by Smith, Skye
"Well, let me think," said Mercy.
Britta looked back to Bessy, "Grated ginger would help. Is there any fermented milk in the kitchen. Sheep’s milk would be best." Bessy shook her head.
"Peruvian, of course, Peruvian," Mercy said suddenly. "I have some Peruvian bark for high fevers. It is very bitter and hard to get down, but once it is down it calms the stomach. I will go and prepare some. With honey, yes, and some ginger. Bessy dear, please bring the full buckets down with you."
Britta, showing her all to the world through her soaked slip, was now alone in a room with four men. One too sick to care. Two holding him while devouring her with their eyes, and Jim, who she wouldn't mind being devoured by. "Jim, please find me a sheet or a small blanket to cover myself." She watched him go to a chest to look. He was trying to hide the tent in the front of his longjohns from her.
"Should we lay him down again?" asked one of the men.
"Not yet. If he upchucks we need it to flow out of him, else he will breath it back into his lungs." She poured more water from the jug on the table and sipped it herself. Jim came to her and wrapped her in a sheet. He stood in front of her to tie the ends over her shoulder. She leaned into his body, and pushed up against his tent, and whispered in his ear, "Stay close in front of me to shield me from their eyes."
They stayed like that swaying together until Mercy arrived back with the tea. "I made it very strong. This single cupful is worth a fortune. I thought we could thin it and cool it with water."
"Good idea, but he needs small sips only. Mix it in the water cup and leave the source cup pure. It should keep for a month or more." Britta reluctantly left the closeness, warmth and protection of Jim and found the opium syrup tablespoon and wiped it clean. Then she fed the fever medicine into Jemmy.
* * * * *
She and Mercy were eventually left alone at Jemmy's bedside. The men had dressed and gone back downstairs to do whatever men do when they aren't being useful. Probably to smoke and to drink rum. Bessy had cleaned up the worst and smelliest of the mess, and had gone downstairs to the kitchen.
Britta checked his breathing and his heart beat. They were stronger now, almost normal. He was sleeping deeply. "We only purged the opium syrup that was taken recently. He is still well-dosed from before that. He may sleep a long time."
"Then we are finished here until the morning. I will have my men take shifts at his side through the night. Come, we must repair you before we send you home. I have a fresh slip that may fit you. Come." They picked up their clothes from the bench in the hall and carried them at arm's length from their ruined slips and into Mercy's bedroom. They emerged a half hour later cleaned and perfumed and combed and clothed. They went downstairs and Mercy led her to her formal dining room. Britta was shocked. There were a dozen men around the long table, and they all looked well-heeled.
When they entered, the murmuring stopped short and the men all stood tall in deferent politeness to the women. Mercy sat at a seat in the middle of the table and motioned Britta to sit beside her. The men sat again, but did not speak. "Britta here has brought us Samuel's contribution."
She turned to Britta and said, "I know that you promised Sam that you would put it into Jemmy's hand, but it is a message for all of us. The committee at this table is making up the latest pamphlet. It has three parts. Only Sam's part is missing."
Britta reached down and pulled up the edge of her smock and unpinned a small pocket from halfway up the inside. Out of it she pulled Sam's work, and handed it to Mercy. As soon as it touched Mercy's fingers she unfolded it and flattened it on the table. Four men crowded around the women to read it over their shoulders.
"Oh good. It is not a rough draft," said Mercy, "It is neat and finished." She scanned it quickly. Britta was amazed at how quickly this woman could read. "Only one spelling error, and two missing commas. The first sentence has changed since his early draft. I wonder why he changed 'freedom' to 'liberty'?"
Britta almost missed the question. She was looking around for Jim, but then she saw Bessy serving coffee so she signed her that she was indentured. Bessy sent back the sign 'free' and then 'trust'.
"Oh, umm, Sam thought that the word freedom may worry those that own slaves. Liberty means almost the same thing but without bringing slavery to mind."
