The Tea Chest

by Heidi Chiavaroli

  I tilted his head again, lowered my mouth to his own small one, sealed my lips over his, and breathed two long breaths.

  More compressions before finally he choked and spluttered, seawater spewing into my face. I swiped at it. Someone offered their towel and I took it. After several more chokes and gasps, the boy started breathing.

  I sat back on my heels, relief soothing my tight insides as color returned to the child’s face.

  “Thank God,” the man beside me said, scooping the boy up in a hug.

  I placed a hand on his arm, pushing him away slightly. “Give him some room for a few minutes, okay?”

  “I don’t know how to—” The man looked up at me, his words cut short as his gaze met mine.

  No, it couldn’t be. Not him. Surely I would have recognized his voice when he’d shouted his son’s name. Surely I would have recognized his form as he was in the water with the child. No matter the urgency of the moment. I would have known.

  He straightened, looked to the boy again, who seemed to be breathing clearly. He opened his mouth, slow. “You.”

  I looked away, ashamed. It didn’t matter that I’d just saved his son’s life. It didn’t matter that years had passed since I’d last seen him. My guilt felt fresh now, his shock piled upon recognition making me realize that while I had been able to ignore what I’d done to him years ago, he hadn’t possessed the same gift.

  Perhaps my mother wasn’t the only one I needed to make amends with.

  I forced a small smile, but only one corner of my mouth lifted, and it felt fake. So very fake.

  “Yeah . . . me.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Emma

  It does not require a majority to prevail, but rather an irate, tireless minority keen to set brush fires in people’s minds.

  SAMUEL ADAMS

  BOSTON

  NOVEMBER 1773

  ’Twas only tea.

  I stared into the steaming cup of bohea before me. The smoky, exotic scent rose to my nostrils from the glittering display of glass, silver, and ceramic upon Mother’s mahogany tea table.

  Peculiar how one was to surmise so much from one’s tea table. More peculiar, perhaps, how the contents in one’s cup were capable of tearing apart a town—nay, an entire kingdom.

  “They are beginning to fear for their lives. The Sons of Violence are mad with rage, demanding the consignees refuse the tea on the ships.” Margaret, my oldest sister, straightened her shoulders, the green damask of her dress straining against her bosom, grown larger with the child she carried. “Imagine, they tout the meaning of freedom and yet our merchants are not allowed to receive their goods!”

  “Hush now, Margaret. We mustn’t involve ourselves in politics. It’s unbecoming for a lady.” Mother placed a lump of sugar in her cup. “Your father is quite capable of handling enough politics for the lot of us.”

  As a customs official and one of the most strong-willed men I knew, Father certainly did handle his fair share of politics. How capably he did so, however, seemed to be in question—at least among the town.

  I sipped my tea. “Not speaking of the matter won’t make it vanish, Mother. We all feel the pressure—the hatred from the town. Why must we keep it bottled up?”

  Mother tsked. “I fear you’ve spent too much time at the Fultons’, Emma. It’s but a select few who have a problem with the tea—the town does not wish ill on us.”

  To hear her say such proved how little she left the house, save for a few afternoons of social calls at the governor’s house.

  “I suppose they did not wish ill on the Clarkes, either.” I spoke the words softly, knew the mob that had made an appearance at the Clarkes’ warehouse should not be mentioned, yet felt the tug of rebellion in my own heart over Mother’s preference for trite discourse.

  Mother put her cup down. It clattered in its delicate saucer. “The governor has asked Colonel Hancock to keep his cadets ready for additional disturbances. And your young swain is due to arrive any day. Surely that’s reason enough to keep your thoughts from politics.”

  All rebellion leached from my heart at the mention of Samuel.

  Samuel Clarke. Half of the “sons” in Richard Clarke & Sons—one of the largest tea importers in Boston—Samuel would arrive from London just in time to claim the tea contract granted him by the East India Company . . . and my hand in matrimony.

  Samuel and I had met once, three years before, when I was but sixteen. Though I tried to convince myself there was something . . . worthy in the handsome man I was to wed, my mind captured his rum-soaked breath and cocky manner more than anything deserving of matrimony. That I compared him to Noah Winslow helped none.

