An Unexpected Sin (7 page)

As unlikely as such an outcome seemed, reprieve had happened for another of Salem’s residents.

One of the first to be arrested had been the midwife, Lydia, who had been in Salem only a year at the time of her arrest. Though at the time, the accusations had just begun and the entire town had become frantic to purge itself of witches and Lydia, as a relative newcomer, made an ideal choice for their sickness. After all, if the people of Salem were too terrified to stand for their loved ones, what of Lydia—a mere acquaintance to most? In the end, it hadn’t mattered. Lydia had escaped her fate at the gallows—rumored an act of pardon by the governor himself—and thus Anne had held onto faith that Elizabeth, too, would be spared.

This news was just too, too horrible to fathom.

Anne, so stunned that she had not yet moved from the doorway, grabbed Prudence’s arm and pulled her in from the rain. “This cannot be! Are you certain?”

Prudence shook her head. Tears streamed down her face. “I know she was found guilty by the court, but how can her own neighbors truly believe that she is guilty? Who are the few who celebrate this horrible occasion? You know they are now saying that she opened the clouds and brought this rain. They will say this weather is the vengeance of a witch, and they will call it even more proof against her!”

Anne wanted to deny Prudence’s fears, but verily, her words were true. Everything of late had been blamed on witches—there was no reason the weather should be spared. But Elizabeth…could it really be too late for her? “When did you get word?”

“The merchant John Howe said the gallows have been prepared, then he gave me passage here on his wagon.” Prudence hugged herself, clutching her arms tightly. With the sun behind thick clouds, the day had turned unseasonably cool. “We must go to her.”

“No, no, no,” Anne shook her head, her fingers drawn to her mouth.

“Please. I cannot go alone,” Prudence rubbed her arms and looked past Anne, presumably for Anne’s mother, whose usual practice was to greet all visitors to the inn. Perhaps in the storm she had not heard Prudence’s arrival.

“I did not mean…of course we will go,” Anne grabbed a waistcoat for protection against the chill brought on by the rain, glancing at the stairs as she slid the garment over her clothes. Her mother had almost certainly returned to her quarters. Anne hesitated but a moment before choosing to leave without saying good-bye. Her anger had not waned, and now she had not the time to defend her decision to attend the hanging. Anne’s mother would verily argue the gallows were no place for a young woman, but the terrible truth was that one had found her way there nonetheless.

One of Anne’s dearest friends was about to die.

Anne could not let her die alone.

Chapter Nine

Anne and Prudence stumbled down the road, hand in hand. The pouring rain that had seemed to keep travelers away from the inn did not keep the crowds from gathering at the gallows. Tears could not be counted in the drench, but it quickly became clear how profoundly affected were many of the observers. The only joyful people among the group were in a tightly knit circle at the front. The Abbot girls. All but one younger than Anne, they stood smiling alongside their mother, each looking as if they awaited a grand event. The remaining villagers stood in silent, emotionless observance—among them Rebecca Mather, the woman who had pushed for Lydia’s arrest. Her lips were set in a slight tilt, as if she entertained a smile.

Fury balled in Anne’s chest. What a horrid woman. How could anyone find joy in something so cruel? And why would Goody Abbot bring her children to witness such an event?

Anne forced herself to look past them and found the remainder of the observers gazing on in stunned silence, their faces strained and bleak. She knew from having witnessed a previous hanging that some of those stern faces would erupt into cheers at the time of the execution.

Hot tears blurred her vision and burned trails down her cheeks. Though it was a terrible sin, Anne fervently wished for one of them to be next on the gallows before another innocent life was lost.

Anne had hoped that Prudence—and the merchant before her—might be mistaken about the hanging, but it was clear from the gathered crowd that the announcement had been made. She could only hope the mistake was in naming Elizabeth, but the crowd’s whispers seemed to confirm the terrible news.
Elizabeth Burroughs
. The name was repeated again and again amongst the gathered.

“It cannot be true,” Prudence whispered. “What are we to do? Elizabeth has never consorted with the devil. She has committed no crime. Not witchcraft or any other.”

