A Discovery of Witches - Deborah Harkness [250]
“What is that, Sarah?” Matthew’s nostrils flared at the scent of old paper, herbs, and smoke that was released as Sarah splayed its covers open.
“The Bishop grimoire.” She pointed to the first name. “It first belonged to Rebecca Davies, Bridget Bishop’s grandmother, then to her mother, Rebecca Playfer. Bridget handed the book down to her first daughter, born out of wedlock in England around 1650. Bridget was still in her teens at the time, and she named her daughter after her mother and grandmother. Unable to care for the girl, Bridget gave her up to a family in London. ” Sarah made a soft sound of disgust. “The rumors of her immorality haunted her for the rest of her life. Later her daughter Rebecca joined her and worked in her mother’s tavern. Bridget was on her second husband then, and had another daughter named Christian.”
“And you’re descended from Christian Bishop?” Matthew asked.
Sarah shook her head. “Christian Oliver, you mean—Bridget’s daughter from her second marriage. Edward Bishop was Bridget’s third husband. No, our ancestor is Rebecca. After Bridget was executed, Rebecca legally changed her name to Bishop. Rebecca was a widow, with no husband to argue with. It was an act of defiance.”
Matthew gave me a long look. Defiance, it seemed to say, was clearly a genetic trait.
“Nobody remembers all of Bridget Bishop’s many names anymore—she was married three times,” Sarah continued. “All anyone remembers is the name she bore when she was found guilty of witchcraft and executed. Since that time the women of the family have preserved the Bishop name, regardless of marriage or of who their father was.”
“I read about Bridget’s death shortly after,” Matthew said softly. “It was a dark time for creatures. Even though the new science seemed to strip all the mystery from the world, humans were still convinced that unseen forces were all around them. They were right, of course.”
“Well, the tension between what science promised and what their common sense told them was true resulted in the deaths of hundreds of witches.” Sarah started flipping through the grimoire’s pages.
“What are you looking for?” I asked, frowning. “Was one of the Bishops a manuscript conservator? If not, you won’t find much help in that spell book.”
“You don’t know what is in this spell book, miss,” Sarah said serenely. “You’ve never shown one bit of interest in it.”
My lips pressed into a thin line. “Nobody is damaging that manuscript.”
“Ah, here it is.” Sarah pointed triumphantly at the grimoire. “One of Margaret Bishop’s spells from the 1780s. She was a powerful witch. ‘My method for perceiving obscurities in paper or fabric.’ That’s where we’ll start.” She stood up, her finger marking the place.
“If you stain—” I began.
“I heard you the first two times, Diana. This is a spell for a vapor. Nothing but air will touch your precious manuscript page. Stop fussing.”
“I’ll go get it,” Matthew said hastily. I shot him a filthy look.
After he returned from the dining room with the picture cradled carefully in his hands, he and Sarah went off into the stillroom together. My aunt was talking a mile a minute as Matthew listened intently.
“Who would have imagined?” said Em, shaking her head.
Em and I washed the dinner dishes and had started the process of tidying the family room, which looked like a crime scene, when a pair of headlights swept the driveway.
“They’re here.” My stomach tightened.
“It’ll be fine, honey. They’re Matthew’s family.” Em squeezed my arm encouragingly.
By the time I reached the front door, Marcus and Miriam were getting out of the car. Miriam looked awkward and out of place in a lightweight brown sweater with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, a miniskirt, and ankle boots, her dark eyes taking in the farm and its surroundings with an attitude of disbelief. Marcus was observing the house’s architecture and sniffing the breeze—which was no doubt redolent with coffee and witches—clothed in a short-sleeved T-shirt from a 1982 concert tour and a pair of jeans.