An Unexpected Sin (16 page)

Susannah must know the whole terrible truth, for that explained how Anne’s grandmother would know.

Anne looked at her grandmother. “You said it was the guilt that ruined her. You were speaking of Mother?”

“She was,” Susannah said. She took a long, shaky breath. “I remember when you were born. Verity—that was Josiah’s mother—was so happy and so, so proud.” She looked at George. “It was as we were first courting.”

Josiah looked to George. “You knew my mother as well?”

He shook his head. “Back then, more than now, courtship took place in the parents’ home. I am from here, in town. My wife came from the village. Though I spent time in her home, we remained there under the supervision of her parents. I did not come to know her neighbors until after we were married.”

“What do you know of Josiah’s birth?” Anne asked.

“He was a beautiful baby,” she said. “And big. Fair haired with a strong grip and a loud cry. The rest of us lamented we would have to cover our ears, but not your mother. No matter your volume, she would not put you down. Your mother loved you so, so much.”

Josiah had never been so taken aback. His father had spoken of his mother in such a cold manner, and though Josiah had never fully understood why, he could only hope it was due to his grief. To hear Susannah speak of his mother with such warmth and sorrow dissolved something hard and terrible inside of him—something that had become such a part of him he had not realized he held it until he was suddenly free.

“Thank…thank you,” he said. “Thank you for telling me about my mother. No one has ever spoken of her in such a way.”

Susannah shook her head. “Your gratitude comes too soon.”

“What do you mean? What have you done?” Though Anne’s words were intended for her mother, she shot a tense look in her grandmother’s direction.

“You grew poorly, and Verity was frantic. She had the physician see to you, and though she and your father could ill afford it, she called for a doctor from another town. Travel then was even more difficult than it is now, but she cared not for the expense. It was a terrible burden on your father, but he coped as best he could.”

Josiah peeled back threads of memories he had long buried. He never dreamed he would have the chance to get to know his mother in this way, and though the story was certain to take a dark turn—as had his mother’s life—he still treasured the chance to know more of her. “My father said she sought the help of a native.”

“Yes, the Indian woman. She was a good friend. They had crossed paths in the woods at one time—neither one knowing what to make of the other, until your mother presented her with a parcel of bread she had carried, and from the goodwill, grew a friendship. Such relationships were frowned upon, for Puritans were not to consort with the natives, you see. But Verity had her own ways and would not refuse a friend because of such nonsense. When the Indian heard of your illness, she brought a remedy from her medicine man. Such…potions were…they were considered the work of the devil, but you grew weaker with each passing day. Verity said there was no risk too great for your life.”

Anne leaned forward. “So she gave him the medicine?”

“Indeed. And just as the Indian assured, the babe—you, Josiah—returned to health.”

“What was in the treatment?”

“We never knew. It mattered not to Verity—only that her babe was well—and to my knowledge, she never again saw the Indian.” Susannah looked to her hands clasped at her front. “She never had the chance. Word of Josiah’s recovery spread, and from that point, things happened fast. Some time ago there were witch hunts in Hartford, not so terribly different from the ones claiming Salem at this time.”

“This happened before?” Anne asked, her hand to her mouth.

“Yes, three decades past. A similar tragedy, and terribly ironic that the accusations began over the death of a child when your mother was only trying to prevent one.” She shook her head. “People do not see fit to learn from their mistakes, though I suppose I am no exception.”

“What happened to Verity, Mother?”

“At that time, people had not forgotten the Hartford witch hunts, or the many before them. I know not who started the rumors—I suppose that knowledge belongs only to the guilty party—but talk spread fast. Verity was quickly accused of consorting with the devil in order to heal her child.”

His mother had been the talk of gossip. How could his father ever think the secret of her accusation was hanged with her? “But the healing medicine,” he said. “Had it not been documented?”

