The Sins of a Few (3 page)

“Or what? Do you mean to threaten me?”

“Not at all. In truth, my intentions are exactly the opposite.”

Her hazel eyes narrowed. “What does that mean?”

His gaze dropped to her lips. Drank in the sight of her tongue darting to moisten them. Her chest heaved, sending his heart into uncharted territory. Sending him away from her.

He released her arm and took a step back. He had been a breath away from kissing her, and the only thing that promised to be more delicious than those ripe, moist lips was the fury she would no doubt cast his way. But now was not the time, nor was it the place. “Nothing,” he said. “It means nothing.”

Leaving her staring slack-jawed after him, he turned on his heel and left.

Chapter Three

Nathanial’s family home was an ugly, disjointed skeleton of a creature that kept watch over the center of Salem Village, its multitude of rooflines somewhat at odds with the boxy structures surrounding it. At one time it had seemed massive—and for the small village, indeed it was—but his worldview had grown since he’d left home. Now it seemed little more than ostensible, and the cloak of darkness did little to soften his thoughts. Firelight flickered through the windows, not the least bit welcoming. He pictured his mother, her appearance as severe and harsh as her words so often were. His father, a man short of stature, who seemed to demand a pedestal every time he opened his mouth. And Nathanial’s sisters…they had brought light and joy into the house. Could they really have done as Faith had accused?

Though he was certainly expected to make an appearance at home, he opted instead to turn and head for the nearest tavern. He needed to hear more of what had gone on during the witch hunt, and he had long ago learned no one spoke the truth—especially not in Puritan Salem—quite like a man high on his cups. Unfortunately, taverns were the most loathsome of places, their filth rivaling that of the ship he had just disembarked, but the patrons could be no less welcoming than what he suspected he would find within the confines of his family home. His father expected deference from every man, so for his own son to defy him had been unforgivable—a sentiment he had expressed multiple times over their past few meetings, leaving Nathanial with little hope his opinion might have softened with time.

The moment he entered the door of Creasey’s Tavern, he found the establishment indeed friendly. A blue-eyed woman who clearly thought herself lovely—one who might have been if she had not made such a blatant display of herself—sidled up to him, and by the looks of her she offered much more than a drink. Her breasts fought a losing battle to keep within the confines of her dress, and her dark hair fell freely, caressing shoulders that would only be bare if intended for ill repute.

Nathanial was a man like any other, and he would be a fool to claim he did not notice, but there would be no carousing this night. With a nod of greeting, he circumvented the woman’s misplaced attempt at affection and headed for the bar, from which he procured a weak drink. When he glanced back, the woman was gone.

“Evening. What brings you to town?” the barkeep asked.

Nathanial studied the man a moment, unsure if he should recognize him. With his years as advanced as they were, he probably had not changed since Nathanial had left. “I returned just this morning after two years in London.”

The barkeep gave a soft laugh. “And you chose this place of all of ’em?”

“It was the nearest place to get a drink,” Nathanial said mildly.

“Much obliged, but I meant the town. You hear of the hangings?”

Nathanial took a long drink, grateful for its watery texture. He had become well accustomed to wine, and even the weeks spent in travel across the Atlantic had not warmed his taste for the comparatively bitter flavor of beer. He set down the cup. “I have heard. Damned shame.”

The barkeep did not react to Nathanial’s use of profanity. “And have you heard of your sisters’ involvement?”

Startled, Nathanial took a second look at the barkeep, still not recognizing him, though clearly he was known to the older man. “I have heard, yes.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

Nathanial pushed the cup around in front of him, not eager to partake of more of the brew. The man’s question intrigued him. What
could
he do? The accusations had ended, so there was nothing to try to stop. The dead could not be returned to life, and if he did somehow have the ability to change their fates, verily he would be the next one they saw to the gallows. As for the whole mess in between, there were still far too many questions. “I suppose I must first learn the truth.”

“What part of the truth are you missing?”

