The Tea Chest

by Heidi Chiavaroli

  While the chest would be awkward, it was nothing compared to lifting logs and inflatable boats, which would be the norm for me in just a few weeks. Besides, if I took the chest, along with Ethan’s thank-you, we would be finished. There would be no reason for us to see one another again. That’s what I wanted, wasn’t it?

  Ethan shrugged and held the door of his shop open.

  The sun cast a hazy glow over the evening, the tantalizing scent of salty sea infusing the air.

  “If you want to wait a minute, I’ll lock up and take you home.”

  “That’s okay. I enjoy the walk.”

  I surprised myself with my need to flee. I wanted to believe myself a fight girl, not a flight girl, so what was this overwhelming urge to leave with this chest tucked under my arm?

  And yet part of me wished to stay, the sun’s end-of-day rays stretching before us, this man who drew so many complicated feelings from me filling the space of my time.

  He tapped the side of his foot lightly against the stairs of the porch. “I’m glad I found you on the beach last night. I have to admit, though, for a minute I thought you were going to run away from me.”

  I let out a nervous laugh, wanted to deny that I would do such a thing.

  But I had before, so really it wasn’t so absurd.

  He stared at me with such intensity I couldn’t tear myself from his gaze, even as it made me uncomfortable. I shifted the chest in my arms. The rough wood scraped against my skin. “What do you want from me?” I whispered.

  “Would an apology kill you?”

  My defenses went up. I’d never been good at admitting failure. That’s why I made sure not to fail as often as I could. Still, he was right. How I had gone about leaving was, simply put, wrong.

  I inhaled a deep breath. “You’re right. I’m sorry for how I left.”

  “But not about leaving.”

  “Ethan, that’s water under the bridge. I didn’t ask for any of this.” I gestured to him, the shop, the tea chest. “I didn’t ask to run into you again or—or anything. Look, I am sorry I hurt your feelings. I—I wish I could have done things differently, but you knew my life . . . you knew Lena. I had no choice.”

  Although he nodded, he didn’t seem convinced.

  I thought of my mother, of how in many ways I sought from her what Ethan sought from me. Not a second chance, but a sign of remorse, regret . . . realization that she could have made better choices. That, just maybe, I mattered to her after all.

  If I wanted these things so badly, then why was it so hard for me to grant them to the man before me?

  I stared at the chest in my hands. Old and worn, out of place with me—someone who didn’t lug hefty things around, either emotionally or physically.

  I wondered if the estate sale had been near Lena’s house, if I had passed its place of provenance multiple times on one of my runs as a teenager.

  Could I make the tea chest worth something? This broken, empty thing that symbolized the old. Perhaps in between my training and while waiting for Lena to return from her vacation, I could work on restoring it to something beautiful. Something useful and worthy.

  Now, with Ethan standing before me, our past still very much between us, and with thoughts of Lena heavy on my mind, I wondered if it was possible for someone’s soul—for my soul—to be made into something new as well.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Hayley

  I BIT MY TONGUE to keep a curse from slipping out of my mouth as I balanced the chest in one hand, searching my pocket for the apartment key card.

  Frustration welled within my chest at the rather frozen good-bye Ethan and I had given one another. I didn’t know why. There was no more business between us. He’d given me the gift, said his thank-you, I’d given a halfhearted apology, we hadn’t made plans to see one another again.

  End of story.

  So why did that thought sadden me? I hated this foreign feeling of depending on another’s presence to fulfill something inside me. It’s why I’d run away to join the Navy in the first place. I could depend on myself and my crew, our desire to serve our country and excel at our jobs, to remain loyal to one another. What Ethan’s presence stirred within me now, I couldn’t make peace with. Because in a way that surprised me, I longed for it . . . even as it stank of neediness and regret and failure. For as loyal as I thought myself to my country and my team—even to the point of self-sacrifice—being with Ethan reminded me of how, deep down, I was still only after what was best for me.

