by L. B. Joramo
~*~
“Excited to see Boston?” Mr. Jones inquired after we’d all had supper.
Mr. Jones and I were sitting on some burlap bags of oats for Bess and the horses in the barn after dinner, taking turns drinking ale that Jacque had bought for Mr. Jones. He had made the mistake of helping Jacque in Concord when Jacque’s black steed had a thorn in the frog of its hoof. It was a mistake because now Mr. Jones had a small winery and enough ale and rum to start a tavern. I’d snickered to myself when Mr. Jones had told me the story of how Jacque had bought him all the alcohol in appreciation. Ah, Jacque was generous and thoughtful and knowledgeable, and I shouldn’t be thinking about what else he was.
I shrugged after I sipped the fine cool ale down. “’Tis getting to be a big town, Boston is, but then again Concord is getting big too. I guess I’m excited to go on the trip, aye.”
I was lying. I hadn’t slept since I’d made the plans to go to Boston. Mayhap a wink here or there, but mostly I would lie in bed thinking of how I might be escorted down a walk on Monsieur Beaumont’s arm. I might take Mathew’s arm too. When I thought of that, I scolded myself for my absurd feelings.
“Thank you so much for taking care of the farm while we’re gone.”
Mr. Jones nodded and drank the rest of the bottle. He had another ale by his foot and uncorked it. His eyes were already glassy. I never knew him to be a drinker, but then again it did seem to be the kind of night when the alcohol fell into the pit of my stomach in a satisfying, sparkling way. Perhaps it was the same for him.
The only light that streamed through the open barn’s door was that of the evening’s peach and pink sunset. Bess and the bay mares were asleep in their bins, and the scent of a promising spring hung in the air, like the way the scent of daffodils can linger in my olfactory. I glanced at Mr. Jones and noticed that he was sweating. His eyes skipped all around the barn and his lips kept pursing and fidgeting.
“Everything all right, Mr. Jones?”
He nodded and smiled. The smile was altogether too large and slightly silly.
“Oh no, not you too.” I frowned.
He kept grinning but looked a little anxious. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you, Miss Buccleuch.”
“You’re getting married.” I stole the bottle from him and downed three cupfuls. After swallowing, I looked upon his happy face.
“How’d you know? I suppose a man can’t hide the fact that he’s excited about getting married. Lord, but I am excited.”
I smiled on a sigh. “When’s the happy day, my friend?”
He took the bottle from me and swallowed more than a third of its contents. Finally, he turned to me, his eyes the roundest and saddest I’d ever seen on him. “I need a loan, Miss Buccleuch. My . . . the girl who I’m lookin’ to marry, she’s back in Virginia. I knew her from when I lived there. I promised her when I left, when I was taken from there up to Boston . . . before I knew your daddy would set me free . . . I made a promise, you see—”
I lay what I hoped to be a cool and calming hand on his warm brown one. “Tell me.”
He gave me a quick smile and patted my hand. But as I took my turn with the ale, Mr. Jones’s face fell. His voice was far off and gritty. “Her master just upped her price on her.”
“She’s a slave?”
He nodded. “Not many free black women round here. Not anywhere, now that I think upon it.”
I shook my head, handing the brew back to him. “I’m sorry for sounding so naive.”
“Nothing to be ashamed of, being innocent of some things. Then again, some things need to be pushed in the light, made known, you know?”
“Yes . . . aye. My father had hoped that slavery would be abolished soon. It is an abomination.”
“Yes, I agree, but I was thinking upon something else. Besides I figure, in my mind, I’m paying for this beautiful girl like a dowry, you know? Like a prince does for a princess.”
My eyes instantly itched like I was about to cry. How could he turn something so ugly into a fairytale?
I nodded and smiled. “So, this loan—”
“I need fifty pounds. I know it’s a lot of money, but you know I’m good for paying it back.”
“No.”
He turned to me, his nose flared and stared at me like he’d never seen me before.
“No, you won’t pay me back.” I arched a brow and grabbed the bottle, hiding my smile.
“I was going to give you a hundred pounds as a wedding gift, and you cannot pay a gift back. How rude, Mr. Jones.”
He smiled and shook his head. “I can’t accept—”
“A hundred and fifty pounds, and if you say one more word, the price will keep going up. Well, until I run out of my savings.”
He silently snorted a laugh, then stole the bottle away from me, shaking his head. “I love you, Miss Buccleuch, you stubborn woman.”
“I love you too . . . Jonah. May I please call you by your Christian name now that neither of us will be a single person soon?”
“Only if I can call you Violet.”
I spat in the palm of my hand and extended it to Jonah. He looked disgusted, but spat in his too and shook my hand.
“Firm shake, that is, laddie.” He laughed at my impression of my father’s Scottish brogue. I continued without the Celtic accent. “So when are you going to retrieve your bride, Jonah?”
“Well, Violet. I was hoping to take off when you get back from Boston.”
“Oh, yes, Boston. I’m going to Boston tomorrow.”
“That you are. Did you forget?”
“Why, yes, I did. In all your exciting news, I forgot. I am so happy for you, friend. Many congratulations on your upcoming marriage.”
“Thank you, Vi. I appreciate that. I’ve worked on your family’s farm now for almost five years. You know I think upon you and Hannah like sisters, don’t you?”
“And we think upon you as a brother.”
Jonah nodded, looking down at our shared ale. “Your father was one brave man, freeing me the way he did. I always thought of your da . . . I never knew my own father.”
“My father was very proud of you. I think my father thought of me as his first son and you his second.”
He laughed and shoved at my shoulder with one of his own. But then his smile sobered. “As your brother, may I take license to speak freely to you then?”
