by Kris Tualla
In fact, watching the two men, whom I loved more than anything else on God’s earth, work together in such masculine camaraderie warmed my heart tremendously.
I went into the root cellar and filled a pitcher with cool summer ale, and carried it to them with two mugs and two sausage rolls to bolster their energies. Reid smiled at me then, and I smiled back. Our intentions were in alignment once more.
This afternoon we are going to Athertons’ and will sup with them there. My father cannot go long without meeting the couple with whom my husband and I share so much of our lives.
May 16th
Pappa is sore today. He did not say so, but it was clear in the way he moved. Reid gave my father some of the liniment that he uses on the horses, and Addie made him some willowbark tea.
After being thus doctored, Pappa marched back into the construction fray, declaring himself happier to be stiff and sore, than to sit all day on his arse. I laughed, though I was shocked. Pappa never says ‘arse.’
Our visit with James and Beatrice yester eve was a complete delight. No one who meets James can possibly dislike him. The man is engaging and cheerful almost continuously, and he has the kindest and sincerest heart. Beatrice was the perfect hostess, as always, serving Pappa at a gracious level that rivaled the finest houses in Philadelphia.
I told her about all the wonderful things my father carried to us, especially the china because I knew she would appreciate it, and invited her to come and see when she has a chance. Bless her, Bea was almost as excited about the wealth of gifts as I was.
Reid and I will plan our trip to Saint Louis for next week to order the dining room pieces. As always, we will stay the night in our favorite hotel, and show Pappa that not everything in Missouri is wilderness.
May 19th
A man came to the door today while we were breakfasting. Addie answered the knock. Then she returned to the kitchen and told Reid that the man only said one thing: two-three-o.
Reid gave me a quelling look, and then hurried to the front door.
He spoke to the stranger in the doorway (unfortunately we could not hear what was said, though not for lack of trying) before sending him around the house to the kitchen, where the rest of our little household waited curiously. The visitor was ragged and had a bit of a wild look to him, and he rocked nervously as he waited for the plate of food which Reid handed to him. With a nod of thanks, he carried it a little way, and then sat down on the grass to eat.
I said, “Why did you not invite him in?”
Reid said, “I did. But he refused. He said he never goes inside stone buildings anymore.”
I said, “What is wrong with him?”
Pappa said, “War, Kirsten. It can ruin a man.”
I saw my father and my husband exchange a solemn look. They both understood something that I did not. But once the man was gone, I was determined to be informed.
May 21st
The man stayed on our property for two nights. During that time, he helped Reid with the barn, and Reid gave him some clothing. Addie washed the rags the stranger had been wearing, and got them as clean and repaired as she was able, tsking all the while.
Reid never told us the man’s name—I don’t believe he knew it—and the pair of them spent the late evening hours in quiet conversation on the front steps of the stone house. When my husband eventually came to bed, all he said was that he would tell me what was going on only after the man was gone.
Tonight, after supper, the stranger walked into the woods and disappeared. Reid told us that he would not be back. We gathered around the kitchen table—Pappa, Remy, Addie, and myself—and listened in fascination to the tale Reid told.
The man was a Culper spy, a member of George Washington’s elite and secretive band of men who carried sensitive information to his generals.
Addie said, “Is that why he would not say his name?”
Reid said, “Yes.”
Remy said, “So he called himself two-three-o instead?”
Reid paused and said, “Yes.”
Pappa frowned a little, but did not say anything. Reid continued his story, explaining that now that the war was over, the man had been released from his responsibilities. He was heading west, to start a new life out in the open, away from stone buildings.
I said, “What is wrong with stone buildings?”
Reid said, “He says they are tombs.”
Then he told us that the man had been taken prisoner by the British and had been locked in a tiny cell, very dark and cramped. My husband said that the man had lost his mind there, and he would never be the same man he was before the war.
My father said he had seen some of that in Philadelphia. That sometimes the death and destruction of the battlefield were more than a man could stand and still remain himself. We all grew very quiet then, each of us considering those words.
Later, when we said our goodnights, Pappa whispered in my ear.
He said, “Did you know Reid was a Culper man?”
I said, “I suspected as much. But he would never say so.”
Pappa said, “Of course not. But two-three-o was his number.”
I said, “How do you know?”
Pappa said, “Because the stranger asked for two-three-o when he came to the door. He knew Reid was here, and would give him aid.”
Pappa was right, of course. If I had thought about it, I might have figured it out for myself.
