Devil's Mistress by Heather Graham
Suddenly a shout rang out—high over the drone of the minister’s preaching.
“Look! There sits Goody Cory on the beam—suckling a yellow bird betwixt her fingers!”
Brianna’s eyes, like those of all others in the congregation, turned to Goodwife Martha Cory. She was a sound churchgoer and upright pillar of the community, and Brianna was astounded at the words cried out by Abigail Williams. Someone would discount them, surely! Martha Cory was a stout and hale elderly matron, a solid farm woman to the bone. She sat stiff and straight on her bench, looking neither right nor left at the accusation.
Then Ann Putnam, Sr., was on her feet, shouting that she, too, could see the specter of Martha Cory on the beam.
No one else spoke. Ann sat again, and the service went on.
Brianna was trembling when she gripped Michael’s hand, and hurried out when it was over. Eleanor was behind her, calling out her name and asking if they might ride home together.
As they headed for home, Eleanor began to tell Brianna what she and Robert had missed in their seclusion.
“It was a week or so ago when the girls first cried out against her,” Eleanor said of Martha Cory, very distraught. “No one wanted to believe it at first—she is so staunch, you know! But Edward Putnam and Ezekial Cheever rode out to warn her about the accusations and first they asked Ann what Martha would be wearing—and Ann said that Martha knew they would ask her, and had blinded her spectral visions. Oh, Brianna! Do you know what happened then? Martha was at her spinning wheel when they arrived and she welcomed them as if she knew they were coming. She actually asked them if they had spoken to Ann about her clothing! She said that there was no such thing as witches and she was sick of the scandal going on!”
“Good for her!” Brianna proclaimed heatedly, pulling Michael closer to her on the saddle.
“No, no—don’t you see, Brianna? To deny witches is to deny the devil, and that is to deny God! It is atheism!”
“I do not believe in witches!”
“But you must never, never say it! Brianna, since Tituba’s confession, the magistrates and ministers are convinced that they’ve barely scratched the surface of some heinous conspiracy. They believe that there is a ‘black man’ in Boston with a whole host of servants. They will be hunting and probing, seeking out crime!”
“What is being done is the crime,” Brianna said stubbornly.
“Please, Brianna, keep quiet. When Martha comes to trial, she must prove her innocence.”
Brianna didn’t agree, but neither did she argue the point. She had to worry about Robert before anything else—including the fact that Sloan might well still be near.
They reached home, and Eleanor came in for a minute. They did not mention Martha Cory to Robert, and he seemed very glad of the company, so Brianna was happy.
As happy as she could be at that time of her life.
But by the beginning of April she was feeling the birth of a new panic. Eleanor came to see her with another friend, Sarah Ingersoll, the spinster daughter of the people who owned the ordinary.
Robert was still in bed; Eleanor put her fingers to her lips and urged Brianna to close the door.
“Oh, Brianna, Sarah has come to warn you—she hears everything in the taproom, you know.”
Sarah bit her lip and nodded unhappily. “Brianna, Rebecca Nurse was arrested and brought to investigation.”
Brianna’s eyes darted to Eleanor’s and were riveted there. Rebecca Nurse was a grandmother, the matriarch of a wonderful Christian clan who worked the land and loved their God with all goodness of spirit and complete charity. If Rebecca was practicing witchcraft, then God might as well be too. But she didn’t echo those sentiments out loud.
“They can’t be serious!” she protested.
But both women nodded unhappily.
“It’s worse than that,” Eleanor told her. “The Proctors have been arrested, both John and Elizabeth. John roared like a bull, I can tell you, but it did no good.”
“And Rebecca’s sister, Sarah Cloyse, was arrested.”
“They’re all being sent to Boston to await trial.”
“Oh, God!” Brianna gasped, sliding to sit in the deacon’s pew.
“There’s been talk, Brianna,” Eleanor said.
“Talk?” She looked sharply at the two.
