by Becky Akers
“Taxation’s a fact of life,” Guy said.
The Deacon shook his head. “I’m traveling late at night in London and some of those footpads you have over there hold me at gunpoint and take my wallet, against my will, I been robbed, haven’t I? Same with taxation. The king sends his army over here to take our money from us, against our will. They take it from us by force if we don’t give it to them.”
“Governments need money to run,” Guy said. “Where’s that money come from without taxation?”
“Governments need money, but do we need government? What’s His Majesty and all his ministers and departments do that we couldn’t do better for ourselves?”
“You were glad enough for the army’s protection from the savages.”
“Protection? What protection? King fights a war here for seven years that’s supposed to secure our land to us, and what’s he do first thing afterwards, when the country ought to be open for settlement? Tells us we can’t cross the Appalachian Mountains—”
“Sir, the king—”
“—because it’s too dangerous. Indians could massacre us, he says, and if they don’t, French trappers might. Seems to me the Army didn’t do its job if that’s so. And now he wants to steal our money to pay for it.”
“Richard.” Abigail patted his arm. “Did you see Reverend Huntington and get that recipe for raspberry cordial his wife promised me?”
“No, Abigail, I didn’t. Then the king decides he’ll tell us where to buy our sugar, and who from, and he makes a criminal out of anyone don’t go by his opinion. He’s making whole colonies into criminals. Maybe we ought to just turn Connecticut into one big prison.”
“Sir, I welcome the king’s government,” Guy said. “You got a huge, untamed country here. You need the king and his officers to help civilize it. If you don’t have taxation, you don’t have a government, and that’s scary. Who’s going to protect you? Who’s going to regulate commerce and run the courts?”
“Free men do those things for themselves.”
“Free men? Ha! You mean like the ones who threatened to tar and feather my father? Ruffians is more like it.”
“Slaves, the king has his way.”
“British citizens are the freest men on earth.” Guy jumped to his feet, the vein in his forehead bulging. “Mrs. Hale, my thanks for a delicious meal, as always. Alice, you do me the honor of walking to the spring with me? Good evening to you, sir.”
Alice followed as he stomped out of the house to the creek. He was seething and did not try to snatch kisses nor even put his arm around her. But as they stared into the black water, his rage passed, and he embraced her. “Alice, you’re so beautiful, I—”
She shrugged away from him. Though she had imagined this conversation several times, her mouth went dry now that the moment was upon her. “Mr. Daggett, I—I’m sorry. I don’t want you to speak to my father about—about marrying me.”
His face was incredulous in the moonlight sifting through the trees. Then he laughed shortly. “Don’t worry about that in there, Alice. ’Tis only politics. Men have always argued over politics, and they always will.”
“’Tisn’t that.” She lowered her voice to utter what was treason in the Deacon’s house. “I—I care naught for politics. ’Tis—’tis....” She could not meet his eyes.
In a quiet, frightening voice she had not heard before, he said, “I see. The honorable Nathan Hale’s decided to shuck his honor.”
She stood stupidly. Excuses failed her, but she hated for him to guess the truth.
“W—w—we’re not, um, suited to each other, Mr. Daggett.”
“No?”
“No. I wouldn’t be a good wife to you.”
He chuckled, but it was a choking sound such as an animal might make, caught in one of the bear traps the Deacon set about the farm.
“Alice, I’m not a fool. You were perfectly happy with me yesterday, but then your father goes to town, and all of a sudden, you don’t want to see me anymore. Why? Your fascinating stepbrother write you? He finally decide he’s a man after all and not his papa’s little boy to say ‘Yes, sir, no, sir’ all his life? Oh, and by the way, what’ll his father think of this? Hmm? Romeo still going to want you after that old man has his say?”
