“There you are!” said Mercy.
“Yes,” Freya said in a daze.
They stood in the shade of a building. Mercy followed Freya’s gaze to Thomas and the two youths across the way.
“Goodness! There he is!” said Mercy.
“Who?” asked Freya.
“My handsome youth. The one I told you of, with dark hair and green eyes.”
Freya looked at her friend in a panic. “The witness?” she asked. “Nathaniel Brooks?”
Mercy laughed. “No, no, the other one, his friend. James Brewster. Isn’t he lovely?”
Freya smiled, relieved.
James Brewster looked up, caught her eye, and winked.
What cheek!
Even from this distance Freya could see that James Brewster did have green eyes but a yellow green, like an inquisitive cat’s. James’s hair was dark as well, as Mercy had described it, but a sandy brown with light streaks, whereas Nathaniel’s was a raven black.
“Did you see that?” Freya asked.
“See what?”
“Nothing.” Freya shook her head, suppressing a smile. Life had certainly become much more interesting now that they had glimpsed the two young men.
Mercy offered Freya her arm. “Shall we?”
Freya nodded and the two girls crossed the street.
chapter three
Secrets
“Do not despair, my brothers and sisters, for there are also true saints in the church,” Reverend Parris proclaimed from his pulpit. Here he gave Thomas Putnam a subtle nod. It was lecture day, noon on a Thursday, and the reverend was giving one of his interminable, unrelenting, and punishing sermons. The psalms had already been sung in a most monotonous and tuneless manner, parishioners echoing back the deacon, prayers recited. And now Parris was going on about the devil trying to infiltrate the church and how one had to align oneself with God Almighty. Parris always found reason to chastise his parishioners. “The church consists of good and bad, as a garden that has weeds as well as flowers…”
Parris’s long dark hair flailed around his shoulders when he railed on about the devil. He had large brown almond-shaped eyes and a long, slim aquiline nose. A good-looking man whose bitterness made him ugly, as he was full of envy, especially for the merchants who had succeeded in business where he himself had failed in Barbados before coming to New England. Thomas Putnam had found an ally in the reverend—they both harbored an intense dislike for the people of Salem Town. Parris’s words reached a fever pitch as his tithing man strode up and down the aisles with a stick, prodding those who nodded off or using the feather end to tickle fidgeting women beneath the chin.
“Here are good men to be found, yea”—again a glance at Thomas, Captain Walcott, then Mr. Ingersoll, who ran the inn, all in the front row—“the very best; and here are bad men to be found, yea, the very worst.” He looked up to the ceiling here, not selecting any particular culprit for the bad ones, knowing they themselves would know who they were.
Freya and Mercy stood in one of the galleries along the wall, with the Putnam children lined up beside them, first Ann Junior, then the rest, tallest to shortest. Ann surreptitiously reached for Freya’s hand. Freya squeezed it tightly to reassure the girl.
Nathaniel Brooks and his friend James Brewster stood across the way in the opposite gallery, hats in hands, heads bowed, as was Freya’s. Now and then, Freya’s eyes lifted, meeting Nate’s. Was he really staring back at her? She felt Mercy elbow her once as if to note he was indeed. Freya’s body grew tingly. Nate’s black bangs fell over his left eye. He was ravishingly handsome. When Thomas had driven the four young people back to the village from their court day in Salem Town, Nate had helped Freya out of the back of the carriage, chivalrously reaching out a hand. His grip was firm, strong yet gentle. A surge of energy passed between them as their hands and eyes met. Freya thrilled at the memory as she looked back to the reverend, a smile playing on her lips.
Freya noticed that the good reverend was preaching against covetousness when just yesterday she and Mercy had brought him the gold candles he had requested for his altar. She glanced at Nate, who rolled his eyes. Was he having similar thoughts? She glanced at Parris for fear they might get caught sending each other these silent missives. Confident that the reverend had not cottoned on to her glances, she looked back at the boys’ pew. This time, it wasn’t Nate who was staring back at her but James.
