Goodman. For when you put down the people of Salem, you start with me.”
…
Though Nathanial could do little to help Faith’s immediate opinion of him—one he would alter in time—he could help with the eggs. To that end, he took matters into his own hands, procuring a small henhouse from a neighbor in the village who was more than willing to trade for coin. As the man filled his pockets, he gave Nathanial a curious stare.
“You are Richard Abbot’s boy?”
Nathanial nodded and tried not to appear wary, though he had had his fill of that question. Perhaps if not for the antagonistic relationship he had with his father, he might experience a degree of pride, but it was hard to extract any from a man who was so bitterly disappointed with his son, let alone one who would allow his daughters to turn an entire town upside down.
“I heard from Burgess you were back.”
“Burgess?”
“The barkeep.”
Humphrey Burgess . The old man’s name came readily now, and it was no wonder he had recognized Nathanial. He had at one time worked for Nathanial’s father, and no doubt bore witness to Richard Abbot’s shame. “How did he end up at the tavern?”
“The proprietor Creasey took ill and hired Burgess on. Between you and me, I think he was right to get out from under your old man. Bad things happened there.”
“Where?”
“On your father’s farm under his employ.”
“What kind of bad things?”
“I hear your father had relations with a man’s wife, and not long after she came under with child.”
“This is publicly known?”
The man shrugged. “People talk, and quite a few passerby were privy to your momma’s loudly detailed thoughts on the whole ordeal. Might as well call it known.”
“Why was he not arrested? Adultery is punishable by death.”
“I reckon that might be why. ’Course, about that time those girls of his started crying about witchcraft and the whole of the town turned to worrying about the devil in the woods.”
Nathanial searched the man’s face for a hint of a smile—anything that might indicate the old man was telling tales—but found not a flicker. “Is this true?”
“The timing? It is a bit odd, is it not?”
Nathanial could not agree more, nor could he bring himself to admit it. “What of the woman and child?”
“They were both lost during childbirth.”
He did not dare ask the circumstances thereof, for he had already heard enough. Further details would not matter. Instead, he thanked the man for the trade and thereafter sought a merchant with a wagon suitable for delivery, then headed for the home Faith shared with her mother.
When he arrived, he found the house quiet. He waited a bit, expecting Faith to come outside for him, and in her absence he finally knocked on the door. When no one answered, he peered inside to see Faith’s mother sitting at the table, her attention on a scrap of cloth. He eased open the door and called her name. When she did not turn his way he crossed the small room and placed a hand on her arm.
She looked up, and through her misted eyes he saw pain.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
“Only my heart, Son. This was Ruth’s.” She held up the cloth as she revealed its significance. “A kerchief she received from a man who fancied her as a young woman. She resisted, but the old goat did not give in and she married him. I do not expect she ever felt a moment of regret…at least not until he died. By then, she probably regretted the time she missed making him chase her.”
“And what of your young man, Goodwife? Did you run as he pursued?”
Felicity gave a watery smile. “Oh, no. In fact, he might have been the one running away, but we had a great love. More than one could hope for when forced to marry.”
“You and he were forced?”
“Not against our wills, but ours was an arranged marriage. We liked one another well enough, but property was at the heart of it.”
“At the beginning.”
“Yes, and then we
…
Though Nathanial could do little to help Faith’s immediate opinion of him—one he would alter in time—he could help with the eggs. To that end, he took matters into his own hands, procuring a small henhouse from a neighbor in the village who was more than willing to trade for coin. As the man filled his pockets, he gave Nathanial a curious stare.
“You are Richard Abbot’s boy?”
Nathanial nodded and tried not to appear wary, though he had had his fill of that question. Perhaps if not for the antagonistic relationship he had with his father, he might experience a degree of pride, but it was hard to extract any from a man who was so bitterly disappointed with his son, let alone one who would allow his daughters to turn an entire town upside down.
“I heard from Burgess you were back.”
“Burgess?”
“The barkeep.”
Humphrey Burgess . The old man’s name came readily now, and it was no wonder he had recognized Nathanial. He had at one time worked for Nathanial’s father, and no doubt bore witness to Richard Abbot’s shame. “How did he end up at the tavern?”
“The proprietor Creasey took ill and hired Burgess on. Between you and me, I think he was right to get out from under your old man. Bad things happened there.”
“Where?”
“On your father’s farm under his employ.”
“What kind of bad things?”
“I hear your father had relations with a man’s wife, and not long after she came under with child.”
“This is publicly known?”
The man shrugged. “People talk, and quite a few passerby were privy to your momma’s loudly detailed thoughts on the whole ordeal. Might as well call it known.”
“Why was he not arrested? Adultery is punishable by death.”
“I reckon that might be why. ’Course, about that time those girls of his started crying about witchcraft and the whole of the town turned to worrying about the devil in the woods.”
Nathanial searched the man’s face for a hint of a smile—anything that might indicate the old man was telling tales—but found not a flicker. “Is this true?”
“The timing? It is a bit odd, is it not?”
Nathanial could not agree more, nor could he bring himself to admit it. “What of the woman and child?”
“They were both lost during childbirth.”
He did not dare ask the circumstances thereof, for he had already heard enough. Further details would not matter. Instead, he thanked the man for the trade and thereafter sought a merchant with a wagon suitable for delivery, then headed for the home Faith shared with her mother.
When he arrived, he found the house quiet. He waited a bit, expecting Faith to come outside for him, and in her absence he finally knocked on the door. When no one answered, he peered inside to see Faith’s mother sitting at the table, her attention on a scrap of cloth. He eased open the door and called her name. When she did not turn his way he crossed the small room and placed a hand on her arm.
She looked up, and through her misted eyes he saw pain.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
“Only my heart, Son. This was Ruth’s.” She held up the cloth as she revealed its significance. “A kerchief she received from a man who fancied her as a young woman. She resisted, but the old goat did not give in and she married him. I do not expect she ever felt a moment of regret…at least not until he died. By then, she probably regretted the time she missed making him chase her.”
“And what of your young man, Goodwife? Did you run as he pursued?”
Felicity gave a watery smile. “Oh, no. In fact, he might have been the one running away, but we had a great love. More than one could hope for when forced to marry.”
“You and he were forced?”
“Not against our wills, but ours was an arranged marriage. We liked one another well enough, but property was at the heart of it.”
“At the beginning.”
“Yes, and then we
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