I took in three breaths

‘Come back please, Betty.’

She sat opposite me again, looking anxious. But in her eyes I read resentment for the first time; it chilled my soul.

‘Do not judge me too harshly.’ I made my words as soft as possible. ‘Are you without blame? Did you not keep secrets of Abigail and her activities from me?’

I saw Betty’s head droop.

‘My child, I understand. I know I am accused of money grubbing by many but it is not just for me. Every pastor brought to his village has been underpaid. It is an affront to God. Don’t you think so?’

‘Yes, Father, I do.’

‘I wanted to make sure that pastors received what they were worth. We are God’s emissaries. I did not arrive in Salem Village till my demands were met. But how the villagers mock me now, nay, they mock God. Are they really different to those in Jerusalem, counting their money, when Christ overturned their tables of coins?’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘Salvation is not dependent on money but on obedience to God’s word. But I am outraged at the state of the meeting house because the villagers will not pay for its upkeep. You know it has broken windows, some boarded up, and others left open. It is a disgrace. The fences are down. It makes my heart weep. The meeting house is God’s home in this village and the villagers have no respect for it I know you question me in your mind, for my lack of love for the villagers. What is there to love? For the most part, they are a scrambling, wrangling mean and undeserving lot. So help me God.’

Betty appeared alarmed at the vigour of my speech.

‘Do you wonder why I have no trust in what the villagers will do? Do you question why I wish to look after you and myself by whatever means?’

‘Father, I do understand you now. We live in dark and dangerous times.’

‘Dark and dangerous times indeed, my child.’

I wandered aimless into the back garden. I understood my father’s plight. Was I selfish? Was I just thinking of all the work I had to do? I was not Tituba’s equal in household chores and Abigail was not at all interested. She had worked hard when she had to but now she regarded herself as a lady. It was not just a matter of cooking but the butter and cheese had to be made. The house had to be cleaned. The washing and the ironing had to be done. My father’s shirts had to be starched. Tituba also did spinning and gave us afternoon tea. It made me ill to think of all the tasks ahead of us, mainly mine. I still believe we would have survived if we had kept Tituba. John Indian harvested our crop of rye. We had our female goats for milk and meat. We had our chickens for eggs and meat. We would not starve. With Tituba gone we would have a sullen John Indian with whom to contend and now he was our only worker. I could not believe that my father had made that decision.