The Devil's Cold Dish (10 page)

“They do. But I refuse to discuss theology with you right now,” Rees said.

“Hmm. Perhaps we should have that conversation as soon as possible. I haven't seen either you or your wife at services for some time.”

Rees held his breath and counted to ten. “We were speaking of my sister,” he said. “I think you do not fully understand the situation. I can imagine what she's told you.”

“She does not need to speak at all,” Father Stephen said tartly. “We can see the results of your temper. You forget, I remember you as a little boy. You were always fighting with somebody.”

“Will. Come and help.” The frantic voice of Rees's friend George Potter penetrated the church. Rees turned to look. “Lydia is in trouble at the market.”

Rees ran down the aisle and through the open door to the courtyard. Potter's face was white and sweaty with fear. Rees glanced at his friend and increased his speed. “What happened?” He threw out the question as he raced past.

“I don't know.” Potter burst into a trot but could not keep up. Rees ran as fast as he could, his heart thudding with fear. Likeliest, Lydia was arguing with someone over the cost of a cheese. But he didn't believe it. Potter's expression had been too terrified for such a simple explanation.

At first, Rees couldn't see anything; the crowds were too thick. But even from the church he could hear the shouting and screaming. The crowd was gathered around something. Some of the people wore horrified expressions but most were flushed and shouting with excitement. Something was happening. He shoved his way through until he could see.

Lydia was hiding under her table. Shattered eggshells circled her in a ring of white, the yolks smearing the dirt like yellow blood. As Rees watched, a stone flew through the air and landed on her foot. If Lydia cried out, Rees could not hear it over the roar of voices. One young man reached under the table and began pulling Lydia from her shelter by her ankles. She tried to kick him away, losing one of her shoes in the struggle. But he held on and her white legs appeared as her skirt was rucked up.

Uttering a roar of rage, Rees forced his way through the throng and ran forward. He caught the fellow by his collar and began to shake him. “How dare you lay hands upon my wife? I'll kill you for this.” The boy released Lydia's ankles and thrashed around like a fish on a hook, determined to break free.

“Murderer,” someone shouted behind Rees. He felt the impact of a rock against his back. Grunting in pain, he turned and tried to see his attacker, involuntarily loosening his grip on his captive. With a mighty heave, the young man pulled away, tearing the grubby collar of his linen shirt. Rees was left with a handful of dirty cloth. But he knew who the lad was—one of Farley's boys.

He rushed to Lydia's side. Sobbing with fear and humiliation, she was attempting to smooth her skirt over her bare legs. Rees helped her to her feet and folded her into his arms, glaring at the people standing around them. One final egg came flying through the air. Rees felt it break against his shoulder. He craned his neck and saw another lad join Farley's son. Rees vowed he would find those boys. And beat them bloody until they cried for mercy.

“Let's get her to the church,” Potter said, joining Rees in the square. Raising his voice, he shouted, “Nothing more to see. Go back to your business.”

Rees looked around, defying those who remained to say or do anything further. Most dropped their eyes, unable to look at him, whether from embarrassment or fear Rees could not tell.

Potter took Lydia's other arm and together they supported her over the short walk to the church. Once inside, Rees pressed Lydia into a seat in the back pew and examined her. Blood streamed from a cut on her forehead. The handkerchief she pressed to the wound was already crimson and a thin line of red ran down her hand and into the sleeve of her gown.

“I'm all right,” Lydia said, but her wobbly voice gave a lie to her words.

“It's just a scratch.”

“More than a scratch,” Rees said, trying to move her hand away. It was a long cut, although not deep, and blood was still seeping from it. He took out his handkerchief and pressed it to the wound. “What happened?”

“People started shouting,” Lydia said. “Someone threw a rock.” Rees stared at her as she put her face in her hands. He knew she wasn't telling him everything.

“Will,” Potter said. And when Rees looked up Potter jerked his head toward the street outside. Rees hesitated, reluctant to leave his wife. Potter motioned emphatically toward the door and the bright sun beyond.

“I'll just be outside,” Rees murmured. Lydia nodded but did not open her eyes. With a final pat on her arm, Rees followed Potter to the slate walk outside.

