The Betrayal (13 page)

Edward wandered silently around the house like a living corpse. Constance, crying without stop, was forced to tend to Ezra. Matthew made the funeral arrangements and supervised the digging of the graves since Edward was unable to speak to anyone.

Ezra sensed immediately that something terrible had happened. He had to be told that his mother was never coming back.

It had fallen to Constance to tell the boy. Mary watched from a corner of the room, huddled next to the hearth.

Constance had drawn Ezra onto her lap and, tears running down her cheeks, told him that his mother had gone to heaven.

“Can I go, too?” Ezra had asked innocently.

Constance tried to hold herself in, but the boy's words caused her to sob more, and Mary had to carry him away.

Afterward, Ezra had acted troubled. He stayed underfoot while the funerals were being planned and cried loudly if anyone spoke a harsh word in the house.

Poor Ezra, Mary thought, gazing at the boy, so tiny and solemn in his black coat and breeches. Ezra's black hat was several sizes too big for him and fell down over his ears.

The minister droned on. Mary turned her gaze to her father. Matthew stood beside her, his large stomach heaving with each breath he took, his eyes narrowed, staring straight ahead.

He had reacted more strangely than anyone when he heard the news of the two murders. Mary had expected him to crumple with grief, especially at the news of the loss of his brother.

But Matthew had only reacted in fear. His eyes had narrowed. He had glanced nervously around the sitting room as if expecting to see someone who didn't belong there.

Then, gripping the three-toed amulet at his throat, he had disappeared from the room.

Late that night, while the house was cloaked in silent sadness, Mary had spied Matthew in his room, seated at his worktable, his face deep in shadow. Holding the strange medallion in front of him with both hands, Matthew was repeating its words aloud, again and again like a chant: “
Dominatio per malum.”

Mary wondered what the words meant.

Was it some kind of prayer?

She didn't know any Latin.

The next day Matthew had still seemed more frightened than sad. His eyes kept searching the farm, as if he expected an unwanted visitor.

Mary was desperate to talk to him about what had happened. But he avoided her each time she approached. She was forced to spend most of her time trying to comfort her mother.

The minister continued his prayers. One after the other the two pine coffins were lowered into the graves.

Mary suddenly saw Jeremy standing at the edge of the crowd of villagers. He was dressed in black breeches and a loose-fitting black shirt. He was wearing a battered old hat with a broken brim.

Despite her grief, a faint smile crossed her face. She had never seen Jeremy in a hat before.

Mary hadn't seen Jeremy in two days. Nearly all work had stopped on the farm, and Jeremy had been sent home.

She was surprised to see him now. Their eyes met. She stared at him, wondering what he was thinking.

He lowered his eyes, his expression troubled.

After the graves were covered over, the minister and
villagers departed quickly. Constance and Matthew led Ezra back to the house. Edward remained standing stiffly, staring down at the graves.

Mary saw Jeremy walking slowly in the direction of the toolhouse behind the garden. Taking a deep breath, she decided to follow him.

“Jeremy—wait!”

She caught up with him at the side of the toolhouse and threw herself into his arms. “Jeremy. Oh, Jeremy. I—I have missed you. I need you. I really do!”

Grabbing both of his hands, she tugged him behind the toolhouse, out of view of the house, and breathlessly kissed him, pulling his head to hers.

To Mary's surprise, Jeremy resisted. He gently pushed her away.

“Jeremy—it has been so horrible!” Mary cried. “The past two days. A nightmare. I—”

She stopped when she saw the troubled expression on his face. She reached for him again, but he took a step back.

“Jeremy—what is wrong?” Mary demanded, suddenly frightened. “What has happened? Why are you looking at me like that?”

He locked his eyes on hers. “Mary, I have to tell you something,” he said in a low, trembling voice.

Mary started to answer, but her voice caught in her throat. She searched his eyes, trying to find a clue in their blue depths.

“Jeremy … I …”

“Please. Let me talk,” he said sharply. “This is hard. This is very hard.”

“What?” she managed to whisper.

“I—I know who killed Rebecca and Benjamin,” Jeremy told her.

A cold chill ran down Mary's back, a chill of fear. And heavy dread.

“Who?” she asked.

Jeremy lowered himself to a sitting position on the ground and pulled Mary down beside him. They sat with their backs against the wall. Jeremy gripped her hand tightly.

“I prayed this would not happen,” he told her. He tore off his ill-fitting hat and tossed it away.

“What, Jeremy?” Mary demanded. “Who killed Rebecca and Benjamin?”

Jeremy's eyes were tense as he raised them to hers. “My father,” he told her. “My father killed them both.”

Mary gasped and pulled her hand away. “I—I do not understand.” She started to get to her feet, but Jeremy pulled her back down.

“I will explain,” he said. “Please. Let me explain.”

“You told me your father was ill!” Mary cried
angrily. “You told me he was too weak to have visitors. And now you say—”

“My father is an evil man,” Jeremy admitted, burrowing his hands into the dirt beside him. “But there is a reason. He had much evil done to him.”

“I—I do not understand a word you're saying!” Mary declared.

“I will explain it all, Mary,” he replied quietly. “You shall hear it all. The whole unhappy story. Just as my father told it to me. For I was born after it all happened.”

Mary sighed and pressed her back against the toolhouse wall. She clasped her hands tightly in her lap and listened with growing horror to Jeremy's story.

“My father's name is William Goode,” he began. “I told you my name was Thorne because I needed work, and my father instructed me that your father would never hire a Goode.”

“So you lied to me?” Mary asked sharply. “You gave a false name on the day we met?”

“It was the only lie I ever told you,” Jeremy replied softly. “It was a lie I regret. Please believe me. My name is Jeremy Goode. I was born after my father left a village known as Wickham in Massachusetts Bay Colony.”

