An Unexpected Sin (11 page)

“But Mother! He is a wonderful, skilled man. He can help Father with the repairs, and he has a good head for business. He is the ideal match. Surely you do not wait for a man of great fortune to stop at our meager inn in search of a peasant wife!” Her father’s assurance that a match had been found came to her, a harsh and bitter reminder. But it would not stand. Josiah was the one for her.

“Anne, you misunderstand. It is not Josiah’s station that makes him an improper match.”

Anne’s indignity came not from the fact she sat in an inch of cold bathwater, but from the terrible injustice of her mother’s words. Her tone biting, Anne spat, “Then what is left? Why do you judge him so harshly?”

“Because he is not who he claims.”

“What do you mean? He is precisely the same Josiah I knew as a child.”

Her mother shook her head. “He cannot love you if he has kept the truth from you.”

“What truth, Mother? What has he kept from me?”

“Samuel. This man you claim you love…killed your brother.”

Chapter Thirteen

Josiah waited outside for a long while, half expecting to hear shouting from inside. When it did not come, he circled the inn on foot before letting himself through the front door. The Scudders were nowhere to be seen—and not a sound to be heard—but the old woman sat in place. He still could not find comfort with her presence, but inexplicably, she seemed to beckon him.

Something in her eyes leached understanding.

Josiah turned a nearby chair and faced her. “You know my name,” he said.

The old woman’s eyes bore into him. After a long moment, she offered a slow, slight tip of her head. In the barest of whispers, she said, “Cromwell.”

Josiah’s heart thundered, but he had nothing to lose. “You know of my past?”

“Verity.”

Verity? Or verily? The difference was everything. Now truly shaken, he said, “You…you know of my mother?”

“Ye.”

Yes? Or did she address him as you? Oh, how his head pounded. Suddenly Josiah’s past with Samuel seemed the least of his worries. “What do you know of my mother?”

“Gone.”

“She died some years ago, yes.”

“Not just dead,” the old woman said. “Hanged as a witch.”

Josiah’s last pieces of hope fell to the ground and shattered. No one knew of his mother’s execution. He had been but an infant at the time of her death, and while his father assured him he had hidden the truth from common knowledge, he had warned Josiah of his lineage—a lineage that had become terribly dangerous in light of the current events in Salem Village. Had he fathomed it could really come back to him he would have stayed as far from Anne as possible, even before he knew of Elizabeth’s conviction. Certainly after. Hadn’t that secret died with his father? Records seemed to indicate that to be the case. Until recently, there had been no reported witchcraft hangings in New England since 1663.

Josiah’s head spun. It was evident his mother’s execution had not been sanctioned by the court, nor had her killers been prosecuted by one. The circumstances were their own tragedy, but they made this old woman’s knowledge all the more shocking. With her advanced years she could have witnessed the events just two decades prior, but had there been witnesses, he expected the account would have been documented somewhere, somehow. With witnesses, his mother could not have been so callously erased. His father had sounded so sure…

Josiah’s thoughts tumbled into one another. Had he ever known the truth?

He looked over his shoulder, and seeing or hearing nothing of the Scudders, he turned back to the woman and asked, “Do you know why she was hanged?”

“She fought.”

He sat back, not ready to leave this woman, but not expecting her to go on. Susannah Scudder indicated the woman did not speak at all, yet she had already spoken volumes. Her words, though few, had changed him considerably.

“A young girl with a babe. You.”

Startled, Josiah looked up from a study of his own hands. Leaning forward, he nodded and met the woman’s deep green eyes. “Yes, I am her only child.”

“She had a friend.” The woman looked over his shoulder in the direction of the cooking room, though not a sound drifted from elsewhere in the house. “She felt the betrayal.”

“She betrayed a friend?”

The old woman shook her head.

“A friend betrayed her?”

“Her friend did not come to her aid.”

“Is that why my mother died? Because of betrayal?”

“Things are seldom as they seem,” the old woman said, her attention drifting to the window.

Josiah wanted to shout at her—to ask how she could know such things—but he tamped down his turmoil and forced himself to listen at the slow, painful pace she granted him. At least she managed to string together sentences.

“Guilt is a terrible burden.”

He swallowed, knowing all too well that truth. “Please,” he begged. “Who carries this guilt?”

“I will not say, but you should know this, Josiah Cromwell.”

He waited, the whole of his world weighed on her next words.

“She knows your lineage. She knows who you are.”

Who? Who knew?

