7

GRACE

MARCH 8, 1692

SALEM VILLAGE

I slowly opened my eyes. Morning darkness blanketed our cold bedroom above the kitchen. The slanted ceiling in the attic room was close to my face. Hope was still asleep in the bed next to me, her breath coming slow and steady. I closed my eyes again and sighed, drawing warmth from her body, not wanting to greet Father's wedding day—though hopefully by the end of the day I would have more answers about our mother in this path.

If my plans with Isaac worked.

My mind drifted to the previous day onboard the Amerika. After the dance, Hope and I returned to our stateroom, and she had talked about Luc's attributes for the rest of the night. I knew she was trying to make me like him, but actions spoke louder than words, and he had yet to show me he was a man of good character. I appreciated how he had warmed up when he spoke to Captain Barends about aviation, but that was no indication of his nature. He even asked me to dance, though I knew it was out of obligation, nothing more. I spared him the trouble and told him no.

When he wasn't talking about aviation, he was cold, distant, and proud.

The very opposite of what I loved about Isaac.

A groan came from Hope, telling me she was awake.

"Father is getting married today," she said as she rolled over with a dramatic tossing of her arm across her face.

"I know. I've been lying here, trying to avoid the inevitable."

She moved her arm and looked at me in the darkness. The small window in our room revealed the first hint of morning light as it lined the horizon, offering just enough glow for me to see her clearly.

"I really do wish you'd give Luc a chance."

It was my turn to groan. "You are the most single-minded person I know."

She laughed. "That's because I know what I want. And sometimes it takes stubborn determination to get it."

I shook my head but couldn't disagree with her. "What makes you think I'm not giving him a chance?"

"Besides refusing to dance with him?" She pursed her lips and raised an eyebrow. "You hardly acknowledge his existence—let alone speak to him." She turned all the way to look at me. "Just try, please, for my sake. Our time in Europe will be unbearable if you can't be friendly."

With another groan I said, "Fine. I will try to get along with him."

A beautiful smile tilted the edges of Hope's lips, and she hugged me tight. "Thank you."

I didn't respond, not knowing what to say. Hope was passionate and knew what she wanted in life. When she didn't get it, her disappointment often turned into anger or bitterness. Sometimes it was easier to give in to her than deal with her moods.

My only consolation was that she seemed aware of this character flaw, though she did little to stem it.

We dressed in our best black gowns, since black was the most expensive color of fabric in the colony. The gowns befitted the daughters of a successful tavern owner. With the witch-hunt underway, Father's wedding would be a somber affair, but there would still be a celebration. The magistrates had questioned the accused women, and both Goody Osborn and Goody Good had claimed innocence—while Tituba had confessed to everything.

According to Hope, while Sarah Osborn and Sarah Good protested their guilt at the Meeting House, the afflicted girls had writhed and cried out vile things until the constables had taken both Sarahs away to the Salem gaol. When Tituba had entered, the girls had continued—until Tituba confessed that she had seen the devil in the lean-to kitchen at the parsonage, and he had told her to serve him.

Had she not confessed, the witch-hunt would have most likely ended with her going to gaol, and the event would have blown over. But while she confessed, the afflicted girls had become silent, almost in awe that she agreed with them. The more leading questions the magistrates asked, the more Tituba admitted, to the great alarm of those present. It was as if her confession unleashed the floodgates and made others believe there was real witchcraft underfoot—and that perhaps they too were afflicted. Fear spread like wildfire. A week after Tituba's confession, several more girls and women had become afflicted with strange and painful convulsions, hallucinations, and tremors—and many more people were accused.

Including little Dorothy Good.

My heart was heavy for the four-year-old child. I didn't know what would become of her and the others, since I had not allowed myself to learn all the details about the witch trials in my 1912 path. I already knew too much, and daily I wondered when and where I might accuse Hope. Would learning the truth about our mother help us or hurt us? It was still unimaginable to think I would call Hope a witch, so I tucked the foreknowledge into the depths of my soul, hoping and praying it would not come to pass. I had control, didn't I? No one could force me to accuse her—even if the history books claimed it would happen.

By midmorning, the kitchen was hot and smelled like baked bread, roasting lamb, and apple cobbler. The wedding would take place at noon since there was a town meeting later that day. All the guests would be invited back to the ordinary for a midday meal, which Hope and I would serve with the help of Leah and John.

