“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.