  I opened the door of my apartment, a dull throb beginning in my head. The last of the sun’s rays shone into the tidy apartment, and I placed the chest on the edge of the small kitchen island, then slid onto the couch, keeping the lights out.

  With the still darkness, the pain in my temples settled, leaving my head warm.

  The sound of something crashing to the floor, of splintering wood, startled me off the couch.

  The chest.

  I groaned as I switched on the kitchen lights.

  The thing truly was sturdy. I picked up the box, examined it for damage, found nothing until I turned it over.

  A thin sliver of wood jutted up into the air. Certainly nothing some wood glue couldn’t fix.

  With care, I inserted the slice in its rightful place, but not before noticing something beneath the board. Something yellowed. It made a quiet crinkling sound when I pressed the wood back in. Like brittle paper. Some sort of padding for the bottom of the chest?

  I flipped the box upward again, examined the inside. Nothing. Just wood.

  Leaving the table, I went back to the couch to grab my phone, slid it to the flashlight setting, and shone it within the box. At the very corners were tiny holes, something like screws stuck into the edges. I flipped the chest back over, saw identical screws on the outside. I walked to the narrow utility closet by the door, where I’d seen a small tool kit earlier in the week.

  After some searching, I found the tiniest flathead possible. From the bottom of the chest, I got to work. It took a while before I made the slightest progress, but my time working on the mechanics of a ship had taught me patience.

  Almost an hour later, I had all the rusty screws out from the bottom of the chest. Grabbing a butter knife and a spatula from the kitchen, I slid them beneath the wood and pressed up gently. It didn’t give easily. Perhaps I should hire a professional. The last thing I wanted was to wreck Ethan’s parting gift or ruin whatever lay within. More than likely the paper was nothing—maybe a part of the box, some sort of padding that had disintegrated over time. There was no need to waste someone else’s time and my money when a little patience and perseverance could accomplish what I sought.

  The wood didn’t come off in one piece, as I’d hoped, but in strips. Hopefully I could rebuild the bottom. The pine clung to the yellowed paper beneath, no doubt the result of time and humidity.

  When I’d finally removed the wood, a folded, frail paper came away, the side that had been against the very bottom of the chest still attached to a strip of pine. Rather than yank at it and risk ruining the paper, I carefully unfolded the sheet with the wood still attached. I winced at the crinkling sound, bits of parchment falling off with each movement, its tired creases yawning in protest from a nap too long.

  A circle was drawn in the center of the page. In the middle an ancient script read, Oath of Secrecy. Some faded words ran beneath. Stemming out from the circle were names—so many they seemed to form the rays of a sun.

  I skimmed it, picked up random names among the eighty or so listed.

  Henry Bass, George Hewes, John Fulton, Josiah Snelling, Ebenezer Stevens, Jeremiah Williams, Noah Winslow, Thomas Young.

  They certainly felt old, but what did this peculiar type of round-robin mean? And why had someone secreted it away at the bottom of this chest? And what sort of secret oath had they taken?

  I thought to run a Google search on some of the names, see if I could find anything, or what they had in common. But the thought of
discovering something meaningful by myself niggled. In a bad way.

  I ran a finger over the names, my choice wavering before me.

  I had come here for Lena. That was it. But as always, my mother was absent. As always, I was on my own. And while I would need to wait for her return, I didn’t have to be bored out of my mind while doing so. It was only natural that I look for a distraction in the weeks before the biggest challenge of my life—whether I found it in Ethan or the chest he’d gifted me, or now in this oath that had fallen into my hands.

  I looked at my phone, wondered what Ethan was doing, how he would react to a call from me. I thought of Lena, wondered if she’d been able to travel without her drugs.

  I sighed, picked up my phone, and dialed, feeling very much that I was plunging into a deep pool that I might very well come to regret.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Emma

  Let every man do what is right in his own eyes.

  JOHN HANCOCK

  THE RAIN HAD CEASED by the time Sarah and I left the Fulton house, leaving us with the faint scent of water mixed with dirt and the slight tang of salt from the sea. A sliver of a moon and our lantern were enough to light our way.

