An Unexpected Sin (15 page)

“No, Josiah. I understand why you didn’t tell me about your mother.”

“Then of what falsehood do you speak?”

Her stare threatened to cut right through him. “You said you killed Samuel, and I want to know why.”

…

Anne’s heart pounded. Would he tell her the truth, or would he evade her?

She still could not believe he had come to her. He had frequented her dreams, but each morning when she woke she had found herself terribly alone, her heart broken anew. When she had first realized it was he who stood before her, her heart threatened to burst, but then the truth cut through her joy and she endured his loss as if for the first time.

He may have come for her, but he was still the man who had lied—not to keep from losing her, but so that he would.

To his credit, Josiah’s mask of confusion only deepened. “I did not lie. He is gone because of me.”

Anne’s heart twisted in her chest. “But you did not kill him.”

His honey-brown eyes filled with sorrow. “He was taken by the sea. You knew that.”

She shook her head and fought back the tears that had become her constant companion. “All these years, and no one would tell me how he died. And I might never have known, but before I left home I asked my mother what happened to him that day.”

Josiah rubbed his face with both hands, knocking his hat askew in the process. She wondered if it was the same one he had lost that night in the mud.

The night their child had been made.

“He drowned,” he said gently. “He went into the water and never emerged.”

“But how? What happened that day?”

Josiah’s eyes seemed to focus on a distant object—perhaps to the past. “There was a terrible storm at sea. Word was that the waves touched the sky. Samuel said he was not to go to town, but I wanted to see the water. I begged him to go with me.”

“Why? You were terrified of the water.”

“I still am. I cannot get near a creek without growing dizzy with fear.”

“Then why?”

“I have asked myself that very question for years. The day was so clear and bright. I could not fathom such a display as was promised. And if it were true, I knew I would not have to get close.”

“But you did?”

“Not at first. The other boy—William Dyer—knew of my fear. He called me a number of things I will not repeat in your company, but none made me want to go near the water. I suppose he found me boring, for he turned on Samuel.”

“Samuel was not afraid of the water.”

“No. But William used the same taunts. Samuel was not one to back down from a challenge, so when William said Samuel must be the same as me, Samuel took offense. They grew rowdy. Samuel said William himself was too afraid, so William extended a dare. If Samuel would go in, so would he.”

“And?” The word came at but a whisper, for she knew what was to come.

“They both went in. And when Samuel disappeared in the waves, William came from the sea and he ran.”

“You did not go near the water?” When Josiah shook his head, she continued. “Then William was the coward, not you.”

Josiah took her hand. “No, it was me. Please believe me, for I tried to go in the water, but I could not. I made it into the surf until I stood wet to my knees and faint with panic. The water was so angry, and Samuel was gone from sight. He had not been visible for some time, by then. I backed away. I left the water, but I also left Samuel. He is dead because of me. Do you not see? I did not kill him with my own hand, but the outcome is all the same.”

Her heart could not stand another break. “Josiah, listen to me. Samuel killed Samuel. Not you, and not even William, however cruel his part. Samuel made the decision to go into the water.”

He looked to their joined hands. “He did not want to go there that day. He went because of me.”

“He was sixteen. Nearly a man. Besides that, would you have gone if you had known what would happen?”

“Of course not.”

“Then stop blaming yourself. Please, for I do not blame you and neither does Mother.”

Josiah shook his head. “Your mother does blame me, Anne. That is why she dislikes me. I thought her distaste was without cause, that I would only have to prove myself. But she knew me all along as the one who killed her son.”

Anne shook her head. “No. She thinks you were the one who lured him into the water. That is how I knew you were untrue when you said you killed him—because I knew you would never beckon to him in such a way. Do you not see, Josiah? If we tell her the truth, we have a chance.”

Hope diluted the sorrow in his eyes, but the sorrow was not lost. “She has made her stand clear. I will fight for you, and I will do it with all I have left in this world. But I will step aside before I create further hardship.”

“There is no hardship in the truth. I left so I would not bring shame to them. I will return with child, but with the child’s father. And they will verily give blessing to our union, for that is the way. That is what you want, is it not?”

“I can say with my whole heart, sweet Anne, that I want nothing more.”