Susannah looked at Josiah in surprise. “Your education has served you well. Yes, John Winthrop the Younger—the governor of Connecticut, but also the son of Massachusetts’ governor—returned from England with knowledge of natural healing. He was greatly respected, and as chief magistrate, he oversaw the Connecticut court. He put an end to the executions and to some extent calmed fears, though not all were convinced. The unease persisted, especially in the more rural areas. Salem, too, is a great distance from Connecticut, and the talk never really ceased. Nor did Massachusetts abide by the standards of John Winthrop’s court, so any reprieve granted there was not afforded to the people of Salem.”

“It was a terrible time,” said Anne’s grandmother.

“Indeed it was,” Susannah said. She grew distant for a moment, as if she revisited the time in her past. After a moment, she continued. “Verity had always been a bit left of convention”—she cast a pointed look at Anne—“not at all unlike my own daughter.”

Anne clutched Josiah’s hand in both of hers, sending a brief strike of worry through him. He wanted not to upset the goodwife before he heard the rest of her story. But to his surprise, Susannah’s expression at the sight of them was suspiciously akin to a smile.

“Soon after Josiah’s nonstop crying ceased, neighbors began talk he had been healed by witchcraft. And that flared something terrible inside.”

“But there is no record of her arrest,” Josiah said.

“She was never arrested, or even formally accused. They came to her one night, and…” Susannah lowered her eyes, but not quickly enough to hide her tears. “She begged me not to tell anyone she had taken this healing potion from the Indian. Even as they took her, she begged me never to tell. I sat there and held you, Josiah, as they took her to her death, and I said nothing.”

“Surely if she had told them…if she had explained?”

Susannah shook her head. “I have asked myself that same question all these years since. I fear not. I knew the source of the cure, and still I could not believe Josiah’s recovery. With talk of witches spread far and wide, well, they would have believed what they wanted. She feared for you, Josiah. Even with the truth, she was terrified they would consider you afflicted, for the natives are known for their practices in witchcraft. A man with a noose in his hand is far past the point of reason. I was the only one who knew her secret, and I did not save her.”

Tears fell in earnest now—Susannah’s and Anne’s. Josiah shared their sorrow, but something else had grown inside him. He had never known how deeply his mother cared for him, but he felt it now. Truly felt it.

“When you came here,” Susannah said to Josiah, “I could not be sure at first, but the way Anne looked at you, I soon knew. I knew you were her child.”

“If you knew it was him—if you knew he was not truly at fault for Samuel’s death—then why did you push me from him? Why would you tell him he is not welcome here?”

“It was the guilt,” said Anne’s grandmother. “People will do terrible things to protect their guilt.”

Like walk away from love
.

“I was afraid he knew the truth. I have not spoken of this in so many years.”

“But grandmother knew,” Anne said.

Josiah addressed the goodwife. “My father told me no one knew of what happened.”

She nodded. “Those who ended her life knew, but assuredly they would not speak of it. Executions were the way, but your mother’s death was no execution. It was murder, and if they had boasted of their crime they would have met the same fate. As for Anne’s grandmother, I confided in her. I should not have, but I could not hide my devastation. I was afraid her questions would stir up trouble for the babe, and the truth was the only way I knew to put them to an end.”

“But Mother…Josiah was Samuel’s friend. Surely you knew then that he was Verity’s son.”

She nodded. “I did, and I was glad to keep watch over him. I promised his mother I would, and of course when he was at our house so often it was easy to do so.” She turned to Josiah. “I fear your father blamed me.”

“If so, he did not blame you alone. He never forgave me.”

“I do not understand. Why would you accept Josiah then, but not when he returned?”

“A heart cannot always be explained. When he and Samuel became friendly, they were so young. I knew Josiah could not understand the implications of his past, but I worried as he grew older. When Samuel was taken, I…I thought it retribution for the loss of his mother.”

“Are you saying you think he took Samuel from you on purpose?”

“I could not imagine Josiah doing such a thing, but I had just lost a child. In such a time, one seeks reason. We always want to know why, for it is the nature of man. And when I prayed for answers, I had only myself to blame. The truth was plain. Samuel was taken from me because I did not save Verity.”

“If you did not blame Josiah, why did you shut him out? Why did you send him away from the inn?”

