Susannah Morrow (24 page)

“I have been talking to her.”

She laughed lightly. “She is too young to understand your sermons, and ’tis not what she wants now.”

“She cannot know what she wants—or what is good for her.”

“Then pray to her,” Susannah suggested, giving me a small smile. “But do so quietly.”

I looked back into Faith’s face. Her howling hurt my ears, and I was desperate to make her quiet, and so I took Susannah’s
advice, though I did not want to. I leaned close to my daughter’s ear and whispered a psalm. At first, they were just words,
the poetry of God’s song. But then the Windsor tune came to me, and I heard it winding through my voice, a song to God in
my voice alone. It had never sounded so fine in the meetinghouse, with all my neighbors joining in. Though I had never thought
I had an ear for music, I remembered the tune far better than I’d expected. I sang it for her.

Faith began to quiet. I was amazed she could hear me through her tantrum, but she did. Her little eyes opened, and she stared
into my face as if trying to see it for the first time, as if ’twas not clear to her. Her sobs died away, seemingly bewitched
by my voice.

She was a beautiful child, apple-cheeked, round-faced, with a fuzz of dark hair peeking from beneath the simple soft cap she
wore. She was a satisfying weight in my arms, and I lost myself in her face the way I’d lost myself in all my children, enchanted
by the way she stared up at me, by the cooing of her soft little mouth, the fat fingers that reached up, trying to grab the
hair on my chin, misjudging the distance. She was no longer crying, but her tears left tracks on her cheeks, still glistening
in her tiny lashes.

I forgot the others. For a few moments ’twas only Faith and I who existed in this world, and I felt myself falling in love
with her the way I had not allowed myself to do before now, the way I had with Jude before her, and Charity. I felt the emotion
grow in my heart until there was room for nothing else. When she made a bubbly, tiny noise at me and reached again for my
bearded chin, I smiled at her. I would have sworn I saw her smile in return.

And then…Then I felt a shift of movement beside me; I saw a flash of muted color, and I remembered where I was. I glanced
up to see Susannah staring at me. She had seen my pride. She had seen my weakness.

“You have a good smile, Brother,” she said.

I did not know what to say to her. When she reached out her arms to take Faith away, I hesitated. Susannah smiled, and there
was no wickedness in it, but only consolation.

“Come now,” she said again, with the slightest nod of her head, a nod that led my eyes inescapably to Hannah, who was frowning
as if she thought I was no fit guardian for such a tender soul, and I realized in a slip of strangeness, in an incongruity
I could not reconcile, that Susannah was trying to guard me from Hannah’s greedy eyes.

I gave Faith into Susannah’s hands. I released her as if it meant nothing. But when she was gone, I felt cold; I felt the
impression of her solid little body still in a fading warmth against my skin. I looked at Susannah, at the way she held Faith,
the way she rocked her. My daughter gripped Susannah’s finger, cooing in a happy sound, while Susannah murmured back, their
own language, one I did not know or recognize. I knew I could never send Susannah back to London. For better or for worse,
she was here now, and part of my family. Whatever temptations the Devil put to me, I would have to battle on my own.

T
HE NEXT NIGHT, AS
I
FINISHED EVENING PRAYERS,
I
NOTICED AGAIN
how reluctantly Charity took herself off to bed. I watched her go, the hesitant shuffle of her feet, the strange, strained
submissiveness of her posture, and my worry grew.

I did not realize how long I stood staring after her until Susannah said from the fire, “She grows ever worse.”

We were alone. The circumstance surprised me—how had that happened without my realizing it? “She and her mother were close.”

“So you’ve said. I think ’tis more than that.”

She was watching the now-empty stairs. I saw only her profile, but she seemed thoughtful; she wore a little frown.

Then she turned to me, and the beauty that lived on her face was muted and soft. She seemed uncertain when she asked me, “How
well do you discipline your children?”

I hesitated, uncertain what to tell her. Reluctantly I admitted, “Judith was the better parent when it came to that.”

“Did she beat them?”

“She was not so indulgent as I.”

“Indulgent?”

“If my children are not submissive enough before God, the fault is mine, not Judith’s. She was determined in that.”

Susannah looked at me for a moment, and then she began to laugh. “What a fool,” she said, shaking her head, laughing still,
mocking me.

I turned into the parlor. “I will not stand here to be insulted.”

“No, no, you misunderstand.”

She stopped me with a touch, pressuring me to turn again.

“I didn’t mean you were a fool, Lucas,” she said. “I meant I was.
I
have been a fool.”

I was confused. “I…don’t know what you mean.”

“I came here because Judith led me to believe you beat her.”

For a moment, her words distracted me from her presence. I thought of my soft wife with her stone-hard core. “Why would she
say such a thing?”

“She did not say so—at least not plainly. I’m afraid I assumed ’twas what she meant.” Susannah gave me a small smile. “I am
relieved to know it was not true. I had thought…Well, it doesn’t matter.”

“You had thought what?”

“She had written to me of trouble, and I had believed…Our father used to beat us, you see, and the way she wrote…’Twas how
we used to talk when we were maids. In secrets.”

“Your father…” I frowned at her, trying to comprehend this thing I had not known. Judith had said nothing of it to me. Certainly
Susannah was exaggerating. “’Tis the duty of every father to discipline his children.”

“Shall he beat them until they’re bloody, then? Until they cannot stand? Did you never see the scars on your wife’s back and
wonder at them?”

“Of course,” I said quietly. “She said ’twas a fall from a horse.…”

“We were too poor for horses,” Susannah said. “Had you looked close enough, you would have seen it.”

The images came into my head before I could stop them: Judith lying stiffly on her back, the chemise she refused to remove
shoved up to her hips, breasts covered, life closed off while I took my own wretched pleasure.