I hadn't spoken to Father about his marriage to Susannah because I knew he wouldn't listen to my concerns. Over the past few days, he had been in the best mood I'd seen in years, and it was obvious he was pleased with the match. It appeared that Susannah was, as well, though it was hard to fathom how a girl her age could be happy with a man twenty-five years older than her.

Father didn't come into the kitchen until half past eleven. He was wearing his best clothes; his face was freshly shaven; and his damp hair was combed away from his face. Baths in Massachusetts were an uncommon occurrence, though the Puritans valued cleanliness. Sponge and hip baths were used, if people could afford them, and clothing was cared for with diligent hands. Hope and I bathed as frequently as we could, knowing that cleanliness was essential to good health. Mama had taught us that from her 1941 and 2001 paths. No one else in Salem Village knew about germs, but Hope and I did.

"'Tis time to go to the Meeting House," Father said.

The meal was warming in the hearth. Leah would stay behind to finish the last-minute preparations.

I didn't want to witness my father's vows to Susannah, but I had no choice. I nodded and changed my soiled apron for a clean one. Hope did the same and set a steeple-crowned hat over her coif.

Without another word, we followed Father out of the kitchen, through the taproom—where John was serving travelers who were passing through Salem Village—and into the clear, bright day.

It wasn't a long walk to the Meeting House, which was one of the reasons people came to the ordinary between morning and evening meetings on Sundays to eat their meals and warm themselves. The ordinary was in the center of the village on the road to Andover and easily accessible by everyone in the area.

"Susannah's relatives will move her possessions into the house after the wedding," Father said, breaking the silence as we neared the Meeting House. "I expect both of you to treat her with the utmost respect as your mother."

"My mother?" Hope asked, disgust in her voice. "She's but a child."

Father stopped, steel in his voice and eyes, clearly in no mood to put up with Hope's opinions. "Until you see fit to marry and leave my home, she will be your mother."

Revulsion filled my stomach, and for the first time in my life, I could not keep quiet. "Susannah is younger than us. You cannot expect us to treat her like our mother. We had a mother—do you not think of her today?" She was all I could think about, knowing what Isaac and I had planned.

A flicker of emotion passed through Father's brown eyes—and for a moment, I could see the depth of his pain. He'd never given any indication that he loved our mother or that he missed her. It was almost as if she hadn't existed. Yet now I wondered.

"Do I think of her?" he asked, his voice low. "Not a day goes by that I do not think of her. But thinking will not change anything. She is gone, and life hath moved on. Today I am choosing a new wife, something that is long overdue. If you do not like the arrangement, you may find yourself a husband and move on yourself."

Hope crossed her arms. "'Tis fine for you to say now when you are about to replace us. You haven't once encouraged us to marry before."

I wanted to roll my eyes at Hope's impertinence. I had encouraged Father to finally speak of Mother for the first time—and all she could focus on was her anger at him.

He instantly shuttered his emotions and glared at Hope. "I will do as I see fit," he said as he began to walk again, "and I will not answer to you."

I could think of nothing now but our mother. Could Ann Pudeator finally answer the questions that had been burning in my chest for two decades? The witch hysteria was growing, and I could no longer wait.

As an investigative journalist, I wanted answers. As a sister, I needed them soon.

It took everything I possessed to keep my face free of emotion as Hope and I served the wedding meal later that afternoon. Susannah was a radiant bride, sitting next to Father, her friends and family nearby. It seemed like the entire Putnam clan had shown up for the celebration; even the afflicted Ann Putnam was in surprisingly good spirits despite all that she had endured the past few weeks. Reverend Parris and his wife were also in attendance, though they had sent their daughter, Betty, to stay with a friend in Salem Towne after Tituba and the others were questioned.

Neither Hope nor I were given time to sit and enjoy the meal we had prepared, though I wouldn't have wanted to join the festivities. There was no joy in the occasion for me, and I couldn't celebrate my father's decision to marry Susannah.

Thankfully, the meal didn't last long, since the town meeting was set to begin at two. Father would not attend the meeting. Instead, he and Susannah were going on a wedding trip to Boston for a few days, where she would purchase items befitting a new bride—a luxury not every bride was afforded.

Their absence would give me time to visit with Ann Pudeator.

As the last of the guests were leaving, Hope and I brought a stack of dishes into the kitchen to begin the arduous task of cleaning up the wedding meal.

