Recrimination

PROLOGUE1

The gentle sun’s fingers filter through the narrow leaded panes of the two long windows. Dust sparkles in the soft early light half way between the caressing warmth of dreams and cold consciousness. The narrow featured man is asleep, his gentle breaths are warm thoughts as he flies in dream; heavy dark hair fans about his naked shoulders as the chest rises and falls with life. Such peace is rare, a moment of memory before clarity assaults and all too bleakly I recall this man is dead.2

There was little sun in the pale morning as I awoke alone and cold in spite of the summer humidity promised. My throat still raw from quay water, wine and weeping as my mind fermented. Two days ago I’d determined to leave the tedium of life, but chance had placed a soft voiced clergyman in my way and he’d heard the truth, the knowledge I hadn’t deluded myself. 3

Settling amid the soft pillows of John Hale’s bed I mused on how Salem might have altered in the decade since Betty Hubbard and I stole away, furtive and desperate. My increasingly swollen belly protesting and straining even against the enveloping folds of Rachel Hubbard Griggs’ cast off and Betty deftly steering John’s mare between the shafts of her uncle’s cart. We’d deliberately forgotten the accursed village, nothing remained there for us; our friends savage and frantic to preserve their probity would swear against anyone. 4

I’d deliberately chosen the icy waters of Boston, thinking no one might recognise me, but Hale had determined differently. He’d proved a salvation for my grief, not against a cruelly unforgiving uncle this time, just a bleak endless existence. Once I’d had John and the possibility of a future but now there was nothing. Betty Hubbard, my son, his father, all rotting in the cold earth, all mourned, all missed. But, as Hale gently reminded me I wasn’t fully alone, a mewling scrap whose infant features immediately recalled her olive-eyed father might still live. Poor Betty Hubbard had never told me where she and Mercy had placed the sleeping child. They’d stolen away with the darkness, taking her name, birth date, and a selection of exquisitely crafted clothes from the talented fingers of my small cousin, Betty Parris. What had become of Little Betty once she’d returned from Salem Town remained unknown. She’d probably expected to find me in the Parsonage, miserable without John, the afflictions forgotten, instead she’d found only emptiness and death. Little Betty had cared so much for me since I arrived as a nine-year-old orphan; nursing me through beatings, pregnancy, even madness, but If I were her I wouldn’t retain any affectionate memories, I’d always abandoned the girl as soon as he even smiled in my direction. John was everything. Poor little Betty was all too frequently alone and unloved, her mind left to wander whilst I scuttled to the stable or smuggled him past Tituba. He always laughed when we played that game, both of us embarrassed yet thrilled, hands swiftly covering eager mouths and errant voices. When all the madness was done, when little Betty was finally permitted home, I’d already fled, growing fat as John’s child decided when he’d greet the world. I couldn’t inflict Salem’s madness on my beautiful son, a child so evidently stamped by his dead father. From the heavy dark hair and the olive eyes to the soft sibilant of his voice. John certainly marked his children, though he’d only known two of them. Like little Betty, John and William would be adults too, they’d known no affection from their mother, it was their father they kissed each night. 5

John always maintained he’d never loved that woman, having no choice in marrying her, that had been his ambitious father’s doing. Advantageous unions between John’s two sisters and wealthy landowners would have sealed the old man’s ambitions but Salem and greed were both fickle; within a year or so of John’s unfortunate marriage the sickness had danced them all to their graves and Groton rattled with grief. Of course by then young John had been born, but I doubted if they’d ever known happiness. John insisted he’d loathed her from their first hours insisting once Will was taken care of he hadn’t touched her again and I believed him. Even with me, it took several months to achieve what I so craved, though little would thwart me. No matter how illogical my reasoning, I always knew what I wanted, and no one could tell me otherwise. Betty Hubbard continually pointed out the flaws in my behaviour, how often did she tell me that John was shackled to his inconvenient wife until death parted them, but I wouldn’t listen. Perhaps if I had then John might still be alive, maybe I wouldn’t have persuaded my equally bored friends to begin the writhing and screeching, claiming a litany of afflictions. I don’t know, I’ll never know, but that woman still outwitted me, turned and accused him, she and that rancid mouse Mary Warren, and I picked up my skirts and fled.6

