Chapter Four
Months passed, and my blood cycle still did not appear. I felt both nervous and frightened each time my belly twinged with pain, each time I felt swollen and bloated. But there was no blood on the inside of my petticoats, and I remained a child for another year and a half.
My father grew impatient to be rid of me. Six children under one small roof was a great burden, and the responsibility of raising my brothers and sisters often fell to me. I took some small, petty delight in the knowledge that once I left home, the family would be lost, if only temporarily. But my younger sister, Abigail, was now the age I was when Father had brokered my own marriage. I knew she wouldn’t have much longer at home, either.
The strange visions never returned. I couldn’t forget them; I knew I’d never be able to rid my mind of the bucket filled with blood. But for the most part, life in Ipswich returned to normal. Even the buzz around Henrik Larsson died down. After a while, most people saw him as an eccentric old man, albeit not a godly one.
My father and mother grew more pious by the day. When I was thirteen, Father came home, looking defeated and angry. He had quarreled with Minister Boggust, and our family had been cast out of the church. Father said it was a blessing. He said the rest of the village placed too high of an importance on vanity and sin. He said that our family needed to stick together and remain godly, remain as pure and free of sin as possible.
The morning of my fourteenth birthday, I woke up in a pool of rusty blood. My mother scolded me for not being more careful, but she didn’t attempt to hide the news from my father. And later that day, my father made arrangements with James Whittier.
I didn’t cry when I left home. I was too angry with my father, and even angrier with my mother for failing to protect me from his wrath. But if I had known what horrors awaited me in Salem, I would have cried until my eyes were as dry as gravel.
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Salem, Massachusetts – 1683
“What a pretty picture you make,” Thomas Whittier sneered. He stood with one foot planted on the steps, the other on the landing with his arms crossed against his muscular chest. “I should have Mother make you do this each day.”
Ligeia silently fumed. She was on her hands and knees, scrubbing the floor with a boar-bristle brush and lye mixed with water. It was backbreaking work. She had never thought her knees could ache as much as they did right now. It had taken her the better part of the day to scrub stairs, and now she had two whole floors of dusty wooden planks awaiting her. Despite the chill in the air, she was overheated and flushed. Sweat dripped down her forehead, soaking the neck of her gown. Her dark hair was plastered to her head with sweat, and her blue eyes glittered with hatred.
“Do not ignore me,” Thomas said. He glared at Ligeia. She still did not look up, keeping her attention on the work at hand. When she still did not reply, Thomas strode across the floor and grabbed her by the back of the neck, twisting his sausage-like fingers into her delicate skin until she whimpered with pain.
“Yes, Master Thomas?” Ligeia whimpered. Her blue eyes flashed with anger.
“That’s better,” Thomas replied. He released her and strode around her in a circle, keeping his eyes glued to her figure beneath the thin, homespun gown. “I am eager for your time to pass more quickly,” he said. “Do you feel the same?”
“Yes, Master Thomas,” Ligeia grunted. She closed her eyes and inhaled sharply as pain shot up from her knees to her thin thighs.
Thomas grinned cruelly. He squatted down. When Ligeia did not look up, he tangled his fingers in her sweaty hair and yanked her face to meet his own.
“You are a lovely thing,” Thomas sneered. He licked his lips, letting his eyes trail down her body and focus on her budding breasts. “And I know exactly how to treat things that are so lovely.”
Ligeia glared, but she did not speak.
“Only, you have one problem,” Thomas said. “You are too quiet.” He released his grip on her hand and stood up, circling her once again. He snickered as he leaned in and swatted her hard on the behind, smacking her again and again until his palm stung from the force of it.
“You stupid beast!” Thomas shouted angrily. “Make noise! I want to hear you cry!”
Ligeia was biting the inside of her mouth to keep from howling with pain, but finally, she relented and released a loud cry of suffering and hurt. Thomas grinned. He smacked her buttocks all the harder until Ligeia collapsed on the soapy floor.
