Her Wicked Sin (8 page)

Lydia planted her hands on her hips. “Speak it not, Martha, for he is no devil’s horse!”

“And what of his rider,” Martha said. “To arrive in the night. No one knew of this husband.”

Eunice allowed a busy sigh as she turned ingredients in a bowl. “To the contrary, everyone knew of Lydia’s traveler husband. And of his return! Rebecca has seen to that.”

“But to be of such great wealth! Why have you not told us of his means?”

Lydia did not admit she had not known then any more than now. “I have mentioned it not because I am not a braggart. I prefer this simple life, where my beliefs are the whole of me and the neighbors are of like mind. Besides, Henry’s accounts are his own matter.”

Martha cast Lydia a sharp look. “The evil that descends over this village matters to us all.”

“Verily, though it has nothing to do with Henry or his steed.”

“And speak of that, Lydia, I must check with Andrew. He can help your Henry with the fencing.”

“How kind, Eunice. I am most grateful. Henry claims he is well, but he suffered a small injury on his travels home. I fear he will further handicap himself, though he seems to have recovered quite remarkably.”

“That is the way of a man,” Eunice said with a shake of her head before letting herself from the room.

Once they were alone, Lydia turned to face Martha. “Whatever ails you? We are friends, are we not?”

Martha looked around to every wall and corner of the room, as if each held secrets. “They say you have affected the Abbot children. It is rumored you came upon them in the woods astride the devil’s horse, and of course we thought it not, but then you arrive on the back of the very beast on which you are suspected of performing these…misdeeds. No one has seen a horse such as that one before the stories began!”

Lydia straightened her shoulders. “I spent the entire of yesterday with my husband. I could not bear to leave him at all after such a long absence, let alone to torment those children.”

“Of course not,” Martha said. “But the shock of seeing you with the horse. The rumors will be thick.”

“Then you will help dispel them.” Lydia began to turn the dough over the table top, finding innate joy in relieving her tension with the mixture.

“That is not all,” Martha said, the edge of her tone uneasy.

Lydia looked from the dough. “What else is there?”

“A man has been asking about you. A stranger.”

“Rebecca Mather has said as much.” Lydia wiped her hands on her skirts. “What do you know of him?”

“I know nothing of him. Only that he keeps to the taverns and establishments of ill repute.”

“And what does he want with me?”

“No one knows. He merely asks if you are the Goodwife known as Colson. He describes you.”

“Is he looking for a physician?”

“He says not. He seems only to want to identify you, but does not come to meet with you.”

The words sent a chill down Lydia’s spine. Who would seek her without cause? She had no family—her parents and siblings had all perished in a house fire one night while Lydia was visiting Boston with a dear girlfriend. It was there Lydia had met her prior husband, who had scooped her up within her loss and made many promises against which, heartbroken, she had no defense. She had endured three years with him before the eve when, after a brutal beating, she had been left to deliver her own child months too early. The baby had not lived, and after that horrible night, neither had her husband. Lydia had seen to that. Could the stranger know of her crime? No, he sought her as Colson. After her sin, she had taken a new name and had found a new life in Salem. No one would look for her here.

Only someone did.

“Lydia, are you poorly?” Martha looked at her with a great deal more kindness than she had earlier when she had spouted the devil’s horse nonsense.

“No, no. Just curious of this stranger.”

“Fear him not, for you have your husband returned to your side. He traveled well?”

Lydia forced her thoughts back to the present, her heart warming with thoughts of Henry. “He did until his mishap on the road near home. He is recovering quite well and insistent upon repairing the fence this day.”

“I have heard he is a handsome man.”

Lydia blinked in surprise. Who but Rebecca had seen Henry well? All of her talk of improper thoughts, yet she spoke in such a way!

The door opened to a cold breeze. “Andrew is off to help Goodman Colson with the repairs,” Eunice declared upon entry. “I am glad to be free of him this day. He tires of chopping wood and I tire of hearing his aches.”

“You jest, Eunice,” Lydia said. “You are well matched. I see the way he looks at you.”

“He does more than look,” Martha said with a grin. “It seems Eunice will be in need of midwifery in the upcoming months.”

“Martha!” Eunice cried.

“Many blessings upon you!” Lydia exclaimed, much at the same time. “Your first babe. You look well. You are not ill?”

“Not at all times,” Eunice replied.

“Now that Lydia has reunited with her husband, verily she will be next.” Martha said.

