Eleanor went on to chat excitedly about her forthcoming wedding, and then at last she paused, saying that it was time she went home, for her mother would need help with dinner.
Brianna kissed her good-bye, and thanked her for coming.
But she stood in the rear doorway, out in the harsh weather, waving far too long. It was as if she had been frozen there.
He had come! Here. Dear God, why?
He had let her go once. He had watched her at Robert’s side, and he had let her go. Her heart had forever shattered as she’d seen him walk away. But now he was here.Why?
She began to tremble. He could not want her anymore. And she was married; her life was set. He would not think to interfere. At the height of their love he had turned away to give her the peace and honor she could receive from Robert.
Maybe he had come for his son.
She began to shake in earnest then, and it seemed that the blood drained from her body, leaving her incapable of standing on her own, clinging to the open door. He would not, could not, take Michael.
No, no, no! She must fight against such thoughts. There was nothing to fear. She would not see him and he would not see her. She would cling to the knowledge that Robert loved her, and that he had given her everything, a home and the honor of being his wife. He had taken on the role of Michael’s father with all goodness and the same loving devotion he had given to her.
But she could not stop trembling.
Brianna had not even known that it was a leap year, but there was to be a February twenty-ninth that year, and no one in Salem Village would ever likely forget it.
She knew the date, and the events of it, because Robert came in late from Ingersoll’s Ordinary—late, and very solemn, and mumbling beneath his breath that it was February twenty-ninth.
He removed his hat and coat, and asked if Michael was sleeping. When she replied that he was, he nodded and sat; and when she continued to move about the room—she had been making candles all day, and they had cooled enough to be brought down—he grasped her hand and dragged her down beside him.
“They’ve issued arrest warrants today,” he told her, convinced that he must speak frankly to make her understand what position they had to take.
“For witchcraft? Against whom?” she demanded.
“Tituba, Sarah Good, and Sarah Osbourne.”
Brianna drew in her breath. Tituba was the Carib slave who had been telling tales to the girls, so it was not surprising that the magistrates had decided to question her. Nor was it surprising that, if someone wanted a scapegoat, they should point to Sarah Good. The woman was of an indeterminate age, a typical hag, with worn clothing and the unladylike habit of continually puffing upon an old pipe. But Sarah Osbourne was a woman quite well off. She kept to herself, and as far as Brianna could see, brought no harm to anyone.
“Sarah Osbourne!” she exclaimed. “Good God! Why?”
Robert did not look at her but stared pensively into the fire, and then shrugged. “The girls cried out against her.”
“The girls cried out against her.…” Brianna repeated incredulously. “Oh, Robert! That is no reason to drag—”
“Stop, Brianna!” he charged her. Her hand was upon his shoulder; he shook it off and stood and walked to the fireplace to lean against the mantel. He stared at her long and hard. “Brianna, you will not say anything—anythingat all—to anyone! Sarah Osbourne has not been to church for over a year. She lived with Osbourne long before they legitimized the union with marriage. She—”
“She is a witch because she lived with a man?” Brianna interrupted furiously.
“Nay! I am merely telling you that those being brought in for questioning are not of respected character—”
Brianna was on her feet. “And for that they should be hanged? Robert! Don’t ever say anything so ridiculous to me, of all people.…”
“Brianna!” He charged her, and she saw then that his fingers were twitching where they touched the mantel—and that he was very frightened by the turn of events.
She turned away from him, wanting something to do, and suddenly feeling very disoriented in her own home.
He came up behind her, taking her shoulders, pulling her back close to him. “Brianna, I do not understand what is happening here yet. Perhaps these women will be questioned and freed—and that will be the end of it. The initial exams will be on Tuesday. March first,” he added, as if in afterthought. “We will be there because the town will be there and I am afraid not to go. But, Brianna, you will not speak. You will not cry out that they cannot be guilty. They will think that you blaspheme if you deny the devil.” He turned her around slowly. His dark eyes were a tempest against his long hollow face as they stared into hers. “Brianna, I mean this, as I have never meant anything before in my life. Defy me, and I will beat you—the same method Proctor suggests would cure the girls!”
She might have laughed—or wept. Robert had never even laid a hand across Michael’s bottom to chastise him, nor did he ever take a whip to their horse, or to their mules. Never before had he even spoken to her so harshly.
She lowered her eyes quickly. She did not know if she could keep silent. But he was her husband; perhaps she was the stronger of the two, and perhaps theirs was not the normal relationship, but she would not dishonor him now by a show of disobedience.
“It will be as you say, Robert,” she told him quietly. But she knew that she lied. Having known the stigma of the accusation, she could not bear to see it cast toward others.
