by Carla J Gade
“This afternoon, sir.”
Father craned his neck toward Joshua. “Then how will I get any work done?” He turned again, rocking back on the heels of his buckled shoes.
Joshua leaned against a large oak table in the center of the room and addressed his father’s broad back. “Sir, the cloth has been in storage for nearly a year, since the Non-Importation Agreement last autumn. It became musty and mouse infested . . .”
“I thought I told you to get a cat,” Father murmured.
Joshua continued, “And now it’s water-damaged. We could not have sold it in that condition when the embargo lifts in January next—if, in fact, it does. We should have disposed of it months ago.”
“Why did our customers have to boycott our textiles? I paid the duties before I signed that agreement with the other Boston merchants. I have lost on both ends!” Father pounded his fist into the air.
Joshua squeezed the edge of the table, attempting to remain calm. It would do him no good to succumb to his father’s volatile mood—the same demon he endeavored to tame in himself—yet the vigor in his speech rose a notch. “There are rumors from the Sons of Liberty about a movement to extend the embargo. Even if nothing comes of that, many patriots will continue to boycott merchandise coming from England.”
Father twisted toward Joshua. “Do not raise your voice to me. I’m as good a patriot as the next man. But the consequences of refusing to comply with the Townsend Acts, thereby not paying Britain for the expenses of the French and Indian War, are wearing on me. I lost my father in that war. Is not that enough? Must I now lose my business?”
Joshua tightened his jaw as he met his father’s bulging eyes. He loathed when Father became like this, an occurrence more frequent over recent months. Mayhap Father needed a bloodletting to restore his humors. Or a stiff tankard of syllabub, though he doubted either would help. Joshua took a deep breath to temper his growing exasperation. Why couldn’t he see reason?
“Father, I am merely trying to explain the situation. With all due respect, I am not the one who is yelling.”
“Then alter your tone.” Father turned back and planted his hands on the windowsill.
Joshua hung his head and exhaled a grunt. “I believe ’tis my message you dislike.” Joshua braced himself for another round. “Father, I have been trying to get you to see this since last fall when we received that last shipment.” Joshua clasped his hands behind his head, staring at the water-damaged ceiling and the bucket below catching a drip. “I told Andrew to spare what was salvageable and distribute it to the needy with some bars of lye soap. Perhaps they can give it a good washing and find it useful still.”
“Hmmph. Did your mother instruct you to do that? Now I have to pay for soap? Why not hire a laundress do it for them? Better yet, we shall hire them to do their own work.”
Joshua stared, dumfounded.
Father wagged his finger. “Your munificent mother is too generous for her own good . . . and mine.”
On cue, Joshua’s mother entered the office. “Did I hear you mention me, my beloveds?” She pecked Father on the cheek and smiled at Joshua. “We mustn’t forget whether the fabric is sold or offered at no cost, it is still British merchandise, and some may not accept it. Do not presume the poor have lower morals than the rest of us. Many are folks who have simply fallen on difficult times. Patriotism should pay no heed to one’s status.” She eyed Father sharply.
“A philanthropist, and now a politician.” Father scratched the rolls on his gray wig.
“As a matter of fact, dear, I belong to the Daughters of Liberty.”
“What, pray tell, is that?”
“Had you paid more attention to my affairs, Mr. Sutton, you would know I’ve been attending gatherings with the ladies of our colony who are standing for our freedoms. It is an organized effort to become more self-sufficient and less dependent on King George.”
“How do you go about it, Mother?” Joshua asked, eyeing her demure stance, hands cradled at her waist.
Mother poised her chin as if addressing a full audience. Perhaps she endeavored to recruit them. “You know we make our own teas from plants grown on our own soil. You are also aware women weave their own cloth and often get together in a cooperative effort to do so. Why, last month a group of us spun for a parson’s wife and had a grand day of it. Now she has plenty of thread for her weaving.”
“And putting me out of business in the doing,” Father muttered under his breath.
