The Tea Chest

by Heidi Chiavaroli

  Pushing the covers aside, I donned my robe and swept my long curls back, uttering a prayer for strength and wisdom as I faced my heart.

  I unlatched the window and one side swung open, allowing a cold chill to envelop the room. Noah clutched the ledge, staring at me while staying outside, as if attempting to decipher something.

  I could not hold up beneath his gaze, so I walked to the hearth, where I attempted to stoke the fire. I laid kindling upon the glowing embers until one caught, a bright flame flickering within the room. When I turned, he was inside, shutting the window, the pillow slip filled with my belongings in his hand.

  We stood like two strangers, spaces apart.

  “You forgot your things.” He placed them on the floor. I saw the sharp outline of the book he’d given me upon the wide wood boards, the bump of Sarah’s cup beside it. I could scarce believe she still wanted me to have it.

  I should say something. If I failed to put a wall between us now, I would betray my feelings with words that we would both come to regret.

  “You should not have come.”

  “I should not have come?” He stepped toward me, raised his hand as if to touch me, then drew away, took off his hat instead. “I should not have come?” he said again, disbelief drenching his words. “What would you have me do, Emma, after last night? After the planning of our future together?”

  I dragged in a great breath, summoned every last bit of fortitude I could muster.

  “I never meant to hurt you, Noah.”

  He snorted, and the derisive sound of it cut a hole in my soul. He must leave. What if Samuel had guards watching the house? What if someone had seen Noah climb our portico? What if Father heard a man’s voice within my chambers?

  “Did you plan it all, Emma? Did your father put you up to it? Did you gain any useful information?”

  I shook my head, placed a hand over my eyes. “Nay, Noah. Please—you must go. He may be watching.”

  By the light of the fire, his clenched jaw softened. “Who? Who is watching?”

  A sob broke loose from my chest, erupting in a loud sound that I tried to cover with my hand.

  Noah grasped my arms, and yet how differently my body responded to his touch than to Samuel’s. I could feel his fingers upon my skin, the thin covering of my robe the only barrier between us, intense longing welling within me.

  “So help me, Emma. Tell me!”

  “Samuel,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry. I found your oath this morning—you must have dropped it last night. I went down to the beach to dispose of the feathers. Samuel saw me with your list—you must believe that I tried to keep it from him.”

  Noah’s hands fell to his sides as he stared at the floor, seeming to try to make sense of my words.

  “He made me promise to return to my father, to agree to marry him. That’s the only way I could stop him from going to the governor with your list. I’m sorry, Noah. I am so very sorry.”

  Relief swept over his face. “You love me.”

  I nodded through my tears, and he clutched me, held me close before pushing me back once more, staring at me.

  Something foreign stole over his features then, something unrecognizable and hard beneath the shadows of the fire, growing and mounting within him. “I will kill him.”

  I laid a hand on his arm. “No—no, you mustn’t.”

  “He hasn’t a right to extort you in this manner, to ruin both our lives. All those men who signed that oath—what have I done? I do not see another solution. I must have that list back.”

  I closed my eyes, could understand Noah’s urge even as I knew it would be the wrong path. “My love, listen to me, please.” My words belied the turmoil in my heart. I lifted a hand to his cheek, stroked it lightly until the murderous look on his face cleared. “Let us not be accused of using violence to obtain that which is honorable and right.”

  Something terribly forlorn came over his features as he realized I used his own words to argue against what his flesh longed for. His gaze turned glassy as I watched the battle between what he believed as moral and what he longed to take and declare as his own, his right.

  I understood.

  “I will get your list back and see it returns into your hands.” I was proud of the steadiness of my voice, the strength I nearly felt. “We could not begin a marriage with blood upon our hands. We must believe there is another way for us.”

  “I don’t see it,” he whispered.

  “Nor do I, but we will pray for a miracle. And if none is given, then this must be the sacrifice we are to make, though it breaks my heart to do so.”

  He sniffed, swallowed. “If it were my life alone at stake, I would take you away now.” He pulled me close, burying me in his strong arms. “But it is not. Every man who signed that oath is in danger, and I cannot be so very selfish as to pretend that is not true, that it is not my fault they are in danger.”

  He tilted his head to mine and brushed his mouth against my own. A sadness lingered in the kiss, and at the same time the realization that this might be all we had. This moment. I sank into it, allowing him to draw me close, savoring the solidness of him along every inch of my body, his surety and steadfastness.

  When we finally broke away, he rested his forehead against mine. “I don’t know if I can live with the thought of you marrying him. We must find a plan. Surely there is a way to get the list back. I know men who may be able to help. Perhaps search his home whilst he is away.”

  “For all we know he will keep it in his pocket until our vows are said. It is dangerous, Noah. I can’t fathom anyone risking more than they already have.”

  He turned from me to face the window, raked a hand through his hair, frustration in the hard gesture. “I must do something! I refuse to accept this fate.”

  I stepped toward him, my bare feet cold on the wood planks. I touched his shoulder and he looked toward me. What I was about to say did not give me pleasure, but we must face the reality of our situation.

