“Like what?”
“For you and me, the marathon bombing hits close to home, right? But my research got me thinking that throughout history people have always had moments of deep suffering: school shootings, the Holocaust, loved ones lost at war. We just have a hard time relating when it was a long time ago or far away. I read about first-century Christians who were brutally tortured. I mean, these guys were thrown in with the lions, burned at the stake. I read an account about Nero using them as human torches. They hid out in catacombs beneath the city. And you know what symbol they often used to encourage one another?”
I shook my head.
“They used an anchor similar to the one on our ring. And the other symbol—the horn. It stands for God’s strength. They put their faith in something bigger than themselves.” He lifted a hand, let it fall back to his thigh. “I don’t know, Annie. I’m still thinking I can save you myself—help you see how strong you are. That we can escape our past by overcoming it. But maybe . . .”
“What?”
“Maybe neither you or I can do it by ourselves. Maybe we both need someone stronger too.”
DECEMBER 1770
“There.” Mr. Gregory pointed to a large two-story home that shared a common with a meetinghouse, a tavern, a belfry, and another grand home. The sun set behind the house, giving it the image of a safe haven. A new beginning. Perhaps even a resting place.
He directed the horses toward the barn, where he dismounted. A boy of about twelve walked out. “Uncle!” He dropped his pitchfork and launched himself into Mr. Gregory’s arms, then, as if remembering his age and that he was nearly a man, pulled back and adjusted his hat. “’Tis good to see you. I can take your horse in.”
Mr. Gregory tousled the boy’s hair. I watched the tender exchange from where I perched on the wagon seat.
When Mr. Gregory had helped me down, he introduced me to his nephew, Michael, and grabbed my valise.
The door of the house opened, and a gaggle of children piled out, followed by a man whose solid build resembled Mr. Gregory’s. “Brother. You are here at last. The children have not stopped hounding me since we told them of your impending arrival.” The glint in the man’s eye told me he did not mind the hounding all too much. He turned to me. “And you must be Miss Liberty. I’m Graham Gregory. It’s a pleasure to meet you. My wife is much obliged for your help.”
“The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Gregory.” I said, pulling out my etiquette lessons from Grandmother. If I wanted this new beginning to work for James and me, I would have to make a decent impression.
“And who is this?” he asked, gesturing to James.
I’d practiced a number of answers to this question a thousand times over the last couple of days and with each turn of the carriage wheel on the way here. There would be no getting around the fact that James was my child. I could only hope the Gregory family would presume me a widow from the simple words I would give, or perhaps that I’d been abandoned by my husband. Either conclusion would be more flattering than the truth.
“This is James. My—my son. His father is . . . no longer with us.”
Graham smacked his hands together and rubbed them, not questioning me further, for which I was grateful. “Let’s get you two warmed up inside. Cora’s busy with supper. Prepared a feast for you two, she has.”
We entered the house, the scent of roast mutton teasing my nostrils and the pleasant undulating sound of a spinet relaxing my senses further. A slender woman turned from sliding a pot of beans into the oven. She wiped her soot-blackened hands on her apron before hugging her brother-in-law. “At last! And you have brought my salvation!”
Graham Gregory shook his head, put his hands up in the air. “There’s no taming her, I tell you. Miss Liberty, this is my wife, Cora.”
Around a pack of children who begged for Mr. Gregory’s attention, I offered Mrs. Gregory a small curtsy, but she swatted it away and gave me a hug, her mobcap falling off her glistening forehead. “Pleasure to meet you, dear. And look at this bundle. A wee one, isn’t he? You settle yourselves, why don’t you? Rebekah here will show you your room. Nathaniel, grab her things, please.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I appreciate your inviting me.”
“And we’ll scoot you right back outside that door if you start calling me ma’am, hear?” She winked at me. “Please, call me Cora.”