“It was an attack,” he said baldly.

“I saw Farley's sons,” Rees said.

“They came from the Bull, liquored up and ready for trouble. Caldwell is trying to hunt them down now.” Potter hesitated, his eyes shifting from Rees's.

“What?” he asked. “What else?”

“They not only assaulted your Lydia,” Potter said in a hushed voice. “They called her names.”

A wave of nausea swept up from Rees's belly and into his throat. “What—what names?” He knew some, if not all, of the men in the Bull blamed him for Ward's death. That was clear. Were they attacking Lydia because of him?

“Witch. I heard one of them—he shouted, ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live,' as he threw a stone.”

“What?” Rees stared at Potter. “They openly accused Lydia of being a witch?”

“It was probably just, well, you know.” Potter shook his head in disbelief. “Probably just the worst accusation they could imagine.”

“I'll wager everything I own that Farley was at the back of it,” Rees said grimly. “He believes in witches and all manner of foolishness.”

“Maybe. The constable can certainly tell you more. He saw it unfolding.” Potter glanced over his shoulder, as though he could see the market from the church. Except for the stalls at the very end of Main Street, nothing else was visible and those few tables appeared to have been abandoned. “Take your wife home. Where is your wagon?” He looked around as though expecting it to spring up with Hannibal already harnessed to it.

“At Wheeler's Livery,” Rees said, turning back to the church.

“I'll tell David where you've gone.” Potter managed a lopsided smile. “He probably doesn't know what happened. He was at the far end, with the livestock…”

Rees nodded sharply and hurried inside. Although very pale, Lydia had sat up again and opened her eyes. Father Stephen was walking rapidly down the aisle with a beaker of water.

“I'm fine,” she said when he glanced at her.

“I'll fetch your wagon for you,” Potter said from the door. “Don't worry. Just take Lydia home. I'll tell David to follow you.”

“Very well,” Rees said. He joined his wife on the bench, eyeing her in alarm. Blood had run down the left side of her face and onto the white skin of her shoulder, revealed by her torn dress. Lydia forced a smile.

“I fear my gown is ruined. I'll soak it in cold water at home, but I expect the stains will have dried and set by the time we reach the farm.”

“Don't worry about that now,” Rees said. “What happened?” He leaned forward to examine the cut. It was so long it would probably leave a scar when it healed. And every time he looked at it, he would remember where that scar came from. “Who tore your dress?”

“I have such a headache,” she said. “Oh, I didn't really see them. I heard shouting and suddenly there were eggs flying all about me. Then the stones…” She gulped. “The man in the stall next to me ran over and pulled me down, under the table, else I should have been more badly hurt. I don't know what happened next. I heard Caldwell's voice shouting and someone discharged a gun.”

“What were they shouting?” Rees asked.

“Oh, just general epithets.” She did not want to answer and her eyes shifted away from him.

“Lydia, Lydia Jane,” Rees said, shaking her gently. “Don't lie to me.”

“Witch,” she said. “They called me a witch.” Tears filled her eyes. “Someone shouted, ‘Where's your broom? Have you killed any babies today?' The man who tore my dress—he said he was looking for a witch's mark. And then, when they started throwing rocks, I heard someone say, ‘Thou shall not suffer a witch to live.'” She frowned and put her fingers on the handkerchief-covered wound. “He sounded older though. And more serious.”

“Farley,” Rees muttered.

“He accused you of murder,” Lydia said, holding her torn dress closed as she sat up. “I heard him. He said you killed Zadoc Ward.” Rees blew out a breath. So Ward's murder, and the implications against Rees, were connected to the accusations against Lydia. Who was doing this?

“Why would I kill Ward? My fights with him were trivial.” Although his voice was shaking, he tried to sound nonchalant. He didn't want to frighten Lydia any further.

“Mr. Farley accused you of killing—or rather sacrificing—Ward for some foul rite.”

“Farley is nothing but a superstitious lout,” Rees said, trying to smile at his wife.

“Maybe so,” Lydia said, looking at her husband anxiously. “But now his death and the accusations against me are connected.”

