An Unexpected Sin (14 page)

“Josiah—”

“I know she is your friend and you want to keep her confidence,” he said, fighting to keep his tone even, “but I have a right to know if she carries my child.”

Prudence lowered her eyes. “She did not want to bring shame to her family.”

“She could not tell me of this?” But he already knew. She had had no way to contact him…and after he admitted to his part in Samuel’s death, she verily did not want to. “Where is she?” He drew a deep breath, trying to steady himself. “Please.”

She sighed. “All I know is that she went in search of the midwife.”

“What midwife? Here in Salem?”

“No. She was once of Salem, but she moved on.”

Josiah walked a circle, his frustration boiling over. He stopped directly in front of Prudence and looked her squarely in the eye. “I love Anne. I left for that very reason—because she asked me to, and because I will deny her nothing. But if I had known…Prudence, please. I need to see her.”

“What I said is the truth. I know not where she is. Only that she sought the midwife.”

He fought for patience. “And where does one go to seek the midwife?”

“I sent her to the Bradshaw home. Goodman Bradshaw kept the midwife’s horse when she left Salem, so I thought he might know.”

“Do you know if Anne ever found her?”

Prudence nodded. “She sent word.”

Relief flooded him, but it was short lived. “Do you know the Bradshaws?”

“Of course I know the Bradshaws. I have been in Salem the whole of my life.”

“Then come with me.”

“I cannot go alone with you. Have you not caused enough scandal?”

“Do you think they will send me to her if I go alone?”

Prudence sighed. “I should hope not. Let me gather some of my sisters for a walk. That should keep alive your sainted reputation.”

He snorted, but his amusement did not last. Anne carried his child. If she had been any other daughter in Salem, he would have been hunted down and forced to enter into marriage.

Leave it to him to fall in a love with a woman who chose to be the hunted.

Chapter Seventeen

Prudence’s sisters kept up a lively conversation on the walk to the Bradshaw house, largely saving Josiah from talk. His mind seemed to go in a thousand directions at once. Why would Anne not tell him of his child? However angry she had been with him, he could not believe she would keep him from knowing of her condition. He tried to placate himself with the logic that she had not known his location—perhaps she had gone before his letter arrived—but if she had sought him, Cambridge would have been the likely choice. But then what? Send a courier door to door?

He had left to protect her from his past, and in doing so had turned his back on not just her, but his child, their future.

“You have loved her for a long time.”

Startled, Josiah looked to Prudence.

“I know who you are,” she explained. “I thought you familiar when you returned, but Anne did not speak of you. She did not tell me who you were until she left.”

“I asked her not to speak of it. I wanted a chance to prove myself before everyone knew the past.”

Prudence huffed a breath. “You proved a great deal by leaving.”

“I did as she asked,” he said, wishing the little girls would return to their chatter and thusly end Prudence’s interrogation.

“She loves you, too.”

Josiah looked to Prudence. “What?”

“She loves you. She has for as long as I can remember. Here, this is the Bradshaw house.” She gestured toward the nearest home, saving him the difficulty of a response.

The door opened ahead of their arrival. A woman perhaps a few years older than he stepped out, her belly round with child. Josiah had not realized how great was the population of women with child until he had been so directly affected by one.

“Prudence!” the woman exclaimed, wrapping her into a hug, then greeting each of the girls similarly. “What brings you here this day?”

Prudence shot Josiah a pointed look as she greeted the goodwife. “Eunice,” Prudence said, “This is…Josiah. Some time ago I sent Anne to you in hopes she might find Lydia.”

Josiah nodded as Eunice looked him up and down. Because he had spent but one day in Salem Village since his return, he did not expect she would recognize him, but for once he wished someone might. The scrutiny she afforded suggested she would not trust easily.

“How do you fare, Goodwife?” he asked.

The attention continued endlessly before she finally spoke. “Good morrow, Josiah.”

“I understand Anne found her way to the midwife,” Prudence said, “and now it is urgent Josiah find her as well.”

Prudence’s pointed use of midwife appeared to have gotten Eunice’s attention, for her expression changed anew.

Josiah knew not whether he should talk or remain silent so he could only pray he would not hurt his cause.

The goodwife spoke with clearly measured words. “As you know, Prudence, Lydia was sent from Salem. Revealing her location could put her at risk.” Looking at Josiah, she added, “As well as Anne.”

Prudence glanced at Josiah. “He can be trusted. His…interest in finding her should not be denied. But please, Anne needs your confidence as does Lydia. Neither wishes to bring trouble.”

Eunice had only begun to shake her head when Josiah spoke. “Please, Goodwife. She carries my child. When last we met she could not have known, and we lost touch. I cannot leave her to bear this child on her own.”