A sharp rap at the door shook me from reverie and an unfamiliar woman stepped disapprovingly into the room bearing a salver. One of Hale’s servants, possibly the one who’d attended to me as I lay senseless and half drowned, pumping the bilge from my lungs. Behind her scuttled Hale, the nourishing sleep he’d finally permitted himself drawing back the years as he smiled in greeting.7

‘Ah, Abigail, good morning. Have you slept well? Over there, Hester if you will,’ he motioned the woman forward. ‘Some breakfast Abigail? Forgive me for not joining you, but I’ve already eaten, but you won’t mind if I sit with you will you?’8

‘Of course not Mr Hale, I’d appreciate the company. Besides I have something I’d like to discuss with you.’9

‘Thank you Hester,’ the woman was summarily dismissed. ‘I’ll ring when I’d like you to collect the tray. Thank you.’10

‘Yes Mr Hale,’ she muttered, eyeing me with suspicion. To her I was a disgraceful whore rescued from the filth of Boston Harbour, a sinner Hale was bound to save even though he headed a respectable household and she probably thought I’d contaminate him. Most women thought the same, Elizabeth Carr had seen to that. I only loved John, I’d loved him from the moment he stood framed in Parris’ doorway, a look of intense anger etched on his narrow features. 11

Betty Hubbard and I had lived respectably enough but few really believed our tale of premature widowhood; they always eyed me with suspicion, probably wondering why my heavy haired son looked somehow familiar. Even though I retained the slender gold band John had slipped on my finger, I still heard the veiled mutterings as I walked the streets of Boston. Occasionally a woman might stop and stare at me, as if an illumination in the brain, a moment of recognition was sparked. 12

‘Your housekeeper doesn’t seem overly pleased to see me does she Mr Hale?’ I smiled wryly at him. ‘Does she think I’ll sully your name?’13

He shrugged, a slight frown puckering his still smooth forehead. ‘Hester clings to the older ways and she was very loyal to my late wife. She views every woman I encounter as a threatened replacement, and Hester remembers Salem. Who doesn’t?’14

‘But how can she link me with Salem? It’s ten years ago, who’d know me now?’15

‘I can’t help it if my servants stop at doors and listen as I’m sure they do. Besides they’re probably curious to know why I’ve allowed a suicidal sinner to remain so long in my bed.’16

‘Mr Hale,’ I began vehemently. ‘You sounded like Parris then. Do you remember that night when you defended me against him? That night they condemned John, you railed against Parris’ violence and insults.’17

‘Hush Abigail, I know what you did and what they called you.’18

‘Did I deserve that Mr Hale? Did John deserve to die?’19

‘Hush Abigail, calm down, it’s God’s will,’ he attempted, but I was having none of our hypocritical platitudes.20

‘How can it be God’s will?’ I demanded, my voice beginning to rise. ‘Was it God’s will killed my parents? What had they done? Absolutely nothing. And you can’t tell me my son deserved to die, he was nine years old Mr Hale, nine years old.’21

‘I can’t explain God’s will Abigail, no one can,’ replied Hale quietly, staring intently into my face. ‘And I’m not saying any of them deserved to die, but I can’t condemn the Lord’s actions, and neither should you.’22

‘What type of God is it takes a nine-year-old boy from his mother? My mama said God should be about love, John said God’s in our hearts, but that God isn’t. That God isn’t a god of love and forgiveness, he’s cruel, and I don’t want a vengeful God, I really don’t.’23

‘Abigail, you can’t mean that!’ Hale was genuinely shocked. ‘This is blasphemous. Now, that is enough, I really don’t want to hear another word. I can understand your feelings are high, you’ve survived more than sufficient in your days, but I simply can’t sit here and let you turn your back on the God who gave you life. The God you speak of smacks more of your uncle Parris. Believe me, God’s forgiven you, it’s time now you forgave yourself. John Proctor didn’t blame you, surely his letter’s evidence enough? He kept his faith until the end, he wouldn’t want you to reject God, he most certainly didn’t.’ Hale’s cheeks were flushed, but he was right, John may have had cause to despair, an innocent man convicted on the lies of a vengeful wife, but he embraced his end with a dignity and courage beyond my comprehension. John was a good man, he agonised over our adultery, I tempted him till he couldn’t help himself but he certainly loved me. I always knew how frail his control was, lacking love most of his adult life, sacrificed by an ambitious father and repulsed by that woman, he couldn’t stop whenever I led him. Time and again I snapped at Betty Hubbard I’d never been an innocent child with John, he hadn’t seduced or beguiled me. 24

