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Richard didn’t know much about ill children but knew shipmates got well faster once they were up and about, and despite refusing to leave, every instinct he had was still telling him to get his daughter and depart this place as soon as possible. “Perhaps Gracie would like to go downstairs to eat.”
Gracie’s eyes lit up. For a moment, he saw himself in her and knew that must be how his eyes glowed when they settled upon the great span of water surrounding his ship. Smiling brightly, she pushed aside the covers and scooted toward the edge of the bed.
“The stairs may be a bit much for her yet,” Marina said gently.
“Not if I carry her,” Richard supplied. Without waiting for Marina’s answer, he asked his daughter, “Would that be all right with you, Grace? If I carried you?”
She nodded enthusiastically.
Marina, on the other hand, seemed torn. “I don’t want her to lose the ground she’s gained.”
“She won’t,” Richard assured her. “I’ll carry her back upstairs, too.” Without further ado, he plucked the child off the bed. She wasn’t any heavier than one of his ledger books and felt far more fragile. Far too fragile. Once again something inside him fluttered. The life of a sailor had always fulfilled him, never left him wondering or wanting more, yet holding his tiny daughter in his arms made him question if he’d made the right choice years ago. If he’d remained in Salem Village rather than returning to the sea, Gracie wouldn’t be in this condition and Sarah might still be alive. They could even have had more children.
“We all have regrets.”
He lifted his head and caught Marina’s thoughtful expression.
“It doesn’t pay to dwell on them,” she added with a smile as gentle as the one she’d given his daughter. “Forgiveness, including ourselves, is the pathway to salvation.”
She was right. No one could change the past; nor should they allow it to possess them. He owed Marina his gratitude, too. If not for her, Grace may have died. He would never have known his daughter then. That thought hit solemnly in his mind and gut.
Not ready to react to that or to let her know she’d read his mind, he gathered the length of material dangling beyond Grace’s feet. “What is all this?”
“Gracie is wearing one of my nightdresses.” Marina had walked around the bed and brushed his hand aside in order to twist up the extra material and tuck it between Grace’s thin frame and his chest. “I needed to wash hers this morning.”
Richard heard what she said but chose to interpret the statement to mean Grace didn’t have ample nightclothes. That should not be. He’d sent material to his dead wife regularly. Yards upon yards of sturdy cotton, knowing the finer silks and other materials he’d once shipped would not be welcome. The last shipment should have arrived this spring, after Sarah’s death. Of course, he hadn’t known she’d died then.
He pondered on that as he carried Grace down the narrow hall. His wife had died. Should he be in mourning? It wasn’t as if he’d held any ill will toward Sarah. It wasn’t as if he’d held any great love for her, either. The affection that had sparked between them had never been given the chance to grow. Not as it should have. Which was just as well. Sailors had no right taking a wife. They were already married to the sea. He’d known that even back then but had let his physical needs overshadow his good sense. Earl had pointed that out to him, and he’d come to accept it over the years.
Richard shifted Grace in his arms, not because of her slight weight—he could have been carrying a sparrow for all she weighed—but because he didn’t want her to bump the wall of the narrow stairway. She lifted her head and gazed upon his face deeply and perhaps a bit critically.
“Are you really my papa?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Marina told me if I prayed hard enough, you’d come.”
Richard glanced briefly toward the woman moving down the stairs ahead of them. He still had more questions than answers. “She was right.”
“Where’s your boat?” Grace asked.
He grinned. “In the Boston Harbor.”
A tiny frown formed before she nodded.
“Would you like to see it?” he asked.
The smile returned tenfold. “Yes.”
“Well, then,” he said, “as soon as you’re better, I’ll take you to see the Concord.”
“You will?”
“Yes, I will. It’s a mighty ship,” he said. “But you have to eat and get strong. It’s a long way to Boston.”
Her little head bobbed up and down. “I will.”
It had been years since he’d seen Sarah, and he wondered if Grace looked like her. He should remember, but an image of his wife no longer formed in his mind. There was no explanation as to why, other than that she’d become nothing more than another payment, akin to taxes or merchant fees. That was no way for a man to think of his family or something he was proud of, even if it wasn’t out of the ordinary. Plenty of captains had wives and families, sometimes numerous ones, just as William had said, in ports all around the world. One of the things he’d carried pride in was the fact he wasn’t like all other sea captains. Not in that sense or in others. He treated his shipmates fairly, along with the merchants and countries whose cargo he hauled. His reputation was well established, and now it would also become known that he took care of his family. He didn’t need to vow it; he knew it.