  As Sarah shut the door, having her daughter bolt it behind her, the loud echo of bloodcurdling war whoops came to us from the direction of Old South. They soon mixed with guttural noises and whistles reminiscent of boatswains.

  Sarah grasped for one of my hands. “It appears Governor Hutchinson did not approve Rotch’s request, after all.”

  I returned the squeeze of her fingers, drawing strength from them. I felt bonded with her in this moment, where it seemed so much depended on the events of the next few hours. With that strength came a simmering anger in the pit of my belly. I fought to quell it as I returned my hand to my muff.

  They were all stubborn men, the lot of them. Men like my father, like Samuel, like the other agents and consignees. Dare I think it—like the king. The Sons were not asking for much—only a voice. A right to have a say in the duties impressed upon us, for every man and merchant to have a fair chance at providing for their families without Parliament sticking their noses in every aspect of our commerce, right down to telling us from whom we must buy our tea.

  The Body had done all in their power—now ’twas time to put the tea in the hands of the Mohawks.

  I quickened my steps alongside Sarah’s, weaving our way to Belcher’s Lane, the harbor shimmering cold to our right. As we neared Griffin’s Wharf, I made out the shadows of a crowd alongside the docks. No doubt they had followed the shouts from Old South, curious as to what would be done. Yet other than a few quiet voices, all was eerily silent.

  When we reached Griffin’s Wharf, we pushed through the crowd, jostled and crushed by the many spectators, including a large man in a tricorne hat who smelled of rum and had little regard for sharing the tight space with others.

  No longer beside me, Sarah had avoided the large man, but I pressed forward, the wharf as light as day by means of the lamps carried by both crowd and Mohawks. Aboard the Dartmouth, Mohawks stood fierce in their disguises, an occasional grunt traveling over the water to where the crowd looked on in silence.

  With their clubs and cutlasses, the men used hoisting tackle and ropes to lift the chests to the deck. Seeing them, I found it hard to imagine Noah in their midst though I had aided him in his disguise myself. They worked quietly, methodically, as a cooperative group, and I wondered if the disguises gave them courage—if the costumes helped not only in hiding their identities but in aiding them to do what they deemed necessary.

  Beneath the disguises lay craftsmen and artisans, fishermen and seafarers. Had he been alive, I could imagine Uncle Daniel among them. They each held a job, and watching them hoist the tea from where it lay buried in the hold, my heart stirred with pride.

  When the sound of splintering wood filled the air, the crowd tittered with excitement, something akin to merriment wafting over the boats and the wharf. A man in the crowd who stood taller than the rest pointed toward Castle William, to the Royal Navy anchored in the harbor. Certainly they could see what transpired, and yet we were not disturbed—not as the tops and bindings were knocked off the chests, not as the canvas-covered chests were smashed, not as fresh, beautiful, fragrant tea leaves were scattered overboard, the chests dumped in after them.

  “This be the largest cup of tea the fishes will ever feast upon,” one man said with a snicker.

  As the Mohawks continued their work, the tea leaves piled up in the shallows, spilling over the gunwales. A few lads broke up the clumps with long poles. Others waded into the flats, stomping the leaves into the mud and swirling the tea around, urging it toward the harbor. The bittersweet scent encompassed the docks.

  A sudden commotion came from the direction of the Beaver, and several took up the cry of “East Indian!”

  Though hard to see, I could just make out one man being stripped of his clothes and coated with mud.

  “He pocketed the tea,” came the report, swelling from the Beaver. “They’d tar and feather him, but they’d rather not draw more attention than necessary.”

  I felt a tug at my cloak and twisted to see Sarah, beckoning for me. I squeezed my way back through the crowd until we were along Belcher’s Lane again, leaving the mass and the Mohawks in body, but not at all in thought.

  “We must heat some water to help them when they return.” Sarah seemed quiet, pensive. I wondered if she doubted the wisdom of John’s involvement now that she had seen the task firsthand.

  “It is going well,” I ventured.

