Freedom's Ring

by Heidi Chiavaroli

  “It’s no big deal. I don’t want to trouble—”

  “Nah, no trouble. I want to. I’ll make you a deal.”

  My heart thumped against my rib cage. “Okay.”

  “You hold on to the ring for me until I find something about it.”

  “That’s kind of an open-ended deal.” Was this his way of letting me have the ring in what he considered a gallant manner?

  “That way, I’ll work hard at uncovering the mystery.”

  “Because you want the ring back.”

  His mouth twitched and he put his hat back on, stuck the pencil up into the right side of it. “No. Because I want to have dinner with you again when I don’t smell like sawdust.”

  MARCH 1770

  I closed the door of the officers’ house and burrowed farther into my go-to-market cloak, a basket clutched at my side. From across the street, the giggles of two girls reached my ears. They were about my age, and I smiled at them before realizing I was the target of their laughter. They whispered to each other, then turned away without bidding me a good day.

  I tried not to take the snub to heart. I knew they believed I warmed the captain’s and lieutenant’s beds with more than warming pans of coals. In truth, most of the advertisements posted at the Royal Coffeehouse for housemaids stated rather boldly that virtue was not a requirement. I stared after the murmuring girls.

  I envied them. Carefree, no doubt living beneath the roof of a loving parent. Not so very long ago I was in their place. ’Twas not my fault Providence had dealt me so difficult a hand. And yet, mightn’t I have looked harder and longer for a respectable employ? Spent more than one night on the cold town streets? A stronger woman would have refused the help of the enemy.

  On my way to the apothecary, I dodged the women bustling to market, chimney sweeps vying for jobs, piles of horse and donkey manure, and red-coated sentries.

  Just ahead stood the brick Town House, the gold unicorn and lion of the royal crest standing proudly on top, a whipping post before it and the town pump not much farther. Toward the horizon and between brick buildings, I just glimpsed Long Wharf, packed with warehouses, counting houses, and the great naked masts of ships at port. I craned my neck for a sight of blue sea. With the hum of spring, the wharf would soon be filled with casks of wine from the island of Madeira and hogsheads of fruit and sugar from the West Indies and Canary Islands.

  A crude word cut through the busyness of the streets. At the Customs House, across from the Town House, a red-coated sentry, not much older than me, stood guard. His musket was planted firmly over his shoulder, and he walked back and forth, turning smartly on his heel with each change of direction even as a nearby boy called obscene names at him. I thought to shoo the boy away but lost my courage at the prospect of a South End mob turning against me.

  The apothecary shop was just beyond on Royal Exchange Lane. I would pick up the cloves and perhaps some catnip for the lieutenant’s tooth as well as some camphor, linseed oil, headache powders, and beeswax, as my supplies were running low. On the way home I would visit the Customs House and see if news of James’s ship, Defiance, had come in. While ships were not required to be registered upon their arrival, my best hope of finding news of James was here. Yet even as I held on to the hope I’d felt that morning, the scent of snow thickened the air, reminding me that ships traversing from the West Indies didn’t often pull into port in early March.

  A crumpled newspaper swirled at my feet. The rattling of a cart came from behind, and I stepped aside, turning to see a boy wheeling a load of firewood. He rushed past, and out of the corner of my eye I caught a figure leaving the print shop of Edes & Gill, publishers of the Boston Gazette. Something jumped in my belly. Even with the tricorn hat and cape, I’d know that form anywhere. I’d cleaned up his toddler hands caked with mud after playing in a summer rain. I’d watched his eyes light up at the sight of seedcakes, warm from the oven. I’d hid those same eyes from our parents’ corpses, riddled with smallpox sores. At sixteen, he might no longer need me, but I desperately needed him.

  James turned in the opposite direction, and I half skipped, half ran after him. When I drew closer, I called out, “James!”

  The man didn’t turn, and for a moment I doubted myself. But certainly I wasn’t wrong—no one could walk with such a step as my brother, who’d had the lung fever at age ten and who still suffered his breaths when he walked, taking deep cleansing lungfuls that arched his back with each draw of air.