“What do we have here?” William had awakened from his nap and was precariously rising to his feet as they entered the front room. “Is that Gracie?”
The girl nodded while Marina answered, “Yes. She wants to eat at the table. Would you care to join her?”
“I’ve been smelling that chicken you’ve been boiling all morning,” William said, using both hands to get his stump leg solid on the floor. “It’ll be good to eat some.”
Marina waited for her uncle to cross the room. Richard did, too, while noting how the young woman stood ready to aid William if the need arose. It didn’t. Once the old man got the wooden leg in rhythm with his other one, he scurried past them with the speed of a sailor with two good legs.
“You will be joining us, Richard,” William stated.
It had been hours since he’d partaken in a brief repast before leaving Boston, and all sailors were known for one thing—that of never bypassing the offer of a meal. “Thank you,” he answered and waited for Marina to enter the hall.
In the kitchen that, indeed, did host a very appetizing scent, Richard paused before setting Grace on one of the chairs. Her chin would barely come up to the tabletop if he set her down. Noting a pine box on the shelf near the brick oven built into the side of the fireplace, he crossed the room. “May I use that?” he asked, pointing at the box.
“The salt box?” Marina asked. “Whatever for?”
“Yes, the salt box,” he assured her. “For Grace to sit upon so she can see over the table.”
“That’s a splendid idea.”
The expression on her face was a mixture of surprise and delight, a sight that intrigued Richard. He pulled his eyes away and gathered the box. After he set it on the chair, he lowered Grace upon it and took a seat himself. The table was soon set with plates and silverware and a host of foodstuffs in plated dishware. It made sense that William would have such luxuries while many colonials still used wooden spoons and trenchers. Ships hauled crates of dishware and utensils to America regularly, had for years.
“Marina insists on feeding us more than two times a day,” William said. “She claims her family ate morning, noon and evening, even on Sundays. I’ve told her on a ship, a man eats when a meal’s prepared, whether it’s the middle of the day or the middle of the night.” He chuckled before adding, “I’ve grown accustomed to her ways, those of my family from the old country that I’d forgotten about until she arrived, although that too we keep private.”
Having traveled the world, Richard had eaten meals at all times of the days, but he knew a custom of the Puritans was two meals a day, morning and midafternoon, after church services. He also knew their penchant for allowing no work of any kind on Sundays, including preparing meals. If there were no leftovers, they ate bread and water or fasted. He’d witnessed it on the ship that had carried Sarah and her family to America. From what he’d seen so far, Marina did not fit into the Puritan world in any way. So why was his daughter here rather than with one of the families in the village?
“We’re not trying to pull the wool over anyone’s eyes,” William continued. “We just don’t need any more fingers pointed at us.”
Although he could assume, Richard asked, “Why would fingers be pointed at you?” Following William’s gesture, he began to ladle food onto his plate. The bowl Marina had set before Grace contained clear broth, while the soup he spooned onto his plate had been thickened and contained chunks of chicken, carrots and potatoes, as well as dumplings. There was also bread and a thick pudding that smelled of maple syrup, and cider for their earthen mugs.
“I told you.” Sighing heavily, William looked at Marina, who’d just sat down, before he said, “They believe Marina’s a witch.”
Tension returned to Richard’s neck—his entire spine, actually. This witch business was more than frustrating. It had become an assault against his good sense. Over the years, he’d spent time with many types of people and cultures. In some countries people worshipped witches; in others, they feared them. Went so far as to hire witch hunters to eradicate them from the countryside far and wide. He’d never believed one way or the other, but had met a few witch hunters and would be hard-pressed to come up with a more evil profession comprised of more wicked men.
His gaze crossed the table to land on Marina. Her chin was up and her gaze solid as it met his, eye for eye. He might admire her grit, but others wouldn’t. A witch hunter he’d met in Scotland a few years ago, John Kintor, claimed that was how he recognized a witch, by the way she stared into a man’s soul. Kintor’s father had been a witch hunter, too. Several years ago father and son had captured more than two hundred witches in less than a year—or so they claimed.
