Her Loving Husband's Curse (13 page)

CHAPTER 10

A December storm broke over Salem, swinging the skeleton branches of bare-backed trees, dropping buckets of snow here and there—along the wide lawn of Salem Common, on the roof tops, covering the wooden House of the Seven Gables, hanging icicles from the Salem Witch Museum and Witch House—leaving Essex County a winter landscape fit for a North Pole postcard. The bay was flat and gray, reflecting the blotted sky and heaving clouds. It was Christmas Eve, and everywhere was decorated with Santas and reindeer and snowmen. Christmas lights, red lights, green lights, blue and white lights, rainbow lights, brightened the storm-darkened streets.

Sarah sat by the diamond-paned window in the great room watching the snow fall. Cinnamon-scented candles burned on the kitchen counter, and pine wreaths with red glass balls decorated the walls. The Christmas tree—Grace’s first, and James’s too—stood tall and green in the corner near the kitchen, decorated with rainbow lights and garland. The whole house glowed comfort and warm. Sarah thought of her favorite holiday song, “Silent Night,” and she hummed it, the lyrics fitting her mood: “All is calm, all is bright…” She thought of Grace, asleep in her crib, her golden curls framing her face like an angel’s halo: “Sleep in heavenly peace…” Grace was so like her father. Sarah smiled, and when she saw her reflection in the window she laughed out loud. She could see her own joy reflected back to her.

Life doesn’t get better than this, she thought.

The cauldron had been removed, leaving a screened-off fireplace, and a low fire burned, sending warmth into the great room. She turned on the radio and holiday music filled the space, the mellow tones of Bing Crosby’s voice lulling her. She checked the basket beneath the Christmas tree and saw that she had wrapped all her presents, for James and Grace, for Olivia and Martha, for Jennifer and Chandresh, for Timothy and Howard, for Jocelyn, Steve, and Billy. She would see them all the next night, Christmas night, when they would gather together in the wooden gabled house to celebrate. She went into the kitchen and checked the apple pies in the oven, then stirred the soup on the stove, crinkling her nose and closing the lid as quickly as she could. She realized she would do anything for her husband. When she heard the squeak of the front door as wood scraped against wood, she smiled. No matter how many times she saw him again, it was special.

“Hello.”

“Hello yourself.”

She threw her arms around James’s neck and pointed up her chin. He kissed her, then brushed a few stray curls from her eyes. She took a step back, examining him, wondering.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I want to know how you know Chandresh from the Trail of Tears. I want to know what happened. And don’t you dare tell me another time, James Wentworth. I’ll scream loud enough to wake all of Salem if you tell me another time.”

“Another night?”

Sarah wasn’t amused. “Is it something bad? You shouldn’t be afraid of telling me something bad. I’m not that fragile, James. Chandresh told me you helped his family. Tell me how you met him. Tell me what you saw on the Trail of Tears.”

“It’s a long story.”

“We have time.”

James sighed. “You win,” he said.

“I always do.”

He went into the kitchen and made a pot of her favorite tea, Earl Grey. She sat on the sofa, watching him while he moved easily through the slick, modern kitchen. He wasn’t concerned when she remodeled, and he wasn’t upset when the cauldron was removed. “My life is now,” he said when the workers arrived to carry the heavy black pot away. “I don’t live in the seventeenth century anymore. We could get rid of it all, Sarah, the house and everything in it, and it doesn’t matter. You’re my home now.” As he brought her some tea, cream and two sugars the way she liked it, she realized she was amazed by him. He was so strong in every way.

She sipped her tea while he paced the great room, to Grace’s bedroom, to their bedroom, and back. He often paced when he spoke about the past. Finally, he said, “What would you like to know?”

“How did you meet Chandresh?”

“Chandresh lived near me when I returned to the Smoky Mountains in the 1830s.”

“The Trail of Tears happened in 1838,” Sarah said.

“Yes.”

“I thought you were in London in the 1830s.”

