Losing Abigail

A How To Hang a Witch/Haunting the Deep (prequel) Fanfiction

Chapter Three: Good or Bad

"As I was responsible for ruining your dress, I have decided to make amends," said Elijah, one evening after he had been to the harbour and bought more drawing supplies, some of which he was currently in the process of using to sketch a rather smeary self-portrait he was not altogether pleased with the progress of, intending to cast it into the fire when he had completed it. "Take a look under the China cabinet, you may discover a gift there."

Setting aside the leather songbook, which she had been copying her latest lyrics into while her brother worked on his disappointing sketch, Abigail glanced over at him curiously, then went to the cabinet as he instructed.

(Had it been but a couple hours earlier, when someone might yet – however unexpectedly – come calling, she would have anxiously considered taking the book upstairs – to the hidey-hole in the armoire – or at least concealing it rather than leave something so incriminating unattended, even only for enough time to retrieve Elijah's gift.)

There, she discovered a parcel in brown paper, tied up with string.

It seemed odd to her he should go through the bother of wrapping and hiding the materials she'd requested for a simple dress to replace the one she'd muddied outside of John Proctor's field.

She cut the string with the little knife she used for opening letters and cutting thread when she was doing her mending, slowly peeling back the paper.

Silken folds of brilliant blue slipped out, pooling into her lap as she sank to the floor – it wasn't an ordinary dress at all, but a fancy gown, the sort she had mentioned feeling guilty over wanting.

Mouth agape, she turned around to stare at Elijah in amazement. "You must be addled in the head."

He blinked at her with exaggerated sageness. His expression reminded her of very self-satisfied owl. "I am only sorry it will not suit for church."

It would not suit for anywhere outside the house. That was what made it so marvellous, so extraordinary. Girls elsewhere, some place far beyond Salem, who wore such gowns regularly, couldn't imagine how she felt to be given this blue dress – a dress she would never be seen in. She couldn't even wear it to her own wedding, if she should be fortunate enough to marry. Puritan weddings were not particularly celebratory, more of a simple contract agreement than anything else, and the – by comparison – more elaborate engagement, the reading of the banns, would leave no place for finery either.

Abigail dropped the dress back into the crumpled mound of brown paper, dashed across the room, threw her arms around her brother's neck, and kissed his cheek. "Thank you. It is so beautiful. I shall cherish it always."

While a part of him had always suspected a fondness existed between his sister and his best friend, William, Elijah's first proper inclination there might be something deeper between them struck him when he noticed Abigail leaning over the fence on the far end of the properly to talk to William.

To begin with, he thought nothing whatever of it – they were all old friends, after all, and it wasn't in the least surprising Abigail would have some news or other to share when she saw him passing. But there was the faintest cause for suspicion about the way their heads were bowed close, albeit in perfect innocence, as if they did not want to be overheard, and the way they suddenly pulled back from each other as if sharply jolted – both of them with bright scarlet red faces – when they heard Elijah approach.

He cleared his throat and acted as though he'd seen nothing – he had no wish to embarrass Abigail.

If he should have guessed wrongly, if there were no romantic feelings developing between the pair – or worse, if indeed such feelings existed, and neither were ready to admit it as of yet – it could potentially be mortifying. Even having admitted to Abigail his preference for Ann, he knew – if the situation were reversed – if she mentioned his words in front of the young woman he admired – he would have been less than thrilled.

He settled he would ask her about it later, in the evening when they sat together drawing and writing and dreaming of the sort of things the rest of Salem clicked their tongues at, trusting no one would come upon them and anything they said then was never to be repeated.

For the time being, he pretended to have seen nothing, talking with William as he always did and drawing no more attention to his sister than was strictly necessary.

As they walked back – after biding William farewell and wishing him and his family good health – Elijah contemplated his own feelings over the possible match, if Abigail really did like William.

There were precious few men he admired and trusted in Salem more than his best friend, the man who as a boy had been his favourite schoolmate. Many a choice, in Salem and all the way up near Andover alike, might have been a thousand times worse than Abigail settling upon him.