“You have not been cried out against, but your name has been bandied about. They say that you do not believe in witches, and you think the whole thing a travesty.”
“That much is true,” Brianna said bitterly.
“You need to leave here,” Sarah suggested. “For now, anyway.”
Brianna lifted her hands. “We cannot! It would kill Robert to try and ride away now.”
The two women sat with her and commiserated with her. No—she could not leave. Robert was too ill to undertake a journey.
Brianna promised to stay close to home and talk to no one.
By the end of April, Sarah and Eleanor were back. Mary Warren, John Proctor’s servant girl, had tried to withdraw her testimony against John. No one would accept her retraction as truth. She had tried to talk until she had become so harassed and confused that she had gone into one of the most violent fits ever seen.
The list of arrests was growing longer. Old Giles Cory, a man almost eighty, had been taken, among others.
“Brianna—you must do something. They say that one of the girls muttered Robert’s name.”
“Robert’s!” Brianna repeated, stunned.
“Is there nothing that you could do? What about taking a sea voyage? Perhaps that air would be good for Robert.”
“That Captain Treveryan still lingers near. Maybe you could go on his ship.”
Her heart slammed like a heavy weight against her chest. Sloan was still there. Sloan—who would understand.
She couldn’t see him; she couldn’t do it. She just couldn’t.
But what kind of a fool was she? The finest people in the community were being arrested on the flimsiest of evidence. If they came for Robert, what would she be able to do?
“Thank you for coming,” she whispered to Eleanor and Sarah.
“What are you—”
“I’m going to try to leave Salem,” Brianna replied, wincing miserably. “I’ll go and see that—uh—Captain Treveryan and ask for passage.”
Chapter Sixteen
It was not to be as simple to see Sloan as Brianna had hoped. It would be a week before she could do so. Eleanor knew that he was staying in the neighboring town of Lynn, but not exactly where. Sarah found out at the ordinary that Lord Treveryan was a guest at the home of Lord Turnberry, a man of inestimable means—and Brianna brooded that she would probably not get past the front door if she didn’t get a message through to Sloan first, asking if she could see him.
Sarah came to her rescue again. When a delivery boy brought mail to the ordinary, Sarah saw to it that he brought Brianna’s note requesting an audience back to the home of Lord Turnberry.
Brianna spent a miserable night wondering if her request would be answered. It had been more than two years now since she had seen Sloan. Was it possible that he had forgotten her?
But Eleanor arrived at the farm before noon; she quickly gave Brianna a warning glance, called out a cheerful greeting to Robert—then stuffed an envelope into Brianna’s hand.
Eleanor hurried past Brianna to the bedroom door, asking Robert if he felt well enough for a visit. Brianna heard her husband reply quite pleasantly that he was always glad to see a caring friend.
Brianna ripped the envelope open, her fingers trembling. She was almost afraid to read his fine looping scrawl. What if he refused to see her?
She couldn’t think that way. She forced her eyes to focus on Sloan’s reply.
Goodwife Powell, I shall be available this afternoon at the home of Lord Cedric Turnberry if you’ve business with me.
There was no signature. The paper seemed cold to the touch, as cold as the words. It was beginning to seem possi
Brianna sank down by the fire and sighed. She had to go. Increase Mather had at last returned from London with a new charter and governor—a New Englander named William Phips. Phips was setting up a court of oyer and terminer to preside over the ridiculously large number of witchcraft “criminals” beginning to fill the prisons not only in Salem Village, but in the Town, and even in Boston.
She shook and her fingers moved to her throat. It was impossible to forget the feel of the scratch of a rope.
She was going. She would beg and plead, and Sloan, because he was a decent man, would take them somewhere. But why should he? she taunted herself. She couldn’t pay him for passage. Or could she?
She wanted to die with her own thoughts. She was horrified! Did she want him to make demands on her, to suggest a form of payment so that she could be the martyr, believing that she would do anything to keep them all alive?