“Then it is settled. We will return to Salem. My hand is yours to have—you need only ask for it.”

Though he did not appear sure, he nodded his agreement. “It will be my great honor,” he said.

She cared not for the questions in his eyes. Much had been left to chance, but verily this was a sign her path was finally true.

She was going home, and Josiah would be there with her.

Chapter Eighteen

Josiah wished fervently he shared Anne’s confidence that her parents would agree to their union, but he could not shake the feeling their meeting would not go as planned. Even if her mother did take the view that he was not responsible for Samuel’s death—and that was something with which Josiah himself had yet to come to terms—there was still the matter of her pregnancy. Taking liberties out of the confines of marriage was sin enough. But for him to have abandoned her in a state of pregnancy…it mattered not that he had not known, or that she had ordered him to leave. His actions remained unforgivable. And because of him she had left her family for weeks—yet another loss, and the fault undeniably his.

He did not hope for a warm welcome.

Anne, however, was jubilant. She simply radiated joy, and there was no greater blessing than to see the genuine hope in her eyes—none greater, that was, than the gentle bulge of her belly. He could not keep from looking as they walked together across the expansive yard after sharing the evening meal.

“It was good of the Dunhams to welcome me into their home.” He did not add how he could only imagine what they might think of him after having to take Anne in, but it mattered not, for they had been wonderfully kind.

“They are perhaps the most wonderful people I have ever known,” Anne said. She glanced at him with smiling eyes. “As terrible as the accusations were for Lydia, she is genuinely happy now.”

That was all he wanted for Anne. Had he stolen her chance for such happiness?

“How were my parents?” she asked.

“For whatever it is worth,” he said, “my appearance did seem to spark a bit of life into your mother.”

Anne looked crossways at him, bursting into a smile when he failed his attempt to keep a straight face. “Really?”

“Your mother is no friend to me,” he said. “Rest assured, she still had it in her to attempt to shut the door in my face.”

“Why would she do such a thing?” she asked, but she was smiling.

“Well, she knows I am to blame for Samuel’s death, and that is probably enough. But she also knows I lured you into intimacies, and she doubtlessly blames me for your departure from Salem.”

“She does not know of my reason for leaving Salem. She would not blame you.”

Whatever his sideways glance, it left her bursting with laughter.

“I suppose,” she said when she had calmed a bit, “it might be your fault after all.”

“I suppose it might.”

“But when you go back with me, Mother will have something for which to thank you.”

“I would not spend much time in expectation of that, for if she had not already blamed me for your leaving, she will certainly know to do so after your return.”

“We have not talked of my return. What happens then?”

Josiah pondered a moment before replying. Her father knew of Josiah’s intentions and had very nearly given his blessing, but her mother was another issue. With Anne’s pregnancy, they would be expected to marry—a fact Josiah now lamented, for he wanted to offer more to Anne than a forced proposal. How had everything gone so backward?

Anne looked on expectantly.

“I want nothing more than to take you as my wife,” he said. “If you will have me.”

“I worried you would not want me. You left so easily.”

Her confession surprised him, but moreover, it tore at his heart. “It was not because I wanted to. I did it for you—not just because you asked me to, but because I could not bear to bring my past burdens to you. I could not risk your life. I still fear doing so, but I must learn of your grandmother’s knowledge.”

“The one thing I do know,” she said, “is my grandmother would not do anything to hurt me. If she knows of your past, she will keep it safe.”

Her words triggered something in him. “The day I returned for you, she told your mother to let me in, that she owed me that.”

“I wonder what she meant?”

“I know not, but your mother let me in.”

Anne laughed. “I suppose we will find out.”

She made it sound so easy, but his heart could not be as light.

That night, Anne led Josiah through the Dunham home to her room—a fact he did not realize until he stood in the doorway. A small vase overflowing with fresh flowers sat on a table, filling the room with an airy scent, but what he firstly noticed was her bed. When they had joined, it had been on a bed of her wet garments, by then soiled with dirt, over a hard wooden floor caked thick with dust. It had not been under the conditions he had long hoped, and verily her young dreams had not revolved around such circumstance.

Her dreams had probably existed right here, in this room.

“Will you stay with me tonight?”

