At the trial, Goody Hopkins oftentimes refused to speak in English, answering the magistrates in Gaelic instead, which no one understood. Every time she bit her lip, the children fell into the most pitiful fits before the whole assembly, crying out that they were being bitten. If the goodwife so much as touched her arm or scratched her head, the children cried out they were being “most grievously tormented,” struck, pinched, or pricked on those very same parts of their bodies.
The weaver’s house was searched, and they found several poppets made of cloth and goat hair. In court, “the hag admitted she used these images to torture the objects of her ill will by wetting a finger with her spittle, then rubbing the poppets.” Further, at one point during the trial, Helen cried out that she saw a “small yellow bird suckle betwixt the fingers” of the accused, which her siblings then saw, too, and the magistrates concluded that the weaver had summoned her invisible familiar.
There had been enough damning evidence. Goody Hopkins was charged with being a witch, then hanged. With her death, the children’s fits ceased.
Freya shuddered, slamming the pamphlet closed. She could read no longer. What exaggerations and untruths! Goodwife Hopkins must have been ridiculing the court because the trial was, in fact, a mockery. Did the poppets even belong to Goody Hopkins or had they been produced to prove a point? From the start of his essay, Hooker had seemed to have a bone to pick with the old Irish weaver, whom he lost no opportunity to call names such as loathsome, scandalous, and vile.
The girls were silent, still absorbing Freya’s reading. Abby stood to walk to the center of the hall, where she faced the girls at the table. She smiled and bowed her head. She had their full attention. She reached for her cap, removed it, and placed it in her apron’s pocket. She pulled the pins out of her bun, and her shiny dark hair fell down her shoulders. She shook her head softly. The girls watched her wordlessly, hypnotized by her languorous movements. She was indeed ravishing.
Abigail’s body began to tremble and shake, and she fell to the floor. Her head turned, her arms stretched out, her back arched, and her eyes rolled back. She flopped about. She went still. She was on all fours, swinging her head so that her hair flew up and down. She hopped up and ran about the room, pretending to be a bird, crying, “Whish, whish, whish!”
Struck dumb, the girls looked on in horror. Abby stopped in her tracks and stared at them, then burst into delighted laughter.
“Why the long faces, girls?” She smirked. “Come! Do try it!” She threw her arms up in the air and spun, then shook again.
The girls save for Freya ran to the center of the hall and began pretending to have fits, barking like dogs, meowing like cats, crying out about their agonies. So passionately did they carry on that their caps fell off their heads.
Mercy stopped and looked at Freya, still sitting at the table. “Join us!”
Freya shook her head no, feeling a sudden chill. This was all wrong… there was something here… something very wrong… What had she done?
“What a wet rag, you are!” Mercy made a face, fell to the ground, lay on her back, and shook her entire body.
Tituba came through the door into the parsonage, carrying two plucked chickens by their necks. The girls had been so lost in their fits that they hadn’t heard her enter. The Caribbean servant, not knowing what had transpired, stared at the girls in horror. “What is going on here?”
The girls immediately stopped. Sitting on the floor, Mercy let out a little yelp of fear as she spied the servant.
“We were playing,” said Abby, walking over to Tituba, patting her on the arm. “That was all we were doing, Tituba. It was nothing.”
Tituba shook her head at Abby. “You girls let yourselves be tempted! Oh, I saw it, Abby, and I will not have it! Not in the reverend’s house!” She looked about the hall. The girls were gathering their caps from the floor. “You put on your caps and go!” she said, addressing Mercy and Annie. “Abby, Betty, fix your hair and skirts and return to your godly endeavors.” She carried the chickens to the table, where Freya had stood to take her leave.