‘Oh I’m sorry Mr Hale, but I can’t help how I feel, I really can’t. I just feel so lonely. Everyone I’ve ever loved stolen by death. I know I’ve sinned, lord knows I’ve lied, committed adultery and condemned the innocent, but if you say your God forgives, why did he take my son? What part did he play in Salem? He really didn’t deserve to die did he?’ I paused, suddenly drained and feeling the sharp tears prick my lids. 25

‘Now you listen to me Abigail Williams,’ Hale stared deeply into my face, grasping my hands. ‘Listen. You still have a daughter, you’ve been left a considerable estate and I should imagine Proctor would rather you accepted his generosity than fester in solitude here. You should consider what to do with your life now.’26

‘I have Mr Hale, that’s what I wanted to discuss with you. I’ve decided,’ I paused, drawing courage from his patience, ‘I’ve decided I’m going back to Salem. They can say what they like, there’s nothing can hurt me now. What else can I lose? I’ve nothing but bitter memories in Boston. At least I knew happiness at Groton, and I’d rather spend my days with John’s roots than rot here. Oh I know I can’t recreate the past, I remember all too well what Corwin’s wolves did, but no one can ever take away my time with John, those times I spent with him are mine. John will never die as long as he’s in my heart Mr Hale, I’ll never lose him.’27

‘Yes Abigail, I know John Proctor won’t ever leave you. Perhaps you should go back, but it might not be too wise to make yourself too widely known until you feel ready. Salem has a long memory, I doubt if anyone has really forgotten you,’ Hale smiled wryly. I’d be lucky if anyone in the village might even speak to me, but I tried, I really did. I tried to save Goody Nurse, but all I succeeded in doing was ensure John’s condemnation. In spite of my conscience over Nurse, I had no such qualms with Martha Corey, Tituba and many others, even little Dorcas Good, four years old and barely sane. I still loathed that lying bitch who’d perjured her soul whenever she opened her misshapen mouth, alleging God knows what against him. I couldn’t believe what I heard in that court. Whatever else John might have been, adulterous, quick tempered and rash, he was always honest with me. When he said he’d never looked at that woman, let alone touched her, I believed him. I’d never doubt him and with written evidence of his fidelity in my fingers, I was vindicated28

‘I have to return Mr Hale. I must find our daughter.’29

‘Well Abigail, make sure you think about the consequences before you act. I can understand why you would want to know Sarah, she’s your final link with Proctor after all, but think what this might do to her family, not to mention the child herself. She won’t understand why a strange woman suddenly appears from nowhere and completely overturns her life. You just can’t turn up and announce you’re her mother. How would she feel? And what about her adopted parents? Think about them before you act upon your impulse. Give it time Abigail, think very carefully before you take any action. You’ve already embroiled yourself in an almighty conflict in Salem, pray heaven you don’t start another one.’ Hale’s voice had grown sharp and instructional. 30

‘Of course I wouldn’t do that Mr Hale,’ I protested vehemently. ‘Grant me some intelligence. I’m well aware of how I’d be received in Salem and I certainly wouldn’t wish any harm or upset for my daughter. I just want to see her, that’s all. She’s my child Mr Hale. Mine and John’s. Surely I should be able to know my own daughter? I did give birth to her, I need to see her, if only once, just to, just to,’ I faltered.31

‘To what? See John Proctor in her face?’ questioned Hale, his eyes boring into mine. ‘Listen Abigail, John Proctor is dead, you’ll never bring him back, he doesn’t necessarily live on in his daughter. Oh I’m sorry if I sound harsh but you should, you should accept it now. Please, just think before you do anything foolish.’32

The moment lingered with unspoken thought, Hale was no fool. He knew how much I still loved John.33

‘Well Abigail?’ he continued. ‘Will you promise me? You’ll need to ensure the validity of this, find yourself a lawyer just in case you face any opposition from whoever may still be at Groton.’34

