For a Lifetime, page 5
I moved closer to Luc, as close as our dance would allow, not knowing how to make him aware of my feelings. I didn’t usually struggle to communicate how I felt. After years of being on stage, even in minor roles, ardent admirers sent flowers and made advances. Not to mention Isaac’s interest in me since we were young. But there was no challenge in that, so I had dismissed each of them. I had always known that one day I would meet someone like Luc who didn’t fall over himself to be with me. And there was the challenge.
The song was ending, and I didn’t have much time left to convey my feelings. “Thank you for bringing me to the dance,” I said. “I know how much you detest these gatherings.”
He’d been eyeing the door like a caged animal almost since we arrived.
“I knew it would be important to you,” he said.
My heart fluttered.
“If you want to make a name for yourself,” he continued, “and you want to make a living at aviation, you’ll need to attend events like this until your name is well-known. As your new manager, I could do nothing less.”
I looked away, trying not to feel disappointed. Tonight was all business? “You’re more than a teacher and manager to me,” I said, my voice hushed. “Surely you must know that by now, Luc.”
He was quiet, and I couldn’t bring myself to meet his gaze. I was both frightened and hopeful at what I might see there.
“Of course,” he said. “We are friends. Though, if I will be your manager, then we should keep our relationship professional, should we not?”
I finally looked up at him, and his eyes had softened just enough for me to see that he did regard me with some affection—but was it the kind I dreamed about?
It took a lot of courage to muster a smile. “Of course.”
When the song ended, Luc pulled away. “Are you ready to return to the Seminole? We don’t want to be late for your licensing test in the morning.”
I nodded, still unable to find my voice. I rarely cried—not like Grace, who seemed to tear up at the least provocation—but I was dangerously close now. Could it be that Luc truly didn’t return my feelings? He had agreed to put his own exhibition flying on hold to be my business manager for the flight across the English Channel. Surely that meant something. Didn’t it?
The Windsor and Seminole hotels were less than four blocks apart, so Luc offered his arm to me when we stepped outside, and we headed south on Hogan Street. Darkness had fallen on Jacksonville, but the winter tourist destination was still alive with activity. Magnificent lights lit up the streets and buildings, and music could be heard coming from inside several establishments we passed.
If I was going to spend the next several weeks with Luc, the last thing I wanted to do was make it awkward. Instead of telling him I loved him, I would have to show him how I felt.
The new goal brought my head up and banished any threat of tears. If I showed him how I felt, he couldn’t deny me, could he? I would find a way to convince him that we were meant to travel the world together.
Feeling better, I clasped his arm a little tighter and felt the bounce return to my step.
But Luc was silent beside me. He dipped his head as people passed us, allowing the brim of his stylish fedora to cover his face.
“If you don’t enjoy their attention,” I asked, “why do you pursue aviation? It’s one of the most compelling things that has ever happened to the world and begs for attention.”
He paused to look in the window of a dark store as we passed. I could see our reflection in the glass. He studied himself as if he didn’t recognize the man before him. It made me wonder. Was he happy?
We made a striking couple, he tall, dark, and devilishly handsome in his black tuxedo. Me, delicate, fair, and elegant in my evening gown and long velvet coat.
He turned away and continued walking. “Does it matter why I fly?” There was an edge to his voice, though it wasn’t directed at me. “I must be the best, and if that means gaining the attention of the world, then it’s something I must endure. If I could fly without notice, I would choose that.”
I wanted to ask him why he must be the best, but I didn’t want to push him. It was more than he had ever revealed to me.
At the Seminole Hotel, the doorman greeted us as we entered the opulent lobby. Luc led me to the elevator, and we stepped inside. There were so many things I wanted to say, but I remained quiet. Part of me was still in awe of Lucas Voland, the world-famous aviator—and probably would be for the rest of my life. He remained untouchable—even to those closest to him. What were his secrets? Why did he hold them so close?
And why was I afraid to ask?
When the elevator stopped at the fourth floor, I stepped forward, but Luc took hold of my hand, and I turned, surprised. It sent a jolt to my heart because he rarely touched me when it wasn’t necessary—and never so intimately.
“I will pray for your test tomorrow,” he said. “I believe God has created each of us for the times we live, and you were created for this purpose, for this time. But we are responsible to use the talents and abilities He gives us wisely. If you do everything the way you’ve been taught, you should succeed admirably tomorrow morning.”
I stood for a second, both surprised and touched by his words. All I could say was, “Thank you.”
“I’ll meet you in the lobby at six.” He let go of my hand and took a step back into the elevator, his walls rising up again as his emotion cleared from his face. “Goodnight, Hope.”
“Goodnight, Luc.” I took another step back, and the elevator doors closed.
I was alone in the hallway, my breath coming quickly.
Luc had never spoken of God before. His promise to pray for me not only surprised me but tugged at my own complicated relationship with God.
Grace’s faith seemed to come naturally to her, despite the differences of beliefs and dogmas between 1692 and 1912. Somehow, she knew and understood God in a way that evaded me and transcended time, religion, or doctrine.
As I walked toward our room, my lifelong spiritual debate warred within me.
