The hem of my blue gown was caked with mud, and my shoes were sodden with cold rainwater. I toted a basket of food for the Parris family while Hope carried a bundle of firewood. We followed Father like dutiful daughters, though Hope was mumbling under her breath.
She would much rather be in 1912. We both would. But God had chosen this path for us, as well, and we had work to do here.
Soon we turned off the road and onto a drive that led up to the parsonage. We were met by the family’s dog, who was soaking wet. He wagged his tail in greeting and followed us up the path.
The brown house was tall and narrow, with two rooms on the main floor and two above. A central chimney allowed for a fireplace in each room. The church had built the house many years ago, and it had been the home of several parish ministers. The Parris family had moved in three years ago, but from the start, Samuel Parris had been a source of division for the village. He preached strict adherence to Puritan laws with little to no mercy, but many of the congregants were supporters of the Half-Way Covenant, a partial church membership that allowed more freedom of thought and behavior. Because of this, half the town disapproved of him and refused to pay his wage or supply him with firewood. The winter had been long and cold for the family.
Father rapped loudly upon the front door, and it was opened immediately by Tituba, the Parrises’ enslaved woman and John Indian’s wife. She lowered her gaze and opened the door further to allow us to enter.
“Mister Eaton,” Reverend Parris said as he stood from his chair near the hearth. “Welcome.”
Three other men were in the cold room, their dour faces filled with concern. Two of them were Putnams, the wealthiest and most powerful men in the village. The other was a deacon of the church, like Father.
“Take the supplies to the kitchen,” Father instructed us. “And be useful.”
Tituba closed the door behind us, and we followed her through the main room to the kitchen lean-to in the back. There, Mistress Parris sat at a table, looking through the window at the bleak world outside.
Though there was a fire in the hearth, each of the rooms was chilly and shadowed. An eerie, foreboding feeling penetrated the dark walls and made the air feel thick.
Where were the girls?
“Good day, Mistress Parris,” I said. “We’ve brought food and wood.”
She looked up at us and blinked several times as if pulling herself from a daze. Deep worry lines and circles under her eyes betrayed her exhaustion.
“Bless you,” she said as she rose. “Just when I think we shall run out of food and wood, God doth provide more.”
Tituba went to the hearth, where she removed bread from the brick oven. Mistress Parris glanced at her with a look of such distrust, I felt a shiver run up my spine.
I set my basket on the table, and Hope placed the firewood near the door. She startled at the sound of a knock.
“Who hath come in this violent weather?” Mistress Parris asked. “Not another man to gape at my poor child, I pray.”
Tituba opened the door, and a man stood outside. His wide-brimmed hat was pulled low on his forehead, but I immediately recognized him.
“’Tis Isaac Abbott,” I said with a smile, instantly feeling better.
He looked up and met my smile, just as surprised and pleased to see me. His kind blue eyes immediately took in the room, and he nodded at Hope. She nodded back, though she didn’t seem nearly as happy to see our old friend.
“Goodman Abbott,” Mistress Parris said, seeming relieved herself. “What brings you to our home today?”
He stepped into the small kitchen and took off his hat, closing the door behind him. “I’ve come with a load of firewood. ’Tis not much, but it should get you through the week.”
“Bless you,” the older woman said with tears in her eyes.
“Mistress Parris?” came the stern voice of Reverend Parris. “Bring Tituba and the girls to us.”
She briefly closed her eyes, as if saying a prayer, and then nodded at Tituba to follow her.
They left the kitchen, and I moved closer to Isaac. He had been tall and broad since his teenage years but had grown stronger since taking over his family’s farm. His steady presence was comforting, though I wasn’t sure what he could do to ease my concerns.
“Are the rumors true?” he asked me, speaking in low tones.
“I know not,” I replied. “I haven’t seen the girls myself.”
Isaac glanced in Hope’s direction, and I could see the longing in his handsome gaze. He clutched his hat and said, “You look well today, Hope.”
She busied herself stacking the firewood. “Thank you, Isaac,” she muttered, though she didn’t bother to look at him.