The old woman placed a withered hand on his arm. “She will protect hers at any price.”

“Who will?”

Brilliant green eyes peered at him imploringly. “If you stay here, you will ruin her.”

The warning sent a terrifying chill down his spine. He could easily dismiss the woman’s ludicrous threat if not for her unexplained knowledge of his mother. No one had mentioned his mother to him in years.

“Josiah.”

This time, the voice was sure. Clear. And that of his beloved Anne. He rose, a bit unsteadied by her bleak tone. Hours had passed since she had shared her body with him, promising her love and a future despite the odds. Her auburn hair had been wild, her forest green eyes bright with desire. Now, she stood somber. She had clearly bathed, and those reckless strands were pulled in a neat, severe bun at her nape. Her rumpled, muddy clothing had been traded for fresh, clean attire. Though she was still lovely, she exhibited absolutely no warmth. He could not help but wonder at her cold regard.

Had she learned of his lineage?

She stood stiffly, her face etched with pain. “I have a query, and I need assurance you will tell me the truth, no matter the cost.”

Though her words struck him with dread, he would no more lie to her than he would die by his own hand. “Always,” he said, bracing himself for a topic that had not been broached for more than a decade. How would he tell her he was indeed descended from a woman executed for witchcraft? If word got out, Anne herself could be accused by association—an association that had already ended at least one life. Silently, Josiah vowed he would never let that happen to Anne…even if it meant he would lose her, he would keep her sheltered from his past. “I will always tell you the truth.”

“Very well then. Did you kill Samuel?”

Josiah took a step back. He had not been prepared for such a question, and now feared greatly his shock would condemn him. But it could do no worse than the truth, for he could offer her nothing more.

“I was there.”

“Did you kill him, Josiah?” Her tears glistened, lit by the same brilliant sunlight that had shed an intimate glow over her bare, beautiful body that very morn. “Tell me the truth.”

Josiah’s heart shattered, but he had not carried guilt for so many years for naught. He had not killed him with his own hand, but by his guilt, it was all the same. Samuel would be alive if not for Josiah. “It is true,” he said. “He is dead because of me.”

The bitter shock that crossed her face was gone in an instant. He admired her strength, even as he knew it would be his downfall, and watched as she straightened. Her spine stiff and her chin held high, she said, “Please go.”

He stared at her, and though his chest ached, his thoughts fired in rapid succession and with surprising clarity. Her pain devastated him, but the accusation could not have come at a better time. She wanted him gone, and with the secrets of his past lurking far closer to the surface than he ever imagined, his only chance of keeping her safe from his lineage was to abide by her wishes. Allowing her to think so terribly of him would leave him broken, but as long as she held those beliefs she would not seek him.

And thusly she would not die because of him—because his mother had been murdered as a witch. He had but one choice. “Anne—”

“How you could not tell me this?” The smallest of cracks appeared in her façade. “All those times we spoke of my brother, yet you could not speak the truth? You spoke of loss and sorrow and never once did you accept the blame!”

“You are wrong,” he said, “for I have always carried this blame with me. I have never been free from it or denied it, nor have I prayed for its release. The guilt is my own.”

“You falsely professed to share my sorrow—”

“My sorrow is as genuine as yours.”

“But not your truth.” She bit down on her lower lip, the rise and fall of her chest visible across the room. “I cannot be with you, Josiah. I will not be with a dishonest man. There will be no future for us, and there is no place for you in this house. You need to go.”

“I could not bear to see you hurt,” Josiah said. Though he knew he had to go and must not convince her otherwise, he could not bite his tongue. “My heart and intentions have always been true.”

“If that were the case, you would have told me from the beginning. You would have told me the day he was lost.”

“What was I to say? I wanted to bring comfort, Anne. Not pain.”

“You brought nothing, Josiah. You were there and then you were gone. There was no comfort in losing you, too.”

The soft harshness of the words nearly broke his heart. “You were not mine—”

“No.” She shook her head, setting loose that strand of hair he adored. “You said it yourself. You said it while we were joined. You said I have been yours all along. Or was that another of your untruths?”

Josiah blinked. Had she really just shouted their relations for the whole of the house to hear?

“You had chance after chance to tell me the truth about Samuel, but you did not. And I will not be with a man I cannot trust. I will not be with the one who killed my brother.” Anne wiped at her eyes, but she stood true. “You need to go. Please.”