  “I think what was begun last night—the dumping of the tea—was about more than standing up for our rights or finding our voices. I think it was about risk and sacrifice for the greater good.” I continued even as his eyes grew glassy in the firelight, even as he shook his head. “I would not regret saving the lives of the men on that list, Noah. I would not regret saving Sarah’s husband and the father of her children. I would not regret saving you. Mayhap the sooner we make peace with that, the better.”

  He gathered me to him again, hunger and desperation in his embrace, in his kiss. I gave myself over to it fully. When I felt we reached the edge of a passion we could not return from, I pressed my hands to his chest. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “You should go. You’ve been here too long already. Samuel has forbidden any contact with you or the Fultons. I fear he watches.”

  “This is not the end for us, Emma.” He crushed me to him, then pulled back to grasp my arms and look in my face. “You hear me? This is not the end. I will find a way, I swear it.”

  I did not see how it could be, yet that precious thing called hope perched within my heart, ready to take flight. I tried to clip its wings, to stuff it down. I had chosen where to give my loyalty and to fight for liberty whilst doing so.

  “Please go,” I whispered. “Go to Medford with John and Sarah. Begin anew. I will not fault you for it. In fact, I beg you to heed my words.”

  He kissed me once more before vowing his love forever. And then he was gone, the chill of the night air sweeping in to replace the warmth of his presence. I went to the window, watched him walk up the street with hunched shoulders.

  And though I couldn’t regret our time together so much as to wish we’d never met, I thought that, for his sake, it would have been better had I never laid eyes on Noah Winslow at all.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Emma

  Rally, Mohawks! Bring out your axes,

  And tell King George we’ll pay no taxes!

  BOSTON STREET BALLAD

&nb
sp; JANUARY 1774

  While the dumping of the tea made the accursed beverage scarce in the town of Boston, it also made it all the more talked about. Father purchased both the Chronicle and the Gazette, and I often snuck into his parlor after breakfast when he was away to glimpse the headlines.

  I suppose it should not come as a surprise that my heart cheered the news of the Liberty Boys’ victories—of approval from New York and Philadelphia stating Boston had “fully retrieved” the honor we lost, of Charleston refusing to receive East India tea as well, of the new harmony among the colonies beneath the agreement that tea was dangerous to our rights—a plague of sorts to our freedoms.

  Some in Boston did not care a whit for the politics behind tea but did away with it as soon as they read mysterious reports of East India tea being packed into tea chests by Chinese peasants with bare and dirtied, disease-infected feet.

  Drinking tea became a disgrace, an idol. No longer was it the fashionable social occasion it had once been. Now, it was looked on as a pastime for the idle, the tea table a place of slander and gossip. It was blamed for scurvy, bad teeth, and weak nerves. Even Mother had ceased to serve it at her table after the image of peasant feet upon her leaves planted itself within her mind.

  And then there were bonfires to destroy the tea—one in Lexington, which occurred days earlier, and another in Charlestown on the last day of the year; another in the center of town as news of a Mr. Withington, who discovered a half chest of tea washed up near Dorchester, attempted to sell the leaves to his neighbors. It did not take long for the Sons to get ahold of it and set it burning on the Common.

  The Chronicle, however, backed by the funds of the customshouse, heralded a different story, declaring the dumping of the tea not a heroic means of defending liberty but a scandalous act of cowardice and vandalism, the dishonorable and unholy disrespect evident in the destruction of private property. Those of the distinguished South, particularly Virginians, turned their noses at the call to give up their tea.

  Meanwhile, the Clarkes seemed frantic to regain their loss. Samuel did not come to the house often, for which I was relieved. Instead, I bore much time with Mother and Mrs. Clarke, planning the spring nuptials, the linens and clothing I would need after the wedding, and our trip to London, from which I would likely not return.

  Through the hushed tones of Mother and Mrs. Clarke, I learned that Samuel had attempted to save a load of tea from one of his ships at Castle Island. He waited for an opportune time to smuggle the load into Boston—perhaps hide it under containers of coal or in casks of wine, to swear a false oath when declaring his goods at the customshouse.

  Father continued to avoid me. I suppose that meant I wasn’t yet forgiven. In truth, I found myself quite content with the arrangement. If I were to live the next months beneath his roof, I would rather not bear the direct criticisms and diatribes of guilt. ’Twas clear I would never hold a place in my father’s heart—that was not like to change in the few months that remained between us.

  And though Mother and I had never spent so much time together, I felt she did not forgive me either. There seemed a hollowness between us as we prepared for the wedding, an emptiness that she attempted to fill with social calls and pleasantries and shallow plans based on financial prosperity.

  I heard nothing more from Noah. Or Sarah, for that matter. I hoped they had left Boston, had gone on with their plans to move to Medford. I tried not to imagine a future that could no longer be. I tried not to lie in my bed at night and imagine Noah’s strong arms around me, even as I whispered prayers for a miracle I didn’t believe would happen. And when I dreamed of the man I loved, I tried not to dwell on the feeling of him by my side, to call my own.

  I tried.

  But loneliness, defeat, and abandonment crept in. Deep down, I hoped Noah would, as he had vowed, find a way for us.