"Good, good, and it relates it to the English Bill of Rights," Mercy mumbled. "We will make a similar change to the other two sections. You have read this then, Britta." She hoped she was not insulting the girl. In Puritan families the women were weak at reading, but at least they were taught to read.
"I helped Sam to proof-read the draft, while he was hiding at my place from the sheri.. ugh.. the spies." There were some snide chuckles at the end of the table, and some tainted whispers. Britta blushed and raised her voice and added, "Yes ,my brother and I both helped Sam to finish it. And speaking of which I must hurry home. I am hours and hours late. It may be dark before I get there. I live near to Faneuil hall."
"That will not do. That will not do at all," said Mercy. "I feel responsible to ensure you reach home safely. I doubt you will if you are caught by nightfall. Not a beauty like you, alone, on foot." She looked over at Bessy. "Find Jim." Then back to Britta. "Any of these gentlemen would be pleased to see you safely home, but I need them here to finish this pamphlet tonight. Decisions by committees tend to come slowly."
Jim came into the room. When he saw Britta his face lit up. "Jim," said Mercy, "you will take one of our carts and escort Britta home and then go home yourself. Tell Ruth what has happened to your father, and that he will sleep through the night here. You can bring the cart back tomorrow."
She put her head close to Britta's and whispered, "Have you asked him to the play yet? Don't wait for him to ask. He is too shy. That is why I gave the tickets to you."
* * * * *
Britta was uncomfortable under Ruth's glare. She had made Jim take her first to his house so that she could tell the family what was happening to his father. They did not seem to appreciate the effort, or at least Ruth didn't.
"So you are saying we need to buy this coca tea from the Spanish shop and used it to replace the opium syrup," said Ruth.
"Yes, but it takes many months. You need to reduce the amount of syrup slowly every week and when he feels the desire grow, have him sip the tea."
"And why should I believe you rather than his physician," said Ruth coldly. "You are nothing. A silly girl."
"Mother," Jim interrupted to defend Britta, "if she hadn't been at the Warren house, I think Father would have died there. He drank too much of the syrup, and when he started acting strangely, the men gave him even more of it. I didn't see any physician there helping her save his life."
Rachel kept sending signs to Britta to leave, to run away.
"Don't use that tone with me, Jim. I do not approve that you ran after this girl, and I do not approve that you have brought her back here. You know I don't like you hanging about the Warren house. They are not good Puritans. Instead of driving this hussy home in that fancy cart, perhaps you should use your time to fetch your father in it."
"No," said Britta, "he is sleeping peacefully, and has men assigned to sit with him all night. Men that can carry his weight and turn him if need be. I have told them what to look for. He is better there for tonight."
"Don't you presume to tell me what I can and cannot do with my own husband," hissed Ruth.
"But Mother," interrupted Mary, "what she says sounds sensible. Why are you trying to find fault in everything she says. She says she has seen this with another man, and he was cured by the tea. Oh, why won't you ever listen?"
Rachel again signed Britta to leave.
"Jim," Britta put a hand on his leg. The move did not go unnoticed by the other women. "Please take me home. They will be fraught with worry. I was supposed to be home hours and hours ago."
"That is true," said Ruth, knowing that Jim would have to take her home. There was no one else. "Your mother will be frantic. I
know I would."
"My mother er, has gone missing, and my fathers died in the war. I live with my brother and our bond mistress. She is a wealthy widow."
Elizabeth said smugly, "See, you know nothing about her. I knew she wasn't from a good family. She is a filthy redemptioner, fresh off the boat. White rubbish. She probably whores to buy her clothes."
Mary gasped at the words, and held her hands over her ears.
"Well, I never," said Rachel, "Lizzy, you wouldn't be grateful if you were given a chicken that laid golden eggs. This poor girl saves your own father's life, so you attack her because her father is dead and she has been forced into bondage. I will pray for your soul at church girl, cause I already see the flames of hell licking at your feet."
