Maya's Aura: The Redemptioner

by Smith, Skye

  "Fool. Two women and a lad cannot run a tavern," sneered Lydia.

  "I wasn't thinking of a tavern, well sort of, but not quite," said Britta. "I was thinking of a coffee shop."

  Lydia sneered at her again. "A Coffee House is just another name for a tavern."

  "Not a house, a shop. Jon, remember in Bristol there was that coffee shop that was always full of gents? You know, just down from the India Company's booking office."

  "Yes, I remember."

  "Well, the purser from our ship told me that much Company business was done in that coffee shop. He said it was the same in London. He told me that instead of buying shares in the Company, he wished he had bought shares in that coffee shop."

  "You are day-dreaming, Britta," said Lydia. "We are still just two young women and a lad."

  "I don't think it is a day dream," Jon defended his sister. "Running a coffee shop would be much the same as running a tavern, but without the booze and the drunks. Besides, Britta knows all those recipes for using cocoa and Indian tea."

  Now Britta was starting to daydream. "We could set our prices high enough to keep out the riff raff. I make wonderful coffee, and wonderful chocolate. The landlord says he will not charge us rent for the first month, and can supply the tables and chairs that we will need. Instead of the feel of a tavern, we could make it seem like our customers were visiting a friend and sitting in their parlor while they sipped good coffee."

  "We need to talk about this a lot longer," warned Lydia. "It would take all of our money to set it up. What if nobody came?"

  "I have worked out all of the numbers with the landlord, but that would be boring to talk about." Britta moved her chair closer to the window. "Jon, put Lydia's chair beside me. She is right. The biggest problem is what if nobody comes. Come here, Lydia. Sit with me in the window, and we will count the passersby that may become our customers."

  * * * * *

  It took them a week of hard work before they were ready to open the Anchor Coffee Shoppe, so named so they could use the sign that still hung above the door and above the side windows. They decided to start with a limited selection because the cost of things like coffee and cocoa and sugar were high. They finally hung the open sign outside, and then cried for two nights because nobody came in. They even had to eat all the pastries that Jon had brought from the bakery.

  The next morning, when Jon came back from the bakery, he was excited. He set his box of pastries down on the closest table and then ran up to where Britta and Lydia were once again polishing china cups that had never been used. "The baker says that no one ever walks into an empty shop. He says to sit two people in the window who are dressed like the customers that you want attract, and they will attract more business. You know, like decoys attracting ducks."

  Britta bided her time until the street was busy with people dodging raindrops and trying not to step in mud puddles. She pushed her breasts up in her bodice and pulled the lace fringe to the side so that her cleavage was in plain sight, and then she walked out the door and stopped the next two gentlemen that she saw.

  "Hello". She made a small curtsy. "I am Britta, and I have entered a contest at my church to see who makes the best cup of chocolate in Boston. Could I ask you gentlemen to come inside and taste mine and tell me what you think?"

  She had interrupted their conversation, and had blocked their way, but they were in no hurry other than to get out of the rain. They looked at each other, and then at the cleavage, and then into the smiling eyes of the comely young woman, and shrugged their shoulders and eagerly followed her into the shop. They sat where she asked them to, in the window, and then waited while she finished making the chocolate and pouring it into two never-before-used, cups.

  The men sipped the hot dark chocolate, and frankly it didn't matter what it tasted like. They were eager to tell this young beauty that it was the best in Boston. And then the pepper heat of the Guinea spice came through the smooth taste of the chocolate and made them want to close their eyes to better savor the mix of flavors. One of the men, the one not currently able to watch her cleavage, said, "That is absolutely delicious. You will win for sure."

  He said this just as a man came in to see what the inside was like. Lydia walked forward to greet him, but he turned on his heel and left, and Lydia sighed. Britta's ruse hadn't worked. She was wrong. The man came back leading three other men and sat at another window table. For a half an hour at midday that day, they had to turn gentlemen away, for lack of seats in the shop.

  The baker had been right. Nobody goes into an empty shop.

  The landlord, who was keeping a close eye on his tenants since the disaster of the first two days, was suddenly in a very good mood. He immediately realized that they needed more chairs and a large coat rack near the large iron fireplace insert, because though the coffee shop was warmed by the fire, there was no place for the customers to hang their sodden coats to dry.

  Within the week, the Anchor Coffee Shoppe had regulars. Once they had regulars, Britta no longer needed to draw the first customers into the window seats. Business was being discussed and coffee was being drunk in great quantities, and they had even served some pots of Chinese Tea. This because the people of Boston were finally drinking Chinese Tea again, whereas the year before they had given up drinking it to send a message to the East India Company that their prices were too high.

  It was soon apparent that all of their gentlemen wanted to be served by Britta, so Lydia and Jon took on the tasks of making the drinks and cleaning the tables and washing up. Lydia, meanwhile, had copied Britta's tactic of open cleavage, and as she was newly pregnant, her cleavage was very fine to look at.

  As a way of meeting men, Lydia used her cleavage to great effect. Whenever she took one of her frequent rests, she would ask if she could sit with a table of gentlemen, so that she could introduce herself. They never refused her, so before long, both she and Britta were meeting the men who ran Boston's businesses and were hearing all sorts of gossip.

