by Ron Carter
“The young one that marched us to church, the officer.”
“The lieutenant?”
“Yes, if that’s what he was.”
“No. What happened?”
“The way she looked at him, and he looked at her. She’s taken by him.”
“You sure? I didn’t see it.”
“I did. In her entire life, have you ever seen Brigitte with nothing to say?”
John smiled. “No.”
“Well, she was dumbstruck today. Twice.”
John put his shoes in the closet and turned back thoughtfully. “I don’t see any problem coming from it. She’ll likely never see him again.”
Margaret shook her head. “Something tells me she will.”
John shook his head. “I doubt it.” He worked with the buttons on his vest. “What did you mean, disagreement with Olmsted’s sermon? Who disagreed?”
“You did.”
John’s eyebrows arched and he stopped and turned to her. “I did? I haven’t said a word.”
“It was all over your face. What was it you disagreed with?”
John blew air and shook his head, baffled. He stopped for a moment and carefully avoided answering the question. “Describe God,” he said to her. “What does he look like?”
“Is that what you disagreed with?” Margaret retorted. “His description of God?”
“Just answer the question.”
Margaret’s eyes widened. “I don’t recall ever seeing him!”
“It’s important.”
Margaret sobered. “I can only say what the church says. He is everywhere and nowhere. Three yet one, somehow. Indescribable. Unknowable.” She shrugged. “Is that what possessed you, when everything else was going on with those soldiers?”
John stared unseeing at the floor. “Describe heaven. If we go there, what do we do?”
Margaret’s forehead wrinkled. “Are you all right?”
“What do we do?” he repeated.
“We are blessed to sing the praises of God with angels.”
“What else?”
Margaret pondered. “I don’t know. I’ve never heard of anything else. I never thought about it.”
“How long do we sing songs?”
“Eternity.”
“What of wives and children? Will we know them?”
“No one ever said.”
“Will we have them?”
Margaret shrugged. “Families? I suppose we’re all God’s family there.” She stopped working with the buttons on her dress. “Where are these strange questions coming from?”
John grunted and hung his coat and vest in the closet, and tugged at the large knot in the tie about his neck.
“All right,” Margaret said, “if you won’t answer that, then you describe God.”
“I can do no better than you,” he replied softly. “I know the teachings.”
Margaret suddenly stopped. “Then describe heaven.” There was creeping concern in her voice.
He did not look at her as he folded the tie and laid it on the bed. “The teaching is as you said.”
“Are you having thoughts other than the teachings?” she asked. Seconds passed while her concerns grew.
“No.”
She stared at him for a moment. “There is something you’re not telling me.”
He turned to her. “No. The Bible is true.”
She studied his face, his eyes. He broke off, and she knew the moment was gone and that it would be useless to press him further. She resumed working with the dress buttons. “Good. They put heretics in the stocks down on the Common, you know, and I would not come to visit you.” She watched him from the corner of her eye. A smile flickered across his face and was gone.
The discussion was closed for now, and Margaret put it away in her mind to be recalled again.
Brigitte was waiting in the kitchen when Margaret strode in and took command. Aprons reaching nearly to their ankles, they plunged into the work.
“Matthew, two more leaves in the table. Adam and Prissy, start polishing the silver, and don’t miss places. Brigitte, get out the great tablecloth.”
For more than eighteen months, Margaret and Brigitte had worked to crochet a tablecloth large enough to cover their dinner table, with all the leaves, fourteen feet long, six feet wide. They lost track of the needle strokes when the count passed 120,000. They hung it on the wall for a week after they finished, and tenderly touched it each day, and from that time they called it simply the great tablecloth. It came from its special drawer only on special occasions.
“Matthew, be careful and fetch the milk from the fireplace and pour it here. Brigitte, punch the dough and set it by the stove to rise again. John, lift the plates and goblets from the cupboard—the crystal ones.”
