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 possible that he had forgotten he had ever known her.
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.”