I followed Rebekah and Nathaniel up the narrow stairs. Rebekah looked back at me when she reached the top, a piece of maple sugar Mr. Gregory had slipped her tight in hand. I guessed her to be about eight, blue eyes brighter than a robin’s egg. “I can change him if you want. I’m real good with babies.”
“Perhaps you could help me?”
She smiled, revealing a missing front tooth. “Cilla moved in with the girls this morning so you could have this room. I’m hoping she doesn’t wiggle around as much as Annabel.” Her eyes grew wide and she slapped her hands over her mouth. “Oops. I’m not supposed to complain.”
I laughed, bent near her. “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.”
Nathaniel came out of the corner room, hands empty. By far the oldest, he shared his father’s and uncle’s wide form and strapping shoulders. I guessed him to be sixteen, at least. We were not so very far apart in age, but the heaviness of the past year combined with the weight of my son in my arms confirmed that I was far older in the ways of the world.
“I put your valise in there for when you’re ready,” he said.
I thanked him, and Rebekah led me to the room. Ropes hung from the ceiling, supporting a bedtick made up with a homespun coverlet. Alongside it stood a chest of drawers and a small table with an earthenware pitcher and bowl. Two windows looked out onto the common. I hadn’t expected such a lavish area.
“Will it do?” Rebekah asked, hesitation in her voice.
“Oh, child, it will more than do. I feel so . . . so blessed to be with you all.”
She smiled and dragged a small cradle from the far wall. “James can sleep in here.” She then opened the top drawer. “Changing cloths. Babies need lots of those.”
“They certainly do.” I laid James on the bed, took the knit hat from his head, where a tuft of soft hair stuck up.
Rebekah sat beside him. “Mama’s real glad you’re here. Daddy don’t want her midwifing so much anymore. Says Dr. Richards been spreading gossip about Mama being a—” she lowered her voice—“a w-i-t-c-h.” She laughed. “That’s the maddest thing I ever heard. Daddy says he’s just after her patients.”
Blood rushed to my head. “Oh my.” I tried to keep my voice level, though I couldn’t deny the news rattled me. “I thought we were long past such things.”
Rebekah swatted a hand at me, much like her mother had done downstairs when I curtsied. “Oh, don’t worry, Miss Liberty. Mama’s no witch. That’s nonsense talking. People are just afraid of what they don’t understand, right? And Mama heals good. Real good. Better’n Dr. Richards. He keeps saying people should be storing away their concealment boxes to ward off evil spirits and witches like Mama. Nothing God-honoring about that.”
It seemed the family had an adversary in town. Had I brought myself and James under that same enmity?
I pinned James’s fresh changing cloth and sat down to nurse him, but not before feeling for the silver and ring, still sewn within the folds of my traveling dress. Their hard round edges afforded me a measure of peace. If I sensed trouble brewing for me and my son, I would find another way for us. If the Lord didn’t provide a way, the sterling and the ring most certainly would.
I glanced at the empty dish before me, not a crumb of apple tart left on the plate, my belly satisfied for the first time in months. I leaned against the straight-back cherry chair. James lay in his cradle beside the fire, eyes closed in sleep, seeming equally content.
Graham pressed a kiss to his wife’s temple. “Thank you for dinner, Mother. It was a delight as usual.”
We all echoed our gratitude. Graham and Nathaniel b
roke out a chessboard. Michael bundled up to go milk the cow and fetch some cordwood. I sipped the last of my “swamp tea,” attempting to keep my dislike of it from my face.
Cora didn’t miss my reluctance. “A first for you, is it?”
“’Tis good. I think it will only take some getting accustomed to. Labrador, is it not?” The yellow color and rancid taste were nothing like the tea from England.
Cora smiled. “You do know your herbs, then. We do what we can. Nonimportation tea is a start. We also have chocolate if you prefer.”
I shook my head, not wanting to cause any trouble. “I will certainly grow accustomed to it in no time.”
Mr. Gregory stood. “Miss Liberty, might I steal you away for a walk around the green?”
