by Carla J Gade
Honour could bear it no longer. “If you will excuse me. I am in need of some fresh air. I am going to take a turn about the garden so you may continue your visit privately.”
Mr. Leach cleared his throat. “I shall escort you, Miss Metcalf.” His gaze scanning over her. “I would not be a gentleman if I allowed you to sojourn alone, in your weakened condition.”
“I am recovered, sir. It is not necessary.”
“I insist. It will give my wife and her aunt a chance to visit. You would not deny them, I am sure.” Mr. Leach extended his arm. “Shall we?”
The stress of it overwrought her every nerve, yet she had no choice but to acquiesce. Mr. Leach followed Honour out the door. They walked in silence—while Honour’s heart beat so loudly she was sure he could hear it—until they passed into the backyard, behind the brick wall laden with ivy. When they turned the corner, he boldly pressured her against the wall.
Mr. Leach’s gaze pierced through her like a coiled snake ready to bite. “You seem distressed, Miss Metcalf. Perhaps I can ease your discomfort,” he said, taming his forked tongue.
Honour breathed in deeply. “Mr. Leach, you are married.”
Fondling the coil of her hair, he said, “Yes, and you have met my lovely wife, Emily.”
“No, sir. You are married. Twice.”
Honour slid a step away, but he halted her by pushing his knee against the outer portion of her gown, pinning her to the wall. She’d heard of men like that, with their schemes to come to America and marry, only to steal their “wives” dowries, spoil them, and return to England, never to be heard from again. More so, she knew him as the son of her father’s business associate who had helped her after arriving in Boston. It sickened her.
Leach scoffed. “Aye, I remember you. Though you were younger when you attended my wedding in England with your family.” He feigned pity. “Sorry thing about them.”
Honour swallowed back the whimper rising in her throat.
“You have become quite a prize,” he sneered, angling closer to her. “A pirate’s prize. Hmmph. They could have taken you . . . and your pretty little sister.” He sniffed her hair and hissed in her ear, “They were only to take your father’s gold, his investment was substantial.”
Honour’s eyes burned with shock, and a wave of nausea passed over her at his revelation.
“Ah, but you cannot trust the French. They took it upon themselves to make a show of it. Simply Byzantine, don’t you agree?” A crooked smirk formed above his narrow chin.
Honour spun her head aside. Her breathing grew heavy, but at last her voice rose from the depth of her hurt and anger and she faced him. “You are bold to show yourself to me. Are you not afraid I will reveal your secret?”
His hand slithered its way up the side of her neck and grabbed the hair at the nape. He glared into her eyes. “Ah, you haven’t the heart. Besides, I prefer to face my enemies.” He had not pulled her hair from its coif, however, a sign of his experience in not exposing his ill deeds.
Honour glowered at him, clenching her teeth. “Let me—”
He cuffed his palm over her mouth. “You will not speak a word of this, Miss Metcalf. I have been watching you for some time, after I learned how my father cleaned up my, shall we say, little scrape.” He lifted a knife from his pocket and pricked beneath her chin within a hair’s breadth. ’Twould be a pity for your sister to lose her only living relative. I suspect you might feel the same. You’d miss your little ‘pumpkin’, would you not?”
How did he know the term of endearment she used for Temperance? She felt as though she would wretch. Leach pressed her closer to the wall, until she could move no more. He pulled the knife down, pointing it toward her abdomen, over her now-healed wound. “Do not try me.”
21
Honour paced the floor of her bedchamber, recalling her unbearable encounter with Edmund Leach. When she’d encountered him in Widow Lankton’s parlor, Honour could barely school her breaths to maintain their normal rhythm. She had needed no introduction to the man, for at once she had recognized him and knew what he was about—or so she had thought. His clandestine glowers at her were disturbing enough, but his bold declaration to her about his involvement with her family’s demise shocked her to the core. He was responsible for killing her family and taking everything they owned. What would she do about his threats to Temperance and her? She held no doubt that the menacing beast would follow through on them if she were not careful. The unnerving exchange still made her shudder.
