Acceptable Risk. Robin Cook
Acceptable Risk Robin Cook
Saturday, February 6, 1692
Spurred on by the penetrating cold, Mercy Griggs snapped her riding crop above the back of her mare. The horse picked up the pace, drawing the sleigh effortlessly over the hard-packed snow. Mercy snuggled deeper into the high collar of her sealskin coat and clasped her hands together within her muff in a vain attempt to shield herself from the arctic air.
It was a windless, clear day of pallid sunshine. Seasonally banished to its southern trajectory, the sun had to struggle to illuminate the snowy landscape locked in the grip of a cruel New England winter. Even at midday long violet shadows extended northward from the trunks of the leafless trees. Congealed masses of smoke hung motionlessly above the chimneys of the widely dispersed farmhouses as if frozen against the ice blue polar sky.
Mercy had been traveling for almost a half hour. She’d come southwest along the Ipswich Road from her home at the base of Leach’s Hill on the Royal Side. She’d crossed bridges spanning the Frost Fish River, the Crane River, and the Cow House River and now entered into the Northfields section of Salem Town. From that point it was only a mile and a half to the town center.
But Mercy wasn’t going to town. As she passed the Jacobs’ farmhouse, she could see her destination. It was the home of Ronald Stewart, a successful merchant and shipowner. What had drawn Mercy away from her own warm hearth on such a frigid day was neighborly concern mixed with a dose of curiosity. At the moment the Stewart household was the source of the most interesting gossip.
Pulling her mare to a stop in front of the house, Mercy eyed the structure. It certainly bespoke of Mr. Stewart’s acumen as a merchant. It was an imposing, multi-gabled building, sheathed in brown clapboard and roofed with the highest-grade slate. Its many windows were glazed with imported, diamond-shaped panes of glass. Most impressive of all were the elaborately turned pendants suspended from the corners of the second-floor overhang. All in all the house appeared more suited to the center of town than to the countryside.
Confident that the sound of the sleigh bells on her horse’s harness had announced her arrival, Mercy waited. To the right of the front door was another horse and sleigh, suggesting that company had already arrived. The horse was under a blanket. From its nostrils issued intermittent billows of vapor that vanished instantly into the bone-dry air.
Mercy didn’t have long to wait. Almost immediately the door opened and within the doorframe stood a twenty-seven-year-old, raven-haired, green-eyed woman whom Mercy knew to be Elizabeth Stewart. In her arms she comfortably cradled a musket. From around her sides issued a multitude of children’s curious faces; unexpected social visits in isolated homes were not common in such weather.
“Mercy Griggs,” called the visitor. “Wife of Dr. William Griggs. I’ve come to bid you good day.”
“~’Tis a pleasure, indeed,” called Elizabeth in return. “Come in for some hot cider to chase the chill from your bones.” Elizabeth leaned the musket against the inside doorframe and directed her oldest boy, Jonathan, age nine, to go out to cover and tether Mrs. Griggs’ horse.
With great pleasure Mercy entered the house, and, following Elizabeth’s direction, turned right into the common room. As she passed the musket, she eyed it. Elizabeth, catching her line of sight, explained: “~’Tis from having grown up in the wilderness of Andover. We had to be on the lookout for Indians all hours of the day.”
“I see,” Mercy said, although a woman wielding a musket was apart from her normal experience. Mercy hesitated for a moment on the threshold of the kitchen and surveyed the domestic scene, which appeared more like a school-house than a home. There were more than a half dozen children.
On the hearth was a large, crackling fire that radiated a welcome warmth. Enveloping the room was a mixture of savory aromas: some of them were coming from the kettle of pork stew simmering on its lug pole over the fire; others were rising from a large bowl of cooling corn pudding; but most were coming from the beehive oven built into the back of the fireplace. Inside, multiple loaves of bread were turning a dark, golden brown.