by Carla J Gade
The sound of the steel blades sliding together as his large shears cut into the fabric echoed the torment slicing through his conscience. He’d lay his life down for Honour, but could not bring himself to do the one thing she had ever asked of him.
The hurt he’d seen on her face ripped at his heart, still aching over bringing her such disappointment. When she had explained how important it was to her to reclaim her belongings captured by the pirates and now so miraculously reappeared, she held such hope in her eyes. Hope he dashed in an instant when he refused to do her bargaining.
Joshua groaned as the top blade of his shears slipped between the pattern and the fabric. He caught the misstep before he made a costly mistake, just as he did when he denied Honour her request. But he could not risk putting the reputation of his family’s business in jeopardy.
How could he subject himself to John Mein at The Chronicle when the man so adamantly aggrieved those who supported the Non-Taxation Agreement? An encounter with the newspaper publisher might draw attention to the Suttons, making them a target of Mein’s insatiable hunger for discrediting the integrity of Patriot merchants, as he had John Hancock and others. As much as he cared for Honour, he had to protect his family and affirm the values he held firmly to for the betterment of his country.
Joshua exhaled. What about what was important to Honour? She had lost so much—her family, her belongings. It struck him that her determination was not only to reclaim her stolen property but what it represented—her past and her future.
Perhaps an inquiry would not hurt. John Mein would not know Joshua was a Sutton, unless Joshua had to sign for something. And if Joshua did, would there be duties to pay on the cargo? He could no more do so than he could deny that he was a Son of Liberty.
Where was his head! There was no boycott on personal property being transported from England to America. Honour’s belongings were not imported to be sold. With no restriction, she had every right to redeem her possessions.
Joshua set his shears down on the worktable, having completed cutting the pieces for the coat. He called over one of the young apprentices. “Take care and put these things away. I have another task to see to.”
17
Joshua drove past Hayward Square in his father’s coach, nearly missing a loose cow that apparently had been grazing on the common. He came to a stop on Newbury Street in front of the building belonging to Mein & Fleeming. Mayhap he shouldn’t have taken the carriage. He did not need to draw unnecessary attention to his presence. ’Twas no crime, but to himself. He was growing to resent John Mein for his hostility toward the Whigs. Lord, please allow me to keep my peace this day and claim Honour’s property, especially her quilt. Seeming more prudent, he steered the horses across the street to The White Horse Tavern and pulled to a stop. He got down and handed a lad a coin to watch the conveyance until he returned.
Joshua crossed the street and the cry of a newsboy rang in the air. “James Otis beaten at the British Coffee House.” He signaled the boy who promptly trotted up to Joshua, “Thursday’s edition of The Boston Chronicle. Eight pence, sir.”
Joshua handed the boy a shilling and accepted the large sheets of newsprint. No doubt, Mein had printed more fallacies of merchants who he claimed were not heeding the merchant’s agreement to boycott the Townshend Acts. While both The Boston Chronicle and The Boston Gazette both published ship manifests, as even Patriots wished to oust those non-complying with the Non-Importation agreement, at least The Gazette did not misrepresent the facts. Joshua scanned the front page of the biweekly newspaper. Now James Otis, who often hailed “taxation without representation is tyranny” was beaten over the head with a cane by the customs official. Otis had retaliated, albeit viciously, in an article he posted in The Gazette, defending himself from the slander of the king’s customs commissioner who had called him a “malignant incendiary.” Political tensions continued to rise. How long would it be until a true war arose between the colonies and the king?
Joshua tucked the newspaper under his arm. He’d peruse the rest of the paper later. Surely Father and Andrew would be interested in reading it as well. He despised putting coin into Mein’s pocket, but it served well to stay informed and aware of Mein’s slant on matters.
