Rebellious Heart

by Jody Hedlund

  As Susanna had predicted, after yesterday’s trial and Hermit Crab Joe’s freedom, Mother had worried about traveling without a male chaperone. She’d insisted Tom accompany them, even though he was already busy enough with all his harvesting duties.

  Susanna started toward their old slave whose slumped shoulders were outlined in the shadows of the barn as he tended the needs of the horses they’d ridden that afternoon during their visiting around Weymouth’s North Parish.

  Even if Susanna balked at Mother’s overprotectiveness, she more than willingly joined her mother’s charitable efforts to provide relief to the poor women who had no trade or means to earn a living for their families. As the minister’s wife, Mother took her duties to look after the widows and orphans quite seriously.

  She admired Mother’s determination to care for the needs of the women who’d lost their husbands during the years of fighting with the French and the Indians. Although the Treaty of Paris had brought an end to the hostilities earlier in the year, it hadn’t brought any solutions to the suffering of the widows.

  More important than the food and cords of wood they distributed were the supplies for spinning yarn and weaving cloth they gave the women. When the widows finished spinning and weaving, Mother sold the cloth and was in turn able to pay the women.

  “Miss Susie,” Tom said with a gentle smile as she stepped into the barn. “Let me go get the apples. I don’t like seeing you go against your mama’s wishes.”

  “She’s still anxious about the murder.” Susanna stretched for one of the woven baskets hanging from a hook in an overhead beam. The dust of the recently cut hay sprinkled down and tickled her nose.

  Tom paused in unhitching a bridle. His warm brown eyes probed her.

  “She has to realize sooner or later I’m not a child anymore.” Susanna dangled the empty basket from her arm. “I can make some of my own decisions, can I not?”

  “She just loves you. That’s all.”

  “And she shows you an abominable lack of consideration.” Susanna had long ago asked her parents to give Tom and Phoebe their freedom. She couldn’t understand why any human being needed to be owned by another. But as a Quincy, her mother had grown up with slaves and didn’t see any reason why they needed to make changes to their circumstances—not when they treated their slaves as well as any servant, if not better.

  “It’s all right, child.” Tom resumed his care of the fine mare she’d ridden earlier. “Your mama’s a good woman. ’Sides, you know she’s not my real Master.”

  Susanna nodded and patted the mare’s flank. She’d heard Tom’s explanation her whole life, and she loved him for it.

  “My real Master, He rules from heaven, and I take my orders from Him. And as long as He says to serve and obey my earthly master, that’s what I’m gonna do.”

  Susanna knew she would ultimately do the same too. She would never willfully disobey God or her parents. Mother was only doing what she thought was best for her—even if she became slightly smothering at times.

  After all, Mother had allowed her to conduct her dame school in the kitchen for the local girls. She’d helped provide the supplies and was supportive of her efforts to teach the young girls, although the schooling only consisted of basic writing, reading, and sampler work.

  “Susanna!” Mary’s call came from near the parsonage.

  Susanna gave the mare a parting slap and retreated from the comfortable shadows of the barn into the fall sunshine. The clouds half covered the sky, rendering it the same misty gray as the distant waters of the Massachusetts Bay. The breeze blowing off the sea and the long estuary brought a damp chill.

  Mary stood by the garden fence, tendrils of her fair hair dancing with the wind around her face and highlighting the excitement in her features. “You’ll never guess who has sent me a letter.”

  Susanna’s thoughts returned to the party at Grandmother Eve’s and the attention Richard Cranch had lavished upon her sister all evening. “You’re right. I’ll never guess. I can’t even begin to imagine who would send you a letter.”

  With a dreamy sigh, Mary pressed a sheet of paper to her breast.

  Long into the night, when they’d finally snuggled under the coverlet in their bedchamber at Grandmother Eve’s, Susanna had listened to Mary whisper about Mr. Cranch and how kind and thoughtful and funny he was.