  Margaret let her hand flutter at her chest. “A spring wedding! It will be lovely, won’t it, Mother?”

  “The Clarkes have mentioned their willingness to contribute to the celebration.” She smiled, a smug expression on her face. “It shall be grand.”

  Grand indeed. “’Twould be a pity if they’re counting on their East India tea profits for it.”

  Mother allowed her hand to fall on the table. “Emma Grace, that is quite enough! I’ve half a mind to forbid you to continue your work at the Fultons’. Enough—”

  “And what is this, Mother?” Father’s hard voice sounded behind me. “I’ve enough fuss out on the streets. I needn’t bear it beneath my own roof.”

  Fuss, aye. Though I had not heard the story firsthand, I heard enough of the gossip around town on my trips to the Fultons’ to know that something happened to Father during his recent trip to Falmouth. The papers reported a customs agent in Falmouth who had seized a ship without reasonable cause and been given a genteel coat of tar and feathers by a mob of riled sailors. I could imagine not only Father’s humiliation, but his words—which he never seemed to filter—that led to the incident.

  I wondered what Uncle Daniel would have said about it all. Uncle Daniel, whom I often visited upon Copp’s Hill, the inscription of his gravestone with the skull and crossbones long memorized: A true son of Liberty, a Friend to the Publick, an Enemy to oppression, and one of the foremost in opposing the Revenue Acts on America.

  Though Uncle Daniel and Father had never agreed on politics, I had always been Uncle Daniel’s favorite. He paid me more mind than Father ever did, bringing me hair combs and teacups and silk kerchiefs from his travels to faraway lands. I could still remember his laughing eyes when he gifted me with such a present, showering me in adoration, making me feel as if I truly belonged.

  I did miss him.

  Mother’s voice broke into my musings. “’Tis your youngest, John. I fear she may need to be wed and off to England sooner than we’d planned. Or at least away from the South End.”

  I opened my mouth to protest but closed it swiftly at the stare Father pinned upon me. Here, in this room, he was my father, and yet it seemed he never released himself fully to the love and care of his family, either in the giving or in the receiving. A former sea captain and army officer turned customs informer, his renowned fiery temper didn’t end at his own threshold. I knew not to cross him—had borne the brunt of his hands enough when I was small to know how long the sting lasted.

  Nay, I would keep quiet. I would not speak my mind.

  I would not state that my employment in the South End was the most blessed thing to come into my life in a long while. I would not state that I detested how our family name was synonymous with “taxes” and “East India Company” and “King George” and everything that the Liberty Boys—and it seemed the whole of Boston—ridiculed. I would not state how I felt more at home among the Fultons than I ever had in my own home, how, in the deepest spaces and corners of my heart, I wished I belonged in their humble and modest home in the South End instead of our grand one in the North.

  Even as I acknowledged this thought as my own, even as I avoided Father’s gaze, I silently admitted that it wasn’t only Sarah and the Fulton family that caught my fancy, but a certain printer’s apprentice who often f
ound himself in their company.

  Father sat in the empty Queen Anne chair and crossed his legs, waiting for our slave girl Chloe to pour him his tea and place a lump of sugar within. “Nay, we shan’t move the wedding up further. And we shan’t demand Emma part with her employment.”

  I released a breath into the cloth of my napkin. “Thank you, Father.”

  “Yet as long as you are there, Emma, you shall make yourself useful to me.”

  Margaret leaned into the table.

  The tiny hairs along the back of my neck tingled. “How so, Father?” The three words came out at odds and angles from each other, my voice all sorts of highs and lows.

  “Those Sons of Pestilence think they’re quite wise, summoning the consignees to their silly Liberty Tree, demanding they refuse the tea, tarring and feathering those who represent the crown, sending mobs to the Clarke warehouse.” He slammed his hand down on the table, causing the tea to slosh in our cups and the silverware to clatter. “Enough! If my own daughter is to be in the employ of those who endorse such upheaval, then she will be my eyes and ears where I cannot be.”

