The Tea Chest

by Heidi Chiavaroli

  “You are like a daughter to me, Emma. No matter our different worlds, you can create a new future for yourself. A new family, even.”

  What she offered in the simple gift overwhelmed me. I didn’t have the heart to spurn it. “Thank you, Sarah.” I met her gaze. “This means more to me than you know.”

  “Emmy!” Little Mary toddled out of the back room and reached her arms up to me. I slid the teacup into my pocket, scooped her into my arms, and pressed a kiss to her featherlight blonde hair, catching the scent of woodsmoke and lye, likely from her freshly laundered pillow slip.

  “Yes, I’m still here. About to leave, though, little one. I will see you tomorrow?”

  She favored me with a toothy smile and a nod.

  The door burst open and in tumbled Sarah’s husband, John, along with their two eldest children and—

  Noah Winslow’s gaze landed on me, his eyes dancing.

  I tried to keep a blush from rising to my face, which I feared made it all the worse.

  “John.” Sarah planted a kiss on her husband’s cheek and I turned away, embarrassed. I’d never seen Father and Mother so much as hold hands. “I was late coming home from the tavern and now ’tis dark. Might you walk Emma home?”

  Though I did not wish to be a bother, thoughts of walking the town’s streets in dusky light alone—with the mischievous Sons of Liberty about, perhaps all too ready to mock an agent’s daughter—frightened me to no end. And yet, though I could only suspect, I thought Mr. Fulton himself might be among the Sons. And he, with his tall, lanky frame and kind eyes, was not fearsome in the least.

  “Allow me, Mrs. Fulton.” Noah stepped forward.

  I shook my head, half-appalled, half-thrilled that I should spend time alone with the young man who occupied my dreams. But without a chaperone? Would Sarah allow it?

  But she only smiled, seemed amused at my wordless response. “That would be splendid. And when you are through, come right back here for Emma’s stew.”

  I placed a kiss on Mary’s soft cheek and donned my cloak and hat, the wool warm from the heat of the Fultons’ stove. Noah opened the door and allowed me to pass through.

  Once he closed it behind us, the dark near swallowed us up save for candlelight speckling the many nearby houses and lanterns held aloft by a traveler or two. The scent of the Fulton kitchen fire combined with Noah’s distinct ink-and-paper smell to relax me. Winter’s chill masked the more unpleasant scents of the gutter and horse manure.

  As a true gentleman, Noah guided me down the slightly longer but more populated route along Essex Street. Though by daylight the town seemed a thicket of steeples and masts, only the Liberty Tree could be seen at this time of night. Eerie and naked in the dark folds of similar elms lining Hanover Square, her leafless limbs stretched outward and upward, reaching for . . . what? What was it that those who gathered beneath her branches wanted so badly?

  My gaze traveled to the staff rising above the tallest branches. A Liberty Flag flew there.

  Freedom.

  “A penny for your thoughts.” Noah kept up with my brisk pace as we rounded Newbury Street, the tree behind us.

  I looked at him, thankful for the shroud of night to hide my ever-flushing face, despite the frigid weather. His breath came out in puffs of visible vapor. Somehow my noticing seemed an intimate gesture, and I looked back to the dim cobbles at my feet.

  “I suppose I’m pondering . . . politics.”

  He chuckled. “Politics, is it? I’d think with your father’s station you’d be up to your ears in politics.”

  “Aye. Sarah is enthralled with the Liberty Boys. With that confounded tree. I am trying to make sense of it—make sense of the need to risk so much for what seems so little.”

  A true son of Liberty.

  Father said Uncle Daniel hadn’t been a defender of freedom so much as a defender of his ships’ profits. Was that true?

  “So liberty is of little matter to you?”

  “I suppose I’m not entirely convinced we’re in chains to begin with.” The line was one adapted from my father. Yet even as I released the words to the night, I wondered at how true they were to my own opinions. Was I no better than an exotic parrot, mimicking Father’s words?

  An Enemy to oppression.

