Forcing a smile, I went the rest of the way into the room to meet him. “Good day, Nathan Crowley,” I said quite nicely, considering my true feelings for the man. “To what do I owe the honor of this visit?”
“I have come to confirm the rumors that you have returned from Philadelphia a married woman.” Though his tone sounded hostile, I saw something different in his face, maybe a flicker of hope that he would somehow be contradicted.
The time had come to put my father’s theory to the test and I charged forward, eager to have it done. “It is true. My cousin and I were married three days ago.”
The glimmer of hope disappeared, and his shoulders unexpectedly slumped forward. In all the workings of my imagination since our last encounter, it had never occurred to me that he would so easily accept defeat. I watched him closely, tense and ready for battle. But there were no signs of an impending fit, no agitated twitches or heated blood creeping up beneath the skin into his face. Rather than anger, it was anguish I saw, and for a moment he looked like a different man.
“I didn’t want to believe it,” he said quietly, all traces of hostility gone. No more than a step away, he stared at me, his dark eyes searching my face. “When the first letter arrived explaining what you were, I thought the writer slanderous or perhaps even insane to make such a brazen claim. But he persisted, and each week another letter arrived, meticulously documenting your actions.” Nathan’s speech quickened and his eyes began to dart around, not remaining on one thing for more than a few seconds at time. The conversation had shifted unexpectedly and my spine stiffened in warning as I tried to find some sense in his ramblings.
“It was mostly the little things. You cured Allison Dowling of the brain fever when her own parents thought her lost; you fixed Amett Oswald’s lumbago with a simple decoction when the best doctors in Philadelphia could do nothing for the man. Then this last spring little Ollie Trumble fell from a tree and his sister said you had performed no less than a miracle in saving his life.”
I kept my anger at bay, though just barely. “I’ve no idea who’s sending you letters and disparaging my name, but we’ve already been over this. I am a gifted healer, nothing more.”
Nathan continued, heedless of my words. “Week after week he built a case against you, finding the Devil’s hand in your every deed. Then one day a letter came insisting the time had come to rid our town of your wickedness once and for all. It was unthinkable what he asked me to do, and for days I prayed, begging for guidance, when finally a vision came. That very night I wrote him back, detailing my experience and how it was God’s will for us to marry.”
“Your will, more like it,” I shot back testily, but he gave no indication of hearing me.
“After so many letters back and forth this was the first time we ever agreed, though for very different reasons. You see, a woman sworn to the Devil is unable to marry a man called of God and our marriage would have cleared your name. The writer scoffed at my intentions, certain you were unable to consent, and that your denial was the last evidence he needed to reveal your true nature.” Nathan spoke so quickly now I had difficulty keeping up or making much sense of his strange ramblings.
Yet my skin prickled with unease from the idea of an anonymous enemy. “Who is this man? What did he want you to do?”
Again my questions went unanswered. “For months I courted you, even resorting to threats to make you see reason. But no matter, I was refused at every turn. As a final act of defiance, you openly scorned God’s will and returned to Hopewell a married woman. He was right all along. I now see that my vision was a test to make me acknowledge what you really are.”
A dreadful chill flowed through my veins. “What test?” I asked slowly. “What are you talking about?”
“By refusing to obey God’s will, you have shown your loyalty to another master.”
I gasped and stared at him with wide, pleading eyes. “You mustn’t say such things. I have done nothing of the sort.” Without thinking, I reached up and placed a hand on his arm.
“Do not touch me, witch!” he cried, jerking away as though burned by my touch.
The very walls pressed in around me, and my head began to spin. With one word, his previous threat had transformed into a blatant accusation, and I froze as though paralyzed when a familiar voice came from somewhere behind me.
“You will not speak to my wife that way,” Henry said. With a few long strides he was standing at my side. I must have wobbled slightly, for his arm went protectively around my waist, pulling me closer.