  I quickened my pace, not entirely missing a manure pile. “James!”

  He stopped, tilted his head, and turned. I couldn’t deny my joy at his surprise, his jaw open and his eyebrows raised. “Liberty?”

  I drew closer, ignoring the manure now, and flung myself into his arms. “I can’t fathom it. You’re here. You are truly here!” I pulled back, examining him. “You look wonderful. No doubt the sea air agrees with you, little brother.” He’d filled out since I last saw him, no longer the scrawny boy whose clothes I’d pressed.

  His hands stayed on my arms. “How did you come to be in Boston, dear sister?”

  “An old farmer took pity on me on the King’s Highway from New York. I gave him the last of my shillings.”

  James blinked. His nose twitched. “Why did you not stay at home? What of Grandmother Caldwell?”

  “Mayhap we should exit the streets. . . .”

  He nodded, his mouth firm, and offered me his arm, which I took gladly. Though I was the elder by more than a year, he was now the man in our pitiable family of two. I would have to put myself under his protection—and willingly I would. No longer would I be criticized for serving the redcoats, however charming one could be. I now had a family, a place to belong.

  James led me several blocks away from the main thoroughfare. The Common loomed before us, and he ushered me to the Old Granary graveyard, where a high stone wall hid us from view of the street. A lone woman stood at the grave of the Seider boy—perhaps his mother? The Liberty Boys had ensured a magnificent funeral for the twelve-year-old boy, shot by one of the king’s customs officials in the middle of a violent row. Standing there, looking at the grieving woman, I could understand the vehement passion of those who called themselves Patriots. After all, what sort of suppression led to the needless death of a child? Why didn’t they just let us alone to run our own land?

  The woman brought a handkerchief to her nose, her mouth moving. I wondered how many of the five thousand funeral attendees would come to visit the boy’s resting place over the coming days. Likely only a handful. The funeral was more a show of Whig loyalty, meant to incite the Patriots’ fervor for their Cause. I swallowed a lump of empathy for the woman at the boy’s grave. She was the one who would truly mourn.

  James and I strolled the crude paths between mottled headstones.

  “Grandmother fell to the throat distemper last autumn. We had little in those final days, littler still as we laid her in the ground. I could think of nothing but to find you.”

  My brother’s stubbled face showed the distress the news brought him. “I—I’m sorry, Libby.”

  My bottom lip trembled at the sound of my childhood nickname. “There is naught to be sorry for. I miss her terribly, but she passed to the next life with her unwavering faith as her comfort. And we are together now, James; that is all that matters. Tell me, when did your ship finally arrive?”

  “Finally? I have been here all winter, sending word to New York for news of you and Grandmother. Now I see why I have had no reply.”

  I stopped walking and stared at a chipped headstone. James had been in Boston the whole of winter? While I stooped to serve the enemy—while I near lost my heart to one—my brother had been within arm’s reach? “W-when? I checked the Customs House registers every day. I saw no sign of the Defiance.”

  “I was not on the Defiance. At the last moment I switched to the Hawk. I was certain you’d have received my letter.”

  I wanted to crumple atop the graves and sob. What w
aste! What ridicule I could have escaped. What guilt I would have been able to spare myself. Yet I could not let on with my brother watching me so intently. I drew in a large breath and fixed my chin firm.

  “We are together now,” I reiterated. “That is what matters. Where do you stay, James?”

  “In a back room of the Gazette. Captain Morton is a friend of Benjamin Edes. I am looking for a way to make a living on land.” His face turned a faint shade of green. “The ocean did not agree with me as I would have liked. Delivering papers suits me better.”

  My hands began trembling, along with the rest of my body. I ordered them rigid. There would be no coming beneath James’s protection. Would I make a home in the back of the Gazette? Hardly. Would my brother soon be able to support us delivering papers? Likely not.