Honour clamped her lips together, her temples pulsing. Heavenly Father, please protect us from this evil and grant me wisdom.
Trust me, daughter.
Honour rubbed her arm as a chill tickled her flesh. Trust Him, I shall.
She turned her head toward the doorway at the clomping of footsteps coming up the stairs announced company.
“Honour!” Temperance bounded into the room and wrapped her arms around Honour’s waist. Tempe stepped back. “Did I hurt you?”
“Of course not. You could never hurt me.” Honour embraced her sister, as she hadn’t done in so long. She could scarcely let her go.
Tempe looked up at Honour, a pretty orange ribbon adorning her cap. “I am here to move in with you. Mrs. Wadsw—Grandmother—said ’tis time.”
Honour smiled, wiping the moisture from her face she had not been able to contain.
Tempe pouted. “You are crying.”
“I am sore happy to see you!” Honour looked up as Mrs. Wadsworth entered the room, followed by Widow Lankton. Mrs. Hall opened the door to Tempe’s new bedchamber from the adjoining side where she and the maidservant had brought up baskets and satchels filled with their belongings.
The group of ladies, Tempe included, crossed the room, but Mrs. Wadsworth stayed Honour by her arm. “What is it, my dear? Are you unwell?”
“I am all right now that Tempe is here. Truly.”
“Though I must ask, is something upsetting you? A certain tension is born on your face.”
“I shall miss Temperance dearly.” Mrs. Wadsworth hesitated, tracing her finger at her neck. “And . . . well, I have misplaced the pearls that my husband gave me. Rather, I fear someone may have stolen them.”
Widow Lankton gasped. “Stolen? Your pearls?”
“I am afraid so. I believe they may have been missing for some time now.”
“Have you asked Maisey if she’s seen them? You know she will help you look for them.”
Mrs. Wadsworth’s brow wrinkled. “We already have. We’ve searched high and low.”
Tempe tugged on Honour’s sleeve. “I helped Grandmother, too. They have disappeared.”
“Perhaps they shall yet turn up,” Honour said, attempting to offer some hope.
Widow Lankton turned around. “Have you reported it to Sheriff Porter?”
“I have. It pained me to do so.” Mrs. Wadsworth shook her head. “You know they shall put the thief in jail. Or send him to the pillory with a T branded upon his hand.”
Tempe sucked in an audible breath.
Honour looked down at her hands and cringed. Looking up she met Mrs. Wadsworth’s grave expression.
“Let us get this room put together, shall we?” Mrs. Hall fluffed a feather pillow and inserted it into a fresh embroidered pillowslip. The maidservant had already begun putting away Tempe’s garments.
Widow Lankton’s footman appeared at the hall doorway carrying the indigo quilt that Tempe had been using in her room at Mrs. Wadsworth’s. “You may place it on the bedstead,” Mrs. Hall instructed him, and after he did, he departed.
“Tempe, your quilt. Now you shall feel right at home.” Honour smiled.
Tempe tipped her head. “My quilt?”
“Aye. It belongs to you now, pumpkin.” Honour crossed her arms across her middle, caressing them absently. Might Edmund Leach really follow through with his awful threats?
Mrs. Hall and the maidservant placed the quilt carefully upon the bed.
Widow
Lankton placed her hand upon her chin, looking at the quilt. “It is charming. What a pretty color. Some of the motifs remind me of Emily’s quilt. Yes, the pomegranate, and some of the feathered patterns. They must be common patterns used in England. ’Tis lovely.”
“Aye.” Honour pressed down on her lower lip.
Mrs. Wadsworth reached for the hem of the quilt, tugging it into place. “There—”
A pearl dropped onto the floor planks with a plop, rolling straight to the tip of Honour’s damask mules. Another fell, and then another. Tempe scurried to gather them.
Mrs. Wadsworth grabbed at the hem, kneeling down at the end of the bedstead. “The hem has come loose and here lie my pearls! How could this be?” Hurt and horror filled her eyes.
“Honour! What have you done?”
