by Jodi Daynard
I was quite taken aback by his open humor, but took no offense. Indeed, it was a breath of fresh air, especially after meeting the other two men. He continued, “Mr. Cranch tells me you are a great reader of Shakespeare.”
“Oh, not a great reader,” I replied. “I haven’t a great deal of time for reading.”
“Nor do I. And I confess to preferring the sciences to literature. But if it should please you, I shall be happy to speak of Shakespeare.”
“And where do you hail from, Mr. Cleverly?” I asked, ignoring the invitation to discuss Shakespeare. I would save that pleasure for Richard and Abigail.
“New Hampshire. Near Stonington,” Cleverly replied. “But I find Shakespeare a far more interesting topic.”
“Indeed,” said Richard, who had come forward to embrace me. “Hello, Lizzie. I seem to recall promising you and Abigail a conversation about him the last time we met.”
The colonel, apparently hearing the word Stonington, bellowed forth, “Stonington! A hotbed of Toryism.”
“Josiah, please,” Ann begged. “You’ll scare our esteemed guests away.”
“Your husband is correct, madam.” Mr. Cleverly stood and bowed. He then began to walk about the parlor. “It was our own scurrilous merchant Mr. Holland, who was charged with that notorious counterfeit scheme. He has not yet been apprehended.”
“I myself was a victim of that cruel scheme,” Abigail said. “I received a five-pound note in town that served me ill indeed. I was obliged to burn it.”
“A scoundrel.” Mr. Cleverly frowned. “Conniving men like him may do more harm than an entire regiment.”
“Hear, hear,” agreed the colonel enthusiastically, raising his cordial.
Dr. Flynt and Mr. Thayer both gravely nodded assent.
The conversation might have continued in this vein had not a servant announced that dinner was ready. As the party walked toward the dining room, Mr. Cleverly took the opportunity to engage me in conversation.
“I must be honest with you, Mrs. Boylston. You defy my expectations.” His voice was appropriately low, so that others could not overhear. I found his intimate tone presumptuous. “Is Braintree truly your birthplace?”
“You think it impossible that a woman such as myself should spring from such base soil?” I smirked.
“Yes, rather,” he admitted, looking about him, since I had not lowered my voice as he had. I would have nothing to hide from my friends. “But I admit I had had a telltale clue: your hands are not so rough as they might be. I will hazard that you were not born here. You have been among this village’s fine citizens a year. Perhaps two.”
“Four,” I admitted. “But you are quite astute, Mr. Cleverly. I’m a recent import. Brattle Street in Cambridge is my birthplace. My father was a judge.”
“And what brought you to Braintree?” His manner was light, pleasant, and slightly ironical, as if any reply at all would be amusing.
“My husband and I were given a small farm, which we vastly preferred to a cowardly retreat to Halifax.”
“I see.” He nodded thoughtfully. “It all comes clear. But you must miss Cambridge and all its great advantages?”
“Indeed I do not,” I said warmly, “for you’ll find no greater advantage than counting oneself among the Cranches and Adamses of this world.”
Upon hearing their names, Richard, Mary, and Abigail turned to me with questioning looks.
“She pays you a compliment,” Mr. Cleverly assured them, which I thought rude in the extreme.
We had by now reached the dining room and were standing at our appointed places. As ill luck would have it, Mrs. Quincy had placed me directly opposite Mr. Cleverly.
“Mrs. Boylston, I fear I have offended you,” Mr. Cleverly said once we had been seated. “Please accept my apologies. I meant no offense.”
“Oh, none taken,” I said lightly. Meanwhile, everyone had fallen silent to hear our conversation. “In any case, the provincialism of such villages as Braintree is a common misapprehension. I have every expectation that history will place our parish in its correctly illustrious light.”
“I fervently wish it so.” Cleverly bowed his head.