“Nathan’s a man of honor, he was just being dutiful to his father—”
“Right, and a dutiful son’s what every woman wants in a husband. Well, I’ll tell you one thing your honorable Nathan won’t do. He’ll never make love to you like this.” He grabbed her and pinned her arms to her sides. She tried to scream, but his mouth covered hers, enthralling her with evidence of his obsession. His lips chased all caution from her, and she ceased her twisting and responded. He slid his hands down her body to encircle her waist, and she wound her arms around his neck. He found her bosom, cupped and squeezed her. She throbbed with longing. The assuaging of all desire lay in Guy’s hands, the hot hands that were fondling her—
“Alice! Mr. Daggett!” The Deacon’s harsh voice shattered her trance as he held his lantern high to peer at them openmouthed. She stuttered with shame, tried to break free. But Guy refused to release her, though he moved his hands back to her arms.
The shadows from the Deacon’s light lurched wildly. “What’s going on here?”
“Sir, I was going to speak to you about making Alice my wife.” Though Guy’s voice was calm, his fingers dug into her flesh.
“And you, sir, presume way too much. You’ll never get my blessing, and even if you did, such carrying-on out here—it’s—I—it’s indecent. Good Lord, I’m a married man twice over, you don’t see me and my wife—. Now, let her go, Mr. Daggett. Alice, get to the house.”
Sobbing, humiliated, Alice picked up her skirts and fled to her room. There she threw herself across her bed and cried into her pillows, pummeling them as if they were the Deacon. She had never been so mortified in her life, not even when Nathan rejected her. To think that her stepfather had caught her in such a pose! Her tears fell harder as she relived the crushing shame. She would never get over it, never. She must leave home tomorrow, make her way to New Haven and marry Nathan....
Nathan. What would he say when he heard of this? For the Deacon would surely tell him. Nathan with his purity and his high-minded ideals would never understand the passion Guy had awakened in her, that compelled her to respond. Nathan would despise such yielding. He would shrink even from hearing her explanation, and she cringed as she imagined his disgust. She would go first thing in the morning, before the Deacon could write him. With luck, she would arrive at Yale ahead of his letter, especially if she rode their fastest mare.
Planning along these lines, she fell into an exhausted sleep and did not wake the next morning until Beth shook her. “Alice, get up. Your mother says for you to make the biscuits for breakfast.”
The air weighed so heavily that she could scarcely breathe, though she couldn’t remember why until she crawled from bed. She dressed, wiping tears and sniffling the while, then slunk downstairs to knead the biscuits. She spoke little, saying nothing beyond “Good morning” to her mother, who had surely heard of her wantonness from the Deacon. Him she avoided, never lifting her eyes from her plate and excusing herself early to get to her chores.
Her stepfather rode away after breakfast, to post his letter, no doubt, and she sighed as she churned butter. It was just as well she had overslept. She would take today to prepare for her escape. She could pack at her leisure, wrap food to take with her. She need not wait for dawn, either. Better to leave this evening, once the family was abed, lest someone see and stop her.
But after dinner, during which the Deacon glowered from the head of the table, he smashed her scheme. As she helped Abigail stack plates, her stepfather said, “Alice, I want a word with you.”
Her mother did not look at her, only whispered, “Go.”
Alice held her head high, despite the crimson climbing her neck, and followed the Deacon into the front parlor.
He shut the door, faced he
r, cleared his throat. “Alice, your mother and I talked this over last night, and, ah, we agreed to follow Paul’s advice, that it’s better to marry than burn.”
Her cheeks flamed even more, if that were possible.
“We were young once, too.” He gave a wintry smile. “But I disapprove of Guy Daggett and have for a long time. I don’t like his politics. They make him unfit for a husband. He’s got no principles, you see, no scruples, like most people who get their living off government.”
She stared at him, her hope rising so quickly she wondered it did not lift her off her feet.
“Last night showed what I’m talking about, how dishonorable he is—though you’re responsible too.” He scowled as she nodded, eager to share the blame. Anything, anything, so that he would continue, would say the words she longed to hear, would consent to her marriage with Nathan. “Your mother and I are going to let you marry, and soon, even though you’re so young.”
“Thank you, Father, I—”
“We decided on Elijah Ripley as a husband for you.”
She stood silent. So completely had she believed he would bless her union with Nathan that this made no sense, and she finally gasped, “What?”