“I was, until 1837 when I came back here. I returned to London in 1843.”

“That’s when you tutored at Cambridge and met Dickens.”

James nodded. “When I returned in 1837, I came here to Salem for a while, but it was too hard. I kept wandering to Danvers to see the Rebecca Nurse Homestead, and I’d go to the Old Burying Point to spit on Hathorne’s grave. Not that I told Nathaniel I did that, though I suspect he wouldn’t have minded very much.”

“You knew Nathaniel Hawthorne?”

“I can’t say I knew him well. He was so shy he hardly said a word in company. If he said a complete sentence he was talkative that night.”

“There’s so much I want to know about you. But tell me about Chandresh.”

James stood near the window, looking at the mesh-like snowflakes fluttering down from the clouds. “He and his family were pushed off their land with the others.” His fingers tapped his legs as though he were typing out frustrated words. “It was more than losing their land. It was the unfairness of it all.”

“Unfairness shouldn’t surprise you.” Sarah patted the sofa, and James sat beside her. He leaned his head against the cushion and closed his eyes. His gold hair fell away from his face, and Sarah remembered why she was so taken when she saw him the first time, the very first time, in 1691. Sitting across from her at the supper table, he looked so thoughtful, so kind. So beautiful. And it was true. He was all those things. She stroked his face from his temple, down his cheekbone, over his lips, to his chin. He opened his eyes and smiled.

“What was I talking about again?” he asked.

“Chandresh.”

“Right.” He closed his eyes again. “You were here in the 1690s. You know what the Europeans thought of the natives.”

“They thought the natives were inferior. Uncivilized.”

“European society centered around owning land. The more you owned, the wealthier you were, the higher you were on the social ladder. But the native people didn’t believe in owning land. They believed land was meant to be shared. They worshipped nature, and they believed in a great spirit that created all life, and they believed all life was interconnected—the people, the rivers, the animals, the trees…”

“They believe all life is interconnected. They’re still here.”

“You’re right,” James said. “Then, the Europeans couldn’t understand the natives, their way of life, their way of thinking. The native people lived in the natural world, but the Europeans needed to separate themselves from nature. They built dams, cut down trees, built fences—this is mine, that’s yours over there. The native people’s creation stories emphasize having respect for all living things, not dominion over them. When the settlers realized the natives didn’t believe they owned the land, that made it easier to take it. It took years of wrangling, but finally the United States government got the land concessions it wanted from Cherokee leaders and pushed the people west to Oklahoma in the 1830s.”

“Was Chandresh forced to walk?”

“He was, along with his whole family. ‘Nunna daul Isunyi,’ the Cherokee called it. ‘The Trail Where They Cried.’ He didn’t know me when they began walking. He couldn’t see me then.”

“He couldn’t see you?”

“That part comes later.” James sniffed the air. “What is that? Not cookies?”

“Oh no.”

Sarah rushed into the kitchen, put on the heavy cooking mitts, and pulled the browned apple pies from the oven. She turned the burner off and moved the soup pot to the cool side. James stood behind her.

“What is that?” he asked again.

“When I was writing the menu for Christmas dinner I remembered making blood soup when we were first married. I made blood pudding then too, but that’s a sausage and I didn’t think you’d like that as much. I found a recipe online, and…”

“And…?”

“I used some blood from one of your bags and added some spices.” She opened the lid and dipped a ladle into the soup. “Can you eat it?”

He leaned over the pot and inhaled deeply. “It smells good. I’m going to try some.”

Sarah pulled a bowl from the cabinet and ladled in some soup. She grabbed a spoon from the drawer and set the bowl and the spoon in front of James as he sat at the table. He looked eager to try it, which pleased her. When he brought the spoon to his lips, she watched his face.

James nodded. “It’s good, Sarah. The spices are different, but I like them.”

“Really?”

“Really. This is the first normal meal I’ve had in over three hundred years. Thank you.”

When James offered her a bite, Sarah wrinkled her nose.