Through the large pedimented door Joshua went, and into the devil’s lair. The sound of the printing press from a back room and the smell of ink and sweat permeated the building of Mein & Fleeming, the pair of Scotsmen not only published the newspaper, but also printed and bound books. Tall shelves were lined with books to be sold, with an area set apart for a lending library, the only one in town. Joshua approached the counter where a well-dressed, bewigged man engaged in conversation with another man clad in an ink-soiled leather apron, sleeves rolled back to his elbows. Joshua turned around and leaned against the counter. Mayhap he should leave now.
“How may I help you?” a voice asked in a Scottish brogue.
Joshua turned around facing the better-dressed man. “I came to inquire of the printer.”
“John Mein, at your service. G’day to ye.”
“Good day. I am here to inquire about an advertisement. To learn if these items have yet been claimed.” Joshua handed the man the slip of paper Honour had given him.
“My clerk has gone on an errand, but I will see what I can find out for ye.” Mr. Mein went to the end of the counter and looked at the ledger.
Joshua followed Mein and faced him on the opposite side of the counter. The man flipped through the pages of the large ledger and trailed his finger down each page. Mein came to a stop and released a small grunt.
“Do you have the items?”
The publisher looked up. “Nay, they would not be here, you’d find them at the Customs House. Yet, my report is they have already been claimed.” Mein’s eyebrows rose. “A pirate’s prize, I see. Someone was fortunate to discover their goods.”
But it was not Honour. “Do you know if they were sold at auction or claimed beforehand?”
“Auction? Nay, the matter was resolved shortly after the advertisement was published.”
The feeling in Joshua’s stomach soured. Honour never had a chance. Moreover, someone else now owned her possessions. How would he ever tell her?
Mein’s eye’s narrowed. “Say, are you not one of the Sutton lads?”
Joshua groaned inwardly. How could he know that? “I am. Joshua Sutton.”
Mein donned a sly grin, and rubbed his jaw. “A brother, Andrew?”
Joshua exhaled. “Yes.” What had Andrew done now?
“A Sutton, of Sutton’s Clothiers. One of the merchants against the Townshend Acts. Or so I understood.” The Scotsman eyed the newspaper under Joshua’s arm. “I see you’ve a copy of The Boston Chronicle. Have you read it?”
“I read your article about James Otis.”
“’Tis a shame about the man, yet he invited attack, ye know.” Mein drummed his hand on the counter. “As did your brother.”
“I know no such thing.” Joshua clenched his jaw. He’d better hold his temper if he wanted to learn what Mein insinuated about his family business, though he had the feeling it would give Mein great pleasure in the telling. “What do you say of my brother?”
John Mein took a newspaper from a stack of them displayed upon the counter. He opened the pages and laid the large sheet down facing Joshua. Mein’s finger landed on an advertisement with a thud.
Publick Vendue, Gray’s Wharf:
DISCOUNTED FABRICS received last fall
Fine English Broad Cloths, Velvets, Brocades,
Milled Cassimere, Assorted Irish Linen,
French Marseilles
9 September – 8 o’clock a.m.
Joshua glared into Mr. Mein’s icy blue eyes. “How does this concern me?”
“Your own dear brother placed the advertisement.” A slow smile emerged on Mein’s face. “Does my heart good to see a young man so enterprising, indeed.”
“I do not believe you,” Joshua said.
“Fie! Would a newspaperman tell falsehoods?”
Joshua fumed as he withheld his retort.
“Ye brother’s own mark is here in my ledger.” Mein turned a few pages. “Ah, here. See for yourself, lad.”
Joshua reluctantly looked at the page. Andrew Sutton.
“Ye and your brother have much in common besides your similar looks. Ye were willing to pay for the duties on the English imports you inquired about.” Mein held up the cutout of the advertisement Joshua had brought in.
“I sought not for myself. ’Twas on behalf of another, an English immigrant.”
“Ah, you do support English imports.” Mr. Mein sauntered away, laughing. The stench of his twisted humor and accusations saturated the stagnant air, leaving behind its inky threat.