Susannah’s eyes filled with new tears. “Because, my sweet girl. I was afraid I would lose you as well. And now that you are with child…it seems I have.”

Overwhelmed, Josiah turned to face the window. He had been tugged in every direction at once. Though he had not fully forgiven his father for so cruelly ousting him, he better understood his place. The loss of a loved one had to bring such utter devastation—he could see that in the affect Samuel’s death had on George and Susannah. Josiah could not begin to think of losing Anne in such a way, but he would cling tightly to his own child rather than dispossessing him as had Josiah’s father. But the world seemed an infinitely cruel place, and he would make no pretense of knowing why his father had reacted the way he did.

He could do but one thing.

Susannah Scudder stood with her arms crossed tightly across her chest, eyes rimmed red. She seemed to have lost her fight, and his heart broke for this woman who had clearly loved his mother.

He only wished he had been given the chance to know this woman who had sacrificed her own life so that he could live. But the fault for what he had missed was not Susannah’s. Perhaps he, like no other, could impress that upon her. He cleared his throat and said, “My mother’s choices were her own, Goodwife. The burden of guilt is not yours to bear.”

Anne put her hand on his arm. “That is true for you as well. You carry the burden as if you had dragged Samuel into the waters yourself. He made his own decisions, for which you cannot be blamed.”

“I am beginning to understand that,” he said, “but it will take time. Though he was not my son or brother, I still grieve for him.”

George came forward, placing a hand on Josiah’s arm. “Remember him, Son, but grieve no more. His path was predestined, and however difficult, it is not our place to question what God has chosen for our son.” He turned to his wife. “Or our daughter.”

Anne pressed a hand to her mouth, and a single tear spilled down her cheek.

Josiah, worried not for propriety, put his arms around her and pulled her close. No one spoke while he held her in his embrace, and he did not release her until her shoulders stilled and she relaxed against him. Even as she calmed, his heart raced.

When she withdrew, Josiah looked to her parents.

“My father never forgave me for my mother’s death,” he said, “and the only inheritance he left for me was a reminder that I was no longer his son.” He swallowed, finding the words difficult. “I had nothing, yet when I left Cambridge many weeks ago for Salem, it was my intention to seek Anne’s hand in marriage. I come not with lands or fortune, Sir, and I have little more than the coin in my pocket. But I love Anne, as I have for much of my life, and I have been true to her the whole of my life. I pray for your blessing, Sir, as I pray for her hand. I would like to take Anne as my wife.”

And she carries my child
.

Josiah hoped not to resort to the post script, but the only person in the room who smiled was Anne’s grandmother. Considering it was not her permission he needed, the news did not bode well.

“But she has just returned to us,” Susannah said. She looked from Anne to George with eyes wide with worry.

“I do not intend to take her from you. With your permission, Goodman Scudder indicated he still needed help here at the inn, but I would like to fully ease your burdens. I am strong and well-educated, and Anne has a great deal of experience here. She and I can take over as proprietors, and you will have more time to enjoy your grandchild…and each other.”

Though Susannah’s countenance wavered, her words did not. She turned her attention to Anne. “Her father has already spoken of a match.”

George went to his wife and stood behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders. He leaned close to her ear to say, “The match has all along been Josiah. His intentions were clear enough, and we could not ask for a finer young man for our daughter. Not that we have a choice, now that she is with child.” The last words were less gentle, but remained without anger, for which Josiah was grateful.

“Why did you not tell us you approved?” Anne asked.

“Because you both had much to learn. I know you want for what is easy, but that is seldom what is best.” He extended his arm to Josiah in a firm shake. “It has been a long time, but I am glad to finally say it. Welcome to the family, son.”

Unexpected emotion clogged Josiah’s throat, and he knew the words would be difficult, but he sought them anyway. “Thank you, Sir.”

But that wasn’t enough. He approached Anne’s mother. “I love Anne, and I love my unborn child. I assure you they will never want for anything. Goodwife, will you grant me the honor of your daughter’s hand in matrimony?”