Free The Masque of a Murderer by Susanna Calkins Page B

Bunhill Fields. If thy conscience so bids, thou art very welcome. Our vigil here will be done, and we will bury our brother Jacob. At nine o’clock in the morning.”
    “Th-thank you,” Lucy stammered, startled by the invitation. Before she could say more, Sarah bundled her out of the room.
    Only when they reached the street did Sarah speak. “The Quakers do like to proselytize, Lucy. A little longer, and they’d have converted thee. I could not have that on my conscience.”
    “I thought Quakers expect people to follow their own conscience,” Lucy replied carefully. “So it could not be on your conscience, should I choose to follow mine.”
    Sarah looked at her in surprise. “Lucy, I always forget how intelligent thou art. I suppose all that time listening to my tutors from behind the curtains—yes, I knew thou wert there—helped thee develop thy intellect. What I meant was that I do believe it would verily kill my father should thou join the Friends, too. And Adam would be none too happy either, I should think.”
    “Miss Sarah, I mean, just Sarah,” she said, letting the comment about Adam pass. She never knew how to speak of the delicate subject. “There is one other thing about what Mr. Whitby told me, before he died of his affliction.”
    Sarah looked at her suspiciously. “Lucy, I cannot bear to hear those wild accusations again. Pray do not tell me more.”
    “No, no, it’s not that,” Lucy said hastily. “It’s just that Mr. Whitby told me that he wanted his sister to know he’d been thinking of her when he died. He’d been on his way to see her, you know, when he was struck by the cart. I think he had hoped to make amends to his family.”
    “Oh, I didn’t know that!” Sarah said, looking stricken. “How awful! I wonder now if anyone even told them he died?”
    “I’m sure they were informed, by a constable or some other official,” Lucy said reassuringly. “Perhaps, though, they’d like to see you. As a gesture of your family friendship.”
    Sarah shook her head sadly. “I do not think the Whitbys would want to see me. I will ask Adam to go, on our family’s behalf. He said he would like to have his midday meal with me. We’ve scarcely spoken since I arrived home.” She sighed. “I won’t lie. I dread spending time with Father and Adam. I’ve spent enough time around judges and courts. I was even brought to trial myself.”
    “Sarah!” Lucy exclaimed. “Were you tried? In the New World?”
    Sarah grimaced. “You must not tell Father. But yes, I was tried in court. In the Massachusetts Bay Colony.”
    “What happened?” Lucy asked, her mouth agape, trying to imagine it all to no avail.
    “Joan and I were both hauled to court for speaking the Truth. Found guilty. I was put in stocks and pelted with rotten food for thirty minutes. Then they released me. Joan was whipped first and left there for four hours, since that was her second offense.”
    “How dreadful!” Lucy gasped.
    Sarah’s laugh, a hollow mirthless sound, made Lucy wince. “It could have been worse. I could have been tarred and feathered. Or even branded with a hot iron. All in the name of order and justice. Whatever would Father have said? Maybe I should tell him. He will no doubt think I received the punishment I deserve.”
    There it was again. That bitterness toward her father.
    “I think,” Lucy said carefully, “your father would have been unhappy if he knew you’d been punished in such a way. Not just because you are his daughter. I’ve seen him speak out against such punishments for Quakers.”
    Sarah’s eyes welled with tears, which she angrily brushed away. “Perhaps,” she said.
    Seeing that Sarah had no more inclination to talk, Lucy bid her farewell and headed back to Fleet Street and Master Aubrey’s shop.

 
    6
    “Which woodcut shall I use?” Lucy muttered to herself as she looked at each of the wooden blocks in turn. Master Aubrey and Lach were both out selling, and she had been