“You little wench,” Thomas sneered. “Pathetic!” He kicked her roughly in the stomach. This time, Ligeia’s cry of pain was genuine. Tears flooded her eyes, and she sniffled, rolling into a ball and hugging her knees to her chest with both arms. Her cheeks burned with shame as Thomas grinned down at her, evidently enjoying the sight of his betrothed in pain.
“Leave me alone,” Ligeia hissed.
Thomas snickered. His boots were filthy with mud, and he smiled at Ligeia, keeping his eyes locked with hers as he strode around the room, covering the floor with mud and dirt.
“For now,” Thomas said cheerfully. He shoved his hands in his pockets and walked out of the room, humming under his breath.
Ligeia took a deep breath and hauled herself into a sitting position. Her whole body ached. She hated living with the Whittier family more than she’d ever thought possible. Thomas, the eldest son (and her soon-to-be husband) was a menacing bully who delighted in tormenting everyone around him – even his mother, Joy, who was the only kind person in the household. When Ligeia had first arrived, she had sensed an ally in Joy. But her trust and happiness eroded quickly as soon as she realized that Joy would offer no true protection against Thomas’ constant cruelties.
The Whittier home was a grand one, the largest in Salem. Ligeia’s father, William, had been very proud when he’d announced to his family that Ligeia would be marrying into wealth. But Ligeia deeply regretted not standing firm or running away. Life in the grand house was horrible, and she spent her days cleaning, cooking, and sometimes watching the younger Whittier children.
James Whittier, the patriarch of the family, was no better than his son, Thomas. Joy, his wife, and his daughters shrank when he was around. Ligeia was frightened of him, too. James and Thomas were both large, bulky men with shining caps of blond hair and smug, fat cheeks. They looked like overgrown children, and Ligeia grew more horrified with each passing day in the knowledge that she’d soon be having children of her very own.
Heavy footsteps thudded down the stairs, and Ligeia cringed. ‘Prithee, Thomas, leave me alone,’ she prayed silently as she scrubbed the floor. ‘Do not bother me again today!’
The footsteps grew nearer. Ligeia kept her head bent over her work, scrubbing hard at the wooden floor until it shone with suds and water.
“Ligeia.” James’ booming voice made Ligeia cringe. “You work so hard,” he said. He snickered, stepping closer. “Come, take a moment to chat with your father.”
Ligeia shuddered. The worst part of living as a servant in the Whittier home was having to treat James and Joy like parents.
“Yes, Father,” Ligeia said obediently. She stood and curtsied, keeping her gaze lowered at the floor.
“Tell me, are you happy in this godly home?” James snickered. “William seemed to think you would be.”
“Yes, Father,” Ligeia said. James’ eyes slid from her face to her bosom, and Ligeia was reminded, unpleasantly, of Thomas. ‘All men are disgusting,’ she thought as James ogled her. ‘I hate being subjected to this!’
“Come here.” James raised his eyebrows and held out his arms.
Ligeia walked forward stiffly, as if her joints were made of wood. James pulled her into a tight embrace. Ligeia couldn’t decide who was worse: Thomas or his father, James. While Thomas pinched and hit, James was more subtle. He enjoyed holding Ligeia close to his body and refusing to allow her to escape.
James wrapped his arms around Ligeia’s shoulders and pulled her close. She tried not to gag at his bodily stench. It was raw and musky, like onions and stale urine. She stood stiffly as James stroked her back, sliding his hands down to her bottom and squeezing. Her flesh was still sore from where Thomas had spanked her, and she tried not to shake as James squeezed her buttocks.
“You’re a good girl,” James said. His breath was even worse than the rest of his malodorous body, and Ligeia shuddered. “A very, very good girl.”
“Yes, Father,” Ligeia said automatically. She cringed as she felt James’ prick stiffen in his trousers and press against her.
Voices sounded from below, and Ligeia tried to escape from James’ grip, but he held her all the tighter. Ligeia stifled a groan when she recognized Joy’s light soprano making its way up the stairs.
