The Secret

  Then his expression changed. The hatred melted into grief and horror. He lowered his face to his hands, sobbing, “Abigail, Abigail.”

  Jonathan choked back his own tears and helped his weeping father to his feet. Holding each other and sobbing, they stood motionless in the silent darkness.

  Hester Goode’s gleeful laughter surrounded them, ringing in their ears.

  No matter how they tried, they couldn’t stop her gleeful chant:

  “Abigail came to my house! Abigail came to my house!”

  PART TWO

  Western Massachusetts 1743

  Chapter 7

  “And ever since that day, our family has been cursed. The Goodes will not let us live in peace. That is why we must find them and put an end to this horror, once and for all.”

  Jonathan Fier stopped outside his sister Rachel’s bedroom door to listen. Their father, Ezra, was putting Rachel to bed.

  Every night Ezra told his daughter a bedtime story. But instead of reciting a fairy tale, Ezra told her the story of the family curse.

  Some bedtime story, Jonathan thought sadly. I am suprised it does not give her nightmares.

  “I do not want to go to sleep, Papa,” Rachel said. Please, let me stay up a little longer. It is still light ut.”

  “No,” Ezra replied firmly. “Get into bed and stay here this time. I mean it.”

  Jonathan smiled as he heard this. Rachel always hated to go to bed before everyone else.

  “But Jonathan does not have to go to bed,” she whined.

  “Jonathan is almost eighteen and you are a little nine-year-old girl,” said Ezra. “I do not want to hear any more about it. Shut your eyes. Good night.”

  Jonathan hurried down the hall before Ezra came out of Rachel’s room. He did not want his father to catch him eavesdropping.

  It has been six years since we left Wickham, Jonathan thought. Six years since Abby died. And Papa is more obsessed with the Goodes than ever.

  Jonathan ran his index finger along the freshly painted wall of their new house. The third house in six years, Jonathan thought bitterly.

  Papa promised this would be the last move. We shall see. Every time we move he says he is positive he has found the Goodes—but still we have not found them yet.

  Jonathan started down the stairs, his black shoes loud on the wooden steps. He wore white stockings with the buckled shoes and dark green knee breeches. His shirt was white cotton with a plain ruffle.

  His mother no longer made his clothes—she had no need to. All the Fiers had their clothes made by a seamstress now.

  The Fiers had grown rich in the last six years. Whenever they moved to a new town, Ezra brought with him some goods—tea, spices, fancy silks—to sell to the townspeople. His instinct for selling was uncanny. In each town Ezra knew exactly what the people would need.

  Thanks to his ability, the family was now quite comfortable. But their new wealth had not brought Ezra peace.

  As Jonathan reached the bottom of the stairs, he heard a knock at the front door.

  “I will answer it, Mama,” he called. He could hear her in the kitchen, unpacking.

  Jonathan opened the front door. There stood a very pretty girl who appeared to be about sixteen or seventeen years old.

  She had smooth brown hair pulled back into a knot at the nape of her neck. She wore a simple green dress with white ruffles at the neckline and the sleeves. She gazed at Jonathan with lively brown eyes, and smiled.

  “Good evening,” said the girl, dropping into a quick curtsy. She held a round dish covered with a cloth in one hand. “My name is Delilah Wilson. I live on the farm down the road.”

  “Please come in,” offered Jonathan.

  “I know you moved in today, and I thought you might like something more with your supper,” Delilah said. She held out the round dish as she stepped through the doorway. “I have brought you an apple pie.”

  Jonathan took the pie and thanked her. It was still warm.

  “Please come into the parlor, Miss Wilson,’* he said. “I will tell my mother and father that you are here. I know they would like to meet you.”

  He showed Delilah into the parlor and took the pie into the kitchen to his mother.

  “How kind of her,” Jane Fier said. “Go get your father. We can have some pie and invite our new neighbor to share it with us.”

  Wiping her hands on her apron, she hurried to the parlor to meet Delilah. Jonathan knocked on the door of his father’s study.

  “Come in,” his father called gruffly.