The door opened and Susannah appeared, wearing her fine wool gown. I couldn't deny she was beautiful, as were most of the Putnams. She carried herself with the confidence born of entitlement and excess—something that was hard to come by in Salem Village.

Hope and I looked up. I held my breath, unsure what Susannah would say. Had she come to thank us for the meal? Ask us what her duties would be now that she was the mistress of the ordinary? Tell us that she and Father were leaving for Boston?

Or make another insinuation about our mother?

"My things have been brought up to my room, and I expect them to be unpacked by the time I return from Boston."

She was about to leave the kitchen when Hope spoke.

"I'm not touching your things. If you want them unpacked, you can do it yourself when you return."

A steely smile thinned Susannah's mouth. "Your father told me you would be difficult to manage. But it doth not concern me. I have had a lot of practice disciplining servants."

"I'm not your servant," Hope replied, her smile full of just as much venom as Susannah's.

Susannah lifted an eyebrow. "As the mistress of this establishment, I will have my way. As your father's wife, I will have his ear, both day"—she let the word drag out—"and night. Do not underestimate me. You will not like what you find."

With those portending words, she slipped out of the kitchen, letting the door slam behind her.

Hope shook her head, her mouth twisted in a mocking smile. "If she thinks—"

"You would do best to bide your time, sister."

"Bide my time?" Hope scoffed. "Say the word, and we can be done with this place."

Thankfully Leah had gone out to fetch water and had not returned, so I said, "You know the cost."

"Hang the cost." Hope slammed a stack of plates onto the table. "This is ludicrous, Grace. Let us leave."

I didn't want to argue about this again, so I didn't say another word.

The truth was, Hope didn't need my approval. If she wanted to leave Salem, she could find something to change in history and forfeit this path without my help. I would remain here and be in 1912, as well, even if she was just in 1912.

If she was desperate enough to do it, she would.

But she hadn't yet.

Within the hour, Father and Susannah left for Boston. Thirty minutes later, Isaac returned with his wagon.

My heart sped up, but I wasn't sure if it was because of him or the visit we were about to make.

"Is Hope ready?" he asked quietly so the occupants in the taproom wouldn't hear.

"I haven't asked her yet." We had been so preoccupied with the wedding in 1692 and the trip to Europe in 1912, I hadn't had a chance—or maybe I hadn't wanted to talk to her about my plan. It was something Isaac and I shared—just the two of us. "We'll meet you out back."

He left the building while I told John and Leah that Hope and I were going to visit a neighbor. I didn't tell them who we were visiting, and they didn't ask.

Hope was sitting at the kitchen table, reading a book. She glanced up at me, a frown on her face when she saw me wearing my cloak. "Where are you going?"

I took a deep breath. "Isaac is here."

She sighed and looked back at her book.

"He has come to take us to Ann Pudeator's home."

Hope frowned again as she looked up. "Why?"

I moved across the room and stopped near her. "She is one of the oldest midwives in Salem, and she came from Boston. Surely she must know something about our mother. I'm determined to find the truth. If she doesn't know, then mayhap she knows someone who does."

For several seconds, Hope studied me. "Do you think she'll tell us? No one has ever spoken of our mother."

"Maybe not, but I must try and stop the rumors about her death. If someone accuses us of having a witch for a mother, we will need to know the truth so we can deny the charges."

"Why is Isaac helping?" Hope looked out the window to where he had appeared with his wagon.

"It would be difficult to do this alone—and he cares about us. He is the only person I trust. Will you come with us?"

Finally, she nodded and stood.

A few minutes later, we approached Isaac.

"Good day, Hope," he said as he took her hand and helped her into his wagon.

She paused and smiled. "Thank you for taking us to Ann."

The look on his face was pure joy—as if this one comment from Hope would warm him for weeks to come.

I had to tear my gaze away, wishing with all my heart that he would look at me the way he looked at her.

We said little to each other on the way to Salem Towne. If Father and Susannah had troubles of any kind, we would come across them on the road. I kept my eyes open for any sign of them, but to my relief, we made it to Salem Towne without encountering them.

Ann's home was on the common in the heart of town. She was a wealthy widow in her early seventies, though she was still strong and agile. She had spent much of her life as a midwife and healer, coming to Salem Village often.

