1620: The Purslane issue
That wretched woman, my own mother, doth consume the hours in childish pursuits fit only for commoners and fools. No sooner has the morning sun cast its light than she is in the garden, murmuring to herbs and flowers as if she conferred with the very devil himself. Her hands brew strange potions in the kitchen, and her lips utter incantations more suited to witches than to nobility. This folly is compounded by her obsession with books—dangerous tomes that dwell in matters beyond a woman’s proper sphere of understanding, peeling back mysteries of the natural world as though she were some learned scholar.
Yet, to brand her openly a witch, as common rabble and ignorant clergy might do, would be ruin of our family’s great name. The scandal such a charge would bring upon our noble house is unthinkable. I am constrained by blood and station to veil the truth from the world, though it is clear enough to me: she dabbles in arts forbidden and walks close to the darkened path. Better, therefore, that she be removed quietly, far from these stately halls and eyes that might perchance snatch scandal where none ought be found.
Lefame in New England, that distant wild, is suited well to her banishment. There she may toil amidst weeds and wilderness, ceasing to pollute the dignity of our home. I grudge her no sorrow in this exile; her absence lightens my peace and frees my thoughts to matters worthy of a Duke.
This is no mere act of cruelty, but wisdom. The estate must be preserved, the name kept pure. Madness or witchcraft, the family must be kept intact, but the nuisance removed—out of sight and thus out of mind.
So be it, that my mother shall be sent to Lefame, where the colony may receive her as kindly as the land and sea permit, yet none here shall speak of her strange arts. I rest assured that the distance will temper her influence and shield us all.
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