“Husband,” Joy said. She was panting. She was extremely overweight, and her face was perpetually red and shiny with perspiration. “I need your help.”
Finally, James released Ligeia, and she immediately sank into a curtsey for Joy. Joy glanced at her with derision. Ligeia hated the sense of guilt and anger she felt toward Joy. She hated the fact that Joy’s husband treated her like a wanton slut and she was expected to put up with it. But mostly, she hated how Joy grew angry with Ligeia for obeying James.
“How thee fare, wife?” James asked sarcastically. “Our little wench was just cleaning.” He pointed at the floor. “And doing a very poor job. What is all this mud?”
Ligeia’s ears burned. She could not tell the truth, that Thomas was responsible for the state of the room. “I will clean it all,” she promised meekly.
“No supper for you,” James said. He winked, and Ligeia shuddered.
“Go on,” Joy said. She gestured for Ligeia to kneel and once again begin scrubbing the floor. “Continue your work, wench.”
Joy and James left the room, talking amicably. Ligeia heaved a sigh and scrubbed with more force than ever before. She deeply wished to run away, but she had no money and no resources in Salem. The other household servants resented her. Ligeia wasn’t bound to servitude for life, and one day they’d be serving her themselves, and she had no companions in the home or in town. Ligeia was rarely allowed to leave the house, and when she was, she often was expected back in a strict timeframe. She’d had no contact with her own family since she’d left; her few letters had gone unanswered. More than once, Ligeia had thought perhaps James, or even Thomas, was responsible for taking the letters and hiding them. But then one day, she’d heard Joy saying how strange it was that Ligeia never received post from her family.
‘It’s like they forgot all about me,’ Ligeia thought sadly as she slopped a little more water and lye over the floorboards. ‘It’s like I never even existed.’
When she thought of her family, she pictured her brothers and sisters as young as they had been when she’d left. But she knew that Abigail was growing up. Maybe Father would find a place for her in Salem, too. Ligeia desperately wished for the opportunity to run away, but no such time ever presented itself.
Cleaning the floors of the Whittier home took the rest of the day. By the time Ligeia was through, she was exhausted and so hungry that she thought she might faint. She wasn’t looking forward to a cold night, alone in her tiny room, shivering and hungry.
“Girl!”
Ligeia’s head snapped up. The cook, Mary, snapped her fingers.
“Yes?”
Mary gestured for her to come closer. “Come here, wench,” she said. “You must go to the market and fetch fresh fish.” She stamped her foot in exasperation. “The little wench at the stove forgot it earlier, and Master James will be angry.”
Ligeia’s heart began to thump, and she nodded eagerly as Mary handed her a fistful of coins.
“And hurry!” Mary added in a sharp voice. “I can’t have Mistress Joy finding out, or she’ll whip the hide off my back.”
Ligeia pulled a cap over her dark hair and took her cloak from the washroom. The chilly air made her blood pump faster through her veins, but she welcomed a change from the dank, stuffy household. The Whittiers lived in close proximity to the market, but Ligeia knew that she had to hurry as it was almost time for the merchants to clear for the day.
The roads were muddy and slippery from last night’s sleet, and Ligeia stumbled, almost falling once. She pushed her way through the crowded streets, clutching the money tightly in her fist. When she was near a dark alley, she ducked inside and held the money close to her face, counting.
The cook had given her six shillings. Ligeia trembled, suddenly wishing she’d worn her warmer cloak and her thicker boots. She wouldn’t be able to get very far on six shillings, nor would she even be able to buy much food. Her back ached as she leaned against the brick wall, sobbing.
Suddenly, a flash of white hair in the street made Ligeia jump. She gasped as she emerged from the alley. Henrik Larsson, the strange man from Ipswich, was standing in the middle of the street, looking down at a piece of parchment.
“Henrik!” Ligeia cried.
Henrik looked up, frowning. When he saw Ligeia, he nodded. “Aye,” he said. “‘Tis Ligeia, the Arrowsmith girl.”