Words tempted his lips, but he stopped them. As devastating as the possibility of losing her, it was better now than after his past caught up with him. An accusation in Elizabeth’s past had led to her death, and though to his knowledge Anne was not descended from an accused witch, he could not take the chance she might be associated with one. He could beg forgiveness for Samuel’s death, but if successful, where would that lead?

To the gallows?

Salem had become a terrible place, and his secret more dangerous than he could have ever guessed. He would seek the source of the old woman’s knowledge and the truth of his mother’s death, but there was only one way to do it without risking Anne’s heart or her life.

He would have to go.

With that realization, the devastation in his heart was greater than any pain he had ever known, but he did not hesitate in giving the only piece of him he had left. “I love you,” he said. “Know that. Know that above all else.”

She stood firm, saying nothing, but her tears fell like a rain-swollen stream. And there they were, facing the brunt of the storm. He had vowed never to walk away from her, but he would deny her nothing. Not even this.

He lingered, committing every detail of her to memory, but quickly dismissed the task. He would rather carry with him the memories of their night together—of her sprawled beneath him, her body open, her soft whispers and sounds of pleasure. Those memories would have to last a lifetime, for he would love no other.

Her countenance had not broken. His Anne would not fall apart. She would offer no second chances—not after his supposed betrayal.

And there at his back, in quiet observation, sat a woman—almost assuredly a relative of Anne’s—who knew the secret that would ruin not just his life, but Anne’s. He would not let Anne meet Elizabeth’s fate. He had no choice.

His heart had broken, but he would not need it.

Not where he was going.

Without another word, Josiah turned and walked out.

Chapter Fourteen

Weeks passed.

Terrible weeks.

Though Anne had sent Josiah from her life—and for good reason—she could not help but want for him. At the time of his dismissal, she had not wanted his excuses or his explanations. It was enough for her that he admitted his role in her brother’s death. But his admittance did not change the tenderness of his touch. It did not erase the look in his eyes or the promises that had spilled from his lips. It did not take her memories.

It did not heal her heart.

But her broken heart was far from her greatest worry. Anne’s monthly courses had ceased, and in the weeks since her cycle delayed she had fallen increasingly ill. Though Anne had confided in no one—not even Prudence—she harbored little doubt as to her condition.

She was with child.

At one time Anne had longed for the day she would start a family. Her young dreams had centered around Josiah, and for a brief time—perhaps even as they joined—she wanted for this very day. But Josiah was gone. He had not fought. He had simply done as she asked and disappeared from her life. And with the terrifying realization that she carried his babe, she wanted nothing more than to go back and allow him to say whatever it was she had not let him say. She could not imagine he would have actually been responsible for Samuel’s death, yet she had sent him away on that very premise. And now she was alone, and in a most shameful state.

Anne touched her hand to the gentle swell of her lower belly. Her love for Josiah had not waned. Might she tell him of his child? A warm feeling spread through her chest, but then his cold admittance cut through the warmth. Josiah had killed Samuel. He had said so himself. But why? What possible reason could there be?

And why did it matter?

Anne’s shouted dismissal of Josiah had clearly admitted their intimacies, but from the moment her mother had seen her in a state of undress, she had known. Anne had expected her anger. She had waited for it—for the lectures of how her honor was ruined and her future cast uncertain—but instead the news had thrown her mother into a period of disquiet. Before that day, Anne had not heard Samuel’s name from her mother’s lips in years. Perhaps the memories had been too much. Her mother was unhappy—in mourning anew, it seemed—and Anne blamed herself. It was she who had urged Josiah to seek employ at the inn, and now her family teetered on the edge of shambles. Her father, already weak of health, spent too much of his energy on the tasks from which Anne had forced Josiah. The remainder he spent trying to restore his wife’s faith, but it was not to be.

The news of Anne’s pregnancy would only tear her fragile family apart. Any hope of finding a suitable husband would be destroyed. Her father would remain without help at the inn, and her mother would fall deeper into whatever shadows sought her.

She could not let that happen. Stomach churning, Anne cupped her abdomen and prayed, as she had endlessly, for guidance.

And on this day it was granted, for an idea formed.

Anne’s friend Lydia—the woman who had escaped the gallows—was a midwife. She had left Salem for parts unknown, but if Anne could find her, she would have a trusted friend as well as a midwife to see her through the pregnancy. She would have someone in whom she could confide, and Lydia’s distance from Salem meant word of Anne’s condition would likely not spread where it could bring shame to her parents. When she returned with the babe, surely the importance of those indiscretions would fade. Their neighbors would assume Anne’s husband had been lost. She would be expected to remarry, of course, but that was the way.