Further, William – while certainly devout enough – wasn't a religious fanatic, and Abigail might have a chance to be genuinely happy with him – Elijah couldn't see his friend forbidding a wife to sing or invent songs in the privacy of their home if such made her happy. They were both of a sweet disposition without being easy to spoil. If anything, their servants – William came from some old money, though his property was not as good as theirs, nor his family as competent in investing their fortune, and Elijah wouldn't send his sister off empty-handed, so there certainly would be servants – would probably cheat them and too often take advantage of their constant generosity. They would quarrel only a little, only as much as is healthy for any couple, but likely no further, for their tastes and manners and preferences of how things ought to be done were not dissimilar.

Elijah's only real concern had to do with William's parents. He had never liked them, even as a child, often wondering how someone as genuine as his best friend could have come from such stupid, snobbish people. People who doubtless had loftier plans for William than William had for himself.

He was unsure how his sister – such a sensitive, at times admittedly tightly-wound, introverted girl – would cope with the in-laws she would have if she married William. They would find much objectionable in Abigail, despite her fine qualities, for they found everything good objectionable where it did not bring them any personal profit.

Part of him shamefully doubted William's ability to defend her in their presence; he had always kowtowed to his parents a little too readily for Elijah's liking. There was keeping the peace, then there was giving in to each and every demand – demure and obliging, the perfect Puritan son – without due consideration to the potential ramifications.

Abigail might well be the boot to the rear William needed to stand up to his parents more, to be respectful but also independent. All the same, the idea of a woman changing a man after marriage – however good his underlying nature – ought never to be relied upon.

That way lay heartache, that way lay unnecessary suffering.

But, Elijah told himself, there was no point in going so far ahead. He must begin by finding out their intentions and doing all he could to see Abigail was protected.

She was nervous when he broached the subject that evening.

He began by showing her a simple drawing – a sketch of William at the fence, done quickly and with less attention to detail than usual, yet the subject was unmistakable – and raising his brow.

"Elijah," she rasped, colouring. "I – we – wished to tell you, to tell you how we felt, only... Only he – William – was so terribly frightened you would be angry with him. Your friendship means so much to him. You cannot imagine how much he loves you, brother, how dear you are you to him. I knew you would not be angry – I told him you–" She choked off. "Oh, please tell me you are not cross."

Elijah gave her a kind, indulgent smile. "I am not cross."

Relief flooded her expression. "Thank you." He was too good to her.

"I have, however, a single stipulation."

Her animated colour paled slightly.

"I must know his intentions toward you are honourable."

"Of course they are," cried she. "He is William." She gnawed her lower lip, thinking a moment. "Oh, I know how I can prove it to you – he has written some letters to me – nothing shocking, only a few kindly meant notes he slipped into my hand as I passed his pew at church." She felt certain if she showed her brother the letters, they – coupled with his knowledge of William's goodness – would reassure him. "I shall fetch them from my room and allow you to read them, and you–"

"Of William's good character, I am already convinced, Abigail; he is my best friend." He gave her a coy side-glance. "And I am pleased to hear you are putting the hidey-hole in the armoire I made for you to good use."

"I–"

He held up a hand. "But I must hear it from him. Trust me, I would do nothing to humiliate either of you – it will be no interrogation – I simply wish to speak to him as well. It would be unfair if only you alone were in my confidence when it concerns the both of you."

She had not considered that. At least, if the conversation must be had, she could trust him – she knew this, looking into his calm face – to keep to his word and utter nothing embarrassing. He had been gentle about this matter from the beginning – even how he let her know of his suspicions was kinder than need be. She nodded her consent.

"Keep the letters to yourself, for your own eyes." He touched her shoulder. "I have no wish to pry there. After all, it is rude to read someone else's private correspondence. Our parents raised us better than that."

"Will you take one to him for me, then, when you go to talk to him?" she asked. "A letter?"

He agreed to do so.

The afternoon Elijah went to speak to William, only a day after their revealing evening conversation, Abigail begged off her daily chores – those which were not handled by servants – and expected visitations by pleading a stomachache.

It wasn't a lie. Her stomach was in knots, and what little she'd managed to get down at breakfast at Elijah's urging disagreed with her not even an hour afterwards.

She was left – for the duration of her brother's absence – in the care of Sarah Osborne, a woman they were currently employing to cook and tend to the fires and air out the lesser-used rooms in their large house.

The employment was strictly temporary, until they could hire on a more talented cook, preferably one who could make the fancy puddings and dainty cakes Abigail and Elijah both liked best, and until Osborne had worked off some debts her second husband incurred as an indentured immigrant, yet part of Abigail was surprised the arrangement had been made at all.