“That is not true, dear.” She walked to the large desk and flipped through the ledger. “Our accounts have suffered little, all things considered. Women sell their homespun to us, and customers are eager to purchase the non-boycotted fabric we keep on our store shelves, as well as carding supplies which are exempt from the Agreement.” She turned to Joshua. “It was wise of you to advise us to make those purchases and to keep a greater amount of inventory in the shop. Others have forfeited much, yet we have not suffered nearly so, despite the good cause of taking a stand against the king.”
“The ‘good cause’ is going to bring me to ruin.” Father walked over to the desk and sat, pointing a firm finger at the open ledger. “Despite your claims, dear, our profit is lower than last year’s, because we purchased an excessive amount of cloth we are unable to sell.”
“You are looking at our losses, not our gains,” Mother said. “We are doing better overall than in previous recent years. Customers respect us for not selling British goods, and have rewarded us with their patronage. Don’t you see?”
“Father, the situation at hand has been wrought by the flooding. It could happen anytime, embargo or not.” Joshua cocked his head toward one parent and then the other. “You both have valid points. In the past we’ve maintained such a large surplus to entice our customers we’ve placed ourselves at an extraordinary risk. I propose in the future we proffer a sufficient selection of textiles, but refrain from hoarding such enormous stores. At least while tensions with England are so high.”
“When haven’t they been?” Father miffed.
“Not like this, dear,” Mother chimed in.
Joshua crossed his arms. “We’ve long maintained a steady clientele on the basis of quality supplies and by virtue of our talent as tailors. Let us take our stand as business owners and as Whigs and not allow the tyrant king to intimidate us.”
Father and Mother looked at Joshua with chagrin—and pride?—then faced each other and shrugged.
Mother rested her palm on Father’s wide shoulder. “You know, he has a point.”
“Olive, whose side are you on?”
Joshua held his arms out, palms upward. “We are in this together, are we not?”
Father leaned back in his chair. “Joshua must have inherited his good head for business from his old father. Though I am not managing well presently.” Father retrieved his handkerchief and patted droplets of sweat from his furrowed brow.
Joshua stepped closer, meeting his father’s worried gaze. “You are a fine businessman, one of the best in this city. But we are trying to recover from unexpected trouble. It is taxing on us all.”
“Good heavens. Do not speak of taxes, taxing, or anything else stressful.” Mother tossed her head back, though how she kept from toppling over from the weight of her high coiffure, Joshua could not fathom. Women wore such peculiar styles. He thought for a moment of Miss Metcalf with that collapsible taffeta contraption of her own. Though he had to admit, she would be lovely in most anything.
Father cleared his throat. “I sincerely beg your pardon, son. I should not have lashed out at you. You are going above the mark to help, and not only that, you seem to find the time to be benevolent to others.” He patted Joshua’s hand, that being about the limit of affection Joshua expected to receive from the man. “How does that young woman you rescued fare?”
“Well enough. Though the hail sorely assaulted her.”
“She is the new mantua maker?” Father asked.
“She is a quilter
,” said Joshua. “And very apt at her skill.”
Of course, Father needed to get his two shillings in. “Margaret would not have needed another quilter if the embargo were lifted. She could have purchased some of the quilted Marseilles from France we paid such heavy duties on.”
“There is nothing to be done about it now. We had to place the order for the Marseilles. Though I must say, I have a preference for hand-quilted cloth myself,” Mother said.
“Yes, darling, but I suppose the new quilter will be let go come the new year when the agreement ends. Mrs. Wadsworth can hardly afford to keep her.”
His mother tilted her chin. “Why must you be so overbearing where it concerns Margaret? She is your cousin’s wife and you promised to protect her interests while her husband is at sea.”
“Nevertheless, I am concerned about Joshua’s interests. I hope you do not intend to give your heart away to the girl. You will only be hurt again.” Father’s countenance sombered.
Was Father remorseful about pressuring him to marry Emily only to have it turn out so dreadfully? The Guilfold family’s shipping enterprises would have proved to be a great asset to Sutton’s Clothiers, though at Joshua’s expense.
“I already discussed the topic with him this morning, Mr. Sutton.” Mother eyed Joshua teasingly. Joshua hadn’t considered Miss Metcalf’s employment in Boston might be temporary. Did she have plans for her future? The thought of Miss Metcalf alone and unemployed, after learning of her woeful circumstances, racked him with concern. She’d entrusted him with her deepest thoughts and fears. Did he dare risk hurting a woman so vulnerable?
