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, andviolà, 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? he wondered. The place had gone insane!
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.
His back was to her. He was in tight-fitting fawn breeches and a white shirt with a minimum of ruffles. He wore no wig, his hair was still as dark as the night, as sleek as the night, and knotted at his nape. Just as it had been that first time she had seen him.…
He was very tall, and very straight, and his shoulders were as broad as she remembered. And when he began to turn, she almost wanted to scream.
Nothing had changed. Nothing.
“The Goodwife Brianna Powell, Lord Treveryan.”