  Jonathan opened the study door. Most of his father’s books and maps, his business records, and the family Bible were still packed up in crates. Ezra sat at his desk facing the doorway bent over a map.

  “What is it?” Ezra demanded impatiently. His black hair was shot through with pewter gray now, and the lines in his face had deepened.

  He did not look up from his map of western Massachusetts. Jonathan knew his father was following a new trail that he imagined the Goodes might have taken.

  “Papa, a young woman has come to see us. One of our neighbors.”

  “So?”

  Jonathan cleared his throat. “Well, she would like to meet you.”

  “Not just now. I am busy.”

  Jonathan stood in the doorway for a moment, unsure of what to do next. The silver pendant his father always wore flashed in the candlelight, the blue stones gleaming. Ezra said, “Close the door behind you.”

  Jonathan started into the hall on his way back to the parlor. On his way he heard a light step on the stairs. He glanced up.

  Rachel, dressed in a light summer nightgown, was creeping down the steps.

  “Rachel!” cried Jonathan. “You heard Papa—”

  Rachel raised a finger to her lips to quiet him. “Who is here?” she whispered. “One of our neighbors? I want to meet her!”

  “Papa will be very angry—”

  But Rachel ignored him. She ran quickly down the stairs and slipped into the parlor, Jonathan right behind her.

  His mother was talking to Delilah. When she saw Rachel, Jane Fier opened her eyes wide in astonishment and cried out—

  “Abigail!”

  Chapter 8

  “What are you doing out of bed, Abby?” Jane Fier cried.

  Jonathan watched as Rachel’s young face grew solemn. He stepped forward and, putting a hand on Jane’s shoulder, gently corrected his mother.

  “It is Rachel, Mama. She wants to meet our new neighbor.”

  A shadow of confusion passed briefly across Jane Fier’s face. Then it cleared.

  She took Rachel’s hand, patted it, and smiled.

  Rachel relaxed and sat down.

  I suppose poor Rachel is used to it by now, Jonathan thought sadly. Used to Mama’s confusion.

  Rachel did resemble Abigail, even though she was blond and Abby had had red hair.

  Still, it is not their looks that confuses Mama, Jonathan realized. Abigail lives on in Mama’s mind. Mama cannot let Abby die.

  Delilah nodded toward the little girl and said, “I am happy to meet you, Rachel.”

  “My father is busy at the moment, I’m afraid,” Jonathan told Delilah. “But he is very eager to meet you and your family. Perhaps he will call on you tomorrow.”

  Delilah nodded.

  “Please excuse me for a moment,” said Jane. “I will leave my son and daughter to entertain you while I prepare the pie, Miss Wilson.”

  Jonathan smiled. Somehow Rachel had gotten her way and would stay up to have pie with them.

  Delilah, Jonathan, and Rachel took seats. The parlor was not fully furnished yet, just a couch and a few chairs clustered around a small table.

  But Ezra had already hung a large painting over the fireplace—a portrait of Abigail. Ezra had painted it himself, from memory.

  In the portrait Abigail was dressed as Ezra had last seen her, in a blue dress, wearing her white cap with the blue ribbons.

  “You have a lovely ho
use,” Delilah said, glancing around admiringly. The house, large and elegant, was three stories, painted white with black shutters and surrounded by a white fence. It was the nicest house the Fiers had ever lived in.

  “Where have you moved from?” Delilah asked.

  “From Worcester,” answered Jonathan. “And before that, Danbury.”

  “My goodness!” Delilah exclaimed. “Why have you moved so much?”

  Jonathan hesitated. He certainly did not want to explain his father’s obsession with the Goode family to this pretty neighbor. How could she ever understand?

  But before he could stop her, Rachel blurted out in a low voice, “It is Papa. He says our family is cursed!”

  “Rachel!” Jonathan cut in.

  Delilah’s eyes widened. “Cursed? What do you mean?”

  “This is just a little girl’s exaggeration,” Jonathan interrupted, hoping to end the discussion then.