“I called on Mr. Ripley this morning,” the Deacon said patiently. “He’s asked to marry you a few times this last year, but I always said you’re too young. I admit now I was wrong. He’s a likely young man, his business’ll flourish again if the king leaves him be. He’s not as handsome as Mr. Daggett, least that’s what your mother tells me”—again, there was the frigid smile—“but you could do worse.”
She could not speak. Her heart would shatter if she did.
Taking her silence for consent, the Deacon pressed on. “Mr. Ripley can’t see any reason to delay things, and I don’t either, not after last night. He’ll come calling this afternoon to see you. Of course, tomorrow’s the Sabbath, so we decided on the day after for the wedding. You won’t need to do much. He raised that house last year, you know, and it’s a fine one.”
“Father.” She nigh choked on the word. “I can’t marry Mr. Ripley. I don’t love him. I love Nathan.”
“Young lady, you got no right to talk about loving any man, let alone my son, after your conduct last night, none at all. And I’ve told you again and again that I forbid you and Nathan to marry—”
“But we—”
“Now, let that be an end to it. You’re going to receive Mr. Ripley this afternoon, and you’re going to marry him Monday. And don’t even think of running off to New Haven, to my son. I’ll have you tried for horse-stealing.”
Her jaw dropped, and he nodded with grim satisfaction. “I was your age once, Alice, you forget. I know the sort of nonsense and notions you’re prone to. Now, I don’t want any more trouble out of you, you hear me?”
“Please, sir, I can’t marry him! I’m not going to!”
“Yes, you will.” He raised his hand as if to strike her but instead grabbed her arm as he shouted, “You’re not of age yet! You live in my house, as my daughter, and you’re going to do what I say!”
She was rebellious, no matter how her mother entreated her, regardless of the respectful and adoring speeches Mr. Ripley made that evening. He hadn’t much, he protested, though the opposite was true, but what he had, he laid at her feet. How honored he was that she had selected him from all the young men in Connecticut. But she had not chosen him any more than he had asked to have sparse hair, already graying, instead of Nathan’s thick, honey-brown silk. His home, humble as it was, needed a mistress. He hoped to make her as comfortable there as her dear father had made her here.
Alice hardly listened, until the word “mistress” perched in her mind and beat against it like a deranged bird. She would be mistress of his house. No more Deacon. No more orders she must obey, no more of his spying on her, trying to rout Nathan from her thoughts. She would be on her own, with only herself and a husband to care for, and the chores that a household of two required rather than the endless work the Hale clan generated.
Guy tried to see her the next morning before Meeting. Though it was past seven o’clock, she was still in bed, an unprecedented event in the Deacon’s household. She had worn herself out with crying and was lying quietly when she heard voices raised below stairs. She dropped to the floor, pressed her ear against it, listened breathlessly. Though she could not distinguish the words, those pleading tones were Guy’s. He must be asking pardon. But her hope died at the Deacon’s curt response.
A door slammed. She jumped up and reached the window to see Guy yanking his reins from the hitching post. He was so angry that it took him a few attempts to mount. Once atop the horse, he yelled, “You stupid old fool! I want her, Hale. You won’t stop me!” before galloping away. Chilled at Guy’s defeat, she hobbled back to bed.
The morning of her wedding dawned gray and menacing. She was resigned if despondent. She choked down some tea at breakfast, the family’s chatter adding to her isolation. Both her younger stepbrothers avoided her gaze. She had asked them to post a letter to Nathan on Saturday, after Elijah Ripley’s visit. Billy refused, though she tried to bribe him with a penny. David, free of such scruples, agreed, only to meet the Deacon at the end of the lane. He confiscated the letter and took David out behind the barn while Abigail climbed the stairs to Alice’s room, where she talked long and tearfully with her daughter.
Knowing Nathan, that he was unlike other men, that he triumphed against any odds, Alice had expected him to appear each hour since the Deacon pronounced her sentence. Now, as she shrugged into her cloak and endured the good wishes of her family, she was unreasonably angry with him. He could not know of this, but somehow, he should have, and he should have saved her from it, as Guy had tried to do. She dragged herself out of the house and into the buggy. The Deacon, the only one accompanying her to her doom, mounted beside her.