Joshua waited in the guest parlor, the wainscoting closing in on him. It had been several weeks now since he’d seen Honour. He hardly knew where he’d begin. He had not heard from Honour, nor had she from him, as he’d been detained with other matters. He presumed she was angry with him still. Would she receive his company now?
Widow Lankton’s housekeeper addressed him. “Miss Metcalf and her sister are outdoors, enjoying the Indian summer. It may be her last chance.”
Joshua eyed her curiously. “Whatever do you mean?”
“She will have to explain it to you herself. Widow Lankton has granted permission for you to seek her.”
Joshua exited the grand house and found his way to the backyard, much as he had that day he sought her when she was so upset. Yet today he dared not rush. What if she rejected him, as he had rejected her—rather, her request, which caused the breach between them?
“Joshua!” Tempe ran to him, unreserved, throwing his arms around him. He twirled her around and placing her down, kissed her atop her bonnet.
Joshua looked up as Honour strolled toward him. How demure she looked in her robe à la anglaise. The pink lustring gown, with ivory quilted petticoat, made her look every bit an English lady. He had not thought it possible for her to look more beautiful than the day he had swept her out of the street during the hailstorm.
“Honour.” He nearly croaked out her name.
She nodded demurely. “Joshua.”
Tempe took hold of Joshua’s hand.
“Your manners, Tempe,” Honour said.
“I have missed him, Honour. Haven’t you?”
Honour parted her lips, then closed them. “It is not becoming for a young lady to be so forward.”
Joshua took Temperance’s small hand in his and bowed. He placed a diminutive kiss upon the back of her hand. “Milady.”
Tempe giggled and stepped back.
“Something is different about you, Tempe.” Joshua cocked his head, narrowing his eyes. “Ah, yes. I see you have removed your mourning ribbons and exchanged them for something brighter. Green becomes you.”
“’Twas my father’s favorite color,” Tempe angled her head toward Honour. “Honour said ’twas time to cease our mourning, but not our memories.”
“’Tis good to know.” Joshua offered Honour a tender glance.
“How is Anne?” Honour asked.
“She is well, thank you. Past the worst of it,” Joshua said.
“I am glad to hear it. I have been keeping her in prayer,” Honour said.
“You look well. Are you much improved?” he asked.
“Aye,” Honour said.
“Tempe, would you mind if Honour and I had a few moments of private conversation?”
“I shall be your chaperone. ’Tis only fitting.” Tempe shielded her eyes from the sun. “I shall play by the fountain and you may have a seat on the stone bench.”
“Very well. If your sister agrees.” Joshua rested his hand upon his hip. Meeting Honour’s eyes, he earnestly sought her reply.
Temperance skipped off, humming as she went, although Honour had yet to grant her permission.
“The girl has no manners.” Honour shook her head with exaggerated dismay. “I suppose I have failed her.”
“You have done nothing of the sort. She is a wonderful child, as—” Joshua hesitantly held out his elbow. “Come, let us find the bench.”
Joshua and Honour crossed the lawn in silence. He allowed her to sit first, remaining undecided as to whether he should sit by her or remain standing.
“I shall not bite, Joshua Sutton.”
Joshua lifted his eyebrows. “We are sure?”
“Very.”
A hint of the scent of lavender and cinnamon emanated from her, and he dared breathe it in. Breathe her in.
She clasped her hands together in her lap.
He straightened, facing her. “Honour. I must apologize for my absence.”
“You needn’t,” she said.
“I must. I have been indisposed for these last weeks, with an urgent family matter, and then my illness.”
She looked at him with concern. “Family matter? Illness?”
“I am well now. ’Twas only a cold and fever.” He grinned. “My mother, you know how she fusses.”
Honour smiled. “Aye, she is a good caregiver.”
Joshua nodded.
“And your family?” she asked.
“They are well, but we have come upon some trouble. I have been consumed with the matter, and thus my reason for not coming to see you sooner. I had hoped you did not conclude it had anything to do with . . . your request.” He was rambling. Did what he said make any sense to her? “I want you to know that I did inquire at The Chronicle concerning your belongings. But some other party had already claimed them.”