  Unfortunately all the talk of Mr. Cranch had only made Susanna think about Mr. Ross. She’d given herself a lecture numerous times, telling herself to put all thoughts of him aside. He was after all, by his own admission, in disagreement with the policies of the king. What if he decided to join the ranks of those who were growing discontent with British rule? Everyone knew the men who spoke of rebellion were either fools or hotheads.

  Besides, Mr. Ross had paid altogether too much attention to Hannah. And most suitors who were enamored by her witless cousin were usually seeking her dowry.

  “Wealth, wealth, wealth—it is the only thing that is looked after now,” she’d whispered as she watched him at the party hovering over Hannah, jumping at her every insignificant whim, and smiling at her every boring word.

  Susanna knew she couldn’t be too harsh on Mr. Ross for his conjugal aspirations. After spending the afternoon delivering goods to the poor with Mother, she was reminded again that they could only offer such assistance because of their affluence. If she hoped to carry on the work of helping young women, then she herself would need to have substantial means. That meant only one thing. She must do her best to find a suitable husband.

  As much as she’d liked to think she was no longer the same silly girl who had once dreamed of marrying princes and rich merchants, what other choice did she have besides making a good match?

  “Mr. Cranch has asked to come calling this evening,” Mary called breathlessly. Of course, Mary had never been at a loss for suitors, but so far none had captured her attention quite the way Mr. Cranch had. “Father has agreed to let me invite him to dinner this evening.”

  “Then I really must make haste to pick apples for Phoebe so your Mr. Cranch can enjoy her apple tansey.”

  “My Mr. Cranch?”

  “Yes. Your Mr. Cranch. You know you’ve already won his heart.”

  At least Mr. Cranch wasn’t self-seeking like so many of the men who came calling. He had enough prestige and prosperity of his own that he didn’t need Mary’s. Instead he seemed genuinely enamored with her.

  Was it too much to expect the same, to find a man who would love her for her inner qualities rather than her outward assets?

  Susanna wound her way up the gently rolling hill behind their large home to the orchards. She strolled among the trees laden with apples and pears, but didn’t stop until she’d crested the hill.

  She took a breath of the crisp air, inhaling the sweet tang of the apples that had fallen and were already fermenting beneath the trees. She feasted upon the surrounding farmlands, on the old clapboard houses weathered by the sea sitting upon their one- or two-acre plots. In the distance, wetland swamps and beaches were coated with seaweed the farmers would cart away to restore vitality to the soil.

  Everything entreated her to stay and relax. Even the nearby wooded heights among the granite outcroppings gleamed with the vibrancy of the changing leaves.

  She dropped her basket into the yellowing grass and wished she’d thought to bring her newest book from Grandmother Eve. As it was, she dug into her pocket and retrieved the small volume of poetry she’d managed to hide. In spite of the slight chill, she needed the peace to read without Mother hovering over her.

  Susanna shrugged out of her cloak and spread it on the grass. Surely she had nothing to fear. Even as she glanced around and attempted to reassure herself she was completely safe, a twig snapped nearby.

  She jumped and searched the sloping orchard for signs of danger. She tried to silence the hard thump of her pulse and listen for any other sounds.

  Except for the dee-dee-dee of a chickadee, the orchard was silent.r />
  A chill breeze rippled the ruffles of her sleeves and sent shivers up her arms.

  Out of the corner of her eye she caught the slight movement of a dark shadow. But when she turned her head, she saw nothing but the peaceful orchard.

  “Everything is just as it should be,” she whispered. She was only nervous because of yesterday’s trial. She had no reason to worry. Mr. Ross and Parson Wibird had insisted Hermit Crab Joe was no longer a threat.

  Nevertheless, she picked up her basket and gathered her cloak and decided not to linger.

  As she plucked the ripe apples, every flitting silhouette seemed to jump out at her until she found herself picking faster and glancing around more often, gleaning little enjoyment in the task she usually found so pleasant.

  She’d only filled her basket half full when another twig snapped, this one louder and more distinct.

  She stopped, her hand midair. She spun and saw what appeared to be a young woman before the form slid behind a trunk, obviously trying to escape from the orchard undetected.

  “May I help you?” Susanna called.

  The woman darted forward, her apron bulging with apples.

