The Witch of Hopewell
Over the next three days the townsfolk worked themselves into a proper furor, trying to guess who the witch could be. Whenever two people met, the polite preliminaries were barely exchanged before the conversation turned to the witch, or the Witch of Hopewell, as this unnamed woman was now being called. I heard one lady whisper the name of Old Nan, who lived by herself in a one-room cabin a few miles from town. Someone else suggested Hanna Ridley because her eyes were an unusual shade of amber. By how fast the rumors were flying, every last woman would have been suspected at least once come Wednesday evening.
Although I despised Nathan Crowley with every fiber in my body, I had to admit the brilliance of his plan. By first claiming a vision without identifying the woman, he had sufficiently whetted the people’s appetites. Once they were hungry, he would produce a feast—with me as the main course.
These were undoubtedly the worst three days in all of my eighteen and a half years. Fear ran riot inside me, jangled my nerves until they hummed like strings of catgut under the fiddler’s frenzied bow. At times the anxiety became so unbearable that I nearly fled Hopewell altogether. Packing as many valuables as could fit into a few trunks, I would have gone to Philadelphia, continued on to New York or Boston, or possibly even across the Atlantic to Ireland. Nora could send word once it was safe to return.
But Henry would have none of this plan. He refused to see me run away, practically shouting my guilt from the rooftops by not facing my accuser. So I stayed, and for three days wore the skin of indifference while violent storms raged inside me. During the day, I ran errands, made visits, and acted like everything was entirely normal. Returning to Brighmor, Henry and I shared evening meal and then either went for a walk or played a game of chess. At bedtime I went upstairs first, followed by Henry after a decent interval had passed. Safely tucked under the covers, I pretended to be asleep while he spread a quilt on the floor and settled in for the night. By the time I woke in the morning he was always gone, his quilt neatly folded at the foot of my bed.
He also stayed true to his word and didn’t ask me again about what had happened in the woods. Having temporarily put this aside, there remained only one source of contention between us. Though I had refused to discuss it, I couldn’t stop thinking about how it had felt to kiss him, to have his body pressed against mine. With such memories haunting my thoughts, I could hardly control my power. All it took was his hand on my arm to start it roiling in my chest. If his fingers lingered, or traveled up to brush along my neck, the warmth would practically jump to the surface, ready to flow right into him. Terrified that he would feel something again, I began instinctively to pull away from his slightest touch. It took two times before he realized what I was doing. He frowned, but let it pass, most likely thinking I had enough stress to deal with at the moment.
When Wednesday morning finally arrived, my anxiety had grown to the point that I could concentrate on nothing other than the meeting. Knowing I had no stomach for company, Henry made me leave the house for a long walk where he tried to distract me with questions about the local fauna. We stumbled onto a patch of lemon verbena that reminded him of a favorite shaving tonic he had used in England. At his request, I collected a handful to concoct something similar. He sat with me in the apothecary later that afternoon while I worked, talking of nothing in particular, until at last we had to go upstairs to get ready.
For some time I stood in front of my armoire, debating the proper attire for an evening denouncement. I finally chose the simple gray frock that I wore most Sundays, since I would be in a room full of Quakers and did not wish to stand out in a gown deemed overly fancy. Mary was busy re-pinning my hair when Henry came in. He waited patiently for her to finish and leave the room.
“You need to be prepared for a large crowd,” he said, coming over to the dressing table. He stood behind me and looked at my reflection in the mirror. “Everyone is going to be there tonight, even non-Quakers and people from other villages.”
I had expected as much. It wasn’t every day that someone was accused of witchcraft, and Nathan claiming a vision just made it that much more interesting.
“Assuming it’s anything like regular meeting,” Henry continued, “I’ll have to sit with the men, so I want you right next to Anne Boyle.”
I nodded, having already decided the same.
“I talked to Ben today. He’s going to have two horses saddled nearby if the need arises.”
“Does he know it’s me?” I asked anxiously.