The Tea Chest

by Heidi Chiavaroli

  Sarah.

  More than anything I wished to seek her advice, tell her of my foolish decision to leave the house, tell her of Samuel’s indecency, his attempt to bribe me.

  But going to her, or to Noah, would break Samuel’s terms. He was likely watching me even now, making sure I was doing as he instructed. And what would Sarah be able to solve? John’s name was upon that list—the father of her children. What power did she hold—what power did any of them hold against Samuel and the crown?

  I thought of Noah, of our sweet and precious time the night before. Could I go to him? Could we run away together, escape the charges of treason?

  Nay. Of course not. For if we were to escape, we would leave behind a mess of others who couldn’t. Men who had trusted Noah with their life when signing his oath. Men who believed it right to stand against the forces of tyranny.

  I remembered the warm safety of the Fulton keeping room the night before. Of Noah’s arms, strong and secure and gentle against me—the very opposite of Samuel’s possessive ones. I recalled his lips against mine, the sweet taste of him as we sealed our future together.

  Was that all that was to be ours? A few moments stolen in the middle of the night? We’d been planning a lifetime. Now, it seemed, our plans were slayed.

  My gaze fell on the tea chest not far from me. The waves lapped at its solid sides, upon which a pink Chinese tea flower was painted. I wondered if the entire cause of liberty would have been better had I not joined it. Had I stayed beneath Father’s dominion, mayhap the Sons would have chosen another disguise. Mayhap there would have been no Mohawk feathers in the Fulton house that morning. Certainly there never would have been an oath beneath my chemise.

  It would not be in Samuel’s hands this very moment.

  I dragged in a shaking breath, felt my heart being wrenched out of my body as I recalled Noah’s name clear and bold upon that paper.

  He’d called me brave. He’d called me strong.

  And I would prove myself so, though it break my heart—and his—in the process.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Emma

  The cause of Boston, the despotic Measures in respect to it, I mean now is and ever will be considered as the cause of America (not that we approve their conduct in destroying the Tea).

  GENERAL GEORGE WASHINGTON

  FATHER’S HOUSE HAD never looked so forlorn, yet so very intimidating. The shutters were latched tight, chasing away the scant winter sun. As I walked toward it, I prayed Father might be out for the day—or better yet, traveling on business.

  Mayhap my family had finally retreated to Castle William, like so many other royal officials and their kin. I didn’t entertain this thought for long, for Father was far too stubborn to admit defeat, to tuck tail and run because of a few rowdy Mohawks.

  The house loomed bigger, and I tightened my arms around the chest recovered from the beach that morning, now covered in a threadbare blanket I’d found in a deserted alley on the way home. I couldn’t fully comprehend why I’d taken the chest from the sea. All I knew was as soon as I made my decision to admit defeat—to return to Father’s home and agree to wed Samuel—another, rebellious part of me longed to hold dear the past few days. All of it. My part in the dumping of the tea. In helping Noah turn himself into a Mohawk, lampblack upon his whiskered face. Noah’s confession of love. Our precious hours planning a life that would never be.

  His sweet words, his sweeter kiss.

  I feared I would believe it all a dream if I didn’t grasp at something solid and real. Something that symbolized the genuine truth we fought for, the courage I would need going forth, the worthiness of my sacrifice. Something that symbolized that, although I would succumb to a loveless marriage, I had known the firm, unyielding form of true love once in my life, if only for a few hours.

  ’Twould have to suffice a lifetime.

  I swallowed down the last of my doubts, the ones that tempted me to run back to Noah’s arms. He would think I abandoned him. Betrayed him. Mayhap he would realize I had his oath. He would think I ran to my father. In the coming days, the thought that he would presume me a traitor would surely break my heart.

  And yet to protect him, ’twas necessary.

  I thought of Mary’s little arms, the way they clung to my neck when she gave me a hug. I thought of the book Noah had given me, the cup Sarah had insisted I have.

  How it all remained at the Fultons’, how the fact that I had gone would only be sharpened by the objects left behind.

