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.
chapter five
Mr. Brooks and Miss Beauchamp
After supper at noon, Freya finished her chores and helped Annie with the children, reading the Bible to them before they napped. She told Mercy she would take the wash to the river by herself. Her friend needed to give her scarred, chafed fingers a break. With her basket of laundry and pots and pans, she took a shortcut, plodding along toward the river. When she got there, she worked quickly, cleaning and scrubbing, then returned the roundabout way through the meadow, where James had caught her unawares that day. As she walked she lost herself in the splendor of her surroundings: the wind rustling through the trees, the verdant grass springing beneath her boots, the fragrance of wild roses.
James had mentioned he and Nate often came to these woods, and while she had hoped, she truly did not expect to see her love, so when Nathaniel Brooks stepped onto the path, he took her by surprise.
He was a sight to behold: elegant, tall, slim, self-assured as he walked toward her, an amused smile twitching on his lips. He wore a blue linen shirt, open at the collar, black breeches tucked into heavy boots, his hat angling over an eye. His face was clean-shaven, and his dark hair shone brilliantly in the sun as he removed his hat to greet her.
“Mistress Beauchamp!” he called to her as they approached. “We are well met! Fancy seeing you here!”
“Mistress!” she echoed, laughing. “Miss is more like it for I am not goody yet. Or just Freya, if you will.” Her words appeared to come easily enough, but her heart was in her throat. Most likely, she thought, there was too much color in her cheek.
Nate stopped a few feet away. They both froze. His mouth opened as if to speak, but he refrained. They laughed at their awkwardness, and Freya relaxed a bit, her shoulders dropping. She studied the swell of his lips, the rich, deep green of his eyes.
“I received your card,” she said.
“What card?” he asked, with a naughty glint in his eyes.
“How did you know I could read?” She wasn’t being coy—she genuinely wanted to know. Perhaps he could tell her something about herself. Perhaps he had recognized her from the life she’d forgotten.
He pursed his lips then smiled. “I did not know of your literacy, but if I did, I would say it is your haughty and refined manner that would have given it away.”
“Really!” She let out a laugh. “Haughty? Refined?”
“Yes, like a lady, a woman of high standing, a princess or a queen.” He grinned.
“Why thank you very much, Mr. Brooks,” she said facetiously.
He took another step forward. “ ’Tis nothing! And you must call me Nate!”
“Is that all you wish to tell me? That my comportment is haughty? That I behave as if I am above my station? A mere servant like myself…” She lowered her eyes. She knew she should behave more humbly, but at the same time she believed his palpable attraction allowed her some latitude. Although she was taking a risk by being impudent.
“No,” he said. “Not at all.” He moved closer so that they stood inches apart. “But I am glad you are here. Ever since we first met I have harbored a deep desire to be with you, to know you… I didn’t mean—” He had embarrassed himself, Freya knew, for to “know” a woman was to know her intimately.
She looked into his eyes. “What didn’t you mean?” She attempted not to laugh. It was fun to make him squirm a bit.
He took a deep breath and lowered his head. “I didn’t mean any impropriety to your person.”
She would like to think Nate’s interest in her was more than just the licentious feelings of a young man of privilege for a pretty servant girl. “You are forgiven, Nate.” She smiled, swaying as she clasped her hands. “I should take your leave, as I must return to the farm soon or else someone might come looking for me.”
“May I walk with you?”
She nodded. “Let me get my basket.”
He rushed toward it. “Allow me!”
Freya and Nate walked silently in tandem, crossing the meadow. They entered the path in the woods. He held a bramble up for her and she ducked through. They had grown shy, as if there was nothing more to say or they could think of nothing. Neither could find the right words. Then the sight of Nate carrying a woman’s basket made Freya giggle.
He stopped in the path, turning to her with a wounded look. “Why are you laughing?”
She laughed more. She couldn’t stop, her bosom quaking above her bodice. “It’s just funny,” she said, “a handsome, tall lad like yourself carrying a maid’s basket!”
He gave her a stern, squinting look, then in a huff dropped the basket at his feet, the pots and pans making a terrible clatter.
“The basket!” she said, looking down. What was wrong with him? She was about to kneel to retrieve it, but he reached over and clamped her at the waist with two strong hands, holding her fixed in place, just as she had foreseen when she first saw him.
They stared at each other. Freya’s heart rebounded inside her chest. She wondered whether she had made a terrible mistake letting this young fellow accompany her alone through the woods.
Then his shoulders began to shake and he was laughing, and she realized it had been a joke, a play at seriousness, at annoyance, and she laughed, too, incredibly relieved. He let her go. They smiled at each other. He stepped aside, closer, and grabbed her maiden’s cap, holding it aloft with a mischievous grin. When she made a leap to grab it, he bounded away, taunting her with the cap, waving it in the air.
“Stop!” she said, but he only laughed.
She made another attempt to nab it, but he caught her shoulder with his free hand, and swung his hand with the cap around her waist. They stood still. She inhaled him. He smelled of work, mud, and the woods. He felt as solid as the pines around them. Nate whispered in her ear, the words rushing. “How beautiful you are with your red hair along your cheek.” He pushed a curl out of her face as he said this, seeing how the sun lit it up, then placed her cap back on her head. “Miss Beauchamp, I fear I have…”