Father drummed his fingers on the desktop. “I suspect it might be best to allow Mrs. Wadsworth and her girls to work here where they can have some decent light. You said they were boarding up all her windows?”
“Yes, Father.” All but one. Joshua recalled Honour’s little sister exclaiming how God was watching over them during the storm and kept their bedchamber window from breaking. He hoped God was watching over her even now.
Mother placed her hand over Father’s drumming fingers. “That is gracious of you to provide them with the space. It should only be for a few days. Moreover, we need to support the smaller shopkeepers to keep this town thriving.”
“Let us hope we will thrive as well.” Father’s stomach issued an audible growl. “Is it dinner time already?”
“Yes, we are having a fine meal of veal pie today. We shall also try a new tea. It is made from the four-star loosestrife grown in my garden. They call it ‘Liberty Tea.’ They served it at the spinning party, and it is every bit as good as any British tea I have ever tasted.”
“Liberty. Hmmph. If this is liberty . . .” Father flattened his lips, stifling further comments. He patted his protruding belly and stood. “I hope the coach is parked nearby.”
“Right outside the building, dear. Joshua returned it in a timely fashion so that Redmond could take me to my Daughters of Liberty meeting this morning.”
Father shook his head. “What will females think of next?”
“Come along, Father. We shall never know until we taste some of the tea ourselves.” Joshua shook his head in mirth and donned his frock coat.
“Do refrain from encouraging her, son.” Father waved his hand. “Eh, mayhap it will relieve my headache.”
“I hear it has a calming effect. Let us hope so.” Mother draped an arm over Father’s arm. Her drawstring purse swung, reminding Joshua of Miss Metcalf’s missing workbag.
Indeed, a little calm would be nice. But first he had an important task to attend to. Joshua hastened past his parents and faced them, taking backward steps as he spoke. “If you will pardon me, I have an important errand to see to. Please do not wait dinner for me.”
He jogged toward the exit hearing Father say, “Where is he off to now?”
Mother responded in her melodious tone, “Heaven only knows, but I suspect it might have something to do with that charming quilter.”
Honour wrapped a cloth strip around the remaining lock of Temperance’s reddish-blonde hair. “There, all ready for the night with a head full of curls, waiting for the morrow.”
Temperance hopped off the bed and faced her older sister. “What will happen?”
“When?” Honour smiled at the imp of a girl in her white night shift and bare feet and placed her sleeping cap over her rag-laden head. Sitting on the bed, Honour picked up the hairbrush and ran it through her own dark auburn locks.
“Tomorrow, when we go to Sutton’s Clothiers.” Tempe jumped on the bed and knelt behind her sister. She took the brush from Honour and continued with the grooming.
“Mrs. Wadsworth, Maisey, and I will go there to work. You will go to your dame school, as you usually do. When I pick you up from school we shall return to Suttons where you shall do your chores for Mrs. Wadsworth, as you always do.”
“I will straighten the fabrics, sort the tapes and notions, hunt for dropped pins and buttons, dust and tidy the room, sweep the floors, empty the waste, la, da, da, da, da,” Temperance said, in a whimsical cadence.
“Exactly. The same tasks, but in a different place.” Honour winced. “A little gentler, please. My head is sore yet, pumpkin.”
Tempe threw her arms around Honour’s neck.
“Have a care, Tempe.”
“Oh, Honour, I didn’t mean to hurt you! I meant to hug you.” Tempe whimpered.
Honour reached up and tugged her sister’s arms close. “It was not so bad, but please be gentle. Your brushing is so thorough, I think you lengthen my hair every time.”
“Is that why your hair is so long and pretty?” Temperance laughed and fell back on the straw-filled mattress.
“Hush now. We mustn’t disturb the others in their bed chambers.”
Temperance said in a loud whisper, “Maisey disturbs us with her snoring.”
“Temperance Metcalf. Do not speak ill of Mrs. Wadsworth’s apprentice,” Honour chided.
