The Tea Chest

by Heidi Chiavaroli

  “You are brave and beautiful and strong, Emma.”

  He thought me brave. Strong. Perhaps, in seeking out my own path in life, my own love, I was becoming the very thing I longed for. That the man I loved recognized as much, and thought me beautiful for it, was enough to affirm my decisions of the last few days.

  I smiled, mesmerized by the hazel flecks of his eyes, reflecting the firelight.

  He pressed his lips together and I was drawn to them, to every movement he made.

  He ran his thumb along my jaw, gentle, prodding. “I might kiss you.”

  I swallowed down my apprehension, thick in my throat. Brave, indeed. I opened my mouth to speak, my words filled with tremors. “I . . . would like that, I think.”

  He smiled, causing my nerves to rest. Dipping his head, he captured my mouth with his own, drew me closer.

  I sank into the solidness of his arms, the movement of his lips over mine so intimate and tender, I fought to remember where I was, who I was. He tasted of mint and adventure, of sunshine and new beginnings. And as he deepened the kiss, I felt a shared force between us—something so powerful and foreign, it frightened me with its intensity as much as it excited me. In that moment, I knew my heart had been lost to him forever, but a better place to lose it I could not fathom.

  When we finally parted, I breathed deep, my chest heaving, my head swirling.

  “I should look forward to more of that,” he murmured in my ear, his breath warm.

  I laughed. I would also, though I would not be so bold to say.

  “I had best be going. ’Tis not overly wise we are without a chaperone, and the mischief this night has set upon us bids me home.”

  He kissed me again then, long and just as sweet. It was enough to keep me warm the entire night through.

  “Until tomorrow then, my sweet Emma. I will visit you in my dreams.”

  And while I’d fallen asleep thinking on his kiss, my actual dreams had been of a much less pleasant quality, forecasting disaster instead of fond new love.

  Now, lying in the dark beside Mary, I wondered why such dreams should invade my mind when I’d never been happier. Could they be a prophecy of sorts? I raked my thoughts for anything Father could find should he decide to search the house. Absurd, truly, but I could not release the premonition that I was not safe—that I had put Sarah and John and the children, and even Noah, at risk by being here.

  We had washed off the lampblack, stored away the shawls and blankets.

  Nothing else here would implicate the men. . . .

  I sat up at the sudden remembrance of the feathers John and Noah had brought home. I remembered them on the seat of a chair, taken from their cloak pockets. Could we have been so careless as to leave them?

  I slid out of the bed, careful to replace the covers around Mary’s warm little body. Outside, the barest hint of dawn lightened the eastern sky, shining faint light onto Mary, curled up in the bed, her braid a long, wavy tangle on the bolster pillow. I donned my clothes, careful not to wake the sleeping girls.

  I made my way downstairs, hesitated on the creaking steps for only a moment.

  The bright feathers lay where I’d seen them last, and I mentally berated all four of us for our carelessness. I scooped them up and faced the hearth, where the coals from last night’s fire glowed. I laid kindling upon them, then moved to the stove and did the same.

  Would the feathers burn? I had no assurance they would, could only imagine a horrible stench clogging up the house, the bones of feathers still visible in the hearth. Better to remove their damning evidence from the house altogether.

  Images from my dream manifested themselves anew. But this time it was Father barging into the Fulton home, demanding an alibi for John last night, smelling the stink of burnt feathers, seeing their skeletons in the stove.

  The feathers must be disposed of . . . I looked about the keeping room, caught a glimpse of paper beneath the chair Noah had sat in the night before. Vaguely, I remembered it fluttering to the ground as he doffed one of the blankets he’d wrapped around himself. I’d meant to mention it but had gotten caught up in John’s telling of their adventure, and then, later, in the conversation Noah and I shared.

  I went over, scooped it up. My blood flowed cold as I realized what I held.

  Noah’s round-robin. The oath the Mohawks had taken. He’d been careless. Yet the night had been filled with such excitement, I couldn’t blame him. He had likely tucked it deep within a pocket—perhaps the strenuous work had caused it to come loose, or perhaps it had come out when he removed his cloak. At least it had fallen here and not in the streets.