“It’s all for you,” she said.

“You used to eat blood soup.”

“I used to eat a lot of things I find disgusting now.”

He ate a few more spoonfuls, nodding at each taste. “It couldn’t have been too pleasant making this.”

“I’ll do anything for you, James. I’ll even make you blood soup.”

Suddenly, James sat still, his head to the side, listening. Sarah knew his preternatural mannerisms well enough by now to know he heard something she couldn’t.

“What is it?”

“A smug, self-satisfied shuffle about five miles down the road.” James shook his head. “Geoffrey.”

“What about him?”

“He’s here.”

As if on cue, Geoffrey knocked an offbeat tune on the front door. When Sarah stepped away, James grabbed her arm. “Where are you going?” he asked.

“To let Geoffrey in.”

“Why?”

“Because I like him and I’m not leaving him outside on Christmas Eve.”

“You like him?”

“He’s funny.”

Geoffrey’s voice boomed through the door. “That’s right, James. I’m funny.”

“You’re not that funny,” James said.

“I’m funny enough.”

Sarah opened the door, and Geoffrey bowed. “Good evening, little human person. How is the littlest human person tonight?”

“Good evening, Geoffrey. She’s fine. She’s sleeping.”

“Very good. One night I’ll come round while she’s still awake. I’d like to see her again.” He dropped onto the sofa and stared at the Christmas tree as though he had never seen one before. “Bringing the outdoors indoors. And it’s all sparkly like. Interesting.” Then he sniffed the air. “What’s that?” He skipped into the kitchen. “It’s… it’s…” He stood near the stove and sniffed the soup, closing his eyes while he savored the acrid aroma.

James pulled the bowl toward him. “My wife made it for me.”

“What is it? You must tell me.”

“It’s blood soup,” Sarah said. “I made it for James for Christmas. Would you like some?”

Geoffrey sat next to James at the table. “Let’s have a go.”

Sarah pulled a bowl from the cupboard, ladled some soup into it, then set it in front of Geoffrey.

“You can celebrate Christmas with us,” she said.

“Did you really make this for James for Christmas?”

“I did.”

“That’s rather nice, actually. I forgot how pleasant it was to have a wife, someone soft and warm who thinks about things like Christmas and soups one might like to eat. My wife always went on about little things she could do for my comfort. She was quite the little homemaker she was.”

“I didn’t know you were married,” Sarah said.

“Oh yes. My Becky was plump and pretty, just the way I like them, but it was a very, very long time ago. Nothing to concern ourselves with now, though I seem to be thinking of her more and more these days, especially when I’m here. All the memories…” He looked at James and sighed.

“Try your soup, Geoffrey,” Sarah said.

He took a spoonful and nodded. “This is excellent, little human person.” He emptied the bowl in two bites and eyed the pot on the stove.

“Would you like some more?” Sarah asked.

“Please.”

While Sarah filled his bowl, Geoffrey eyed James with an odd intensity. “When is your birthday, James?” he asked.

“Why do you care about my birthday?”

“I was just wondering when your birthday was, that’s all. You needn’t be so huffity-puffity over a simple question.”

“His birthday is April 19,” Sarah said.

“How old are you?” Geoffrey asked.

“Three hundred and forty-nine,” James answered.

“Three hundred and forty-nine? God you’re old.”

“I’m younger than you.”

“That’s true enough.” Geoffrey’s eyes narrowed. “How old am I?”

“How do I know how old you are?”

“When were you born?” Sarah asked.

“I haven’t a clue. It was ages ago.”

“Did anything special happen the year you were born?”

“Don’t encourage him,” James said.

Geoffrey tapped his temple as though he were trying to jolt open some long-gone memory. “I remember Mother saying she named me Geoffrey Charles because I was born the same day as the future King Charles the First. Then there was something about the East India Company being granted a royal charter the month after I was born. She said she thought of naming me Geoffrey Shakespeare since I was much ado about nothing.”