‘If you mean who I think you do, nothing would give me greater pleasure than evicting her from the farm,’ I muttered.35

‘But what about young John and William? They’re probably still with their mother or have you forgotten them? You can’t just turn up and demand your property.’36

‘But why not? It’s mine, John’s left it to me.’37

‘You’ll need lawyers to investigate your claim. Do you know of any? You might face a challenge, be prepared for that.’38

I shook my head, this inheritance might prove more problematic than I’d imagined.39

‘Mr Hale, I don’t know if I should ask you this, but you’ve listened, you’ve heard my truth, you know now what really happened. Would you, would you be able to help me if I do return? I’d appreciate all you might be able to do, and with you I know I wouldn’t act rashly or foolishly. I really would value your judgement. Do you think you could bring yourself to help me again?’40

He gaped, almost as if he’d misheard. I hadn’t planned to ask him but now, the words spoken, it seemed a natural progression from my lengthy narrative the patient Hale had heard. With the cleric’s help I knew I wouldn’t descend upon any unsuspecting farmer and his wife demanding to know if they’d chanced to find a tiny girl child on their doorstep on a freezing winter’s night a decade ago. With Hale’s guidance I’d seek out legal counsel, arrange my return appropriately, but I’d still have my revenge.41

‘Well, Abigail,’ Hale was thinking swiftly, considering a suitable response. ‘I really don’t know if it’s wise, for both of us.’42

‘They didn’t denounce you did they Mr Hale? You said you left Salem after Ann Putnam made allegations against your wife. Surely that alone would vindicate you?’43

‘I honestly can’t say Abigail,’ his voice heavy as if he realised the potential explosion of emotions either of us could so easily unleash.44

‘Oh Mr Hale,’ I entreated him, ‘you know it was all for John’s love, nothing else, but no one can understand that. Perhaps if you were to commit the truth to posterity, the world might credit your word, it certainly wouldn’t listen to me. I know of all men, you’d record it factually and accurately. maybe such an account could vindicate them all. What do you say? Isn’t the blessed soul of Goody Nurse owed the truth? You could do that for those innocents we condemned Mr Hale. If you were to accompany me to Salem you could use the time to conduct research and write up your account. You could take more testimonies and I’m sure this time people might actually tell you the truth.’45

In spite of his undoubted Christian soul and generous nature, I recalled the ambitious young witch finder arriving and eagerly bearing a heavy bundle of infernal books, anxious to discover the truth behind our apparent possession. Little Betty’s affliction was only ever a desperate anxiety to please, nothing else. Hale had never been completely innocent, playing a major role particularly in the early days, conducting examinations, laboriously writing endless testimonies, persuading innocents to confess they’d danced with the devil. Like me, John Hale must have endured the erosion of conscience and regret. Amongst others he’d witnessed Martha Corey’s condemnation and Rebecca Nurse’s damnation remaining silent throughout, allowing each to fester in prison, convinced he was fulfilling God’s will in ridding Salem of its apparent evil. I hoped the lure of finally revealing the truth behind our madness might prove irresistible to him.46

Lawyers can move remarkably swiftly once assured of their fees. Within a week John’s will was validated, missives of intention despatched and my life finally became routine. Hale said I could remain as long as necessary; it seemed he had no interest in propriety, or the concept of perceived propriety. With his habitual solemn expression he’d informed me that if anyone were to inquire, I was a distant relation recuperating after a protracted and debilitating illness. Hester and the other servants might tut and purse their lips but they’d never contemplate criticising their master. Besides we were extremely proper; I rarely saw much of him during the day, apart from when he accompanied me to the lawyer’s, no one could ever accuse me of beguiling a minister. He allowed me the freedom to recover my health as I decided, unquestioning and undemanding.47

