“We didn’t evenknowyour name until we went to Ann Pudeator and asked her.” I paused, not wanting to burden Tacy with Ann’s fate. “And then a good friend of ours went to Sandwich on our behalf and found the rest of your family. Pricilla came to visit us.”
Tacy grabbed my hand. “My sister?”
I nodded. “She told me that if I found you, I was supposed to say she is sorry.”
Pain passed over Tacy’s face as she said, “I forgave her a long time ago. She has nothing to be sorry about.” She turned to Mama to explain. “I was a Quaker in Massachusetts—am a Quaker still—but when I met Uriah, I left the faith and followed the Puritan ways. My family was angry, because I had not yet made my final decision and was still living in New York in 1888. Our time-crossing mother had always encouraged us not to marry or have children before we chose our final path. My sister, Pricilla, denounced me and refused to speak to me—until I came back to my family. Then she embraced me and the girls and encouraged me to keep sharing my faith. She tried to fight for me when I was arrested and sentenced to hang, but there was nothing she could do. I knew she would feel guilty, but it wasn’t her fault.”
“How very sad,” Mama said. “How was it that you were hanged?”
“It didn’t take me long to return to the Quaker faith. I hated that women were not treated as equals in the Puritan community. When I stood up to Uriah, his real character appeared, and our relationship deteriorated. I knew I had made a dire mistake, so I returned to my family, took back my old name, and tried to make up for the time I had lost. I began preaching equality and freedom to those in Boston who would listen, but I was arrested and sentenced to hang. Uriah was so angry at me and so worried about what others in his community would say if they knew he’d married a Quaker that he let them hang me without a fight. He took the girls away from me in prison, and that was the last I heard of him before I died.”
“I’m so sorry,” Mama said.
“I was impetuous and headstrong,” Tacy continued as she looked at me. “I should have tried to fight for my marriagebecause I did love Uriah. But I could not abide his treatment of me. I would have stayed in the 1600s forever, if I could, to be with you and Hope.”
“You remind me of Hope,” I told her. “She’s also impetuous and headstrong.”
Mama laughed and nodded. “She is, indeed.”
“I will pray for her,” Tacy said. “And you.” She frowned. “It’s been twenty-four years and you’re still crossing? How is that possible?”
“I inherited a different mark from Mama,” I said. “Marks on the back of your head give you twenty-five years. I’ll need to make my final decision in less than two weeks.”
“You must be torn, especially with Hope stuck in 1692.”
“Very torn. I love Hope and want to stay with her, but—” I looked down at my hands, thinking of this life—but especially about Luc.
“I miss my family in Massachusetts,” Tacy said, still holding my hand. “And I have a very poor relationship with my mother here—but that is another story. When I came to Los Angeles in 1888, I didn’t think I would ever find happiness again. But I met Grant Bennet, and he has been such a blessing from God. We’ve built a very good life for ourselves. You have three younger sisters here, and only one of them is a time-crosser. I haven’t even told them about my life in the 1600s because I don’t want to burden them.” She let out a sigh. “I tell you this to let you know that no matter what you choose, God has blessings in store for you that you can’t even imagine. So don’t be afraid to take the life you want.”
A noise on the porch indicated that a group of people were entering the house.
“Speaking of your sisters,” she said with a smile, letting go of my hand. “They’re just getting home.” Her gentle gaze rested on my face. “I hope you won’t mind that I cannot tell them who you really are.”
“Of course not. I didn’t come here to complicate your life.”
“I know, dear. But they will be thrilled to meet you as the daring aviatrix, Grace Cooper. And I will welcome you any time you want to come. There is still a lot I want to know, and I’m sure there is a lot you want to know, so we will meet often. And no matter what you choose on October 12th, I will be forever grateful that you found me and that God blessed me with the knowledge that you were guided with this special gift. I love you Grace—and I love Hope, too. Very much. Please tell her.”
I nodded. “And we’ve always loved you.”
Her eyes crinkled at the edges as she smiled at me, and then, in the next second, three beautiful young women entered the parlor with parcels from a shopping trip in hand. Their excited chatter came to a halt when they realized there were guests present.
Mama, Tacy, and I rose as Tacy said, “Girls, you’ll never guess who has come to visit.”
And they wouldn’t. But it was enough that Tacy knew.
27
HOPE
OCTOBER 1, 1692
SALEM TOWNE
There was nothing to mark the endless hours in the gaol except the appearance of Grace and Isaac each morning. As I sat near the barred window at the door, waiting for their visit, I tried to inhale as much fresh air as I could—though the outside was almost as rank as the inside.
Cold nights were followed by unusually warm days. Illness ran rampant through the small room, and a community toilet in the corner offered putrid smells and no privacy. The boards at our feet were stained with years of unhappy memories, and the odor of unbathed bodies and unwashed clothing made my eyes water. All I could think about was a hot bath and a warm meal among the white linen tablecloths at Delmonico’s.
For some, like little Dorothy Good and Tituba, who had been transferred to other gaols, their imprisonments were going onseven or eight months. They had probably not had a bath, a change of clothes, or even a hairbrush in all that time. Add to that the constant fear of the unknown, watching friends, neighbors, and family brought out for hanging, and the horrors of such surroundings—and I knew they would never be the same again. The mental anguish was far too great. Someday Dorothy would also have to live with the knowledge that she had aided in her mother’s execution. Though she wasn’t to blame, no doubt she wouldn’t see it that way.