  “No, it is not!” Rachel insisted. “Papa tells me about it every night before bed.”

  She pointed to the portrait of Abigail and said, “That girl was my sister. She died when I was little. One of the Goodes got her.”

  “Rachel—” Jonathan warned. But Delilah acted very interested and pressed Rachel to go on.

  To Jonathan’s dismay, Rachel told Delilah all about the family curse and the feud between the Goodes and the Fiers. Jonathan watched Delilah’s face as she heard the horrible details. She turned pale as flour, and her eyes grew wide.

  She will never want to see us again, he thought, and was surprised at his disappointment. He already liked this lively girl very much.

  At last Jonathan said, “It is all nonsense, Miss Wilson. My father has been filling Rachel’s head with these stories, and she takes them too seriously.”

  “So you do not believe in the curse?” Delilah asked him, locking her eyes onto his.

  “There is no curse,” Jonathan replied, frowning. “And there would be no feud if Papa would only let it die. This is all of his own making—he brings trouble on himself. Our constant quest for the Goodes has almost ruled our lives, but the Goodes themselves have done nothing to hurt us.”

  “What about Abigail?” Rachel demanded.

  Jonathan paused. He didn’t like to think about Abigail.

  Abigail would still be alive if it were not for Papa’s crazy ideas, he thought bitterly. Papa forced us to live in Wickham when no decent family should have stayed there.

  Abigail’s death was Papa’s fault.

  Jonathan tried to shake away his unpleasant thoughts. He turned his gaze on Delilah. She was studying the portrait of Abigail.

  “Abigail looks a lot like you, Rachel,” Delilah said.

  “Most people say that,” said Rachel, smiling at Jonathan.

  “Perhaps we should talk about something else,” Jonathan said uncomfortably.

  “Do you have any brothers and sisters, Miss Wilson?” Rachel asked eagerly.

  “Rachel, you may call me Delilah,” Delilah said. She turned to Jonathan and added, “You may, too.”

  Jonathan thought he saw her blush slightly.

  “I am an only child,” she told Rachel. “My mother died when I was born. I live with my father. He is a minister, but his congregation is very small We live on a small farm.”

  Jonathan studied her dress, made of homespun linen dyed pale green. For the first time he noticed how worn it was. The lace at the sleeves was frayed, and here and there the skirt was expertly patched.

  She probably wore her best dress to come calling on us, Jonathan thought. She must be very poor. It does not matter. She is still the prettiest girl I have ever seen.

  Jonathan walked into town a few days later to see the blacksmith. His mother wanted a new pot to hang over the kitchen fire.

  He ordered the pot from the blacksmith and left the shop. Just outside he bumped into a pretty, brownhaired girl in a dark blue dress and white sunbonnet.

  “Delilah Wilson! How pleasant to see you again.”

  “I am glad to see you, too, Jonathan.” She carried a small basket. Jonathan took the basket to carry for her. It was empty.

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “I am on my way home,” she replied. “I have just come from Papa’s church. He has been there all morning with nothing to eat, so I brought him a bit of cheese and bread.”

  “I am on my way home, too, as it happens,” said Jonathan. “May I escort you?”

  Delilah smiled. “Thank you. That is very kind.”

  The afternoon sun shone bright and hot as they walked out of town and down the road to Delilah’s house. Jonathan could feel himself begin to sweat under his collar.

  “How is your family?” Delilah asked. “Your mother and sister?”

  “Quite well, thank you,” said Jonathan.

  “I liked them both very much,” Delilah went on. “Your sister especially. She is very sweet.”

  Jonathan felt a little uncomfortable at the memory of Delilah’s visit—his mother’s confusion, Rachel’s talk of a family curse. Delilah is being polite, he decided. She must think us very strange.

  “I must apologize for Rachel’s behavior the other evening,” he said. “I hope she did not frighten you—or bore you—with her silly talk.”

  Delilah laughed. “Not at all. She is only a child, and children love wild stories. I was exactly the same at her age.”

  “I am sure you were much more sensible than Rachel,” Jonathan protested.

