Susannah Morrow (12 page)

“Mary, I can’t—”

She smiled. “Charity,” she said slowly, “think how Mercy will tease you if she finds out what a frightened little rabbit you
are. Why, she might just insist that you not come to our meetings anymore. If we can’t trust you—”

“Of course you can trust me,” I said, and there was a part of me that was ashamed of how anxiously I spoke, how I nearly cowered
to keep her good opinion of me. “You can trust me.”

“Well, I believe you, of course,” Mary said. “But the others might not. They might want some kind of proof—”

“A red paragon bodice,” I said dully.

She smiled again. “We’re meeting at the parsonage on Monday afternoon. Don’t be late.”

I
NEARLY RAN HOME, PULLING POOR LITTLE
J
UDE BEHIND ME
. T
HE
sky was gray and the wind had come up again, heavy with the scent of fire smoke, littered with chimney ash that fell against
my cheeks like soft dry snow, and all I could think was that it was the fires of Hell that fed it.

Mama had always said I could not tell the difference between good and evil, that I was too easily misled. Mary made everything
sound so simple—everyone else did such things all the time; ’twas not such an immoral thing to borrow a bodice. It would be
returned the next day, and no one would be the wiser.…But I knew it was wrong to take the bodice, even for an hour, just as
it had been wrong to take Mary’s advice when it came to Sammy.

I hurried faster, my breath coming hard and raspy. Jude was carrying the fabric Mistress Walcott had given us, and she dropped
it twice trying to stay up with me. I could not make myself slow, though she asked me to again and again. When we finally
got to our house, I stopped outside. I had nearly run to get here, and now I could not make myself go in.

Jude looked at me as if I were mad as she went past me to the door. “Are you going to stand there all night, Charity? I thought
you wanted to be home again.”

“Aye. I’ll be in shortly.”

She gave me an exasperated sigh. “’Tis too cold for me.”

She opened the door and disappeared into the house, and I stayed there in the cold and felt the bite of the wind on my cheeks
and through my cloak.

I heard a noise then, the thud of hooves, the rattle of wheels. I jumped, remembering yesterday, the spirit’s visit. When
I saw a shadow moving through the woods beyond our house, I froze—in that moment, I was sure ’twas Mama’s specter coming for
me. It felt as if my belly had dropped to my toes. But then the horse appeared from the woods, and I saw my father following
alongside.

On any other day, I would not have waited for him, but when he came from the woods—no spirit woman, just my father, my savior—it
felt as if God were pointing the way for me after all. I could almost hear the Lord’s voice thundering in my head:
Talk to him. Now he will believe you.

Led by that voice, I hurried toward my father, my stomach twisting and churning. I nearly lost my courage when I saw the way
he halted Saul and stood staring at me as if I’d lost my wits. I felt in that moment that maybe I had, that he would not believe
me and ’twas foolish to even try.

“What is it, Charity?” he asked me as I came before him. “Why are you not inside? ’Tis growing dark.”

“A word with you, Father, if you please,” I said. At first, I was not sure he heard me, because he said nothing. But then
he looked at me, and I had a quick vision—of waking to find him watching me as I slept, his face soft and tender—and I suddenly
found myself mute. It was unbearable that I did not know if it were real or not, that I could not remember.

The expression left his face then; I wondered if I’d truly seen it, or if ’twas only a trick of my desperation. He sighed.
“Come now, Daughter. ’Tis cold.”

“Oh, Father,” I whispered. “Father, I-I am afraid we have been cruelly deceived.”

“Deceived? How so?”

I saw how intently he was listening to me, and I…’Twas an amazing thing, to hold his interest this way. “She’s the Devil,
Father.” The words came spilling out of me so fast I could not stop them. He was listening to me, and I trusted him. He was
so much wiser than I; he would know what to do. “She’s trying to make us all believe she cares for us, but she’s lying. She
hopes to bend us to Satan’s ways.…She’s an actress, Father. She’s an actress.”

He looked confused. “What are you prattling about?”

“I didn’t know how to tell you. I saw the spirit, and I’ve been so afraid—”

“Charity.” He said my name slowly, and I quieted. He took my elbow and gave me a little shake. “Slow down. Tell me clearly.
Who is an actress? Whom do you accuse?”

The things I’d wanted to tell him faded in the strength of one thought. He was touching me. He was touching me, and even though
his fingers hurt, I had longed for this so often and so many times that I could not bear the thought of him letting go. I
stood there in stunned silence, unable to say the words that would let him release me.

He made a sound of impatience. “Now, Charity.”

“Susannah,” I said. Her name left my lips like an exhaled breath. I felt weak for having said it, as if the name itself had
lent strength to my bones, and now that it was said, the strength was gone with it.

“Susannah?” My father dropped my elbow, and I swayed into him, falling against his chest so I could smell the scents of sweat
and wood shavings on his rough wool cloak, so I felt his warmth against my cheek. I closed my eyes to drink in the feel of
him, and he let me stay there. For one minute, I believed he wanted me there. I believed in the truth of his tenderness. I
felt the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the faint brush of his hand. But I took it too far; I went to put my arms
around him, and that was when he pushed me away. I could only stand there like a weak reed blown hither by the wind.

“Your aunt is not an actress, Charity,” he said gently.

I wanted to believe him, but his quiet voice was like the breeze before a storm; I heard undercurrents in it that made me
look at him carefully. What I saw in his eyes sent my hopes scattering. He was not trying to reassure me—it was just that
he did not believe me.

