Winds of Salem (19 page)

“How does James know about your magic?” Mercy asked finally. “Do you converse with him often?”

“How do you mean? I see him as often as you,” Freya said. “Anyway, he did not say, but I think he might have seen us—flying the other night.” She twisted her apron worriedly.

“Do not worry about James,” Mercy said coldly. “He knows nothing.” The pale-haired girl stared at her. “But I do wonder sometimes, Freya, if you know what it means to be a friend.”

The pastor was out—as usual, making his religious rounds. If anything, Reverend Parris was devout. A seat awaited him in heaven. Mrs. Parris, weak of health, lay in bed upstairs. Only Abby, Betty, and Lizzie Griggs, a seventeen-year-old girl who lived with her uncle, the physician William Griggs, were in the house. Lizzie had stopped by with supplies for the minister as well.

All three girls now ran to greet Freya and Mercy. No sooner had they stepped into the dark interior of the parsonage, the girls, full of awe, gathered around Freya with a barrage of breathless, whispered questions.

“We hear you can make objects move!” said Lizzie.

“We hear you can fly!” followed Betty.

Abigail grabbed Freya by the arm, pulling her aside. She placed a hand on Freya’s shoulder. “Will you show me how to fly, Freya? I would most love to fly with you!”

In a panic Freya looked over at Mercy, who stood off by herself. It was apparent she had given away the secret she had promised to keep.

“You told them!” Freya accused.

“They are but children,” Mercy protested. “No one will believe them if they say anything.”

Right then, Freya felt she would suffocate in Abby’s clutch. She peered into the young girl’s glinting dark eyes that bored into hers. “Do it!” Abby whispered.

“I cannot do these things you say! I know nothing about any of this!” Freya looked at Mercy for support, but Mercy only shrugged.

“We know what you are,” Abby said. “Mercy told us.” She narrowed her eyes and looked at Freya with contempt. “It doesn’t matter if you show us or not—we know the truth about you. Show us your magic, or you will be sorry you didn’t.”

Freya felt herself grow cold with fear. James was right. She had been reckless. Henceforth, she would take care to ensure there would be no more magic.

chapter twenty-four

Love and Marriage

It was lecture day, a Thursday afternoon in June. The meetinghouse had grown hot and rank. Reverend Samuel Parris finished one of his indefatigable windy sermons about heeding the devil and his minions. The congregation sighed in relief, seeing the end was near. But the diminutive Parris continued to speak. He realized everyone was eager to get back to their busy lives but he had something more to say. The parishioners in the pews and galleries perked up, or rather made a semblance of doing so. Freya straightened her cap, peering at Parris.
What now?

The reverend nodded solemnly. “One of our noble and pious brothers has an announcement. A man of tremendous stature and standing, a leader of men, a prosperous farmer, a great man I am exceedingly grateful to, not a day goes by that I—” Stymied, Parris cleared his throat.

This appeared to be Thomas Putnam’s cue as he had risen from the front row. Parris ceded the pulpit with a reverential bow. Befuddled, Freya and Mercy glanced at each other. As the barrel-chested Thomas made his way to the front, the impression was of watching a great storm cloud billow across the heavens. The man inspired fear and awe in the community, and all whispers ceased. Mr. Putnam faced the congregation. His face broke into an unexpected smile.

“Good day, parishioners. I will make this brief. I would like to bring to your attention the engagement of two individuals in our community. The young woman in question is a devout and devoted maidservant, an orphan my wife, Ann, and I took in not so long ago. Her name is Freya Beauchamp. I have agreed to give her hand in marriage one year from now when she is of proper age to marry.” Mr. Putnam looked up, searching the gallery for Freya.

The parishioners craned their necks. They laughed when they saw Freya stumble forward. Mercy had given her a little push, and she caught the banister, turning bright red. Thomas hadn’t forewarned her of this. She didn’t think it would happen in quite this way.

Thomas’s eyes settled on hers. He motioned for her to come down. She bowed her head. Mercy grabbed her hand and squeezed it, and in that auspicious moment, as will happen with friends who have been close but quarreled, all was instantly forgiven between them. The crowd parted to make way for her.

“Good tidings,” servants and children whispered as she passed. She descended the stairs, which seemed to creak too loudly with the silence that had come over the meetinghouse.

As Freya walked down the aisle between the pews, all eyes were on her: the mysterious maid with green eyes and rosebud lips, her cheeks a similar hue to her apricot-colored hair tucked in her white cap, visible at the nape. She couldn’t help but smile. Why shouldn’t she make a show of her happiness? She stood before the congregation, lacing her hands. She had looked for Nate earlier but hadn’t spotted him from the gallery. Perhaps he was waiting in the wings.

Mr. Putnam spoke again. “Let us wish the newly betrothed well and say a prayer for them this eve. I now call forth the gentleman who has promised to wed this poor, young orphaned girl. Mr. Nathaniel Brooks!”

The room became very still as the parishioners waited for him to step out from the crowd. Freya looked eagerly for Nate’s handsome face. The members of the congregation began to clap, but her own face drained of color.

Nathaniel Brooks was walking toward her, but it was not the right Mr. Brooks at all. It was Nate’s uncle, that tall, ridiculous, solicitous fellow she had met in the woods: goatee, black cape, bony legs peeking out from beneath in tight ocher socks. The buckles on his gigantic shoes clinked and clanked as he marched forward.

Nathaniel Brooks… Nate’s namesake
.
Of course!

That was why Nate had been avoiding her at the barn raising the other day—he must have believed she had given her consent! The clapping became louder, deafening, and Freya’s vision dimmed. She gripped the pew next to her lest she fall in a heap on the floor. She searched for Nate—her Nate—but when at last she found him he would not meet her gaze.