“I thought she was a quilter, like you are.”
“Maisey is a quilter and an apprentice mantua maker. She is learning all the tasks involved in making gowns.” Honour twisted her hair into a long tail and wound it into a ball at the nape of her neck. She donned her ruffled nightcap and tucked it beneath the dimity cotton.
“Will we be staying at Suttons’ Clothiers overnight?” Temperance traced her finger along the swirly acanthus leaf pattern on the indigo bed quilt.
“We only need daylight from their workspace whilst Mrs. Wadsworth’s shop downstairs is boarded up. We’ll come home as usual for our supper, Bible reading, and then off-to-bed-we’ll-go!” Honour turned around and tickled Tempe’s waist, and another round of quiet giggles escaped. Their eyes both widened with mirth, and each pressed a finger to one another’s lips.
With a kiss on Temperance’s index finger, and one on her forehead, Honour pulled down the coverlet and Tempe jumped under the cozy bedding.
Honour blew out the Betty-lamp on the small bedside table and climbed under the whole-cloth quilted counterpane, so exquisitely designed by their mother and salvaged from the ship. Honour had wrapped it around Tempe and her—providing comfort and protection—while hiding beneath the stairs that horrific day on their journey to the British American colonies. Although the American frigate had intercepted the attacking French pirate ship, the buccaneers had seized most of their belongings, save a few trunks of clothing. The frigate took them aboard and brought them into Boston harbor, but she was informed their cargo either hadn’t been spared or had been seized by customs. How grateful she was for this beautiful remnant of her mother’s love and care, and the skill her Mum had passed along so Honour had the means to provide for her young charge.
“Time to say your prayers, Tempe,” Honour said softly.
Temperance let out a big sigh. “Heavenly Father, I thank Thee for Thy bounty, and for keeping Honour safe from the storm. Please heal her aches and pains. And please let the bachelor, Joshua Sutton, choose Honour for a wi
fe above all the ladies who fancy him. In Jesus’ name I beseech Thee, Amen.”
Honour gasped . . . then uttered a silent “Amen.”
4
Honour sat in the light of a sunny window, needle in hand, quilting a length of golden calamanco. The glazed sheen of the satin-weave wool appeared as smooth and glossy as silk, though its substance would provide the warmth needed for the garment’s purpose. She stuck the dull point of her bodkin into the bodkin case, which dangled from her chatelaine, along with her worn pincushion and tape measure, though her tiny scissors remained absent. She sorely missed her workbag, which held her more substantial sewing tools.
From the holes she’d pricked in the worsted wool backing, Honour stuffed bits of fleece batting into the serpentine pattern to produce a raised effect and highlight the elegant design. The repetitious sequence neared completion, and the end of the project drew nigh. Soon she would receive the bonus wages promised her for the extra hours worked.
A light breeze drifted through the opened window of the workspace Joshua’s family provided for Mrs. Wadsworth over Sutton’s Clothiers. Though August had just begun, the cooler weather would be upon them soon. Temperance would need new boots and a wool cloak by winter. Mum had planned to purchase items such as these in America, to save duties on the cargo, but now the responsibility to provide them fell upon Honour. Perhaps she could barter for some wool and set aside money for the boots. Mrs. Wadsworth gave Honour as many hours as she could afford, providing meals and lodging above the mantua shop, but not much more. Tempe shared a bedchamber with Honour, ample despite the shared bedstead, and her employer graciously provided Temperance chores to compensate for the additional meal expense. Their basic needs were met, but for how long?
Honour worked more batting into the design. Her finances were dwindling. The guineas she’d claimed from her dear Poppa’s coin purse had enabled her and Tempe to get settled in Boston. She worked hard to make arrangements for Tempe’s schooling, a matter of utmost importance to their parents. How different Honour’s life was now than in England. Honour had a proper education at a prestigious finishing school. She’d learned how to read and write. Poppa had taught her to calculate along with the boys. From Mum, she learned the finer skills required of an upper middling class female. Honour enjoyed many leisurely occasions by the fireside of their fine home quilting for her dower chest, while Mum tutored her in decorum and Christian character.