Later that afternoon, Freya donned a cape, slipped the hood over her head, grabbed her basket, and wandered off into the woods. Once a week, the servants in the Putnam household were afforded an hour for solitary prayer. She wended through the pines, oaks, and beeches down a path, kneeling to pluck an herb or flower now and then. Few dared to venture out so far, knowing the native settlements were near, and the kidnapping of villagers was not uncommon. Freya was not afraid of the natives, however violent the stories she heard. Some called them savages, heathens, or devils. But she had also heard that their white captives often refused to return to their old lives after they were rescued. They preferred the native culture of all things—the freedom from all the rules and codes one had to follow in Puritan society. She had a feeling she would like that freedom as well.
The villagers’ fear granted her privacy and Freya let her mind roam however she wanted. In these woods she was free. She could breathe.
She heard branches crackling and quickly pivoted around. A deer leaped between the trees. She smiled at the doe and continued along the light-dappled path until she came upon a clearing. On the border of the meadow, she found a huge outcropping of stone, where she sat for a bit. She noticed a nearby dog rose bush. She got up and strode over to it. The roses were still just little buds. They would blossom in June, delicate petals the white pink of a maiden’s cheek. Once the petals fell they would turn into rosehips later in the summer—which would make for a good marmalade and a potent cough syrup. Freya reached out, whispering a word she didn’t quite understand, and the little bud came off its stem as if plucked by an invisible hand, dropping into her outstretched palm. She felt a thrill, then caught herself. There was someone behind her. She stood stock-still. Had whoever it was seen what she had just done? Had she been caught?
“Rosa canina,” came a low, soft voice. “That’s what they are called.”
She turned, pricking a finger on a thorn, dropping the small bud. James Brewster stood in the clearing, smiling.
“You pricked yourself!” he said, and took her hand to wipe the blood trickling down her wrist.
“Oh!” she said, taking her hand back and biting on the puncture, squeezing out a last drop of blood from it. “What are you doing here?” she asked, looking up at him.
James spoke hurriedly. “I’m sorry, Miss Beauchamp, I didn’t mean to startle you. Forgive me, I saw you wander off into the woods while Brooks and I were helping Mr. Putnam with the new barn. I had to go to the river to gather stones. When I got there, I saw Miss Lewis with the eldest Putnam girl. The little one fell into the river and hurt herself. She called for you. ‘Only Freya can fix it,’ she said. So I ran until I found you. They fear they will be in trouble from Mr. Putnam as the girl is supposed to be home, tending to the children.”
“Goodness!” said Freya. She gathered her basket, and they quickly made their way across the clearing.
As they walked together, James asked her about herself and Freya told him about how she appeared at the Putnams’ doorstep one day.
“You don’t have family?” he asked.
“Not that I remember. Mrs. Putnam thinks I must have suffered from the pox, which is why I lost my memory.”
“That is grievous indeed. To lose our memory is to lose our identity.”
“I am a fortunate girl,” Freya said. She said it so often she almost believed it. “The Putnams took me in and I have a home here. How do you find Salem, Mr. Brewster?”
“Please, call me James.”
“James,” Freya said with a smile.
“It is
… interesting,” he said. “Before we came to Salem, Brooks and I lived in Europe. We are naturalists and are often in the forest, where we study flora and fauna, the multifaceted aspects of nature. In a word: science.”
“Oh dear,” Freya said, eyes sparkling. “I don’t think the reverend would like to hear that.”
“Which is why I can trust you with our secret?” James smiled.
“Of course.” Freya nodded. That he had revealed something so dangerous to her brought a huge sense of relief. Despite having Mercy, she realized how very alone she had been until this moment. As close as they were, she did not think Mercy would understand about the true nature of her gifts.
James smiled at her and she smiled back, thinking that he was indeed very handsome—and perhaps if she had seen him first in the meetinghouse instead of Nate, perhaps her affections would lie with him—but as it was, her heart was already full of a certain Mr. Brooks. But she was grateful for his kindness and his wise words that hinted of a world beyond Salem. The sun pierced through the clouds and beat down on her hood. She pulled it back and fixed her cap, still smiling at James.
