Elizabeth's Hope (A More Perfect Union Series Book 0.5)

by Betty Bolte

  Frank handed the bonnet to her with a grim expression and a nod. Although still heavenly to look at, with lush, sandy-blond hair, chiseled jaw, and steely gray eyes, now a hardness surrounded those eyes, his firm mouth. He seemed taller, broader, more capable than nine months earlier, before he left town after his swift marriage to Elizabeth.

  She folded the offending garment and glared at the circle of men dwarfing her. Why must he show up now? After all this time away from home. Her heart skipped a beat, then restarted wildly with a crazy mix of joy and resentment. Where had he been when her home life fell apart?

  Still, at least for right now, he was here, protecting her from these buffoons. And her father’s subsequent anger, should aught go awry. She’d sacrifice her pride this time. She sidled behind him, placing his bulk between her and the aggressors.

  The major assessed Frank’s height and size, his look changing from antagonistic to resigned when he noted the insignia on his uniform.

  “What right do you have to interfere?” the first soldier asked Frank, seeing the change in the major’s demeanor. “We were here first.”

  “Lieutenant Colonel Nisbet Balfour himself requested my presence. And this lady’s father is my father-in-law, who charged me with ensuring the ladies’ safe passage.”

  Frank knew the hated colonel? The very man who had personally succeeded, through his intolerant and hateful attitude, in alienating many of the surreptitious patriots in Charles Town. They were forced to sign a fealty oath to King George or be run out of town. On top of that, Frank admitted he had already talked with her father. She had wanted more time before Frank returned. Time to face her father’s unrealistic dreams for her. Time to take the steps necessary to open her own shop and determine how she would proceed with her plans. If she were to be truly independent, then she must insist on being treated as such. Frank’s officious behavior stroked her irritation.

  “We’ll see about that,” the soldier said, surging forward and aiming his rifle at Frank.

  Emily gasped, gripping Frank’s cloak involuntarily. He set her from him then stepped forward, drawing the man’s attention and the path of his aim away from her. Frank braced his feet as he faced the frustrated soldier. “Be sensible, man.”

  Trembles rocked her to the core at the tableau playing out before her. Motion slowed to a crawl as she attempted to make sense of the scene. Her breath caught in her throat as the seriousness of the situation sank into her rattled brain.

  The man stalked toward Frank, his finger on the trigger of the weapon. Huge paws hung at the end of the soldier’s muscular arms. Thick fingers curled around the dark wood stock and supported the long metal barrel. Stubble shadowed his jaw and surrounded his yellow smile. The rifle aimed at Frank’s abdomen. “I’ll have what I came for and you cannot stop me.”

  At this close range, even if he tried, he couldn’t miss. She fixed her eyes on Frank, saw when his eyes turned to mirrors, focused on settling the challenge. He appeared capable of killing her assailant then and there. Cold fear lodged in her chest. Frank came home, only to be shot? Over a bonnet? No. She wouldn’t allow it. She made to take a step to intervene, stop the madness, but Samantha grabbed her arm with a fierce grip all while shaking her head. Emily tried to ignore her, but her friend held fast.

  “I believe the lady has a say in the matter.” Frank whipped a pistol from some hidden place, cocked the hammer with a deadly click, and leveled it at the man. “I’d think again about your intentions, sir.”

  Emily tugged on Samantha’s hold. “Frank, no!”

  Frank locked eyes with his opponent, his thumb ready to release the lethal ball. His eyes narrowed, intent and deadly.

  “Stand down, soldier,” the major cut in. “This has gone far enough. Next thing you’ll be challenging him to a bloody duel over nothing more than a thwarted buss.”

  “Put your gun away,” Frank said to the soldier, “or face charges of assaulting an officer.”

  The soldier reluctantly cradled his gun, glaring at Frank.

  “Are you Captain Thomson, by chance?” the major asked, scrutinizing him.

  “Yes, sir,” Frank said slowly. He lowered his pistol, keeping it handy.

  “Colonel Balfour mentioned you were to arrive to take over the printing press and the broadside.” The major considered Frank and the lethal weapon, his internal debate evident in his expression. “But your point is well-taken. This is neither the place nor the time.” He turned to address the soldiers. “All right, men, return to your duties.”