  James’s warm hands grasped my own. “Don’t be glum, Libby. I feel I am a part of something—something important—at the Gazette. I may only ride for them, but I’m helping the Cause of liberty. It is a worthy Cause, one you can be proud of.”

  “Cause . . . Oh, James, do be careful. Please don’t put yourself in the midst of the Liberty Boys’ troubles.” Once again, I very much felt the older sister, my task at hand to set my wayward brother straight. While one might inwardly support the Patriots, it was another thing entirely to risk one’s life for them. After all my loss, I could not bear to lose the last precious family member I called my own. “Have you seen the handbills posted in the streets of late?” They informed the “rebellious people in Boston” that the Crown’s 14th and 29th Regiments of Foot were determined to join together against the rabble who opposed them.

  James stared at a spot to the left of my shoulder, his lips pressed together, his eyes unblinking.

  Though I didn’t see him waver, I continued. “A boy died last week because of this Cause you speak of. The Sons, they stir up trouble for all of the town. Perhaps all of the colonies, even.”

  James dropped his hands from mine. “And why should we be content to be ruled by a king thousands of miles across the sea? Why should we be content to give him our money without a by-your-leave, without a say in the matter?” My brother’s voice rose with fervor, his cheeks red. “He sends these bloodybacks over here to intimidate us. What do they know of this land that is ours?”

  I put my face in my hands. “Oh, James, you talk treason. I fear for you, is all.”

  He sighed, put a hand on my shoulder. “I am well able to look after myself. Now that I know you are here, though, I must look after you as well. Tell me, Libby, where do you stay? How have you fared?”

  “I—you will not be happy should I tell you.”

  “Have you become a camp woman, then?” He smiled, his joke attempting to lighten the mood. It failed miserably.

  I straightened my posture, prepared myself for my brother’s condemnation. “I am the housemaid in one of the officers’ homes. I make their meals and keep their rooms in exchange for room and board. I am also paid a shilling a day.”

  James clenched his fists. He took a particularly deep breath and I heard the wheeze in his lungs. “For those lobsters? You stoop to serve them? You must stop this at once, Liberty.”

  “You shan’t tell me what to do. I came here to find you. I am a single woman in a strange town—what else am I suited for?”

  “You must find something else.”

  I released an unladylike snort, fury whirling in my chest. If James had found me earlier—if I had found him—we wouldn’t be having this conversation. We would have discovered a way, together. Now . . .

  “I am suited for nothing else.”

  “There must be something. I will ask around at the Gazette. I’m certain there are plenty of Patriots in need of housemaids. Or perhaps a midwifery assistant. . . . How did you come by the position for those lobsters anyhow?”

  I continued walking, not willing to look at my brother as I told my story. “I was accosted my first night here. One of the officers I now work for came to my rescue.”

  James stopped my steady gait, grasped my arm a mite too hard. “Were you harmed?”

  “No.”

  “And now you are expected to repay your debt to the king by living with those fools.”

  I snatched my arm from his grasp. “You’ve no right to speak in this manner, James. You do not know this man—and yes, he is a man, just like you. He fights for a cause, just as you do. If not for him, I would be left for dead on the streets.”

  As I defended the lieutenant, I gave little thought to the captain’s too-close, rum-soaked breath, his overly familiar gaze, the way he took snuff and then sneezed into a white kerchief I would later have to launder. All I saw was the lieutenant, the folds of his cape and tall form protecting me the night I first met him. His strong fingers, adorned with a single signet ring, holding out a precious book of poetry to me. His bold words, vowing to protect me from the man from whom he took orders.

  And I thought James was wrong.

  All British officers were not fools.

  I GROANED AT the knock on the door and pulled the ties of my terry cloth robe tighter. In the bathroom, the steam from the water filling the tub rose in swirling wafts. I really didn’t want to see anyone. I wanted to escape to my hot bath and wash away the stresses of the day. A teller’s drawer that hadn’t balanced. A snooty assistant manager who seemed bent on disliking me. A man I couldn’t keep from my dreams, either in fairy tale or nightmare.

