Page 4 of The Witch

I rip my gaze from my reflection and look down at the vanity table. It has also clearly been scrubbed recently, and Ethel has arranged about half a dozen pretty coral-blue combs of varying sizes on the table. I reach out to touch one of them.

But before I can, Gram’s bony hand shoots out, quick as lightning, and curls around my wrist. “Don’t move them!”

My hand freezes, trapped in Gram’s death grip, an inch away from the largest of the combs. “Why not?”

“She doesn’t like it when you move the combs.”

I assume she’s talking about Ethel, although I’m not sure why she would care if I moved a few combs she laid out. Isn’t the purpose of hair-care instruments to actually use them? It’s strange for Gram to get anxious about something so insignificant, which makes me even more worried about her decline. What could be going on in her head? But before I have a chance to challenge her, I hear a distant sound, like a door slamming, and Gram releases me. I jump slightly, although at least I manage not to scream this time.

“That must be Ethel,” Mick says. “She ran out to the market to buy a few things for you to eat while you’re here, Julia.”

I nod, but then a thought hits me. Ethel wasn’t in the house when I was sitting out in my car, too chicken to knock on the door. Mick was obviously in the house, because he was the one who opened the door for me. And Gram was upstairs, roaming the second floor in her pink nightgown.

“Is there anyone else in the house?” I ask. “Besides the three of us?”

Gram laughs at my question. “Who else would there be?”

It’s a great question. It doesn’t seem like anyone else is occupying Pemberton at this moment. It is just me, my grandmother, and Mick.

I close my eyes, remembering that strange flash of peacock-blue in the window of the attic, and a chill goes down my spine.

2

1692

CAROLINE

Be thou a virtuous spouse, Caroline.

Those were the last words my father said to me on the day Archibald Eldridge took me to be his wife.

Father died two years ago of a nasty illness, but there is hardly a day that goes by when I do not remember those words of wisdom. I have spent the last three years trying to serve Archie well. I cook his meals for him using water boiled in the stone hearth in our kitchen. His clothes are kept clean, and all the holes are quickly darned.

I have also cared for our estate of Pemberton, which consists of a large plot of land on which lies our two-story wood house, constructed by Archie’s father many years past. It is a sturdy home, covered in oak clapboards and built around a brick chimney.

It goes without saying that I lie with my husband as often as he pleases. Thankfully, Archie has always been very gentle. He is kind and a good provider, and even though he is fifteen years my senior, he is one of the handsomest men in the town of Woodhaven. For my birthday this year, he bought me a set of combs that was so beautiful, it brought tears to my eyes.

I feel guilty every day that I have failed him.

Archie enters our dining chamber, clad in a suit fashioned from serge. He smooths out his hair—it is light brown, but in the warmer months, when he spends his days outdoors, it takes on flecks of gold. Archie works as a merchant, which earns us more than a comfortable living. We have enough money to buy fine clothing and whatever food we desire at the market. We can also afford a servant, who lives in the house with us, although I have never been able to get used to the idea. Or perhaps I should say that I have never been able to get used to our servant.

In anticipation of my husband’s arrival, I have laid out two wooden plates of bean pottage with boiled eggs. Archie smiles at me as he approaches the table—he is always in fine spirits in the morn.

“It smells delicious, Caroline,” he tells me.

Archie leans in to plant a kiss on my cheek before sitting down at the table. Only once he is seated do I take my own place at the table across from him and drape a napkin across my lap. I am wearing my favorite dress, which is a rich, deep blue, and I would hate to soil the material.

Archie says a prayer for us before we break our fast. He bows his head, and I do the same, and we sit in silence except for the ticking of the grandfather clock. We have so much to be grateful for—a lovely home, fine horses, good health. But when Archie says his prayers, I know there is one thing he is hoping for. I see it in his expression when he lifts his head and begins to eat with slow, thoughtful bites.

“Last night,” Archie says, “I had a vision in my slumber.”

“Did you?”

There is a glint in his blue eyes, the same color as the ocean where he spends so much of his time. “I dreamed that we had a child together. A fine lad, robust and hale.”

Archie is not eating his food anymore, even though he is undoubtedly due at the dock shortly. He is looking at me expectantly, as if to confirm the meaning of his vision. There is only one answer that will make him happy, and I want to give it so badly. Before I can stop myself, I blurt out, “’Tis true!”

My husband freezes. “Caroline?” He sucks in a breath. “You are…?”