  “Aye.”

  “There will be consequences.”

  “Aye. Not for them as individuals, if the men honor their oath, but for us as a town—perhaps us as a colony. There will be no turning back after this night.”

  Her words foretold something I knew deep in my being, for they spoke to me on a personal level as well. I imagined Father hearing news of the tea the following morning. I knew his temper well—he would brandish his anger upon any whom he saw fit. I, having abandoned my family for this cause, would surely be at the top of his list.

  If I meant that much to him—if I was even a thought to him any longer.

  Why did I long to be? What, truly, did it matter? I had the love of Noah, an honorable, good man. I had a sure friend in Sarah and now a purpose beyond myself in joining the cause of liberty. I no longer needed my family. I needn’t depend on them for strength, for all they did was make me feel inferior, weak.

  Yet as I tried to convince myself of that fact, a niggling sensation wormed its way deep within my being. I wondered if I would ever be truly content again, if in separating myself from those whose love I yearned for, I had cut off a piece of my heart forever.

  I opened my eyes to a slight tickle along my nose, my frightful dream still vivid in my mind as it vied for a place beside Mohawks and wharves and tea. I shook my head, moved my face from Mary’s braid, where she slept soundly on the bed we shared. I rolled onto my back, tried to convince myself the dream had no merit in life.

  Yet the memory of it clung to my consciousness, rendering me powerless to separate vision from reality. I closed my eyes, succumbed to its beckoning terror—Father, forcing himself into the Fulton house accompanied by customs soldiers. Tearing apart beds and drawers, searching every corner for evidence of Mohawk treachery.

  A dream. Only a dream.

  Even so, it loomed large in my mind, causing my heart to beat a frantic pace beneath my chemise.

  I thought of the previous night’s events with a mixture of anticipation, anxiety, and elation whirling in my head as I sought to replace my terrifying dream with reality.

  I forced my thoughts on all that the night before had brought me. Noah’s declaration of love and now an impending future with him. ’Twas that which was real. ’Twas that which I should dwell upon.

  When Noah and John had come home late last night, complete with Mohawk feathers stuffed in their pockets
, exhausted from their endeavors, the lampblack running into their eyes from sweat, Sarah and I had dipped cloths in warm water to help dispose of any last trace of disguise. After Sarah and John had gone to bed, Noah and I sat by the keeping room fire, him detailing every aspect of the night.

  After he had told me of the quiet work, of the complete disposal of the tea, we spoke of our future together. Of a simple spring wedding, perhaps forgoing the more traditional reading of the banns. We entertained the notion of following John and Sarah to Medford, where Noah would open his own printing business. I told him more of my childhood, how I had conflicting feelings over leaving my family forever, and yet how, when it came right down to it, I didn’t regret it, couldn’t imagine another choice before me.

  When he left for the night, he drew me into his arms. I swiped at a smudge of lampblack beneath his ear, horrified that I had missed such a telling sign when helping him wash. He pulled me closer, his arms making me forget the lampblack, the disguises, the tea, my family, the seriousness of the situation altogether.

  “You have made me the happiest man in Boston this very night, Emma. I can hardly wait to make you my wife.”

  His words hinted at an intimacy that thrilled and filled my being with a sense of longing that made me dizzy. My heart thrummed beneath their sweetness, Noah’s closeness intoxicating, the scent of hyson tea mixed with lye soap and ink. I longed to stare at the nuances of his face, to map each dip and valley and commit it forever to memory.

  He ran a finger beneath my chin. “Do you wish me to seek your father’s permission? I would do this in an honorable manner. I don’t wish you to regret any of this.”

  I think I might have fallen in love with him all over again in that moment. I laid my hand on his arm, conscious of how close we were, giddy that I might plan the rest of my life beside him. “In an ideal world, that would be wonderful . . . but I’m afraid these times are less than ideal. Father has threatened you before. I can’t imagine what would come of your going to him. Nay, Noah. He has certainly disowned me. I will answer for myself from now on, and my answer is you.”