  Eventually, one of the port clerks who hid from his work each day in the shop, asked if he could post shipping schedules on their wall. It would give him the excuse of morning coffee away from his boss, and it would mean that the customers would not need to walk all the way to the port office in the rain and mud to find out what ships were due. After seeing the paper nailed to his freshly painted wall, the landlord was quick to put up a pin board for notices and messages.

  The port clerk was a godsend to Britta. From him she learned that the port kept a list of all people arriving on ships. It took no more than the promise of free hot drinks in the morning to convince him to look through the last six months of lists for the name Inka Fisher, Britta's mother. Her high hopes were crushed the very next day. No such woman had shipped in to Boston.

  It took both Jon and Lydia to comfort her. The port clerk felt so bad about being the bearer of such bad news that he offered to write to the other ports around Boston and ask about the woman's name. Unfortunately those ports may take months to respond. Meanwhile, of course, Britta would welcome him each morning with a free hot drink.

  The work in the shop was not hard, but it was long. They always stayed open until the last customers left, which could be surprisingly late if business was being discussed. Lydia kept the ledger in her neat and precise hand. Each week the landlord would review it with her. Britta surprised her by saying that the coffee shop was clearing more profit than Sabin's Tavern, and with fewer patrons. They decided that this was because ale was a low markup drink, while coffee and chocolate had higher markups.

  * * * * *

  After the first month, two things happened. They expanded their selection of drinks and of pastries, and the building became known in Boston for the Anchor Coffee Shoppe rather than for its prior tavern of ill repute. The effect of the confluence of both these happenstances was surprising to both the women that ran it and to the regular customers of the shop. The first women customers stopped in for chocolate.

  Th
e landlord, sensing more profit to be made, allowed them to expand the coffee shop deeper into the space left by the tavern to allow for more tables and a ladies' retirement room. Almost every day now there were times in the day when there were customers being turned away, and the landlord offered to rent them the entire area that had been used by the tavern.

  Britta and Lydia discussed it, but refused the offer. They were already working too hard and too fast during peak hours, and could not do more. It would be better for them to have a small shop that was busy all the time, than a large shop that was busy only a few hours a day.

  "Then you need to hire someone to help," suggested the landlord, clearly anxious to have them expand and rent the entire tavern space.

  Britta looked at Lydia and Lydia looked at Jon and they all shook their heads. The reason that the coffee shop ran so well and was so profitable, was that it was small and part of their lives. The income served to keep the three of them warm and dry in Boston for the winter. That was enough. That was more than enough.

  Of course, income was not the only thing that the coffee shop was providing them. As is the way of family businesses, running the shop filled almost all their waking hours. When it was not full, and they were not run off their feet, the coffee shop became their living room. It not only paid their way, and more so, but it also kept them entertained throughout the darkest days of winter.

  Lydia's dream of meeting Boston's best people had come true. More and more she used her belly as an excuse to sit and chat with the customers. By judicious use of hugs and cleavage, she soon became friendly with some of the most powerful men in Boston. She was a respectable widow, a young widow, a pretty widow and her company was sought out, at least in the confines of this shop.

  As for Britta, unlike her experience in the tavern where she had been leered at and treated like a wench of easy morals, in the shop Britta was leered at, but treated like someone’s daughter. Perhaps it was because the tavern had taught her how to handle groups of men that she danced through the shop with such an easy manner. Rarely did she have to slap a roving hand, and even then it was more in jest than in earnest.

  She was still hoping to find a wealthy and kind husband, and now she was meeting some very eligible young men as they drank her coffee and chocolate. Some men seemed to plan their coffee breaks to coincide with slow times when there was a chance of having Britta sit with them and chat. Jon even chastised her for becoming as bad a flirt as was Lydia.

  As for Jon, well Jon still had the taste of adventure in his mouth from the Gaspee, and he hoped to find it again through the customers of the coffee shop. His sister would always know when a table of men were telling tales of ships and distant places, because Jon would hover close and pretend to be working while he listened to them. Poor Jon was never invited to actually sit with the men as the women were.

  * * * * *

  * * * * *

  MAYA’S AURA - the Redemptioner by Skye Smith

  Chapter 16 - Meet Sam Adams

  "Bingo," Maya cried out. "I found it. The Anchor Tavern of Boston. Come over here, Nana, and look at this ancient map and see if it rings any bells."

  Nana finished sweeping toast crumbs out of the front door and put down the corn broom and came over to look over her great grand daughter's shoulder at the netbook screen. "Can you zoom in on it. I can barely make it out." With three clicks it was larger. Fuzzier, but larger. "Hmm, well there is Faneuil hall, so that was the market, so ..." she poked the screen and paused thinking.

  "I don't think any of the old buildings on that street survived. You must remember that much of Boston's current downtown area is built on landfill. All those mud flats shown on that old map are now streets and buildings."

  "But at least I know that the Anchor existed, and where it was, sort of, like, almost," replied Britta. "I'm going to bookmark this map and then go back to reading your notes from last night's crystal dreams".