A blanket of pristine white enveloped the sky above a meadow enameled with the beautiful shades of graceful summer blooms. ’Twas mother’s garden, Honour thought, as she lay upon the feathered bed in the center of the fragrant field. The canopy of white in the heavens above, her quilted counterpane teasing her with the comfort of its blessed covering. A gentle wind whirled around her, increasing in strength. The blossoms tore from their stems into a torrent of flower petals to swiftly disappear. A heaviness kept her from rising, so she held forth her arms, striving to capture the quilted blanket of white, though it remained far beyond her reach. Her arms grew weary until arms stronger took hers in His divine, yet unseen, grasp. Then the downy white feathers from her bed caught up in a gentle breeze and floated down upon her, covering her like a bridal quilt of love. A familiar voice whispered in her ear, Beloved, you are mine, as are your dreams and longings. You are not alone and never shall be. Trust me.
Honour awoke from her nap to a strong wind sweeping through the low opening of her window. Rain pelted against the window, but she was safe inside. Her gaze drifted to the foot of her bed where a white counterpane rested atop a wooden chest. Her breathing became rapid with anticipation as she beheld the familiar fabric too far from her to reach.
The maidservant scurried into the bedchamber and pulled the window down against the sill. Honour startled at the sound.
“Are you all right, miss?” the girl asked.
“I am,” Honour said. “Though would you please hand me that quilt?”
The girl walked over to the trunk, “’Tisn’t a quilt yet, Miss Metcalf, but it looks like the process has begun.”
The maidservant brought the folded white cloth to Honour and laid it upon her lap, its heaviness instantly warming her. “I thank you. Could you tell me how this was brought here?” Joshua must have redeemed her white-work quilt for her.
“I cannot say. I truly do not know.” The girl hurried from the room.
Honour gently slid her hand over the white linen cloth as if it were a thin sheet of glass. She traced the pomegranate and the fern, scarcely believing that the pattern she beheld was real and not a mere fabrication from her memory. The familiar feel of the fabric beneath her fingertips sent warmth all the way to the core of her being. It exuded home and her mother’s love. And promise of love to come.
Honour blinked back tears when the tap on the door announced Widow Lankton, behind her Emily Leach.
“Are you up for a short visit, Honour? My niece has come to discuss her bridal quilt.” The ladies came to Honour’s bedside and gazed down at the white linen. “It is lovely, is it not?” Widow Lankton said.
Honour looked up. “Aye, it is. Do you know who brought it?”
“Emily brought it with her,” Widow Lankton said. “I had my housekeeper bring it up while we had our midday meal. She found you sleeping so she left it in the room, and here we see you have found it.”
“Oh, yes, and I am quite pleased.” Honour smiled in relief.
“I am glad to hear it,” said the widow.
“Now, I shall leave you two to get acquainted, or reacquainted, and you may discuss Emily’s quilt.” Widow Lankton left the bedchamber, pausing with a smile as she passed the silhouette of her husband.
“Do you think it holds promise?” Emily asked.
Honour rested her hand upon the folds of the white fabric. “Promise?”
“Yes. My husband obtained this fine piece partially quilted. When I told Aunt Eunice about it she offered to have you complete it for my bridal quilt.”
A burning sensation shot through Honour’s veins. Her chest tightened and she felt as though she could barely breathe.
“Honour? I can return later if you are not up for my visit,” Emily said.
“Please stay.” Honour found her resolve. “How did your husband come by it?”
“I do not know exactly. Something about the Customs House. Good fortune, really.”
’Twas not for Honour. Her mind was paralyzed with shock. Her own whole-cloth bridal quilt at last in her arms, unfinished, like her grieving. Yet belonging to her no longer.
“It will make a fine bridal quilt,” Honour said. “A finer one I have never seen.”
Emily’s face was devoid of the joy Honour imagined a new bride would have, but they both knew her secret—Emily’s marriage was devoid of love. Her heart belonged to another. “Aunt Eunice is trying to encourage me to make the best of my situation.”