“There she is!” he said.
Annie sat in the grass by the river, her back propped against a boulder. Mercy was crouched at her heels, holding the girl’s ankle, one foot raised upon her thigh. Annie wore nothing but her shift and skirts. Her wavy brown hair fell loose and damp over her chest, clinging to the shift. Mercy had washed the mud off the girl’s woolen bodice and linen cap, then placed them on a bush in the sun to dry. She had strung the young girl’s boots up in a tree, and now they dripped and dangled in the breeze.
“Freya, my Freya!” Annie cried as she and James came running.
James turned his back to the girl so as not to embarrass her.
“Don’t worry, James,” said Mercy. “Annie’s a wee girl.” Mercy wanted to be able to gaze at the object of her affection and not at his back, albeit attractive as well.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Turn, will you!” she ordered, so the lad had no choice.
Freya had kneeled beside Mercy and Annie. “You look a fright!” she said to the girl.
Annie began to whimper. “I’m so very sorry, Freya. I promise not to fall again. I promise!”
“You are always falling, aren’t ye? We might have to give you a cane,” reprimanded Mercy.
“No!” yelped Annie.
Freya studied the girl. Annie was a difficult child. She often shrugged off her duties caring for her mother and siblings to spend time with the servant girls. Perhaps she was resentful of being the eldest and burdened with the responsibilities—but that was the way things were, and Annie should know it was her duty, Freya thought. No one was exactly happy with her lot, but they all made the best of it.
Annie was invariably hurting herself or getting in trouble with her father, and they would then be obliged to defend her, sometimes even having to tell a sinful lie to do so. Annie would thank them, telling them how much she feared but loved and revered her father. Freya liked her but also pitied her. There were times she caught Annie gazing at her in such an odd fashion it made her nervous. But perhaps Annie was just young, and her life certainly wasn’t easy with a mother who was always ill and having such an austere man for a father. They had plenty, all that they needed, but somehow it never seemed enough. There was no warmth in that house.
“Let’s see what we have here.” Freya lifted Annie’s skirt and observed her red and swollen ankle. “Ah, it’s nothing!” she said. She had James hand her the basket in which she had gathered herbs during her walk, and asked him to pick some of the lamb’s ears that grew along the river. When he came back she rubbed the leaves he handed her with some arnica, then she held the crumpled bits around Annie’s ankle, whispering a short incantation.
Annie sighed with relief. “Your hands are so soothing.”
James and Mercy watched, and when Freya removed her hands the swelling had gone down and Annie could walk again.
“A cunning girl!” said James, looking admiringly at Freya.
Mercy placed a finger at her mouth, then warned him, “Not a word of any of this!”
He promised he wouldn’t say a thing, then gathered his rocks and returned to the barn, leaving the young women, who did their best to make Annie presentable in her damp clothes.
chapter four
In Bloom
“It is all so heavenly!” Mercy remarked as she strode through the stable, lifting her skirts, then filled the horse’s trough with water from a bucket. All morning the maid had been going about her work with a smile on her face.
Freya laughed at such a comment as they stood amid horse dung. With a smile, she inquired, “Heavenly! How so?”
They were inside the Putnam stables, taking care of Thomas’s prized Thoroughbred. The master wanted to ride the animal later that day. A stable boy and a few of the farmhands were responsible for cleaning the stalls, picking the mud and stones from the horses’ hooves, shoeing, washing, feeding, and riding the horses, but Thomas wanted to make certain his stallion was especially well groomed—that the leather of his saddle and bridle gleamed as brilliantly as his coat—and had assigned his maidservants to the task.
Freya brushed the Thoroughbred’s forelock, a palm at the warm muscle of his neck, peering inquiringly at Mercy. She ran her other hand down the white diamond along his nose, let his velvety lips nibble at her palm. The horses stirred in their stalls, flicking their tails, dropping their hooves, exhaling noisily.
