The Heretic's Daughter: A Novel - By Kathleen Kent Page 0,25
following behind him like a cloud. I crept out of hiding and stood before my eldest cousin, watching him scowl at me. He crossed his arms and cocked his head to the side as though listening for something, and I knew with a certainty that he disliked me as much as I disliked him. Something about him made the front of my teeth ache as though I had bitten into a hard summer peach that was mostly pit.
He turned to his father, saying, “It’s a dangerous thing, don’t you think, to take them in. After all, Thomas’ family has been known to carry infection.”
I could feel the red blush of anger creep up my neck into my cheeks and I dropped my head to hide my true face. Father and son lit their pipes, and when the smoke was thick enough, Allen leaned his arm upon the chair where his father sat and said to me, “Your father brought pox to Billerica when first he came. As well as a bad history.”
“My father is every bit as good as the next man,” I replied, feeling a hatred like black ice form in my heart. In that moment I wondered if this was what Uncle had meant by saying Father had blood on his hands.
Allen bent down so that our eyes were on a level. “One would think he believes himself better than most, as he has taken over our grandmother’s house.” If I had been a boy, I would have thrown seed to the Devil and planted my fists over his nose.
Uncle put a hand on Allen’s arm and said, “You must remember, Sarah is our family, and while she is here we must try to be kind.” But he said nothing in defense of my father, and the shadowy smile behind the pipe smoke stung deeper than the insults.
Later that night I lay with my back to Margaret, stewing in rancid juices until she coaxed me to turn and face her. “Do not be angry, cousin,” she said. “You will love my brother as I do when you have come to know him better. You will love him as I love you.”
I lowered my head and tucked it into the hollow of her throat. Not because I was ready for sleep but because I wanted to hide the thought that burned my face. The thought, the prayer, that in that moment I would be made an orphan so I could forever stay in my cousin’s house. Roger as my father, Mary as my mother, and Margaret as the sister of my heart. I think God must have damned me then for my thoughts, for the next day Father came to take me home.
MARGARET AND I returned the following morning from the barn, our arms about each other’s shoulders, lingering in the watery light of the sun that played in and out of blue-gray clouds. We squatted down to look at the spongy ground and at the ripening tips of bulbs stabbing their way through the thinning layers of snow. The churning engine of spring was massing, bringing a sharp smell to the air as from a blacksmith’s stable. There would never be a time of an early melt when I would not think of my cousin braced by the gathering warmth, the clouds racing behind her smiling and enraptured face.
I did not know my father at first. I had come into the common room to find a giant sitting at the table, my aunt sitting across from him with her head in her hands. She was sobbing loudly and Uncle stood behind her with his hands on her shoulders. The giant looked up at my approach but did not speak. It was Margaret who spoke first and made me know my father again.
“Uncle, what has happened?” Her hand found mine and squeezed it painfully. Uncle Roger beckoned for me to come closer. I took tiny steps towards the table, trying to multiply the distance and increase the time before hearing what I did not wish to hear.
Father stared into his lap and said, “Your grandmother has died.”
“And Tom and Andrew and Richard?” My hands crept to my ears to blot out the words.
“They are alive.”
“And now must I leave?” I would be the last in the room to comprehend that I had not asked about my mother.
“The ban has lifted. It is time for you and Hannah to come home. We will leave at nightfall.”