Nathanial ground the bottom of his cup against the bar. Opting to keep the knowledge gleaned from Faith to himself, he said, “At this point I am unable to discern the truth from the lies.”

The barkeep leaned close enough for Nathanial to partake of the man’s breath. “Let me clear it up for you, Son. There are no lies more foul than the truth of the actions of those girls. Whatever you have heard, accept it as truth, then pray their sins are no greater. Pray it, but know they are.”

Who the hell was this guy? Clearly, someone who had felt the events to the core, but who among those who lived it would not? He knew Nathanial, but most in Salem knew of his family. Nevertheless, the recognition despite Nathanial’s beard startled him. “How did it all happen?”

“Best anyone can tell, it seems to have begun with the servant woman, Tituba. She taught the children spiritual chants and told them stories of magic—all blasphemy in these parts. Your sisters were among those who listened to her teachings.”

“So this Tituba began the accusations?”

“It cannot be known what she did in private, but it was your oldest sister Abigail who first made her claims for all to hear.”

“And what was her claim?”

“Same as they all were. They purported to be afflicted. Even a glance from the accused sent the girls to fits. They ranted and raved and carried on and there was no amount of ignorance or denial from the accused that would settle their claims.”

“All to what end?”

The question had been intended rhetorical, but the barkeep answered. “Death. Nineteen by hanging, one crushed to death by stones.”

“All because the physician woman caught them in a lie,” Nathanial muttered.

“You are no stranger to the story, then. Though I do not suppose you would be, considering your relations.”

“I had pieces of the story hurled at me,” Nathanial said. “But I thought to seek a voice of reason before drawing my own judgment.”

The barkeep nodded. “The supply of reason has been short around these parts. Those girls did a horrible thing, and to this day the only remorse visible in their expressions is that it was over too quickly.”

The bitter words stunned Nathanial. Did the man not realize he spoke of children? “Your accusations are callous.”

Looking steadily into Nathanial’s eyes, the old man said, “No more so than theirs, I assure you. Look into their eyes, Son. That is where the evil will be found.”

“What you are suggesting—”

“Be assured, it is no mere suggestion. Ask anyone in this room. Ask anyone in Salem—anyone still living, that is.” He gave his head a sorrowful shake. “The number of dead, they speak for themselves in the only way they can.”

There were no words to dispute the man’s statement. Nathanial glanced wearily at his cup. “Have you any wine?”

The old man’s brow rose. “I might have some whiskey.”

Nathanial tossed some coin on the slab. “Close enough.”

The barkeep delivered a drink that went down faster than it should any decent man, but Nathanial had had a damned long day and the conversation was apparently over. The barkeep moved down the counter to count his bottles, leaving Nathanial alone with his thoughts.

It was a hell of an unwelcome place to be.

When he arrived at the family home, three drinks down, he found the next day promised to be no better, for his trunk lay sideways in the yard, the house closed up for the evening. Though it was damned cold outside, he simply settled onto the ground next to his trunk. His coat provided warmth enough, and what he did not gain from the fabric, he found in thoughts of Faith—of enticing curves and the way those serene hazel eyes snapped at him in fury.

She blamed him. She might even hate him. But he owed Ruth an insurmountable debt for the direction his life had taken. He no longer had the opportunity to return her kindness, but he would not turn his back on her family.

Not the way his family had apparently done to him.

Not now. Not ever.

…

Faith was still fuming the next day as she headed outside to gather eggs for the morning meal. The task was meaningless, for the dratted chickens were all over the place. The piecemeal henhouse had been lost weeks ago to a summer storm, and the chickens had yet to find a consistent place to roost or lay. She worried there was a fox or other predator about, keeping them scattered, but thus far her small herd had not been thinned.

“Good morrow!”

Faith looked up at the sound of overt cheer to see her friend Prudence Abernathy coming along the path, a basket in hand. “Morrow perhaps,” Faith called in return, “but good might be generous.”