That evening Freya pounded the door to the master’s study with her fist so that it rattled in its frame. She was beyond following the rules of decorum. She pressed her face against the wood and spied through the crack, seeing Mr. Putnam at his desk.

“Come in,” he said.

She bustled into the study and strode nearly all the way to the desk. She did not curtsy this time. “Mr. Putnam!” Her face was red.

Thomas glanced up. “Why, good evening, future Mrs. Brooks. We can discuss wedding plans. Dates…” Some of Freya’s hair had come out of her cap, and Mr. Putnam cocked his head, his eyes traveling to those curls that fell upon her breast.

“There has been a terrible mistake!” said Freya. “I cannot marry this man… the elder Mr. Brooks. I do not love him, nor could I ever. He is repugnant to me!”

Mr. Putnam frowned. “When has it ever been about love? Especially not in your predicament, an orphan blown in on the wind. This is merely a means to an end, my dear. You will be delivered from your station. Does that not please you? Is that not enough?” he said calmly.

Freya glowered. “No, it is not, Mr. Putnam!” She squared her shoulders and stood firm.

Some air escaped from Mr. Putnam’s nose, making a sound—
pfff
. He made a notation in his ledger. Freya believed she might say anything to him, and it would barely make a ripple. The man was immovable. Ponderously, he pressed his lips toward one cheek, then the other. He did this back and forth for a bit. “When I first informed you of Mr. Brooks’s proposal, you had appeared so very delighted. Did I not say, the
venerable
Mr. Brooks?” He knit his brow questioningly.

Freya sought to remember. In fact, she recalled the conversation well. Mr. Putnam had called him Mr. Nathaniel Brooks and also Mr. Brooks but had said nothing with the word
venerable.
“You used no such adjective, sir,” she stated flatly.

He gave one of his rare little laughs. “My mistake. You know, the younger Brooks—if that is whom you thought I meant—is known as Nate.” He shrugged.

Freya thought she masked her emotions well, but apparently not. She didn’t know how, but Mr. Putnam appeared to know she was in love with Nate. Mercy was the only one who knew. The maidservant had thought nothing of betraying Freya, sharing their secret with all the village girls, a secret that could ultimately lead to her death. Had Mercy been acting as Mr. Putnam’s spy? It would never have seemed fathomable to her in the past,
but in the light of Mercy’s recent betrayal, she wondered if she could trust the girl at all anymore. Thomas appeared to be toying with her, mocking her love. Or perhaps it was all too evident… she would have, of course, assumed he had meant the young, good-looking Mr. Brooks and not the older, unattractive uncle. Mr. Putnam had purposely deceived her. How foolish and heedless she had been.

“Well, at the time, I know I did not say
Nate
Brooks,” Thomas continued, pouring salt into the wound. “I would have said Nate, not Nathaniel, had I meant that particular gentleman. Besides, Freya, you are most fortunate. You would be nothing but a disreputable wench, a beggar, a ragamuffin had we not taken you in. And now you are to marry Mr. Nathaniel Brooks. You will be a wealthy woman, and one of high standing. The
venerable
Mr. Brooks has offered a substantial dowry, and I will receive a large parcel of land adjoining mine so that my land goes all the way to Salem Town.” He smiled at her with what feigned to be gratitude. “You will marry Nathaniel Brooks, and that is that. I will hear nothing more.” He grabbed his plume and resumed writing in the ledger.

Freya’s arms stiffened at her sides. She would hear nothing more either, and so she spun on her heel and left the room as fast as she could.

“Where are you going?” called Mercy to her back. “I swear I had nothing to do with any of this! Freya! Wait!”

Freya strode across the hall and did not answer, only slammed the door on the way out of the Putnam house. It was almost seven according to the sundial attached to the wall of the farm, still light outside. She knew many of the men in the village went to Ingersoll’s Tavern on Thursdays around this time, once they
had finished with militia practice. Surely she would find Nate there. She would beg him to take her away—he could not let this happen—they were in love and they needed to run away together.

She took a shortcut, but she was so distressed, she lost the way and had to climb a wall that rose before her out of nowhere, it seemed. Briars caught on her skirt as she made her way down the other side, and she felt it tear as she jumped, but she kept running, frantically. She was in a wild, overgrown field, and she tripped on a sudden pile of stones, fell, fumbling for a moment in the tall grass, then she scrambled back to her feet. She would have flown on a pole had it not been broad daylight. She cursed this village. Her cap slipped from her head as she ran, so she pulled it off, tucking it into her apron’s pocket. Her hair cascaded down, lighting up like fire.

She saw the village proper ahead, leaned over and placed her hands on her thighs, and panted. She found pins in her pocket, fixed her hair, then pulled her cap over it. Her pulse thrummed at her temples. Her petticoat had been torn on the thorns, but it was nothing too conspicuous. She glimpsed a deep scratch on her calf, where the blood had already dried. She was in such a state, she hadn’t even felt it when it had happened.

She set a calm expression to her face and walked the rest of the road that led into the village’s center. She passed a house on the way. The woman outside feeding chickens gave her a pained smile. Everyone recognized her now after that show in the meetinghouse. She was the young, comely maidservant who was to wed the old, homely, and wealthy widower.

A man on his horse came down the road. She recognized James Brewster and waved to him, relieved. James smiled, dismounting the chestnut stallion. He held the reins close to the bit as they stood together on the grassy shoulder of the road.

He squeezed her arm and let it go. “I was there,” he said. “Do not worry.” His green-gold eyes burned with compassion.

“It can’t happen!” she said. “Where is Nate? Do you know?”

“Nate? No. I haven’t seen him since Mr. Putnam made the announcement at the meetinghouse,” he said.

“I cannot marry Mr. Brooks,” Freya said. “I will not.”

“Of course not. I would never let that happen.”