The Immortal American

by L. B. Joramo

“Monsieur Beaumont, spoke of you.”

  Mathew cleared his throat then smiled at me.

  I was in my family’s barn, inspecting the moldboard plow’s wooden handle that was surely going to break soon when Mathew made this brief statement. It felt like I had been punched right under my ribs. My breath ceased, and I absentmindedly bit my tongue until it bled. The coppery taste of earth filled my mouth. I fiddled with the small crack in the handle, then wiped my hands on my tan breeches and considered how best to appear cavalier.

  “Did he?”

  Mathew nodded and glanced at Mr. Jones, my family’s hired hand, who coughed while he was drying off Bess, the ox, from the morning showers. Whenever it rained like it had all that morning, the scent of the horses and Bess, stored grain, straw and dung amplified in the damp darkness of the barn, making work nearly intolerable.

  I, too, peeked at Mr. Jones in Bess’s bin, who was humming peacefully to the black cow, but I looked back at Mathew, trying to detect any signs from him to indicate that he thought I was acting odd.

  It was the very next day after meeting Monsieur Beaumont, and I hadn’t had time to figure out what I felt, let alone how I was supposed to act. I was still wondering just what it was that was affecting me so. Why did I spend almost all of last night contemplating Monsieur Beaumont’s words he’d said and the way he smiled or the way he laughed? And, Lord help me, the way he smelled? Oh, he was delicious.

  I didn’t just think that, couldn’t have possibly thought something that ridiculous.

  “He did.” Mathew’s smile wavered for a moment when he looked down at me again. “He was very grateful that you took him by hand and escorted him around the potluck. He had met all the militiamen, of course, but he is, like you, a bit shy in public. Unless he’s had a few ales, you know. Bottled courage, they say.”

  I chuckled at Mathew’s jesting and nodded, then fingered the fracture in the wood all the more.

  “And might I mention,” Mathew continued, “that I was quite proud that you were my fiancée and proud of you too. Taking by arm a Frenchman and making him feel welcome here, that was splendid. As well as that shot. Randolph is in love with you now, I’m sure.”

  I chuckled again and shook my head. “He is not. Mr. Randolph has an altogether too healthy sense of humor, I’m afraid. I did like him though, that funny man.”

  “Miss Buccleuch, Bess is as dry as I can get her,” Mr. Jones said as he smiled at Mathew and me.

  I hadn’t noticed Mr. Jones approach, but was grateful for the interruption, grateful to stop obsessing about the way I should appear.

  “On behalf of that spoiled cow, thank you for making her more comfortable.” I smiled.

  Mr. Jones nodded while Mathew strode toward him and shook his hand.

  “Ah, Mr. Jones, how are you today?”

  “Fine, Mr. Adams. I’m fine. I keep wanting to plow the fields, but with this rain—Good Lord, is that rain tapering off now? After I got that ox all dry, now it’s fixing to stop raining.”

  Mathew chuckled. “It is Massachusetts weather, after all. The one thing it has is unpredictability.”

  Mathew certainly liked that joke.

  Mr. Jones laughed though. “That it does have. It does, indeed.”

  “Mr. Jones,” I said, “’Tis no use, we couldn’t plow today anyway. ‘Tis too wet now. Please, go inside and eat. Hannah made some beef stew, this time with beef.”

  My sister, as a way to pretend we weren’t quite as poor as we really were, would create many versions of savory dishes that might exclude the main ingredient, like expensive beef. But Mrs. Barrett gave my mother two pounds of the luxurious meat yesterday. The Barretts were one of the riches families in Concord and were charitable to their neighbors. However, charitable is a strange word to use considering they were also slave owners. My father had begged and pleaded for their slaves’ freedom, but my father was often ignored for being too intelligent, too radical, or for being too much a Quaker. After all, he had practiced religious freedom within his own house, never forcing my mother, my sister or I to practice his faith. And I, until the age of ten, liked to gallivant around with the boys, often dressing as one, which my father gave me great liberty to do so.

  “Beef stew made with real beef. Will wonders ever cease?” Mr. Jones stepped closer to the plow and me. “You need help on the handle?”

  “I’m not sure.” I shook my head at the plow. “My main problem is wondering if I can afford to buy all the lumber this might require to fix.” I sighed, and swept some of my feral black hair out of my eyes. Seeing how concerned Mathew appeared, I laughed to ease his tension. “But I’ll get to it, Mr. Jones. Thank you, but you need to go inside and eat. You look thin.”

  Mr. Jones gently pushed at my ribs with his elbow. “Talk about thin, missy.”

  He laughed and rushed from me, very aware how I might throw a jab at him for teasing me about my build. My mother jested that if she cooked me, I’d be nothing but string and bones. Being raised around women who were adored for being plump, I detested my body for its lack of fat.

  “Mr. Adams, I bid you a good day!” Mr. Jones said while running backward with a gigantic smile.

  “You can run, but you know I’m faster!” I hollered.

  Mr. Jones laughed harder, but turned and picked up his speed. “I know! I know!”

  He closed the barn door after himself, and left me alone with Mathew.

  “Will you have lunch with us as well?”

  Mathew shook his head. “Sorry, darling, no. Even though Hannah is turning out to be a good cook, I’ve got to run back to the Safety meeting.” He was talking about the Massachusetts Congress, which could no longer be a congress because of the Intolerable Acts, and as such it was called the Committee of Safety. Rather passable title for a colony’s illegal congress, I thought.

  “Of course.” I nodded.

  Mathew inhaled sharply and looked down at the plow’s handle. I clenched my jaw, getting ready for him to offer me money. As much as I needed his generosity, I hated accepting it. I wasn’t too sure why. Too much pride? He was going to be my husband one day. I just hadn’t decided on the day yet.

  “Darling . . .” His voice trailed off, and his eyes would have burned a hole in the wood with his fierce focus, if he had that ability. I braced myself for his charity. “Do you—do—do you really think—that’s a bad choice of words.” He sighed and nodded to himself, then finally said, “I do . . . very much . . . like your body as it is. You may not be fleshly, but you have all the . . . rounded areas in all the right spots.” His eyes rose and stayed on my chest for a couple seconds before ascending to my face.

  I coughed a laugh, truly amazed Mathew was being so bold. These last few months he’d been asking to set the date of our marriage soon, and quite surprisingly had been forward enough to let me know that he did find me attractive and not just as his partner in mind and spirit, but in body too.

  “Mathew!”

  “Forgive my brashness, I—” He stopped himself.

  My cheeks burned with embarrassment as did his, but I decided to say what needed to be said. “I like knowing that the one thing I can offer doesn’t disgust you.”

  “Disgust me? You are . . .” He choked for a moment while his hands stroked the air, much like a sculptor would create breasts out of the heavens. “Violet, darling, you offering me your life to be my partner—well, I’m ever so grateful. You have no idea . . . how you affect me. Nor do I think you understand how you affect men in general. Randolph would literally murder me, if he thought you’d give him a chance, and before he became a lawyer he was in school to become a reverend. Clark couldn’t take his eyes off you until you made that shot, but I’m sure, even so, he’d gladly accept your hand. And even Jacque, he couldn’t meet my eyes after walking through the Common with you. Darling, you are and have been, since I was a boy of eight years of age, all I dream of.”

  I reached up on my toes to kiss his cheek. “I’m so lu
cky to have you, Mathew. Truly, you are the kindest, most generous man, especially when complimenting me—making up preposterous stories—”

  “I’m not inventing anything, Violet.” Mathew lightly caressed my cheek with one of his fingers. “Oh, darling, you have so much to learn about men.”