by Lorin Grace
With his breakfast dishes cleaned and put away to Mrs. Norton’s satisfaction, Gideon made his way to the offices in the school building.
As Gideon entered, Reverend Ingram looked up from the worn volume of sermons he was reading. “Come in, Gideon. I didn’t expect you so soon.”
“East Stoughton.”
“Hmm?”
“What is in East Stoughton?”
“Not much. It’s a little farming community fifteen miles south of Boston. They started building a church there a couple years ago. The outside is almost done, but the inside is far from it. Unofficially, it acts as the parish church, as Stoughton proper has one or two churches filled to capacity and the traveling distance is a bit far for some of the older people, but since the area is not incorporated, there are no funds.” The reverend shrugged. A recognized parish church would receive monetary support from the town as per the Constitution of the Commonwealth. “The congregation is so spread out Reverend Porter can’t get to everything. Especially with a wife and four children and another on the way. He needs help visiting the far-flung members.”
Gideon processed the information. He’d assumed it would be an older man who needed help, not a young father.
“Frankly, I don’t see you wanting that post. For being so close to Boston, it is isolated. It’s pretty small, nothing like a real town, although they just built a new school. Someone saw a bear a few years back. I don’t know if East Stoughton is the best situation for you.”
Gideon nodded. The reverend began searching the drawers in his desk before he found a sheet of paper and scanned it.
“As I suspected, there is no income with this position, though it offers room and board. Have you considered the posts in Boston or the one in Shrewsbury?”
Gideon shook his head. “Thank you for the information. I shall continue to pray.” Gideon left the room knowing his answer would be the same. He hoped Mrs. Richards still needed help. He would be in East Stoughton by the end of the week.
Five
Elizabeth traced patterns in the ice crystals on the windowpane. Snow fell, and like a layer of new paint, it blanketed the older snow, gray with chimney smoke. More snow meant the trip to her aunt’s would be delayed. Again. For three miserable weeks she had remained in her room. Father supplied task after task to keep her hands from being idle and becoming tools for the devil. Elizabeth rolled her eyes.
She’d mended every bit of clothing in the house in the past two weeks, earning her the maid’s gratitude. She’d packed her trunk, the only one allowed her, twice. Father had checked everything she’d placed in the trunk and confiscated her favorite embroidered silk stockings, declaring she did not need such things. Mother protested, but Elizabeth meekly submitted to her father, knowing she would see the stockings again if mother had anything to do with it. And she read the only book available to her, the Bible.
Using the time to her advantage, she took to proving her father wrong. Nowhere in her new Bible could she find a verse about idle hands being the devil’s playthings. And Reverend Woods had confirmed her assertions with a note, pointing out that the spirit of the quote was implied in several passages. This annoyed her father, who figured that if she had time to bother the reverend with missives, she could write a daily summary of her Bible reading. Today he’d assigned Psalms 16. Three sheets of paper full of words she knew he would want to read now lay on the table waiting for the maid to deliver them.
So far she managed to earn a reprieve from the bland meals the maid brought to her the first ten days of her imprisonment. She now enjoyed the same food served to the rest of the family, in her room. Father refused to allow her to even return her own tray to the kitchen.
She hoped to get back a few of her favorite gowns, particularly the crimson one. The few dresses she had kept had been modified, with three inches of fabric added to the necklines. She did the work herself. Fortunately Father did not recognize finished sewing from basting and didn’t check her seams. It would take less than an hour to return the dresses to their former state once she reached her aunt’s home. None of the remaining clothes was suitable for an evening party, but she’d hidden some money away. Not enough to purchase a dress from one of the Boston dressmakers, but more than enough to buy the cloth to make one herself.
Elizabeth grinned. Her one talent was sewing. Did the other girls really think such perfectly fitted dresses came from Boston? The crimson gown’s low neckline? Modified so expertly her mother hadn’t realized the change and insisted on purchasing a set of previously rejected stays? She’d never bothered to return the daring neckline to its original position. After all, fashion was changing.
Tired of watching the snow, she turned from the window to the mirror and practiced dropping her hair as she had every day since Christmas Eve. She casually tucked an imaginary stray hair into the matronly bun she wore. She detected no evidence of the pin she’d removed as she dropped her hand to her side. For several moments, she pretended to chat with someone. With the tiniest shake of her head, her hair tumbled down her back. Quickly, she gathered the curled tresses, pretending to be mortified. The remaining pins almost always stuck in the same place, making them easy to locate. She pinned the bun up in record time and gave the mirror the nod. If that move didn’t entice some young man, then he was beyond enticing by even Lady Godiva. If a gentleman stood close enough, she could “inadvertently” brush his arm or hand with her long locks. Someday she might thank her father for forcing her to wear a dowdy bun. Now, if she could try it out on a man and not in her imagination. Would his eyes grow wide? Would he stutter? Surely Aunt Lydia’s friends would have sons.
It had taken Elizabeth years to learn how to manipulate her mother, but Aunt Lydia presented no challenge whatsoever. The woman was far too trusting. Perhaps if any of her cousins had lived beyond infancy, her aunt would be the wiser. Uncle Joshua likely only cared if Elizabeth made a match benefitting his business. It was all too perfect. She would catch a wealthy husband and leave this small town forever. How had mother orchestrated such a coup?
