I had received a letter from Abigail saying that she would like to see me. I relaxed in the new chair I had just procured and stretched out my legs. This was nothing unusual, receiving mail from Abigail. I enjoyed impressing her, so, in my return letter; I wrote her that I would bring the coach down and wait for her at Salem Town near the harbour. She enjoyed her horse-ride to the town and it was safe from prying eyes in the village. Her uncle, the pastor, would be enraged that his niece was meeting me and travelling to my townhouse in Boston where she stayed. The coach was a necessity for the trip that was seventeen miles, going through Swampscott; some four hours, three, if I whipped the horses. At the town, Abigail would rope up her horse, or rather the pastor’s, and have John, that layabout black husband of Tituba’s with his insolent grin, pick up the horse as soon as possible and return it to the parsonage. I didn’t trust him on sight. But if he ever divulged our secret I would call him a liar. I, a gentleman, would be believed over him. And he knew it.

Abigail had a bold beauty that she wore with carefree indifference, making her even more appealing. She looked breathtaking in a gown. Damn those puritans who take all joy away from girls. I enjoyed taking a handsome girl around this city. When she came to Boston, she was no longer a puritan. Abigail had fire in her eyes. Fate had dealt her a raw deal. I knew the villagers were blaming the girls for all the accusations calling women, ‘witches’ and men, ‘wizards’. I suspected, however, that the girls were being used by the adults. I’d heard of the fights, malice and jealousies among villagers. But why had the girls gone into fits? I didn’t believe it was the Devil; it was just too easy to lay blame there. There had to be a physical cause that the doctors had not found. I didn’t worry about it till one woman was hanged in June. In July, there were more hangings and our jails full. And it wasn’t just women. It was men and wealthy men at that, and that’s when I really became worried. I was so glad I had left Salem Town and come to Boston, although New York would be safer still. I shuddered when I thought of wealthy Phillip English, from Salem Town, being accused as a wizard. The world had gone mad.

I thought Abigail a strong person, with the capacity to bear. Her face, though handsome, was etched with a tinge of assertiveness, so unlike the Boston ladies who looked as if they would faint at any ill news. Not Abigail, she would hold steadfast. I was glad that I could take her away from the miseries of her village. And for a time, she could be somewhere else, be someone else. When we neared Boston, her eyes would gleam. I loved it when she tore off her white skullcap and her luxuriant dark hair fell onto her shoulders and framed her striking face. The sun on her hair showed many lights. When she entered my house I could feel her approval. Abigail had an eye for value. Her smile was most disarming.

When the day came to meet her again at Salem Town, my spirits were high. The weather was fine and sunny; a sea breeze softening the heat of the sun. I looked forward to enjoying the rustic charm of her company. There she was waiting by the town’s small harbour, small — compared to Boston. Abigail looked almost demure but I knew she had fire in her soul. I also knew that my wealth quelled her. I was playing with stones skimming them across the water. We both laughed when we saw each other. I helped her climb into my carriage. She looked almost queenly with her stance. She gazed into my eyes as I read her devotion and love. It was nice to be the source of a young girl’s fancy. I lapped it up. So I was not at all prepared for what I would face when we got to Boston and entered my town house.