The work hit a rhythm and chatter arose, and Margaret hummed a line from a church hymn. Brigitte joined in, and they smiled as they finished together. The rich, pungent smells of roast lamb and custard and steaming vegetables filled the room. Twice Matthew stole away to peer out the front window up the street.
“Matthew, they’ll be here when they get here, and Kathleen will be just as beautiful then as she is now. Get out the linen napkins and fold them. And set the chairs at the table. Thirteen of them, patriarchs at both ends. Caleb, keep your finger out of the custard!”
“Mama,” Adam whined, “I can’t get these spots off the knives.”
“Caleb, help Adam. Brigitte, you come here and watch. Add vanilla when the milk thickens—you know how. John, add two sticks to the oven firebox. Brigitte, the dough is high enough. Get out the muffin molds.”
Margaret opened the oven and partially pulled out the pan with the leg of lamb, punched it with a fork, sniffed at it, then drew it out, balanced on thick hot pads in either hand. She set it inside the fireplace, near one of the fires, settled the lid onto it, and closed the oven door.
“Brigitte, when the muffins have risen, put them in the oven and watch—golden, not brown.”
Brigitte’s nose wrinkled. “I know, Mama. I know.” She shaped the dough into the depressions in the muffin tins.
“Go change while they’re rising,” Margaret said, and Brigitte walked briskly to her bedroom.
The custard went into the root cellar to cool and set. The muffins were coming to a golden finish in the oven. The meat had simmered, and the drippings blended into thick brown gravy. The vegetables were tender but not soft. Margaret paused for a moment to smile inwardly and indulge herself in a feeling of pride in the mark of a master chef. Everything she had prepared was reaching perfection at the same time.
“They’re coming,” Caleb exclaimed, and Margaret muttered, “Oh, mercy, I still have my apron on,” and scurried to change.
There was a rap at the door and John opened it. “Henry, please come in. What a pleasure to have you!”
As tall as John, fine boned, handsome, enigmatic, politically popular, educated in London by the best medical doctors, Doctor Henry Thorpe had used his gift of wit and humor in writings to chide the British and support the citizens in their slow and painful rise against the iron grip of King George. Readily elected to the Massachusetts legislature (later the Provincial Congress), and eventually placed on the crucial Committee of Safety, Thorpe had risen to prominence in Boston, and his leadership was being noticed in neighboring colonies. His aristocratic wife, Phoebe, had born him five children, the third of which had been stillborn. The four remaining were well favored, talented. The oldest, Barton, was married and living in New York. Kathleen had a younger brother, Charles, age thirteen, and Faith was the youngest at age eight. Henry Thorpe’s medical practice flourished.
He removed his hat and shook John’s hand warmly. “The pleasure is ours,” he said.
Matthew saw only Kathleen, who entered last. Her long dark hair was beautifully braided into a coil at the back of her head, and a few stray wisps curled against her forehead. She closed the door and turned to Matthew. At the moment their eyes met, Matthew f
elt his breath come short and knew he had reddened and he did not care. Kathleen’s eyes shined as she smiled, and for a moment she stood transfixed, lost in the sight of him, aware of nothing more than that the next few hours would be spent with him. They stood thus, sharing the rare sweetness of the moment, while the others moved into the room.
Then Matthew quietly said, “Hello,” and Kathleen curtsied slightly and said, “Hello.”
Margaret strode through the archway, still tucking wisps of hair, and hurried directly to Phoebe. “Oh, how good to have you come!” she said, and hugged her. “Let me take your wraps.”
They all shrugged from their spring coats, and Margaret carried them into a bedroom and returned. “Please do sit down,” she said, and gestured to the sofa and upholstered chairs. “Dinner will be served shortly.”
Phoebe followed her into the kitchen. “Henry told me about the confrontation between the British and William Dawes, and about John stopping it. You must have been frightened.”
Margaret filled bowls with steaming food. “Terrified! It all happened so fast!”
