by Carla J Gade
The brothers spun around. Father stood, arms crossing his chest, awaiting an answer.
Joshua looked at Andrew, and released a shallow breath through his nostrils, his mouth clamped tight.
“Father,” Andrew spoke up, “it appears I got myself into some mischief today.”
“Why does that not surprise me?” Father’s stern gaze volleyed from Andrew to Joshua.
“My brother, the trickster, drove the carriage home from my errand today. The only problem was he hadn’t gone there with me, and left me to walk home.” Joshua cast a fake blow to Andrew’s shoulder.
“In the rain?” Father surveyed Joshua’s soggy attire. “I would laugh, sons, but I fail to find it humorous.” Father shook his head. “Though I do hope it means you have resolved your differences.”
“Yes, sir.” Andrew lowered his gaze, glancing at Joshua.
“You are no longer boys, so I cannot punish you. But, Andrew, I can keep you from using my coach for the next month. And Joshua, you’d better get out of those wet clothes before you catch your death.”
“Yes, sir,” Andrew said again.
Joshua nodded and lowered his head, pitching a stealthy glower Andrew’s way.
Father glanced around Joshua’s back. “What have you there? A newspaper?”
Joshua brought his arm around and held the rolled-up paper by his side. “Yes, it is.”
“If you are done with it, I would like to read the news.” Father held out his hand.
Joshua reluctantly handed the newspaper to his father. “Mein is at it again.”
18
Honour read from Psalm 91 in the small Bible. He shall cover thee with His feathers, and under His wings shalt thou trust: His truth shall be thy shield and buckler. The verse reminded her of her dream, so real the vivid memory of it stayed with her. She read the words again, and a truth unfolded. Honour had so longed for the return of her quilt top she’d neglected to see what she had right in front of her. Already in her possession was the indigo bed quilt her mother had made, like the love of her parents that would never leave her. More so, the love and watchcare of her Heavenly Father. The white-work quilt represented all her longings, past and present. She must entrust them to His care. Further, His truth must guide her to receive His protection.
Honour placed the Bible down on the bedside table. She picked up the piece of paper which she had marked with a pencil, the tiny dots indicating part of the design that she would use as a stencil for the bridal quilt. She retrieved a large needle from her workbag, which she now kept by the bedstead. She began the process of poking a small hole through each of the markings. She had copied the partially complete designs she and her mother quilted into the fabric. They had transferred the markings onto the linen by patting ground cinnamon through the holes of their stencil. Yet now those markings were so faded that Honour could no longer make them out.
When Honour finished she took another piece of paper from the table. Though this paper was blank, a clear shape appeared in her mind’s eye. She sketched her design with a rounded feather sequence. She repeated the process of marking and piercing the holes through the stencil, all the while thinking of Joshua. Although he had disappointed her, her heart still ached for his love. She would relinquish it, if she must, along with her other hopes and dreams.
From her bed, Honour held the paper up to the window light to make sure she had not missed puncturing any of the tiny dots. Light filtered through the holes, illuminating the shape of a heart which she would incorporate into the design of the quilt. Aye, a new pattern had emerged—for the quilt, and also for her life.
Honour set the paper down and bowed her head, drawing her folded hands to her face. Lord, my heart belongs to you.
An angelic voice called to her. “Honour!”
She looked up as Tempe and Mrs. Wadsworth entered the bedchamber. Honour clasped her hands under her chin with a joyous smile. “Tempe!”
Temperance, in a pretty yellow petticoat and flowered print short gown, hurried toward Honour. She leaned over her older sister, giving her a gentle embrace.
“Do be careful, Temperance, as your sister is not yet healed,” Mrs. Wadsworth said.
Honour smiled at Mrs. Wadsworth. “This is the best medicine I could ever receive. Thank you for bringing her.”
“We would have come yesterday, but for the terrible wind and rain.” Tempe handed Honour a nosegay of white blooms. “Abby, Sarah, and I picked this for you, but now it is wilted.”
“How beautiful, and it smells lovely.” Honour breathed in the scent of the star-shaped waxy blooms. “Tuberose.”
