You must not do anything-anything at all-to attract attention to yourself.” Please,” her mother said, fear clouding her eyes. I was going out for a walk anyway,” Susannah insisted. “I will get the firewood and fetch Father. “Bags of bone, you mean.” She lowered her gaze sadly to the baby she held. “I believe he is at the commons, tending the cows,” Susannah told her. “Where is your father? He will want his biscuits on time, but he will not have them if he is not here.” Martha Goode held the baby and rocked him gently as she stared disapprovingly at the fire. And she couldn’t help but wonder if she was pretty enough to win him over all the other girls in the village of Wickham. She found herself thinking of a certain boy, daydreaming about him as she worked. She felt embarrassed whenever her mother caught her admiring herself, as if her mother had peered inside her soul and found it flawed and unworthy.īut at sixteen, Susannah felt stirrings that excited her as much as they troubled her.

She had been taught that all righteous people are beautiful and the same in the eyes of the Maker. Whenever Martha Goode found Susannah gazing into the looking glass or toying with her golden hair, she scolded her with the same words: “True beauty comes from deeds, not appearance, Daughter.”Īs a Puritan, Susannah had been endlessly taught the virtue of modesty. She had sparkling blue eyes, creamy pale skin, and dimples in both cheeks when she smiled. Put more wood on, Susannah.”įrowning, Susannah straightened up and tossed the locks of escaped hair behind the white collar that covered the shoulders of her dress. “The fire is too low,” her mother said, shaking her head disapprovingly. George’s cries had softened to quiet whimpers as he lay his head against his mother’s stiff white collar. “These biscuits are taking so long to bake.” “It is the best we can afford.” She lifted the squalling baby and held him up to her face. “The blanket will have to do,” her mother replied. I had trouble covering him,” Susannah complained, still bent over the kettle, a few long golden curls falling out of her bun and over her face. “You have wrapped George too tightly again. “Susannah!” Martha Goode’s tone was scolding. Susannah heard the floorboards creak as her mother made her way to the cradle to see what the problem was.

The embers died at her feet.Īfter straightening the starched white apron she wore over her heavy, dark maroon skirt, Susannah bent over the bake kettle to lift the heavy lid and peer inside.īehind her in the small borning room, the baby started to cry. Susannah Goode uttered a cry of surprise and jumped back from the hearth. A loud pop sent up a shower of glowing red embers.

Fear street betrayal