But for the noise of Prudence’s sisters climbing and shrieking on the fence, the silence rang loud. Josiah had just admitted a terrible sin, and it could have worked against him just as well as it could help. But he could not be denied his only possible link to Anne and his child.

Eunice looked again to Prudence.

“His words are true. And Anne’s last words to me were of great affection for him.”

Josiah was startled by Prudence’s confession. Could it be true? Anne had been so angry…

“You have known me a great many years,” Prudence said, “and you know Anne has been like a sister to me. She will want to see him.”

Eunice sighed. “You should know, young Josiah, Lydia’s husband is of great means. If you seek to cause harm, it will come to no good end.”

“Anne knew not how to find me before she left. If she wishes not to see me, I will leave. But I need the chance, please.”

He prayed his sincerity showed, and it must have, for Eunice gave him direction to a nearby town. With a rueful smile, she added, “I trust you will explain my part in this. If so, please do so with apology.”

“I will.”

Josiah escorted Prudence and her sisters home before taking to the road after Anne. Prudence offered him no great farewell, but she did wish him luck. A grand gesture, considering. Then she herded her sisters to the house and Josiah was again alone, which is how he spent the next day as well. Other than a brief rest in the dead of night—where, hidden under the veil of darkness, he did not need to worry about who might come upon him—he did not stop until he reached the town of which Eunice had spoken. He asked the first man he saw for direction to the Dunham home, and but for a raised brow he was pointed the way without trouble.

From there, Josiah’s heart resided in his throat. Would Anne see him? Was she still angry? Would she still be there, or might she have moved on? The questions were rampant, the answers few. Then the house appeared through the trees, and his breath truly quit.

Josiah had prepared himself for having to talk his way through Lydia or her husband—or, with the Dunham name, perhaps a guard—in order to win an audience with Anne, but rather than another obstacle he found Anne herself. Even at the distance, he knew her immediately, and she must have sensed his attentions for she soon looked from her gardening. She stared at him for a long while before she spoke.

“Josiah?” Though he was still several feet away, he saw easily the word that fell from her lips.

A breeze ruffled her skirts and revealed the slight mound of her belly. His breath was sharp. Every word he had longed to say to her caught in his throat, and he could utter but one phrase. “So it is true?”

If she was surprised to see him, she hid the emotion well. “Yes.”

He wanted to go to her and sweep her into his arms and never again let her go, but she did not exude warmth and he did not want to upset her, so he settled for the painful distance between them.

“I just heard,” he said. “I had no idea.”

“I did not expect that you would, though there is little question as to who I may thank for breaking my confidence.”

He nearly said so many things—that her father had given his blessing or that Prudence had indicated that Anne still loved Josiah—but he wanted not for their help. He wanted to win her back on his own. “Blame her not, for the news did not come easily.”

Anne said nothing. She simply stood before him, that same stubborn tendril of hair lost to the wind, and his heart ached. He had not expected she could be so beautiful with her face set in trepidation.

“Please, can we talk?”

“You spoke an untruth, Josiah. What is there to say?” Her words were sure enough, but her eyes glimmered with unshed tears.

He hated that he had put them there.

“I need to explain why I left.”

“Your leaving requires no explanation.” She turned, but stopped when he put his hand on her arm.

“It does,” he said softly. “I need you to know why.”

She hesitated, and that was enough.

“My mother was hanged,” he said. “As a witch.”

Anne drew her hand to her mouth.

“Anne? Is everything all right?” A woman stood near the house, her belly obviously round.

Was every woman in his vicinity with child? Eunice’s warning came back to him, and he could only hope Anne would not have him removed from the property. “Please,” he said to Anne. “Just give me a chance to explain.”

She glanced at him, and he glimpsed the woman who had accepted him so fully the night they were intimate. It lasted but a moment before the sadness and distrust returned.

“I will go without question, after I explain. Just give me that chance.”

Anne sighed. “Come with me.”

She did not wait for him, and in the time it took for her words to register, he was already several steps behind. He jogged the difference, falling in step beside her as they approached the other woman.

“Lydia,” Anne said to the other woman. “This is Josiah. Josiah, Lydia Dunham.”

Lydia nodded to Josiah but did not address him. “Are you well?” she asked Anne, her otherwise innocuous question fiercely implicating Josiah.

Anne nodded. “I think I would like to talk to him.”

“Of course.” She looked at Josiah, kinder now. “If you need me, I will be close.”

“Thank you,” Anne said. Then, to Josiah, “We can sit over here.”