Our Puritan teachings were strict and full of rules, an extension of the authoritarian Church of England. The harsh lifestyle had not taught me how to be good and righteous—it had only taught me how to hide my sinful heart and defy my elders. It had made me afraid to do the wrong thing instead of longing to do the right thing.
Whereas Mama and Daddy had taught us that God’s grace allowed more freedom. People were given independence to follow their dreams—women in particular—which was why I was able to pursue flying and theater, while Grace was a photographer and journalist. It was a prosperous time, with crusading reformists tackling child labor, factory conditions, women’s right to vote, prohibition of alcohol, and more. But did that freedom allow more justification for sins?
The differences were jarring, especially as a child. Which one was right? I believed that God existed—but who was He? Was He the Puritans’ God of strict rules and regulations who predestined people for salvation? Or was He the God of my parents who offered grace and mercy and provided salvation to repentant sinners?
I slipped the key into my hotel room door, uncertain if I would ever understand. It was easier to float, untethered to something that might not be right.
What I did know was that God had created me for this time and place, as Luc had said. That was irrefutable—especially with the time-crossing gift I had inherited. And I would live this life to the fullest.
It was harder to accept the same about Salem.
5
GRACE
MARCH 1, 1692
SALEM VILLAGE
All morning, as I served the patrons in the ordinary, I could think of little but Hope’s astonishing announcement the day before. I could still see the excitement on her face—her pure joy at the prospect of being the first woman to fly over the English Channel—and I felt guilty for being a naysayer. But someone had to talk sense into her. Mr. Voland should have discouraged her, but he appeared to be the one who planted the idea—or at the very least watered it. What would he gain from Hope making the flight? Money? More fame? Would he not rest until everyone in the world knew his name?
My initial dislike of him grew each time I was in his arrogant presence—and Hope’s lack of discernment where he was concerned alarmed me most of all. The whole thing was a foolish idea. I scrubbed the tables in the dining room harder than necessary, wishing I could wipe away their plan.
Yet—would Hope have considered the flight if it weren’t for J. B. Thurston’s threats? If Hope was successful, this might be the only way we could save the orphanage. For that reason alone, I had agreed to go along.
I tried to focus on Salem and what was troubling me here. Father stood on the other side of the dining room, instructing John to haul two barrels of ale up from the cellar. I had not had the opportunity to question him about our mother’s death, but even if I had, I doubted he would tell me the truth. With the oncoming witch-hunt, it was more important than ever that I learned what had happened. I knew how I might find out, but I would need help.
I was so wrapped up in my thoughts, I almost missed the moment Sarah Osborn entered the ordinary with the constable.
It was cold in Salem, despite the bright sunshine. An eerie silence fell over the occupants in our large dining room as Goody Osborn was helped into the building by one of her servants.
Hope was clearing dirty dishes as I washed tables. The ordinary was full of patrons who had flocked here, knowing today was the first day of questioning the accused women. Though John had little choice about being there, since Father paid Reverend Parris for his labor, I suspected he appreciated being close to his wife, who had slept upstairs, under guard, the night before with Sarah Good and her children.
“Grace,” Father called to me, motioning for me to join him near the door where he had greeted the constable who brought Goody Osborn. His face was stern as I approached. The weight of today’s proceedings was heavy upon his shoulders—though he didn’t mind the business it brought his way. “Escort Goody Osborn upstairs.”
Sarah Osborn turned her heavy gaze to me, pain and confusion in her every move. She was in her late forties and had been bedridden with melancholy for years. She was wobbly on her feet, requiring assistance, and looked as frail as a newborn colt.
“Yes, Father,” I said as Hope came to take the rag and bucket from me. “Come with me, Goody Osborn.”
“Do you not see me?” Goody Osborn clutched her servant’s hands as she looked from Father to the rest of the silent gawkers. No one spoke. “I am more likely to be a victim of witchcraft than to be a witch. I have not strayed far from my bed in years, afflicted with a malady that cannot be cured. How could I afflict anyone else?”
“Pray, silence your tongue,” Father said to her, his voice a hushed rumble, “if you know what is good for you.”
Father nodded at the servant and the constable, and they followed me up the narrow stairs to the guest room above. A guard stood outside the smaller of the two upstairs rooms.
I did not realize that Father had followed us until the constable opened the door and Goody Osborn passed by me, making more room in the upper hall.
“You’re to examine the accused,” Father said to me. “You’re to look for images or devil’s marks upon their bodies.”
“Father?” I frowned. I’d heard of such things, but I didn’t know what they might look like. More importantly, I didn’t believe they existed.
“Witch’s teats,” he hissed under his breath, causing the guard to look our way. “Preternatural excrescence of flesh where the devil or his familiars doth suckle.”
Revulsion turned my stomach. Familiars were small spirit animals, like toads, birds, snakes, or most commonly, cats, sent by Satan to aid witches in their cruel acts. People believed the familiars sucked blood from the witch to gain nourishment, especially where they might have warts or other skin imperfections.