“My family also comes from Wickham!” Mary cried with surprise.

“I know,” Jeremy said darkly. He tossed a handful of dirt past his shoes. “I have a brother. George. Two years ago he chose to return to Wickham. He could no longer tolerate my father's insane obsession.”

“Obsession?” Mary asked, bewildered.

“Let me go back farther in time, Mary. You will soon understand. Although you will wish you did not.”

Jeremy took a deep breath and continued. “When my father lived in Wickham, he had a wife named Martha and a daughter named Susannah,” he told her, staring straight ahead. “He had a life, a happy life. But your father and your uncle robbed him of that life. They robbed him and the entire town.”

Mary swallowed hard, then gazed at Jeremy in bewilderment. “How can that be?”

“Your uncle Benjamin was magistrate. His brother Matthew was his assistant. Benjamin accused Martha and Susannah of practicing the dark arts. He put them on trial. He burned them at the stake as witches.”

“Susannah Goode!” Mary cried, raising her hands to her face. “That is the name Edward cried when we saw the girl burning in the woods!”

“Benjamin burned Susannah as a witch to keep her from marrying your cousin, Edward!”

“No!” Mary exclaimed, shaking her head as if trying to shake away Jeremy's words. “No! Stop!”

“I cannot stop until my story is finished,” Jeremy said heatedly.

“But Edward is the most pious man I know!” Mary declared. “Edward would never allow his father to burn an innocent girl!”

“Edward did allow it,” Jeremy replied in a low whisper. “He did nothing to save Susannah or her mother. Edward trusted his father. He did not know the villainy that Benjamin Fier was capable of.”

“But—” Mary's voice caught in her throat.

“Your father, Matthew Fier, was also a villain. He promised to save Martha and Susannah. He took money from my father in exchange for saving their lives. He robbed my father. Then Benjamin and Matthew robbed the village and fled. And Martha and Susannah, an innocent woman and girl, burned at the stake.”

“No!” Mary uttered in a hoarse whisper. “I cannot believe this, Jeremy.”

“This is the story my father has told me all my life,” Jeremy said, grabbing her hand. “All my life he has sought revenge against your family, against the Fiers. And now … now my father has begun to take his revenge. He has murdered two Fiers. He will murder you all—unless we do something.”

Mary stared into the gray sky as if in a daze. She didn't move or speak.

Jeremy's words hung in her mind, lingered, repeated, creating ugly pictures, pictures of fire and suffering and treachery.

“Why should I believe you?” she demanded finally, her voice small and frightened. “Why should I believe these horrible accusations you make about my father and uncle?”

Jeremy's reply stunned her. “Because I love you,” he said.

She gasped.

“I love you, too, Jeremy,” she replied breathlessly.

He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. They held the embrace for a long time, her face
pressed against his, their arms around each other, not moving, barely breathing.

When he finally pulled away, Jeremy stared at her intently. “We can stop the hatred now, Mary,” he said softly. “You and I. We can stop the hatred between our families so that no one else will die.”

“How, Jeremy?” she asked, holding on to him. “How can we?”

“We love each other,” Jeremy said with emotion. “We will marry. When we marry, our families will be one. The old hatred will be forgotten. And the Goodes and the Fiers will live in peace.”

“Yes!” Mary cried.

As they kissed, they didn't see the dark-coated person move silently away from the side of the toolhouse.

Wrapped in each other's arms, they didn't realize that this figure had been so near the entire time, had heard their conversation, had listened in shock and dismay to Jeremy's story.

Edward Fier took a deep breath, then another, trying to calm his pounding heart.

After the funeral he had followed Mary, planning to ask her to look after Ezra. To his surprise, he had spied her with Jeremy. Leaning against the side of the toolhouse, Edward had eavesdropped, clinging to every word with growing horror.

Now Edward's horror mixed with anger as he strode quickly to his uncle Matthew's house.

“Lies!” he declared to himself. “The boy speaks lies. And he has filled poor Mary's head with these unthinkable false tales!”

My father did not accuse Susannah Goode unjustly, Edward told himself. My father was a righteous man. Susannah burned because she was truly a follower of the Evil One.

Halfway to the house Edward stopped short.

The fire he and Mary had seen in the woods flashed into his mind as brightly as if he were seeing it again. And inside the fire was Susannah Goode, twisting in agony, screaming in pain.

“No!” Edward cried. He closed his eyes to erase the image. “Susannah burned because she deserved to burn! My father and uncle are righteous men!”

His heart racing, he burst into the house. Ezra and Constance were in the front room. “Edward,” Constance started, “come sit down and—”

“Not now,” Edward said brusquely.

Her mouth dropped open in surprise.

“Hello, Papa!” Ezra called.

His mind blazing, Edward ignored the child. He rushed past them both, heading for Matthew's room.

A fire crackled in Matthew's fireplace despite the heat of the afternoon. Edward pushed open the door without knocking. “Uncle Matthew?” he called breathlessly.

Matthew was seated at his worktable, papers strewn messily across the top. Still in his mourning coat, he appeared to be gazing into the fire.

He turned in surprise as Edward burst into the room. “Edward—the funeral. It went well, I suppose. I—”

“Uncle Matthew, I must ask you something!” Edward cried, his dark eyes burning into his uncle's. “I
heard a horrifying story just now, about you and my father. About the days when we lived in Wickham.”

Matthew's lips twitched. His eyes widened in surprise. “What kind of story, Nephew?”

“About Susannah Goode,” Edward blurted out. “That she was falsely accused. That she was condemned to burn by my father even though he knew of her innocence. That you and my father robbed the town and fled.”