She led him to a nearby tree behind the house. Neatly maintained gardens made the space welcoming. A short distance back, horses grazed behind sturdy boarded fences.

“It is beautiful here,” he said as he sat on the bench she indicated.

Anne nodded. “It is hard not to feel at peace.”

“But you do not?”

“I try. I worry for my parents.”

“I saw them,” he said. “They are well, though I fear their sadness overcomes them. They do not know?”

She shook her head. “No. I could not bear to tell them. I did not wish to bring them more pain, but I was afraid for what the shame might do to them.”

“But will you not return?”

“Of course. If I return with the babe, our neighbors are not likely to know of the circumstances. It is my hope we can rebuild our family then…if they will have me.”

“They would never turn their backs on you,” he said. He longed to gather her in his arms, but he dared not breach the fragile bridge they had built between them.

“Your mother,” Anne said. “Will you tell me?”

He nodded, only marginally grateful for the change of subject. The topic was no less difficult, but the fact it centered not on his betrayal of her made it somewhat easier to stomach. “I know very little of what happened,” he said. “My father only answered my questions so he could forbid me to ever speak of her again.”

“That is terrible,” she said softly.

He shook his head. “I say that not to evoke sympathy, but just so you will understand there are some questions to which I will never have answers.”

“Of course.”

The sorrow in her eyes guilted him. “My father said I was sick,” he began. “At just a few months old. Inconsolable. My mother called for the physician, of course, and when he could not heal me she called for another. Nothing seemed to work.”

He had her attention fully now. She seemed to have forgotten her anger with him as she leaned forward and looked at him in earnest.

“When left with no other choice, she turned to a remedy she received from an Indian woman she had befriended. Apparently such friendships with the natives were deeply frowned upon, but my mother was not entirely concerned for propriety…at least as my father tells it.”

“Few are as concerned with propriety as others would like,” Anne said with a small smile. “How was the remedy? Were you healed?”

Josiah pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. “I have never told anyone this story,” he said, finding the words difficult. “My father said I was a different baby overnight.”

“And somehow this good news…was not.”

Josiah shook his head. “No. They accused her of practicing witchcraft.”

“She was executed for seeing to your health?”

“Yes, but she was not arrested or tried. There are no records of it. I verified this myself while in Cambridge.”

“And this is why your father blamed you for your mother’s death? Because you were a sick baby?” Her voice had taken on a sharp, angry edge, but at least this time she sounded angry on his behalf.

He shrugged. “As he told it, yes.”

“This is terrible,” she said. “And I am sorry for your loss. But it was a long time ago, and certainly you do not remember her. Why do you feel it a reason to lie to me?”

“Do you not see? My mother was hanged as a witch. With the accusations in Salem…I feared my past might somehow fall on you, just as Elizabeth’s lineage led to her death.”

Anne’s visage dimmed visibly with the mention of her friend’s name, but she did not falter. “But you said there are no records.”

“My father told me to keep it in confidence, and that no one knew. After you sent me away, I returned to Cambridge and worked with a barrister. The position allowed me the opportunity to search records. I looked for word of her death or an arrest, even though my father assured me there were none, but found nothing. That seemed to confirm my father’s words. No one knew.”

A slight frown marred her pretty face. “Then why do you worry for me?”

Josiah sighed. “Because someone does know.”

“What do you mean, someone does know? Who?”

“The woman who occupies the front room of the inn.”

Anne’s mouth fell open, and she quickly pressed a hand to her lips. “My grandmother? Are you sure?”

“I suspected she was a relative of yours. There is little mistaking the brilliant hue of the eyes.” A smile traced his lips, though his heart remained sad. “She told me herself.”

“Are you quite sure? She is sometimes confused. Perhaps she overheard word of the hangings and spoke out of turn.”

Josiah shook his head. “She knew my mother’s name, and she knew she was hanged as a witch. And with what happened with Elizabeth…I could not risk it. I wanted to fight for you, but what if word got out that you were to marry the son of an executed witch? I know not how your grandmother has this knowledge, but she may not be the only one.”

“She is from Salem,” Anne said quietly.

“And it makes sense gossip would have spread then as it does now. Salem is to this very day obsessed with its witches, and it matters not how beloved its neighbors. The accusations sense no barriers.”

“I understand your concern,” she said, “But why did you not come to me?” Anne shook her head. “Why did you lie?”

He sat back, confused. “Your grandmother spoke of my mother just minutes before you asked me to leave. I was stunned, and Elizabeth had just died for a crime no greater than that she was descended from a witch and one of the goodwives had a dream. In that moment, with your grandmother’s words so recent, all I could think about was not letting that touch you.”