  Meanwhile, the entire town seemed to hold its collective breath. ’Twould be months before news of the tea dumping would reach the king, months longer before the colonies would hear his response.

  I’d heard Father and Mother speaking in the parlor one night. Mother pleaded with Father for all of us to leave, or at least join the other agents upon Castle Island.

  But Father’s pride seemed ever before him. I thought his insistence to stay was born of stubborn protest against the recent handbills appearing throughout the town—threats of punishment for any tea consignees who attempted to leave Castle Island, exhortations to the people of Boston to give the consignees “a reception as such vile ingrates deserve.”

  The handbill had been signed by the chairman of the Committee for Tarring and Feathering.

  Father’s tone had been harsh when he responded to Mother. “Do not dare question my decisions for my family, Clara. I’ve a job to do and I won’t leave this town unless it be in a casket.”

  The two feet of snow that blanketed the city would have been beautiful in another time. Instead, it further served to imprison me. I spent most of my days in my chambers. When I realized that forgetting Noah was useless, I took to writing about him, not much more than musings at first, then longer stories. Beneath my pen, I wrote out our story, however small and tragic, but embellished it with a happy ending—the story I would never live but on the pages of paper.

  ’Twas highly irregular for a lady to take to scribbling stories, though I cared little. Here, in my musings and imaginings, I could escape. I could live a life other than the one I resigned myself to.

  Then, lest Chloe or Mother should find them, I hid them away in the tea chest beneath my bed, trusting this object of rebellion to store my secrets.

  I’d been whiling away one frigid morning with my story, clinging to the precious little time I had left with it. ’Twould be painful to burn the papers before I married Samuel, yet by now I was accustomed to the pain of denying my heart. ’Twas for the good of Noah, the good of the Fultons, the good of the cause. And so ’twas worthy.

  A loud shout came from outside. I ignored it, assumed it was one of the many boys on wooden sleds taking advantage of the snowy trails of the streets, free of horses and oxcarts. They led a fabulous sledding run from the top of Copp’s Hill.

  Another shout, but this time the definite voice of a man. I left my story for the window, cracked it open to glimpse a man and a boy at the end of our street a short distance away. The cold cut through my lungs, and I was about to fetch a quilt from my bed when I recognized Father’s tall, sturdy form over the boy, perhaps eleven years old. Father’s cane was raised above his head. “Do you talk to me in that style, you rascal!”

  Another man, one who looked vaguely familiar and who had been passing by our street, held his hand out to Father. “Leave the child alone. He be coasting, is all. He didn’t mean to run into ya.”

  A look of relief passed over the boy’s face at the sight of his defender.

  I held my breath and waited for Father’s response when it came to me who the man was—Mr. Hewes, a shoemaker in the North End. I remembered my lack of surprise when I read his name upon Noah’s oath. And though Father wouldn’t know Mr. Hewes had secretly played a Mohawk little more than a month ago, he likely realized the artisan’s political leanings did not match his own.

  Never one to back down from a fight, Father’s cackle split the cold morning air, and I cringed, embarrassed for myself and for him. ’Twas one thing to disagree over crown and tea, but must he be so vile toward every man in town? I could only imagine how this situation might deteriorate.

  “You—a vagabond, dare you speak to a gentleman such as myself in this manner?”

  Mr. Hewes smiled slowly, lazily, it seemed. Apparently he was not one to avoid a fight either. “Be that as it may, at least I never was tarred and feathered anyhow.”

  As far as I was aware, no one had been bold enough to speak of the incident in Falmouth to Father’s face. I could scarce believe my eyes when Father turned his cane upon Mr. Hewes, smashing him with much force in the head. I cried out, gripped the sil
l of the window.

  Mr. Hewes collapsed in the snow, and I watched in terror, willing him to get up, move, make a gesture—something that might indicate life.

  The boy looked on, his hands seemingly frozen to the wooden sled which had started the entire fray. But nay, ’twas not the fault of the boy nor the sled. If one were to truly get at the root of the problem, one would find—I was quite certain—the dregs of tea.

  I recognized one of our neighbors, Captain Godfrey, walking with brisk steps past our house. He’d seen Father’s actions, no doubt.

  The captain called out to Father. “Man, what have you done?” He knelt at Mr. Hewes’s side, turned to the boy. “Fetch Dr. Warren, lad. Be quick about it.”

  “I will not be maligned on my very own street, Captain. I’ve enough of the impudent remarks.”

  “He’s not armed, Mr. Malcolm!”

  Father turned on his heel and hastened home. I shrank from view, careful to close the window after he had already entered downstairs.

  Moments later, I watched as Captain Godfrey helped an unsteady Mr. Hewes to his feet. I breathed in gratitude that the man was alive. He would see the doctor. Dr. Warren, the Patriot. A friend of John and Sarah’s.

  What would the repercussions be for such a blow to the head? Surely Mr. Hewes or Dr. Warren would entreat a town official for Father’s arrest, at the very least. But nay, they would know that a man of Father’s station—a man supported by the crown—would surely evade prison with Governor Hutchinson’s help.

  Where, then, did that leave Father?

  As the afternoon hours wore on, I felt a tight silence outside our house—a warning of an impending storm.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Emma

  The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph.