
“I know something worries you, Lucas. Tell me what it is. I know you would have told Judith—”
“You are not Judith.”
“No.” She was quiet. So much so, and for so many moments, that I looked up, thinking she had gone. She was not gone. “But
perhaps I can help to comfort you.…”
I stared at her. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“Then tell me.” She came around the edge of the table. She was beside me before I could stop her, before I could move. I felt
her hand on mine, the smooth, soft slenderness, the pads of her fingers, her warmth. Before I could stop myself, I captured
hers and held it tight. And then, driven by an impulse I was beyond controlling, I brought her hand to my mouth. She jerked,
but I held her tight.
I kissed the inside of her wrist, lingering until I felt her pulse beat against my lips. I touched my tongue to the sweet
salt of her skin. I heard her gasp.
It was not the sound, but the silence after, that moved me. She waited for me, and it was that realization, finally, that
stopped me.
I could not release her hand. “You must go now,” I told her, “because I cannot.”
I felt her slight tug, and I released her. Then I heard her walk away, and I laid my head upon the table, in the cradle of
my arms, and felt my life slipping away, past bearing, past redemption—and, most frightening of all, past caring.
The next morning, snow was heavy on the ground and the narrow road was nothing but troughs and ice as I led my family to the
parsonage.
We were a strange, silent parade as we made our way to the village. Pale and stiff with cold, we were wrapped in woolen cloaks,
with shawls swaddled tight around our heads and shoulders. We wore gloves and thick felt hats with brims turned down so that
only our eyes were uncovered. Anyone passing us would not know who we were. ’Twas so cold outside there was no hope of warmth
from clothing.