It could work, though Anne could not leave her parents without explanation. Doing so would only cause more pain, but she would have to leave soon before her pregnancy showed. She looked down at the small blossom of her belly and knew the time to go had passed.

Anne dressed and descended the stairs to begin the day. She found her mother in the kitchen and quietly took her place at her side. If she left in the morning, it would be the last time in many months they would share the morning tasks.

“You have been quiet, child.”

“My thoughts have been heavy.”

Her mother did not ask why, but Anne suspected she knew. They had not spoken of Josiah since the day he had left.

And they had not truly spoken of Samuel since the day he had died.

“Mother, tell me about Samuel. I knew him as my brother, but tell me about him as a person. As he was.”

Her mother stilled, but did not avert her attention from her task. After a long while, she spoke. “Your brother was a strong boy—a natural explorer. He wanted into every nook and cranny of life. He knew no boundaries, no matter how we tried to teach him to mind his place. He liked to skip his lessons and spend the day in the forest hunting. Of course, that was not allowed, so when he got a kill he knew not what to do with it. He would say he found it, as such a thing could be believed. I suppose he did not consider how easily we could talk to his teacher.”

Anne laughed. “I remember days he would take to the path instead of going to his lessons. The teacher would ask me if he felt poorly, and Samuel told me to always say yes.”

“And you did. I knew that, as well. He had a way about him.”

“What of his missed schooling? Was he punished?”

She shrugged, though a gentle grace found her lips. “He was of the age many boys stayed to help with the chores. We should have been harder on him, but when he brought home enough meat to feed us for a week, it was difficult to scold. He had endless charm, that boy, and a good heart. No matter his mischief, he harmed no one. Not a soul complained of his explorations, though he worried me to death.” Anne’s mother looked to her and smiled—the first Anne had seen in weeks. “You are very much like him, Daughter, with your refusal to be contained. Always a rogue, too trusting to be wary of strangers.”

Anne fiddled with her tongue in her mouth, wanting to ask a question that had haunted her for years. She hated to ruin her mother’s lightened mood, but verily, it was a question for which Anne needed an answer. “How did he die?”

Her mother’s sharp intake of breath worried Anne, but her words came steadily. “He had always been fascinated by the great water. That day there was a terrible storm at sea, and the waves it created were high and rough. He said that he wanted to experience the power of the surf. We warned him not to, many times, of course. He was not to go into town that day, let alone by the water, but witnesses say he entered the waves. The water overtook him, and he was lost.”

Anne froze, the words sinking in like rocks. “But you said Josiah killed him.”

“They say it was Josiah who went firstly and thus beckoned Samuel into the water.”

Anne still had not moved. She could not. If her mother’s words were true—if someone had lured Samuel into the sea—it would not have been Josiah. Josiah had been terrified of the water—he would never have ventured into the bay. Not on the calmest of days, much less in a tempest.

Josiah was innocent. Even if he had been the one to call to Samuel, he could not be blamed for Samuel’s decision, but she knew Josiah. It could not have been him. Why would he admit to something he had not done?

Why would he risk everything—including a future with Anne—for a lie?

The question haunted Anne throughout the day, but it did not change her plans. Mid-afternoon, she left the inn in search of her friend John, the merchant who had brought Prudence to her door the day Elizabeth was sent to the gallows. She arranged to ride on his wagon to Salem Village the next day, resisting the urge to ask him not to speak of it. It was commonplace for her to ride to the village when he went with his deliveries, so her request would draw no scrutiny. Demanding secrecy, however, would draw attention where she could least afford it.

After the evening meal, Anne tucked a clean change of clothing in a worn satchel. She would have to leave behind the remainder of her possessions, meager as they were, for they would not be conducive for long travel. As it were, she knew not where she would find Lydia, but she hoped Prudence might.

She said a long good-night to her parents, her heart so close to her throat they must have known her mind. But if they sensed anything different that night, they offered no acknowledgement…just a simple good-bye that would have to sustain them far longer than they expected.

Very early the next morning, Anne left a short note for her parents.
I have gone to Salem. Worry not, for I will return in time. I love you both.
The words would not ease their worries, but it would have to be enough. Leaving the parchment where her mother would find it, Anne eased from the dark inn and began along the road to Salem. She had asked John to pick her up alongside the path—this so she could be on her way well before the day broke—and he came upon her not long after the sun began to light the sky. Despite her attempts to act as she did normally, he gave her a curious look from his spot at the buckboard as she settled in the wagon.