  “Please, don’t go.” Susanna started after her. “I mean you no ill will.”

  The woman tripped, stumbled to her knees, and gave a cry of pain. The apples in her apron tumbled around her.

  Susanna dropped the basket, picked up her skirts, and bolted toward the stranger.

  The woman looked over her shoulder, giving Susanna a glimpse of beautiful but delicate features etched with fear.

  “Please don’t be afraid.” Susanna held out a hand, hoping the stranger would see it as a gesture of peace.

  “I’m so sorry.” The woman crawled forward, scrambling to rise and get away at the same time. Her feet were bare, which wasn’t unusual for a poor maiden, not on fair-weather days when one might attempt to conserve a pair of shoes.

  What was unusual was the condition of the young woman’s feet. The heels, arches, and toes were slick with blood and dirt. In places, the flesh was sliced open.

  Susanna pushed her hand against her mouth to stifle a gasp.

  The stranger rose to her bloody feet, but not without another cry. She grabbed a low branch to hold herself upright, but it broke like dry kindling and she crumpled to the ground again.

  Susanna hastened to the woman’s side and knelt next to her. “My dear woman, you’re in need of a doctor.”

  “No!” Her thin cheeks were streaked with dirt, her bodice ripped in several places, and her hair hung in a loose, snarled mess beneath her dingy muslin cap. “Please don’t call anyone.”

  Susanna was familiar with all the poor women who lived around Weymouth, and she was certain she’d never seen her before.

  “Please just let me be on my way,” the timid soul begged Susanna. “I promise I won’t steal any more apples.”

  “But you’re hurt.” Susanna studied the woman’s face and guessed her to be less than her own nineteen years or at least close to it.

  The stranger’s gaze darted around the orchard as if she expected someone to jump out and grab her.

  “We’re alone.” Susanna prayed they truly were alone, that whatever haunted the woman wasn’t lurking nearby.

  “I must go.”

  “I beg you to let me help you.”

  “You’re very kind, miss. But I’m not wanting that anyone should know my whereabouts, you see.”

  Susanna nodded, but she didn’t see. Was this woman wanted for a crime? Was she a thief? She had, after all, been stealing apples from their orchard.

  But even as Susanna mulled over the thought, she cast it aside. There was something too soft and kind in the woman’s face to label her a thief. She was likely taking the apples to satisfy her hunger.

  “Please, please, don’t tell anyone you saw me. Please promise you won’t breathe a word about my being here.”

  Susanna hesitated. Was she running away from something or someone? “Won’t you come down to the parsonage and let me help you?”

  “Oh, I couldn’t, miss.”

  When the woman started to rise again, Susanna touched her arm. “If you won’t let me help you, then you can at least take these.”

  Susanna began to untie her leather buskins.

  “Not your boots, miss. Oh, I couldn’t. Just couldn’t.”

  But Susanna had already slipped her foot out of one and was unlacing the other. “I’m venturing we’re about the same size.”

  A sob broke from the woman’s lips, and tears began to slide down her cheeks, making trails through the grime.

  Susanna unrolled her silk stockings and slipped them off. “You’ll need these also.”

  Susanna refused to take the boots and stockings back even when the young woman pushed them at her. Instead she helped rip strips from her petticoat, bandaged her cuts as best she could, then assisted her into the buskins. She then refilled the stranger’s apron with apples and watched her stumble away.

  “If you need anything—anything at all—you must come find me at the parsonage,” Susanna called.

  Even with boots on, the poor woman could hardly walk, and Susanna had to fight the urge to run after her and aid her further—but aid her how?

  Susanna started to follow, but the pricks in the tender skin of her feet stopped her. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d walked outside in bare feet.

  She had a vague recollection of having taken off her shoes once at Grandmother Eve’s urging, likely because her grandmother had bared her own feet. Of course, Mother would never have allowed such scandalous behavior.

  Susanna peered down at her toes poking out from the hem of her petticoats. The long grass tickled her skin, and the coldness of the damp earth pressed against her soles.

  “Whatever will I tell Mother now?”

