Hell and furies! What is wrong with this man? Gritting my teeth, I spoke slowly, hoping to somehow penetrate his thick skull. “No, we cannot, not now, not in a thousand years. I would rather be disowned than marry you.”
Nathan leaned closer and I fought the urge to step back. “You are playing a dangerous game, Selah. Deny God’s will, and I shall request an official inquiry into that incident with Oliver Trumble. From what I heard the boy was near dead when you reached him.”
“Don’t be absurd,” I snapped. “He fell out of an apple tree and hit his head on a rock. Being knocked unconscious is a far cry from near dead.”
Nathan narrowed his eyes. “His older sister has a different story. She used the word miracle to describe what you did.”
“You are quite mistaken, Mr. Crowley. I can no more bring back the dead than you can.” I lifted my chin and forced a curt, derisive laugh. “Phoebe Trumble will say anything to get attention. I did nothing other than wait for Oliver to wake up before ministering to his scrapes and bruises.”
Nathan didn’t respond at once, and I thought the conversation over when he grabbed my arm, pulling me to him. “Be my wife, Selah Kilbrid, or I’ll have you charged for a witch.”
I tried to wrestle free, but he held tight. “Find one person who will stand against my father. Go ahead and cry witch. No one will believe you.”
“You foolish girl. Once your father dies, there is no one left to protect you. Even if you don’t hang, the wheat would rot in the fields from want of men willing to work for a suspected witch. Brighmor would be bankrupt within a year, two at most. Do you think your cousin would be so eager to honor your engagement under these altered circumstances?”
The initial shaking had spread far beyond my voice until I trembled from head to toe with suppressed fury. “Is this how you go about doing God’s work? By threatening to slander my name to force me into marriage?” Fight as I might, his grip remained steadfast on my arm. “Let me go!” Stomping down on his shiny black shoe, I dug my heel into the top of his foot. He grunted in pain, and I stumbled back a step, surprised by the sudden freedom.
Savage anger burned in Nathan’s eyes, turning his face an ugly shade of red. “I am prepared to do whatever it takes to have you for my wife. This Sunday we will stand and state our intentions to marry. Refuse and I’ll assume it’s because you’re a witch and unable to marry a man called of God.”
Despite my desire to say something more, like blasting him with every curse I had ever heard, my throat grew too tight for words. Silence pursued and he did not attempt to stop me a third time when I pushed by and started again toward home.
The remaining mile was nothing short of torture. Replaying our conversation in my head, I no longer heard the words of a true believer, but rather the pious twaddle of a fanatic. How else could he have come to such conclusions? And what right did he have to decide God’s plan for me?
The threat of being disowned by an entire group of people, nearly half of Hopewell’s two hundred residents, gave me pause. Over the years I had come to love my Quaker neighbors and friends and did not wish to be banished from their presence. If this happened, I still had ample acquaintances among the Lutherans, Baptists, and Presbyterians, which made up the other half of Hopewell’s population. But all these girls put together could never replace my dearest friend, Nora Goodwin. The daughter of good Quaker parents, she would be strictly forbidden from seeing me until I made my way back into the Elders’ good graces.
And from Nathan’s threats, disownment would be only the beginning if I refused to marry him. The humiliation of a witch trial and subsequent tests would ruin my reputation. Regardless of the outcome, people would never forget my being tied to the dunking chair or weighed against the scriptures, forever linking me with witchcraft in their minds. No longer would they seek me out to tend their sick and wounded, nor set foot on my land out of fear of any lingering evil. Everything my father had built would be for naught. Once he was gone, I would lose Brighmor and with it, all security in this world.
These worries had to be temporarily pushed aside the moment I reached the drive and found a red-eyed Mary Finney waiting for me. “Oh, miss,” she cried. “It’s yer father—”
“Tell me what happened,” I demanded.
“Ye know how he’s been feeling so poorly and not getting around too good on his own anymore. Well, when ye and Ben left for town I got worried with him not ringing for breakfast and I went to his bedchamber to see if he needed any help.” Her shoulders began to shake. “I’m sorry, Miss Kilbrid, but there was nothing I could do.”
My heart jerked violently. Oh, dear God, please don’t let him be dead. Please don’t—
Mary snuffled loudly. “I tried to help him but he had no more strength than a newborn babe. He told me to leave him be and to send for ye at once.” She drew up her apron to wipe the tears from her eyes. “I’m so sorry, miss.”