I wriggled my nose as rain dripped from my bonnet onto it. Only the coldness kept me awake. Water leaked into one of my boots; it felt squishy. It had been a bumpy long ride in an old carriage along unmade roads with twists and turns, the roads muddy with rain. The father of that last family I had stayed with, mean and miserly, stood beside me and banged on the parsonage door. His wife had had enough of me. I heard him groaning about the rough weather. Mr Joseph Gray was in a bad temper. ‘Because of you, I’ll have to get out the old carriage so you can get to your uncle.’

How quickly they wanted to be rid of me. But their boys would not. I would miss them. We used to get up to some pranks and laugh and run about. I enjoyed it and didn’t mind looking after the three boys. I remember their sorrowful eyes at my departure. I had heard their parents talking some time back.

‘Samuel Parris will not have heard of Abigail’s antics. She can go to him and have the company of her cousin there.’ I heard that as I was eating my very small meal of watery gruel at dawn. As I’d had nothing to eat since, hunger gripped my stomach. The man, who’d brought me here, whose wrath I knew, banged on the door of the parsonage again. It was a door of oak with an iron knocker. A log acted as a doorstep. I saw the latticed window panes. This looked a better place than that which I had left. The door began to open slowly.

I opened my eyes wide to make myself look acceptable and innocent and gave one of my cheeriest smiles. My cousin came into view. She looked nothing like me with her blonde curls and pale blue eyes. She looked delicate, sweet and agreeable. My uncle’s face showed sternness but that was nothing new to me.

He smelt clean and fresh, unlike the man I stood next to.

‘I have brought Abigail to you. I hope she will be a good companion for Betty. Look after her for she needs looking after.’

Yes, I knew what he was thinking of. I had put a mouse in his wife’s underwear drawer because she had made me work so hard. I had enjoyed hearing her squeals. Later, I had put eggs in their shoes. I had stuffed my mouth with the pillow to stop laughing. I could see their faces wrinkled in horror and disgust as the egg yolks clung to their stocking-clad feet. I saw Betty in her sweetness; I would not try those capers here. I thought I caught a brief grimace from Mr Joseph Grey. But, my uncle, appearing superior, looked through him.

A black woman took hold of my hand and bade me enter the house, so warm and comfortable. She sat me on a chair and took off my boots. ‘My, are you wet and cold, Miss Abigail! Me, my name is Tituba. I will make a hot bath for you.’

Tituba, Tituba, I repeated that name in my mind over and over again. What a strange name. What a strange accent she made in speaking. I felt the warmth of the fire that roared in the hearth. I heard my uncle and that man bid each other farewell and the parsonage door close and then the horses neigh and gallop off. Tituba beckoned me with her hand. I followed her meekly to the bathroom. I couldn’t believe it. I hadn’t seen one before. There it was, a heavy tin bath, shaped so that one could rest one’s head at the back. Steam was rising from it. I tore off my damp clothes and put my foot into the water and pulled it out directly. ‘It’s too hot.’ Tituba poured in more cold water and handed me soap.

I splashed the water to make suds, luxury. Thoughts of previous homes vanished. Tituba washed my back with a cloth while I perused her face and saw that it was handsome. Her lashes curled and her huge eyes were merry. I reached out to feel her hair but she moved to pick up a towel. I smelt my arm and smiled for it was the same smell as my uncle and my cousin. Tituba then rubbed me down with a white towel and put dry clothes on me. Nobody had done that for me since my mother died. The clothes were rather small especially in the bodice, straining against my swelling bosom. Tituba pinned a white pinafore over the bodice and black skirt and looked at me with approval. So I thought I was presentable.

My cousin ran in and looked at me. She laughed. I beamed and took Betty in a hug. ‘Abigail, I’m so glad you are here.’ I heard my uncle’s voice. ‘Come here, Abigail, let’s have a good look at you and we will have a talk.’

‘Wait, Miss, Tituba must comb your tresses before your skullcap is put on.’

When she had finished, I smiled at Tituba, raised my head and walked towards the parlour.

‘Sit down,’ said my uncle. ‘Welcome to the parsonage. We hope you will be good company for my daughter Betty. You will have an easy time here for I have two slaves. Tituba, whom you have met, is a good worker. John Indian looks after the garden and does repairs. So, Abigail, what I expect from you is your best Christian behaviour. Is that clear?’