  And I’d been worried about feathers.

  I briefly considered casting the paper in the stove. The flames would devour it easily. But I stayed my hand, thinking Noah would want to keep this pact. The remembrance of my dream returned to me, and having no time to find a secure hiding place for it, I carefully folded Noah’s paper and slid it beneath my corset.

  Donning my cloak, I unbolted the door and left the house, making my way east. I would see Noah later this day and return the oath to him. He would be happy I’d taken care of it—that I had already proved a worthy helpmate.

  The morning chill bit my skin, but I hastened toward the ocean to dispose of the Mohawk feathers. No one would associate them with John and Noah if they were found in the waters of the harbor—where tea surely floated in abundance this morning.

  With quick steps, I braced myself against the cold and worked my way down Auchmuty Street, then South, then Summer until I reached the wharves alongside Flounder Lane, where a small stretch of beach met the water. A gull poked at a reed near the shore, where the tide—blanketed in tea leaves—pulled away. If I flung the feathers in the harbor, nature would certainly do its work in taking them out to sea, far away from Noah and the Fulton home.

  The tide had swelled that night. I stepped down to the beach, the tea leaves bobbing heavy in the water and along the shore. Griffin’s Wharf lay not far from here, but this day it seemed the entire ocean was adrift in tea leaves. Their exotic aroma mixed with the scent of the harbor.

  In what I hoped to be a nonchalant manner, I looked behind me. All seemed quiet, the distillery John worked at looming large in the distance, the smattering of houses alongside it quiet and barely visible from such a distance, their inhabitants still sleeping or tucked within their keeping rooms, lighting their stoves. Afar off came the sound of a horse and carriage.

  But nothing else to cause alarm.

  I lifted my skirts slightly so as not to pick up wet tea leaves in my petticoats, and squatted at the water’s edge. I pulled the feathers from the pocket of my cloak and pressed them beneath the next tide swell, allowing cold water to sweep over my hand.

  I swished my fingers around in the sea to rid them of tea leaves and sand, then stood.

  There. ’Twas accomplished. Nothing to fuss over, truly.

  I almost turned to go but thought of the oath beneath my corset. Had it not already served its purpose? How easy to rip it to shreds and fling it in the cold waters of the harbor, never to be seen again.

  I craned my neck in the direction of the distillery. Still no one. I slid my fingers beneath the top of my corset, grasped the list with two fingers, and pulled it out. I held it beneath my cloak, praying for the right course of action.

  Mayhap the Lord had sent me the dream for a reason. Mayhap I was meant to dispose of the oath here and now.

  I felt its thickness and wondered at the wisdom of standing here, shredding such quality paper with my hands. Surely a fire would be better to destroy it.

  Mind made up, I slid the paper back where it belonged, safe against my bare skin. Noah’s shop was just yonder. Mayhap he would be starting the fires in the shop, and I would not be intruding if I knocked upon the door. I could give him the round-robin and be done with it.

  I turned, running headlong into a tall, solid body.

  I gasped, could not fathom how I hadn’t heard
another’s presence.

  Large hands steadied me, the scent of pipe smoke familiar. I remembered my dream yet still could not reconcile the fact that Father could be here now.

  “Now where are you off to so fast, dearest?” Not Father, then. Oh, so much worse. I tried not to cringe beneath Samuel’s hold, but his fingers tightened. “More importantly, what do you have in your stays?”

  I looked up into my captor’s face, set in an ugly sneer.

  And I very much regretted ever leaving the safety of the Fulton house that morning.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Emma

  This destruction of the tea is so bold, so daring, so firm, intrepid and inflexible, and it must have so important consequences, and so lasting, that I can’t but consider it as an epocha in history.