“Aye, and it looks like a bridal bouquet.” Tempe issued Honour a sassy grin.
“I am no bride, sister,” Honour said. “Though I am beginning to believe I am wed to this bedstead. But Widow Lankton’s housekeeper promises me if I stay put, my recovery shall be hastened.”
“You will be someday,” Tempe said.
Honour eyes widened. “Recovered? I hope so.”
“I meant a bride is what you shall be some day.” Tempe twirled around. “And Joshua Sutton shall be your husband.”
“Temperance. You must get those romantic notions out of your head.” Honour narrowed her eyes. “I’ve no reason to think in that direction.”
“Come, Temperance, sit over here,” Mrs. Wadsworth instructed.
Tempe faced Mrs. Wadsworth. “May I first show Honour what I brought?”
“Yes, you may.” Mrs. Wadsworth held out a square of embroidered fabric.
Tempe accepted it from Mrs. Wadsworth’s hands and laid it in Honour’s lap.
“What have we here?”
“My sampler! Mrs. Wadsworth had it returned to me.”
Honour smiled at Mrs. Wadsworth. “Thank you for doing that.” She inspected the sampler. “Tempe, you have done lovely work on this. Your stitchwork is very fine.”
“Like your sister’s,” Mrs. Wadsworth added.
Honour acknowledged the compliment with a humble nod.
“My new tutor said I may complete it at school.” Tempe pointed to the verse she had begun to embroider. “It is going to say, ‘Love one another.’”
“Do you know what Jesus said about that, Tempe?” Honour asked.
Tempe tilted her chin.
“It is the greatest commandment of all. He said to love the Lord your God with all of your heart.” Honour held up the heart-shaped pattern. “Go place this against the window.”
Tempe took the pattern and placed it against the glass. She held it there, and looked back with a bright smile upon her face. “The heart is lit up like an illumination.”
Honour smiled at her sister. “Aye, like God’s love in our hearts.”
The maidservant tapped on the door, smiling over at Tempe before she spoke. “Mrs. Hall has sent me for the girl. Some little cakes have finished baking. She thought Tempe might like to help prepare a tray of sweets for all to enjoy.”
Tempe skipped toward Honour, handing the stencil back to her. “May I, please?”
Honour gave an approving nod. “Certainly, and do make haste! Though slowly on the stairs.”
Tempe left the room with the maidservant. Mrs. Wadsworth inclined Honour with a slight tilt of her head. “Mrs. Hollister said she would have gladly returned the sampler had you returned her fabric. You had intended to do so, hadn’t you?”
Did Mrs. Wadsworth doubt her? The mere thought of it pricked Honour’s heart. “Most certainly, though I’ve had little opportunity.”
“I know, dear, but you might have asked someone to return it on your behalf. You mustn’t let pride get in your way when your character is at stake.”
“I thought I could still do the quilting for Mrs. Hollister—although Joshua paid her—if only to restore her trust in me. Mayhap it would put the rumors concerning my dishonesty away. You know I would never keep something that did not belong to me. In fact, I have something which belongs to me, yet cannot keep.”
“Whatever do
you mean?” Mrs. Wadsworth asked.
Honour pointed to the folded linen quilt lying on the chest. “The quilt. ’Tis mine.”
Mrs. Wadsworth went over to it, and smoothed her hand over the white cloth. She looked at Honour, question in her eyes. “Honour, is this your bridal quilt? How did you get it back? You must be so relieved. Did you get your other belongings?”
“Nay, this is all.” Honour stiffened. “Emily Leach’s husband obtained it from the Customs House. This is the piece that Widow Lankton employed me to quilt.”
“You are certain?” Mrs. Wadsworth looked over at her astonished.
“I am. Look, the pomegranates and fronds I have described to you.”
“You could be mistaken.”
“The pattern has been etched in my mind. I could have drawn it on paper and shown you before the quilt was ever unfolded.” Honour’s brow furrowed. “There is a small M in the corner, beneath the pomegranate. Mum was fond of beginning her quilts with our family initial. She said the last stitch would be on my married initial one day, as it was to be my bridal quilt.”