"That's enough out of you, Rachel," said Ruth, "though I admit Elizabeth was unforgivably rude and will now spend the rest of the evening in her bedroom. Now Elizabeth, go now."
It was Britta, not Elizabeth, that jumped up and ran from the room. Anything to get away from such hateful words. She grabbed her cloak and her bonnet from the hook in the vestibule and slammed the door on her way out. It was growing dark quickly, so she hurried down the street, imagining spies behind every tree. How could the Puritans claim to be so holy, and yet speak such evil?
Jim in the cart, caught her before the first cross street. "Oh Britta, what can I do or say to make this up to you? Please get in. It is not safe for you to be walking. Please, for me." He pulled the horse to a stop and leaped down to help her up. In the weak light he saw her face shining from her tears. He stepped up to sit beside her and picked up the reins, but she put a hand on his to stop him from starting the horse.
"Can I have a hug? I am just drained. I didn't need that attack by your family."
He pulled her close to him on the seat, and put his arm around her shoulders and let her lean into him. They rode like that all the way to the Anchor Coffee Shoppe. He needed only one hand to control the horse, so long as they were going slow, and he had no desire to shorten his time with her by hurrying. He wanted this time beside her to last as long as possible.
Britta pulled him into the coffee shop just before closing time. Lydia and Jon stared daggers at her, but she put a finger to her lips to warn them to be good while she introduced him. She gave Jim the tour of the shop while Jon made them black tea, and then they sat together at a table near the fireplace and just stared at each other while Jim warmed up for the ride back home.
Jon was relieved and angry and was about to make a scene, but Lydia read his body language, and read theirs, and pulled him away. "Don't, not until he has gone," she whispered into his ear, and then kissed his cheek.
Their tea was cold long before Jim left, well after the last customer. Britta stood in the street hugging herself for warmth and watched and waved until he was out of sight. Then she went back inside and into a firestorm of angry words. She could not blame them. They must have been worried sick. A girl out alone in the city and hours late coming home.
She told them to sit down and rest, and she would do all of the clean up. While she worked, her voice rang out in crystal clear singsong, telling the story of her day. They enjoyed the story so much that she left nothing out. Well, almost nothing. "And do you know the best part? Go on, guess. No, you never will." She danced a circle around the broom stick. "Tomorrow evening I am going with Jim to the opening of his aunt's play. Can you believe it? The theatre. Me, at the theatre! The play is a satire called The Adulateur."
Lydia was envious yet happy for her at the same time. "Who cares what the play is? The true performance is the audience. What are you going to wear?" Britta told her exactly how Mercy had answered the same question. Lydia stood up and pulled the broomstick out of Britta's hand and swung her around and they danced to grand music that Lydia hummed.
"It will take us all night to choose and fit an outfit for you," Lydia said, more excited than Britta, if that were possible. "You can wear anything I have. It's not like I am going to get any use out of my wardrobe for the next year," she sighed, patting her slightly bulging belly.
"Wait," said Jon. "Who says I will let you go out with this stranger until late at night? How do you know what kind of lad he is? I am a teenager. I know what goes through the minds of teenage boys. Tits, pussy, tits, pussy, tits, pussy and not necessarily in that order. "
"Oh Jon, don't you see? He is wealthy and kind. He is the man I am going to marry."
Lydia cheered so loud that Robby woke and started to cry. Britta picked him up the next time she twirled past his fenced-off mattress near to the ladies' retirement room, and swung him around and into the arms of his mother and then both women danced with him.
"I knew it," smiled Lydia, "I knew it as soon as I saw you two sitting moon-eyed for each other at the table. When you are together, the rest of the world does not exist."
"Bah," grumped Jon, "Britta is so pretty that every man is moon-eyed for her."
"Ah," laughed Lydia, "but he is just as pretty. He looks like you, Jon, but with darker hair and skin. Britta has found a replacement for you, or perhaps, a brother for you."
