The very opposite of what I loved about Isaac.
A groan came from Hope, telling me she was awake.
“Father is getting married today,” she said as she rolled over with a dramatic tossing of her arm across her face.
“I know. I’ve been lying here, trying to avoid the inevitable.”
She moved her arm and looked at me in the darkness. The small window in our room revealed the first hint of morning light as it lined the horizon, offering just enough glow for me to see her clearly.
“I really do wish you’d give Luc a chance.”
It was my turn to groan. “You are the most single-minded person I know.”
She laughed. “That’s because I know what I want. And sometimes it takes stubborn determination to get it.”
I shook my head but couldn’t disagree with her. “What makes you think I’m not giving him a chance?”
“Besides refusing to dance with him?” She pursed her lips and raised an eyebrow. “You hardly acknowledge his existence—let alone speak to him.” She turned all the way to look at me. “Just try, please, for my sake. Our time in Europe will be unbearable if you can’t be friendly.”
With another groan I said, “Fine. I will try to get along with him.”
A beautiful smile tilted the edges of Hope’s lips, and she hugged me tight. “Thank you.”
I didn’t respond, not knowing what to say. Hope was passionate and knew what she wanted in life. When she didn’t get it, her disappointment often turned into anger or bitterness.Sometimes it was easier to give in to her than deal with her moods.
My only consolation was that she seemed aware of this character flaw, though she did little to stem it.
We dressed in our best black gowns, since black was the most expensive color of fabric in the colony. The gowns befitted the daughters of a successful tavern owner. With the witch-hunt underway, Father’s wedding would be a somber affair, but there would still be a celebration. The magistrates had questioned the accused women, and both Goody Osborn and Goody Good had claimed innocence—while Tituba had confessed to everything.
According to Hope, while Sarah Osborn and Sarah Good protested their guilt at the Meeting House, the afflicted girls had writhed and cried out vile things until the constables had taken both Sarahs away to the Salem gaol. When Tituba had entered, the girls had continued—until Tituba confessed that she had seen the devil in the lean-to kitchen at the parsonage, and he had told her to serve him.
Had she not confessed, the witch-hunt would have most likely ended with her going to gaol, and the event would have blown over. But while she confessed, the afflicted girls had become silent, almost in awe that she agreed with them. The more leading questions the magistrates asked, the more Tituba admitted, to the great alarm of those present. It was as if her confession unleashed the floodgates and made others believe there was real witchcraft underfoot—and that perhaps they too were afflicted. Fear spread like wildfire. A week after Tituba’s confession, several more girls and women had become afflicted with strange and painful convulsions, hallucinations, and tremors—and many more people were accused.
Including little Dorothy Good.
My heart was heavy for the four-year-old child. I didn’t know what would become of her and the others, since I had notallowed myself to learn all the details about the witch trials in my 1912 path. I already knew too much, and daily I wondered when and where I might accuse Hope. Would learning the truth about our mother help us or hurt us? It was still unimaginable to think I would call Hope a witch, so I tucked the foreknowledge into the depths of my soul, hoping and praying it would not come to pass. I had control, didn’t I? No one could force me to accuse her—even if the history books claimed it would happen.
By midmorning, the kitchen was hot and smelled like baked bread, roasting lamb, and apple cobbler. The wedding would take place at noon since there was a town meeting later that day. All the guests would be invited back to the ordinary for a midday meal, which Hope and I would serve with the help of Leah and John.
I hadn’t spoken to Father about his marriage to Susannah because I knew he wouldn’t listen to my concerns. Over the past few days, he had been in the best mood I’d seen in years, and it was obvious he was pleased with the match. It appeared that Susannah was, as well, though it was hard to fathom how a girl her age could be happy with a man twenty-five years older than her.
Father didn’t come into the kitchen until half past eleven. He was wearing his best clothes; his face was freshly shaven; and his damp hair was combed away from his face. Baths in Massachusetts were an uncommon occurrence, though the Puritans valued cleanliness. Sponge and hip baths were used, if people could afford them, and clothing was cared for with diligent hands. Hope and I bathed as frequently as we could, knowing that cleanliness was essential to good health. Mama had taught us that from her 1941 and 2001 paths. No one else in Salem Village knew about germs, but Hope and I did.
“’Tis time to go to the Meeting House,” Father said.
The meal was warming in the hearth. Leah would stay behind to finish the last-minute preparations.
I didn’t want to witness my father’s vows to Susannah, but I had no choice. I nodded and changed my soiled apron for a clean one. Hope did the same and set a steeple-crowned hat over her coif.
Without another word, we followed Father out of the kitchen, through the taproom—where John was serving travelers who were passing through Salem Village—and into the clear, bright day.
It wasn’t a long walk to the Meeting House, which was one of the reasons people came to the ordinary between morning and evening meetings on Sundays to eat their meals and warm themselves. The ordinary was in the center of the village on the road to Andover and easily accessible by everyone in the area.
“Susannah’s relatives will move her possessions into the house after the wedding,” Father said, breaking the silence as we neared the Meeting House. “I expect both of you to treat her with the utmost respect as your mother.”
“My mother?” Hope asked, disgust in her voice. “She’s but a child.”
Father stopped, steel in his voice and eyes, clearly in no mood to put up with Hope’s opinions. “Until you see fit to marry and leave my home, she will be your mother.”