Boston, my home for ten years had never welcomed me, even though our son had known both life and death here, yet still it saddened me to leave the fresh graves, as I’d left my parents. A year past the three of us had lived happily enough, ignorant of the cruel fate ahead. The harsh snows of winter, bitter frosts and moist murky air brought on the blood, wracking coughs and interminable pain. Little John, who I thought had outgrown the illnesses of precarious childhood, began with the initial winter sneezing as we all did. Within weeks my beautiful son, the living embodiment of his father was lying ailing and weakened in his bed. Like John he was slender framed but unlike his half brothers he lacked the sturdiness of a rural existence, my son was urban to his bones, he’d never known any other life than Boston. Betty cared for both of us when I also succumbed, but unlike little John I’d developed the hardiness of survival. My lungs were fully developed enabling me to shake off death’s shadow and rouse myself but little John was fated. When the blood began to fleck his pillow I knew he was doomed. Without Betty’s care I might have accompanied him. Never complaining, Betty sat diligently by our beds even though she was already beginning to ail herself. 48

I’d managed to rally a day or so when Betty too coughed the scarlet bubbles that always heralded the end. Little John could barely raise his head by now, his eyes huge purple shadows and his cheeks so hollow I could hear the sharp rattle of his harsh breath. Within ten days of Betty’s first hacking coughs both were gone. John was the first, slipping quietly in his sleep; his laboured breathing gradually eased and I knew he was finally with the father he’d never known. In spite of her own sickness, Betty insisted on accompanying me to the burial, she’d seen me through John’s arrest, trial and condemnation, now she’d help me bury his son. Unrelenting snow pitted itself against our tears, almost freezing on our cheeks as we watched the pathetic coffin lowered into the grim, black earth. Betty’s skeletal fingers clutched desperately at my hands as she fought to remain upright in the savage wind that tore our cloaks. I’d tried to make her wear John’s old cloak, but she refused, claiming he’d given it to me and it was only right I should wrap myself in it to say goodbye to his last child. By the time we reached home, Betty was shivering so hard she could barely stand and I wasn’t overly surprised when I awoke in the cold grey dawn, so far from the dappling fingers I so often watched play along John’s sleeping form, to find my friend cold and stiff, her eyes slightly open as if in surprise.49

For days it I wandered adrift. Some mornings I could barely open my eyes, believing if I remained asleep none of the agony would prove real. The trappings of our life still surrounded me, clothes, books, carved animals and sketches. Their very presence mocked my survival, I was so desperate to retain the tiniest traces of my son, I couldn’t even wash his pillow. It was only when the bedchamber grew stale I realised I couldn’t maintain the façade and should press myself to some form of living. Surprisingly I didn’t welcome death in those first weeks of loss, an unquenchable spark still burned in me, and I often recalled John telling me I must never give in to black thoughts. He’d held me by the shoulders in my uncle’s stable, his olive eyes glittering and solemn, his cheeks dripping because he thought we were done, but of course we were never done, John Proctor and I, only lies parted us. 50

Days before the infernal August date the demons began to whisper. John was increasingly prevalent; whenever I closed my eyes I saw him. No matter how many wasted emotions I spent, all I craved was to be with John. Nothing else mattered, I’d had my fill of loss, of life, there seemed to be nothing left, and so Hale found me. I’ve often wondered since if that was the final snapping threads of God’s will, placing John Hale, discarded for ten years, on Boston quay.51

Hale and I lived quietly enough as I prepared for my return. I spent my days playing the role of the chastened, reading, even sewing, maintaining the journal I’d grown familiar with since my early days with John, for I was fond of recording all my thoughts and planning how I’d live. Befitting my new status I even contemplated buying several new gowns to face the world as a woman of means. Hale seemed pleased I was prepared to embrace the world again and encouraged me in all I attempted, ordering a suit of clothes for himself. The house became busy with tailors, seamstresses, clerks and merchants as Salem beckoned. In Hale’s view such activity was healthy, I wasn’t thirty, younger than she’d been when I first went to Groton, but I felt more like a hundred. He’d decided Thomas his own servant would drive us to Salem and remain to attend on us. He was a pleasant enough man, of similar age to Hale who evidently organised the household with calm and unquestioning authority.52