"I'll wait for you," Isaac said as he helped us from the wagon. "Take your time."

"Thank you," I told him, putting my hand on his arm. "We will be as quick as possible."

As it was, it would be dark before we returned to Salem Village. And though I wasn't convinced there were witches among us, some of the reports had started to alarm me. Ever since Tituba's confession, there had been other sightings and strange occurrences. The night of the first questioning, William Allen and John Hughes had come across the form of a beast on the road—but when the beast saw them, they said it split into three women who fled so quickly, it was as if they vanished. The next day, a creature followed William home in the dark, and then both men reported animals visiting them in their bedchambers in the dark. Their sightings, along with the strange affliction that still plagued the girls, was creating mass hysteria.

I tried pushing the troubling thoughts aside, though it was impossible. It was all anyone could think about or talk about.

Salem Towne was a bustling harbor community, much bigger and more active than the rural village we occupied. The seaport was full of ocean-going vessels of every kind, bringing items from all over the world. I loved visiting but didn't get away from the ordinary very often—and at the moment, enjoying the town was the last thing on my mind.

I took a deep breath as Hope knocked on Ann Pudeator's door.

A servant answered and said that Goodwife Pudeator was at home. She showed us into the main room of the large house, and we waited for Ann to appear. When she did, she had a welcoming—if somewhat curious—smile on her face.

"Good evening," she said. "I didn't expect to see you here. Your father was married this day, was he not?"

I nodded. We didn't have much time, so I needed to get to the heart of the matter.

"We are here to ask you a few questions," I said, swallowing my nerves. "About our mother."

Ann frowned. "Your mother?" She didn't take a seat or offer one to us. "Why would you ask me about her?"

"Did you know her?" Hope asked.

Ann's face was lined with wrinkles, and her brown dress was in stark contrast to her white hair and pale skin. But her blue eyes were sharp and clear. "Yes. I knew your mother."

My breath hitched in my throat. "What was her name?"

"You don't know her name?" Ann took a step into the room, concern and empathy on her age-worn face. "My poor child. Everyone should know their mother's name."

I tried not to let my emotions show as I waited for her to continue.

"Her name was Tacy Howlett—before she married your father."

Tacy Howlett. I let the name roll around in my mind. It was a foreign name, one I'd never heard before.

"How long did you know her?" I asked.

"Only a few months. She visited me when she learned she was pregnant, and I helped bring you into this world. But I came to know her well in those months." She pursed her lips—as if she'd said too much.

I took a step closer to her. "What can you tell us of our birth? How did she die? Was it instantaneous? Did she live for a few days afterward?"

Ann studied me, squinting. "I know your father doth not allow anyone to speak her name—and for good reason. But hath he told you nothing?"

Hope and I shook our heads. "We know nothing," I confessed.

She took several moments, and then said quietly, "Your mother did not die when you were born."

Silence fell over the room as the information hit both Hope and me. My heart pounded hard. Were the rumors true?

"Father said she died in childbirth," Hope said.

Ann shook her head. "Your mother's death had nothing to do with your birth."

With that simple sentence, everything I'd ever believed about our mother in this path shifted. She hadn't died when we were born? Then how had she died?

A noise in the hall startled all three of us, and we looked toward the sound. It was simply the maid, who had dropped a tea tray, but it had shattered the moment, and when I looked back at Ann, I could see she was worried. It was in the creases of her eyebrows and the set of her mouth.

"I've said too much." She took a step back. "If your father knew what I've told you—" She paused and took a deep breath, shaking her head. "I mustn't say more. I cannot say more."

"You can tell us whatever you like," Hope said, moving toward Ann.

Ann continued to shake her head and back up. "I know what happens to widows who step out of place." She moved to the front door and opened it. "Pray, leave me. I cannot risk making Uriah Eaton angry. He hath the ear of the Putnam family." She was trembling. "I've said too much. Do not tell him what I've said."

I looked at Hope, and she was just as confused and upset as me.

"We won't breathe a word," I promised Ann.

"No one must know you've been here." Ann looked out her door as if searching for prying eyes and ears. "No one."

"Please," I said, "if you want to tell us more, contact Isaac Abbott, and he will get word to us. We won't tell anyone what you've said."

Ann shook her head and closed the door as soon as we were outside.

It was clear she wanted us gone, though I had a hundred more questions.

This changed everything.