  JOHN ADAMS

  “I’VE MISSED YOU, dear Emma.” Samuel’s fingers dug into my arms, talons digging into tender flesh. “Your father insisted you ran off, never to return. He said he wouldn’t waste his energy looking for you. But I knew he was wrong. You wouldn’t run from me, now, would you?”

  Noah said I was brave. Now I must prove it. This man didn’t have a hold over me any longer. I had broken away from him—even from my family—to have my freedom.

  I wrenched myself from his firm grasp. “I am no longer beneath my father’s dominion. Nor yours. I am a free woman.”

  He threw back his head and released a cackle that scared away the gull I’d seen earlier. “Are you, now? Well, that puts me in a precarious position, does it not? Because you were promised to me. And your dowry was promised to me as well. I intend to have you both.”

  No doubt it was the connection to Father’s royal position he coveted more than my dowry. Either way, I had denied him. “I’m promised to another, Samuel. I’m sorry . . . perhaps I should have sent you a missive.”

  He stared at me, his gaze like the ice that dripped from the eaves of the distillery. “Flitting from one man to another, Emma? Quite the trollop, aren’t we? I hadn’t realized you were so . . . free with yourself.”

  I could scarce comprehend his words. No one had ever accused me of such indecency.

  “Who’s the lucky chap, then? Not that slovenly Yank who ogled you through my very own house window the night I fought off that unruly mob, I hope.”

  Inwardly I scolded myself for mentioning my relationship with Noah. ’Twould have been better to let Samuel believe I was truly on my own, with no intended in my future. “No—not him. Another.” All I could think to do was protect Noah. If Samuel knew of my beloved’s identity . . . there was no telling what travesty might come upon us.

  He looked down at me, his eyes slits within his face. “You lie.” His gaze continued downward to where my chest grew heavy beneath my cloak. “And what is it you hide in your underpinnings?”

  My heart lurched taut under my corset, where Noah’s oath lay, suddenly unsafe. “Nothing. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must tend to breakfast.” My words did not shake, and as I moved to go around him, I thought he might not cause me further distress after all.

  How very wrong I was.

  He stepped sideways to block my way. “I saw you hide something. If you will not reveal it to me, I shall have to go searching myself.”

  I crossed my arms before me, shook my head with vigor. From where I stood on the sand, I sprang forward, thinking to outrun him. But he caught me in his arms, his force sending us both falling upon the sand. He clamped a hand over my mouth, his palm locking my jaw together so tight I could not attempt to bite him.

  “If you continue to make a fuss, be certain I will find your beau. ’Twouldn’t be difficult. He runs with rebels—and Mohawks, it would seem. After the treasonous unrest last night, I should think the king would like to learn of him.”

  I shook my head against his hand, my eyes drawn to the tea leaves swirling in the water, a tea chest in the flats beyond. Samuel knew nothing except for what he’d seen the night Noah dispelled the mob at the Clarke home. Noah had helped his family. No, Samuel’s words were only to elicit a reaction, poking at me like the tithingman poked a sleeping child during service. I squirmed beneath his grip.

  “Whatever you are concealing, you can either withdraw it yourself, or I will be forced to retrieve it for you.”

  I imagined his hands slithering beneath my cloak, his fingers searching for the oath beneath my corset. Spots danced before my eyes. I had no doubt he would do as he threatened.

  I nodded as best I could with his hands pinioning me.

  He loosened his arms just a bit to allow me room to move. Taking the chance, I propelled myself forward with all my strength, but to no avail. The muscles of his arms locked me in place.

  I bade my tears stay put.

  “No more nonsense, Emma. This is your last chance. I am being kind.”

  I had no choice.

  Beneath the privacy of my cloak, I slid Noah’s oath from my corset. Samuel grabbed it up, releasing me.

  I pushed my boots against the sand, then made one last desperate lunge for the paper.

  He held it easily away from me, pushed me firmly back onto the sand. “My, now, you are a feisty one, aren’t you? Perhaps you’ll be better marital sport than I anticipated.” With deliberate show, he unfolded Noah’s list. “What have we here?” His eyes scanned the paper, near lighting up as they comprehended the information. “My, oh, my, is this what I think it is?”