Our Puritan world was rapidly changing about our ears. In England the grim garb of Cromwell and his sour faced followers had long since vanished. Parents and grandparents who’d grimly clutched at the old austerity had sought sanctuary in this new world of ours, but even we were growing free now. John had been right, God was in our hearts; he didn’t need us to spend all our days on our knees in prayers and rigid contemplation. He wanted us to love and be loved, to care for each other not condemn and castigate. Even our clothing was growing less severe; girls whose hair curled naturally were no longer faced with immediate accusations of vanity and pilloried. Now I could take some form of pride in my appearance without feeling constantly guilty and facing the path to hell. The ways of Parris and his allies were but curses on a dying wind. No one would ever hack off my hair in rage, call me an adulterous whore because I was a woman of some status. They could think whatever they desired, call me John’s whore behind my back, but even in narrow minded little Salem, always so aware of the value of property and land, few would ever dare say it to my face.53

I for one was glad Boston embraced far more than Salem might ever contemplate. In Boston, no one publicly questioned my tale of early widowhood; I bore a narrow gold band, a heavily swollen belly and a loyal companion who would always support me. I missed Betty more than I realised. For all her irate temper and lack of understanding over John, once he was taken, she never spoke against him again. The same Betty Hubbard who’d scoffed at his fidelity and scorned my obsessive desire never criticised the father to his son even though he lived in the child’s face. Little John was quick-witted and intelligent, familiar with his letters from an early age, developing the keen sense for knowledge I’d always fed. Almost as soon as he learnt to speak, little John’s favourite words were how and why. 54

‘Mama,’ John had asked one night as we dined, fixing me with an olive stare. ‘Do I look like my papa at all?’55

It had taken me several inhalations to steady my voice before I managed to mutter, ‘why do you ask that John?’56

‘I was just wondering. I don’t look much like you and nothing like aunt Betty, that’s all. What was papa like?’57

‘Your papa was the best of men. He was a good man, and yes, you do look like him. You’re his reflection in so many ways.’58

‘But why did he leave us?’ little John prattled innocently. 59

‘He died before you were born.’60

‘What happened to him? Was he ill? Is that why he died?’ he continued, before Betty, sensing I couldn’t answer diverted his attention. If only our lives hadn’t been blighted by the shadow of vengeance and betrayal, how very different everything might have been. But I’d had little control over even my own life, it didn’t matter how I railed, I had no chance.61

I was with Hale almost a month, growing stronger, vital and even developing spare flesh. Images of John remained, he’d never leave me, nor would I want him to, when word finally reached us my property would be available before winter. It seemed a family of tenants had resided there, the name unfamiliar to me, and I wondered where she might have removed herself. Childishly I felt disappointment in not being allowed the indulgence of eviction, but consoled myself with the knowledge of making her homeless might have affected the boys as well. William and John, young men approaching their early twenties, possibly married and maybe even fathers in their own right, making John a grandfather. Of course to me he’d always be too young for that; I could never imagine him grey haired and feeble about his fire. John would be forever in his prime, slender limbed and strong, his hair thickly dark and his skin smooth apart from traces about the eyes and the perennial half beard he smoothed for me. Whenever I looked into his son’s eyes I saw my boyman restored, the rare smile which could illuminate the entire face always made my heart sing.62

The boys had also shared their father’s narrow features, heavy hair and green eyes, varying in tone from olive to sage. Only their purported sibling, Griggs’ bastard bore any trace of the mother, none of John’s children followed her. Each was hasty, quick tempered and I wondered if our daughter too took after us.63

Hale was the kindest of men; I lacked for nothing and he refused any form of payment. I daresay I was just another fallen he could restore to the path of righteousness but my rejection of that hypocrisy went deep. No Sabbath would find me on my knees for hours, begging forgiveness for the most minor of indiscretions, including the definite impure thoughts I still regularly harboured. I’d turned my face towards damnation when I was eighteen years of age and John Proctor wiped away my indulgent tears. I doubted if any god might ever want to know me again. 64

We decided to attempt Salem before winter embraced us; summer was memory now, much like my son and Betty, but unlike them, summer would always return. The autumn fall was imminent, and I wanted to reclaim my home before the unforgiving snows reawakened thoughts of a year since. Hale had eventually capitulated and agreed to accompany me, happy in the knowledge grim mouthed Hester could maintain his household happily enough without him and Thomas. I was intensely pleased having grown used to his undemanding company and was grateful for his solicitude and sincere kindness. Unlike Parris, Hale knew no malice or spite, the lessons of Salem had gone hard with him, he knew the results of an over zealous nature and unyielding Christianity and those deaths weighed heavy on his conscience too. 65