Her eyes darted to the bedroom door. She could hear the low murmur of voices, Eleanor’s, Robert’s—and occasionally, Michael’s laughter. She gritted her teeth, then walked to the entrance.
I will not betray him, she mouthed in silence to herself. Then she smiled, catching Michael as he waddled over to her knees and lifting him into her arms. “Michael, you must stay with Papa. Eleanor, would you mind if I went out for a bit? Robert? I—”
“You mustn’t fret for me so,” Robert interrupted her. “I would make out fine, were Eleanor here or not.”
She didn’t want to dispute him, but neither did she want him left alone with Michael—who could tax his strength.
Eleanor spoke up quickly. “Robert, I’d appreciate the company, if you’ve no objection. My parents are distressed, and it seems that we all snap at one another over all that is happening. May I stay?”
“Eleanor, you are always welcome,” Robert assured her sternly.
Eleanor cast Brianna a quick glance. Brianna nervously tucked a tendril of straying hair back into place at the knot at her nape, and she smiled a little uneasily at the two of them, kissed Robert’s forehead, and left the room.
For a moment she stood shivering by the fire. She thought that she should comb her hair, that she should change to her Sunday best. Then she cried out softly, impatiently—and with shame—found her cloak, and hurried out back to saddle the mare.
Lord Cedric Turnberry—Rikky, as he was known to his peers—was a few years short of Sloan’s age. He was a slim man, with a dry wit and a cynical view of life, ever quick to see which way the wind blew, and ready to bend to it. But he was a shrewd man, fond of amusement, and charitable to his fellow man in a way Sloan found appealing. Rikky had moved to the Colonies, made a fortune in shipping, and regained prominence with the ascension of William and Mary to the throne.
He was fond of elegance and now sat in velvet and silk in his drawing room, sipping port while he watched Sloan Treveryan pace.
Treveryan stopped at the window, looking northward, stared broodingly at the day awhile, and retraced his steps to the mantel once again.
“I would not wish to pry into your business, Treveryan, and yet I must admit to curiosity. Why is it that a message from a simple Puritan goodwife has sent you—the demon of the seas—pacing my poor home like a caged tiger?”
Sloan grimaced and poured himself a goblet of the port. “She is an old acquaintance, Rikky.”
“And is she,” Rikky queried shrewdly, “the reason you have come here, dallying while you send your crew to recreation in Boston?”
Sloan studied his port. “She is.”
“But married now.”
“Aye.” Sloan breathed bitterly.
Rikky lifted a brow over sharp gray eyes. “But she comes here this afternoon. Why?”
Sloan walked back to the window and stared out at the afternoon. The wind was blowing and the sky was a somber color. Winter never seemed truly to become spring here. “I’m not quite sure,” he murmured to Rikky. He turned then, curiously, to face his host. “But I’m concerned myself; I don’t like what I see happening here.”
“This witchcraft business?” Rikky asked, scornfully waving a hand in the air. “A petty vengeance, if you ask me, nothing more. All those poor souls in the prisons! Men running around praying and fasting! Bah! ’Tis a farce.”
“A farce that seems to be getting out of hand,” Sloan commented. He frowned. “Turnberry, I was at Ingersoll’s tavern on the day of one of the first examinations. It was most peculiar. They were suffering. I do not believe that I have ever seen such contortions in my life. I’d be ready to call it a grievous show myself—except that something does ail those girls.”
Turnberry shrugged. “The power of suggestion, my friend! And you must understand the history of our little communities! First, while you were marching into England with our beloved William, these people were busy ousting their hated governor—Andros. All bloodless, of course—but they were still without their charter. Once upon a time the Puritans had a guarantee that they would rule themselves, but that changed with the loss of the charter. Men of the Church of England began coming in, encroaching on Puritan territory. Then there were the Quakers, of course. Ghastly quarrels erupted between the two factions—I promise you, more have hanged for being Quakers than for being witches! But onward with my theory. Three years ago or so, when the people of Salem Town and Village were one parish, there was a split in opinion about bringing in a new reverend to tend to the chosen of the Village. Our Reverend Parris was the subject of much dispute, and the Putnams were the ones to insist on his being instated. Note that now the witch trouble started in the house of the Reverend Parris—and that Ann Putnam has become most respected as a ‘seer of witches’!”