Honour glanced down at her lap and said softly, “It matters not.” She looked up at him from beneath her dark lashes. “I am only glad it did not cost you anything.”
“Nay, Honour, it cost me a great deal.”
Alarmed at his statement, Honour faced Joshua, her eyes pleading. “Joshua, you must tell me. What happened?”
“Besides my brother and I nearly being jailed?” Joshua’s brilliant blue eyes tried to emit humor.
“’Tis no time for jesting.” She could not bear the possibility of him spending time in jail. Yet, she knew not what her own destiny would bring on that accord.
“I am not,” Joshua said. “Albeit, we managed to get away with some mere lashings from John Mein, picketed by some miscreant lads, and served a hefty fine.”
Honour flattened her palm against her chest. “On my account?”
“Not at all. ’Twas Andrew’s doing mostly, and my own involvement to aid him. You see, he tried to hold a vendue without Father’s knowledge and it ended . . . well, let me say a wagon of our damaged textiles were disposed into the harbor at low tide.” Joshua cast a sidelong glance at her, casting a dimpled grin.
Honour covered her mouth, holding back a small laugh. Oh, how she had missed him.
“Looking back at it, it does lend humor to the situation.” Joshua chuckled. “You should have seen the British soldiers rallying around with Boston citizens, trying to corral our loose horse and wagon.” His eyes widened and he released a hearty laugh.
Honour could restrain herself no more as he regaled his tale of woe. Her own mirth at this telling could scarcely be contained until the merry tears filling her eyes betrayed her. But then she turned away, weeping.
Joshua’s hand reach around her, and he rested his chin upon her shoulder. “Honour,” he whispered. “Look at me.”
She hesitated, but something deep inside told her she would find safe harbor with him. She turned her head back, and their eyes met. He stroked her chin, gently, lovingly, as he entreated her to listen. “I know all about it, Honour. You will not go to jail.”
She turned, her mouth opened trying to form words, though none could be found. She licked her lower lip, and he soon found it with the featherlight touch of his fingertip. He withdrew his finger, brought it to his own mouth, and kissed the moisture from it. “Take heart, Honour. All is well.”
All is well.
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“I learned of your situation this morning when Mrs. Wadsworth was visiting with my mother. They felt it best that I know.”
Joshua enveloped her hands in his. “Mrs. Wadsworth does not believe that you are the one who took her pearls. She trusts you. She knows you are a woman of honor.”
“She, she told you this?”
“Yes, upon my word. Not only mine, but others.” Joshua retrieved a news clipping that he had tucked within the breast pocket of his frock coat and handed it to her. “Here, please read this. The first part concerns the notice I penned to reflect an accurate account of the vendue that created such a trial for my family’s business. There was an accusation made against you there. You will find yourself fully vindicated for that and the incident of the pearls. Please, read it.”
The Boston Gazette, 26 September 1769
Letter to the PUBLICK
Sutton’s Clothiers hereby begs pardon for the cancellation, due to an unforeseen situation, of a special vendue to be held Saturday, 9 September 1769 at Gray’s Wharf. Further, we humbly submit these indisputable true accounts as recorded by the Reverend Doctor Samuel Cooper, he being witness to the events on said occasion:
“We planned to hold a special auction of the textiles here today—to the lowest bidder without charge.”—Joshua Sutton, Sutton’s Clothiers
“There is nothing illegal in it. In fact it is a clever way to distribute goods in a peaceful and charitable manner.”—Sheriff Porter, City of Boston
“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.”—Edmund Clowing, Customs Commissioner, City of Boston
“As members of the Body of Merchants and the Sons of Liberty, Sutton’s Clothiers devised a splendid plan for the betterment of the community.”— William Molineux, Body of Merchants
In regard to Miss Honour Metcalf, quilter —
“As for Miss Metcalf. She has been accused, aye, yet she has never been found stealing.”—Sheriff Porter, City of Boston, who further adds the report testified to him by Widow Eunice Lankton, Mrs. Emily Leach, and Mrs. Margaret Wadsworth, that Honour Metcalf, quilter, “is of the utmost character and honest in every way.”