  “Father, you can’t possibly mean for me to engage in such dishonorable—”

  “Are we not already dealing with dishonor in these rebels? It may be the only language they speak.”

  “Mayhap I could speak with the Fultons. Tell them—”

  “Stop your whining this instant. It repulses me. We are Malcolms, doing the duty of our king and country. You should be glad to help. And if you are not . . . you will no longer make your trips to the South End, and I will speak to Mr. Clarke about moving your wedding.”

  “Malcolms, doing the duty of our king and country.” I wondered what Uncle Daniel would have said about that.

  My breath came fast, my corset quite suddenly too restrictive. Inky spots danced before my eyes. The Fultons were my friends. How could I betray them? Spy upon them? And yet, my family—my country perhaps—had need of me. Why then did I feel no obligation to assist either?

  As Mother and Margaret awaited my response, I cowered beneath Father’s stare. I could not imagine my life without the Fultons. I could not imagine a life in London, married to Samuel.

  And yet it all seemed inevitable. Deferring the inevitable was my only choice.

  I swallowed down my doubts with a sip of tea. I hadn’t a choice, truly I hadn’t. I would have to be strong, though in this case I wasn’t sure I could be proud of such strength.

  “Yes, Father. I will do as you ask.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Emma

  We’ll lay hold of card and wheel,

  And join our hands to turn and reel;

  We’ll turn the tea all in the sea,

  And all to keep our liberty.

  SUSANNAH CLARKE

  THE WARMTH OF THE FIRE in the stove heated my back in the Fulton keeping room, where I sat in a sturdy wooden chair, finishing the last of the mending on a pair of eight-year-old John’s breeches.

  The scent of stew—a simple meat and vegetable dish—simmered on the hearth. I looked at the door, wondered at Sarah’s unusual tardiness. ’Twould be dark by the time I made my way home. Mother would not be pleased.

  I folded the breeches and savored the peace of the slumbering children. Ann, Mary, and Lydia were little sprites who could run me ragged. Not that I minded their neediness. One smile, smeared with strawberry preserves, was enough to make the constant minding all worthwhile.

  The door squeaked open and Sarah entered, doffing her cloak and knit hat. “Forgive me, Emma. There was another gathering at the Tree upon my way home. I fear I was swept up in it.”

  I smiled to think of the small, pretty lady before me at a gathering down the street, looking on amid the crowd of Sons. Something akin to admiration, but not unlike jealousy, stirred within my belly. To be more like Sarah. To be bold and state my opinions heedless of repercussion, of disapproval. To care for my family with such fierce love and loyalty. To not hesitate at stopping beneath an old elm to listen to a group of rebels talk tea and taxes.

  And yet I did not covet the time she spent at her mother’s tavern serving flip, day in and day out, trying to supplement John’s meager income at the distillery, having to spend so many hours from her children.

  If I were to marry Samuel, I would not have to worry over such things. I could live a life of leisure in England, surround myself with wee ones to tend to, to give my heart to.

  Truly, there could be worse fates.

  “And what did they speak of this night?” I asked. Not until the words were out, swaying beneath the dried herbs hanging in the rafters, did I think of Father’s demand for information. I should not have asked, for I could not tell that which I did not know.

  Sarah hung her cloak and smoothed her dark hair. “There’s to be a meeting at Faneuil Hall on Friday.”

  Friday. Pope’s Day. A day long known in Boston for rebellion and revelry, disorder and dissidence. Boys ringing bells and threatening to break windows, effigies of the devil alongside the pope paraded on cobblestone streets by men wearing costumes and banging drums, all ending in a great bout of fisticuffs between the North and South Ends. “I shan’t be able to come Friday. Father won’t allow us from the house.”