“We cannot do anything.” The words came in quiet sorrow, for no matter how much Anne wanted to shout Elizabeth’s innocence and proclaim her a kind, gentle soul, doing so would only bring the accusations to her door. What was the cold, cruel place Salem had become? So many things were wrong with a place where neighbors could not defend neighbors and the accusations of a few were valued over the professions of many.

She did not have long to ponder, for shortly thereafter a commotion arrived.

In the turmoil, Anne watched, heartsick, as Elizabeth was led to the gallows. Among cries of “witch!” from the observers were cruel admonishments—words that in no way reflected the kind young woman who would die that day. When the rope was positioned around Elizabeth’s neck, verily the noose tightened around Anne’s own throat. What happened thereafter existed in a somber blur. The only sensations snapping clearly from the haze were the shouts of the crowd as the rope tightened, followed by the crack of wood when Elizabeth’s body weighted the noose.

Prudence let forth a choked sob at the sight of their friend swinging from the rope.

Anne could scarcely breathe for her sorrow. Elizabeth had wanted to marry and raise children—to be a proper goodwife with a well-kept, welcoming home full of babes and a bountiful garden. She had long dreamed of the man whom she would marry. He would be strong, she had said, and a farmer, just like her own father. He would adore Elizabeth, wanting for no other.

Verily, he would look at her the way Josiah looked at Anne.

Suddenly angry, Anne turned from Prudence’s embrace. Doing so, she caught sight of Elizabeth’s parents, her mother nearly to the ground sobbing and screaming her bitter sorrow at the loss of her child. Elizabeth’s father seemed absent in his comfort, for his attention was not on his wife, but directed toward the gray horizon. Rain began falling with new earnest, and Anne cried with the sky.

Elizabeth had been denied the chance to live, but Anne still had hers.

And no one—not even her mother with her expectations for propriety—would take that from her.

…

Josiah did not see Anne again in the house that afternoon. He wondered where she was, but he remained preoccupied by the old woman’s pronouncement of his surname. He longed to ask her identity, but did not feel comfortable asking anyone but Anne, and she was nowhere to be found. Still, his curiosity over her whereabouts did not turn to great concern until much later when he heard Susannah Scudder share terse words with her husband. She must have been worried, for she began the conversation despite Josiah’s presence in the room. Nevertheless, he sought to make himself small so as not to distract her from her speech.

“She left the kneading!” the goodwife proclaimed, as if the simple abandonment was mired in great sin. “And in this weather!”

George sighed, though his voice remained gentle. “Anne has a strong head, wife. Worry not for her.”

“How can you be without concern? She takes to the road, never concerned for the dangers of a girl alone in travels. There are men who would take quick advantage of a young woman without her defenses.”

“She most often travels with John, and she knows well the road. Our daughter is not defenseless. She has sound judgment and is thoughtful with her choices. Perhaps she was caught out by the weather and took shelter to wait it out. Why are you so fearful?” Despite his attempt at reassuring words, his voice was strained.

“But this weather! She should not be out there. She has a love for the road to the village,” Susannah said. “Whenever she is gone so late, she has verily taken for the path. And on this terrible night…”

Goodman Scudder looked to the darkened world outside the window, and Josiah followed his gaze. A damp fog existed over the storm-drenched land, lending an eerie feel to the black landscape. The clouds erased the moon, and the resulting pitch was enough to make Josiah shiver. Anne was fearful of the dark woods and its rumors. Though he was quickly becoming acquainted with her stubborn independence, he could not help but worry she might be in some kind of trouble.

“We cannot go after her,” the goodman said to his wife. “You are in no greater position than she, and my health prevents such travel. Have faith. Trust she will return.”

“I don’t want to sit here in faith! We have already lost—” Susannah’s words cut sharply, and the thick air descended into silence. Her mouth pressed into a thin, firm line, she tightened her arms across her chest. Several strands of hair had fallen from her bun, giving her a disheveled look Josiah suspected uncharacteristic of the otherwise severe, precise woman. The look in her eyes was one of great fear, something confirmed when she looked to her husband with blanched skin and eyes fraught with sorrow.

“She has never left unannounced,” the goodwife said, “and she would not tarry so late. She is not so careless. Something is wrong, George. I feel it. I cannot lose her.”

“We can arrange for our neighbors to search—”

“She will be branded a rogue! And then what will become of her?”

