The Sins of a Few (Entangled Scandalous) Page 4

  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 Abigai
l’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?

  “And what of the suffering for those who hanged, father? What about the loved ones left mourning? You wish for me to fix what little you have suffered, but what of the twenty?”

  “The courts have determined it is over.”

  “Over for those who remain. You cannot undo what the accusations have left behind.”

  Richard shrugged. “What more can we do? All the more reason to move forward.”

  “My thoughts precisely,” Nathanial said.

  The old man’s eyes lit a notch. “So you will help?”

  Nathanial edged past his father, pausing at the rear door of the home. He swung open the slab, enjoying the bright light and unexpectedly warm air that touched his skin. “No, Father,” he said quietly. “As you said, nothing can undo the atrocities in Salem. I have no choice but to move on. Despite your threats to the contrary, I do have a future.”

  And in his heart, he knew there was but one place that could be.

  Chapter Five

  Faith was on her knees, digging through a thatch of weeds and looking for eggs when a shadow crossed her view. Her initial frustration gave way to the thunderous beat of her heart, for when she glanced up, she found blue eyes peering at her through a fallen lock of hair. Nathanial, so shockingly handsome without the unruly scruff on his face that she could do nothing but stare.

  “Good morrow,” Nathanial said. His expression bordered on amusement, his mouth wavering as he pressed his lips together.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Forgive me. It is not often I find such a vision plowing through the overgrowth.”

  “You are a sorry excuse for a farmer’s son if you think this is plowing.”

  “My apologies. What would you prefer I call it?”

  Her face heated, for her own definition was no more accurate than his. “Digging.”

  He laughed, wholly and heartily, and she realized just how terribly long it had been since she had heard such a joyful noise. A corner of the veil that had settled over Salem lifted, letting in some much-needed light. That it had come courtesy of an Abbot seemed infinitely unfair.

  “For what are you digging?”

  She sighed.
“Eggs. A few weeks ago, a storm took out the henhouse. The chickens are scattered and so are their eggs. They seem to lay wherever it suits them, and never in the same place twice. They are unsettled.”

  “As am I.” He reached for her arm. She held out her hand without thinking and rose, puzzled, as he pulled her to her feet. “Might we talk?” he asked.

  “About eggs?”

  He laughed. “No. I want to formally apologize for my family’s role—”

  She shook her head. “You need not. I needed someone else to blame—I suppose to share my own pain. When I saw you I wanted to pummel you for allowing something so terrible to happen, when you of all people, were in a place to stop it, but I realize you were across the ocean. It is just hard not to hurt.”

  The firm set of his jaw softened. “I am truly appalled at what happened here. My heart breaks for you and for every family here who was affected.”

  “That would be all of us,” she said quietly. “Twenty among us were executed. More died in jail. Those who did not lose family, lost neighbors, and we all lived under the same shroud of fear.”

  “Can you tell me…why?” He looked toward the house, and for the first time she realized how thoroughly he must share her loss…and likely many others. He still held her hand, squeezing it when hers began to tremble.

  Self-conscious, she withdrew and crossed her arms over her chest. “Aunt Ruth?”

  “Yes.”

  Faith braced herself, waiting for the usual flood of pain. It did not come. She felt the sorrow, but the softness in his expression made her feel less alone. “Your sister was angry when my aunt scolded her over the mousers, but that alone would not have convinced everyone of her guilt—rather, it was what made her a target. Her crime, I suppose, was that she never had children.”

  He gave a thoughtful nod. “It was more than ten years ago when she began teaching me, and she was widowed then.”

  “I was just a babe when Uncle Joseph died.”

  His brow furrowed. “So that was it? Because she was a barren woman she was mistaken for a witch?”