Page 16 of The Witch

“Who?”

“Caroline Eldridge,” she clarifies. “The witch.”

11

1692

CAROLINE

It is midmorning, and I am sitting in my kitchen, drinking my tea steeped with sage and black cohosh, trying not to gag.

It has been nearly a week since I went to Town Square and encountered that ominous-looking man lingering on the outskirts. I did not mention it to Archie, as I suspected it would upset him, and he might start having visions that do not involve our future child. Visions in which he watches his wife be strangled to death.

On my part, I have not ventured far from Pemberton since that day. We have enough food from our garden and plenty of cornmeal. I reckon I could go into town with Molly, but our relationship has been even more strained since she found out I was deceiving my husband about the blood on the sheets. How dare she say I am barren! I am certain that if I drink this tea every day for a fortnight, Archie will have his son.

Perhaps after I have the baby, we can get rid of Molly and hire a nursemaid.

I am struggling to keep down my last gulp of tea, when there is a knock at the door. I lower the mug, wondering if it is my imagination. We seldom receive visitors out here. The only one who comes to my door is Gideon, and he is unable to knock.

But then I hear it again. Another knock.

“Molly?” I call out.

She doesn’t respond. She is working in the garden, I believe. Or perhaps she is coming up with hateful things to do to me. I do not understand why that girl detests me so.

I rise to my feet and make my way to the front door. I stand there for a moment, contemplating what to do, and then I hear another knock.

“Mistress Eldridge?” It’s a familiar voice, and my shoulders relax. “Are you home?”

I slide the latch and throw open the heavy wooden door. Our closest neighbor, Hiram Hatch, is standing before me, wringing his hands together so his swollen knuckles turn white. Hiram and Judith Hatch are not as well off as Archie and me. Hiram built the small house just downstream from our estate, which is where he and Judith raised their five children, but now those children are grown with children of their own. Hiram himself is bald except for a few snatches of white hair on his scalp, and his lined face wears a perpetually worried expression.

“Caroline.” He frowns up at me, and now I can make out a line of sweat on his brow. “My Judith…she’s very ill. I seek assistance.”

“Oh no!” I very much like Judith Hatch. She is a kind woman who bakes delicious rye bread and apple crisp, which she shares readily. “What ails her?”

“She caught a chill in the rainstorm of the past week,” Hiram explains as I step back for him to enter my home. “She has had a vexing cough and a worrisome fever, and now she is babbling nonsense words!”

“Goodness!”

I hear a sound from behind me—Molly has arrived to join us. But the look on her freckled face is one of interest rather than concern. She seems to thrive on the misfortune of others.

“The fever will not break.” Hiram’s voice trembles. “I am scared to leave her for very long.” He pauses, now coming to the reason for his visit. “Pray, would you summon Dr. Shaylor to her side forthwith?”

I flinch at the name. Dr. John Shaylor came to the bedside of my own father in the dire days before his passing, and nobody will convince me that his alleged “remedies” bore no part in his demise. Much like Judith, my father was beset with fever, and the only treatment Dr. Shaylor imparted was the letting of his blood by means of varied incisions on his flesh. With each bout of bloodletting, Father seemed weaker. ’Twas but an hour after the last session that he took his last breath.

“Dr. Shaylor?” I say hesitantly.

Hiram nods vigorously. “Please. I cannot leave her, but she needs healing ministrations.”

I place a hand on his withered shoulder. “We will get her healed then.”

“Bless you, Caroline.” Hiram’s eyes fill with tears. “I must now return to my Judith.”

After Hiram hurries out the door, I cast my gaze up at the sky. ’Tis still early in the day. If I leave now, I can make it to Town Square before the market is over.

“Would you like me to fetch Dr. Shaylor?” Molly asks, always eager for a sojourn outside the house.

“I am not going to fetch Dr. Shaylor,” I say resolutely. “He will only make her sicker.”