May 24th
The arrival of the Culper man had delayed our trip to Saint Louis, but today we are on our way at last. I have taken measurements of the dining room and noted them carefully, to assure that every piece we order will fit perfectly.
May 26th
Pappa was duly impressed with the Saint Louis Auberge Hotel, but he said that Remy might be a better cook than the current chef employed there. I gave Reid a sad look because I agreed.
My husband and I have talked about the Remy’s skills, and wondered if we should encourage him to move on.
And yet, with so many slave owners in Missouri, Remy would need to head north to escape that situation—and the danger of being re-enslaved. Someday we would have that discussion with the man. But selfishly, not quite yet.
Speaking of slaves, we did have a long discussion with Pappa during the wagon ride to Saint Louis. He asked about James and Beatrice’s situation, and as soon as Reid told him they were from North Carolina, my father understood.
Reid assured Pappa that James saw to his slaves’ well-being quite arduously. And, that my husband had paid off Remy’s costs before he brought the man into our employ as a free man.
We visited three shops in Saint Louis before deciding where to order our furniture. Reid told the craftsman that we had an entire house to fill and, if his work proved to be as high in quality as it seemed, there would be an ample supply of further orders. The craftsman’s eyes became very bright, and he showed us all manner of samples of his work.
In the end, we chose a large table with curved legs and clawed feet, twelve chairs with upholstered seats and carved backs, and a sideboard where the china will be stored. While I initially believed I wanted a glass-fronted cabinet, once I measured the room and considered how best to fill it, I decided on the sideboard instead.
Reid approved every choice because he is a very wise man, one who cares more about a happy wife, than what style of legs his dining table has.
The furniture was promised in seven weeks. I hope Pappa will still be here to see it.
June 27th
The barn is completed at last. And the very moment it was, James appeared on our doorstep to discuss with Reid the idea of building a shared smoke house and spring house on the border of our properties.
If he did not like James so much, I think Reid might have punched him in the face.
July 24th
I begged Pappa to stay until the dining room pieces arrived, and he said he would. The pieces arrived yesterday (and they are absolute perfection!) so tonight we took our firs
t formal meal in that room. Cooked by Remy, served by Addie, and eaten off the new china with the new, engraved silverware, everything was positively regal.
And I should know.
Sadly, Pappa stated during dessert that the time had come for him to begin the journey back to Philadelphia. That while he has immensely enjoyed his visit to the wilds of Missouri (which, he said, were not nearly so wild as he expected) he had neglected his wife long enough. I know it is true, but the thought of his departure saddens me nonetheless.
I said, “We will travel with you to Saint Louis. Our second anniversary is nearing, and we shall celebrate it early.”
Reid took my hand, smiled at me, and said, “That is an excellent suggestion, Prinsesse.”
My husband is a wonderfully understanding man. He always has been, though it took me quite some time to figure that out. Thankfully I did come around, before it was too late.
July 26th
We are leaving this morning for Saint Louis, but before we do I must document the astounding conversation I had with Pappa yester evening. We had finished supper and he asked me to sit on the porch with him for a pace. Reid said he had work to do in his office. I am quite certain that my husband wanted to allow me the chance to be alone with my father one last time.
I carried an oil lamp outside and set it on a little table between two wooden chairs. At first, we did not speak. We listened to the sounds of locusts in the trees, and frogs in the creek. Little flying bugs that lit up at night danced around in the soft breeze.
Finally, Pappa turned to face me. His expression was sober, and of a sudden I worried about what he might say.
He said, “You are back to yourself, datter. And I am glad for it.”
Though I knew, I said, “What do you mean, Pappa?”
He said, “After you came back from Norway, you were changed.”
I thought I was going to cry. I never wanted my parents to know what happened to me, and I tried so very hard to hide it from them. My eyes stung with unshed tears.
He said, “If your mamma noticed, she never said anything to me.”
I could not speak. There was nothing I could say without crumbling. So I simply nodded. Pappa took my hand and held it so tenderly that I could not stop my tears from spilling down my cheeks.
He said, “I am not asking you to tell me what happened. If you wanted to, you would have done so years ago.”
My shoulders began to shake. I fumbled in my pocket for my handkerchief, and wiped my eyes.
I said, “I’m sorry, Pappa. I did not wish to hurt you or Mamma.”
Pappa slid his chair closer to me and said, “But I do have one question.”
Though I was afraid, I said, “What is that?”
His brow twitched, and he said, “Does what happened in Norway have anything to do with why you and Reid have not started a family?”