“This is directed at me,” Rees said. He paused, thinking. “Ward and Farley were not friends so…” He stopped. Farley was using Ward's murder to go after Rees and his wife. He needed to solve Ward's murder and find the architect of these attacks.

“I thought this was—I don't know—not serious. Just a pattern of the general distrust directed at the Shakers and Mother Ann Lee. But it is much more dangerous than I thought. I…” She swallowed convulsively, tears welling in her eyes.

“Mrs. Lee and her adherents were treated so with reason,” Father Stephen said in a sharp voice. Rees jumped. He'd forgotten the pastor was there. “Doesn't that faith—your faith—believe in the end of the world? And that God is equally feminine and masculine?” He looked directly at Lydia. “All blasphemous teachings, but the most profane is that your Ann Lee is divine.”

“She was touched by God,” Lydia retorted passionately. “God granted her visions.” Rees could feel his brows rising in astonishment. Lydia was the most practical of women, not one to believe in things she could not see or touch.

“So I've heard,” Father Stephen said. “Her vision of an angel on the ship crossing from Great Britain to New York was the talk of sailors everywhere.”

“She was right, wasn't she?” Lydia said. “The ship did not founder in the storm. They survived.”

“That vision,” Father Stephen said through his teeth, “could have as easily come from Satan as from God. Your sex is easily swayed by the Devil.”

Rees gaped at the other man. “What are you saying? This is my wife. You married us here, in this very church.”

Father Stephen, his lips so tightly pinched together a white line circled his mouth, turned his gaze to Rees. “You would not be the first man to be suborned by a fair face and form, unsuspecting of the rottenness within. Her red hair should have warned you.”

Rees jerked Lydia to her feet. “We are leaving,” he said. He had seen many strange events in his travels but none had had a supernatural cause. Although he tried never to argue these matters of faith, he did not believe either. People, in his opinion, caused their own Heaven or Hell. And these passions all too frequently justified cruelty to another.

“Beware,” Father Stephen said to Rees's back. “Cast her off before you are tainted as well. Your birth and upbringing in this town will not save you.”

Rees almost turned around. He was trembling with fury and, if he had not had Lydia clinging to his arm, the blood from the wound on her head still fresh and glistening, he would have punched the minister for his accusations, man of God or no.

Rees drew Lydia into the sunshine. Potter had drawn the wagon up to the gate. He waved from the wagon seat and hurriedly scrambled down. “Here you go. I saw Caldwell and he said he'll ride out after market is done and speak with you.” Potter stopped talking and peered into Rees's face. “Are you all right?”

Rees reached out for the reins. “Fine.” His voice was hoarse, unrecognizable. He turned to Lydia and extended his hand. She was trying to hold the ripped collar of her dress closed with one trembling hand and her hair had come unpinned and tumbled down her back. Her skirt was clotted with mud. Queasy with the intensity of his emotion, Rees closed his eyes and swallowed. When Lydia was settled he would return to town and find the young men who'd attacked her, a pregnant woman.

“You look—enraged,” Potter said, taking an involuntary step backward. “Calm down.”

“I'm fine,” Rees said. It was so much easier to feel anger than admit to the fear that something terrible could have happened to Lydia and the baby she carried. He looked at her.

“I'm well,” she said. “The baby too. Don't worry.” Laying her hand upon Rees's sleeve, she smiled up at him. “We're both fine, I promise you.”

Nonetheless, Rees lifted her into the seat, taking as much care as though she were exquisite china. He knew she was in pain when she gladly accepted his assistance; she usually climbed up by herself. He scrambled up beside her. Now that the danger was past he was shivering and sweating. He couldn't speak—when he tried his voice came out thready and weak—so he slapped down the reins. When Hannibal jolted into a walk Lydia swayed in the seat. “Do you need to lie down?” Rees asked anxiously.

“I can sit,” she said, but she hung onto the side with such force her knuckles turned white and all the tendons in her hand stood out like cords. She was trembling like an aspen tree in a high wind. He took one hand off the reins for a moment to pat her shoulder.