Tituba gave Freya a look of such disapproval that she felt as if her heart had withered. She really shouldn’t have succumbed to Abigail’s demands as she had. In hindsight she saw just how manipulative the girl had been.
chapter twenty-three
Loose Lips
Freya had time on her hands now that she was practicing magic more frequently. She loved to be alone, rambling through the woods with her basket, gathering herbs for poultices and tinctures. It was good to get away from the Putnam farm and daydream about her upcoming nuptials with Nate. She was impatient to wed; she had not run into him lately, nor seen him at church, and she missed him. She found solace in the woods with the birds twittering, the insects’ song swelling, and tiny animal feet scampering over dried leaves. Once when she had walked to the river, she spied a baby fawn taking a dip. Just its head bobbed on the surface, moving downstream, until the small graceful creature reached the bank and strolled out of the water with a little shake. Freya had mistaken it for a dog until that moment. She thought it the sweetest thing, with its white spots.
She arrived in the clearing where the wild rosebush grew. The rose’s white-pink petals had fallen, but the rosehips they had left behind weren’t big or red enough to pick yet. Someone coughed, and she turned around and saw her friend James standing by the large stone outcropping.
“Good day!” He gave a quick bow, removing his hat. “I am very glad to have found you,” he said.
“You always seem to know where I am,” she returned.
“Funny, that!” he replied with trepidation.
“What is it, James?” she asked. His expression had made her anxious.
He bit a knuckle, then let the hand fall to his side. “It’s just that I felt I should warn you. I care very much about you, Freya…”
She peered inquiringly at him, nodding her head to encourage him to continue.
“You and your cunning ways…” He cleared his throat, appearing uncomfortable.
“Yes?” she said, batting her eyelashes.
He shifted on his feet. “Well, not everyone understands you… the way I do.”
She thought he meant there was an implicit understanding between them because of their friendship, but he seemed to be suggesting more.
“What do you mean?”
James took a step closer. “It is terribly dangerous, what you are doing, Freya.”
“What am I doing?”
“One hears things…”
“Things?”
“The other night… I happened to look up at the stars… and…”
“And?” she challenged.
He shook his head. “I cannot speak of it. It is too dangerous. Freya, you must promise me you will take better care. Do not…”
“Do not what?” she said impudently. She did take care. Mercy was her dearest friend and promised not to breathe a word about her talents. Those she helped in the village were appreciative. Added to which, she wasn’t the only one who made physics. A few goodwives did as well; the only difference was that her physics always worked. So why not offer help when she could? Some people made such a silly fuss about it all, like the reverend or Thomas Putnam, who took everything so seriously.
“Do not do anything that will cause people to notice. People are always watching in Salem. There are eyes everywhere.”
Freya softened. “Do not worry about me, my friend. I am safe.”
“For now,” James said. “Mind you listen to my advice,” he said softly. “It would grieve me to see you come to harm.”
With that warning, James bade his leave.
Once again, Mr. Putnam sent the girls to Reverend Parris’s with provisions the little man had hinted needing in his sermon. What would be next? A horse and carriage? Freya wondered. This time only she and Mercy made the trip on foot.
Annie stayed behind to sit with her mother, who had lately taken to talking to her d
ead sister and nieces and had somehow managed to set her Bible on fire. Most providentially, Mr. Putnam had been in his study at the time. He had run into the room at the scent of smoke and stomped on Mrs. Putnam’s Bible. It was on the floor by the bed, and a candle had fallen on top of it. The whole event, which Freya had learned about through Annie, seemed strange. Ann Putnam Senior needed to be closely watched when she behaved like this. Poor Annie had been very frightened. She saw the burning Bible as a portent presaging some kind of doom.
As the girls walked to the parsonage, Freya was quiet while Mercy was her loquacious self. Freya nodded her head in agreement as the maid chattered, but she was miles away. She was thinking about what James had said, about being more prudent. As if on cue, Mercy asked about the very same subject.
“I saw you with James earlier,” she said. “Was he asking about me?”
“Yes—no. I mean, yes, I was with James.”
“What did he want?”
Freya told her about his warning. “He is right. I have been brazen with my… abilities lately, and it is dangerous.”
Mercy was the silent one now. They walked along a narrow road lined with poplars. Freya gave the maid a sidelong glance, and as they moved in and out of sunlight and shadow, she saw that Mercy still looked troubled.
“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.
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