by L. B. Joramo
I breathed a sigh of relief. Jacque’s carriage that was to drive my family and me to Boston did not carry him. The driver said that Monsieur Beaumont had traveled ahead and was waiting at the inn we were expected to dine and stay the next two nights. I had pictured myself sitting in between my sister and mother in the carriage, across from Jacque, and how I would have exploded from the desire to touch him. Thank God that didn’t happen.
Mathew had traveled ahead as well, saying something about rum and rights to be had for all. I’d laughed and kissed him on his cheek.
In the glass windowed Landau carriage (Of course it was a huge glossy black Landau, the best of the best. It was sent by Jacque.) I couldn’t keep my eyes open as soon as we were on the highway, even though Hannah had finally admitted her engagement to Mother, and they were bickering about the arrangement. Still, I slept almost the whole way to Boston on my sister’s shoulder while she and my mother debated if Lieutenant Kimball’s actions were moral or not. My mother thought the lieutenant should have asked her first for my sister’s hand in marriage, but my sister thought he would have asked our father, but since Da had passed away, he didn’t know the proper channels of offering himself to our family. I vaguely was aware of the argument in a haze of sleep, and only once was interrupted a few miles shy of Boston by traveling lobsterbacks, strangely enough, asking for directions to Concord.
Gladly, I accepted the sleep, as I didn’t want to make any comments of my own. I, too, wanted Lieutenant Kimball to at least pay respect by introducing himself to my mother or even just to me before he’d proposed. This excuse for not having any time off was no justification at all. I knew the redcoats had at least one day off—that was general knowledge. Also, Dr. Prescott, one of the doctors in Concord, had told me about his latest trip to Boston and seeing many of the troops having leisurely days. Lieutenant Kimball could have come the twenty miles from Boston to Concord. True, it was a long trip, but would it be that time-consuming for the one you love? I thought not.
I woke when we stopped in front of the inn at Boston. My sister informed me that she had seen a fabric shop while I had been softly snoring on her, and we had to make a quick stop to shop during our visit in Boston. I smiled and nodded, calculating how much fabric we could afford. What a nice diversion my sister provided me in quickly spinning how much money we could spend, instead of obsessing if Jacque was eagerly awaiting me, like I was of him.
By then, it seemed the more I struggled with trying to forget him, the more I would ponder over every word he uttered or the way the sun sunk into his black hair, reflecting a dark blue light, almost as deep of a blue as his eyes. That deep shade had become my favorite color.
Like a poorly made musket, all my attempts at ending my regards toward Jacque had backfired on me. The sparks of his essence were burning me, yet I loved the sting.
Still, vain or not, I felt I was strong enough to overcome my emotions. For the sake of everyone I loved, I had to . . . eventually.
A friendly young woman, who gave me a letter from Mr. Adams, guided us into the inn and explained to us that Monsieur Beaumont would wait for us in the inn’s dining room, but that we were to take our time with settling into our apartment.
I read and giggled at Mathew’s note that indicated he would not be dining with us.
I am far too drunkenly to ride my horse in my condition in my condition.
I could smell the rum off the paper, and chuckled all the more when I noticed he’d written the date four times, March 20 in our Lord’s year of 1775. I was glad that Mathew was having such a good time already. In a day, he would have to be back in Concord, clerking for the supposedly secret congress session.
With two relations of Mathew’s already such staunch politicians, Mr. Samuel and Mr. John Adams, I wondered if Mathew would inevitably serve his country of Massachusetts by becoming a statesman too. I wasn’t sure I would like to become a politician’s wife. Mrs. Abigail Adams, Mr. John Adams’ wife, the only female relative of Mathew’s who openly liked me and talked with me—the other Adams women thought I was far too educated, like Abigail—told me that she didn’t like the long days when her husband was so far away. But she was one that triumphed in her duty, and would be happy when her husband was making speeches in congress and happier still when he was at home.
I sponged my face from the travel’s grit with sweet smelling rose soap that Hannah had remembered to bring. She did know how to pack for the occasion. She also had brought with her enough rose, honeysuckle, and apple blossom water to scent all of the brigades of redcoats stationed in Boston.
As I rinsed and baptized myself in floral scents, I washed away the thoughts of Mathew, of getting married, of responsibilities. I was in Boston, going to meet Jacque. I felt like giggling like Hannah and clapping and jumping at the same time too.
Before we dressed, Hannah insisted on pinning my hair up. I was a little frightened with all the teasing of my hair, but when I looked in the mirror, I confess, my sister had done a job that a less assuming Queen Marie Antoinette would be envious of with my black tresses waved, curled and poofed into perfection.
The dress Hannah had sewn for me was of the deepest, richest color of blue I had ever seen in silk, but I had seen many times in a man’s eyes. I badgered her about where she had gotten the money for such a lavish dress, but stopped once I saw my reflection in the looking glass.
“My Lord, Hannah, I—I look like a woman!”
My sister chuckled and nodded. “Yes, you do look a bit more feminine.”
“You’re a miracle worker,” I gushed. “Truly. Do you see me? I look gorgeous!”
For the last two weeks I’d been sure Jacque couldn’t possibly have any attraction to a woman like me, because I had been so busy on my farm, getting ready for planting, which meant wearing muddy breeches and having dirt under my nails. Often I’d meet Jacque without checking my countenance. And there had been more than once that he’d rubbed crusty dirt from my cheeks. But this night my skin glowed as much as the silk of my dress, if not more. The dress was dark as was my hair, but my arms, shoulders and face were light—creamy. My eyes looked like two emeralds, shining out in the evening’s light. I looked nothing like a woman who had just spent yesterday ankle deep in mud sprinkled with manure.
Hannah laughed louder as she pinched her cheeks. “Humility, thy name is not Buccleuch.”
“Well, good grief, with a dress like this, I can’t be modest. Look at me!”
“I am. Quit boasting, beautiful sister.”
“I’m singing praise of your talents, Hannah. My God, but I’m stunning, thanks to you.”
Hannah snickered and shook her head. Then, after I swallowed and embarrassedly bit the inside of my lip, I smiled and professed, “But I’m nothing compared to my most beautiful sister and mother, of course.”
My mother playfully swatted my bottom through my petticoats and skirt. “Oh, please, Violet, you do not have your sister’s flair for playacting. Now, go on, I want to hear how gorgeous you are, daughter.”
“No. I’m done now. Thoroughly, humbly, done.”
“Are you quite sure?” My mother’s blonde eyebrows flicked up with her quick laugh.
I nodded and subdued my own giggle while continuing to bite my lip.