Traitor to the Crown The Patriot Witch (31 page)

When he turned around, he saw his mother sitting in a rocking chair by the fire, wearing all black, hands folded in her lap.

“I knew you were coming, Proctor,” she said. “I scryed it. I saw your arrival at this very day and hour.”

Proctor was so stunned, all he could do was yank his hat off his head and stand there. “Hello, Mother.”

She looked as though she had aged ten years. Her already careworn face was thinner, the circles under her eyes darker, her hair grayer.

“Two months,” she said. “Two months gone from the only home you've ever known, two months gone and your own loving parents needing you, two months gone … and all you can say to me is
Hello, Mother
?”

His aunt moved quietly to the far end of the room next to the door, as if she was ready to block his potential escape.

“But the Reverend Emerson—” he started.

“The Reverend Emerson,” she said, “called on me for about an hour one afternoon, told me how you were off to fight the war, and when I asked him who was to take care of your family while you were gone, he told me not to worry, it wouldn't be long, and then he was off to go do his own part, and days went by, and turned into weeks, and I didn't hear a word, didn't even receive a scrap of letter from you.”

“Mother—”

“Let her have her say, Proctor,” his aunt scolded. Then muttering to herself, “God knows as much as I've had to listen to it, you should too.”

“Don't you dare criticize me, Sarah!” His mother's head turned to look at her sister, but her hand raised from her lap, finger extended at Proctor, as if to pin him where he
stood. When she looked back to Proctor, the finger stayed aimed at him.

“Didn't I teach you your letters? Didn't I spend winters with you practicing your writing, over and over, until you could spell as well as boys raised up in fine houses with their own schoolmasters trained at Yale? And to what end? You left without a word, for months, and you couldn't even write me a single letter to let me know where you were or that you were still alive?”

“I sent you a note—”

“This?” She pulled up his note to her from some weeks past, and flapped it at him. “This is barely a note. I've seen bills of sale that contained more information. There's nothing in here about where you were, why you were gone, when you'd return—nothing!”

“It had to stay a secret,” he said.

Her voice went very cold. “Boy, another word for secret is
lie
. I don't want to hear any more lies.”

“But I haven't lied.”

“That's a lie right there,” she snapped. “You told the Reverend Emerson you were going off to fight the war, but I went to see Captain Smith, of the minutemen.”

“My captain?”

“Yes, your captain! Because if my son was off to fight this … this God-damned war!—”

That was the first time Proctor had ever heard her take the Lord's name in vain. He took a deep breath.

“—you'd think his captain, the man he signed a covenant with, the man he reports to, you'd think
that man
would have some idea, maybe a general inkling, even a notion, where one of his minutemen was assigned. Or where he was off volunteering. But no! Your captain had no idea at all! He said he hadn't seen you since the fight on the road to Lexington.”

Proctor's mouth set. She must have been worried sick
about him, and he couldn't blame her. He was going to stand here and take it, let her get it out of her system, before he tried to explain things to her.

Deborah shuffled uncomfortably behind him.

“So then”—she looked over to her sister for confirmation, as if Sarah had been witness to all of this—“I go back to the Reverend Emerson. And he tells me not to fear, that God is looking out for you, and I ask him, ‘Who is looking out for me? With my only son gone and his father ill?’ And he promised that God would provide, but I can tell you God didn't provide me with nothing but heartache. Because it was just like you were one of the men shot dead on the green, only there wasn't nothing left of you to bury.”

“But I thought Arthur Simes came over to help you out. Emerson said—”

“Arthur Simes helped himself to dinner and that was about it.” She leaned forward, the crease showing in her brow. “Are you a Tory?” she asked.

“What?”

“Have you been hiding in Boston with the Ruckes this whole time?”

“No, I just arrived tonight.”

“Because I couldn't figure out where you'd gone or where you were. I never scryed so often or so hard as I scryed looking for you, and God did not answer one of my prayers, not once in all the rest of April, nor in May. I couldn't see anything! It was like you were wrapped in a shroud, as if you were dead—”

The image of a dead man wrapped in a shroud made Proctor shudder.