  “But sir—” The man’s voice held a barely concealed whine.

  “You heard him. Move along now.” Frank replaced his pistol, though he did not relax his demeanor. Might they be safe and allowed to continue, or would there be some retaliation? Emily would fight, at least verbally, for Frank if she must. Her actions had incited this predicament, so she felt compelled to help resolve it. Fortunately, the officer quelled the whiner’s eagerness with a severe look before tipping his hat to Emily and Samantha.

  “Ladies, my apologies,” the officer said slowly. “You may be on your way.”

  “Thank you for your assistance.” Frank studied the officer as the disgruntled soldiers stalked away. Still he stood ready to defend himself if called upon to do so.

  “One moment, sir.” Samantha’s eyes flashed as she gripped the basket handles. Fury simmered beneath her words. “What? No reprimand for your men?”

  “Ladies.” The officer smirked at her questions, then followed the two soldiers down the street.

  Taking a deep breath, Emily faced Frank.

  Frank’s dark gray eyes turned stormy, his hands on his hips as he studied her.

  “Pray tell what you two are doing on the street alone?”

  __________

  The next morning, Emily endured Frank escorting her to the sewing circle, acquiescing to her father’s outraged insistence. He argued with her about the necessity of her attending, and she’d finally convinced him to permit her to go, but only if Frank walked with her to prevent any further attempts on her virtue and welfare. They stopped to pick up Samantha from her home on the way which made the walk bearable.

  Emily paused at the edge of the street and scanned the facade of Aunt Lucille’s three-story brick house, shading her eyes from the sun. The lovely home stood in the middle of the block, with its courtyard of flowers and bushes below the upper piazzas. Two of her father’s Negroes, Richard and Solomon, had lugged the necessary equipment and supplies from home to her aunt’s house on Meeting Street, a double dwelling similar to the Sullivan home overlooking the wharfs and harbor on Bay Street. Fortunately the men were among the few who did not take the chance when tempted with freedom as long as they fought for the British. Although liberation from slavery lured many blacks into the battle, rumors abounded that the slaves who did so ended up slaves elsewhere afterward. Thus many blacks stayed with the families they knew rather than trade for a worse situation. Richard and Solomon were like kind uncles to Emily, both having lived with the Sullivans her entire life.

  Emily and Samantha, along with a brooding Frank, entered through the street door to the first-floor porch. The young men’s strength had apparently made quick work of the assembly of the loom. Emily greeted her personal slave, Jasmine. She had tasked the young black woman with carrying the spindles of flax thread used to weave the cloth and also in directing Richard and Solomon in their chore. Now the loom stood ready for Emily to take her seat and start the shuttle flying back and forth to weave the linen fabric. The men’s immediate labor completed, they retired to the cooking kitchen to “assist” the women with preparing the midafternoon lunch for the ladies, while Jasmine helped with the sewing. The sound of the black women singing as they worked in the kitchen behind the house complemented the whir and chatter in the parlor.

  Emily settled on the small seat of the loom, and placed her feet on the treadles, pressing them in a steady rhythm. She sent the shuttle’s smooth wood sliding easily betwee
n the vertical threads, weaving the flax into cloth. With each toss of the shuttle, left, then right, then left, Emily thought of her three brothers and the other men still fighting. Small skirmishes continued to erupt whenever the militia happened upon scavenging British troops confiscating whatever provisions they deemed necessary from the surrounding plantations and homes.

  “I imagine Frank’s temper showed after you and Samantha behaved so boldly yesterday.” Amy paused in her passage across the room to stand beside Emily. Cousin Amy’s dark copper tresses cascaded down her back, catching the firelight, while her emerald eyes sparkled with mirth above porcelain cheeks.

  Whirring spinning wheels hummed a tune as background to the conversations in the large upstairs parlor of Aunt Lucille’s home. The requisite fire kept the cool October air at bay. Emily passed the shuttle to and fro, glancing over to where Samantha now sat by the cozy fire stitching a sleeve onto a shirt. The room overflowed with women, white and black, free and slaves, working together to provide warm, sturdy clothing to the men fighting to defend their independence from King George III.