I squeezed his hard-worked hand. “Of course.”
He nodded again and cleared his throat. “What I’m about to say is something that I think should come to light.”
“You think I should start farming wheat. I know. Last harvest wheat paid almost double what barley was. I just worry how wheat seems to not be hearty enough for the—”
“It ain’t wheat I was wanting to talk to you about, Vi. It’s about men.”
“Men? Oh Lord, not another lecture pertaining to . . . carnal intimacy. Mother just talked to Hannah and I a little more than a week ago about . . . that subject. I think because Hannah’s been so love struck with her beau. I understand vaguely what’s going to happen, but I—”
“Woman,” Johan interrupted, his voice firmer than I’d ever heard. “Will you be quiet for just one minute? I’m trying to talk.”
I bit my bottom lip and tucked my chin a few inches, which made him laugh.
“I’m sorry to have yelled, but my heavens, when you do get started talking there’s no stopping you.”
I nodded and snickered.
“All right, now . . . what I mean by talking about men is a man’s heart. I’ve known Mr. Adams since your da paid for my papers, and moved to work and live in this here farm. Mr. Adams, he’s followed you around in all that time, like you had a piece of his soul that he was gracious enough to wait until you returned it. I had to respect the man for his tenacity.”
I smiled, while Jonah eyed me. But then he said seven words that shook my whole world.
He turned to me pointedly. “Mr. Beaumont is a good man too.”
I blinked and tried to think of how I should react. I know I stiffened. My shoulders almost touched my ears. But I forced a smile on my face and nodded as nonchalantly as possible.
“I think he might be a good man, yes.”
Jonah studied my eyes, then handed me the bottle. “You are a woman now. What are you, eighteen years of age?”
“Two and twenty, actually.”
“When did you get so old?”
I laughed, punched him with one arm, and with the other I slugged a drink back. Oh goodness, but I was getting drunk.
He smiled and nodded. “All the same, your mother might be giving some . . . kind of lectures, but I can tell you about a man’s heart. Mr. Adams, Mathew, he’s got a good heart, and he’s been in love with you probably since the day you were born. And you’re going to marry him?”
“Yes, you know that.”
Jonah nodded. “I do. I know that you should be careful of Mr. Beaumont. He’s in love with you too.”
It was a thunderclap of information. I was too shocked to act or feel the reverberations echo in my body, but just shook my head.
“Listen, missy, I know when a man is so in love with a woman he can hardly breathe. I know that because the first time I saw Bethany, my . . . fiancée, I nearly fainted. I’d never seen a woman so beautiful. Aw, you and Hannah are awful pretty, but I think of you two like—”
“Like sisters, I know.” I laughed, but then defended Jacque as quickly as I could think. “But you’re wrong about Monsieur Beaumont. I’m no one of significance, especially to him. I’m a woman who wears breeches; I’m overeducated; I—I work with dirt; I’m always a mess; I look atrocious—”
“Violet,” Jonah interrupted again, but with his jaw set the way it was I couldn’t find any more words to counter his point. He continued, “I overhear men talking about you. I know you never hear the talk, nor do you ever pay no heed to the men. You’re too busy, inside that big head of yours with all those ideas of yours floating around. But they talk about you. Yes, many a man might find you peculiar, but there’s something about you. You have spirit, girl, and there is no hiding that. And there’s no hiding from the fact that you are a pretty girl, er, woman.” He paused, but then gave himself a quick nod. “I’m telling this to you now so you know, and so you know about Mr. Beaumont.”
Shaking my head again, I felt my cheeks burning. “Monsieur Beaumont . . . I’m just a country bumpkin to him, I’m sure. Even if you are remotely right, Monsieur Beaumont is not the kind of man who would hurt me.”
“I am not talking about that Frenchman hurting you.” Jonah patted my hand. “No, he’d never hurt you. He’d hurt himself. He looks at you like he’s dying, Violet. I never seen a man so happy to be suffering.”
What Jonah said resonated within me, my heart. But still, I had to keep up an appearance of innocence. “Well,” I huffed, “even if somehow you are right, what are you suggesting I do about it? I’m engaged . . . to be married . . . to another man.”
“Let him know that.” He nodded. “Mr. Beaumont needs to hear it from your lips that you’re taken. The sooner, the better.”
“Jacque knows I’m engaged. He knows it.”
“Violet, men, men’s hearts are sometimes unstoppable. Take for instance me, I’m buying my wife. I’m buying her freedom. There’s only one thing that would stop me from marrying that woman, and that’s her. If she’d said no, I’d’ve a broken heart, never be the same again, but I wouldn’t be asking for money, something I swore I would never do. But I did it for her, and I’d do it again. I’m going to travel through Virginia country where the settlers don’t take kindly to free black men, and the Indians are known to scalp travelers. Yet, I’m a going. I want that woman to be mine with all my heart. Are you crying?”
I nodded and wiped at my wet cheeks. “It’s so beautiful.” I hiccupped. “Your love for your fiancé. You have to stop telling me how much you love her or I’ll blubber for days.”
“I haven’t seen you cry since your daddy passed.”
I sniffed and smiled. “I know. Lord, I’m a mess.”
He smiled sagely. “Nah, you aren’t a mess. You’re just a romantic fool.”
“Don’t tell or I’ll punch you in the nose.”
“And such a lady.”
“That’s what a lady would do, I’m sure of it.”
Jonah smiled down at me. He patted my hand again. “Just tell him yourself, Violet. Tell Mr. Beaumont that you love Mathew and you’re going to get married to him. That Frenchman needs to hear it from your lips that you love another.”
Chapter Six: My Own Boston Massacre