Susannah Morrow by Megan Chance Read Free Book Online Page B

the pastor arrived—so late I’d thought he would not be coming. My father
     sat at the table with the other four members of the Village Committee. When Parris came through the door with his family,
     they stared at him, their talk dying uncomfortably. The parson seemed unaffected by the deliberate silence. He stood there
     smiling until my father had to rise to greet him. After that, my mother’s funeral feast broke up quickly. The sun had set;
     the shadows of the woods crowded the pathway, so the threat of Indian attack seemed more real than ever; and the men began
     to talk of walking back in groups together, their muskets at the ready, their fingers poised at their powder horns.
    Jude and the few other remaining children reeled through the hall, dizzy from too much beer, tumbling into the spinning wheels
     and the barrels of salt meat filling the corners, squealing with laughter as they dodged around the churn and the washtubs.
     The girls, whom I’d once called my friends, lingered, their smiles wide as they cast their eyes in the direction of the village
     boys. I watched them with too many memories of the days when I’d done the same. When the last bowl of beer had emptied but
     for the dregs, and the cakes we’d baked were nothing more than crumbs scattered on the table, they finally left. I was glad
     when they were gone. My father stood at the door, listening as our neighbors filled his ears with good-byes and murmured assurances
     of Mama’s election. The parson and his family were the last to go.
    “’Tis no time for sadness, Brother Fowler,” Master Parris said, clutching my father’s arm. “Our good sister is embraced now
     in God’s glory.”
    Father nodded, but his farewell was low and strained. When the pastor took his wife’s arm and called for his niece Abigail
     to lead away his three other children, my father looked relieved. He closed the door too quickly behind them, shutting out
     the cold wind, leaving us in a quiet that seemed strange after the noise of the day.
    “’Tis getting late,” he said. “You children go to bed. Tomorrow is the Sabbath, and the babe’s baptism.” He looked past me
     to where Susannah tended the fire. “’Twould be best if you took yourself up as well, Sister. You’ve a long day to look forward
     to.”
    She looked up with a little smile. “Aye. Longer still if ’tis your minister giving the service.”
    There was no answering humor in Father’s eyes. “The word of God is welcome in any wilderness.”
    “I have not said it wasn’t, Brother.”
    He looked ready to say something sharp, but then he only started to the parlor. “As you wish, but I’ll say my good-nights.
     ’Twas a trying day.”
    I saw my aunt hesitate. Then she straightened from the fire and called out, “Brother—”
    My father turned.
    “I may have lost my sister, but I know you buried a wife today, and perhaps…Well, ’twas no easy thing, I know. I bid you…a
     peaceful rest.”
    It seemed my father relaxed at her words, though I don’t know why I thought it, because his posture did not change. But perhaps
     the softening I saw in his face was real and not caused by the dimness of flickering candles. It reassured me; I had been
     right to cast my doubts about Susannah aside. “Aye,” he said, and then he saw me standing there. “Charity, Jude, ’tis late.”
    I knew that tone. So did Jude. I saw her get up from the settle without question, rolling drunkenly into her step as she went
     to the stairs. I followed her, leaving my aunt alone to rake up the fire for the night.
    Our room was cold. The nor’easter had left winter in its wake. The chill wind whistled through a crack in the window’s casement,
     and I remembered how frigid this room had been last winter, how the ice inside the windows had barely melted the whole day
     through. I went to the window, finding the bits of rag I’d stuffed there rotting now, disintegrating to dust at my touch.
     Jude was