Both women offered knowing glances and grins to match.

Lydia warmed, though not from embarrassment but because she had not considered the possibility. She of all people—a physician! And yet, she had taken his seed. If her ruinous husband with his violent ways had not damaged her womanhood, she might indeed bear Henry’s babe.

“I can tell from her look,” Martha said in a loud whisper to Eunice. “They have well reunited.”

“Well, of course they have Martha! It has been a year since Lydia came to us alone. They have verily done little else. The true surprise is not that he is left with a limp, but why she is not.”

Lydia felt the heat of summer flush her cheeks, and surely her blush only rose as Eunice and Martha carried on. But the spell had been cast. The joy of knowing she might have again a chance to bear a child was shadowed by one fearsome worry.

Someone hunted her, and she knew not why.

Chapter Eight

“Good morrow, Neighbor!”

Henry looked from his trials with the fence to see a young Puritan in well-worn clothing approach on foot. Though his cuffs and doublet lacked the crisp lines worn by the privileged and his felt hat drooped a bit, he presented neatly and stood tall with his shoulders straight.

“I am Andrew Bradshaw,” the stranger said. “My wife Eunice sent me on my way to offer a hand.”

“Good to know you, Neighbor.” Henry reached with his hand when Andrew was near. “Henry… Colson.”

“Preparing a pasture?” Andrew asked as they clasped and shook hands.

Henry nodded. “The fence, at least. I am afraid it takes little to tempt my horse to trouble.”

Andrew cast a look at the gelding, who stood dozing with his nose to the ground. “He looks calm enough now.”

“That he does,” Henry agreed. “But he is not the troublemaker.”

Understanding cast over Andrew’s face. “The black stallion… he is yours?”

“He is. Not causing trouble, I hope?”

“No, sir. He had his feet under him, but Goody Colson kept him well in hand.”

Henry’s chest swelled. Few women were brave enough to venture too near Willard, and those who did were prone to scatter when he acted up, most of them transparent in ripe hopes for rescue. For Lydia to hold her own with the stallion gave Henry a sense of pride. How innately well matched were he and his bride! He found it increasingly unlikely their meeting could be mere happenstance. When one could hope only to like and respect one’s spouse, how could he have been so blessed with such a match? A woman he deeply adored and respected. One who enchanted him in such a way he could think of nothing but loving her for the rest of his days.

“That is good to know,” Henry said, unexpected emotion thickening his throat.

Andrew shuffled his feet, as if Henry’s feeling played too apparent on his face. Such talk was more to the liking of women, and Henry found himself quite content to change the matter from one so close to his heart.

“You are willing to help with the repairs?” he asked.

Andrew adjusted his hat. “Yes, sir.”

“Please, just Henry. As for our task, I’d like to secure the fence. Now that you have seen the creature’s antics, you well know what we are up against.”

“Indeed.” He gestured toward the bay. “And the gelding. Is he yours?”

Henry lifted a board from the wagon and propped it on the fence. “Procured this very morn for Lydia. I thought it better she have transport beyond her own leg, lest she is called upon late or needed with haste.”

“And in good time. A woman traveling alone is most vulnerable, and especially now with the devil in our very presence.”

The devil
? Henry stilled. “What is this talk?”

“Perhaps in your absence you have not heard. The slave girl Tituba hath witnessed the stranger. He comes to her and asks for signatures.” Andrew’s voice lowered. “He seeks the soul.”

“The slave woman speaks of this?”

“She admits it and has been arrested for her consort with evil. And the situation turns dire with the affliction of children. Mere children!”

Affected
. The young woman’s warning from the day prior came to him. Lydia had not seemed disturbed by the strange information, though likely because Rebecca had come right upon them. Her husband’s attention to Lydia rubbed Henry in the wrong direction, and Rebecca herself seemed content only when she riled trouble. She had certainly succeeded in drawing Henry’s negative attentions.

“It is a travesty, then.” Henry tried to restrain his interest, not wanting to dredge unwanted attention upon Lydia or the young woman who had approached them in the woods with the fearful warning.
Speak it not
. Her plea resonated within him, perhaps because he held close his own secrets… and now, those of his wife.

Andrew had busied himself delivering boards from the wagon to the impaired sections of fence, relieving Henry of the trips. When the young man again neared, Henry put a hand on his arm. “Tell me, do you know of a man here? A stranger with fallow hair and eyes the color of parched loam?”