She spoke not a word all the way to town. Her stepfather magnanimously kept silent as well, having won this round. Soon he was pulling to a stop in front of the magistrate’s, where Elijah Ripley’s rig already waited.
Elijah eyed her wolfishly as they took their places. Afterwards, she remembered nothing they said, no vows she made, not even signing the register. When her senses returned, she was beside Elijah in his chaise. A cold rain threatened to soak through the canvas roof. Her husband whistled, stealing shy but delighted glances at her.
She had not thought she would be glad to reach his house, but when it loomed ahead in the downpour, she felt some happiness, the first of that day. Here was a place where the Deacon’s authority did not stretch, where she could dream of Nathan without consequence. Then, too, she was as weary as if it were nine at night instead of nine in the morning. How wonderful to lie down in those rooms, where she was now mistress, to sleep till noon if she pleased.
But Elijah had other ideas. He splashed through the puddles to open the barn door. When he had driven inside, he handed her down and unloaded her two trunks.
“I’ll bring these in later,” he shouted over the rain. “Let me unhitch the horse, and then how about some breakfast? I was too nervous to eat before.” He grinned, and Alice looked away with a shudder. “Go poke around the kitchen, Mrs. Ripley”—again, he smiled—“and see what you find. There’s a fresh batch of meal in there, and a ham I just brought in from the smokehouse.”
Alice trudged to the house, clutching her cape to her in the damp chill.
It was a silent repast, though that was not Elijah’s fault. He told her about building the house, about the parents who had left him so wealthy before dying of fever ten years ago, about the profit he expected from his ventures. Alice picked at her ham and stifled one yawn after another, willing Elijah to silence. At last, he quieted and chewed steadily.
“Mr. Ripley—” She staggered to her feet, head aching.
“You can call me Elijah, now we’re married.”
“Elijah, I’ve got to go to bed.”
Her husband’s eyebrows raced to meet his
wig, as if that were the most outlandish thing he had ever heard, as if he could not see how tired she was.
His shock gave way to a leer, and he jumped to his feet. “Sure, Alice. Your father told me you were, ah, eager, but I had no idea—”
“Where’s the bedroom?”
“I’ll show you, Alice. Don’t worry.” He grasped her elbow, pulling her from the parlor into the hall and up the stairs.
He opened a door to reveal a room paneled in blue wainscoting with flowered wallpaper above. A bed and curtained tester dominated it. She was tired enough to lie across that bed and sleep in her sacque, but it was her go-to-Meeting best, and there were smallclothes in her trunk. She yawned. “Would you please bring my bags in?”
“Later, Alice.” Elijah closed the door and leaned against it, breath rasping.
She sank onto the bed and waited for him to leave. Then comprehension dawned. She shot upright. “No, Mr. Ripley, I’m not—you don’t under—”
But he had launched himself at her. His slimy lips smothered her words while his breath, foul as rotting meat, strangled her. She struggled under him, half-heartedly, and then with panic when he ignored her cries of “No! Stop!” She wedged her arms against his chest and pushed with all her might. Either she took him by surprise or her frenzy added to her strength, for he tumbled off her, onto the floor. He plopped down in such amazement that she would have laughed had she not been so angry.
“For shame, sir!”
“Wha—?” He stumbled to his feet to gawk at her.
She scrambled off the opposite side of the bed, keeping its expanse between them. “I want to sleep, sir, by myself, not be pawed and—and mauled like a—like a side of beef.”
“But we’re married!”
“Leave me alone.”
“Now you listen to me, Alice Ad—Ripley. You’re my wife, you understand? That means you do certain things for me. Didn’t your mother tell you about your, ah, obligations to me?”
“You leave me alone, Elijah Ripley!”
He leaped onto the bed, threw himself across it, grabbed at her waist. She flailed her fists and caught him on the nose. With an oath, he loosed his grip to rub his injury and check for blood, while she scooted for the door. Elijah lunged again. This time, he tackled her and trapped her beneath him. He forced her arms above her head, held them there until her writhing ceased and her weeping was the only sound, other than the ticking of the clock in the hall and the thrumming of the rain.