She reached out to her husband and with a finger to her lips shushed him for the sake of the carriage driver and gossip. “It’s none of your doing, William. You put your trust in our beloved faith—and in the highest court in the land.”

“I should’ve held faith with you.”

“True but you didn’t; still, recriminations against yourself now are of no use.”

“Should have paid attention to your intuition. Early on you had your suspicions on this matter.”

“Yes, I did, and I predicted it would hurt us all badly in the end.”

“And it has indeed.”

“I will write father in Barbados, but I fear he will not be forthcoming on the subject of his part in hiding the child, but now that so much time has passed, perhaps. Be if true, think how clearly the line is to be drawn from the death or rather near death of an infant by a needle in Barbados to the multiple deaths of infants—so-called by witchcraft and by needle—aborted, here! Coincidence?”

“All the same, any further attack on the ministry and the court can only weaken our government here, Elizabeth.”

“And we can’t have that, now can we?”

He glared at her but was at a loss for words. The coach had maintained a steady pace now as if the driver was being more cautious or curious; it was impossible to tell. All around the carriage uniformed militia—the Governor’s private guard—rode in formation, cheering suddenly. This made both governor and wife look outside where they saw some burly Salem farmers had sent the Watch Hill gallows tumbling down.

Inside the coach, Mrs. Phipps’ expression was of a bittersweet smile. “What of the lands and properties seized by the court?”

“They are in question yet, but I will look them all over with Wilburforce, entertain petitions, attempt to return lands rightfully to those who have lost due to this . . . this—”

“Debacle you may call it.”

He nodded and smiled at her. “That’s a proper word for it.”

She muttered under her breath, “Over three hundred of our citizenry have been jailed in disease-ridden, rat-infested prisons where the numbers of dead have not been kept.”

“Do you know what Sir William Stoughton said to me, Elizabeth?”

“I warned you about that man. I’ve always detested his arrogance and love of power.”

“Do you wish to hear what he had to say then?”

“Of course, I do. I may want to write a book one day.”

“Don’t think of it. A governor’s wife penning a book!”

“So what did he say?”

“He said of his judges, and I quote, ‘We are in one agreement. We have no intention of putting an end to God’s work until every single witch and wizard is found out, confesses—as hundreds have done—or are executed as only a handful have been.”

“So your words to him and the high court fell on deaf ears?”

“Afraid so.”

“Righteous men with a righteous cause are often blinded by their very righteousness. So how will they proceed without a court? If they go against your edict then—”

“Then they will be arrested, and they know it. They have no court overseeing cases of witchcraft no longer.”

“Did you tell them our suspicions against Parris?”

“Only in the most general terms. I didn’t want to cast eyes or aspersions on your father, who some might think this mysterious Dr. Caball.”

She hadn’t considered this and it took her aback, but she dropped it and instead asked, “But you made the point that Parris is an ambitious oaf capable of doing anything to get what he wants?”

“I did; I made that plain enough.” Governor Phipps, a hero of the Indian wars, banged the top of the carriage with his cane, using the signal for speed. The carriage moved faster over the road to Boston and home.

# # # # #

In further public forums, the Governor declared repeatedly that every jail door be opened in a General Amnesty to all prisoners within and specifically anyone accused of witchcraft or murder by means of witchcraft. William Phipps went on to publicly denounce the use of nightmares, ghost stories, or spectral evidence of any sort in any court in the Massachusetts Bay Colony.

It was as if cold water had been thrown over an entire land, as if everyone had awakened from a gruesome shared nightmare. A gut wrenching, sobering of the collective mind spelled the end of the hysteria that’d taken the lives of neighbors.

This light-of-day, cold sobering, which began with the accusation of Mrs. Hale and Mrs. Phipps, replaced the out of control power that’d been handed over to the chosen ones—the ‘seer children’—who suddenly were given no more heed than fools and naves.

# # # # #

Jeremiah and Serena had found temporary lodging in a river village along the Connecticut River that was quite the outpost; in fact, the sound of Indian chants and the smell of Indian fires were within earshot and nostril. But it felt like a place of peace, and it proved a place where Mr. and Mrs. Silas Smithington held up as newlywed Goodman and Goodwife striking out on their own, and not fugitives from the now infamous Salem ordeal.

It’d been from here that Jeremy had sent his dispatches to the Boston editor, Horatio Sperlunkle who might or might not publish the lie that he had not fabricated but had nourished instead—that the Salem accusers, those supposedly capable of seeing into the Invisible World of Satan—had called out the name of Elizabeth Phipps—none other than Governor William Phipps’ wife. This time it was Jeremy who fanned the flame.

It’d been a calculated risk, but the idea was hatched when Jeremy had informed Serena of the accusations leveled at John Hale’s wife and at Phipps’ wife, which so reflected Serena’s own experience—feed the needy prisoners and you become a target. He’d closely watched Serena’s reaction, the depth of her confusion and anger and disbelief that Mrs. Hale of all people and that the kindness she had witnessed in Boston from Mrs. Phipps could be twisted so horribly.

After a brief discussion of the absurdity of Mrs. Hale’s having been accused, likening her to her own mother, Serena suggested, “Those damnable accusers have reached too far now. Their keepers gave them too much rope.”

“I doubt it,” Jeremy had disagreed. “We need to feed this accusation against Mrs. Phipps.”

“What? We need to feed it? This woman’s a saint, Jeremy!”

“Like your mother? Your aunts? You?”

“When I was among the prisoners as one of them, Mrs. Hale brought us bread and water and tea at the jail. Risked disease. Risked being stoned, she did!”