There was nothing the matter with Goody Osborne, to be sure, not on any professional level, and her good manners toward Abigail and disdain for dust were all the qualifications she needed to be Elijah's easy graces, but given his preference for Ann Putnam – now beginning to be noticed by others and talked of – it was a little strange he would risk upsetting her family by hiring on Sarah when they were all but openly feuding with her.

It was a lot of trouble over some land. A handsome acreage had been set, or so everybody assumed, to be given over to Sarah's grown sons from her first marriage, but she was a clever woman and had no intention of risking her own eviction, so she took ownership of it herself. Ann's relatives had somehow gotten themselves tangled up in the legal proceedings and the ensuing quarrel, and most of them were set against Sarah. This included Ann, as far as she professed to really care about the matter. But Elijah had thought she'd suit anyway – said what land Osborne owned or did not own was no concern of his – and that was that. He would have rather had Sarah, knowing she was capable of the bare minimum, than have had a flightier girl the Putnams approved of who was liable to snub Abigail and burn the place down by not keeping the fireplaces in working order.

Abigail had happened to be present when Ann learned of Sarah Osborne working at the Rowe House, more than a trifle dismayed by the dark expression and curl of her upper lip as she took in the news, but she comforted herself with the knowledge Elijah was not going to marry Ann anyway – he was going to marry the girl in green lace, she was almost certain he was – and by reminding herself Ann, who was not at all a bad sort, had as much right as anyone else to feel offense where she wanted to take it – warranted or not – without being judged.

Besides, even supposing Ann did wed Elijah, supposing the girl in green never appeared to claim his love, Osborne would no longer be working for them by the time she was a bride moving into their home.

It could harm nobody.

For the time being, Abigail gladly let Sarah nurse her and make a small fuss over her person, putting a thick woollen blanket over her shoulders as she remarked upon how delicate Rowe women always seemed to be, and insisting she have some tea mixed with herbs to make her stomach easier, that she take it seated by the warmth of the fire before going upstairs to lie down.

Staring into the fire, cup in hand, she suddenly gave a sharp little gasp.

She did not know what happened – one minute the flames appeared to part, a hellish version of Moses parting the Red Sea, little salamander heads seemed to cast their shadows in the embers the same way she might have imagined fishes swimming on either side of the walls of water in that biblical tale, then she saw, very clearly, the shape of a barred door (a jail cell?), poor Sarah Osborne's chin leaning against these bars, tears running down her face, passed over by a translucent, ghostly scythe, the next minute she was shaking and her cup was in pieces in the hearth.

Blood ran from and smeared her palms, but she failed to notice until Sarah – come in to check on her – realised what was happening, screamed, and ran over with clean rags to bind her wounds. "What happened, child?"

Blinking, Abigail took in the sight of Sarah crouching over her and breathed out in relief. "You are all right! I thought something bad–" She clamped her lips shut, realising it must have been one of her visions of the future. "I mean, I think I fell asleep for a minute and had a bad dream."

Sarah's eyes shone with pity. The poor girl. "Well, whatever it was is good and ended now. Do not trouble yourself any longer. Go upstairs and sleep more comfortably – one nearly always has bad dreams sleeping upright in a chair, you know. I shall sweep the crockery from the ashes, and I hope your brother will not have anything too cross to say about the cup. It cannot be repaired; it is well beyond that."

"I am sure he will not," said Abigail. "He did not care when I broke a plate when he first returned."

She pursed her lips. "I daresay he has money enough to buy a whole new set if it tickles his fancy."

That moment, Elijah entered – they hadn't heard him at the door. He took one look at his sister, and his face fell. "What happened?"

"Oh, nasty little accident," said Sarah quickly. "Nothing to fret over. Young mistress just fell asleep at the wrong moment and broke a cup."

"Her hands are bleeding!" He was at her side in an instant. "Abigail! Are you hurt anywhere else?"

She shook her head. "I am well, only tired."

He could tell by her face she'd had another vision and he tried to send Sarah off. "I will handle everything from here, thank you. You may leave early today."

"I will be off as soon as I have swept the hearth."

"Leave it," Elijah insisted. "I wish to be alone with my sister."

"Nonsense – there is no reason in the world for me to leave a job incomplete." Her hands planted themselves upon her hips. "If it is your sister's bleeding you have got into a fret over, see for yourself it is staunching well. Men make such a fuss about blood." She gave Abigail a pert smile. "I always thought if they saw it so frequently as we do, they would know it is not such a great deal as all that!"