Mrs. Wadsworth located the M. “Oh, Honour.”
Honour sighed.
“We must tell Widow Lankton. I am sure she will understand.”
“I brought it to the Lord,” Honour said. “The quilt is no longer mine.”
Joshua shielded his eyes as he peered into Boston Harbor, littered with King George’s ships. A boat of redcoats, British soldiers coming to shore from Castle William where many of the troops were garrisoned, rowed inland upon the choppy water this September morn. Their royal stench wafted over the ocean breeze like the low tide. Anxious seagulls shrieked as they flocked overhead, descending near a fishing sloop unloading its morning catch. Gray’s Wharf, like the many other wharves encompassing the old town, bustled with activity.
Andrew leaned against his wagon, filled with textiles of various kinds: Marseilles cassimere, linens, brocades—all imports he intended to sell. ‘Discounted’ the advertisement had said, but lo, it would be no bargain to the Suttons if the Board of Customs or Body of Merchants became alerted to this morning’s event. Hopefully, it would be over before any harm could befall them.
Joshua walked over to the wagon, and perused the cloths. Watermarks and mildew stained the rolls of fabrics, though there were enough undamaged portions that could be cut off and salvaged for use by thrifty folk. Father had instructed Andrew to dispose of the damaged textiles many weeks back, dispensing them to the poor, some who had no spinning wheel or loom of their own. With imports decreased by nearly half since the Non-Importation Agreement, textiles had become a precious commodity and many suffered for it. But in Andrew’s reckless state of mind he’d ventured to sell the cloth discounted, knowing the poor would flock to the vendue like hungry gulls.
“I convinced myself the sale would do the poor a service, and give them the dignity of not having to accept charity.” Andrew stared into the wagon. “I figured it would not hurt to put some coin in my pocket since Father expected no recompense for the damaged goods. It would merely compensate me for my time.”
Joshua narrowed his eyes. “You’ve no need for coin in your pocket, Father pays you well. But the needy must choose whether to feed or clothe their children.”
Andrew gripped the side of the wagon, and hung his head. He kicked a wheel, jarring the wagon. The horse harnessed to the conveyance sidestepped and threw his head up in protest. Andrew looked up at the horse. “Easy, boy!”
Joshua continued. “Nor did you count the cost. Let us hope our plan works, so if Father should hear about this escapade, at least we will have thwarted trouble.”
The horse stirred some more. “Easy there,” Andrew called. “He’s not the most docile beast we have in the stable.”
Joshua went to the restless animal, and stroked its shoulder uttering calm words.
Though it was not yet time for the auction to commence, a small crowd assembled. People of all classes, shown by their attire, meandered about, peering at the wagon trying to view the textiles piled within.
Tall, pointed red helmets caught Joshua’s attention as a pair of British officers escorted one of the king’s revenue commissioners toward them, followed by another man, and Sheriff Porter. Joshua elbowed Andrew and their eyes locked in alarm.
As the crew approached, Joshua recognized the customs officer. “Good day, Mr. Clowing.” The British officers stood expressionless behind the portly man in his powdered wig.
Clowing held out Andrew’s advertisement. It says here you intend to sell imported textiles at public vendue this morning.
Andrew stepped forward. “That is my intent.”
“I have come with a writ to search your goods,” Clowing said. “Have you bills of lading and receipts?”
Andrew handed him the papers, providing the evidence revenues on the merchandise had been paid. Joshua looked on, his heart thumping hard inside his chest. Joshua had gathered all the papers from Father’s office before they had left, doubtful Andrew had planned to do so. Although Andrew was a fine tailor in his own right, his naivety in business affairs was evident by this scheme.
Clowing’s assistant rummaged through the textiles, checking the fabric against the invoices. The crowd grew agitated during the search.
Joshua planted his hand on the wagon. “I assure you, all taxes have been paid on these goods. They have been in our warehouse since last year—before the Non-Taxation Agreement.”
Sheriff Porter looked from Andrew to Joshua. “What causes you to sell them now?”