  Chapter

  4

  Ben pressed his thumbs into his temples to ward off the ache that was creeping into the inner reaches of his head. He wished he could discard his waistcoat down to his shirtsleeves, toss off his wretched wig, and simply be himself.

  Instead he was stuck in the parlor of the Smith home, attempting to make polite conversation about matters that held no interest to him.

  He hadn’t wanted to come, but as usual Cranch had convinced him to accompany him. He’d long ago decided Cranch should have been the lawyer. Somehow his friend could always talk his way into getting what he wanted.

  Ben knew he shouldn’t complain about the visit. Making the trip to Weymouth had given him the perfect excuse he’d needed to schedule a meeting with the Caucus Club at Arnold Tavern out on the coastal road. It had been several weeks since he’d last met with the men.

  He sat back in the uncomfortable parlor chair, and to his dismay it creaked rather loudly, drawing Mrs. Smith’s attention.

  “So, Mr. Ross.” Mrs. Smith sat in a chair next to the marble fireplace, near her husband, the Reverend Smith, who was pacing the length of the Oriental carpet centered on the wood floor. “We’re not overly pleased with the results of the trial yesterday.”

  Ben had already received plenty of negativity for invoking the benefit of the clergy for old Joe, and he was tired of it. But he stuffed down a caustic remark and forced himself to answer politely. “You can rest assured, I’m not pleased with the results either.”

  Mrs. Smith’s elegant eyebrows lifted. “Is that so?”

  “Mother, please,” Mary said, “may we please talk of something besides the trial?”

  “No, dear,” Mrs. Smith cut off the girl. “I’m sure we’d all like to hear Mr. Ross explain himself.” Her tone was condescending, and it was obvious she didn’t like him. He’d seen it in her face when Cranch had introduced him. She was probably wondering—like he was—why he was there.

  He hesitated, but the pressure to defend himself was too great. “I’m not pleased with the results of our court system. We ought to all be ashamed when justice is usurped and decisions are based on the feel
ings and whims of the fickle populace instead of careful consideration of the facts.”

  Mrs. Smith’s lips formed around a word, but she clearly couldn’t find an appropriate response and instead turned to her husband. “What do you think, Reverend Smith?”

  Just as she uttered the question, her attention snapped to the hallway outside the parlor and she gasped. “Susanna!”

  There in the hallway, in the process of tiptoeing past the doorway over squeaking floorboards, was Susanna.

  At her mother’s sharp call, the young woman froze.

  “Ah, there you are, my dear Susanna,” called the reverend, coming to a halt in his pacing. “I was telling the gentlemen you were likely hidden away somewhere reading. And it looks like I was correct.”

  “Yes, Father. You know me well.” Quickly Susanna tucked a small book into the folds of her skirt. She kept her head down and turned away from her mother, who was rising from her chair. “If you’ll excuse me while I change into dinner apparel, I’ll join you shortly.”

  Without waiting for her parents’ dismissal, she started to rush to the stairway.

  “Susanna Smith!” Mrs. Smith’s voice was laced with horror, and Susanna jerked to a halt again.

  The carpet muted Mrs. Smith’s firm footsteps. But tension radiated in each thump the woman took toward her daughter. She stopped in front of Susanna and peered down at the girl’s shoes . . .

  Or lack thereof.

  Ben sat straighter and couldn’t keep from staring at the dirty foot peeking out from beneath the hem of Susanna’s gown.

  “I can explain,” Susanna said.

  But Mrs. Smith was already pushing aside the layers of muslin, revealing Susanna’s other bare foot. “My gracious, what has happened to you?”

  “I’m perfectly fine, Mother. Nothing unseemly has happened.”

  The slender curve of her ankle and the pure creamy skin had likely never seen the light of day.

  Or the sights of any man.

  At Mary’s soft intake of breath, Cranch chuckled.

  Only then did Susanna glance into the parlor, first to Mary, then to Cranch sitting next to her sister on the settee. Beneath a tumble of wind-tossed waves of hair, Susanna glared at the man, rebuking him for his impropriety.