“You say she is just a vicious child?”
“No, I do not,” Rikky corrected. “She hears the names of her neighbors bandied about with hostility and she fears for her existence, or her family’s place in the neighborhood. Then we take a slave from the Caribbean telling tales to the children that her old mistress is a witch, and voila, you have a child slipping steadily into fits—created by the mind, and not by witches!”
“A good theory, Rikky, but these good people are convinced, it seems, that they harbor a host of the devil’s disciples. And I might warn, you—they cry out against those who disdain them.”
Rikky snorted. “They would not dare to touch me! I am a servant of Their Gracious Majesties, William and Mary.”
Sloan grinned. “I might remind you that Our ‘Gracious Majesties’ do not doubt the devil or witchcraft. They are tolerant and insist on firm proof, but they would not disapprove the setting up of a court for proper trial.”
Rikky laughed. “You know damned well, Treveryan, that you do not believe in witches!”
“Not per se, Rikky. But I believe people practice black arts. In old King Louis’s court there was a particularly heinous case—quite well covered up, since the king’s mistress was involved. A woman called ‘La Voison’ was selling potions, a number of lewd priests were in with her, and they were creating devil altars out of the bodies of nude women. They used the blood of infants in their rites—and poisoned numerous people. Poison does kill—so if the practice of ‘witchcraft’ includes murder, it becomes a crime. But cases like that are rare and I believe what you say, that all this in Salem is a matter of spite complicated by hysterics.”
“Aye, that I do believe,” Rikky mused somberly. “Our problem here is that a number of the fools give such ridiculous evidence against others to save themselves that they make it all appear very real.” He sighed. “They’ll try Bridget Bishop first. The woman has quite a reputation for malice, you know, ‘cursing’ her neighbors and the like. She’s been brought to trial once for witchcraft already. The most damning evidence against her will be the dolls stuck through with pins found in her house. It is a sad thing that she will go first, for I believe that she will hang.”
Sloan swallowed his port in a gulp, and shuddered. What could he do here?
There was the sound of a horse clipping along the road. Sloan took a deep breath and realized that Rikky was beside him. “Ah, your Puritan enchantress comes! I’ll make myself scarce.”
“You needn’t—it’s your home.”
“Oh, I’d like to meet the lady, sometime. But not today. I think I’ll go down to Salem wharf and hear all about the witches! I’ll be careful to stay gone for the day, and you remember that my servants have learned to be painfully discreet!”
Sloan was about to reply sharply, but Rikky was already gone. Sloan was all alone, waiting, wondering what they would say to each other after all this time.
She should have come to him long ago …
She was afraid to see him, yet she longed to see him. Since she had known he was here, she had been almost physically ill with the craving just to look at him again.
She was a wife now, she reminded herself. Robert’s wife. And by God, she owed him everything. He had been kindness itself; he had loved her, cared for her—and she loved him. Never in the exact way she’d loved Sloan, but every bit as deeply.
Brianna forced her feet to carry her to the door. She knocked, and the door opened.
A liveried black butler bowed deeply to her.
“Miz Powell?”
She nodded. The door opened further. “Come in, please, ma’am. Cap’n Treveryan is awaiting you in the drawing room.”
With a very correct bow the young butler turned, expecting her to follow. There was not far to go to the double doors that apparently led to the drawing room, but in those few short steps, her heart and mind began to whirl again.
He could not be the same. She would see him, and she would be all right. It would be gone, the “thing” between them—the attraction, the passion, and the love. Perhaps it had always only been illusion …
It had been so long since she had seen him. Almost a lifetime.
The butler threw open the doors and stepped into the room. Brianna froze at the entrance.