  I tried not to dwell on Sarah, who would wonder at my sudden disappearance. In a peculiar way, her disappointment would sting the most. In a time when I’d felt unsure and uncertain, she’d declared me a daughter. She had convinced John of my worthiness and trust, and now I had disproved her confidence. No doubt she would believe me wishy-washy in my resolve to leave my family, believe me frightened by the events the night before. She might believe I set out to betray them all. Somehow, I felt if she understood the extent of my decision, she would approve. Be proud of me, even.

  Yet she could never know.

  I dragged my weary limbs up the stairs and beneath the covered entryway. I knocked upon the door, uncertain I had the right to enter of my own accord any longer. I tightened my grip on the tea chest, felt defiant at its presence in my father’s home and at the same time comforted by what it stood for—the last vestiges of my true self.

  For after I crossed this threshold, there would be no turning back.

  The door opened a crack, Chloe’s dark skin shadowed within. She pushed the door farther when she saw me. “Miss Emma . . .”

  “Chloe. May I come in?”

  She wavered. “Your father said . . . he said I should not allow you into the house.”

  Why should I be surprised? “Is he here? Mayhap I could speak with him.”

  “No, miss. Your mother is resting after a visit from your sister. Shall I inform her of your presence?”

  “Please.”

  The servant girl shut the door to find my mother within, leaving me on the cold steps.

  This road would be a hard one. My life appeared before me, leaving a bad taste in the back of my mouth at the suffering I was sure to endure on this path. The only way to survive would be to remind myself—and remind myself often—of the worthy cause for which I fought. One that would no doubt be different from the plight of Noah and Sarah and John and the Sons, yet at the same time one that was very much the same in honor.

  When the door opened this time, Mother stood poised beyond it, but unable to hide the tremble of her bottom lip. “You’ve come home.”

  “Aye.” I looked down at the thin blanket over the tea chest. “Pray, Mother, may I enter?”

  She expelled a dainty breath. “Your father . . .”

  Looking at her now, ready to turn away her youngest child, I despised her weakness. Was this what I would become upon marrying Samuel? A frail woman who would turn against the child she’d once carried in her womb only to appease a demanding husband?

  “Mother, I’ve come home. To stay, if Father will have me. To beg his forgiveness and admit the waywardness of my actions.” I hefted the onerous words, pushed out the last of them, the ones which would ensure my entrance into Father’s fold at the same time they ensured that Noah and the Fulton family and all who’d signed that blasted oath be kept safe. “To cast myself upon Samuel Clarke’s mercy as well, to hasten our wedding day if at all possible.”

  A strange light entered Mother’s eyes, and she opened the door wider. “I’m pleased you’ve come to your senses, then. Come in. You may wait in the parlor until your father returns.”

  I entered the dark house, wished to put my things upstairs in my bedroom, but dared not ask. I carried the chest into the parlor, and without doffing my cloak, I sat. Mother stood above me, seeming to vacillate between staying and leaving. Finally she placed a hand on my arm, the slight pain at her touch a remembrance of Samuel’s hard grip that morning.

  Her ton
e grew intimate. “I am glad you are home, Emma.”

  My heart softened at the gesture, and I reached for her hand, unable to say the same but willing to squeeze out a “Thank you.”

  She left me alone then. Chloe did not offer me tea or chocolate or cider. She did not offer to take my cloak or stoke the fire in the hearth. The scent of Father lay heavy in this room—pipe smoke and snuff and leather. The grandfather clock ticked away the seconds, then chimed the hours as I waited for Father’s return. I placed the chest to the side of the straight-backed cherry chair and opened the shutter to allow the winter sun to reflect light off the white wainscoting. I prepared my words with care, arranging them in my head so as to feign authenticity. And still, a faint part of me imagined Father opening his arms to his prodigal daughter. Wrapping me in his embrace, telling me he missed me, perhaps realizing the fault in his own hard ways.

  When the front door came open and Chloe’s soft steps rushed to take Father’s cloak, I stood, awaiting him.

  He did not show surprise at my presence, and I wondered if Chloe had whispered of my whereabouts.