“What is it? Lucas?”

I blinked. “’Twas nothing,” I said brusquely. “I…You must know, I never laid an angry hand on her or my children.”

She nodded. “I know that now.”

We stood there silently and still.

The Bible slipped in my hand, and in catching it, I broke the spell. I backed away. “Good night,” I said, and then, without
waiting for her reply, I turned into the parlor. I was so distracted that I didn’t realize until I’d shut the door that I’d
closed it in her face.

I could not seem to stop watching her. I would be coming to the house from the barn, and instead of going in, I would go to
the window and try to find her. I could never see her clearly; that was the point of it. She was a figure distorted by thick
and rippled glass, cut into planes by the lead panes, diamond shapes of muted color and form shifting as she moved. She was
a spirit that had no body and little shape, a figment purely drawn of my own imagination. I didn’t understand how she could
be so compelling; she who had such a lamentable history.

I could think of only one way to keep from giving in to this temptation of watching her: I took myself off for a few days.
The heavy snow of the last week eased and turned to rain and the temperatures rose. The ground heaved and thawed as if ’twas
spring already in mid-January. The roads turned to quagmires, mud thick as glue. It was hard to travel, but I made as many
deliveries as I could before the ice and snow came again. God had seen fit to give me a respite, a time to strengthen myself,
and I took advantage of it gratefully.

I managed to stay away from the house for several days. But to be away from home was wearying, and I was tired and my mind
heavy when my errands were done and I came to the village again. ’Twas only luck—or divine interference—that made me take
the road past the Proctors’ tavern; luck and the wish to lengthen my journey, though I would not admit that. It was how I
ran into Daniel Andrew.

“How glad I am to see you, Lucas,” he said, walking over at my wave. “I stopped by your house, but your sister said you were
out, and that she did not know when you would return.”

“I’d errands in town.”

“Ah.” Daniel made a heavy sigh. “Francis has called another meeting of the Village Committee.”

I was surprised. “Has the court decided?”

“No. No. ’Tis just that…Parris has been making demands again. ’Tis the lack of firewood, and the cold of this winter…”

“What would he have us do?” I asked bitterly. “Find a forest to cut for him?”

Daniel shrugged. “I swear ’tis easier to deal with a horde of contentious selectmen than this one pastor.”

“A meeting, then,” I agreed. “Where?”

“Rebecca has worsened,” Daniel said. “She has requested quiet, so we won’t meet there. Putnam’s too far—”

“My house,” I said quickly. “We can meet at my house.”

Daniel didn’t hesitate. “Very well. I’ll tell the others. Shall we meet this afternoon?”

I agreed, and we parted company. I knew it was absurd, but home was somehow easier to bear knowing that the others would descend
on it within hours. The time would pass quickly until then.

When I arrived home, Susannah was on the floor amidst buckets of soapy water and sand, her skirts hiked and tucked. She had
Jude carding wool near the fire. When I came in, I saw Susannah’s surprise and the self-conscious way she pushed her hair
from her eyes.

“Why, Brother,” she said, “I did not know when to expect you.”

I turned abruptly. “Aye. Well, I am home now. My errands are done, at least for a few days.”

“Had I known it, I would have had this done before you came home.”

“Had I known when I was coming, I would have told you.” I glanced around the room, nodding a greeting to Jude. “Where’s Charity?”

There was silence, and Jude dipped her head and rocked the carding combs as if her election depended on the cleanliness of
the wool. I looked back to Susannah, who said, “She went to take bread to the parson’s wife.”

“The parson’s wife?”

Susannah was expressionless. “Mistress Parris is quite ill, I understand. Or so Charity has told me. She has been visiting
there a great deal lately.”

It was unfathomable. “She is visiting the parsonage?”

“Aye.”

I laughed bitterly. “This is a fine thing.…The Village Committee is meeting here this afternoon to discuss how best to roust
Parris from the village, and yet my own daughter is bringing him food—”

“She tells me Judith went there quite often,” Susannah said quietly. “Or is that not true?”

That revelation set me aback as well. I had not known it, though it did not surprise me. I sank onto the bench. “I knew nothing
of it. But Charity is no liar.”

Susannah said nothing. She bent again to scrub the floor, and though I did not understand why, I had the sense that there
was something more here, that there were things unsaid, though I could not imagine what they might be.

“Is there something else?” I asked.

Susannah dipped the brush in the water. She sprinkled sand from the other bucket over the floor before she looked up again.
“No, Brother. Should there be?”

I knew she lied. I knew it, though I did not know how or why. She kept my gaze for a moment longer before she bent again to
her work, and I stumbled past her to the parlor, where I built up the fire and sat on my bed staring into the flames, listening
to the swishing of her brush upon the floor.

My neighbors began arriving shortly after dinner, though Charity stayed away. I was angry with her, and I felt betrayed—not
just over the fact that my daughter was caring for the parson’s wife, but that Judith had done so as well. It gave a new and
bitter meaning to the prayer Parris had uttered at Judith’s grave—I had thought his words hypocritical platitudes, but ’twas
plain his compliments of my wife were well founded.

’Twas hard for me to concentrate as the committee men arrived, and Susannah took their capes to dry by the fire. I could hardly
reply to their talk until the door opened and Charity hurried inside. Her breath came fast, as if she’d run the entire way
home, and her eyes went wide when she looked up to see me.

Susannah said, “Charity, ’tis good you’re back. Fill the tankards.”

My daughter hurried to do the task, but as she went past me, I grabbed her arm and drew her back. She jerked, and I was surprised
to find she was trembling beneath my fingers.

“Your aunt says you were at the parsonage,” I said quietly, for her ears only. “Is that true?”