The Ninth Daughter

well and truly under his sway, for if she’s capable of speech, what she tells them will be disquieting to say the least. And they’ll see—they must see—how harmless she is . . . In the end, he knows he’s going to have to kill her.”

“Oh, aye,” said the young man again, as if it needed no saying. “Just as soon as he knows Mr. Pentyre’s been took care of, belike. They won’t have done for the poor lady already, d’ye think?”

Abigail shook her head, not shifting her gaze from the village down the hill. She’d already thought of that. “If he did bring her here, it would be because she saw him. She knew him. Whatever Bargest told him about why Perdita Pentyre must die, Orion had clearly made up his mind not to harm Rebecca. The Hand of the Lord must have had a nasty shock,” she added grimly, “when his chosen weapon came back to him with a witness, saying, You keep her safe, or I won’t kill Pentyre.”

“It’s mad. Your boy must have known the old man couldn’t let her live.”

“He knew for two years that she was another man’s wife,” said Abigail. “Yet he hoped that things would somehow turn out right in the end. But—” She broke off, and said, “Damnation!”

“What?” Muldoon grinned. “An’ don’t think it ain’t a treat, to find a good Puritan lady will swear now and then—”

“No,” whispered Abigail indignantly. “That woman there, coming out of that house . . . It’s Damnation Awaits the Trembling Sinner. The servant to the Hazlitts.”

“Damnation indeed.” He raised an eyebrow curiously at Abigail, as the tall young woman made her way along the muddy street. Abigail nodded assent, and cautiously they moved through the brown tangles of dead fern and leafless hackberry, where the edge of the woods paralleled the way. Beyond the broken stumps of the palisade, and the last cowsheds and woodpiles of the village proper, lay half a dozen houses, farther and farther apart; one of these, two stories tall, had the look of an old defensive blockhouse. Its upper floor projected over its lower, and its walls were stoutly constructed of squared logs. The sheds around it stood empty, and what had been its garden was a knotted thicket of dead weeds, ringed by straggly fence-posts whose rails had long since been taken away for other purposes.

Before this house Damnation halted, and stood staring up at its upper windows. Across the road and with a field between them, Abigail couldn’t see the woman’s face. But she did see her walk back and forth before the house, and partway around both sides, looking.

Muldoon touched Abigail’s arm, pointed. By the door, Abigail saw, were three little piles of cut wood, as if someone had been assigned to bring an armload to the place, and had simply dumped their burden and gone away.

Abigail said, “That’s it.”

Thirty-one

A oman came out of the house nearest the one that had attracted Damnation’s attention—which lay nearly fifty feet away—aproned and wrapped in a heavy shawl. Though the servant woman’s brown dress was the plainest serge obtainable in town, still it looked modish and new against the villager’s crude homespun. The village woman caught Damnation’s arm, explained something to her, with gestures and shakings of her head. As she led Damnation away, back toward the main village crossroad, the servant looked back over her shoulder at the empty house.

“A closer inspection, Sergeant?”

To avoid crossing the road under the eyes of possible watchers in the two nearest houses, Abigail and her escort had to work their way for nearly thirty minutes along the edge of the woods, past the last house in the village (which was occupied, Abigail noted—What half-believing heart had settled thus far from his neighbors?) and so back to the rear of that closed-up former blockhouse. Even so, nearly a hundred feet of open ground lay between the woods and the rear of the house. Its original defensive purpose was clearest on that side, for there were no windows at all on the ground floor, and only rifle-slits above, facing the fields.

It was so wholly and indisputably a prison that Abigail shivered, and wondered, Is his Word so paramount to them, that they’ll follow him even in that? Incarcerating someone only because he says they should?

Fifteen centuries of religious histories in her father’s books, and John’s, snickered up their sleeves at her: You think that’s odd? The Salem witches shook their heads at her naivete.

She’s a born liar and a conniver, the wicked Mrs. Jewkes in Pamela had said to the other servants, don’t believe a word that she says. Or had the Hand of the Lord chosen Mrs. Tillet’s justification? I know more about this than you do . . .

Dark as it had been when she and Thaxter had come out of the evening service, she doubted she’d even been able to see this house.

Yet still, unreasonably, she felt, I should have known . . .

The more closely she observed the house, the more certain she was.

Only once in the course of the short, fading afternoon did anyone go near the place. The same woman who had drawn Damnation away returned some hours later, a basket on her arm. Going in, she reemerged almost at once—without the basket—and fetched in a few sticks of the firewood. A few moments later, Abigail saw the white puffs of new smoke rise from the chimney. Good Heavens, it must be like an icehouse in there—!

She came out again to bring in a pail of water, and to empty a chamber pot, which she rinsed briefly with another splash of water drawn from the well, but didn’t wash. This she carried back inside, then reemerged, picked up her empty basket, and hastened away down the darkening street toward the groups gathered outside the house of the Chosen of the Lord.

By that time, the wintry daylight was almost gone. At times Abigail barely noticed that she was shivering, so violent was her rage, shock, horror; at other times she felt a kind of bone-deep exhaustion coming over her and thought, I’m going to get sick if I’m not careful. But there was nothing to be done about that. She and Muldoon worked their way along the edge of the woods, observing every house in the town, but they all appeared to be normal—

“Or as normal as this place can be, under the command of a hypocritical madman!” whispered Abigail, when they returned to their post among a thicket of young hazel, opposite the old blockhouse.

“Who may be dying,” breathed back Muldoon. Men came in from the woods—some with wood, others carrying braces of dead squirrels or groundhogs—and the anxious groups keeping watch around that handsome house coalesced into a crowd. Though at that distance it was difficult to be sure, Abigail thought the watchers kept turning, looking in the direction of the blockhouse. Several pointed.

“You don’t think she had the smallpox, and has give it to him?”

“If she had, the Tillets would have it as well,” Abigail whispered back. “As would Mr. Hazlitt, and I myself.”

“Did she bite him, d’you think, and it’s mortifyin’?”

“Serve him right if it were.” But her chuckle swiftly died. “They would kill her.”

“T’cha!”

“If she were responsible for his death, or his illness? For robbing them of his counsel? Of course they would.” As she spoke the words a cold suspicion took her heart, as to what was actually going on in the village.

John—Where was John? Or—though she could not imagine that John wouldn’t come to aid her himself, and be damned to the Provost Marshal’s thirty-pound bond—where were those he would, he must, send? She had listened all day for them, consumed with dread lest they ride straight into Gilead and let themselves be talked into leaving, having given the game away . . .

“Don’t worry after ’em, Mrs. Adams,” whispered Muldoon. “We can get the poor lady out of there right enough. All we need’s a bit of time to get ourselves ready.”