She was firm and, putting out the remainder of the fire with a jug of water, began slow work on sweeping up broken porcelain and dusty grey ashes. Without warning, she gave a faint yelp, hastily disguised as a hiccup, momentarily certain she'd seen the shape of a skull before all was gathered into a dustbin and tossed out of the closest window.

Something bad will happen to her, thought Abigail, gloomily. My visions always come to pass.

As Osborne took her sweet time putting the dustbin back into its proper place and neatening around herself, Abigail's mood changed, and she began to feel annoyed with her. The shakiness after her vision was lessening and she now recalled, more distinctly, Elijah's errand, desperate for his news he would never deliver with anybody else present.

"Good or bad," she whispered, darting her eyes at Sarah's back then catching Elijah's gaze. "Just tell me if your talk with him was good or bad."

He smiled but did not answer.

The wait was maddening. Yet how could she scold or even dare raise her voice at a woman somehow condemned? What choice had she other than to wait it out and suffer?

Elijah had smiled – though his expression now was returned to its usual state of piteous impassivity he employed when others were present and his trust of them was dubious – surely that was a good sign, yes?

Finally, Osborne took leave of them, and Abigail outright trembled as Elijah waited a few minutes more to be sure she was out of the house and preferably off the property completely.

"I cannot stand it, cannot bear it, one moment more, please tell me!"

His eyebrows lifted, then sank and came close together, then shot back up. "Well..."

She sprung to her feet. "Elijah! Tell me! Tell me what William said to you! Did you give him my letter?"

"You might have offered to let me sit and drink something." His expression was teasing. "It was a very long walk back, I hope you realise that."

"I am sorry if you had any trouble, but you might drink after – never mind it now! What say William?"

"Ah, me! What is this? I see precisely how it is to be," he laughed, pretending to make his voice go raspy. "A person is to die of a parched throat in this house as long as he has a message from William to deliver and has not yet done so. A thirsty man must die with William's words on his dry lips. A cruel mistress you make, sister – one wonders if your style of residence and extravagant demands will even be permitted once you are in William's household!"

"Elijah, pray, do not–" She stopped. Wait. "Did you just say–?"

He could contain himself no longer. A grin spread across his face. "He has assured me his intentions are honourable and asked me for my permission to marry you."

Her eyes sparkled; for a second they were almost nearer, shining so luminously as they were, to glittering, burnished silver than to grey.

Elijah had never seen her so happy and was thereby thrilled to add to it with his final bit of news. "I gave it, naturally, with a great good will."

A cry of joy erupted from her and within moments they were behaving in a most non-Puritan fashion, shouting and grasping one another's arms and leaping up and down with unrestrained delight.

Anyone seeing them would have thought them possessed they were so wild with happiness.

When they'd managed to quiet themselves, their screams giving way to little pants as they caught their breath, almost in perfect time with one another, Elijah did share the one singular piece of regrettable news his errand left him with – William did not know when the banns could be read; his mother had been a bit poorly lately (as far as Elijah could tell the woman was always under the weather, but William swore it was not so) and he wished her to recover her strength a bit before he told her about Abigail.

"He does not think his mother wants me to marry him?" she asked, deflating slightly.

"His parents are difficult, standoffish people, that is all, but they will love you once they know you." If saying it could make it so, Elijah would repeat it until it was true. "But does it really matter, matter one wit, what she thinks, if William loves you?"

She shook her head. "I suppose it does not."

"He has assured me he will not wait too long, lest he seem to be playing false." From his pocket he withdrew a letter. "And he bade me give you this."

Her eyes were as burnished silver all over again; her fingers reached for the missive. Before bothering to read it, however, she flung her arms around her brother's neck and clung to him. "Thank you. Thank you for everything."

"It is nothing – think of me as a mere go-between until the engagement can be made known."

"We will name our first child after you," she swore.

Elijah chucked her chin. "You had better."

"And when you marry the girl in green silk, you will name your first daughter for me, too, will you not?"

He promised he would, smiling and consenting to another round of dancing about the room in unrestrained glee, though he thought still of Ann when he dreamed of his future family, and did not quite believe the nameless, unknown girl Abigail was so convinced to be his soulmate was going to come into his life anytime soon.

Or anytime at all for that matter.