My first instinct was to run—but where would I go? Hope and I had discussed leaving Salem Village many times, but two single women in Puritan Massachusetts would be destitute and turned away from paying jobs. Besides, there were few places where Father couldn’t find us.
“Please do not ask this of me.” I swallowed, my throat dry. “I cannot do such a thing.”
“You will aid the magistrates in this way,” Father said, taking an intimidating step forward.
It struck me that if I didn’t examine them, then someone else would. I could not ensure their dignity if the examination was undertaken by someone who did not care for their plight.
I nodded and cast my eyes down.
“It must be thorough,” Father warned. “Every inch must be inspected.”
I entered the room where Goody Osborn was being lowered to one of the hard beds. Tituba stood by the window, cradling her right arm, and watched everyone with a wary expression.
Goody Good, standing defiant in the center of the room, turned her steely gaze on me in a sort of challenge. She held her baby boy on her hip, and her daughter, Dorothy, sat in the corner of the room, quietly playing with the frayed hem of her gown.
“Grace will examine each of you,” Father said as Goody Osborn’s servant was escorted out of the room by the constable.
All three women stared at me.
“The magistrates will be here to start questioning them soon.” Father gave me a pointed look. “Be quick but thorough.”
He strode out of the room, closing the door behind him with a thud.
My hands trembled as I faced the three accused women. I wanted to weep for them—and for what I knew was to come. How could I stop this madness without willfully changing history and forfeiting my place in time? It was a risk I couldn’t take, no matter how much I wished to save these women.
But I could not degrade them by examining their bodies for something that did not exist.
“Well?” Sarah Good asked as she lifted her chin at me. “What will you do, Grace Eaton?”
Each woman was in a precarious position, and though I knew them to be strong and capable, they were filled with fear—and rightfully so. Tituba was a black slave from Barbados in Reverend Parris’s home. Goody Osborn was a widow who had purchased the contract of indentured servant Alexander Osborn—and then scandalized the village by marrying him. She had been related to the Putnams through her first husband and was in a legal battle over the land her husband had left in a trust for her sons—a legal dispute the Putnams were still embroiled in. Sarah Good was married, though she had been betrayed by her husband and was destitute. It was no wonder the afflicted girls had accused them. Tituba, Sarah Good, and Sarah Osborn were already outcasts in Salem Village—ostracized and feared. The type of women historically accused of witchcraft throughout the ages.
“I will wait here for an appropriate amount of time,” I told them, keeping my voice low so the guard didn’t hear, “and then I will go below and tell the men I have found no markings on you.”
My disobedience could not possibly change the course of events that would play out in the coming weeks and months, but perhaps it would spare these women a small amount of shame.
Tituba merely turned back to look out the window while Sarah Osborn wept quietly in her bed, but Sarah Good revealed a morsel of respect for me in the glint of her eyes.
It was the very least I could do for these falsely accused women.
An hour later, I descended the steps and entered the main room. The inhabitants had doubled since I’d gone upstairs. I knew that this heinous event would be the catalyst for the end of the Puritans’ rule in Massachusetts, but I couldn’t begin to understand God’s sovereignty or why He had chosen to do it this way. I prayed that God would stop this thing from happening. But if He would not, I asked for strength for everyone who would endure it.
Hope saw me and moved through the crowded room with a stack of dirty dishes. It was hot and loud and smelled of unwashed bodies.
“Have the magistrates arrived yet?” I asked, taking some of the dishes from her.
“Just now. Father took them outside to speak in private.” She studied me. “Did you examine them?”
I glanced over my shoulder to make sure no one was close enough to hear. “I couldn’t do it.”
“What will you tell Father?”
“The truth. Those women do not have the devil’s marks on them.”
Hope smiled—a beautiful, approving smile. But then it dimmed. “The afflicted have arrived. They are being cosseted in the corner.” She nodded toward the space where the four afflicted girls sat with their families and close friends. Susannah was there with her cousin, Ann Putnam. The girls were quiet—no signs of affliction at the moment.
The sight of Susannah made the hair on my neck rise. She smiled at me with the same look she had given us outside when she’d accused our mother of being a witch. As if she knew something I did not. Had Father told her about our mother? Did she know something?
As we moved from the dining room into the kitchen, my eye caught on Isaac, who sat at a table not far from the afflicted girls. His large hand curled around a cup of ale while he spoke earnestly with another man. His face was serious as he finished speaking and then glanced up, meeting my gaze. He nodded briefly, acknowledging my presence, before his gaze slipped to Hope.
Always Hope.
But I didn’t have time to lament his affection for my sister. I was just happy he had come. I needed Isaac’s help to learn the truth about our mother.
When the kitchen door closed behind us, I asked, “How long has Isaac been here?”
Hope sighed. “He is always here.”
Her response angered me. “Why do you do that?”
“What?”
“Treat him as if he’s a nuisance. Isaac is one of the best people in Salem—and he’s in love with you. You should be flattered.”
“He’s a rule-follower, Grace. He bows down to the elders without question. He is content to stay on his farm, attend meeting, and work himself to death. I would shrivel up and die if I had to submit myself to such a life. I want more than Salem Village can give me, and you know that.”