  My bottom lip trembled as I watched, helpless. I’d been trying to help Noah. How could I have been so careless?

  “Emma, dear, I’m not certain I could have imagined anything better beneath that dress of yours—” he chuckled—“though I suppose we shall see upon our wedding night, shan’t we?”

  Sour bile rose in the back of my throat. My world came crashing down upon me, obliterated by the events of the last ten minutes. “What do you intend?” I whispered, my voice hoarse.

  Samuel refolded the paper in neat quarters, slid it with care into a pocket of his cloak, patted it twice before focusing his attention on me. “Now that is entirely up to you.”

  I closed my eyes against the morning sun. “What do you want?”

  “I’ve already told you. I want nothing other than what was promised to me. Your hand in marriage.”

  There must be another way. Though I could not see it in this moment, surely I had not ruined everything by my actions this morning.

  “Why do you want to wed me? I’ve made it clear I don’t desire you. My father has disowned me. What do you stand to gain?”

  “My dignity, for one. Your dowry, another. And if you must know, I’ve been looking to seal a more . . . permanent relationship with your father for some time. He will help the Clarke family in ways you cannot imagine.”

  “Not if the Sons have anything to say about it—which they clearly do.”

  Samuel brushed sand from his trousers. “They will be squashed soon enough, and all will return as it once was. I’ve no doubt if you return to your father and beg his good graces, he will accept you back into the fold. Tell him you regret leaving your true family, that you saw firsthand the baseness of those men who mock the name of liberty, that you only wish to have things as they were—to have me as a husband.”

  I fought to keep from spitting upon his shoes. “Never.”

  “Very well, then. I will do what I must. You have been warned.” He turned to go, and while I couldn’t wait to rid myself of him, his words cast fear upon every shredded, shivering strand of my being.

  I stood on wobbly legs. “Please. Don’t . . .” My voice came out tight, threatening to fly away.

  He turned, feigning surprise that I had called out to him. “Don’t what? Do my duty to the crown, as any good and law-abiding citizen should?”

  “Pray, Samuel. Pray . . . I beg of you, may I have that paper back?”

  “Of course. Of course.” He stepped closer to me but did not move to take the oath from his cloak. “I promise to return it to you. ’Twill be yours . .
. after we are wed.”

  I pressed a hand to my stomach to fight the ill feeling swirling in the pit of my being. “I cannot marry you.”

  “Then I cannot keep the contents of this list between us.” His expression turned serious, no longer the joking rogue. “’Tis quite simple, in fact. The only way you will receive your list back is if you go straight to your father—immediately. No explanations to your Yank or your employers. You will express your remorse and insist to marry me as soon as the banns can be read. If I find that you are not beneath your father’s roof within the hour, if I find that you have not obeyed my demands, I will release the list to General Gage and Governor Hutchinson. If I find that you have ever made contact with any of those associated with this—” he patted his pocket—“consider it a break in our agreement. Surely the Body will not voice opposition to the hanging of men who not only disguised themselves as Mohawks, but who skulk about at night destroying property.”

  My insides cramped, and I curled myself around my stomach.

  “Make no mistake, dear one. Every man on this list has committed treason. Not only that, but he has condemned himself in signing his own name. And you, I suppose, are partly to blame if they should meet their doom. But, Emma, you can be their heroine also. ’Tis quite simple. Return to your father’s home and I will forget the list until I return it to you on our wedding night. Their fate is entirely in your hands. You longed for freedom—here it is. You are free to make your own choice in this matter. Choose well, dearest.”

  And then he was gone, his words and their implications hanging over me thicker than the tea soaking the tides of Boston.

  I crumpled to the sand, my mind replaying what had just happened, convincing myself it was a product of my imagination and not the cold, terrible truth of reality. Tears froze upon my cheeks as I fell into a trancelike state until the call of seabirds finally beckoned me. I slid my hands beneath my corset, my despair growing tenfold at the confirmation that recent events had been all too real.