A voice shot out from the crowd like a cannon. “I’d like to know the same thing.”
Joshua groaned under his breath. William Molineux. British-born merchant and Patriot, staunch organizer and agitator of the merchants against the king’s revenues. “Are you not the sons of Jairus Sutton the clothier?” Joshua’s jaw grew taut, he’d let Andrew own up to it.
“We are,” Andrew said. “Our warehouse was flooded after the big hailstorm. We are here to disburse the damaged cloth to those in need.”
“You mean, to sell the damaged goods,” Molineux said.
Andrew’s jaw pulsed. “This merchandise has been warehoused since the boycott, and is not a new import. ’Tis not breaking the agreement to get rid of it now.”
Onlookers murmured, the numbers of those gathered there increased. All they needed now was a riot. Redcoats stood in the rear keeping watch.
“I doubt the Committee of Merchants would agree.” Molineux loomed over Andrew.
“The agreement your father signed forbade the selling of British imports until the revenues are repealed, at least until the new year.”
Father appeared, pushing his way through crowd. “I agreed to not sell my textiles imported from England. As far as I can tell nothing has been sold here today.” Father glared at Andrew. “Am I correct?”
Sheriff Porter interjected. “The law states that you must comply with the intent of your advertisement on imports or you will be prosecuted at the Court of Admiralty.”
Someone shouted from the crowd. “We came to purchase cloth!”
“Let’s get on with it, I have work to do,” another called out.
The assistant commissioner handed Clowing his report, glowering from Andrew to Joshua. “I know not what game you are playing.” He shoved the paperwork into Father’s hand.
“I assure you, there is nothing untoward here.” Father eyed Andrew and Joshua.
Clowing turned to the sheriff with his statement. “All Sutton’s Clothiers’ invoices and bills of lading indicate no breech of commerce. They are dated 9 July 1768, before the Non-Taxation Agreement.”
Molineux narrowed his eyes. “Yet they are British imports to be auctioned, are they not?”
Joshua released an exasperated breath. “Allow me to explain—”
“Who is responsible for this vendue?” Sheriff Porter asked.
Another loud voice, belonging to John Mein, publisher of The Boston Chronicle, ca
me forth and pointed. “’Tis that one, Andrew Sutton.”
Red-faced, Father turned to face the newspaperman. “There is no sale today.”
The crowd grew louder, and the British soldiers moved in.
“Yet it was the intent. Ye son, Andrew, paid me to print the advertisement and I’ve his signature to prove it.”
Father’s lips tightened as he stared at Andrew.
Andrew lowered his head, shifting nervously from foot to foot on the wooden quay.
“Andrew Sutton,” the sheriff said. “If you refuse to hold this sale, you will see the jail.”
The horse grew uneasy as the crowd came closer, the din of voices growing louder. “’Tis the king’s enemies! They’ve done this to stir up the Patriot cause!” a man yelled.
“Upon my word,” Andrew said.
“We’ve done no such thing here,” Father barked.
“We came in peace,” insisted Joshua.
“Silence, or I shall arrest you all for breach of peace,” Sheriff Porter yelled.
“And sedition,” Clowing added. The British officers with the revenue official stepped forward, their muskets tight in their grasps.
John Mein wormed his way in front of Father while Molineux, Clowing, and the others looked on. “Ye ought to know, Mr. Sutton, your other son, had intent to soil your good name as well. He came to my office yesterday inquiring about claiming British goods kept at the Customs House for which he would have paid the duties, had they been available. Apparently both of your sons are non-compliant to your Patriotic cause.”
A hush broke through the clamor of the assembly.
“The trunks seized from the French frigate?” Clowing asked.
Mein angled his head. “The very lot of it.”
Father turned to Joshua, the hurt in his eyes almost more than Joshua could bear. “Is that true, Joshua?”
Joshua exhaled. “Yes, sir.”
Father lifted his palms, confusion in his eyes. “What gave you need of that?”
“’Twas a favor for a friend,” Joshua said.
“What friend?”
How it grieved Joshua to speak her name. “’Twas Honour Metcalf.”