  Were we in chains? Nay. The slaves from Africa were in chains. I didn’t see the Liberty Boys making a fuss about that kind of oppression.

  We walked onward, past Province House with its weather vane depicting an Indian holding a bow, and then Old South, silence eating up our precious time together. In the distance, the clip-clop of a horse’s hooves punctuated our quiet until I could no longer leave the unbearable stillness between us. “Noah . . . I know ’tis a personal question, but I’ve come to respect you—respect your opinion, even if we shan’t agree . . .”

  “That means a great deal to me, Emma. Thank you. I respect yours also. ’Tis what friends do, aye?”

  Friends. Aye. We were friends.

  We approached the center of town, passed the pump and Town House and Long Wharf to our right, stretching out to the frigid winter sea, where naked masts of ships bobbed heavy in the water amid countinghouses. In the morning, one would hear the bargaining at stalls, but now all lay quiet. The Clarke warehouse—and likely the lot of what was to be my wedding funds—sat at the base of the wharf, quiet and unassuming, yet in my mind full of reproach. It was the hub of vigorous Boston trade—tobacco, rum, sugar, molasses, African souls.

  “And what be your question, dear Emma?”

  Dear Emma . . .

  Certainly the candlelight from the windows of the Royal Exchange tavern would give away my nervousness. I was bold. Too bold. Mayhap, ’twas in this boldness that I could be more like Sarah. I felt the heaviness of her cup against my thigh and tried to draw strength from it.

  “I was wondering—and mind you needn’t answer if you don’t wish—but I was curious if . . .”

  Noah put a hand on my arm, stopped walking. A gust of cold sea air washed between us, carrying with it the scent of salt. “You needn’t be bashful. I am honored to be privy to your thoughts.”

  His voice ran smooth over my insides, churning them as rich as fresh cream. The invitation seemed so much more. Could it be my feelings for this man were reciprocated? And yet, if that were true, I was a dupe for pulling at the depths of his mind. For letting him draw near.

  I belonged to Samuel Clarke.

  Still, I could not leave him hanging there, the strong profile of his face full of shadows and earnestness beneath his tricorne hat. I gathered a breath, released it all in my next sentence. “Do you make merry with the Liberty Boys?”

  I saw the lights of the Green Dragon tavern alive to the left of us, knew Boston’s Freemasons and the Liberty Boys gathered abovestairs, and I wondered if Noah ever joined them.

  Something like disappointment flashed, quick as a musket shot, across his features. He took to walking again, and I followed, feeling the immediate need to speak, yet fearing an apology might only make matters more strained between us.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I was curious, is all.”

  Upon the bridge of Mill Creek that marked the North End, he stopped walking. My home was a block away. “What I mean is, do you ask for yourself or for your father?”

  He expected no more from me than my father did, then. He expected me to bring information to my kin. It hurt that he would think so little of me, but could I pretend that I had not agreed to Father’s request for information?

  “Is he gathering a list of names? Is that it?”

  “Nay. I mean, I do not have knowledge of it if he is. Noah, I wouldn’t—please believe me when I say I would never betray you.” I looked down into the black waters of Mill Creek, the full truth of my words securing something within me. A surety that my loyalty to both him and the Fultons was true and real, no matter what Father threatened. “I am attempting to sort it all out. What it is the Sons fight for. Why Sarah is so certain
it is true and right.”

  He quieted, scuffed his boot along a jagged wooden board of the bridge. “You said you don’t believe the colonies are in chains, aye?”

  I swallowed, the words I’d parroted now thrown back into my face. “Aye.” No doubt he heard the hesitation in my voice.

  “I suppose ’tis a matter of what chains we speak. Nay, the colonies may not be in prison. But we are not free to rule ourselves either, you see? Magna Carta states we are Englishmen, yet we have no say. The king stifles our voices, and that, to me, is a very bitter kind of chain. One I work to rectify at my press.”

  I looked toward my home, where the peak of the grand house could just be seen. Where Father and Mother attempted to suppress my own voice, my own thoughts. Where I was told they did not matter. Aye, I understood the different kinds of chains Noah referred to more than I first realized.

