Life's a Witch

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It was the day Bridget Bishop was sentenced to die and all she could think about was how she would never get the chance to see her daughter marry. She had had three husbands herself. With each marriage she’d learned something different about love and life, and had intended to share these lessons with her only daughter, Christian, so she might save her from some of the mistakes she herself had made.

For instance, make sure your husband-to-be has a strong heart, so people cannot accuse you of bewitching him if he suffers an untimely death, she thought with a sigh.

Then again, maybe the first lesson she should have taught Christian was how to go unnoticed. After all, wasn’t it the fact that Bridget was considered a wanton woman that had landed her in the dank basement of the local jail, where she was now shackled? Her friends had warned her about wearing red. That the color seemed to elicit a reaction in the men of Salem Town and, of course, annoy the women whose men drooled after her. Not that she was the only one who donned the attention-drawing color—albeit none of the others also owned taverns. Several taverns actually, which in the 1600s was somewhat unseemly for a God-fearing woman. Men were usually the ones who controlled the flow of ale, and some thought it distasteful for a woman to be around so many inebriated men.

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