A cold knot formed in Richard’s stomach at the thought of Marina encountering the likes of Kintor. “Why would they believe that?”
Her gaze drifted toward Gracie for a fraction of a second before she stated, “Because I agreed to stand trial for being one.”
“Only be—”
“Uncle William,” she interrupted before her uncle could say more. “The food is getting cold.”
“Oh,” the old man said as if he’d just noticed the food on the table. “Eat up, Richard.”
Richard opened his mouth but closed his lips when Marina bowed her head and recited a prayer quietly. He’d never encountered a witch and doubted he ever would, but either way, he highly doubted they prayed before eating.
When she lifted her head, her attention immediately went to Gracie. “Go ahead,” she said softly. “You can eat all you want.”
Gracie glanced his way and Richard responded with an affirmative nod, quite amazed that his daughter would expect his approval. He had very little experience around children. None, actually, other than the few who’d been on the passenger ship he’d captained years ago, the same one that Sarah had been on. He had a child now and held no regrets on it. Last night had been a sleepless one, full of worries about what he’d do with a daughter. Today, it didn’t seem so bad. Hiring a family to take care of her wouldn’t be hard. He just needed to figure out where he wanted that to be. There were plenty of choices in numerous ports around the world. Perhaps he’d let her decide.
With that thought, Richard lifted his spoon and began to eat.
As far as meals went, it was tasteful and filling, but far quieter than he was used to. Sailors were a hearty bunch. Given food, ale and others to talk with, they became even more boisterous. The only noise at this table was the clink of silverware and thud of ale cups. That was strange for him. Certainly out of the ordinary. The men he sailed with were first-rate and energetic, and mealtime was a noisy affair.
Richard glanced across the table. Not even a witch would be able to keep them in line. The idea almost brought a grin to his lips. Marina was no more a witch than he was, but if she chose to believe otherwise, so be it. Once Grace was well enough, he’d leave this place and never return.
A question of how Grace would fare on his ship formed, but it was not something he needed to worry about. As his daughter, she’d be more protected than gold. Setting down his spoon, he reached over to roll up the sleeve that had fallen to almost cover her hand. “You like the soup?” he asked.
She nodded, but her eyes went toward the plate of bread in the center of the table.
Richard retrieved a slice and pulled away the crust. Breaking up the soft center, he dropped the chunks into her broth. Grace smiled and he patted her head, half expecting a chiding from Marina. Prepared, he lifted his gaze to the woman.
A gentle smile graced her lips, and she made no attempt to pull her gaze from his. She was patting her lips with her napkin, and Richard held his breath, wondering what she was preparing to say.
Instead of her voice, a knock on the back door interrupted the silence.
Chapter Four (#ulink_fa4d2829-20f6-5fa8-933b-b926cfe6ab3e)
“Marina, I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t seen it with my own two eyes,” Anna Pullman said with tears streaming down her cheeks. “They killed her. Just like that. They put a rope around her...”
“Hush now, Anna,” Marina whispered while stepping out on the stoop. Her friend had used the back door, which was fortunate if anyone was on the road but unfortunate considering those sitting at the table could hear. “Come to the garden with me,” she said, pulling the door closed behind her with one hand and the other on Anna’s shoulder.
“The garden?” Anna stammered. “They just killed Elizabeth. I can’t think of carrots and onions. People cheered and clapped. Oh, Marina, what are we going to do?”
“We are going to walk to the garden,” Marina said gently. “We don’t want anyone to see us being idle.” If anyone on the road saw Anna talking to her, the young girl would be arrested, but Anna needed comfort right now and Marina couldn’t overlook that. There were a few families who’d befriended her and Uncle William, and she’d come to care for each of them.
“Of course we don’t,” Anna said bitterly as they walked toward the garden beside the barn. “Lord knows what Reverend Hickman will do if he learns of two idle women. Oh, Marina, it was so awful.” Anna sniffled as new tears began to fall. “Elizabeth cried and pleaded, swore on the heavens she wasn’t a witch, even while they were putting the rope around her neck.”
“Hush now,” Marina said again, this time because she didn’t need a description. Her mind had already shown her the scene of Elizabeth Pullman being hanged, along with several other community members. In truth, it made her neck tingle. A fate that was sure to be hers before long. It was written in the scriptures. She’d be handed over to councils and flogged, brought before witness, and persecuted. A sacrifice. The only thing she’d had to offer in exchange for Grace had been her own life.