“Father,” I said desperately, “she has you fooled. She’s fooled us all—”

“She’s not fooling anyone. She’s no actress.”

“’Tis what she wants you to believe.”

“Do you think I cannot discover truth for myself? That I cannot see wickedness beneath my very nose?” There was such disdain
in his voice, and I thought of the things I’d done, my own wickedness, and I was afraid again. I knew he could be fooled.
I stood in front of him so he could not move while the horse blew soft, foggy breaths into the air and pawed the ground as
if he were impatient to be back in the barn. I said carefully, “The Devil wears many pleasing faces.”

He made a sound, a short laugh, and shook his head. “Aye. And I’ve seen enough of them to last a lifetime.” He took my arm
again, this time to pull me out of the way, and clicked at the horse to walk.

“Father!” I called after him. “Please!”

He stopped and turned to look at me while the horse walked slowly on. “Enough, Charity,” he said wearily. “Go inside.”

He did not believe me. I closed my eyes and tried not to cry, and the images came to me: my mother’s spirit stretching out
her hands, Susannah singing Jude to sleep, Mary’s slant-eyed gaze, and the candle flame flickering in a bowl of water…

And Tituba. Tituba.
Those girls need only one more to find the Devil himself.

My eyes snapped open. I watched my father lead Saul into the barn. Darkness came upon me, and in it, I heard again my mother’s
voice.
Beware.

’Twas that moment that took away my doubt about borrowing the bodice. I hadn’t changed my mind about not wanting to touch
it, nor about how wrong it was to take it. But now I thought of it as a way to curry Mary’s favor—I would bring her the bodice,
and she would have no choice but to help me with Susannah.

It became a matter then of when to take it, and how. I did not want my aunt to miss it, and so I could not keep it for very
long. I planned for Saturday night, but I did not get the chance, and though I didn’t like to do something so dishonest on
the Sabbath, it seemed I had no choice. But Susannah went to bed soon after we returned from meeting—I imagined a day of trying
to seem pious was exhausting for her. She certainly looked pale and tired, and when Father suggested that she stay with us
for the evening prayers, she snapped at him that she would be served better by rest, and disappeared up the stairs.

Except for the virginal, which stayed in the hall, tucked away in the corner behind the wool wheel, Susannah’s things had
all been moved into our already crowded bedroom. Her trunks were large; the room was so full now, ’twas hard to walk through
it. She kept most of her clothes in the chest shoved against the foot of the bed, and I did not dare try to go through them
when she was in there, even as soundly as she slept.

Sunday night, I did not sleep well. My nerves were strung tight. The threat of Monday afternoon loomed large before me. I
lay in bed beside my aunt and berated myself for waiting too long, and as the hours crept into deepest night, I was so desperate
I nearly rose from bed to sneak into her trunk. Then she stirred, and I sank hopelessly again into the mattress.

When morning came, I tried to outstay her. I dallied over my dress; I fumbled with my hair and my cap. But she didn’t leave,
and I knew she would not let me stay when she said, “Hurry along, Charity. We’ve plenty to do today. There’s the churning,
and your father brought the malt from town yesterday for the beer.”

My heart sank. We would be brewing small beer today; I would be lucky to find a spare moment before afternoon, and even then,
’twould be nearly impossible to get to the parsonage. I suppose that thought should have brought relief; after all, if I could
not get to the parsonage, I could hardly give Mary the bodice I hadn’t “borrowed.” But I knew she would suspect that I was
avoiding her deliberately, and I knew her well enough to know the things she would tell the others. More than that, I could
not bear the thought of delaying things any longer. My talk with my father had convinced me of that. I needed a shield against
Satan. I had no choice but to find a way to get to the parsonage, bodice or no.

Jude hurried along after us as we left the bedroom. On the stairs, she pushed past me to Susannah. “Will you show me another
stitch for my sampler today, Auntie?” she asked, tugging at Susannah’s sleeve.

I stumbled so that I had to put a hand on the wall to keep from falling.
Auntie.
I’d never heard Jude call her that before, and the look on my little sister’s face was bright and smiling as she looked up
into Susannah’s eyes. Jude had always hated working on her sampler; it had taken all of Mama’s admonitions to keep my sister
seated and quiet. I remembered that just the week before Mama died, Jude had murmured “Damnation!” while she was sewing, and
for punishment, Mama made her sew for another hour. Jude had bit her lip until it bled, trying to unknot a terrible stitch.

“Aye, we’ll try one later,” Susannah said to my sister. She reached down, laying a gentle hand on Jude’s light brown hair.
There was a possessiveness to the gesture that terrified me. “Perhaps you should try to work on the other one I showed you
for a while.”

I stammered out, “B-but, Jude. You hate your sampler.”

“I love to sew now,” she said to me. “Since Auntie told me a song to sing while I do it. Do you want to hear it? It goes—”

“No,” I said quickly. “No, I don’t want to hear a song. And you’d better not let Father hear you sing it, either.”

Susannah threw me a quick glance over her shoulder, and I was sure I saw triumph in her gaze. I despaired; I had tried not
to leave Jude alone with Susannah—there had only been the few times, not many.…But the Devil was strong, and, as my father
had once said, children had so little defense against him. It made my task harder and more urgent. I would have to find a
way to the parsonage. I would have to find a way to get hold of that bodice.