The Orchard House

by Heidi Chiavaroli

  The clamor grew louder and more frantic. Surely they didn’t mean to harm anyone. I wondered if John Fulton were among the group, but I found it difficult to believe Sarah’s husband would contribute to such a fracas.

  I slid toward the window, curiosity overcoming me.

  “Emma, get away from there!” Mother’s voice rose on edge, but ’twas so filled with terror it appeared uncontrolled, giving me the courage to ignore it.

  Outside, a crowd had gathered with tin lanterns and pine-knot torches, shaking fists.

  “Listen to the Body or suffer the consequences!”

  “This is our town. We won’t be daunted by the likes of you!”

  “Huzzah!”

  Additional “Huzzahs!” met our ears.

  From another window upstairs, on the far side of the house, Samuel shouted down to the crowd. “You rascals, be gone or I’ll blow your brains out!”

  “He can’t mean it,” I whispered. Though I understood the fear which would make him say such words. And Father . . . he must be near insane with rage to be locked up in the Clarke home, at the mercy of a mob . . . for once, not in control.

  Was a bloody fracas to start this very night, in this very home?

  The crowd called back hisses and shouts at Samuel.

  The fire of a pistol shattered the frozen night air.

  The women behind me screamed, the gun’s explosion echoing down School Street and all the way to the harbor. Though the mob grew silent, they certainly wouldn’t take kindly to the shot. I sank back from the window, fearful to look down and see an injured person.

  “Dear Father in heaven.” Catherine Clarke whispered a quiet prayer, the scent of gunpowder finding its way to us.

  Banging started then. Catsticks on the black iron hitches in front of the Clarke home. Then the shatter of glass and the sound of wood splitting. I crept closer to the window to see men throwing stones and brickbats at the first-floor windows of the house.

  I clamped my hand over my mouth, wondered what was to become of us. Would they burn the house to the ground? Drag Father and the Clarkes away to be tarred and feathered? They seemed to grow mad, insensible. What might they do to the women in the house?

  For once, I wished I were a man. Each day I hated this helpless feeling more and more. In Father’s circles—in most of the world—women were to remain quiet and keep their noses out of politics. Yet here, now, we were in the thick of it, and without one opinion or claim to call our own.

  From down the street I glimpsed the bob of torches. As they neared, my heart beat out a thrumming as fast as the cycle of a spinning wheel.

  Noah. And John.

  They did not know of my presence. Would I see them contribute to this tumult? I’d respected them, thought them beyond such measures, but truly, how well did I know either one? I’d heard that men often acted differently when outside the home, some of the less honorable visiting local brothels. I’d heard rumors of Samuel doing so, had wondered how I could reconcile marriage to such a faithless man.

  But Noah and John? Join the fomented rabble below? To fight for a cause was one matter. But with such unruliness?

  A voice rose above the crowd. John’s. “Men, stop this madness.” I exhaled my relief, pressed my forehead against the cold pane of the window.

  A few of the men elbowed one another, quieted, nodded toward John. “Let us not indulge in violence, but act in honor at all times. Surely an agreement can be reached.”

  A man from the crowd waved a catstick. “I’ve an agreement for ya. We shall disperse if the Clarkes choose to stop aligning themselves against their country and promise to appear at our town meeting scheduled tomorrow aft. Either that, or agree to reship the tea this minute.”

  The crowd stomped their feet, yelled hearty assent.

  Samuel laughed loudly, still from the second-story window. “Fie! We shall not acknowledge illegal and underhanded meetings beneath trees! Especially not those with men of low rank, who choose to ruin honest men’s personal property and throw our women in distress.”

  The crowd grew fierce at Samuel’s words. I near cursed him in my head for stirring them up again when John had attempted to dispel their vigor.

  A shrill whistle pierced the night air, and Noah climbed atop the Clarkes’ carriage step. “Men of Boston! I beg of you, listen to reason! Is this the way to come to a solution? Out on a winter’s night, yelling at one another, terrorizing the ladies in the house?” My heart blossomed tenfold for him in that moment. I knew his beliefs, but here he stood for what was moral and right. Though unaware of my presence, he defended the ladies within. He defended Father, who had belittled and embarrassed and cursed him just days earlier. “Let us not forget ourselves in this dispute. Let us not be accused of using violence to obtain that which is honorable and right. Let us not reduce ourselves to indecorum. Instead, let us conduct ourselves with poise and grace as we demand our God-given rights as people who should have a voice within our government!”

  Some cheered his words, shouting, “Huzzah,” stomping their feet as a sort of applause. Yet some in the crowd turned away, mumbling, likely not impressed with Noah’s speech and the impasse it brought on the entire gathering.

  Nevertheless, the crowd did disperse. Father and the Clarke men came from the house to clean the shattered glass left on the walkway. Noah and John stooped to help, and when I realized they would stay and aid the Clarkes, I pushed through Mother and Mrs. Clarke to descend the stairs.

  I would not be welcome outside with the men, but I made busy cleaning the glass inside the parlor, staring intently until Noah straightened from his work and caught my gaze. His mouth parted in surprise, and hiding myself partly behind the drapes, I raised my hand in greeting and gratitude.

  He dipped his head, the tug of a half smile upon his face as he stared at me. I hadn’t seen him since the night he escorted me home. I suspected he avoided the Fultons, not wishing to garner more trouble for me by way of my father.

  Yet, to see him now . . . something bold and new burst within my heart.

  What Noah took part in, what he thought worthy to fight for, who he was—titled gentleman or not—was noble. The thought made me feel at home, secure. Quite of a sudden, I longed to be a part of it.