“How difficult for you, Emily. Joshua explained everything, as you know.” The hollow look in Emily’s pretty eyes almost made Honour think she would have given her the quilt, if only it would cheer Emily. This thought took Honour aback. Honour might never have the love she wanted. Joshua had rejected her and denied the most fervent request she had ever spoken to another. Honour looked down at the quilt again. She drew back a fold revealing a partially quilted serpentine heart. Mayhap this quilt had another purpose, to restore joy to a broken heart. Yet it would not be her own.
Joshua left the office of Mein & Fleeming in great haste. He tramped across the street to The White Horse Tavern as a gust of wind whisked around him. He looked about, not seeing his father’s coach. The lad he’d paid to watch it sat on the stoop of the entrance. Joshua went to the boy and pulled the lad to his feet. “Did someone move my carriage? Tell me where it is.”
“Sir, you already took it.” The boy’s face grew pale, his eyes wide with fear. “My dear life, a man drove it away. I thought he was you!” The boy spun around, pounding his fists against his temples as raindrops fell from the sky.
Joshua moaned. Andrew! He grabbed the poor boy by his shoulders. “Stop, lad. It is no fault of your own.”
The boy looked up, his mouth hanging open. “It isn’t? It was a mistake, I tell you. I am sorry, I am.”
“I fear my brother was playing a trick on me.” Joshua rolled the newspaper and tucked it inside his frock coat.
“Your brother, you say? He came out from the tavern and I thought it was you . . . though I never saw you go in. There is a side door,” the lad said.
“Do not fear. My brother has fooled me on more than one occasion.” Joshua brushed the drops of rain from his face.
“You’ll not call the sheriff? Or the British officers?” asked the boy, as his coat grew darker from the rain.
“Nay. But I may get the gallows after I wring my brother’s neck.” Joshua grinned at the boy, hoping he didn’t scare the lad into thinking it was Joshua’s real intent. “Take care, lad. Get out of the rain now.”
“Thank you, sir.” The boy ran to his stoop in the shelter of the tavern doorway.
Joshua arrived at the sign of the scissors, after his long walk back to Sutton’s Clothiers through intermittent wind and rainfall. The torrent was brief, and the sun fought its way through the darkened clouds. Joshua hoped he could talk sense into Andrew before Father figured out what was going on, yet he had no way of knowing where his brother might have gone. Joshua slid his hand back over his wet hair, pulling it from its queue, and shook the excess water from his hand.
Andrew came around the corner, nearly plowing into Joshua. “Brother! A good day for a walk, I hear.”
“A walk, ind
eed! In a hurricane, no less!” Joshua grabbed Andrew by the arm and escorted him around the rear of the building.
“Easy, brother! It wasn’t as bad as all that. It was only a rainstorm.”
Joshua glared at Andrew as he brushed his sodden shoulders.
“ ’Twas only a joke.” Andrew smirked.
Joshua reciprocated the smirk. “The joke is on you. I have learned your secret.”
Andrew placed his hand over his heart. “You know my secret. My broken heart.”
“’Tis Father’s heart will be broken if he discovers what you have done—what you are about to do, this Saturday.” Joshua pulled the newspaper from his coat.
Andrew looked around, and hushed Joshua through clench teeth. “Not so loud. How do you know about that?”
Joshua hiked his chin. “I had business at The Boston Chronicle. John Mein was more than happy to share the news of your vendue with me when he learned I was a Sutton.”
Andrew heaved a deep breath, and the smell of rum hung in the damp air. “I regretted it after I placed the advertisement. I went back, but Mein said he wouldn’t retract it.”
Joshua smacked the rolled-up newspaper in the palm of his hand. “So what now? You are still planning to hold a public vendue. Those cloths you are planning to auction are the textiles damaged when the warehouse flooded. I thought you gave them out to the poor, but instead you have hidden them and intend to sell them for profit.”
Andrew paced around, dragging his fingers through his hair, squeezing the top of it. He halted and pounded the back of his wrist against his forehead, before looking at Joshua with his eyes filled with panic. “Joshua, you cannot tell Father.”
“You cannot tell Father what?”