  Emily paused in the act of throwing the flying shuttle and pumping the treadles to pat her kerchief across her damp brow. She grinned at the memory of Frank’s dark scowl as he hustled them down the street the night before. “A tad, but he soon recovered, I daresay. His displeasure spoiled his handsome face when he realized Samantha and I had walked together through town.” More like outraged, but he had contained his ire with her. “He’s gone to McCrady’s Tavern to meet Father on some business or other.”

  “I’m pleased, Cousin, that you arrived safe.” Amy hugged her briefly before stepping back to gauge her condition. “The British and loyalists are desperate enough to seek vengeance on anyone who crosses them.”

  Emily could only nod in silent acknowledgment. The chasm of fear that had opened within her when the soldiers accosted them would forever remain her secret. And when Frank had faced certain death, her heart nearly stopped beating. Those few minutes of uncertainty she and Samantha agreed to keep to themselves, given no good could arise from telling anyone about the men’s inappropriate actions. It was bad enough her father had to be told. Frank’s lecture all the way home had done nothing but vex her and spoil the evening.

  Amy’s mother, Lucille Abernathy, glided to join them, making a path through the organized chaos inherent with the sewing apparatuses and materials strewn about the large room. Her mud-brown day gown sported a flowered apron with two pockets filled with thread, needles and lace. Her gray-streaked black hair swept up to a bun with a white cap perched on top. The years of war had imprinted worry lines, radiating from the corners of her mouth in contrast to the sparkle of her eyes.

  “It is dangerous for two young women to be alone in town, especially now,” Aunt Lucille said. “You should have walked with Richard and Solomon from here to your house.”

  “I’m sure Father would agree with you.” Emily surveyed the room, taking a few moments to stifle the annoyance bubbling within her. It all sounded so easy to rely upon some man being with her in order for her to do anything. But it rankled deep inside her soul to be forced to wait for a proper escort even though that was expected. Annoyance simmered within her at the prolonged war with the British, at being treated like a child when she was nearing twenty-five and headed for spinsterhood, and most of all for not knowing exactly when Frank would return so she could have avoided running into him at all. To learn he served as the new printer for the remaining months of the British occupation, and thus working next door to where she planned to rent a shop, made matters even more upsetting. “Next time, mayhap I will let them escort me.”

  “Next time Frank shall escort you, now that he’s back in town. After all, Frank is a nice man, honest and fair.” Aunt Lucille slipped her hands into her apron pockets. “And able to look after those he cares about.”

  “I suppose.” She refused to think of Frank as more than her sister’s husband—or widower now. He had chosen Elizabeth when a choice needed to be made. All for little Tommy’s sake. Then why did her heart race so at the thought of Frank being nearby again? She mentally shrugged away the question. Likely she experienced indigestion at his unwanted presence. Whether attracted to him—an absurdity—or not, she no longer desired to encourage relations with a man. Her own plans did not include marriage, no matter how handsome or smart the man might be. Not any longer.

  Jasmine crossed the room and waited for Emily to acknowledge her. “Your tea is waiting downstairs as requested, miss.”

  After thanking Jasmine, Emily beamed at Amy. Time to reveal her plans to her confidantes. “Aunt Lucille kindly allowed me to arrange a private tea for us. I have a surprise I’d like to share with you and Samantha.”

  “Now?” Amy scanned the busy room, then pinned her gaze on Emily. “We have much to finish.”

  “I cannot wait any longer.” Her determination wavered as she contemplated the enormous task before her, not only in terms of starting a business. The bigger challenge rested in gaining the acceptance by her community when she pushed the boundaries of propriety in such a bold manner. The next step after securing her father’s assistance, of course, would be discussing her plans with her circle of friends, the ladies in this room. They had stood by her throughout Elizabeth’s confinement, childbirth, illness, and then funeral. The patriotic women would also have the ability to smooth over the idea with their husbands and fathers. Before she did that, she needed to know her cousin and friend supported this most difficult decision.

  “You’ve always liked a good mystery.” Amy’s eyes lit with curiosity as she followed Emily across the room. Upon Emily’s invitation, Samantha quickly agreed to the clandestine tea party.