I nodded. Had he heard about my misdeeds in the other houses? ‘Uncle, sir, I thank you. I look forward to becoming friends with Betty.’

‘Very well. Tituba will now bring some tea for us and, if we are favoured, we may get something to eat as well.’

Did I see a twinkle in his eye?

Tituba came in, flashing her white teeth, and laid the silver tray down with three white cups, saucers and plates. She brought out a plate of scones with butter and poured us tea. For the first time in my life I felt I was a lady.

I remembered my stepmother, a lady with property. She wore fine cloth and everybody looked up to her. How nice it must be to have people’s regard.

Betty’s giggle interrupted my thoughts. I heard her whisper, ‘Take the cup by the handle.’ I nearly spilt the tea, I was so nervous. I watched my uncle but he was looking the other way. I realised I had a lot to learn from Betty but I would never let her know that. No, she was not going to show me up again.

My uncle spoke. ‘Girls, I have to prepare my sermon for Sunday. You can go into the garden, and ask Tituba to introduce you to her man, John Indian. He can show you the horses.’

‘Uncle, sir, I’d love to see them.’

We two girls went outside into the crisp air. The hens cackled and scattered. Wondering about what ‘her man’ meant, I espied Tituba in the garden, picking herbs. I decided to ask her directly.

‘Tituba, are you married to John Indian?’

‘You have a lot to learn. Slaves cannot marry. But I did jump over the broomstick with him, so we’re as good as married.’

I nudged Betty. ‘What does she mean about jumping over a broomstick? What is she talking about? I thought broomsticks were what witches rode on.’

I heard Tituba’s earthy laugh.

‘Abigail, slaves do not marry in churches saying their vows for all to hear. John and I made our vows in the dark of night. We jumped over the broomstick to let our community know that we were no longer two people but one.’

I heard Tituba’s sigh. Her face was downcast. Was that regret in her face? I bet she had wanted to be married in a church.

‘Do Tituba and John Indian have any children?’ I whispered to Betty.

‘No, not now, but Tituba did have a baby a long time ago and it died,’ Betty whispered back.

Tituba ran her fingers through Betty’s hair. ‘We must look for John.’

We found him in the garden. He looked different to Tituba. ‘John Indian has a lot more Indian in him than Tituba,’ I said.

What a strange household this was with strange people. But Betty was not strange and I delighted in her company after being with three boys. I smiled at John Indian although I did not have the same liking for him as I did for Tituba. Betty took me to the stables. I smelt the horses before I saw them. I wondered which smell I preferred — the sweet smell of soap, or the earthy smell of horses. Three big stallions, standing on their bed of hay, stared at me. I liked the chestnut one with his shining coat best.

Back at the parsonage, standing on the camphor box, I peered through the diamond windows. Later we ate at a long table, where I gazed at the table, with its white cloth, full of food. There was a pot roast with many vegetables and rye bread. I sat down and after prayer tucked into the food. Tituba had used the herbs she grew in the pot roast, which made it delicious to eat. Boiled apricot pudding came next. Never had I eaten so well. Bible reading followed. With that finished, we went upstairs and flopped on the press bed, pulling blankets over us. Betty was soon asleep but I lay awake thinking. No more 4 o’clock rising. Instead I could sleep in and wallow in warmth. Time and space were mine. No need to steal those now. Slumber interrupted my thoughts.

The next morning, we must have both felt the sunrays entering the window as we awoke together, and started chatting.

‘Where do black slaves come from?’

‘Barbados. At least Tituba and John Indian do.’

‘Where’s Barbados?’

‘I’m not sure but I think I was born there.’

‘That’s mighty strange.’

‘Well, my father managed a sugar plantation.’

‘What’s it like in Barbados?’

‘I don’t know. I was too little.’

Before long, I felt the need to wander in the countryside.

Betty was no walker. She had walked me round the village to Ingersoll’s Inn at the corner but I wanted to see more. Dr Griggs lived by the mills so I ambled there. The forests were scented with earthy smells, some sweet and a river ran wild. I walked back, crushing clover, and was at the threshold of the parsonage, when my uncle stopped me. ²

Panic seized me, as I knew that my boots were muddy, and my dark hair was showing, fallen from my skullcap, which I sensed was awry.