If only she could get out of this room! If she didn’t leave it soon, she would go mad and start talking to herself like Father.
Had she ever liked the horrid vine-and-rose flowered wallpaper?
The magistrate shuffled through his correspondence. He set aside the letter with an official seal and his newspaper to read later, and glanced at the two letters for his wife. No doubt from her witless sister.
The naive women thought he was sending Elizabeth to Brookline. He almost laughed aloud at their stupidity. Letting them plot a fictitious future full of balls, outings, and suitors served his purpose well enough, and it kept Rebecca out of his office and freed him of most of her nagging. Last night, he relinquished a pair of Elizabeth’s silk stockings to get her to stop pestering him for a few more days while he awaited an answer from his aunt.
“Does she not comprehend I am serious when I talk of Elizabeth’s retrenchment? Of course, it’s my own fault for having such a silly wife,” Ebenezer muttered as he opened the letters. Blinded by his ambition, he’d married Rebecca in a move to guarantee his career and had won a handsome wife in the bargain. He’d vowed Elizabeth would not grow up empty-headed and had given her schooling and such. But he’d overlooked her character, taking for granted that she would be naturally compliant and agreeable.
Elizabeth could speak intelligently on any topic but had adopted her mother’s belief that all a woman needed to secure her future was to be beautiful. Why hadn’t he put a stop to the behaviors years ago? Elizabeth had never known want nor hardship and subsequently had never developed kindness and compassion. Everything she did, from delivering food to the poor to writing essays in school, reflected a self-serving motive.
He may be the finest magistrate in district history, but he’d failed as a father. Now one last chance to help his daughter
become the honorable woman he knew she should be presented itself. Yet even his solution pointed to his failures. He must now rely on someone else to teach the life lessons Elizabeth should have learned at his hand.
If only his aunt would agree. No reply had come in the last three weeks. “What if the old woman is dead? What will I do then?”
Ebenezer turned his attention to the official looking missives on his desk. Several hours later, he opened the Boston Gazette to study the news. He shook the pages to unfurl them, and a dirty paper fell to the floor.
He stooped to pick up the mud-covered, folded sheet. The written directions were blurred, but the return direction remained clear: “Mrs. M. Richards, East Stoughton.”
His answer had arrived.
The little Bible she’d been balancing on her head dropped to the floor as the door flew open with a bang.
“Hurry! Your father says you are to leave the morning after next. We must pack.”
“Pack? I’ve packed and repacked. Father inspected every corner of my trunk and locked it. He has the key.” Elizabeth pointed to the trunk in the corner. Old and worn, the case was not one of the larger ones they used to travel to Boston each spring. “There is nothing left to pack and no place to tuck it.”
Rebecca pressed her fingers to her lips and peeked into the hallway before shutting the door. She crossed the room to Elizabeth’s side.
“Have you forgotten your silk stockings or your crimson gown? Or”—Rebecca gave a small grin—“your Christmas gown?”
“Father ordered those dresses sold.”
Rebecca rolled her eyes. “No, he said to sell them—if I could. I reassure you I cannot sell them.”
Mother knew how to twist father’s words to her every advantage. Too bad he never recognized what an incredible mind she possessed or he would understand criminals far better. Elizabeth was instantly intrigued.
“If you look in the stack of linens the maid delivered, you will find the new gown between the sheets.”
Elizabeth scrutinized the pile of linens. Father required her to change her own bedding, but she hadn’t yet bothered with the process. In the pale light filtering through the window, it took her a moment to find the dress. Once she picked it out, she wondered how she’d missed the beautiful cloth. The fabric was of the palest blue, and unlike the dingy-yellow, coarse fabric of the sheets, the dress was soft and smooth. She fingered the fabric and knew instantly that it was silk. She lifted the dress out of the pile and began to unfold it.
“No, don’t. It took us hours to fold the dress so that it fit. Lydia’s maid will be muttering under her breath for a week at the ironing, but it will be worth all the trouble. It is the latest fashion after those Paris plates you saw this fall.” Rebecca took the folded garment from Elizabeth.
“But, Mother, Father has the key, and the trunk is already packed to the brim. However will we get it inside?”
“Elizabeth, please. Just trust me. Now, if you open your wardrobe, at the back you shall find your crimson gown.”
Bending down, Elizabeth peered into the nearly empty wardrobe, then reached to the back of the shelf. Finding nothing, she turned a questioning glance to her mother.
“No, in the bottom, wrapped in brown paper.” Rebecca pointed to the location.
Elizabeth dropped to her hands and knees in search of the package. The floor of the wardrobe was littered with dirt, an old stocking, and dead bugs. Elizabeth cringed as she searched for the parcel. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding when she felt paper in the back corner.
“Careful with that. We folded the gown to the exact dimensions of the trunk so it will fit under the false bottom. It took the maid four times to get it right.”
“False bottom?”
