I was alone in Abigail’s house when I completed the diary. It was early Sunday, between two and three in the morning. I had finished reading the diary well before then, but my mind refused to be a dictation machine and simply decipher and type. I read, digested, pondered, and then typed.
It was the only way to get through it.
I read the final three words a dozen times before committing them to digitized image.
I am ready.
I am ready.
Ready for what? Ready to hang? Ready for something else? What had Mercy done in the last few hours accorded to her? What took the last of her ink?
She could have written another letter. Is that what she meant by, “one thing remains that I can do, even in chains”? Did she pen a letter of forgiveness to her accusers? If so, what happened to it? If she slipped it into the diary, which was given to John Peter, did it fall upon him to give the letter to the magistrates?
Or was the letter written to Prudence Dawes? Perhaps that was why Mercy prayed John Peter would forgive her—her last act of mercy was to write a letter of absolution to the woman responsible for her execution. And John Peter, the man who loved Mercy and for whom she had given her life, had been called upon to deliver it.
What had she been afraid of?
My head spun with wanting to know exactly what happened after Mercy ran out of ink.
After she ran out of time.
The diary didn’t say, but I was certain Abigail knew what Mercy had done with her last hours. Abigail knew I would have questions.
And she asked me to wait until she returned to learn the answers. That meant if I wanted, I could probably find the answers somewhere else. Mercy Hayworth’s name was no doubt floating around Internet search engines just like Sarah Goode’s and Sarah Osborne’s. Would I be able to keep myself from looking until Abigail’s return?
I didn’t know if I could.
I wondered how long it would take to find out what Mercy had done. It likely wouldn’t be mentioned in the legal documents relative to her execution. So who could have known about what she had done in the last hours? Someone in the jail cell with her would have known. Someone like Elizabeth Proctor, whose own hanging had been postponed because she was pregnant. Someone who might have told someone else, and the story of Mercy’s last deed had carried through the decades and centuries.
The possibilities made my head ache, but this time I was too tired to go into the kitchen and take something for it. I crept over to the sofa like I had done the night before and curled up on noisy leather cushions.
I was afraid to fall asleep, though I was exhausted. I was afraid I would dream of her. And I was sure that not knowing the last few details of Mercy’s life would feed the dream machine in my head.
But I couldn’t keep my eyes open.
As I lay there, warding off thoughts of hooded men and a wooden platform and a loop of rough rope, I made myself think about what I did know. I was fairly certain I had an answer for Esperanza. I knew why reading the diary made Abigail sad, made her think of the gardener’s son.
Mercy had given all for love. Her very life.
Abigail had given away nothing. I didn’t know why. Maybe it wasn’t about money, like Esperanza said, but surely there had to be a question of status. Abigail was an heiress. The man who proposed to her was the son of a gardener. Abigail must have felt obligated to choose between the life she knew and the man she loved. I was convinced Abigail now saw her choice as incredibly selfish and damning, and so every time she read the diary, every time she came to face to face with what Mercy had done for love, Abigail was reminded of the mistake she made.
That much I was sure of.
I let my eyelids close and felt my body relax. I tried to think of happy things like the ocean at dawn, hydrangea blossoms, and walking the aisles of a three-story bookstore with an iced mocha in my hand.
Sleep overcame me within seconds.
I did not dream.
I was startled awake the next morning by the high-pitched trilling of my cell phone. I jumped from the couch, unable to remember why I wasn’t in my own bed, convinced it was the middle of the night and something bad had happened. I lunged for my phone on the table next to me and answered, not thinking to see who was calling.
“Yes?” I said, groggy with sleep.
“Hi. This is Steve Turrell. I’m a professor at UCSB. Is this Lauren Durough?”
“Oh. Um, yeah.”
“Did I call too early? Clarissa said you usually go to a nine thirty church service, so I thought I’d catch you before you left. Sorry if I woke you.
“No. No, I was awake,” I lied. “Look, I’m sorry I haven’t called you back. I hadn’t finished the diary yet and I …”
“Yes. Last night.”
“Is it really a diary written during the Salem witch trials?”
“Yes, it really is.”
“And the author herself was one of those accused of witchcraft?”
“Yes.”
“Wow. That’s amazing. And the woman you work for just has this diary in her house?”
“She’s taken excellent care of it. It belonged to an ancestor of hers so it has”—I searched for the right word—”a lot of sentimental value.”
“Well, the reason I asked Clarissa for your number is I’m writing a book about the effects of stigmatization on culture and economy. I’ve always been fascinated by what transpired during the Salem witch trials, even before I started writing the book. I’d really like to see this diary. Would that be possible?”
I cleared my throat for no particular reason. “It’s not mine to show. I could give Abigail your number and she could get back with you on that. She’s out of town right now. She’s pretty protective of it, though.”
“But you’ve transcribed it, right?”
“Yes.”
“Well, could I see the transcription in the meantime?”
I looked down at my feet and noticed I was pacing between the sofa and the writing desk. I stopped.
“I think we’d better wait until Abigail returns,” I said.
Professor Turrell paused a moment. “Could I ask you about the content?”
“I … I don’t know. I guess.”
“What’s the name of the diary’s author?”
I hesitated to say her name. Would Abigail want me to? Would I be divulging something I shouldn’t? Mercy was a historical figure. She was surely mentioned in other records and historical accounts.
But I didn’t say it. If this man was fascinated by the Salem witch trials, then surely he knew more than I did. He might know what I wanted to know. Or he might know where to go to find out.
“Professor Turrell, have you studied the Salem witch trials?” I asked instead of answering his question.
“Yes, I have.”
“Could I ask you a few questions too? There’s something about how the diary ends that intrigues me.”
“Yeah, sure. Do you want to meet? I could show you what I’ve collected so far in my research.” He sounded excited. Hopeful.
“I would like that. The sooner, the better.”
“Okay. Tomorrow after my last class? That would be a few minutes after three.”
“Actually, I’d like to see you today, if that’s possible. It probably sounds crazy, but there’s something I need to know. It might take me days to find what I need on my own, and I can’t wait.”
“And it’s about the diary?”
“Yes.”
“Want to tell me her name?”
“Can I see you today?”
“I can meet you at my office on campus in an hour. Is that good enough?”
“Yes,” I said. “Her name is Mercy Hayworth.”
“Mercy Hayworth.”
“Yes.”
“See you in an hour.”