The sobs burst from my throat, then. Pappa gathered me in his arms as easily as if I was still a small child. And I let him. Years of secrets and fears seemed to wash away with my tears at his simple acknowledgement and loving acceptance.
When I calmed enough, I said, “It might be so.”
He said, “Does Reid know?”
Between sobs I said, “Yes. I told him everything so he would stop asking me to marry him.”
My father chuckled, then. Such an odd sound in the night, considering the seriousness of our delicate subject matter.
Then he said, “We know that it did not work.”
I said, “No. He was stubborn enough to walk nine hundred miles and ask me again.”
And then my father fully laughed. He hugged me closer, his shoulders shaking, but with tears wetting my forehead.
I think he cried for my pain, so long unmentioned. And I think he cried for my barren state, and for his lack of grandchildren to pass my inheritance to. And I think he cried and laughed with relief, that I was once again happy, and now loved.
I said, “Reid said that a childless life with me, was far preferable to any life without me.”
Pappa said, “Reid is a good man.”
I said, “I am so happy, Pappa. You do not need to worry over me anymore.”
Pappa kissed my forehead, and said, “And so I will not.”
July 28th
Pappa sailed yesterday afternoon, planning to retrace his route up the Ohio River, and then across Pennsylvania by land. Reid had our supper served in the hotel room yester evening—something I never considered asking about—so that I could be teary-eyed without attracting any curious and unwanted attention.
He also ordered two bottles of wine, and refilled my glass until I was woozy. I think his plan was to ensure that I would sleep well, and not cry all night.
I told him about my conversation with Pappa. He was not surprised that my father knew something bad had happened to me, especially when I was so vehemently set against getting married to anyone.
And when two years of, what must honestly be called a vigorous union, have passed with no sign of offspring, my father must have added the parts together.
I told Reid that I felt better, now that Pappa knew. It was as if I didn’t need to think about it ever again.
August 4th
We stayed in Saint Louis until today, our actual second anniversary. We slept when we wanted to, ate when we were hungry, and made love with the frequency of the rabbits in our clearing.
After working so hard on the house and barn, my husband sorely needed the physical respite, as much as I needed the emotional one. I felt renewed when we prepared to drive back, and judging by the softening of the lines I his face, I believe Reid felt the same as I.
This afternoon, when the wagon reached our land and the stone house came into view, Reid stopped the horses and took hold of my hand.
He said, “We have done well here, Prinsesse.”
I kissed him tenderly and said, “And we are not yet finished.”
~ 1785 ~
April 12th
I am embarrassed to see that eight months have passed without my making an entry in this journal. Our life has fallen into a routine, and a busy one, so I am afraid that the entries would have become monotonous in any event. The house is almost furnished now: the drawing room, dining room, and two servants’ rooms on the ground floor are livable, and the big bedroom plus Reid’s office on the upper floor are done.
Reid’s study on the first floor and the two additional bedrooms on the upper floor are still waiting, but because they are not in current use, there has been no urgency.
What has prompted me to return to this narrative today has been twofold. First, the Scotsman is back because it is time once again to shear the sheep. Addie and I have been giggling all week over the recollection of last year’s hilarious display, but I do hope that Reid’s and James’ skills will improve for efficiency’s sake. I know my husband has been thinking about it, because I caught sight of him grabbing some of the sheep and practicing the motions.
Our flock has grown from five ewes and one ram, to a flock of eighteen this spring. The eight new little ones will not be sheared, but the ten adults will be. After the shearing here, Reid will go to James’ and help him shear his flock, which I believe is about three dozen in all. James never does anything halfway, it seems.
The second thing that has prompted me to take pen in hand once more, is the brand new spinning wheel sitting in Reid’s unused ground floor study. This is a new contraption, intended to spin even lengths of yarn from cleaned wool. Addie says she knows how to prepare the wool, and is excited to learn how to spin it with the new wheel.
If she and I can succeed, we might begin to knit our own socks, mittens, and other cozy items. Perhaps even dye the yarn in festive colors. I must admit, I am intrigued.
April 13th
The sheep are sheared, a task requiring only half the time as last year. The Scotsman did not utter one profanity, and Reid considers that the bravest of praises.
Afterwards, he went off with James, and A
ddie and I were tasked with cleaning and preparing the matted batts of thick wool. This process is not for the weak and puny, I can assure the reader of that.
First, we needed a large pot of boiling water. Remy set that up for us in the pit where he burns his barbecue fires. While the water heated, Addie and I pulled the sheared fleece apart to release whatever might be caught in it—twigs and leaves, mostly. Then we put the loosened wool into the water.