“And those soldiers in the church. Did you ever think they would be so bold?”
“Never. What’s this all coming to?” Margaret picked up a bowl of vegetables, and Phoebe and Brigitte picked up others. They walked to set them on the dinner table, and Phoebe paused to examine the great cloth. Plump, round faced, pleasant, tending to be fragile and naive, Phoebe was accepted everywhere simply because she was always pleasant, even when circumstances demanded otherwise. “I see you finished it. It is absolute perfection.”
Margaret blushed. “It turned out well.”
Phoebe leaned forward to examine the small, precise stitching. “Such needlework! It’s marvelous.”
John and Henry, lost in a deep discussion of the events of the morning, were oblivious to the women. Caleb had gathered the children into his room, where he and Adam were giving demonstrations of how Dawes and John had whipped the British and sent them marching back to their compound, while the Thorpe children stood wide-eyed, mouths gaping open.
Matthew quietly opened the front door and reached for Kathleen’s hand, and she reached to him and they revelled in the touching as he led her outside. For a moment they stood shoulder to shoulder in the quiet warmth of late afternoon of the sweet New England spring day, and looked and did not speak. Nothing stirred. Sunlight caught the new leaves in the oaks and maples and cast lacy shadows. The tulip beds were green and yellow and red. They stood for a time, lost in the touch of their hands and the awareness of each other, and basked in the profound beauty of the day.
Matthew led her to the front gate and they stopped. “I’m glad you could come.”
Her dark eyes shined as she smiled. “It was nice to be asked.”
The words meant nothing; the sound of their voices, everything.
For a moment Matthew fumbled. “Church this morning was . . . different.”
“It was frightful.”
“Did you hear about William Dawes?”
“Father told us. And about your father and the British captain.”
“That was a bit tense. For a moment I thought we were going to war right there in the streets.”
“Father says it’s coming soon enough.”
They both started as the front door of the house opened and Margaret called, “Dinner. Come get ready.”
Everyone gathered at the table and stood behind the chairs until each was ready. John knelt beside his, and all the others went to their knees.
“Almighty God . . .” The prayer was sincere and not long.
John rose and took his seat at one end of the table, Henry took his at the other, their wives took theirs to the right of their husbands, and on John’s nod the children sat down, Matthew next to Kathleen.
John sliced the leg of lamb while steaming bowls of potatoes and vegetables were passed. Woven baskets lined with white linen and filled with golden muffins emptied and Brigitte refilled them. Silver bowls of applesauce and crushed, sweetened cranberries were handed about, emptied, and refilled. Rich gravy was spread dripping over potatoes, and talk flowed, and a warm glow filled the room.
Adam looked at Margaret with pleading eyes. “Is it time for the custard?”
Matthew brought the large, square silver pan from the root cellar, and bowls appeared on the table. Margaret cut and scooped large squares of the quivering custard into the bowls while Brigitte dipped hot maple syrup. Talk dwindled while they spooned small portions and closed their eyes to savor it. Margaret watched, smiling, deep joy shining in her eyes.
All too soon it was over. Talk continued while the women tied aprons and cleared the table, saved the remains, and dropped the dirty dishes into a large pan of steaming water. The children darted into the backyard to perfect their enactment of the battle in the streets, while John and Henry settled into large overstuffed chairs to talk. Matthew watched Kathleen working with the women, then caught her by the hand and gestured towards the front door.
“I have to help,” she said, tugging back.
“They can do it,” Matthew replied.
Margaret raised her head. “We’re nearly done. You two go on.”
Kathleen pulled her apron over her head, tucked at her hair, and reached for Matthew’s outstretched hand. They closed the door behind them and in the early dusk walked through the gate and turned. They walked slowly, stride for stride, to the corner and crossed the cobblestones. Windows lighted and glowed in the lengthening shadows, and in the distance a dog barked. Nighthawks overhead began their nightly ballet on whispering silken wings, while ships rumbled to each other on the Back Bay.
