I shook my head. The thought hadn’t even occurred to me. “I cannot betray my sister’s memory.”
“I know what it is to honor a memory. I tried to honor my father’s for six long years, and in the process, it almost destroyedme. I finally had to stand up to his memory and to my mother’s expectations and start living the life I wanted.” He spoke plainly, with a rawness that cut me deep. “I care for you, Grace—very much. Do you remember the day on theAmerikawhen you spoke to Captain Barends about your writing?”
I nodded.
He lifted his hand to my cheek again, his fingers slipping into my hair as his thumb caressed my cheekbone.
“That was the day that I realized you were one of the most unique and beautiful women I had ever known—not only on the outside, but deep within, where your spirit and your soul collide. You are brave and fierce and determined. You care about injustice and seek after truth. And your loyalty to those you love is admirable. You never pretended with me—or anyone else. You are true to yourself, and that is a quality I admire above many others.” He smiled and shook his head. “Do you remember when I asked you to dance the first night on the ship?”
I nodded again, unable to speak.
“When you refused me, I wished I had not been such a fool to treat you as I did in the beginning. I had great expectations for Hope and knew she could accomplish more for women in aviation than anyone I’d ever met—until you. When she introduced us and I saw the fiery passion in your eyes to protect her, I thought you would try to stop her. I misjudged you and was not kind. I quickly realized I was wrong, but it was too late, and you already disliked me.”
My chest rose and fell in short breaths as I looked into his eyes.
“And every day since,” he continued, his voice low, intimate, “I have hoped and prayed you would forgive me and see me for who I am—an imperfect man who is falling in love with you.”
He looked at my mouth, and my heart stopped. I wanted his kiss—longed for it with every breath I took—but I knew I could not betray my sister.
“I need time,” I said, though I’m not sure how I spoke. “Time to think and to pray.”
He ran his thumb over my cheekbone again and said, “Do you care for me, even a little?”
I put my hand over his and nodded. “Oui.”
A brilliant smile lit up his face, and he took my hand in his to place a kiss on my knuckles. “That is all I need for now.”
I wanted to promise him more, but I knew it wasn’t fair to him, to Hope—or to myself.
How could I face my sister in the morning? How could I look her in the eyes and keep this secret hidden—along with the other one that already weighed upon my heart?
23
HOPE
SEPTEMBER 10, 1692
SALEM VILLAGE
I sat outside the Salem Towne House, misting rain blowing against my hot face as I wept. The court of oyer and terminer had completed the weeklong examinations of six women, including Ann Pudeator and Rachel Howlett, and the grand jury had found them all guilty of witchcraft. They were sentenced to hang on September 22nd.
My heart twisted with guilt at the knowledge that Ann and Rachel suffered because of my father’s actions—and their connection to my mother. Their innocence haunted me, yet I was powerless to save them.
The only consolation was that Rachel’s pregnancy had stayed her execution. But her unborn child had also been used against her to demonstrate to the jury that she was a woman of immoral conduct. Her history as a Quaker had also come into play—onemore reason I knew she would be condemned, though I had prayed hard that she would not.
Ann’s accusers had come from all corners. As a midwife and healer, she was blamed by many who stepped forward to describe the death of their loved ones. Her husband’s death, and the death of his first wife, were blamed on her, and it didn’t help that she had twenty jars of unidentifiable greases—or potions—in her home. Those accusations, along with the claims of spectral affliction, were enough for the jury to convict her.
The street was empty, as everyone had left the courtroom and gone to their homes or to the prison. Grace had stayed at the ordinary to cook but had encouraged me to come so I could report on the trials. I had been here every day this week, walking the five miles back and forth on my own—heedless of the dangers along the road.
But now, with the final verdict cast and nothing left for anyone to do, I looked up at the gray sky, shaking my head at a God I didn’t understand. “Why?” I asked as I fisted my hands. “Where are You? How can You watch this and not call out the injustice? These men speak in Your name—yet they misuse You and Your Word for their own purposes. Doth that not enrage You?”
The rain fell upon my hot face, though the answers remained locked away. Did God not care about my anguish and pain?
A wagon rounded the corner, disturbing the quiet. Isaac sat at the front of the vehicle, his hands gripping the reins, as rainwater dripped off the brim of his black, steeple-crowned hat. His face was so serious, so intent.
So angry.
I pulled myself from the stoop and met his wagon on the road.