  * * * * *

  * * * * *

  Britta woke up to silence. Boston was a busy town, and their street corner was one of the busiest. For weeks she had been woken by the early morning cartwheels of the rubbish collectors, which gave her just enough time to wake Jon, wash, dress, and be downstairs to open the coffee shop before the morning rush for hot drinks. She looked out of her window and the street was glowing white, and empty of the folk who should by now be quick stepping to their workplaces. There was not a single footstep or cart track in the fresh snow.

  Before she washed, she woke Jon and sent him downstairs. He would wash after he did all his dirty chores such as lighting the grand fireplace. When the building was renovated, the landlord had paid good money to have one of the new iron stove inserts fitted into the fireplace. This one insert heated the entire shop, even to its far corners. It also allowed them to keep two large water kettles simmering whenever the fire was lit. Lydia, a mistress and a lady, enjoyed her morning wash in warm water.

  When Britta unlocked the shop door for the morning, she was almost pleased that there was no early rush of customers. They had not had a quiet day in the shop since their third day in business and now they were well into November. She stepped outside and made a snowball and threw it up at the window above. Lydia opened the window and poked her head out. "You may as well stay warm in bed with Robby, Lydia dear," she called. "We won't be busy today."

  She saw Jon slipping and sliding along the street with his bakery box. "The bakery was closed," he said. "I tried the market at Faneuil Hall, but unless you want firewood or sheep, the stalls were empty. Well, except for all the poor folk sleeping there and trying to stay warm."

  "Never mind, Jon, come in and get warm. It is perishing out here." Sister and brother went through the door into the warmth of the shop. She loved that fireplace and repeated what the landlord always said when he stood warming his hands in front of it. "Bless you, Mr. Franklin."

  Since there was no business, Britta busied herself with making Lydia one of her special drinks of Indian tea, which was just Indian hemp tea with a small amount of kief added and an even smaller amount of clove, and then a good dollop of honey to hide the bitterness. The drink never failed to lift her spirits, and give her a bit of energy in the morning.

  She had just finished making it when the tinkle of a bell and a cold gust of wind told her that someone had opened the shop door. She looked around and saw a middle-aged gentlemen looking tentatively at her. He was covered in snow flakes and looked like he had been outside a good while. "Are you open?" he asked.

  "Come in, come in, and close the door," called Britta. "Hang your coat on the rack by the fire and pull a chair close to it so you can warm up." She liked this man immediately because he had the uncommon good sense to push the boot mat back in place to block the draught from under the door.

  "Here," she said passing the man the cup of Indian tea. "I made it for someone else, but they have not arrived yet. It will warm you."

  The man took off his snow-encrusted mittens and wrapped both hands around the hot cup and then bowed his head and took a sip. "Oh dear," he said, "I really shouldn't. I made a vow that I would never put money into the pockets of the East India Company. This is Indian Tea and clove, yes. I really shouldn't."

  "Tut-tut-tut." Britta shook her head. "Your lips have already touched the cup. Not drinking it would be the same as throwing it into the harbor. Waste is a sin." It was the ultimate scolding to any Puritan. 'Thou shalt not waste' was their first commandment.

  The man sighed and sipped some more. He pulled a chair and a small table towards the fireplace and emptied a leather bag of papers onto it. He sipped and read, and sipped and read, but each time he heard a sound from outside he would pull back behind the brick of the grand mantle and out of sight of the door.

  After about a half hour and still no other customers, Britta pulled another chair close to the fire and sat and sipped some of the special Indian tea. She knew that by now, the effects of the special tea would be felt by the man. She was right. He
was smiling and humming to himself as he rifled through a pad of tattered papers covered in his scrawl. "What are you doing?" she asked, truly interested.

  "Oh, I am trying to finish an essay that must be at the publisher's in a few days. I have so much to say, but I am limited by the number of words they have room for." He looked down at the scratch outs and inserted words and moaned, "What a mess."

  Britta pulled the first page towards her. "May I?" she asked with a warm smile. She was also starting to feel the effects of the Indian hemp.

  "I suppose, though I doubt you will be able to read my hand." He looked around. "Is there a privy near to the shop?"

  "Oh, the men's privy is outside and around the back," she said, and then looked at the man's wet shoes. "Oh, go ahead and use the ladies' retirement room. It is just through there."

  She continued to read, and it was hard to do, not because of his hand, but because of his choice of words and phases, and all of the scratch outs. He came back and stood beside her while she pushed her fingers along under the words. The door's bell tinkled and he went visibly stiff.

  "It is just my brother," said Britta. "Are you waiting for someone?"

  "In a sense," he replied, "waiting, and yet hoping that they do not show up." He sat down and sipped some more tea. He was feeling warm and happy. Happier than he had felt for weeks. "Some tax collectors are looking for me. That is why I am not in my office. Oh, I am sorry. My name is Samuel Adams. I am the clerk of the House of Representatives." He held out his hand and was so happy when she took it. Her touch came with a warm smile.

  "I am Britta. I work here. What is the House of, of,..."