I glanced at Hope, and she nodded.
“Of course.” I smiled at Isaac, knowing how much it meant to him to help us—or rather, to help Hope.
Ann looked at both Hope and me intently, fear in her gaze. “Your father threatened my life if I ever breathed a word of your mother’s story to anyone. All these years, I thought he had at least told you the truth. When I realized he hadn’t, I decided I must say something. But if he learns what I’ve done...”
I took Ann’s hand again. “I promise we won’t tell him. You have our word.”
She nodded, but the fear did not leave her eyes. “I’m afraidI’ve put you and your sister at risk. If anyone knows you have ties to a Quaker—one hanged for sharing her faith—you will not be safe.”
I took a deep breath and said, “None of us are safe right now. Not after they arrested Rebecca and Dorothy. If they are willing to question them, they are willing to arrest and question anyone.”
As long as they weren’t a Putnam.
It wasn’t long before Isaac helped Ann back to his wagon. I closed the door behind them and turned to look at Hope. As I did, I noticed that the door to Leah’s room was cracked open—and she stood on the other side, staring at us.
“Leah?” I stepped forward, my heart racing.
She slowly closed her door and did not say a word.
10
HOPE
APRIL 9, 1912
DOVER, ENGLAND
It was four o’clock in the morning when I rose from my bed at the Lord Warden Hotel and went to the window to check the weather. Fog blanketed the streets, causing my heart to fall. We had waited for a week before I could test the Blériot in Hardelot, and then another week for the aeroplane to be shipped to Dover. For the past two days, a dense fog had sat thick over the Channel. But today was the last possible day I could make the flight if we wanted to arrive in Cherbourg in time to board theTitanic.
The hotel room was dark and silent as I began to pace. Last night, Luc and Grace had taken a ferry to Calais in case the weather improved and I could make the flight. Grace wanted to be on the field with a camera to photograph my arrival, and Luc wanted to be there to manage the press. Before he left, he had said to be ready for his phone call at four to let me know if the flight would happen this morning.
I glanced at the clock. It was now five minutes past four, and the phone was still silent.
As I paced and waited, anxious thoughts shifted between the flight and my life in Salem.
It had been over two weeks since we learned the truth about our mother in 1692. We had tried asking Leah what she heard or understood, but she said nothing. If Father knew Ann Pudeator had visited and told us the truth, there was no telling what might happen to her. I prayed that Leah’s mutism would continue—at least in this regard.
Since it would be impossible to get away from the ordinary—and Father—long enough to travel to Sandwich, we had to wait for Isaac to go on our behalf. It wasn’t like him to subvert our father’s authority and look for answers that Uriah Eaton wanted to hide. It gave me a newfound respect for Isaac. I had always thought he was a rule-follower, but perhaps he bent the rules when the rules were unjust.
As for Rebecca Nurse and Dorothy Good, both had been questioned and held in the Salem gaol for further trial. Rebecca claimed innocence to witchcraft. Little Dorothy Good was another story. She confessed that her mother, Sarah Good, was, in fact, a witch. And when Susannah found a small red spot on Dorothy’s hand, no bigger than a flea bite, Dorothy claimed her mother’s familiar, a little yellow bird, suckled there. The magistrates were elated to have the confession and physical evidence.
I was angry. Who would take the word of a scared and suggestable four-year-old? Thinking about it made my blood boil, and I began to pace with new energy.
The phone rang, and I raced across the room to answer it. With a pounding heart, I said, “Luc? Is it time?”
“Oui.”
That one word, once so foreign and strange, filled me with inexplicable feelings.
“A driver will arrive in twenty minutes to take you to the aerodrome,” he continued. “The mechanics are on their way there now. It is still foggy over the Channel, but if you stick true to the compass, you will have no trouble finding Calais.”
“What if I don’t?” I asked, the first hint of trepidation filling my heart.
Just yesterday, Luc had shown me how to use a compass when it became clear we were running out of time. On a clear day, I should be able to see the French coastline from Dover. But with the fog, I would be flying blind. If we wanted to get to theTitanicin Cherbourg by tomorrow evening, a nine-hour train ride from Calais, then this was the only way.
“You have no choice,” Luc said, his voice grave. “Even if you get just a few miles off course, you could be lost in the North Sea. That is not an option.”
I swallowed my nerves. There was no time to be afraid. Fear clouded the mind and created trouble where there was no trouble. I was capable of this flight, and I needed to keep believing it to be true.