If they had been less glad, if Abigail were a fraction less happy for herself and Elijah a fraction less happy for her in turn, they might have seen a face – the face of Ann Putnam – peering in at the window.

She was watching their excitement curiously but had completely given up trying to read their lips, for they moved about far too much for her to manage it.

As Ann walked away, she swallowed back prickings of envy. There were times, after sneaking peeks into Elijah's house like this, as she was wont to do, so far uncaught, such feelings seemed to be stabbing at her from the inside out.

She would give anything to be as close to someone as they were to each other, she had never felt attached to her own siblings or to anyone else in her family so much as obligated to them, and to have traded places with Abigail and to celebrate – whatever the secret occasion was – with Elijah Rowe would have made her the happiest person alive.

Sometimes she was certain he felt for her as she did for him, going over in her mind again and again that precious, promising moment when he had put the feather in her hair, other times, however, he seemed so preoccupied, especially with his sister's concerns, whatever they might be – why, he had even hired a near-enemy of her family for Abigail's general comfort without a thought to if it would affect them – and there was no reaching him, no making him look at her for as long as she'd like him to.

One quiet afternoon – visiting the Parris household – she had sneaked off to see Tituba and confessed she loved Elijah Rowe desperately, asking what she ought to do.

"Does not matter what you do, crow girl," the slave had replied, darkly, obtusely, eyeing the black feather peeking from the corner of her bonnet, perhaps the first to give her a version of the name she would one day secretly hold claim to. "No husband for you – not for many years yet."

But what did Tituba know? She must be rather a useless sort of witch if she couldn't even provide a light love charm or potion for someone already half in love – or so Ann hoped – simply hesitant.

So she took to praying to God at night.

She'd press her palms together and raise her eyes to the vaulted wooden ceiling in the bedroom she shared with her sisters and murmur, "Lord in Heaven, please, please make Bird love me – I shall never, ever ask for anything ever again, and I will never again consort with witches or lust after charms, if you make Elijah Rowe ask me to marry him."

But whatever God thought of this prayer, Ann began to despair of him letting her in on his opinion, each day passing the same as the last, the Rowe siblings when she saw them always whispering with each other – or with William, when he could get away from his complaining mother who had a new aliment every week, it seemed – sparing her nothing more than kind looks and smiles which could no longer satisfy.

It was not enough, anymore, to have Elijah look at her admiringly across a crowded church or while leaning against a fence; she'd gotten enough looks to last a lifetime and not a single touch since the incident with the crow feather.

The last time she managed to pay attention in church, before she'd tensed and stopped listening altogether, Reverend Parris said something about a persistent widow in a story Jesus told – then something after that about a judge who got fed up with her whining and gave her what she wanted – and she took from that she ought to keep pestering God with requests for Elijah to marry her until he finally did something about it, but she was starting to think a competent bit of witchcraft might be quicker than endlessly appealing to a God who apparently wanted her to shut up and stop asking him for Elijah Rowe's affections.

She didn't give up wholly on the idea of divine intervention, even if she had to beg for it to make it happen, until the day her father came home in a bad mood and, catching her momentarily neglecting her duties of caring for her squabbling siblings in favour of looking out the window and running Elijah's crow feather across her face dreamily, her treasure was ripped from her hands and cast into the fireplace.

She had her ears soundly and doubly boxed, first by her father – Thomas Putnam had been under a great deal of stress and his idle daughter was too easy a target when he most needed one – then her mother, when she'd cried to her afterwards, for good measure, warning her against such shameless avoidance behaviour in future, but she was much more upset about the loss of that precious crow feather.

Another might be found, during some walk or other, she was always spying pretty things on the ground and collecting them, but Elijah wouldn't have touched any of them, or put them in her hair for her.

Her tears dampening her pillow that night weren't at all for the pain, for the faint ringing in her head, but for the fact she could never, ever replace that feather.

"You should have been more careful with it," her brother Timothy told her. "Mother says stop snivelling and get our breakfast."

She told Timothy to make Tom get his breakfast and leave her alone, because, if he didn't, she'd bewitch him and make his eyes go cross for ever so no woman would want him when he grew up.

"I am hungry." He scowled. He didn't care about wives, he didn't think, he wanted his porridge – his oats with cinnamon. "Besides, you are not a witch."

"How confident are you?" she snapped.

He asked their brother Tom to make the breakfast. Just to be safe.

A/N: Reviews welcome, my reply could be delayed.