Josiah looked over his shoulder.

Anne laughed. “Worry not. Our hosts do not object.”

He was not so sure, but they were leaving for Salem in the morning. He knew not what the day would bring, but he was grateful they had that night. “It would be my honor,” he said.

She blew out the candle and pulled him to the bed. As he settled onto the mattress, he wrapped her in his arms and held her close.

And prayed it would not be for the last time.

…

Lydia’s husband, Henry, would not hear of allowing them to take the long trip on foot back to Salem Town. Josiah worried not for himself, but for Anne and how two days of walking might affect her pregnancy. Henry either sensed his worry or was well familiar with it, as he took Josiah aside and assured him the greatest warrior was no match in ferocity to a woman with child. Lydia, in observation of the comment, gave Henry a sharp elbow to the side, prompting Henry to a sheepish grin as if she had well proved his point. He then arranged for a wagon and refused all of Josiah’s attempts to repay the kindness.

Anne was relaxed and happy on the trip, but the closer they drew to the Scudder Inn the greater Josiah’s tension. Fortunately, she seemed not to pick up on it. Despite his own misgivings, having her so close brought him great joy. She sat across from him, her legs stretched over the blankets provided as cushion. Her eyes were again a brilliant green, and that errant strand of hair blew with the wind, catching from time to time on her nose. She would push it away, almost absently, and again fix that beautiful smile on him. Otherwise, her hands rested on the gentle swell of her belly, and that was where Josiah kept the bulk of his attention.

His child.

It did not seem possible.

“Would you like to feel him?”

“Him?”

“Of course I cannot know for sure, but Lydia said if I have a strong feeling it is probably correct. She said that is often the way.”

Josiah stared in awe, unable to believe she carried a child. A child she believed to be a son.

“Come,” she said. “Sit with me.”

He did as she asked, shifting so he sat next to her. When she took his hand, his nervousness was as thick as the very first time they had touched. “Where am I to feel?” he asked.

“Here,” she said, placing his hand over her abdomen.

There, through her layers, a small, firm bump nudged him. “That is our babe?”

“Worry not, for I was similarly in shock. Every time I notice a change I cannot believe it. But Lydia assures me all is well.”

That news, at least, provided some solace. Verily, for Anne to be alone with her mother’s poor moods would have made her pregnancy more trying. He had not spent much time with Lydia, but had found her to be of great humor. “I am so sorry you felt the need to run away, but I am grateful you were not alone.”

“No,” Anne said, covering his hand with her own. “Not alone. And I shall not be alone again.”

Josiah was not so sure—at least in regards to him—but he would soon know, for the Scudder Inn came into view.

Anne took a deep breath. “I hope they forgive me.”

“They will,” he said. He had little doubt of that. “They have missed you greatly.” He stopped short of saying how plain the devastation was upon their faces, for he did not want to fill her with guilt.

When the wagon came to a stop, Josiah helped Anne from the box. Much to his surprise, she did not release his hand as they bade farewell to the driver and approached the inn.

The front door opened ahead of their arrival, revealing both of Anne’s parents in the threshold. Susannah’s eyes lit with joy…until they settled on Josiah.

And even under her scrutiny, Anne did not release his hand.

Josiah swallowed his nerves and stood straight. He met Susannah’s piercing glare with a nod, which she ignored as easily as she shifted her attention from him to her daughter.

In that simple gesture, his hopes fell.

Anne did not drop his hand until she neared her father, at which point she left Josiah to throw her arms around him. They did not exchange words, but Josiah sensed none were needed. When she broke free of her father she approached her mother, who looked ready to dissolve.

“I am home now, Mama.”

Josiah had never heard Anne refer to her mother in such a way. It must have been something held from long ago, for Susannah’s tears fell freely then, but still, her mother did not smile.

George’s hand landed on Josiah’s shoulder. “Thank you, son.”

“Do not thank me yet,” Josiah murmured, ignoring the subsequent look of confusion on George’s face.

His words had come in good time, for Susannah took one look at Anne’s waistline and turned white. “You are…with child?” she stammered. “Is that why you left?”