“—until three days ago, when I scryed and there you were again.”

Her voice cracked, and she paused to wipe her cheeks and restore her frown.

They'd left The Farm three days ago. The concealment
spells must have hidden him from her. Softly, he said, “I'm sorry.”

His apology only infuriated her. “So there I am, my only child has left me, and God and His angels have left me—”

“Now, Prudence,” Sarah said.

“That's what it felt like. And then, then—” Her voice cracked again, and she couldn't speak for a second.

Sarah walked over to her side and rested a hand on her shoulder. “There now, it'll be all right.”

His mother reached up to squeeze her sister's hand, but she continued to stare directly at Proctor. She tried to speak again, but her voice broke before any words came out, and she turned her face away and pressed it against her sister's hand.

Proctor shuffled his feet, feeling sick to his stomach again. “Mother, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have gone off without saying anything, and I should've sent you a letter, but when it was all happening—”

She lifted her head again, just long enough to say, “And then your father passed on.”

Proctor stepped back as if he'd been kicked by a horse, bumping into Deborah. She touched his elbow and whispered, “Oh, Proctor, I'm so sorry.”

He yanked his arm away as if her touch were fire, and started toward his mother, wanting to comfort her, wanting with all his heart to make things right. A look of reproach from his aunt stopped him dead in his tracks.

“And who did I have then?” his mother wailed. “My husband was dead. My son, my only child, who I loved and depended on, was missing, without a word, without a letter, no way to reach him. Even the Reverend was gone, off to help raise troops.”

Her sister patted her shoulder and kissed the top of her head, murmuring to her. “There, Prudence, there, now, if I had known, I would have come.”

“I couldn't even send word to you,” she sobbed. To Proctor, she said, “The only family I have left in all the world, when I need her most, and she's trapped behind a fort, behind a wall of soldiers, all because some fool started shooting at the Redcoats back in April.”

Proctor came forward, and bent down on one knee at his mother's feet, hanging his head as low as he felt. “I have no right to expect it, but I beg your forgiveness. I should have been there for you, and I wasn't. I let you down.”

His mother sniffled, but her face, red-eyed and wan, was set hard against him.

“You must never let her down again,” his aunt scolded.

“I won't,” Proctor said.

“You've always been a good boy,” his aunt said. “A little headstrong, yes, maybe a little too sure of yourself, but it never brought you to any harm.”

“No, ma'am. I mean, yes, ma'am.”

“But your mother is no spring chicken anymore—”

“Hush, Sarah,” his mother said.

“It's true. You were past thirty when Proctor was born.” Turning to Proctor, she said as an aside, “And it was no easy birth, I don't have to remind you—thirty-six hours in labor, and the midwife and I both thought she was going to die.”

“No one thought I was going to die,” his mother said.

But Sarah was on a roll now. “You almost died to bring him into this world, and then you sacrificed your own ease and comfort to give him the best.” As an aside to Proctor she said, “Like that linen jacket she gave you two years ago, that was a fine jacket, with those silver buttons. And you hardly ever wear it, then rip it when you do.” Then, addressing her sister again, she said, “You sacrificed everything.”

“I know how much she sacrificed for me,” Proctor said.

“Do you?” his aunt snapped. “Then you shouldn't have acted such a prodigal, should you?”

“I'm going to make it right,” he said.

“Your mother has no one else to depend on now, no one
to provide for her,” Sarah said. “She's an age where she should be a grandmother now, looking after her grandchildren, not running a whole farm by herself.”

“I don't need grandchildren,” his mother said, swallowing the last of her tears. “But it's not just me. Sarah needs you too.”

“Shush now, Prudence,” his aunt said.

“But it's true,” his mother said, sitting straight again. “With the war going on, and the siege, there's no work left in the city.”

“I'll get by somehow,” she protested.

“There's no food left,” his mother said. “I tried to buy meat today, in the market, and there was nothing but dried fish available.”

“You can still find a bit of lamb at the market every few days,” his aunt said. “Enough to make a pie or two.”