  They adjourned to the downstairs library at the front of her aunt’s house. The tall, shuttered windows protected the inhabitants both against the dust rising from the sandy street beyond and from prying British eyes. A wood fire crackled and hissed in the fireplace.

  Emily poured chamomile tea into flowered cups and set the china pot down before gazing at Amy and Samantha, who waited for her to speak. What to say? She’d longed for the courage to broach this topic for a week, hesitating to reveal her innermost desires even to her closest confidantes for fear of their reaction. Lifting the porcelain cup to her mouth, she sipped, debating how best to share her news. On a sigh, she set the cup and saucer down.

  “I’ve decided to open an embroidery shop.” The words tumbled from her mouth. Amy and Samantha stared, mouths dropping open at the announcement. Emily suppressed the nervous laugh that threatened. She twisted the tiny gold mourning ring on her right hand, silently asking Elizabeth for her understanding. She took a deep breath and let it out in a rush. “I do not want to be a wife and mother. Rather, I’ll support myself and live the way I wish.”

  Gasps expressed their surprise. Closing her mouth, Amy eased her cup onto the saucer and gazed at Emily before laughing. “You cannot be serious, Em. A spinster? You? You’ve always wanted a large family and a loving husband. You mustn’t tease us this way.”

  “I’m not joking. I do not wish to be owned by a man.” Emily clenched her hands until they turned white at the knuckles. Not even by Frank, the man she once loved with all her heart. A quiver of remorse fluttered within her chest as she blinked back gathering tears.

  “Owned?” Samantha gazed steadily at her. “Come now, you do not believe such folly, surely. A husband is not a slave driver.”

  “Pshaw. I’ve seen how men treat their wives.” Emily dabbed her kerchief at the corner of her eyes. “How fathers give away their daughters with their dowry and little more than a kiss good-bye and good riddance. I’ll not do it, I tell you.”

  “I cannot believe what I’m hearing.” Amy shook her head, rising from her seat and pacing past the carved mahogany bookcase filling one long wall. She stopped by a round table with its cut-glass decanters of maroon port and amber sherry and four glasses. Toying with the lace doily, she said, “You canno
t believe your father would allow you to forgo marriage and children. You know he won’t support you forever.”

  “He won’t have to,” Emily said. “For once, Father must understand my position.”

  “But Em, this is simply not done. You know this is impossible.”

  “It should not be impossible. Can’t you see? I cannot risk having children.” Emily felt her heart contract in disappointment. She fiddled with the gold band, recalling her childhood dreams of robust sons and lovely, precocious daughters to help her and love her in her dotage. But no more.

  “All because of Elizabeth’s death?” Samantha asked softly. She moved to stand near Emily and peered into her eyes. “Is that what you’re afraid of?”

  Emily searched Samantha’s eyes, willing her to understand. “First my mother and now my sister perished after birthing children.” A tremor coursed through her. Her dear twin, Elizabeth. How she missed her happy chatter and caring ways. “Samantha, you as a midwife know even better than I do how many women die in childbirth. I dare not risk it.”

  Amy paced the lavishly furnished room. Her homespun skirts brushed her ankles as she turned at each corner of the oriental carpet, avoiding the cushioned sofas and side chairs. “But, my dear, it’s simply not permissible for ladies of our station to be shopkeepers. If I know Uncle Joshua, he will be furious once he hears of this ridiculous notion of yours.”

  “Why is it ridiculous?” Emily drew herself up to her full height. “Other women have shops in town. The Widow Murray’s bakery was one. Mrs. Dunwoody has that lovely fashion store over on Market. And, and…”

  She racked her brain for other examples, but few women desired to be independent. The coverture laws provided for wives to be supported throughout their lives. Unmarried women were merely a burden on the family, and thus encouraged or even required to marry to remove the burden and be a useful member of society. Indeed, most women wanted to be homemakers and care for their families. They only worked in shops when forced to take over their husband’s business upon his death or face starvation. Raised themselves with the expectation of marriage, children, and household chores, many looked on spinsters as neglecting their duty to marry and perpetuate mankind. With a wry smile, Emily realized she used to be one of them. No more. With the death of Elizabeth, her opinion had changed.