  “You there!”

  Noah snapped to attention at Samuel’s words.

  “Do you dare ogle my intended through my father’s broken windows? Off with you, now, you hear? We needn’t any more aid from the likes of you.”

  I despised Samuel’s haughty tone, the very voice of the man I was to wed.

  And as Noah dipped his head again to me and then to Samuel beneath Father’s glare, I knew without a doubt whose side I longed to be on.

  Nay, it might not be moral for the mobs to attack the Clarke house, but neither was it moral for those of a certain station to snub their noses at others as if they were plebeians, riffraff, and blackguards. Especially the likes of Noah, who had curtailed the fury of the mob with his timely words and peaceful presence.

  For the first time, I saw clearly why Sarah, John, Noah, and the Liberty Boys fought so adamantly for that which was not yet theirs.

  They were in a sort of prison. One where the gaolers told them they mattered less than their fellow humans. One where they were denied a voice.

  One where they and their families were forced to endure circumstances they didn’t have a decision in, forced to bow to the whims of the so-called gentlemen of the town. Men like Samuel. Men like my father.

  Watching Noah’s torch bob away in the inky night, I vowed not to stand on fence posts any longer. I vowed to do what I could for the decent folk of the town—unlike me perhaps, but worthy people nonetheless. I would follow Noah’s example and stand as a light for that which was noble and right.

  Samuel entered the house again, disgust on his face at the broken glass near my slippers. “Your father tells me that ruffian takes an interest in you. We’ve decided it best you no longer visit the South End, Emma. No
w that I am home, there is no need, and you have a wedding to plan and a trip across the sea to prepare yourself for. Is that clear?”

  I pressed my lips together, breathed through my nose, the fierceness of a fairy-tale dragon longing to break free. Yet I must plan my steps with care and wisdom. Succumbing to feisty feelings would not do, not if I were to truly take charge of the design formulating in my mind.

  “Emma. Is that clear?”

  I raised my chin to Samuel, for the first time thankful that I would not be his wife in the end.

  “Aye, Samuel. You are indeed very clear.”

  If I could grasp this newfound courage, refuse to release it to weakness, refuse to doubt whether or not I owed my parents my loyalty, then mayhap I would find my voice after all.

  Click here to buy now

  Discussion Questions

  In The Orchard House, Taylor and Johanna are both looking for a place to belong. Why do you think they feel as if they don’t belong? How do they try to fill the void they feel in their lives? Are there times when searching for love might lead to unhealthy patterns or choices? What are some healthy ways to feel loved?

  Why does Taylor feel that hope isn’t always a safe option? Describe a time in your life when being hopeful about something felt like it might be setting you up for disappointment. How did you find balance between holding on to hope and not surrendering to disappointment?

  Louisa tries to warn Johanna about Nathan Bancroft, but in the end Johanna has to make her own decision about whether she will continue to develop her relationship with Nathan. Have you ever had to have a difficult conversation with a friend regarding a concerning relationship or a decision they were making? What would you have said to Johanna about Nathan if you had been Louisa?

  In the midst of her clashes with Louisa about Nathan, Johanna wonders, “Couldn’t friends disagree and remain amicable?” How does this play out between Louisa and Johanna? Between Taylor and Victoria? In your relationships?

  How did you feel after you found out Victoria betrayed Taylor by kissing Will? How would you have responded if you’d been Taylor?

  After Victoria betrays their friendship, Taylor goes years without forgiving her. How does this unforgiveness affect Taylor’s life and her relationships with others? What might have happened if Taylor was willing to forgive Victoria sooner?

  As Taylor sits with her mom during chemo treatments, she wonders about the worth of bad stuff—“could it possibly produce something good in the end?” What does she conclude? How would you answer this question?

  What consequences does Johanna find in ignoring the advice of her friend and pursuing a relationship with Nathan Bancroft? What are some of the dangers of placing all our hopes and sense of worthiness in our relationships with others?

  How does Johanna’s writing of the poems during her tumultuous marriage help her deal with the hard times she faces? Have you ever tried writing or journaling to help you when you’re dealing with something difficult in your life?

  Despite knowing that Nathan has a problem with alcohol (what we’d call substance abuse today), Johanna feels that her love might be enough to save him, to rescue him. How have you seen this pattern repeated in the lives of people you know? Why is it such a temptation to believe we can save those we love? What is it that they really need?

  As a writer, Taylor understands the power of story—and the importance of telling both the good ones and the bad ones. What do Taylor and Victoria learn from Johanna’s story? How might stories “birth new life” for someone?

  Though living in different centuries, Johanna and Victoria face similar challenges in their relationships with abusive men. What has changed since the 1860s, and what remains the same? In what ways is it easier today for women to get help? In what ways are their struggles similar to what they have been throughout history?

  About the Author

  HEIDI CHIAVAROLI (pronounced shev-uh-roli . . . sort of like Chevrolet and ravioli mushed together) wrote her first story in third grade, titled I’d Cross the Desert for Milk. It wasn’t until years later that she revisited writing, using her two small boys’ nap times to pursue what she thought at the time was a foolish dream. Despite a long road to publication, she hasn’t stopped writing since!

  Heidi writes women’s fiction, combining her love of history and literature to write split-time stories. Her debut novel, Freedom’s Ring, was a Carol Award winner and a Christy Award finalist, a Romantic Times Top Pick and a Booklist Top Ten Romance Debut. Heidi loves exploring places that whisper of historical secrets, especially with her family. She loves running, hiking, baking, and dates with her husband. Heidi makes her home in Massachusetts with her husband and two sons. Visit her online at heidichiavaroli.com.