“I am not certain that would be—”
“Go on now.” Cora brought a dish from the sideboard to the basin. “We’ll watch James. And don’t worry, you can put in your share of the work starting tomorrow.”
I didn’t see a way out. I only wished to be thought on well, not to be shirking my responsibilities for a walk in the dark with a man on my first night with these kind people.
I grabbed my cloak and muff, and we slid out the back door. The candles from the tavern across the way lit up a good portion of the common. The tin lantern Mr. Gregory carried shone light before our steps. The cold air chilled my nose, and I burrowed further into my cloak.
“I will be leaving tomorrow, early in the morn. I wished to speak with you privately, make certain you are content with the situation here.”
“I most certainly am. Though I wonder if I should fear very much of being accused a witch.”
Silence.
“Mr. Gregory, if I could see the tips of your ears, I would wager they are red as a ripe tomato.”
He laughed, a bellowing, joyful sound. We walked behind the three-story meetinghouse, its shadow blocking the light from the tavern. “Please, Miss Liberty. You must call me Hugh. And as for the witch nonsense, I do not take the doctor’s blustering all that seriously.”
“Perhaps that is because you are not an unwed mother who practices midwifery, Mr. Gregory.”
“Hugh.”
I sighed, not wishing to provoke the discourse, to be thought of as a tease, or worse . . . as the captain had thought of me—a common camp girl with whom he could take his pleasure.
“Mr. Gregory, it is not accusations of witchcraft that truly concern me. I think Massachusetts Bay Colony has had its share of excitement with the coming and going of the king’s troops, as have I. But I do wonder what your brother’s family thinks of me.” I walked a few more steps, the rocky soil crunching frozen beneath my boots. “I wonder what you must think of me.”
It needed to be out in the open before us. If he was smitten with me as Midwife Louisa inferred and as I sensed, if he planned to court me, I could not keep the truth of James’s lineage from him.
“I only think of you what I see. You are a loving mother, a gifted healer, and a pleasant traveling companion. I would be lying if I didn’t say I’ve noticed what a bonny lass you are.”
I cleared my throat. I did not have much experience in the manner of courtship. Did I even wish to? How, after the liberties the captain took, could I ever trust a man—whether Patriot or redcoat—again? And yet how wonderful would it be for me and James to have a provider and a protector, someone to shelter and watch over us? I would no longer feel the need to pretend if Mr. Gregory was willing to take James as a son and me as a wife.
And yet part of me could not forget that last night with Alexander by the fire, the lilt and sway of his voice caressing words of poetry. How he had confessed his affection for me.
“Mr. Gregory, just so we are clear . . . James’s father was—is—an officer in the King’s Army.”
A tight silence stretched between us before he responded. “Midwife Louisa hinted as much. And I can see how this fact would upset you. The night of your brother’s death, I saw how dearly you loved him.” We walked on. “If it is not too bold of me to say, I would not fear that you have disappointed him. You haven’t the slightest need for shame. It is not as if you were associating with those blackguards or putting yourself in a foolish position. I am certain your brother would be proud of you.”
His words, meant to soothe, cut deep. For I had associated with those blackguards. I had put myself in a foolish position.
“Thank you,” I croaked.
“I only must ask, and forgive me if I intrude . . . but why was this officer not tried for his crimes? Even the Crown has a standard and does not allow for its officers accosting innocent young lasses.”
His words stirred up a desire in me to cling to the belief that I had been an innocent young lass. I had been taken advantage of. The fault for my transgressions lay entirely on the captain’s head, not my own. Yes, I had lived in their home, but that did not give one call to do what was done to me.
Yes, this path of thinking pleased me. Mr. Gregory might assume I’d merely been walking down a back alley or the dark common, couldn’t imagine me working for the enemy or falling in love with a soldier of the Crown. What he saw in my being was enough to draw me to that imaginary girl. I wanted to be that innocent maiden. And perhaps if Mr. Gregory saw me as such, and I convinced myself, the guilt would not be so very painful. Perhaps I could eventually forget Alexander altogether.
“If I sought justice, the officer would know of James . . . and I do not wish him to know of my son’s existence.” The honest words were a start, perhaps a cornerstone in building a satisfying life for myself and my son.
We continued walking, turned left so the tavern was in front of us. “I can’t say I fault you for that.”
I breathed around the emotion lodged in my throat. His sympathy—though couched in a slight half-truth—was a resting place for my burdened heart. “Thank you . . . Hugh.”
He reached out and laid his fingers upon my arm, just above where my hands rested in my muff. I thought of the last time a man had reached out to me with such tenderness. Alexander, by the fire, with that ring gleaming upon his finger, and my heart thumping more wildly for his touch than it did now, for Mr. Gregory’s.
“Miss Liberty?”
“Hmm?”
“I was saying I thought to ask if I might write you after I leave?”
There were worse things than a solid man’s interest. I may prefer to be alone, but the well-being of my son was at stake. James’s future would prove much more prosperous with a man in his life.
And so my decision was made. Even if all went well with Graham Gregory and his family, they would not wish me with them forever. Writing Hugh, perhaps opening up my heart to him, was a keen path for a single mother. Anyone would expect it. And as I made my answer, a stir of anticipation rippled in my chest. There was hope of me having a family yet.
“I would like that very much, Hugh.”
BRAD TUGGED AT a strand of my hair as we took the elevator of the genealogical society up to the fourth floor. “You’re tired.”
We’d spent the morning searching the gravestones at two old Lexington cemeteries, with no recognizable name match. After that, we went to the Massachusetts Archives. Within the first hour of our search, we found a birth record for Amelia Gregory—born in 1815 to a Michael and Ava Gregory. Our initial excitement dwindled after three subsequent hours of finding nothing more. We grabbed lunch and decided on another trip to the society, though now I battled exhaustion and defeat.
Even if we did find Liberty’s name, how would we find the story behind the ring? The poem would probably be our only clue, and what we could draw from that could never be more than conjecture.
“How many miles did you run this morning?”
“Just shy of three.” I’d woken up in the predawn hours to squeeze in the run before our trip to the archives. “I’m feeling it now, though. Hey—Grace gave me my sponsor sheet. Think you could swing twenty bucks?”
“To see you run? I’ll swing way more
than twenty.”
I laughed, felt some of my vigor return. “I wasn’t inviting you to the race, that’s for sure.”
“Come on, you think I wouldn’t be there?”
A thin sweat broke over my skin as the elevator door opened. “No, really. I don’t want you to come.”
He scrunched his eyebrows, shook his head, as if to say, Why the heck not?
He didn’t say it, though, and I stepped off the elevator first. It took several moments for my eyes to adjust to the dim light of the microform room. The whirring of microfilm sounded to our left.
We spoke with a woman at the reference desk who suggested we begin searching in the Middlesex County records.
We signed up for a microform machine, found an index book marked A–L, and settled at a circular table beside machine number seven.
“So why don’t you want me at the race?” Brad whispered in a voice that carried to the other desks around us.
“Forget it,” I said in an equally loud whisper as I flipped open the book to the Gs.
“I’m coming.”
“No. You’re not.”
“Yes. I am.”
“Do you want to get us kicked out of this place?” I ran my finger down the list of Gregorys, searched for any with the names we’d come up with. The woman at the desk had also said searching Lexington alone could give us clues.
“Don’t think you’re off the hook, woman.”
We giggled like high school sweethearts misbehaving in the library.
“Come on, help me look.”
Brad ran a calloused pointer finger down the alphabetical page. “No Liberty, or Amelia, or Michael, or Ava.”
“We came all the way here. Let’s just look at a few. They might give us a clue. Here.” I pointed to the first name on the list. “Beatrice Gregory, elopement notice.” I wrote down the number of the microfilm and we went to the back wall to find it. After a brief search we slid the film into machine number seven.
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