“Where do your travels lead you this day?”

“To the village, as always.” She forced calm into the words, even though nothing of this trip was as usual.

John did not respond, but for a curious look and to urge his horse to walk on.

The ride passed in easy quiet, as it most often did. Anne said a silent good-bye to the road she had traveled so many times. Though it was a rough path and could take hours to traverse by foot, it was a great part of who she was. She had not fully realized it until that moment, but it was the path that in so many ways had led her to Josiah. Had that always been the connection? Visiting Salem Village took her back to the days when Samuel had been alive and Josiah had teased her endlessly, soothing the inevitable aggravation with forbidden kisses—kisses that might have been counted stolen if not for her want of them.

Anne did not know when she would next traverse the path, but verily her life would be changed. She would have Josiah’s babe in her arms, and her future then would be just as uncertain as it was in this moment. Her stomach lurched, and she knew not from the ruts in the road or the fear in her heart, but she would press on.

John stopped the wagon alongside the Abernathy home, which sat on a small plot of farm land on the edge of the village. From the outside, the house appeared still. With eleven children in the home, Anne knew better. Turning to John, she said, “Fare thee well. And my thanks.”

The goodman offered a gentle smile. “And to you, dear Anne, fare thee well.”

Her eyes heated with unshed tears. John seemed to know something was different this day, but he asked no questions.

It was just as well, for later, when asked, he would have no answers.

Anne nodded her appreciation, stepped from the wagon, and walked the path to Prudence’s door. Before she could knock, it was flung open by one of Prudence’s younger sisters.

“Why are you not doing your lessons?” Anne asked, patting the child on the head.

“Mother is poorly, so we are helping with the chores. Charity is taking the feathers from her very first chicken, but it has grown angry and keeps trying to peck at her and fly away!”

Anne covered her mouth to hide a smile. “Where is this poor chicken?”

“He is running about the kitchen making a terrible fuss!”

Anne’s smile could no longer be contained. “And where might I find Prudence?”

“She is off after the eggs.”

The Abernathy farm was small but offered adequate means for the family. Goodman Abernathy was likely in the fields, and with Goody Abernathy poorly, the morning chores had surely fallen heavily on Prudence, who was the oldest of the children. As much as Anne delighted in watching the little girls try to steal feathers from a live chicken, she needed to talk to Prudence. The privacy of the barn might be the best place of all, so she left the small home for the outbuilding that served as the poultry house.

Indeed, she found Prudence gathering eggs in a small basket. “You did not send the children to gather the eggs?”

Prudence looked up and blew stray hair from her face. “They were throwing them,” she said. “Throwing the eggs!”

“Your mother, is it bad?” Prudence’s earlier suspicions had been realized, and her mother was indeed with child.

“The sickness has been terrible for her, but she is well familiar with the way of it by now. She has been in the way a few months. She believes the illness will ease soon, though the babe will be a while yet.”

“What wonderful news. Please share my joy with her.” Privately, Anne lamented her own sickness, which she had worked hard to hide, though she hadn’t needed to, for her mother had been so withdrawn in the weeks since Josiah’s departure. Anne understood her sadness, but Samuel had been gone for more than six years, and surely she remembered him often. Even with the memories Josiah stirred, how could he still bring about such melancholy? There had to be more that Anne did not know.

Prudence grinned. “Mother is not contagious. You may tell her yourself.”

Anne did not know whether to laugh or cry. Toeing the dirt, she said, “I need not worry that I might catch a babe from her, for it seems Josiah has already seen to the task.”

It must have taken time for the words to sink in, for a moment passed before Prudence stopped, wide eyed, and nearly dropped the egg she held. “Are you saying you are with child?”

“So it seems.” An odd calm blanketed Anne—a calm that existed in great contrast to Prudence’s obvious shock.

Prudence settled the eggs and wiped her hands on her skirt before enveloping Anne in a warm hug. “I know not whether to laugh or cry. Why have you not told me of this? I never even knew of your relations! How do you feel?”

Fierce heat overcame her. How could Anne explain? Surely she would have told Prudence if not for the way it had ended. And once it was over, Anne wanted the memories to herself. She did not want to shriek or giggle, as they were prone to do over such a topic. She did not want to speak to his size or his capabilities.

She did not want to admit to her mistake.

“It was the night before he left,” Anne said.