  Sarah’s gaze caught mine, and in that brief space of time, the air grew heavy. She came to me, clasped my hands in her own slightly weathered ones. “Dear, forgive me. I feel you are part of our family, having helped us since Ann was a wee one. I often forget how we—our families—are on different sides of this dispute.” She closed her eyes, grasped my hands tighter. “I want you to know that you are loved by us, Emma. You are like a daughter to me, one of my dearest confidantes. Not for any political display, for I know you keep quiet about such things as a proper lady should—as I fail to do over and over again—but for your love and care of our small ones. I only want to make that . . . clear. And if you shouldst ever feel it not be in your best interest to serve us, then though it would break my heart, I would understand.”

  I blinked fast, demanding my eyes stay dry. “You are like family to me also. I could never imagine leaving the girls.” Five-year-old Ann, who would be carrying her hornbook to dame school before long. Little Lydia not quite in leading strings. And Mary. Dear, sweet three-year-old Mary, who captured my heart with her raspy giggles and intense love, best shown in clinging hugs.

  Yet soon there would be no more giggles or hugs, talks with Sarah, or strawberry-preserve smiles. Soon we would be an ocean apart.

  Sarah dropped my hands and turned to stoke the fire in the stove, her voice soft. “I can barely stand the thought of you marrying him, Emma. You needn’t, you know.”

  Was I so apparent?

  “I am not like you, Mrs. Fulton—”

  “Sarah. You must call me Sarah, as I’ve begged you time and again.”

  “Feels improper. I—”

  Sarah shut the stove door with enough force to make me jump. “Hang proper, is what I say! Is it proper for your parents to force you to wed a man you met but once? Is it proper—?”

  “Sarah, please. Attempt to see my view of things.” I tamped down my doubts, spoke truth as I was seldom allowed to do in my own house. “I can’t imagine standing up to Father. He would disown me outright.”

  Her head dipped a bit. “I don’t mean to press you outside of comfort. I care, is all. I don’t want to see you make a choice that will haunt you the rest of your years.”

  “It is not a choice.” Bitterness laced my words, as tart as the imported lemons we had the luxury of squeezing over our cod in the summers.

  “And see? This is why I urge you to take a stand. There are some matters we should have a say in.” Quite suddenly her gaze grew far-off, and I knew she no longer thought only of my future, but of the ships, burgeoning with tea, that were to arrive within days. She blinked, and then she was with me again, her stare fastened upon me, her hand squeezing my arm. “We would help you in any way possible. You are brave. You are st
rong. And one day, I hope to see you prove it—not to me, but to yourself.” Her hand released me. “I have something for you.” She turned and opened the cupboard, grabbed her cup from the top shelf. ’Twas one she didn’t use daily, rather only to mark special occasions—if the children were sleeping and she could catch a moment’s rest, or if she wished to commemorate a certain day.

  When she held it out to me, I shook my head.

  “Take it, Emma. I want you to have it.”

  Tentative fingers grasped the teacup, a simple accompaniment that Mother would never deem fine enough for her tea table, as it held no handles and was horribly out of fashion. A blue Oriental pattern adorned each of its creamed sides, and a tiny chip marred the edge of its base. I ran my finger over the imperfection. “I don’t understand why you wish me to have it. Was it not a wedding gift from your mother? Should you not save it for one of your girls?”

  “We have other things to pass on. I was thinking of you today . . . of your predicament. And I thought of this cup.”

  I tilted my head.

  “This cup has survived much. It wears its journeys in the scratches and dents upon its glaze. Yet it’s been strong enough to endure, and so I value it all the more. Take it, wherever your journeys bring you. But when you look at it, remember you have chosen your journey. One way or another, you have had a say. Either by standing aside and yielding or by standing up and fighting.” She placed her hands over mine.

  I stared at the pottery, certain that only Sarah could summon forth such a bold metaphor from a piece that held one’s beverage. Even so, I knew what the cup meant to her. At the same time, I knew what she longed for me to do. Even with that knowledge, I thought to push the cup back into her hands, tell her I couldn’t do as she would in my situation.

  I was not brave. Or strong. Or autonomous.

  I was nothing like Sarah. And while I hated the thought that I was a weak individual, being weak was at least safe. I needed only to stay within certain guidelines, and I would fall beneath the protection of what was expected. I would fall beneath the protection of Father.