“Exactly. Your father picked the oldest and ugliest trunk without considering to whom it belonged. It was my great-grandfather’s unique trunk.” The pride shone in Rebecca’s face.
“The one who fled England disguised as his wife’s sister?”
“The very one. Great-grandfather purchased the false-bottom trunk to conceal his writings and a change of clothing. Men’s clothing.”
Elizabeth nodded. One of her grandmother’s favorite tales told again and again—her grandfather had tricked his pursuers by dressing as a woman and sailing to Boston so he could preach the Bible the way he wanted. Try as she might, Elizabeth failed to picture any man dressing as a woman and not being noticed. She’d heard stories of a few women who’d dressed as men during the Revolution and fought with no one noticing. Both ideas were equally inane by her way of thinking, but the false bottom came in handy regardless of origin.
Rebecca pulled a key from her pocket, pinching it between her fingers.
“Mother, how did you get the key?”
“This key is different from the one your father has. Help me scoot the trunk away from the wall.”
Rebecca inserted the key into the lock and turned it to the left. The top of the trunk popped open. Elizabeth took a step forward. Rebecca put her hand up to stop her. “Now this is the trick—to not remove the key but turn it a complete revolution.”
A small pop accompanied the falling forward of the trunk’s front panel. Rebecca caught it and lowered it to the floor. A three-finger-width space appeared at the bottom of the trunk.
“Quick, hand me your crimson gown.” Rebecca slipped the package into the narrow space. It fit perfectly. From her pocket, she extracted a handkerchief. Elizabeth recognized her favorite silk stockings peeking out from the corner. Rebecca tucked the cotton square in the compartment that now held the wrapped gown.
Elizabeth watched in awe as her mother pulled a beaded purse from the same pocket. “It isn’t much, but you should be able to purchase a hat and some new boots.” The bag was also tucked into the hiding spot.
“Remember, do not remove the key when this part is open.”
“Why?”
“Why? What a silly question.” Rebecca wore a perplexed look. “I have no idea why. I did it this way because my father told me to. Don’t ask questions. Just do it exactly this way. To close the secret compartment, lift the panel and hold it in place, then turn the key back until you hear the click. You can now remove the key and access the top of the trunk as usual.”
“Why didn’t father’s key do this?”
“Because it isn’t the notched key. Enough questions. Hand me the other dress. If we tuck it between your petticoats, your father is unlikely to notice if he does check again.” Amazingly, Rebecca rearranged the stuffed contents of the trunk, fit the silk dress in, and closed and locked the lid.
“Keep this key safe. See the notch at the end? That is how you tell the two keys apart.” Rebecca held the key up for Elizabeth’s inspection, then placed the key in the palm of her hand.
Rebecca checked her reflection in the mirror. “I’d best go before your father returns from Reverend Woods’s house.”
She kissed Elizabeth lightly on the cheek and flitted from the room.
Elizabeth pondered the key in her hand. Indeed, Father stood to learn much from the criminal mind of his wife.
The third step down creaked loudly enough to create an echo, startling Elizabeth back a step. The last time she descended the stairway was Christmas Eve, twenty-four days ago. Even the church house remained off-limits. She paused and stepped back onto the squeaky riser.
The noise wasn’t any louder than before; she’d simply forgotten to walk on the left side. A silly thing to forget, but it bothered her. What else would she not remember?
Nathaniel leaned against the dining-room door, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. He raised his drink at her in a mock salute. “The prisoner is paroled.” He took a sip as she finished her descent. Transferring the glass to his other hand, he offered Elizabeth his arm. “C
ome, let’s sit. Father hasn’t yet returned, and Mother is haranguing Cook over some minor detail.”
They crossed to the parlor. Elizabeth sat on the edge of a chair, her back rigid, her ankles crossed. Nathaniel slumped onto the couch.
“Relax, Lizzy, it’s just us. Your last evening at home. You can drop the royal-princess act.”
Elizabeth leaned back and dropped her shoulders. “When did you arrive?”
“Late last night. The coach ran late due to a broken wheel, so I slipped into the house.”
“Why didn’t you come visit me this morning?”
Nathaniel arched his brow. “I was unaware the prisoner was allowed visitors.”
Elizabeth shifted in her chair. “Since when has a rule stopped you?”
“Oh, Lizzy, you can’t be serious?” Nathaniel threw his head back and laughed.
No point in responding, so she glared as she stood and circled the room, dragging her hand over each piece of furniture. “Do you miss home when you are working with our uncle?”
“This place? Not much. It is, as you say, ‘rather dull.’ I missed you, though. Few women have your intellect. I don’t care what Mother’s told you, men don’t prefer stupid girls. Well, the stupid men do, but most of the successful men I meet married intelligent women.”
Elizabeth cocked her head and studied her brother. “Is that what you are doing? Looking for some studious maiden wearing spectacles?” She continued around the room adjusting the various vases and figures littered about.
“She doesn’t need them.”
Elizabeth spun around so fast she almost dropped the vase she was holding. “Who is she?” Elizabeth set the vase back on the mantel and advanced on her brother. Nathaniel scooted over and patted the couch next to him.
“Who said I had a woman in mind?”