Free Witch Child by Elizabeth Lloyd Page B

English house sits way back in the village, requiring the family to contend with cart paths which are always marshy, rutted and give one a positive stomach ache for all the jouncing around of innards. And, because of the lack of free land, Goodman English and his family will have to make do with their backwoods farm and its inconveniences—with no hope of improvement.
    Goodman Corwin is also jealous, as I have already recorded, because of Papa’s inheritance and sudden turn of fortune. Goodman Corwin is not one to be pleased by a turn of fortune, unless ’tis his.
    Feeling rather of advantage for a change, I listened to Papa reason.
    â€œWould you have the village deprived of a mill?” Papa asked. “Would you have us all again grinding by hand—else travelling the distance into town? Pray, Simon, would you have your grain not only traversing your cart path, but also spending the better part of a sun going forth then back from town?”
    The waterwheel behind me was going “Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.”
    Goodman English wanted none of Papa’s reasoning. I watched him stalk out, with Goodman Corwin trailing in his shadow, and I made a face at them both—out of loyalty to Papa. Goodman English climbed into his cart, ranting some incoherent threats about taking the matter up with the magistrate. And so fiercely did he whip his oxen, I felt certain those oxen would balk and turn on him.
    Sighing, Papa walked over to me. “Be glad you are a woman, Rachel,” Papa said. “You shan’t have to contend with such burdens. Daniel shall bear them instead.”
    Secretly, I think the mill no burden at all. I wish I were to inherit it instead of Daniel.
    Later, when Papa arrived home for meal, I learned that Goodman English’s cart lost a wheel and crashed on his way home—demolishing the cart, though leaving its shaken, angry driver intact. I am glad about the cart.

Salem, 7 August 1692 eve
    Where is Jeremiah when I need him? Every day he calls, yet three have past with nary a visit!
    Is it Phebe Jeremiah now takes with him fishing and in slow meanderings through the woods? Is it Phebe to whom Jeremiah now shows off his musket, and with whom he now shares his teasing and laughter?
    How I wish I were pretty! ‘Tis so horrid being plain. Papa says ’tis what is inside which counts, and vanity shall never bring advantage. But ‘tis not at all how the world works. ’Tis not ugly old cows about which people coo and pander, but the soft, silkiness of their calves. Was there ever a homely cur whom people yearned to adopt and nurture? Nay, ’tis the frisky cuteness of a pup.
    I do wish my hair were fair and curly, and my nose had not near so many freckles. Boys like pretty girls—of that I’m certain. And are girls no better? Do I not make fun of Joshua Snow for being so ugly? Does Jeremiah ever think the same of me?
    My nose is too long. My cheeks are too shallow. How I do yearn for the round, softness of Phebe. O how I hate to admit Phebe is pretty!
    Mama says looking glasses are not for admiring but for adjusting one’s cloak, and when she catches me studying my reflection—which I have oft done lately—Mama admonishes me for my preoccupation. Yet how is one to really know oneself if one does not know how one looks? Such reasoning sits ill with Mama. “’Tis the inside which one should study,” Mama reminds. Yet I cannot help but feel that what is inside is reflected in what is out. I do wish Mama and I weren’t always at such cross-purposes.
    Perhaps ’tis indeed my inside manner in which Jeremiah tires. Perhaps he is more attracted to the shallow prattle and lightness of Phebe. Perhaps I should try more cooings and panderings, as Phebe does so well. Boys always do seem to like girls who are airy. Why do I torture myself so?
    Who am I? What am I to become? Of what substance is my character? Shall I ever be poised and