My fourth son was born, not in prison as I'd for a time feared, but in the
bedroom of the house I once share with my husband. He was as perfect and
strong a child as I could ever have asked for, and when I first held him,
cradled against my chest, all the bitterness I retained in my heart melted
away like snow. I named him John and for seven years, until his death one
winter of fever, he was my greatest joy.
I owe my life, and the lives of my children, to the goodness of Francis Nurse. After John died, our farm was put up for sale. Francis bought it from the court for a small fraction of its worth and had the land tended as his own. The fields had been neglected for several months and were quite wild. Come autumn, little of the crops that John had planted were worth gathering but what there was, Francis had gathered and sold. The profits he put aside for my boys. It was during the harvest-time that I came home, for it was still to be my home, this farm and this house, in which all of my children came into the world. Not a thing was changed. All was exactly as I had left it almost six months ago. I told Francis that I would repay him the cost of the farm, but he shook his head gently. I had to do something Elizabeth, he said. I cannot give you back your husband, but I can at least return to you and your boys your home. Don't let's say any more on it. I spoke no more about it, but when my eldest married his granddaughter Helen I saw Francis smile, and I smiled also. From that day on, Helen's sisters, brothers, cousins, and their many children were always visiting, and the house was home of the Nurses and their wise and gracious spirits, although the name on deeds was still that of Matthew Proctor.
That same autumn that I was released, Reverend Hale of Beverly came to see me. He looked slightly less gaunt than when I had last seen him, that morning in the jailhouse when he pleaded with me to ask John to confess, but otherwise he was unchanged. Our talk was only brief. He asked after my children. I told him that they were all well. Then he grew quiet before the words came. I need your forgiveness Goody Proctor, he said anxiously. Without it I am worse than a murderer. When he spoke I could think only of John, who had so often asked my forgiveness. On that last morning, I'd said that there was nothing to forgive. I gave Mr Hale the absolution he wanted. I gave it freely and with all of my heart.
I gave birth to my one and only daughter a year after Ian and I married. She was like none of my other children; blonde and hazel-eyed like her father. I named her Rebecca, after her grandmother. Rebecca Nurse.
I owe my life, and the lives of my children, to the goodness of Francis Nurse. After John died, our farm was put up for sale. Francis bought it from the court for a small fraction of its worth and had the land tended as his own. The fields had been neglected for several months and were quite wild. Come autumn, little of the crops that John had planted were worth gathering but what there was, Francis had gathered and sold. The profits he put aside for my boys. It was during the harvest-time that I came home, for it was still to be my home, this farm and this house, in which all of my children came into the world. Not a thing was changed. All was exactly as I had left it almost six months ago. I told Francis that I would repay him the cost of the farm, but he shook his head gently. I had to do something Elizabeth, he said. I cannot give you back your husband, but I can at least return to you and your boys your home. Don't let's say any more on it. I spoke no more about it, but when my eldest married his granddaughter Helen I saw Francis smile, and I smiled also. From that day on, Helen's sisters, brothers, cousins, and their many children were always visiting, and the house was home of the Nurses and their wise and gracious spirits, although the name on deeds was still that of Matthew Proctor.
That same autumn that I was released, Reverend Hale of Beverly came to see me. He looked slightly less gaunt than when I had last seen him, that morning in the jailhouse when he pleaded with me to ask John to confess, but otherwise he was unchanged. Our talk was only brief. He asked after my children. I told him that they were all well. Then he grew quiet before the words came. I need your forgiveness Goody Proctor, he said anxiously. Without it I am worse than a murderer. When he spoke I could think only of John, who had so often asked my forgiveness. On that last morning, I'd said that there was nothing to forgive. I gave Mr Hale the absolution he wanted. I gave it freely and with all of my heart.
I gave birth to my one and only daughter a year after Ian and I married. She was like none of my other children; blonde and hazel-eyed like her father. I named her Rebecca, after her grandmother. Rebecca Nurse.