One corner of Susannah’s lips rose, and she shook her head. “You haven’t realized yet the power I hold over this house. Or mayhap you have, and you’re lying to yourself. A few well-placed trinkets and kind words are all it took for Leah to start speaking to me.”
Susannah turned and looked at me near the worktable. “You’ll both be surprised to learn what Leah hath told me—though I’m sure you can guess. Time will tell how I might use the information to my benefit.”
With that, she left the kitchen.
Hope scowled as she came down the rest of the steps and dropped her cleaning bucket and rags in the corner of the kitchen. “If anyone is a witch, ’tis her.”
“Hope,” I said in a warning voice, “she’s pregnant.”
Hope’s eyes widened, and then she rolled them. “Another thing she can hold over Father.”
“She has plenty already. Do you believe Leah has spoken to her?”
“No.” Hope shook her head adamantly. “She’s only bluffing to control us with fear.”
“I pray you’re right.” I handed her a plate with a slice of dried apple pie. “Will you take this to Father? He’s in the dining room.”
Without a word, Hope took the plate from me and left the kitchen.
I began to assemble the stew and was lost in the work when Hope reappeared.
“Father is speaking with Sarah Churchill.” She set down a cup harder than necessary. “Why is Sarah here? And why is she speaking with Father?”
I wiped my hands on my apron and left the kitchen to see for myself. As surreptitiously as possible, I peeked around the door and saw Sarah Churchill sitting at a table in the corner with Father. Susannah had joined them. They were speaking in low tones as Father passed a coin to Sarah, who nodded.
Quickly, I went back into the kitchen before they saw me.
Sarah was in her early twenties and was another refugee from Maine. She had been working for George Jacobs, Sr., when she had been overcome with spasms and torments. Goodman Jacobs had reportedly beat the affliction out of her, and she had recovered. Just like Mary Warren, the afflicted girls had then turned on Sarah and accused her of witchcraft. And just like Mary, Sarah had a change of heart and became afflicted again—this time accusing Goodman Jacobs of being a witch.
What was she doing with Father? And why had he given her money?
“I don’t like this,” Hope said as she shook her head.
“Nor I, especially after what Susannah said about Leah.” Unlike Hope, I wasn’t so sure that Susannah was lying.
Leah had said nothing to Hope or I since the night Ann Pudeator had come—but that didn’t mean she wasn’t talking to Susannah or Father. Ann had been arrested once and questioned, then let go because of lack of evidence.
I prayed she wouldn’t be arrested again.
Evening had fallen, and with it, a storm had arrived, shaking the windows in the ordinary. The taproom was full of people who had come to get the latest news about Bridget Bishop’s hanging. John was back, pouring drinks and telling everyone what he knew about the grand jury trials. He had been called as a witness in several of the cases. His wife, Tituba, was being held in the Boston prison, and there was no talk about hergoing to trial yet. Only those who claimed innocence were being tried. Those, like Tituba and Abigail Hobbs, who admitted to their allegiance with the devil, were left alone in the gaol. It appeared the magistrates believed they could rehabilitate those who were willing to confess and were not as concerned with them as they were with those they believed to be guilty and lying about their innocence.
I stayed in the kitchen, sewing a torn seam in one of my aprons, since my other work was done for the day. The food had been served, the pots and pans and dishes had been washed, and I would not be needed again tonight. Leah was in the taproom, helping John.
Hope sat near the hearth, reading her Bible, a contemplative look on her face. Despite all the authoritarian rules, the elders encouraged everyone to read the Bible for themselves. There was no other time in history with a better literacy rate than in Puritan Massachusetts for that very reason.
I loved that Hope was searching for answers, trying to understand. But I worried that she was floundering, like a wave tossed in the ocean, uncertain what to believe. If I knew anything about the nature of God, it was that He was a solid rock, a firm foundation to build upon. I hoped she would gain that same understanding. I longed to ask if she wanted to talk about her questions, but I didn’t know if I had the answers she needed. Her journey with God was unique and personal—and unlike my Puritan elders, I did not think I could force her to accept what I believed.
The wind picked up, howling like a wild animal around the eaves of the ordinary. I glanced out the window and shivered, grateful for the safety and warmth of our little kitchen—though some of the afflicted had told Susannah that there were specters all around the ordinary. One of the local boys had even tried to defend Abigail Williams when she came to visit Susannah, drawing his rapier to attack the specter of GeorgeBurroughs in the taproom. It was getting harder and harder to believe the whole thing was foolishness. Though I knew some were using the witch trials for nefarious reasons, there were others who were genuinely plagued by mental and emotional turmoil.
A light rapping sounded at the back door, causing both Hope and I to glance up.
I set my sewing aside and rose on unsteady legs. I had been hoping and praying that Isaac would return. Was this him now?
Opening the door, I found him standing in the pouring rain, his clothing soaked through and his hat misshapen. He removed it and placed it over his chest—and he’d never looked dearer to me than in that moment. His eyes shone with warmth, even if he was freezing.
“How do you fare, Grace?” he asked with a broad smile.
“I am happy now.” I pulled him into the warm kitchen, shaking my head. “Why have you come on a night such as this?”