The room in which we dined was not large, but cozy and opulent. Two pyramids of sugared fruits sat upon china plates. These were flanked by silver candelabra, each holding six burning candles. Behind us a fire blazed, surrounded by fine Dutch tiles. Beneath the shining mahogany table lay a thick Turkey carpet, so soft I had a desire to remove my shoes and caress it with my stockinged feet. I feel certain the colonel would not have cared had I done so. Indeed, it would not surprise me to learn he had removed his own shoes, so little did he heed the conventions of the time.
Dinner began with a sole meunière. It being a formal dinner, and the company being mixed and unknown to one another, we kept to safe topics such as the weather, our hopes for that year’s crops, the wheat shortage, and the mounting inflation. Politics were assiduously avoided by all but the colonel, who kept getting interrupted by the genteel pressure of his wife’s foot upon his own. Each time, the colonel was uncouth enough to utter, “Hang it, woman, why do you keep stepping on my foot?”
We were next served a glazed ham with buttery biscuits and garden beans. Throughout the dinner, I could not help noticing Mr. Cleverly. I would look up between courses to find him staring at me so boldly that I was afraid something in my appearance was amiss.
I was discomfited for my own private reasons as well: I could not look in his direction without blushing. His eyes were so clear, so astute. He seemed to take in the scene as I did: with a wry sense of the ridiculous. His fair, wavy hair was neatly plaited. His chin was prominent, with a faint dimple.
Let it be said that I dislike such involuntary attraction enormously. Relying little upon Reason, it makes a mockery of one’s native intelligence. What’s more, I felt certain everyone at the table noticed my frequent change of color.
For dessert we had minted berries, and when dinner had ended, the women repaired to one room and the men another. Taking a seat next to Abigail, the first thing I did was ask, “Did you notice how Mr. Cleverly looked at me all throughout the meal?”
“Yes, Lizzie, I saw.”
“What do you think he was staring at?”
“You, of course.”
“But what for? I did nothing to encourage his attention.”
“It would seem he is smitten. It would not be the first time in history a man fancied a woman without her provocation, you know. Though it may seem that way to you.”
I nudged her in the ribs, and she glared at me to stop at once. I knew her well enough to know she was highly ticklish.
Martha and Mary were deeply engaged in a discussion about oat flour, so Abigail and I were able to continue our conversation.
“Really, Lizzie, you should be flattered. My sister has told me he’s a great patriot, in our parish on some secret business. Apparently it’s to do with that scurrilous Mr. Holland, of whom he spoke earlier.”
My eyes widened. “Why? Does he believe Mr. Holland to be somewhere in our midst?”
“I know not. But hush,” said Abigail. “Here comes the colonel. His line is not straight, but it is certain.”
Indeed, I then perceived the colonel, slightly the worse for rum, tottering across the hall toward me. Cleverly kept a steadier pace by his side. The colonel then held his hand out as if I would rise and join him.
“Mrs. Boylston, will you do me the honor of a word in my study?”
At this, I became quite alarmed. I thought at once of my brother, and my heart began to pound. I asked, “Is it not something my friends might hear? For these ladies surrounding me are all my dearest friends.”
“Very well. I had wished to spare you embarrassment, but if you prefer it . . .”
“Embarrassment? Is it bad news you have to offer?”
“No, indeed. Not at all.” He came closer and placed his hand on my shoulder. “Allow me to sit down and I will tell you, for I have news that will affect you directly.”
He pulled up a chair across from me. The other ladies pretended not to listen, but spoke such trivialities amongst themselves as would not impede their comprehension of the colonel’s words. Martha, however, made no such pretense. She turned to look at us.
“We have received word of a new law, effective immediately, by which homes confiscated before the Troubles shall be reinstated to their families.”
I glanced at Martha.
“And,” he continued, “since your brother has not been heard from in these three years and is presumed—”
“Dead,” I finished for him.
“Yes, unfortunately. Since he is missing and presumed dead, I have been instructed to inform you that the house . . .”
The colonel paused, reached for his spectacles, retrieved a crumpled letter from his waistcoat pocket, and announced, “That the house at 178 Brattle Street is hereby reinstated to your family, this deed being made out in your name and presented to you on this day, the fourteenth of May 1778.”