Josiah blinked. How could she want for Anne’s return and refuse help all the same? Though the goodwife’s earlier words against him still stung, her worry over Anne found firm ground in his own heart. He bit his tongue but for a moment before the words burst forth. “I will find her,” he said.

Both of the Scudders looked to Josiah with enough surprise to suggest they genuinely had not realized they shared his company. “I can find her,” he said again. “I can return her to you.”

Susannah wore a tear-stained mask of pain and distrust. In his short time there, she had questioned his intentions. Degraded him. Warned her daughter away. Would she allow him to go after Anne? To bring her home? And did it matter? For even if they denied him, he would risk his own standing to find her.

Josiah waited in the tense silence. He knew not whether Anne was actually in some kind of trouble or if her mother merely feared she was, but Josiah would risk nothing when it came to her. Only, by speaking up, he might be risking everything. Would Susannah refuse Josiah? Moving forward after such a denial would be difficult, if not expressly forbidden. Perhaps it mattered not. The old woman—whose identity Josiah had yet to learn—knew who he was. Everything teetered on one finely chiseled edge, and it seemed no matter which path he took, he would find himself in desperate freefall.

He looked into George’s eyes. “I will bring her home,” he said.

Goodman Scudder looked from his wife—who remained mute—to Josiah. “Thank you. My wife and I would appreciate that very much, son.”

Anne’s mother opened her mouth, then promptly snapped it shut. Finally, she offered a short nod. It was all Josiah needed.

He’d find her.

But when he did, would he be forced to let her go?

Josiah pushed away the concern and let himself outside. The sky still wept rain, though not as heavily as before. Town had grown quiet but for the drunkards spilling from the tavern a good distance down the road. Though Josiah suspected Anne was more likely to head to Salem Village than to the taverns in town, he knew the taverns were a good source of information. If there was news to be had between the two locales—something important enough to keep Anne away—it was likely to have been reported by a traveling merchant and thereafter to have swept through the taverns like wildfire.

The direction paid off more quickly than he could have imagined.

Josiah was still several paces from the nearest tavern when a fellow well into his cups began shouting about a hanging. His companions’ responses, less slurred, chilled Josiah to the bone.

“Another o’ ’em witches gon’.”

“Nothin’ like a good hangin’.”

Josiah stopped in his tracks, then broke into a run toward the tavern.

“Please, Goodman,” he said, addressing the drunkards, praying one would listen. “Who was hanged? What was the witch’s name?”

Both men stilled, staring at him. Finally, one said, “Lizbons…Loozens. It don’ ma’er, boy. ’Nother one gon’…swunged a migh’y bout in tha wea’er.” To that, he raised his cup, spilling in the process a great deal of its contents.

A hanging. Had Anne somehow heard of it? He had been through town hours earlier himself and had not caught word. Anne had not left the inn that morning, had she? Perhaps it mattered not. Travelers and borders frequented the establishment—not at the rate they did the taverns, but word could spread just as well.

Lizbons. Josiah’s limited reintroduction to Salem left him with no chance of reconciling the semblance of a name with a person. But did it matter? Anne had been of Salem the whole of her life—whoever the victim, Anne was likely to know her. He did not know if she would prefer to attend a hanging or avoid it, but the timing was suspect at best. And she was not a woman who could watch someone die—even a stranger—without being affected. She was far too caring to face death so callously.

Anne must have gone to the gallows, but surely the crowd had long dispersed by this late hour. If she had not returned, the most likely answer was that she had traveled to the village, but why would she have not told her parents of her plans?

It mattered not, for the gallows were along the road. His direction would be the same.

He had just turned for the road when a third voice stopped him in his tracks.

“Her name was Elizabeth.”

A man stood outside the tavern, nearly invisible in the darkness. When Josiah didn’t respond, the man spoke again.

“Elizabeth Burroughs.”

Disbelief ricocheted through Josiah. He knew of Elizabeth. Anne knew Elizabeth. She had spoken of her the day he had returned. Though her words had been few, they had carried much affection for her friend…and a great deal of sorrow for her arrest. “She was hanged?”

“This very day,” replied the stranger. “At the gallows right alongside the road.”

Josiah’s heart plummeted. Anne would be devastated.

He had no greater of an idea where she might be, but he knew without a doubt which way to run.