Ligeia lips her lips. They were dry and cracked. “Aye,” she said softly.
Henrik touched his forehead. “Well, good morrow to you,” he said. He turned around and began walking away from Ligeia.
“Ho!” Ligeia cried. She ran after Henrik, slipping and skidding on the muddy street. She was panting by the time she caught up with him. For such an old man, he had an interesting and slow way of moving down the street.
Henrik turned around, a curious smile on his lips. “Yes?”
“Prithee,” Ligeia begged, “help me.” She began to sob again. Henrik stood there, watching her for a moment with an emotionless look on his haggard face. Then he pulled her close, wrapping her in his cloak.
“I see you did not heed my warning,” Henrik said, but his voice was kind, “and now, you are suffering. Are you wed?”
Ligeia shook her head. She wiped her nose on her cloak and sniffled. “No,” she said. “I am not. But I am to wed within the year to Thomas Whittier.”
Henrik’s expression turned dark. “His cruelty is legendary for such a young man,” he said. “Your father sought to punish you, yes?”
“I do not know,” Ligeia cried helplessly. “I am a servant, and once I marry Thomas, a servant I will remain!” The sobs began to come in earnest, and she wept openly, burying her face in her hands.
“There, now, child,” Henrik said. He slid his fingers under Ligeia’s chin and tilted her face up to meet his. “Do not cry.”
“I cannot help myself,” Ligeia whimpered. “I cannot return to that home!” Her blue eyes flashed with hurt and desperation. “I cannot allow Thomas to beat me!”
“And beat you he will,” Henrik said. “Child, come closer.”
Ligeia obeyed.
“You must escape, yes?”
Ligeia nodded. “I do not know how,” she said softly. She bit her lip as tears streamed down her face. “I have no money, no friends, nothing!”
“Nothing but the six shillings in your hand,” Henrik said.
Ligeia stared at him. “How…how did you know that?”
Henrik gave a small shrug. “Now, child,” he said firmly, “you do not get to ask the questions right now. Do you want to escape, yes or no?” He sighed. “Time is running out for you, child.”
Ligeia nodded quickly. “Yes,” she said. “I am well aware.”
“Are you willing to risk your life?”
Ligeia nodded. “Yes,” she said. A flash of anxiety bolted through her body.
“Give me the shillings, child,” Henrik said. He held out his palm.
Ligeia hesitated. “I…I was supposed to buy fresh fish.”
Henrik shrugged. “Find a way to obtain it anyway,” he said. “I have no use for greedy children.”
Ligeia shoved the coins at him. “Here,” she spat.
“There is a forest at the edge of the village,” Henrik said. “Do you know it?”
Ligeia nodded. “Yes,” she said.
“Come tonight at the devil’s hour, three hours past midnight,” Henrik said. His eyes flashed with a bright light, and Ligeia felt hypnotized.
“At the devil’s hour,” she repeated, her lips barely moving.
“Yes, child,” Henrik said. He pocketed the coins, then gave her a gentle shove toward the market. “Tonight.”
The devil’s hour. The devil’s hour, Ligeia thought over and over as she darted through the stalls. Despite the late afternoon hour, the market was more crowded than she’d expected, and she found herself weaving in and out of masses of women and men. When she reached the fish stall, she stood for minutes unnoticed.
“Good morrow,” Ligeia said loudly, staring at the man in the stall. He ignored her.
“I said, good morrow!” Ligeia repeated, glaring angrily.
“May I assist you?” The man leaned in close, and Ligeia pointed to a fillet of salmon. But she realized he was speaking to the woman behind her.
‘How queer,’ Ligeia thought. ‘It’s…it’s almost as if I’m invisible!’
Her hand was shaking as she reached out and plucked a fillet of salmon from the counter. No one said anything. No one reached out to stop her or yelled that she was a thief.
Ligeia shivered. ‘I do not know what is happening,’ she thought nervously. ‘But tonight, I will be free.’