  He strode to the fire and stoked it, laid firewood upon it, then poured himself some brandy. The glint of the flames shone off the shiny brass buttons of his wool coat. I looked at the back of his perfectly powdered wig, not a hair out of place. If only I felt some warmth—some humanity—from the man I called “Father.” Surely he couldn’t be all hard edges and rough stone. Did an ounce of compassion live within him?

  “So you come crawling back, do you now, Emma?”

  My pride threatened to burst forth, but I did not allow it access to my mouth. This path which I had chosen would be one of long-suffering. One of dying to my own will each and every day.

  The remembrance of Noah’s face, handsome by the glow of the Fulton fire, bade me stay firm. He would eventually heal from this heartbreak and disappointment. He would go on to live a full life, find another worthy woman with whom to share it. He’d have children to carry on both his name and his ideals. ’Twould be a life without me, but ’twould be life just the same, a better alternative than a hangman’s noose.

  “I’ve come to beg your mercy, Father. I fear I made a horrendous decision in leaving. I know—I’m aware I do not deserve your forgiveness, and yet I beg you to grant it. If you will have me back into the family, I am prepared to do whatever you deem fit to redeem my name, including marrying Samuel Clarke.”

  He raised an eyebrow in my direction. “You can imagine my doubt. My distrust of you. ’Twill take time to earn that trust again. You have sullied my good name, made a mockery of our family. I’ve half a mind to send you away, to let you lie in the dirtied gutters of this town.”

  His words hung in the air, and I forced out what was expected. “I know, Father. Though it be audacious for me to ask your forgiveness, I do so nonetheless. I am truly sorry.”

  Would God curse me for such deceitfulness, even if my intent was to save others? It seemed I could not draw peace from my circumstances no matter which direction I turned.

  “Why the change of heart? And where have you been these past days?”

  “I thought to escape, to live of my own means if I could acquire a job at a tavern or such. I was frightened to marry Samuel, Father. I pray you understand. I was desperate.” With resolve, I prepared to push forth lies based upon a foundation of truth. “Mrs. Fulton works at her mother’s tavern. I sought a job there. Forgive me—I know it was an uncomely thing to do, foolish. But I am a foolish girl. ’Tis not the life I want. I see now how well you have treated me. How wonderful my life is. And after witnessing the chaos of last night—those fearful Mohawks romping about through the streets—I wanted nothing more than to come home, to seek solace beneath your roof again.” I pressed my lips together, wet them with my tongue. “I truly look forward to making my own home with Samuel Clarke, if he will still have me.”

  I wondered if the Lord would strike me dead at my lies. And yet they were to protect lives. How could I not do what I must?

  Father studied me, his gaze seeming to sear my skin and scorch my insides. He looked away, his eyes dropping to the blanket covering the chest beside me, then slowly moving back to me. “I knew you’d come to your senses sooner or later, but you also must realize the severity of your decisions.”

  The tight feeling returned to my chest. I struggled to gather breath around it. “I—I do, sir.”

  “If you want back into this family, you will not be leaving this house without my permission. Is that clear?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “You will put your full efforts into preparing for your wedding . . . if Samuel will still have you, that is. You will accompany your mother on social outings and speak nothing of politics or of your time away. You will be the perfect match for Samuel, before and after the wedding, in any way he deems fit. Is that understood?”

  I remembered Samuel’s large hands upon me, what would be expected of me once we wed. The backs of my eyes burned. Was this truly my only choice? In any way he deemed fit . . . Was I no more than a pawn to Father, after all? Did he care nothing for me?

  Yet, quite simply, there were no other options. I commanded my tears to stay put. If Father saw them, my entire ruse would be at stake.

  “I understand.”

  “So help me, Emma Grace, if you break this agreement, I will throw you out on your ear for good, mark my words. Better yet, I’ll ship you back to London, sell you to one of the bawdy houses myself.”

  I had no doubt that he would. So much for welcoming his prodigal daughter home.

  “I understand, sir.”

  He jerked his head toward the stairs. “Go, then. Clean yourself. I won’t have any daughter of mine looking like a filthy Yank.” He sat at his desk, took out a sheet of correspondence.