Mercy placed two hands over her heart, sighing audibly. “I am madly in love, Freya!”
She had suspected Mercy was going to say this. “James?” she asked.
“Yes, James, James, James!” Mercy twirled around with the water bucket, letting the name ring out.
Freya was genuinely happy for her friend, for she knew how such feelings were, how one wanted to cry them out like this. “That is wonderful!”
“I know it is crazed of me to think—for I am of lower station—but I do believe he loves me, too,” Mercy continued. “You know… the way he looks at me. Have you noticed the way he looks at me, Freya?”
Freya hadn’t. She had, however, noticed the times James had smiled at her, the teasing glint in his eyes. This was disconcerting where Mercy was concerned. It would seem James was a shameless flirt. Freya wasn’t about to hurt her friend by telling her this. She was no good at telling a lie, nor should she sin so improvidently. “I will pay more attention from now on!” she promised, not knowing what else to say.
Careful not to soil the hems of their skirts, the maids closed the door to the Thoroughbred’s stall and went to treat the leather of Thomas’s tack with rags soaked in mink oil. Mercy took charge of the saddle balanced on a beam, while Freya retrieved Thomas’s riding bridle from a wooden peg, then brought it over to a bale of hay where she sat down.
As Freya ran the cloth along the leather reins, she whispered, “I have a confession, too.” She blushed with happiness, making a very pretty picture as a ray of sun slanted through the opened doors upon her apron, mauve skirt, and white petticoats peeking through above her leather boots.
“A confession?” said Mercy. “That sounds serious.”
Freya smiled, biting her lip. “I, too, am in love!” she said.
Mercy ran over and crouched beside her friend, gathering her skirts, grabbing Freya’s hands. “You must tell me everything! Who is the lucky lad? I had no idea!” Love had given Mercy’s large blue eyes a sparkle, softened her mouth, and reddened her cheeks. She was almost beautiful.
“Why, Mr. Brooks, of course! You knew, did you not?” Freya asked in a skeptical tone.
Mercy laughed as if this were the most hilarious yet agreeable thing she had ever heard. “I didn’t. I swear! You hide it well, I must say.” She tucked a curl into Freya’s cap and ran a hand along her friend’s cheek, but Freya lowered her head, suddenly distraught. “What’s wrong?” Mercy asked.
“It’s what
you said earlier…” Freya sought to find the words. “I, like you, am enamored of someone much beyond my station. He comes from a wealthy family and has traveled to Europe and back.”
Mercy tapped her on the knee. “Oh, stop that, you wench! You are considered the fairest maid in all of Salem Village and Salem Town! Many speak of your beauty. I will hear none of that from you! Anyhow, it matters little nowadays. Men of high rank marry poor lasses like us here in the New World. Don’t ruin this for us. I am so very happy we are both in love! Tell me! Tell me everything!”
Freya wanted to tell everything to her friend—who was so like a sister to her—and felt a great wave of affection for Mercy at that moment. But she held back, and the cresting sentiments crashed painfully within her. It wasn’t caution or mistrust, but something whispered to her to keep her true feelings a secret, and she felt guilty for it, but still, she listened to that voice. So she told Mercy nearly everything—about each little glance she and Nate had exchanged at church. Mercy listened voraciously, nodding her head at all the details. But there was one thing Freya kept from her friend.
That very same morning when she had woken in her rope bed, she had found a small, coarse-grained card tucked between the blanket and her chest, with the swirling letters NB, a sideways 8 beneath them. There was no note, but the seal told Freya everything she had to know.
NB for Nathaniel Brooks! He had been inside the Putnam house! Perhaps he had been there late at night for business with Thomas, up in the paterfamilias’s study while everyone slept. He had stood over her while she slumbered! Had he run his fingers along her brow maybe? Just the idea of it caused her to shiver.
He had wanted her to know he had been there, and was thinking of her. She trembled with excitement even as she was loath to share any of this with her beloved Mercy.
Winds of Salem: A Witches of East End Novel Page 3