I must have faltered, because the colonel offered me his glass of rum, imploring me to drink. I heard Abigail say, “Lizzie, dearest.”
“I am well,” I insisted, drinking off the rum in a single draught.
Mr. Cleverly offered me his arm. “Are you unwell?” he asked. “Shall I escort you home?”
“It is but two rods from this very spot. Martha shall accompany me.” I smiled.
“I daresay you’ll be wanting to set off. Let me then say what a pleasure it was to meet you. To meet all of you.” He bowed to Martha, who curtsied politely.
“You are very kind,” I insisted. “Now I must return home to gather my things. And my wits.” I laughed suddenly, placing a hand to my dizzy head.
I had not grown faint from having had my ancestral home returned to me, but because I had dreamt of it so unremittingly. Could one rely upon primitive intuitions and instincts, after all? I had sensed something wrong with Abigail’s babe, and it had died. I had dreamed of my ancestral home, and now it had come into my possession. I knew not whether this was a good or a bad thing. I prayed only that the house was not inhabited, as it was in my dreams.
21
AS IN MY dreams, I stood upon the stone stoop and knocked with the old brass knocker. But no dream predicted who was to greet me at the door: not Rebels, nor a British captain, but our old Negro caretaker, Giles. I had believed him to have long since quitted Cambridge.
“Giles!” I cried.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said, bowing.
“Mrs. Boylston, now, Giles,” I said. A deep tenderness for my father’s old servant, my grandfather’s slave, rose within me. He must have been in his seventies by then, but looked younger. He had been a favorite of my father’s when my father was a boy.
“Oh, yes. Forgive me,” he said, thinking I was scolding him. And so he was greatly surprised when I threw my arms around his neck and kissed his warm, dry cheek.
Embarrassed, he bade me come inside. It was then that Bessie, my mother’s maid, came racing up to me. Had she been here, too, this whole time?
She was younger than Giles by perhaps twenty years, but grown quite gray. She and Giles made an odd-looking pair, for he was very tall and very black, where Bessie was white and shaped like a sugarplum. Bessie had a judgmental air, too, and when I was a child she had frightened me. But while she could take one to task rather sharply, her verbal darts never pierced very deep.
“Oh, Bessie, you are a sight for sore eyes,” I said, embracing her. “I thought you long gone.”
“Oh, no, miss. Miss, you look well. Very well indeed,” she said, looking over me admiringly. Neither she nor Giles had seen me in four years’ time.
“But how did you get here? Where’s yer carriage?”
“Carriage? Oh, no. I—rode.”
“Rode what?”
“My horse. Star.”
“Nay.”
I laughed. “If you don’t believe me, go check on the road. He’s tied there. I hope there’s still hay in the barn.”
After some further reassurances that I had not been mortally wounded on my journey, and having ascertained that there was indeed some straw in the barn, Bessie said, “But I just can’t believe it’s you, miss.”
“Yes, I am all grown, and too tan for a proper lady,” I confessed. “But you, Bessie . . .” I looked around me, as if to shake myself awake from this dream. “Excuse me for asking, but is there no one else about? Have you been here alone all this time?”
She frowned, turning to point to the empty rooms. “Who would you be expectin’, ma’am? All but us ’as been let go ages since.”
“But why did you not write me?”
“Oh, miss,” she began, clearly dismayed, “we didn’t wish to bother you, newly gone to housekeeping as you were.”
“But surely you heard about my Jeb? Surely you were told about the funeral?”
Bessie hung her head. “In August that year we heard. August of ’75—” Bessie sent me an apologetic glance, for the very mention of that year, she knew, gave me a deep pain. She then turned to Giles. “Was it August or September we heard, Giles?”
“August, miss,” Giles assented, his hands clasped behind his back.
“So the Boylstons did not tell you? When you were not at his funeral, I felt certain you were gone. Oh, those wretched, wretched Boylstons!”
“We were sorry for Mr. Boylston. Very sorry.”