  “There are some matters we should have a say in.”

  Sarah’s words rattled in my mind, creating a clear picture where before there had been only muddle.

  Noah gripped the railing of the bridge, his face suddenly fierce. “I don’t make merry with the Liberty Boys often, though I think I should like to. And I am called to. I tell you this in trust because you are my friend and I care for you, and I long to earn your trust.”

  I inched my hand from the warmth of my cloak, placed it on his arm. I’d never touched him before, and the action caused a dizzying sensation to course through me.

  He cared for me.

  Right then, I longed to be worthy of this man. This man who was nothing but riffraff in my father’s eyes, yet who to me was tenscore worthier than Samuel Clarke. “You have my trust, Noah. And now it is time I earn yours.”

  I was rewarded with a grin as wide as Mill Pond. He rustled within his cloak and pulled a book from his pocket.

  “A gift for you. We printed them last week. I purchased one from Henry Knox’s bookshop. I heard you expressing interest to Sarah one afternoon.”

  I took the book, warm from where it had rested beside his broad chest in the folds of his cloak.

  A True History of the Captivity and Restoration of Mrs. Mary Rowlandson. The story of Mrs. Rowlandson’s kidnapping by the Narragansett natives during King Philip’s War.

  “Noah . . . thank you. I shall treasure it forever.” Two precious gifts in one night. The last gift I’d received of such value had been from Uncle Daniel. I put my hand on Noah’s arm again, and this time he stared at me with an intensity that had me questioning everything I’d ever believed.

  I could make a life with this man, in the back of a printing shop if necessary, if he would but ask. I could allow Father to disown me, accept that I would never see Mother or Margaret again. I could take up the cause of freedom. I could explore what life was—who I was—without Mother and Father dictating it all for me.

  Yet Noah had not asked me to do any of those things, and in the next space of breath, reality came crashing upon me with all its expectations.

  Loyalty. Father and Mother demanded my loyalty. And in many ways, was not loyalty more honorable than liberty? I was bound to my parents—truly, who would I be without them?

  I slipped the book within the pocket of my cloak, knew I would need to hide it from Mother’s prying eyes, as my parents discouraged my reading anything save the Bible.

  We walked the remaining block to my home, where I turned and thanked Noah, my previous question longing for release. Once again, I ignored my intuition and my need to remain quiet and steadfast as a proper lady should; instead I opened my mouth.

  Mayhap Sarah had influenced me after all.

  “Noah, tell me which is more honorable—loyalty or liberty?”

  Beneath the warm glow of Father’s expansive house, his eyes twinkled. “I suppose that should depend on the worth of who or what one is loyal to, aye?”

  “If men were to constantly judge the worthiness of that to which they should be loyal—God or king or mother or father—would not the whole of society collapse?”

  “A fair question, and one we should discuss at length sometime—mayhap when we are not in the middle of the street.”

  “You dodge my question.”

  He stepped forward, closer to me than he’d been all night. I had the horrid sensation I should step back, run away, and the more horrid realization that I longed to press closer.

  His breath came upon my forehead, warm against the night. “I think I am merely in awe of your beautiful mind, Miss Emma. And I should further like to explore it. Will you—?”

  The front door of the house opened, spilling light upon us. We stepped apart. “Emma?” ’Twas Father. “In the house this instant. You are late. I’ve half a mind to take you over my knee.” His tall, solid figure shadowed the threshold.

  I rushed up the stairs without bidding Noah farewell, my father’s words the epitome of embarrassment.

  Noah’s voice came from behind. “Forgive me, sir. ’Tis my fault. I led Miss Emma the long way home to stay along well-traveled roads.”

  Father descended two stairs. “How dare you presume to speak to a gentleman such as myself? Stay away from my daughter. She is not suited for a tramp. And if you dare test my demands, know that Governor Hutchinson has promised to pay me a bounty of twenty shillings for every Yankee I kill.”