His mother looked down at Proctor, who was still on his knees like a penitent. “She has to come live with us. The farm is yours now, like you always wanted. We can sell off some of the timber to buy those calves you wanted, and we can start raising cattle, like you always said you wanted to do.”

“That's what I always wanted to do,” he said. But the words left a bad taste in his mouth, like a spoiled egg.

“Good,” his aunt said.

His mother said, “We'll have to make some excuse to get you past the gate. Three days ago, I finally scryed you here and came down to find you. The Redcoats let me in only because I begged them. But if we go tomorrow, they may—”

“Wait, wait, wait a moment,” he said, rising to his feet. “I can't leave tomorrow.”

His mother and his aunt stared at him with so much focused anger, he thought he might be struck.

A gentle voice behind him said, “No, Proctor, it's all right. They need you, and you should go take care of them.”

He spun around. Deborah stood there, her own cheeks
wet where she'd wept quietly. She scrubbed at them with the back of an oversized sleeve, while her cap slouched down over her poorly cut hair.

“Who's your friend?” his mother asked, as if truly noticing this odd young man for the first time. His aunt bustled away from his mother's seat, saying, “Forgive the lack of a proper introduction, but—”

“No, no, Miss Sarah, forgive me for intruding on your family in such a difficult hour.”

“Deborah,” Proctor whispered, and she gave him a tiny shake of her head to warn him not to speak. His aunt turned her head, having caught the name but unsure what she'd heard.

“That looks like Arthur Simes,” Proctor's mother said. “Is that Arthur Simes?”

“No, ma'am, I'm no one you've met before,” she said, speaking low, trying to hide the femininity of her voice. “Proctor—your son—graciously came to help me and my family, because of the war. The Reverend Emerson brought him to us.”

“Deborah,” Proctor whispered again, more urgently, but this time she just talked over him.

“We were in a desperate hour of need, and he risked his own life and well-being several times to protect us. I am”—she glanced at him—“I will always be grateful to him for that.”

“Oh, you poor boy,” Proctor's mother said, and Proctor thought she was speaking to him, but he saw that she was addressing Deborah.

His aunt pulled one of her chairs away from the wall and pushed it forward. “Please, have a seat. Tell us everything.”

“I would love to,” Deborah said. “He was as brave as any man I've ever seen. He faced horrors no man should ever face—”

“Oh, my,” Proctor's mother said, covering her mouth with her hand. His aunt hemmed skeptically.

“—but I can't remain, and he obviously belongs here.” She walked to the door and put her hand on the latch. “Thank you, Proctor. For everything. I wish you all luck in escaping the city. But do it soon. Please do not delay.”

Proctor rushed to the door before she could pull it open, and pressed his hand against it. He thought of all those skeletal faces he'd seen on the other side of the siege line, especially of Amos.

“I'm going with you,” he said.

“I can finish this by myself,” she said, her voice now genuinely low, viscerally harsh.

“No, I mean to see it through.”

“Don't be foolish, Proctor,” his aunt snapped. “You've already done good for their family, but now it's time to see to your own.”

“They need you, Proctor,” Deborah said. “You got me into the city—I couldn't have done it without you.”

“But—”

“Now I need to see the rest of it through myself. Clearly, divine providence has a hand in this. You were meant to be here, your mother was meant to find you because she needs you. You got me in, you can get them safely out, before the fighting starts again in earnest.”

“They can wait a day, a few days—”

“The fighting will start again, and they need to be gone before it does. What if the British burn the city? What if the militia sets fire to it, to burn out the British? You can't leave them here to burn.”

“Proctor?” his mother pleaded. “Proctor, you can't leave me alone again.”

He kept his eyes on Deborah.

Her eyes never wavered from his.

“You can't leave me alone, Proctor,” his mother said again, rising to her feet, so weak she almost fell over. She braced herself against the table to stay upright. “I went to your father's funeral alone, with no family at all to stand beside me.
I can't go on alone, Proctor. The farm is yours now, you can do what ever you want to with it, only come home, please come home.”

“Honor your mother, boy,” his aunt said. “And honor the memory of your father. Ask yourself what he would want you to do. He'd want you to look after your family.”