Andrew shook his head. “Strangers in Salem Village are not strangers long, for our numbers are relatively few. Most travelers prefer Salem Town, where there is the greater opportunity for work. There are also taverns for ale and subsistence, as well as places from which to seek…companionship. Not that I have sought any.” He added the last words with haste, his face afire.

“Of course not.” Henry released the younger man with a pat on the shoulder. “You need not seek companionship to have heard the many stories of those who have, and men with the tallest tales tend to speak the loudest.”

Andrew stepped off, his face relieved of the tight tension he’d brought upon himself with the words. But he didn’t go far before halting. Turning, he said, “There is a man, though not as you describe. He seeks Lydia.”

The tone made Henry’s neck prickle. “He has not found her? As you say, there are not many people and as the physician she is one known by most.”

“Verily,” Andrew said. “The nature is suspect, but he must mean no harm. She has been alone for some time. If the stranger’s intentions are foul, surely he would have acted upon them by now.”

Privately, Henry wasn’t so sure. “How does he appear?”

“Common dress. Not of means, as are you.”

The observation gave Henry pause. “You find in me evidence of wealth?”

“It is no insult, Sir, as you have not boasted. But we are simple and afford little, so your appearance speaks much. The dyes of your clothing are rich and deep, and your horse is the finest Salem has ever seen. Considering the Goodwife’s apparently limited resources, your evident means have many taken aback. News has spread quickly.”

Henry measured his words. “As you say, Good Puritan, we are simple. Lydia prefers modesty of appearance—especially as an unprotected woman, but firstly of her faith.” Though Henry was forced by circumstance to invent Lydia’s cause, he had no doubt the words would ring true to all who knew her. He had seen enough women seeking his riches to know she was not one of greed. Furthermore, she had not at all expressed interest in the weight of his coin.

“She has been a good neighbor and a respected physician. Her timing in coming to Salem could not have been a greater blessing, as we had just lost her predecessor Goody Sibbes.”

“I am glad to know she was welcomed here,” Henry said, his words honest in ways young Andrew could not know. Henry’s association with Lydia had already proven beneficial in ways far beyond her rescue and attention to his injured knee. “Her timing is indeed a blessing. I fear what might have happened had she not come upon me during the night.”

Andrew nodded and shoved a board into place. “You were gone some time. Were you abroad?”

The question gave Henry pause. He tried to remember what he and Lydia had discussed and recalled mention of seafaring merchant travels, but he knew not what details she might provide of her own behalf. Having no idea what she might utter, he opted for a vague version of the truth. “I have often traveled abroad, yes. And it is good to be here in Salem.”

“I must say, some thought it odd she traveled here on her own. She is an independent woman to come to a strange town without the protection of her husband.”

Henry smiled most genuinely. “She is that. But it is in her nature to care for others. If there was a need in Salem, to Salem she would be led.”

“Indeed,” said Andrew. “And for that, my wife Eunice is most grateful.”

The young man’s voice had taken to a higher octave. Henry found Andrew’s face to be a bright red, but his words and countenance beamed with pride.

“Ah,” Henry said. “Your bride is with child? Huzzah!”

“She is,” Andrew said, grinning widely when Henry clasped his shoulder.

Though Henry’s cheer was heartfelt, his thoughts had taken a sudden and unexpected turn. He and Lydia had shared their marital bed. She might well carry his child, but that was not the news that altered him.

What affected him was the realization he could want nothing more.

…

By the time Lydia had helped to ready the last of the bread, the day had grown dim. Willard, to her relief, had stayed well within the confines of the Bradshaw fence, and with the hour growing late she found herself most grateful for his company for the ride home. She had just bidden farewell the goodwives when she came upon Andrew Bradshaw, approaching on foot.

“How do you fare?” asked Andrew, offering Willard a pat on the nose.

“The bread is made,” said Lydia, smiling. “And what of the fence?”

“In good repair. Your husband is a good man.”

“As are you. I am quite grateful for your assistance this day, as I am sure is Henry.”

“He was most gracious, Goody Colson.”

“Please,” she said. “Call me Lydia.”

“Lydia, then.” Even in the low light he seemed to beam. “May I escort you home?”

“I am most grateful for your offer, but Willard here is a faithful companion. I have little doubt he’ll see me there.”

Andrew hesitated. “The light fails, but if you’re sure.”

“Of course,” she said, just as Willard pulled at the bit. “See? He is eager.”

“I pray not so eager you find yourself in your husband’s position, awry in the road.”