  I stood at the threshold, my hand along the imported wallpaper Mother had labored over choosing. I shook my head, not comprehending Father’s ill words toward the man I cared for.

  Noah mumbled a “Yes, sir.” He turned, head down, went back the way we had come.

  Father stomped up the stairs, rage on his features, and I braced myself for whatever physical punishment he deemed fit for my crime.

  And still, my question lingered.

  Which was more honorable?

  Loyalty . . . or liberty?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Emma

  I am more and more convinced that man is a dangerous creature and that power, whether vested in many or few, is ever grasping and, like the grave, cries, “Give, give!”

  ABIGAIL ADAMS

  “AH, MISS EMMA. You are lovelier than I remember.” Samuel Clarke’s words slid from his tongue, smooth as the silk ribbon holding the queue at the base of his neck.

  I smiled, thanked him as expected, wondered how Father could think us a well-made match.

  Then again, Father likely took no consideration of our personalities when deciding my future. No, mine was a match made with only monetary gain in mind.

  The Clarkes’ maid offered up a plate of chestnut fritters. As I raised my hand to receive one, for no other reason than to have something to do, the remembrance of Father’s painful grasp after Noah’s parting the other night came to the forefront of my mind. His words, like hot bacon grease, sizzled in my memory, along with the fire of his grip.

  “It will be your doing if that boy finds himself on the wrong end of my musket.”

  I understood, didn’t doubt that he would carry out his threat. If I cared for Noah, then I would stay away from him. Mayhap I had best stay away from the South End altogether. I needn’t put my friends in peril.

  Beside me, in a white broadcloth coat complete with silver basket buttons to match his knee bands, Samuel scooped up a mug of hot buttered rum, the ruffles at his hands perfectly positioned so as not to interfere with his reaching. “Your father tells me you spend your time minding the Fulton children. Such humdrum for the likes of yourself.”

  “I don’t mind. In fact—”

  “Now, now, once we wed, you needn’t worry about such nonsense.” He moved closer and I caught a whiff of sickeningly sweet cigar smoke. “I see a time soon when we will have our own brood romping around. And I will see to it you have all the help you need in caring for them so that you can concentrate on . . . other duties.”

  I expelled a breath—a nervous, mortified laugh coming along with it.

  I cared not a pig’s tooth how much money Samuel Clarke possessed nor how my parents
wished for our nuptials. How could I bear to be with him every day . . . every night? To live beside him, to share intimacies with him, to be his wife?

  Sarah had attested that by my own decisions, I might change the course of my life. Something that sounded so simple but was in fact the most complicated feat I could imagine. Because to find my voice meant to speak against my parents—to speak against my world.

  Sarah, Noah . . . they bade me stand up for what was true and right, for my future, and yet they hadn’t instructed me how to go about summoning the boldness to do so.

  Mother fluttered toward us in her blue velvet trimmed with ermine, a glass of Madeira in hand. “Isn’t it simply grand to have Samuel home again, Emma?” She rested her fingers on the broadcloth of Samuel’s arm. “She’s been just dabbling around the house, simpering over your departure. A complete pity, truly.”

  “Mother!”

  She turned doleful eyes in my direction while Samuel leered at me with a grin that churned my stomach.

  He must have mistaken my outburst for embarrassment, not chastisement toward the woman who birthed me, for he chuckled, a cocky, amused expression on his face. “Has she now?”

  I searched for my voice. But alas, again, it could not be found. And what would the recourse be if I were to outright deny Mother’s words?

  I had chosen to remain loyal, but Noah’s words pressed on my mind. Loyal to what? Loyal to whom? This woman who told untruths about me to secure her own future—did she command the price of my loyalty?

  A bitter taste gathered in the back of my mouth. “Forgive me, I fear I may be ill.” I left the room, bypassed Father and the elder Mr. Clarke laughing heartily over some matter, and slipped outside.

  The cool sea air swept over me, settled my stomach. I breathed it in. I felt my life was fast barreling in a direction I did not wish to go. And yet ’twas the way of things. Did that mean I should accept them?