  Maybe . . . but no. Brad didn’t have my address. If he was going to contact me—and after a week of silence, that was a big “if”—he would call. I shut off the water and went to the door. It was probably Emilia, inviting me to dinner. I’d accepted a couple times, and while I felt a true affection toward the family of three that made up my landlords, I didn’t want them to feel obligated to take care of me just because I lived on their property.

  I turned on the porch light and opened the door. My sister stood, shifting from side to side, hands tucked into the pockets of her coat.

  “Lydia. Hi.”

  She took in my attire, or rather, lack of. “Hey. I know I shouldn’t just show up, but I was coming home from Stop and Shop, and Grace told me what street you lived on. I saw your car.”

  Her blabbering put me at ease. She was nervous, vulnerable. Good.

  “Come on in.”

  She gave me a tight smile and crossed the threshold. “Cute place.” Lydia closed the door behind her and stood a foot past the threshold with her coat still on, her arms in front of her chest. I noted the new lines around her eyes and mouth. How many were there because of me?

  “It’s small, but it’s all I need.” I mimicked her posture, suddenly feeling exposed in my robe. I thought of Brad’s card. I wanted to ask, but I couldn’t risk her closing up. My questions—my horrible need to place blame at Lydia’s feet instead of mine—would have to wait. A forgotten business card could hardly compare to my crimes. After the bombing, I had gladly identified as a victim, but not in this situation. The victim was Lydia. Her family. And I was the perpetrator.

  “Nice landlord?”

  “Yeah, they really are.” I held out a hand. “Can I take your coat?”

  Lydia wavered in her stance, reached for a button of her coat, then let her hand fall. Whatever her doubts were—and there must have been many—they won out. “I really don’t have much time. I have to get home and get supper going.”

  “Time for coffee?”

  She shrugged, unbuttoned her coat, but kept it on. “Okay.”

  I filled the Keurig with water. “How’s Joel?”

  She turned to me from the middle of my living room where she stood, somewhat aimless. “He’s good. Getting ready for baseball.”

  “Nice. When’s his first game?”

  She shook her head. “I’m not sure yet. Beginning of April, I think.”

  I placed two napkins at the table. “Roger still away a lot for work?”

  “No. After—after everything he took a different job in the co
mpany. Less responsibility, less travel.” A hint of a smile appeared at her lips. “I guess Mom told you that might be changing.”

  She didn’t seem angry that I’d accidentally told Grace about the possibility of a move, but I still winced at the reminder. “Yeah, sorry I spilled the beans the other day. Mom made it sound like it was happening next month.”

  “We’re only considering. We don’t have to decide until the summer, figured we didn’t need to work up the kids over a possibility.” She fiddled with the bottom button of her coat. “He took a pretty drastic pay cut the last two years. This move would give us a chance to get back on our feet.”

  Why did I feel like all that was my fault? Was it? In my head I could reason that none of that day was my fault—the bombing, Lydia’s minor injuries, Grace’s severe ones. But at the end of all the reasoning, one fact remained: they wouldn’t have been at the Boylston Street finish line that day if it weren’t for me. If I had gone faster that day, we all would have been gone from the scene when that first bomb went off. And if I’d been around to help them the months following, perhaps Roger could have kept his old job. Perhaps my sister and her family wouldn’t be contemplating moving halfway across the world now.

  I flexed my foot and felt the familiar pinch of pain in my calf. Memories of Lydia and me playing “tea” as girls with our stuffed bears and dolls pushed to the forefront of my mind. She was older by six years, so there was a lot of overlap time where we just didn’t have much in common. But there were a few precious years, from the time I was about three to when I was six, when Lydia wasn’t too mature, too busy with friends or school or boys to pull on galoshes, grab one of Mom’s umbrellas, and sing beneath a gently falling summer drizzle.

  High school and college found us separated more often than not, but we drew closer again as Lydia married and had children. I’d come frequently to help her with Grace and Joel and talk to her about my own struggles with school and work and life. We found each other then as something akin to friends. I didn’t see how we would ever get back to that place.