“The chickens again?”

“The chickens always. I should build a new henhouse.”

“You should find a man to build a new henhouse.” Prudence, nearer now, held out the basket for Faith’s inspection. “I brought eggs.”

“Oh, bless you! Will you take candles in trade?”

“Of course.” Prudence walked alongside Faith to the house. “Have you heard Nathanial Abbot is back in town?”

Faith’s step faltered, but she quickly righted her stride. “Is he?”

“I heard he slept last night on his parents’ lawn.”

“I would probably do so myself before I would step foot in that house.” She kept her tone even, but inside she was reeling. Nathanial slept outside? Granted, it was one of the only lawns in town—few could afford such wasteful upkeep—but surely there was an available bedtick inside that ridiculous house.

“He also visited the tavern.”

Of course he had. What else would be expected? After likely countless indiscretions in London, he must have found the…amenities on a ship full of men lacking. And in light of it, perhaps he had not so much slept on the lawn as he had slept where he had fallen. “Prudence, your home is on the other side of the village. How are you so richly steeped in gossip before the dawn has fully crossed the sky?”

Her friend grinned sheepishly. “A merchant came by this morn on his way to town. Seems he just yesterday afternoon delivered a travel trunk to the Abbot house.”

“And how did he procure the identity of the trunk’s owner?”

“He was told by whomever paid him to carry the load—and by paid, I mean generously.”

“Nathanial is an Abbot,” Faith said. “Of course he paid generously.”

“You know the rumors. Supposedly they are not of the means they claim. The cost of their airs has been greater than their profits, and they have struggled to pay their help. Without tending, the crops did not provide as they hoped they would. One troubled hand begats the next.”

Faith shrugged. “As you said, it is little more than gossip.”

“I have heard his breeches fit well,” Prudence said.

Faith’s attention jolted to her friend, whose eyes sparkled with mischief. “For heaven’s sake, Prudence. Did the merchant tell you that as well?”

Prudence laughed

“Of course not!”

Faith did not match her humor. “Well, you may be assured his breeches fit no differently on him than any other man.”

She did not realize her mistake until Prudence drew to a quick stop. “You are personally acquainted with the fit of his breeches?”

“I am not the least bit acquainted with any part of him,” Faith assured. But the sting of heat on her face belied her claim.

“Yet you acted as if you did not know he was in town.”

If only she had kept her thoughts to herself. Now she was thoroughly flustered and all of Salem would likely know within the hour. “What business is it of mine where he is?”

“That is for you to say. How did you so quickly gain a view of his breeches?”

“He stopped by to share his condolences on the loss of my aunt.”

Prudence’s smile fell. “How…unexpected.”

“They were close,” Faith admitted. “Aunt Ruth schooled him when he could not attend on his own. Nathanial was here almost every day, sometimes for hours on end.” Memories came in a flood, most prominently the number of times she’d caught his blue-eyed stare on her rather than his books. How had he managed to learn a thing? And why did that recollection make her feel so good?

“What does he say about his sisters?”

“That he knew nothing. He claims he heard only when he arrived in Salem, and he disembarked from the ship just yesterday.”

“I suppose there’s no reason to doubt him,” Prudence mused. “I know not what news travels the ocean, but Salem is a small place. I cannot imagine they take time to discuss our goings-on.”

“They might. Can you imagine how these events would sound to an outsider? Those of us who have lived it cannot explain, not even among ourselves.”

“I cannot imagine what evil it took to purport such lies, though England is rich with a history of persecuting witches.” Prudence shook her head. “What kind of horrid soul lights a match and withholds water while an entire town burns?”

“The Abbots,” Faith muttered, her heart heavy in her chest. “Who else?”

Chapter Four

Elinor Abbot dusted her hands on her apron and scowled at her son. “Is there no end to the shame you are willing to bring upon this family?”