"Yeh, yeh, So, where is this theatre?"
Lydia spoke up. "Boston doesn't have any real theatres. Not like other cities. The Puritans will not allow it. However when I was a girl living here, a violinist won the right to open a Music Hall on Brattle Street. It is the closest thing Boston has to a theatre. They are even allowed, oh heaven forbid, dances there, so long as they end before eleven at night."
* * * * *
* * * * *
MAYA’S AURA - the Redemptioner by Skye Smith
Chapter 20 - The Adulateur
"I don't get it," said Maya as she clicked between web sites. "Mercy Otis Warren was a renaissance woman compared to other women of her time, and yet there is almost nothing on the web about her. Like why isn't there a historical novel or two about her?"
"Good point," Nana said. "Perhaps I should be writing a novel about her rather than about Britta. Come to think of it you could write volumes about the entire Otis clan. At least Samuel Adams has a beer named after him. The Otis family did so much for this country and no one has ever heard of them."
"Oh no you don't," said Maya. "No way am I going to stop tapping into Britta's crystal now that she has found a man. Her thoughts about Jim are so carnal that sometimes I feel like taking the runabout over to the village and seduce Bret." She smiled at the thought.
It would do them both good. Bret was a typical nerdy late teen who spent too much time in his man cave playing video games. A virgin for sure, and would stay that way for ever unless some girl took pity on him and showed him what women liked. Why not her? She would have to okay it with his sister Mary first, of course, and then spend some money to give him a makeover. Not much, just hair and clothes and some scented hand sanitizer for his pits.
Maya drifted off in a daydream about what Bret would look like cleaned up, which quickly turned into daydreams of how she would train him, which slowly turned into daydreams about Jim, who had been dead for over two hundred years.
* * * * *
* * * * *
Jim came for her in his father's shay, which was not so fancy as the Warren's shay. She was waiting for him in the shop, sitting far away from the splashing spoons of any customers. She was already hidden from street eyes by Lydia's best cloak and already had the hood up. The cloak was drab on the outside, like a good Puritan would wear, but inside it was lined in a light purple silk.
To a casual glance she was modest and covered from head to boot. The boots were shameless for they had two-inch heels, and were of kid leather so fine that the shape of her ankles was very apparent. They were Lydia's and therefore a bit too small despite Jon's attempts to stretch them.
As soon as she saw Jim at the door, she blew a kiss to Lydia and pressed her hands together in a mock prayer to her mistress's open-hearted generosity, then she was out the door and being lifted into the shay by, dare she think it, her man.
There was a horseshoe of onlookers formed around one end of the cloak room table. Those in Puritan drab checked their cloaks at the close end of the table, while those in splendid colors waited their turn to swirl off their cloaks in the center of the horseshoe.
Britta clamped Jim's arm to her and pulled him back from breaking through the horseshoe of onlookers. "We must wait our turn," she said. Mercy was with the onlookers wearing the gown she had been trying on when Britta had arrived at her house. She was too old to be a pretty woman, but she had a grace to her posture and movements. She had probably been the first to arrive at the theatre to make sure that all of the players were calm.
"Oh Britta," Mercy cooed, "I am so glad to see you in the horseshoe. I was so hoping you would not wear black and be looking on at all the fun like those crows on the staircase." She waved her hand at the young women in black and drab that were standing far to the side of the horseshoe, hoping to glimpse the next sinful, that is, decadent gown.
"Oh my," said Britta and turned Mercy to see the next woman to swirl out of her cloak. People actually clapped. Instead of a bonnet, the woman wore a crimson feather. Her gown was of skin-tight scarlet satin down to below the hips, and then flared in swirls of pink and red and white lace to the ground.
Mercy whispered, "It is a beautiful gown, but only for a woman long married and with children, as she is. No one else could wear scarlet in Boston without ruining their reputation. That being said, she is slim of hip for someone with two children, and she chose exactly the right gown to prove that to the other women."