  I stood, gathered the chest in my arms, but hesitated before leaving. Slowly I went to him, placed a hand on his arm. “Thank you, for your forgiveness.”

  Was that a softening in his countenance? Nay, I must have imagined it, for he quickly shrugged from my touch.

  “Forgiveness is to be earned. Returning here, groveling at my feet, is only a first step. Prove yourself worthy, and earn your way back into my good graces.”

  “Aye, sir,” I whispered, then left the room.

  I climbed the stairs as if they would lead me to the Court Street gaol. Once in my chilly room, I set the chest beside my bed, sat on the hearth rug, and slid my hands beneath the sullied rag blanket to the splintered wood beneath.

  I should have never left this house. I had only caused hurt for those I loved. Venturing out, believing I had a right to freedom . . . mayhap ’twas all a lie.

  Suddenly angry, I pushed the chest beneath my bed, cursing the crown and the Sons and all the trouble that involved taxes and tea. I imagined Noah, hearing news that I’d gone home.

  And finally I let the tears come.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Emma

  There is a certain enthusiasm in liberty that makes human nature rise above itself in acts of bravery and heroism.

  ALEXANDER HAMILTON

  I’D NEVER THOUGHT myself a skilled thespian, but after the effort the evening meal required that night, I discovered a hidden talent, born of necessity. At the table with Father, Mother, Mr. and Mrs. Clarke, and a smug-looking Samuel beside me, I plunged into my role, if for no other reason than to not grant Samuel the satisfaction of knowing how deep the wounds of my heart ran.

  Amid glittering glassware and sparkling silver, beneath fine Madeira and veal roasted to perfection followed by maize pudding, I performed a show I’m certain even Father approved. And hours later, when he, Mr. Clarke, and Samuel emerged from the parlor, strained smiles upon their faces as they no doubt came to terms over their great loss in the dumping of the tea, I knew I was at the heart of the deal they struck.

  As my parents and the Clarkes bade their farewells, Samuel led me to the dark foyer. “You are a wise woman, Emma. And I hope you understand w
hy I had to be somewhat . . . persuasive this morning. I think you’ll see in time that all this is for the best. And you will never lack for comforts, so long as you look to my comforts as well.” He ran his finger alongside my face and I tried not to cringe at his touch.

  I raised my chin, moving from his hand. “Make no mistake, Samuel. I am not fond of you and I desire no marriage. Yet I do what I must. You’ve given me no choice.”

  His gaze turned cold and he patted my cheek once, then twice, hard and firm. “With or without your heart . . . I get what I want.” The Clarkes rounded the corner and Samuel adjusted his waistcoat, bowed slightly to me. “Farewell, my dear. Tomorrow is not soon enough.”

  I could hardly bear the two-faced rogue. But was I not also duplicitous? I saw our entire life stretched before us, a dance of hate and scorn, each trying to best the other. Either that, or he would break me altogether.

  I turned in a fitful sleep upon my soft feather bed. I missed the straw of the bed at Sarah and John’s house, missed Mary’s little legs pushing against mine, the tickle of her braid in my face. Here, all was cold and empty. The wind howled under the eaves, calling out a lonely wail that swept over the harbor in eerie waves.

  A tapping sounded at my window, as if a tree branch hit it. Or . . .

  I sat in bed, clutched my coverlet to my chest. I could just make out a shadow at my window, perched upon the roof over the front door. My first thought was that Samuel had shinnied up the portico to humiliate me further in some manner. But as my eyes adjusted to the dim light of the moon, I made out the familiar form of Noah, his tricorne hat atop his head.

  An intense yearning grew in my core, a force so strong I was not sure I could fight it. Everything I longed for was right outside that window. How I wished to go to him.

  Yet no good could come of it. Samuel had insisted on no contact, and I could not risk the safety of the man I loved. Instead, I buried myself beneath my covers and pressed them to my ears, willed Noah to take his leave. But the tapping only grew louder, more insistent. Then I heard his voice, calling my name, and I feared he might wake Father.