Nathanial stared, bleary-eyed, as his mother bustled around the kitchen area. He was freshly shaven and a bit irritated by the way the chilly morning air had turned cold in the absence of the hair. “Is it not the cook’s job to see to the morning meal?”

“Luddy has moved on.”

“I thought Luddy did the washing?” he asked with only mild interest. “Or was that the schooling?”

“She did as she was told,” Elinor snapped, seeming to forget herself. She quickly straightened, lifting her chin. “And as I said, she moved on.”

Nathanial leaned back in his chair. It creaked in protest. “Did her decision have anything to do with the witch hunt?”

Elinor froze but quickly recovered. She fussed with several cooking utensils, though she appeared to do little more than rearrange them in their spots. “We let her go.”

“I suspect the more accurate claim is that you did not stop her from leaving.”

“The circumstances are none of your concern. Mind your manners and watch your tongue. That is no way to speak to your mother.”

“Respect is duly earned,” he replied, though he briefly wondered if he should not placate her. He was quite hungry and she stood near a supply of biscuits and did not offer him a crumb. His stomach grumbled, earning a sharp look from the woman who had birthed him.

“And it shall not be earned from a lout who passes out in the yard.”

He hid a smile behind his hand. “I tried only to mind my manners. The hour was late. I did not want to disturb you.”

“You wanted to humiliate me!”

“Ah, I see. A grown man of his own mind is an embarrassment to you, but allowing your daughters to accuse the innocent to their deaths is of no concern?”

“You will not speak such things in this house!”

The chair he had been tilting back on two legs dropped to four with a
bang
. “Very well. I can return to the lawn and ask my questions there. Care to join me, or shall I shout through the walls?”

“You will do no such thing!”

If she thought his threats empty, she was well on her way to a shock. “Or what? Will I be the next accused?”

He had never seen his mother more furious, though he had the good sense to bite back his amusement. Years had passed since he had seen her, and perhaps he should have been less confrontational, but she had made no secret of what she termed his desertion. His parents had amassed a fortune through hard work, and they expected their only son to continue in their like pursuits, but his heart had not been in the fields. He saw nothing wrong with farming, but his interests had led him elsewhere. That he would be shunned for seeking his own success was a decision of their own making.

A new thought hit him. Was Ruth’s life the cost of his defiance? Not directly, of course, but if the price of failing to honor his parents had been her life…

“You should feel nothing but shame for the roughness of your tongue.”

“Perhaps I should,” he said. And meant it. “Care to tell me what happened while I was gone? Or, more to the point, why you allowed Abigail to lead a brigade against the innocent people of Salem?”

She set her shoulders and glared at him. “Your sources have misled you.”

“My sources are the whole of Salem,” he said calmly.

“You have spoken to the whole of Salem?”

Did she feel he needed to? “The story has not differed.”

“From whom did you hear the story, Nathanial? Did one of the tavern whores finish you with a bedtime story?”

The accusation stunned him nearly as much as her sarcastic intonation. He had spoken to precisely four women since his return. Two had alluded to dalliances with whores, while a third had actually been one. For a place where evil was hunted in order to free them all from sin, the threat of it lingered heavily.

“You have no business in this house,” his mother said.

“That is quite enough, Elinor.” His father’s voice.

Elinor spun at the cold warning. During her distraction, Nathanial thought to grab a biscuit, but in doing so he was not entirely sure he would not risk his life. His mother had done nothing to convince him of the family’s innocence in the events that had transpired.

Having given up on the food, Nathanial looked past her to see his father standing in the doorway. The lines and fatigue on his face suggested many more than two years had passed. The two exchanged curt nods. “You did not send word of your return.”

“There was not much point. It would have arrived on the ship with me.”

Richard Abbot stared humorlessly at his son. “Yet your trunk seems to have found its way home ahead of you.”

“I had a stop to make.”

“Your first stop should have been with your family. That was embarrassment enough, but to consort in a tavern like a commoner—”

Nathanial found it interesting the news of his visit with Faith and her mother had not made the morning gossip. “I care not for your airs, Father. And if you were so concerned about your reputation, perhaps you should have thought twice before leaving my belongings outside like rubbish.”

