Susannah Morrow Read Online Free Page A

and then he glanced at me and rubbed the small beard on his
     chin, sighing as if I troubled him, and I wanted to creep into the darkest corner of the room. But then he turned to Goody
     Way and said reluctantly, “Very well. We’ll deliver her to Hannah when I take you home again. But ’twill have to be after
     the storm passes. The babe will drown in this weather before we can get half a mile.”
    Goody Way nodded. “’Tis the best thing, Lucas.”
    “’Twill give the child a better chance,” Susannah said softly. Her voice was low, like my mother’s, and there was a cadence
     to it that matched Mama’s rhythm; so for just a moment, I was confused. I found myself searching again for the spirit—’twas
     my mother I heard, and Susannah I saw, and I could not reconcile the two.
    My father turned back to the darkness, to my mother. He had already forgotten us—me and Jude and even my new sister, Faith.
     I knew because of the way he stood, that familiar stance. I felt as I had when I was thirteen and he’d come home one day to
     tell me that he’d made arrangements to send me out to the Andrewses’ home in Salem Town. I was past old enough to leave home,
     and they needed a servant. I had cried and begged him not to do it. I had run to him, throwing my arms around his knees to
     make him listen, and for just a moment, I had thought I’d changed his mind. I felt him soften, felt his hand on my hair. But
     then he’d pushed me away and gone outside, closing the door softly behind him.
    I remember turning to my silent mother, crying that he cared nothing for me, for any of us, and she admonished me in a soft
     voice that stung even more, and said, “He loves you, Charity. More than you know.” Then she had gone after him. I never knew
     what she said or what she did, but I didn’t go to the Andrewses’, and he never threatened to send me out again.
    Those things came back to me now, as real as if they’d just happened, and suddenly I felt the dearth of my mother’s presence
     like an icy chill in the damp, smoky air of the hall. Even baby Faith seemed to feel the cold, because she quieted, so that
     when Father spoke again, his voice sounded too loud. “I’ll make the coffin myself. There’s a goodly amount of white pine in
     the barn.”
    Mama had always loved the smell of pine and the feel of it when my father had planed and shaped it. She had exclaimed over
     a corner cupboard he’d made only a few days before—the memory came back to me sweetly, and I felt again like crying. When
     I met my father’s eyes, he nodded as if he remembered it too, and the shared memory became, for just a moment, something like
     a kiss between us, a tenderness that made me long for more, and then it was gone.
    “She’ll need to be laid out,” he said.
    I blinked away my tears. “I’ll dress her in the green—”
    My father looked startled. “’Tis no job for a child.”
    “I am not a child. I am nearly sixteen.” I stepped to where Father stood and reached for the blanket covering my mother. My
     voice trembled with the need to make him understand. “I can do this, Father. You’ll see. I—”
    He gave me a long sad look that took my voice. He lifted his hand—he was going to hold me at last. I let my mother’s blanket
     fall and turned.…His hand dropped to his side, and his voice was a little rough when he said, “You’re still a child. Let your
     aunt take care of it.”
    My tears came; I could not stop them. I had misjudged him once again. I could not be the good, righteous girl he wanted, no
     matter how hard I tried, and my lack settled into me like a stain only the two of us could see.
    “You could help me, Charity,” my aunt said, but I shook my head—the gift was too scant. It was not what I wanted.
    “No, Father’s right,” I said bitterly. “I am just a child.”
    “Charity,” Father warned, and I could not stand it any longer. I could not bear my own longing for his comfort. I ran