“I can’t hush,” Anna insisted. “With Mama in jail, Father is beside himself. He’s insisting upon going to the tree tonight, before they cut down the bodies and push them over the ravine. He’s going to collect Elizabeth and bury her on our farm beside little Daniel and baby Christine.”
“That would be extremely dangerous,” Marina whispered. “It’s foolish to venture out at night. Sentries are posted everywhere.”
“I know,” Anna said, “but Papa can’t stand the idea of Elizabeth not having a proper burial. It’s just...” Unable to carry on, her friend clutched Marina, sobbing.
Thankful the barn hid them from prying eyes, Marina hugged Anna and let her cry. No words of comfort formed and she figured that was just as well—they wouldn’t do Anna much good. Elizabeth had been Anna’s older sister, and Marina knew too well the pain of losing those you loved. Tears still came some nights when she thought of her family.
Time had helped, but it also left her tired. She was so very tired of death.
The creak of wagon wheels and thud of hooves forced Marina to release Anna and grasp her friend by the shoulders. “Others are returning home, Anna. You can’t be seen here. It’s far too dangerous.” The reverend had vowed he’d arrest anyone he saw her talking to. Without waiting for Anna to respond or catch her bearings, Marina pulled her to the back of the barn. “Quick now—take the path through the woods and return to your house.”
Anna was shaking her head, but Marina pushed her toward the small trail hidden by first brush and then taller trees. “Hurry, and talk to your father. Do not let him return to that tree tonight.”
When Anna acted as if she wasn’t going to leave, Marina said, “Hurry. Reverend Hickman could be in any one of those wagons. Go. And don’t stop until you’re home.”
Anna shook her head. “I didn’t want to believe it was true, but it is. Isn’t it? You’ve changed, Marina. You used to be my friend.”
“I’m still your friend—”
“No, you aren’t. You’re—you’re a witch. That’s why you wanted that old crone’s familiar so badly.”
“Go home, Anna.”
Anna shook her head as she said accusingly, “You brought her here so you could fill her with your blood, fashion her after the likes of you so—”
“Anna!” Fury ignited in Marina’s stomach, and withholding it from spewing forth burned. Anna was too full of grief to know what she was saying. In a more normal state of mind, she’d know Gracie wasn’t a familiar. She was just an innocent child. Too innocent to be surrounded by such evil. “Go home, Anna. Go home where you’re safe.”
“No one’s safe,” Anna said. “Even you.” She spun around then and hurried into the woods.
Marina watched, making sure her friend had left before she let out a sigh. Her heart was so heavy her stomach ached. She had changed, because she’d had to. Being a witch wasn’t easy.
“What old crone?”
She spun around. The storm of reproach on Richard’s face made her legs wobble.
“Who,” he barked, “is accusing my daughter of such vile things?”
Marina’s entire being quivered, but she held her head up. “I must go see to—”
“No.” He stepped forward, blocking her path. “You aren’t going anywhere, not going to see to anything.” Taking a hold of her arm, he added, “Not until you answer my questions.”
Marina wasn’t afraid of his touch, but she was afraid. Rightfully so. He threatened everything. “My uncle—”
“Is looking after Grace,” he said. “So start talking.”
Any mingling hope dissolved. As much as she wished it, he wasn’t going to leave, not without answers. It was only right. She had summoned him here and should tell him the truth, or at least as much as she could. The problem was she had no idea where to start, how to explain things that were unexplainable.
“I can stand here all day,” he said stoically.
She shook her head at how she couldn’t stop a wayward grin, one that had wanted out because of the memories his statement had revived. “My brothers used to say that.” Sighing, she admitted, “That seems so long ago.”
Other than a slight frown, Richard didn’t reply, and she didn’t expect him to. She waved toward the house. “It’s a rather long story. Perhaps we should go inside.”
“Where you’ll find another task to see to,” he said. “No, we’ll stay right here. There’s no need for me to repeat my numerous questions. I’ll let you decide where to start.”
That was just as well. People were still on the road. What about this man had made her overlook that? Perhaps it hadn’t been him, but rather the weight hanging heavy around her neck. “I’m not sure where to start,” she answered honestly. “Uncle William believes it all started with the new reverend, but...”