His father’s brow lifted. “You carry the pretense of an Englishman.”

“One held in high esteem, if you will, and it is no pretense. I have lived and worked in London for two years now. Clearly my reputation does not precede me, but know I will not engage in a war of words. If you wish for me to leave, simply state your case and I will go.” Nathanial stood, intent on parting ways, but his father waved him down.

“High esteem, you say?”

His father’s interest raised Nathanial’s hackles. “I am well accomplished. I would expect you to be pleased, but my time will not be wasted. I heard your words upon my departure and have no desire to hear them again.”

“Had I been given the chance—”

“Nonsense. It is I who was not given a chance. You wished for me to be nothing more than a laborer.”

“There is pride in hard work and nothing wrong with being a laborer. Hard work leads to wealth. You cannot simply demand it. It must be attained. Earned.”

“Indeed it does. But hard work comes in many forms. It need not be attained from dirt. Be assured, my wealth, though not earned from toiling in the fields, is as legitimate as yours.” He did not state the likelihood that the fortune he’d amassed in just two years was greater than that which his father had amassed in a lifetime. His father bested him in that he owned land, but Nathanial had lived as a pauper to collect enough coin to buy a sizeable parcel and still his coffers would remain heavy. The foothold his father’s land might afford was of little concern to Nathanial.

His father, however, now looked on with curiosity. “Your pockets are well lined?”

“My pockets are of my own concern and are likewise none of yours.”

Before Richard could react, Nathanial’s sisters blew into the room. Abigail, the oldest at seventeen, led the succession. Mary, behind her, was thirteen and Susannah was around nine. The youngest, Deliverance, was of seven years. Abigail stopped short at the sight of him, creating a succession of bumps as each of the sisters plowed into the next.

“Nathanial?” His name was merely a breath on Abigail’s lips. “Nathanial!” She ran and threw herself into his arms, sending him backward several steps before he could right himself.

Though he was taken aback, he allowed his arms to settle across her back just as the three younger girls joined the pile. He took them in, each hug warmer than the last, until he was on his knees before a beaming Deliverance. Her cherub face, blue eyes, and blond curls would have melted the most hardened of men, and when it came to his sisters—in particular the younger ones—he was as soft as they came. “Hiya, itty bit.”

“You came home!” She grabbed his neck and threw herself against him, clutching for dear life.

He blinked hard, suddenly unable—or unwilling—to believe that this beautiful little girl could have caused so much pain. But she had always been so eager to please that she would do nearly anything asked of her. In her innocence, she could have been schooled.

Though Abigail had greeted him warmly, she now stood back with her arms over her chest, a rather cross slant to her mouth…almost as if she had been privy to the course of his thoughts.

“How have you fared?” he asked Abigail, standing and lifting Deliverance along with him. She was no longer the little girl he had left behind, but she snuggled against him just as she always had.

“We have had a terrible time of things,” Mary responded in Abigail’s place. “We were under attack by—”

A sharp look from her mother brought her pending claims to a quick end.

“He knows of the trouble here,” Elinor said.

“And the trouble has been reduced to a mere footnote,” Richard added. Turning to Elinor, he asked, “Should they not be off to their lessons?”

“Eat your morning meal, girls.” Elinor shooed them to the table from which the biscuits had goaded him. The girls began smearing them with fresh butter, and once again his stomach voiced its discontent.

Nathanial set down Deliverance and eyed the breakfast. “Did you prepare that food yourself, Mother?”

“Of course not,” Elinor said, as if to prepare a meal was the worst of tasks. “Abigail has become quite accomplished with the cooking.”

Abigail frown deepened, though she had the good sense to remain silent.