I thought Bessie would begin to bawl if I did not reassure her. “Oh, I know you must have grieved.” I hugged her to me. “All the more cruel that they did not let you come grieve with me.”
At this point, Bessie seemed to recall my long journey and my need of sustenance, for she said, “Come, miss, there’s a chair in here, in the dining room.”
Two lonely chairs now stood in a dining room that had once been filled with a dozen English mahogany chairs and a fine table. Still, I was grateful for them and sat myself down on one. I felt faint and craved a cup of tea.
“Bessie, is Cook around?”
“Cook? Oh, no, ma’am. Cook left with Washington’s army. They was pleased by her roasts.”
“Indeed,” I said. Cook, I recalled, was an old crone who didn’t much like people, but who turned out the most gorgeous roasts stuffed with oysters and clams. She made excellent meat pies, too. My mouth watered at the thought of her cooking.
I forced my thoughts back to the present. “Bessie, I need something to eat, for I feel a bit faint. I shall follow you to the kitchen.”
“Of course, ma’am. Ors you can set here, and I’ll bring it to you.”
“No, no. I wish to talk.”
And so I shadowed Bessie through the dusty rooms. Peering into the parlor, I was surprised to find the portrait of my mother still there, on the wall above the mantel. Tears sprang to my eyes, not just from a sense of loss (that would never leave me, not until I was in my own grave), but from gratitude that whatever army last was here did not see fit to take it, or burn it for warmth.
“Where has all the furniture gone to, Bessie?”
She pulled a chair up by the kitchen fireplace for me. “Scoundrels, all of ’em!” she hissed as she put the kettle on. I soon had a hot dish of real tea—Bessie had carefully hoarded it for just such an occasion—and a fine rye toast with a good tart marmalade. It began to revive me.
“First it were our ’ospital—a terrible sight that was. Then it were our officers’ lodgings. They’re the ones what chopped up the furniture for firewood. And just now Burgoyne’s men—a filthy lot. Oh, it broke my heart. But no good tellin’ you, ma’am. There was nothin’ Giles and I could do but watch. We were greatly afeared, we were.”
&
nbsp; “Of course you were, Bessie,” I said consolingly, as the poor woman looked quite ashamed. “You’re a strong, good woman, but you can hardly fight a whole company of vandals.”
“And how they drank!” She rolled her eyes, now feeling free to tell all. “They drank every last bottle of rum, every cask of cider, every bottle of good wine of your father’s—till there was none left and they bade me find more! But that I wouldn’a do. I said they could take my life if they wished, but finding rum so’s to see them destroy the master’s house—that I couldn’a do.”
“Good girl.” I smiled and touched my hand on her old, rough one.
“They got it elsewhere, I’m sure.”
“You did not make it easy for them.”
“No, that I didn’.”
Fortunately, they had left the heavy bedsteads. After undressing, I fell gratefully into bed, though it was not yet six in the evening. I slept through till morning and did not remember my dreams upon waking.
I had planned to stay but a day or two, just long enough to decide my course of action regarding the house and its contents. But the following morning, as we were all breakfasting cozily in the kitchen, I turned to Giles and Bessie and asked, “How have you managed to stay on here? How is it you have the means? I hope it is not indelicate of me to ask.”
They looked at each other.
“Means, ma’am? Oh, we have no means to speak of. We been given as much so’s to keep life and limb together, if that’s what you mean. A man named Steadman comes reg’lar each month.”
“Who is this Steadman?” I asked, surprised.
“I know not, ma’am. An acquaintance, so he says, of your brother’s.”
“My brother? Is he alive, then?” I stood up.
Bessie sought to quell any false hope in me. “We don’t know naught but what the man gives us, and it comes reg’lar as rain.”
“That it does,” Giles agreed.
Now I desperately wished to speak to this fellow Steadman. Bessie told me that the fellow came on the first Monday of every month. Therein lay the dilemma: I could not possibly stop that long in Cambridge. In May, one had to plough the fields and sow the corn, and much else besides. Oh, but to hear news of my brother, my Harry—I might almost have forsaken my farm.