  “If anything I was sillier. Just ask my father. At eight I was sure that a fox would come in my window in the night to carry me off. I insisted that we keep all the windows in the house shut at night—even when it was quite hot. My father thought I had gone mad!”

  Jonathan smiled at her story and offered her his arm. She accepted; and together they walked arm in arm.

  That night Jonathan lay in bed a long time without sleeping. An image of Delilah floated before his eyes: her glossy brown hair, her creamy skin, her rosy cheeks, her mischievous brown eyes.

  I shall call on her tomorrow, he thought, growing sleepy at last. I will bring a bouquet of flowers….

  A sudden noise made him sit straight up.

  What was that?

  The sound seemed to be far off. Had he been dreaming?

  No. There it was again. Closer now.

  Jonathan listened. The sound started low but quickly grew in pitch and volume. At first he thought it was some kind of animal shriek, a tortured cry, a scream of agony.

  Jonathan shook with fear. He had never heard any animal make that sound.

  Was it a bear? A wolf? An injured dog?

  It was moving swiftly toward his house, nearer, nearer.

  Now it was right in the yard, and coming closer.

  It stopped right under his window!

  Jonathan’s heart leapt to his throat.

  A voice in his head screamed, “Help! Please, somebody—help! It is coming to get me!”

  Chapter 9

  His heart thudding in his chest, Jonathan stumbled to the window. The full moon shone on the wide rose trellis—still barren of roses—that climbed the back wall of the house to the second-floor windows.

  He could see the backyard clearly—the woodpile, the new iron pump, the stone well, and the woods surrounding them.

  What made that horrible sound? Jonathan asked himself, trembling all over. Was it only a dream? A strange wild animal? Or was it something more terrible still?

  He pushed that idea from his mind. Rachel’s stories are giving me nightmares, he scolded himself.

  Silence now. The only sounds were the chirping of crickets and the low hooting of an owl. Still shaken, Jonathan climbed back into bed.

  He knew he would never get to sleep now. He lay awake all night, listening.

  Hours later the sky began to lighten. Jonathan heard his mother pass his room on her way downstairs to begin the day’s chores. His father and sister were stirring, too.

  Yawning and str
etching, Jonathan climbed out of bed and sleepily made his way to the washstand. He splashed cold water on his face and ran a comb through his shoulder-length brown hair. After tying his hair back with a black cord, he slipped on his knee breeches.

  In the kitchen Jane Fier was setting dishes on the table. “Good morning, Jonathan,” she said brightly. “Would you mind kindling the fire for me?”

  Jonathan kissed his mother good morning and went to the hearth. He picked up the bellows and puffed air into the glowing embers left over from the night before.

  Rachel skipped into the room in a brown dress and apron, her blond curls bouncing. Ezra followed close behind her. As he poked at the fire, Jonathan wondered whether any of them had heard the terrible cries that had awakened him in the night. Rachel appeared to be cheerful and well rested, but Ezra seemed tired.

  “Run out to the well and get me a bucket of water, Rachel,” said Jane.

  “Yes, Mama,” Rachel replied. She opened the back door and headed out to the well.

  A moment later bloodcurdling cries from the backyard made Jonathan drop his fireplace poker. It clattered to the hearth floor as he turned to run outside. Jane and Ezra were right behind him.

  Rachel stood by the well, screaming hysterically. Her hands, her face, her hair, her clothes were all splattered in red.

  “Abigail—what is it?” cried Jane. “What has happened?”

  Rachel ignored her mother. Her eyes fixed and staring, she pointed at the bucket she had pulled out of the well.

  Peering into the bucket, Jonathan gagged.

  It was filled with thick, red blood.

  Chapter 10

  Holding his hand over his mouth, Jonathan reeled backward.

  Blood! How could the well be full of blood?

  Trying not to vomit, Jonathan raised his eyes to his family. Jane was holding Rachel, trying to comfort her. Ezra’s eyes were bulging and his hand shook as he clutched his silver pendant.

  “The curse!” he cried. “The Goodes have come for us again!”