“Like Mrs. Phipps in Boston.” Jeremy agreed. “We must make hay of this.”

“How?”

“Leave that to me. Or rather Silas Smithington, Mrs. Smithington.”

“Right, Silas, but how?” she persisted.

They were staying at a boarding house, ostensibly on their way further west. He located his ink and quill. “By the power of the pen, and this time my words will be published.”

“Jeremy, yes, you know people in Boston—that fellow you worked for at the paper.”

Their eyes met. “Are you suggesting that we start our own bloody lie?”

“A lie to defeat their lies, yes—a foul one at that.”

“But suppose it backfires and Mrs. Phipps is actually arrested?”

“Mrs. Proctor was arrested, followed by her husband; Mrs. Corey arrested, followed by Giles Corey; Parkers the same. Mother and her sisters, and had my father not died, he’d’ve gone the way of Mother—to the gallows. And had you and John not freed me, well? If Mrs. Phipps is arrested, it follows that this do-nothing Governor would be facing arrest as well.”

“Then perhaps he might exert power in the right direction?”

“It’s a chance worth taking.”

Jeremy welcomed Serena’s help on fashioning Silas Smithington’s Reports from Salem. They worked on the details together in the silence of the small room they’d rented. They knew it would be months before any repercussions came of their bold news.

And now today they had received news of the bold edicts posted across Essex County and the Massachusetts Bay Colony that effectively put an end to the Court of Oyer & Terminer, the lesser courts, the accusation fever, and to Samuel Parris.

To celebrate, Jeremy took Serena to dine out and they shared a bottle of wine.

# # # # #

As slow as dripping water from a pump, news of the Governor’s having taken action, that he’d finally stepped in and halted the witch trials, filtered to Connecticut, reaching these outer settlements. Even so, both Jeremy and Serena had misgivings about trusting the news, despite their quiet celebration. Soon, however, the word about Phipps’stepping in had taken on more than the sound and feel of rumor.

All the same, for Serena in particular, the feelings of relief mixed with feelings of anger and loss. Like many, she rightfully wanted to know why had it taken so long? The first arrests had been Sarah Goode and Tituba Indian, and from this the arrest of a single third witch, Bridget Bishop, all this in late February and early March, followed by several more arrests in March, and now it was mid-October and the arrests had turned into countless deaths.

“My parents gone, my home desecrated and for all we know now in the hands of the state,” she complained to Jeremy as they packed to move on, going for the land deeded over to Jeremiah Wakely with the hope no warrant officer was waiting for him there. As to Reverend Cotton Maher, as in all things, he had remained out of sight, his head held low.

Jeremy imagined it would take years for Serena to forgive and forget and to move on. He had no words for her. Instead, he held her.

“Tell me about how Father’s burial went, Jeremy. Was the word read over him?”

“Tarbell and I said the Lord’s Prayer over him.” Jeremy didn’t tell her that they’d slurred their way through it, both having drank too much.

“That’s good,” she replied. “I miss them both so very much.”

Jeremy feared her heart might break. He held onto her while she sobbed. “I wrapped him in a shawl your mother often wore; he’d been clinging to it when he died according to John. The shawl still smelled of her.”

Serena only sobbed more at this news. “Thank you, Jeremy.”

“For what?”

“For too many kindnesses to count.”

“From all I could determine of John Tarbell and Joseph and Ben, your family intends to hold onto their land and continue on in Salem. They may have to petition the new court overseeing the redistributions, but they have a good case now. We can go back some time. See them.”

“You, perhaps! I want nothing more to do with the place.”

“I completely understand your bitterness, I do.”

“Do you think me unforgiving? If so, you will have to accept it in me, husband.”

“I accept you fully—as you are, Candlwick; I love you, always.”

“And I you.”

Epilogue

1702, Greenwich, Connecticut

Ten years later, Serena and Jeremiah are sitting down to evening meal when he opens the Connecticut Dispatch, a newspaper in Greenwich, where they have settled on the property deeded over to them by the high court of the colonies in 1692. Serena is raising and selling horses, and Jeremy is the local magistrate, having the respect of the community.

A letter arrives postmarked from Salem Village, the seal indicating NI—that of Nathaniel Ingersoll. The letter is put aside, unopened. Before long, the unopened communication is disturbing their meal. Finally, Serena shouts, “Jeremy Wakely, if you don’t open it, I will and now!”

“Any word from Ingersoll and Salem can wait on my meal; I want no indigestion.”

Serena realizes he wants no reliving of the events of Salem. Still she insists, “Open it, Jeremy. It may well be important.”

“The damn thing can wait till after dinner.”

They argue until she gets her way, and he opens it to learn a startling fact he is reluctant to share.

Serena, seeing the confused look on his handsome features, wrests the note from his hand. In Ingersoll’s tight little script, he writes:

April 4th 1702

Dear Jeremiah & Serena Wakely,

I thought you should know of this news. That this day, as an adult, Anne Putnam Junior stood unbidden by anyone before all Salem Village parishioners in the meeting house, and the spinster freely confessed to having lied during the entire witchcraft episode. Witchy thing that she is, she begged forgiveness from her fellow villagers. Oddly or perhaps not so oddly, forgiveness was granted Anne. No one else of the accusing girls ever made such a confession, save that time Susannah Sheldon had recanted her accusations against the Wilkinses—but this is the only such recanting after the fact. However, as you recall, during the height of the witch hunt, Mary Wolcott also at one time recanted her accusation in confession, but that she was bullied into recanting her confession at that time.