Anne turned from her mother, nodding, her eyes glistening. “Father…”

“Please come in. Both of you. We need to sit,” he said, sounding a bit dazed. “There is much to discuss.” He ushered them inside the inn and into the parlor. Anne’s grandmother was there in her usual spot, her gaze intensely upon them.

Josiah hoped the woman would unnerve him less now that he had confessed the secret of his mother’s death to Anne, but the truth eased him little. He still needed to win the Scudders’ favor, and if the woman revealed his connection to witchcraft it was unlikely that would happen. Josiah himself would not grant his blessing with the way of Salem’s accusations and arrests. Anne may have dismissed his past as the past—and any reasonable person would leave it there—but these were not reasonable times. As much as he loved Anne, it was still he who could bring her the most harm.

Susannah was staring at him, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. “You are not welcome here.”

So much for the woman’s softening opinion of him. Clearly he would not win her approval with the mere act of returning her daughter…nor could he blame her. Perhaps she sensed the danger he brought into the home, or maybe her grudge for Samuel’s death was too well rooted for forgiveness.

Anne placed a hand on her mother’s arm. “Speak not with haste, Mother. You have misunderstood Josiah.”

If possible, Susannah’s frown deepened. “I have misunderstood nothing. He is the reason your brother is dead. When confronted, he told you so himself. And now…”

“Yes, because he feels terribly for what happened to Samuel. He has carried the guilt for all these years, but do you not see? It was Samuel who chose to go into the water. No matter his actions that day, Josiah did not do that.”

“It matters not.”

“How can it not matter? You have condemned this man for something that is no fault of his own.”

“Was he not there? Did he not beckon Samuel to the water?”

“Mother!”

“And verily that child you carry is entirely his fault. I will not have him in my home.”

“That is enough, Susannah.”

The room fell to a deathly still as George approached his wife.

“The fault for Samuel is not Josiah’s. He did not beckon Samuel to the water. It was another lad by the name of William Dyer. He confessed to his father, who in turn sent him to pray for forgiveness.”

Anne gasped. “You knew? You knew this all along and you let her blame Josiah?”

“Anne, honey, she knew.”

Caught in the storm, Josiah could do nothing but stare.

“Then why, Mother. Why did you let me believe it was Josiah’s fault?”

“You sent him away because he told you it was his fault. He admitted it.”

“Enough.”

The terse, harsh word came from the corner. From Anne’s grandmother.

“Do not sacrifice your daughter for yourself.”

“Mother!”

“Tell him the truth, Susannah.”

Josiah knew not what to expect from Susannah, but it was not for her to dissolve into tears. He and Anne shared bewildered looks as George—who seemed as confused as the rest of them—tried to take his wife into his arms.

She waved him away.

“Tell him,” said Anne’s grandmother. Her eyes nearly glowed with their intensity.

Josiah and Anne exchanged glances. What could Susannah possibly have to say that could affect them? Something that would breed her anger…something for which she might blame him? Was whatever she was to say the reason she did not want Josiah in her home? Anne’s grandmother’s warning about guilt returned to him, adding to the muddle of confusion.

Susannah pressed her hand to her mouth, then turned so her back was to them. She walked to the window before she spoke. “Your mother…Josiah. She was my friend.”

His mouth fell open. “What?”

She turned so she faced him. Her face was awash in sorrow. “That is why I wanted to keep you from Anne. Not because of Samuel, but because I was afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“Afraid you would find out and turn my daughter against me.”

Anne had neither moved nor spoken since her mother’s announcement. Was she as deeply shocked as he? Surely Anne had known nothing of this, for she would have told him. The very notion of their mothers having been friends…but what of their connection? There had to be more that stood between them.

Dazed, Josiah sank into a chair. “You knew my mother?”

Susannah nodded as she sank into another chair. “I never had a truer friend.”

“You made me send Josiah away for this?” Anne cried. “Because of a friendship?”

George put a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Tell them, Susannah. We have had enough of secrets and sorrow in this house.”

“There’s more?” Josiah’s head throbbed. Of all the people who could know of his mother, Susannah was perhaps the worst. She would not start rumors of her own daughter—of that he was convinced—but she would know exactly how to keep Josiah away. His greatest worries had been realized…his past would keep him from Anne, and now his child.