“Why, yes, I do. I was at the market, purchasing a plum pie.”
The spectators took in a collective gasp.
“I very much like plum pie and wanted one for dinner,” continued the youth.
The people in the meetinghouse laughed.
“And does the witness see the maid from whom he purchased said plum pie in the meetinghouse? Is she present?”
“She is,” said the youth. He pointed to Goody Brown. “There she is. It was her plum pie I bought.”
The spectators leaned forward, whispering, anxiously awaiting what might come next. The magistrate waited, relishing creating suspense. Finally, he spoke. “And did you, Mr. Brooks, eat said plum pie?”
“Yes,” said the youth with a smile. “Yes, sir, I had the pie for dessert that very evening.”
The spectators leaned farther forward.
“And how would you, Nathaniel Brooks, describe this plum pie?”
Nathaniel looked out at the people in the pews and galleries, taking his time. His gaze met Freya’s and their eyes locked again. He smiled. She smiled and her cheeks flushed.
The magistrate cleared his throat. “Nathaniel Brooks? Will you please answer the question carefully? How did you find this plum pie?”
Holding Freya’s gaze, as if the remark were directed at her, Mr. Brooks replied, “Quite sublime, Sir Magistrate! In fact, Goody Brown mentioned that the pies were made with the best plums of Salem Village.”
Again came a loud collective gasp, and afterward everyone began to chatter.
“Order!” called the magistrate. The room silenced.
Goodwife Faith Perkins was smiling, feeling somewhat vindicated. Goody Brown was indeed a liar but perhaps that didn’t exactly make her a witch, either. After all, she herself had exaggerated a bit about her baby and the sow.
The magistrate gave his verdict, chastising both women. The only crimes here, he summarized, were lack of neighborliness, greed, and wasting his time. The case was dismissed, and he was done for the day. The meetinghouse adjourned.
As Freya followed the crowd outside to the fresh, briny air of the harbor, her heart beat hard in her chest as she recalled young Mr. Brooks daringly making eye contact with her. She had been instantly struck—smitten, as if every sense in her body came alive at his glance. She spotted Mr. Putnam by the carriage, speaking to Mr. Brooks and another young man. Something flashed in her memory and for a moment she saw Mr. Brooks in his bright linen shirt, opened at the neck, revealing a tanned swath of skin—and his hands were wrapped about her waist, pulling her toward him—then it was gone.
“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.