‘Where have you been?’

‘Nowhere.’

‘What have you been doing?’

‘Nothing.’

‘You are concealing information from me. Why is it not your wish to volunteer it?’ I perused his face. ‘I expect you, as the older girl, to set an example to my daughter. That is your obligation for living here. Pay heed to it.’

‘Indeed sir, I will. Forgive me. I only went to discover the natural spring and to drink from it. ’ I read my uncle’s look. Where his daughter Betty was polite, he saw me as brazen; whereas Betty was open, he saw me as sly; while he saw Betty as quiet, he saw me as noisy. I gulped. Was I going to be in trouble again? I climbed up the stairs to our room.

I heard my husband call again but I ignored him. Thoughts of Robert now invaded my mind. It had begun so innocently. I can still see the dimple in his chin and his thick curly hair. Betty had been able to see through him and dissuaded me from becoming a fool.

I had met him first while peering into a teashop looking at the pastries, scones and buns in the town of Salem. I was clutching my cloak close to me to keep out the cold. The sweet smell comes back to me. How I wanted a hot cup of tea. I remember the feel of Robert coming behind me and his voice asking,

‘Would you like to go inside for a cup of tea and a pastry?’

I turned round to see this tall gentleman, still young. ‘Indeed, sir, I would.’

We entered the teashop together, with me feeling a lady.

He pulled the chair out for me and had me facing him.

‘This tea, really, is quite ordinary. You can get better tea in Boston because it comes direct from England all the way from China.’

The world opened up for me.

‘I’m a merchant like my father before me, only he was based in Barbados.’

Barbados. That name again.

‘Do you live in Salem Town? I don’t remember seeing you about.’

I thought of saying ‘yes’ but he would see my horse, so I told him I rode to Salem Town.

‘Do you come often?’

‘Every two or three weeks.’

‘Shall we meet here in two weeks?’

‘Yes, thank you.’

So it began.

I had counted every day in that two-week period. I had fed the chickens and gathered the eggs but I could only think of going to meet my interesting man again. I rode Chestnut hard. Sweat gathered on his neck and perspiration on my brow; I could feel the horse’s excitement and it fed into me. After tying up my horse I sought the apothecary to buy some scent, which I doused liberally on myself. I put my comb through my tresses and adjusted my skullcap. I walked slowly to the tea house. I saw his back before he espied me. I laughed, but not too forcefully as I drew alongside him.

‘You look so healthy. Tea and pancake?’

‘I think I deserve both,’ I smiled.

We chatted about the weather, the stock in the shops, his horses. He complimented me on my looks and manners. I wanted to stay in that teashop forever.

‘Let’s wander down to the port to watch the boats.’

Later he showed me his house but we didn’t go in.

‘May I see you in three weeks?’

And so it went on.

Then Tituba came to my mind. How beautiful she was when young. What a story teller she was. It took days and days to convince Betty that I should hear her stories too. What stories!

Footnote

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2: Salem Village wasn’t a village in the English sense of the word with a church, public house and village green with nearby cottages. It was made up of scattered farms. At the centre was the meeting house, a square featureless building, the pastor’s house and Ingersoll’s Inn where cider, nuts, dried fruits and meals were served. The owner was a deacon. Two captains had their house in the vicinity of the village centre. The other four lived far away. The only doctor lived in front of Leach’s Hill, which required a good walk to reach. Farmers believed they lacked security. The young men did not want to do military watch at the town when it was needed near their farms. They feared that the French or Dutch might invade and enlist the help of the Indian tribes, the Chickatoubut, the Catshamakin and the Wanepashemet. In April 1667, when the sun’s rays were warmer, the subject of a new meeting house for the village was broached. It would be small with secondhand furniture. This worried the farmers not. They wanted a minister to live amongst them. But the farmers rejected the first three ministers sent — James Bayley, George Burroughs and Deodat Lawson. It was the elders who objected. The young farmers would have agreed to anyone as long as they didn’t have to go to the town to worship and take part in official watch while their wives were left unguarded. ^Return