He spared a grin. Of course his mother hadn’t prepared the meal—she was far more accustomed to affronting someone else to do nearly every task with which a woman was charged. She may be a Puritan by faith, but he knew her not to be a Puritan of heart. She was far too concerned with possessions and status. He privately thought she might better find her home among London’s elite, though he wondered if even they would tolerate such snobbery. Nathanial did love his mother—and despite the way his parents had responded to his pursuit of education, he supposed he always would—but there were moments he found her quite unlikable. His current opinion was no doubt shaded by the way she had greeted him, but he did not expect relations to improve over a discussion of the recent deaths in Salem.

Richard touched Nathanial’s arm and guided him toward the rear of the house, putting a great deal of distance between Nathanial and the biscuits. “Tell me of your work.”

Nathanial shrugged, his mind still on the breakfast that had not been offered him. “There is little to tell. As you know, I accompanied Trollinger to London as an apprentice. He grew to be a lazy old sod and by the end, I practiced in his place.”

“That is indeed quite the accomplishment.”

“Indeed.”

“Was your position lucrative?”

Nathanial shook his head. Wealth clearly could not avail tact. “I will not discuss my station with you.”

Richard gave a slow, unconvincing nod.

Nathanial suspected the issue would resurface, though he was content to allow it to drop. As it were, he had other matters to discuss. Clearing his throat, he asked, “What of this witch nonsense? Thus far, the story seems to center on Abigail, and frankly I have heard little by way of denial from mother.”

Richard’s countenance darkened, but did not turn to shame. Or regret. “The girls were harassed as they said they were—it was clear to anyone who knew them, as well as to many witnesses during the trials. The accusations against them now are no worse than the ones people claim they pinned unjustly to others. They say the witch hunt is over—the courts have been dissolved—but fingers still point. They point at my girls.”

“So you are saying they are innocent?”

“Indeed, they are. Their afflictions were real. Those girls, especially the younger of them, do not have deceitful hearts and minds. They speak the truth.”

“And the truth is that Ruth Travers and all the others deserved to be killed?”

“Perhaps there were some innocents who died, but rest assured, the darkness did not come from this house. The girls were as much victims as anyone else, and you are in a unique position to claim it.”

“Pray pardon?”

“You said yourself you have been accepted into London society, and as a barrister you must hold some ranking there. Even those of the colonies most against British rule will recognize your authority. The hangings may have ended, but our reputation suffers. You can change that, Nathanial.”

“How?”

“Defend us.”

“There is no trial—”

“Do not fool yourself, boy. You said yourself the whole of Salem blames this family for the deaths of so many among us. If you speak on our behalf, your station will go a long way toward pardoning this evil that affected our family.”

“And if I do not?”

“Your family will be left to ruin. Our coffers are shrinking. Times are hard, and winter is upon us. Who among our neighbors will take any of yours sisters as brides when they are presented as murderers? They will be cast to poverty, and with my dwindling funds I will have nothing to leave them. You can change the course, Son.”

“With all due respect, I was not treated as your son when I made the decision to better myself—a position for which you now hope to reap benefits—nor was I treated that way when my belongings were left to mar the landscaping. It is quite wasteful, I might add, to thresh the lawn like you boast a proper English garden when your neighbors lack grazing land for their animals.”

“You may blame the courier for the placing of your belongings,” said Richard, ignoring Nathanial’s admonishment over the lawn. “I was not here, and your mother is not capable of moving such heft.”

“Ah, I see. Though I can lift it alone, Mother and Abigail and Mary could not put their six hands together to right it?”

“It is not their place to see to such callous tasks.”

“Indeed, one should stick to his or her own place, and I fear you made mine quite clear, both upon my departure and now, upon my return.” Nathanial moved to brush past him, but the old man grabbed his arm.

“The misgivings you hold are nothing over what this town feels against us. Cast me aside and your mother, too, but think of young Deliverance. Think of how she will suffer—she and all the rest.” Though his words carried warning, Richard’s voice was heavy with sorrow. Might he actually care for the dwindling fate of his family, or was he concerned only for himself?