“It’s hard to think of war,” Kathleen said quietly.
“Out here like this, it is,” Matthew answered.
“What will happen to Boston if fighting comes?”
Matthew exhaled a great breath. “No one knows. I hope nothing.”
“If it comes, will you join in?”
Matthew studied the ground for a moment. “Probably.”
“In the shooting?”
“It could happen. I haven’t thought that far.”
They walked on slowly for a time. “I can hardly stand the thought,” Kathleen said. “I don’t know what I would do if . . .”
He looked down at her and she turned her face upwards to his, and he saw the fear in her wide dark eyes and the slight tremble in her chin.
He had not planned to have it happen this way. It was supposed to happen at home, in the backyard, her seated on the bench beneath the great oak, him before her with his heart on his sleeve and a ring in his hand. But it did not happen that way.
He stopped and turned to her and the words rolled out. “Kathleen, I love you with all my heart. Will you marry me?”
Kathleen blinked in total surprise. For years they had known this moment was coming, but Kathleen had always envisioned it with her dressed in a beautiful, flowing gown, beneath a sheltering tree, with Matthew on one knee before her, a beautiful ring in a small, exquisitely designed box, delivering a flawlessly prepared speech while she waited for the right moment when she would blush, nod, and say, “Yes. I will marry you.”
She gasped and struggled with the realization that it was happening here and now, with no ring, no prepared speech, her with the aroma of the kitchen still lingering. She suddenly understood that her visions had been the dreams of a child and that this moment, as with most of life’s great events, had occurred on its own schedule. She swallowed and gasped, and her breathing came short for a moment while her heart and mind caught up with the realities of the moment. “Yes. Yes. Oh, Matthew, of course.”
He held her and her arms circled his neck and he kissed her, and she kissed him, and the feelings burned into their memories forever.
“Soon?” he asked. “Before there’s a chance for the war?”
“Yes.”
They stood in the deep shadows of the unlighted street, alone, clinging to each other, sharing their moment.
Time was lost as they drew strength from the touch and the smell and the closeness. “Thank you,” Matthew breathed. “Thank you.” They walked back to the front gate, caught up in the strange, wonderful feelings that had been born with their commitment, talking quietly in their new world.
“When shall I talk with your parents?” Matthew asked.
Kathleen paused. “Have you talked to your own?”
“Father. Not Mother. Father consented.”
“We can’t marry without her blessing.”
“She’ll consent. I could talk with your parents before you leave tonight.”
“Oh, Matthew!” She caught her breath. “So fast! I can’t catch up.”
“Tonight?”
She squared her shoulders. “Yes. If Margaret will give her blessing, talk with my father and mother tonight.”
“Do you want to talk with them first?”
She thought for a moment. “No. Better it comes from you.”
He took her hand and led her into the house.
Margaret glanced at them, then stopped to look. Phoebe looked at Kathleen, and her eyes dropped and she turned away for a moment. When she turned back, her eyes were too bright.
“Matthew,” Margaret said, “I need some help for a moment in the root cellar.”
Matthew followed her out, and she stopped in the shadows by the back door. “When is it to be?”
“When is what to be?”
“The wedding. It was written all over you two when you walked in the front door.”
Matthew’s mouth dropped open for an instant. “Do we have your blessing?”
“Of course.”
Matthew folded his mother inside his arms and held her close, his cheek on hers. “Mother, I love you so much. Thank you for everything. Thank you.”
She held her eldest for a long moment, and he felt her shake with a mother’s sob, and then she drew back.
“She’s a fine girl. She will do you honor. Love her always.”
“I plan to talk with her parents tonight.”
Margaret reflected and then chuckled. “It will certainly catch Henry and Phoebe by surprise, but it seems a good time. It’s the Sabbath. We have just had a special day with her family.”
They walked back into the house, and Matthew said firmly, “Father, could I see you a moment?”