She laughed. “Worry not. It is just as I told him—no stirrups. If I spill, it will be cleanly.”

After another long moment, Andrew nodded slowly. “If you insist upon it.”

“Of course.” Lydia shifted her weight, cuing Willard to walk on. As he did, she called over her shoulder to Andrew, “Good bye to you!”

She sensed he watched after her, but once she urged Willard to a trot, the growing distance and failing light surely made it difficult for him to see. Nevertheless, his attention made her feel secure. She found herself delighted Henry seemed to have made a friend in Salem and privately hoped the small ties would lead him to appreciate the village as much as she. Though she knew their association was meant to be in passing, even the most tenuous threads of connection made her feel closer to him.

Twilight fell quickly to night, and though it was expected, anticipation did not keep the darkness from creeping from the skeleton-bare woods. Memories of the night her husband met his end came upon her—as they so often did—but on this eve something kept the bitter darkness at bay.

Henry
.

Joined with him, she felt as if her past sins had been forgiven. His blessing in her life was far too great to mean anything less. She dared not wonder how she had been gifted the ability anew to trust or love, but found herself wholly in belief of the man who captured her heart in the purest of ways.

Soft in her thoughts, she felt immediately when Willard tensed.

“What is it?” she asked, soothing his neck with a pat. She looked around, seeing nothing but deep shadows untouched by a mere sliver of moonlight.

Willard kept to his trot, but his flowing stride grew choppy. His neck arched and he chewed at the bit, tucking his head so she lost the feel of his mouth.

“I see why Henry calls you an oaf,” she chided. Though she remained exceedingly grateful for the stallion’s company, his cooperation was of his own will, and it was only a combination of breeding and training allowing as much. Should he choose to act of his own accord, she would be powerless to convince him otherwise. Soothing him would help both their causes, so she reached to his neck and ran her fingers along the crest, encouraging him into her hand. He’d nearly relaxed his head when he came to a sudden halt, planting all four hooves at once. Fortunately Lydia’s hands were already to his neck, for otherwise she might have tumbled heels over crown with the force of his stop.

As soon as she knew she would remain seated, she looked to the road ahead to see a man blocking her path. He stood completely still, moving not a limb. In her surprise, Lydia tugged on the reins, causing Willard to lift slightly on his hind legs.

All the while, the man remained unmoving.

Lydia blinked, almost certain she must imagine him if not for Willard’s strange reaction. Then Martha’s words came to Lydia.
A well-dressed stranger in the black of night.
Lydia’s breath caught. Could the stories be true? Could this man have come for her? Did he want her name for his book?

Willard pranced and snorted, and just as Lydia was ready to dig in her heels and beg of him to run, footfalls sounded. Another horse. Lydia took her eyes from the stranger in the road long enough to see Thomas Mather approach from behind, alone but for his mount.

“Lydia!” he said. “You are out late this eve.”

She turned, a hard rock in her throat. The man in the road was gone.

“Just on my way home from bread making,” she said, reaffirming her grip on the reins. Willard had calmed, but still turned his head to and fro, his large eyes no doubt scouting for the apparition of a man who had blocked their path.

Thomas arranged his horse next to Willard, who remained understandably wary of the newcomers. He gave a solid snort and settled into a stilted walk, apparently no more at ease than Lydia, who could not keep her own attentions from scouring the tree-lined edges of the road.

“Does your husband know you are out alone this night?”

“He does. The hour grew late, but I am in good company and not far from home.”

“Let me see you the rest of the way, then.”

She wanted to deny the offer—she need not further stir Rebecca’s ire—but dared not leave herself alone with the woods this night. As such, though she remained wary, she did not discourage Thomas’s accompaniment to her home where Henry awaited.

Several long strides passed before Thomas spoke. “Have you seen the devil in these trees?”

Lydia flinched, and held no doubt the gesture was noticed through his appraisal. She tried nevertheless to keep her voice even. “The shadows are tricky beings. We often see what it is our will to see.”

Thomas gave a humorless laugh. “Tell me, Goodwife, who desires to see the very devil walk among us?”

“Those who seek evil will often find it,” she replied. But his words crept to the core of her fear. She had not sought the appearance of the man in her path, but he had been there all the same. The visage frightened her almost as much as the threat of accusation. Young Anne Scudder’s warning came to Lydia. The Abbot children claimed she had affected them, and now a dark figure waited in her path. What worry would be next?