Freedom's Ring

by Heidi Chiavaroli

  “I have not told my brother anything except that you are a kindhearted woman in need of a place for you and your son. What you wish them to know is yours to tell.”

  For some reason his words made my eyes prick with tears. They seemed sincere. And yet . . . “You needn’t pity me, Mr. Gregory.”

  “It is not pity that inspires my actions.” His eyes met mine with an intensity that struck me to the core—not in an altogether unpleasant way.

  If not pity, then what was it that motivated him? I did not ask for fear of his answer. For fear of those eyes, suddenly intimate. “I do not have means to pay you.”

  “Helping my brother and his family would be payment enough.”

  I swallowed any remaining doubts. “Then it is settled. When should I plan to bid farewell to Midwife Louisa?”

  Midwife Louisa pressed her lips to James’s head, just below his knitted cap. “I will certainly be missing you both.” Her hand reached down to squeeze mine. Streaks of sunshine fell warm through the dusty window onto my shoulders. Outside, Mr. Gregory checked the wagon.

  “And I you.” I clasped her hand back. “Thank you for everything. And please, forgive me for being angry with you over Mr. Gregory. As I should have realized, it seems you knew best after all.” I clung to the woman to whom I would forever owe a debt of gratitude for my son’s life. How different things might have been had I not met her.

  “You are forgiven a hundred times over, child.”

  My throat grew tight at the absolution. It seemed this woman could read my very heart, and still she loved me. I clung tighter to her hand.

  She squeezed back. “Just remember: do not be frightened of the truth or of your past. The Lord can work powerfully through it.”

  I nodded acknowledgment. Perhaps I didn’t doubt that God could work; rather I assumed He wouldn’t choose to employ a cursed, weak individual like myself.

  Midwife Louisa took up a package wrapped in brown paper and pressed it into my hands. “Some supplies to get you started. Don’t be a stranger now.”

  I promised I wouldn’t, dragged in a breath, and opened the door to start my new life.

  Before me, in linen breeches and a heavy cape, Mr. Gregory stood beside his wagon, my valise situated behind the seats.

  I handed James to Midwife Louisa so I could board the wagon. Mr. Gregory placed his large hands at my waist and helped me up, not keeping them there a second longer than necessary, which I appreciated. While I felt comfortable with Mr. Gregory after his many visits to Midwife Louisa’s, it struck me now what a vulnerable situation I put myself in. I hadn’t been alone with a man since the incident with the captain. And here I was, entrusting myself entirely to Mr. Gregory’s care, alone on a country road.

  Beneath my thick stockings, my legs began to tremble. I reached for James, found myself meeting Midwife Louisa’s gaze and pleading with her for reassurance. She placed a hand on my arm, looked at me directly. “All is well, Liberty. I would trust Mr. Gregory with my life.” Her words were solid, firm, and I believed them. Once again the older woman had given me what I needed.

  Mr. Gregory settled the lap blanket around me, and I counted the fact that I did not flinch at his closeness a victory. “Rest assured, Midwife Louisa, I will die before I let anything happen to either of these two.” Such a bold proclamation, and yet I felt the weight of its sincerity. He sat beside me, his cloak brushing against my own, the scent of soap and leather wafting in my direction.

  “Godspeed!” Midwife Louisa called. I blew her a kiss, committing her image to memory.

  Mr. Gregory waved and slapped the reins against the horse’s back, steering us toward the town gates on the Neck.

  Due to the rhythmic bumping and rocking of the wagon, James slept longer than usual. By the time he woke, we were well past the crowded streets of Boston, packed with men and women in their market-day frippery, small boys with brooms and rags trying to catch the next chimney to sweep, vendors selling everything from coffee to Seneca oil. We were past the gallows on the Neck and the graves of suicides that sent shivers through my body.

  Now the quiet soothed me. No haggling people quibbling over necessary goods, no church bells, no music. Just the sound of the churning wagon wheels on the ground, thawing slightly in the bright sunshine, and James’s tiny breaths puffing out into the air. Mr. Gregory and I made trite conversation, him speaking of his childhood in Lexington or me admiring the country landscape. When James woke, I pondered how to nurse him in the small confines.

  “Mr. Gregory, might we stop so I may feed him?”

  He raised his eyebrows at me, shifted slightly in his seat. I could feel his discomfort at the mention of something so personal. “Can you not manage in the wagon? If we stop every time . . . we may not make it before dark.”

  Despite the cool weather, hot blood rushed to my face. “I suppose if I must.”

  “You need not fear, Miss Liberty. I will keep my—you need not fear.”

  I cleared my throat, arranged my cloak over James’s head. “Thank you for doing this.” I spoke to cover up the sound of my son’s tiny gulps, in case they could be heard above the ruckus of the wagon.

  “’Tis no trouble. I am due for a visit with my brother anyhow.”

  For the first time I wondered about this man, who lived with his sister, who had never started a family. While not considered old, it seemed he would have taken a wife by now.

  “I look forward to meeting them.”

  “Little Rebekah will take to you and James like no other. The rest are older and mind themselves overall. Though Thomas—he’s seven—has some trouble minding himself very well.”

  I laughed. “Sounds like it will never be dull.”

  Mr. Gregory let out a laugh that bellowed out beyond the landscape. “Dull is one thing my brother’s house could never be accused of.”

  “Why did you move to Boston?”

  “More opportunities for building work. And then there was Edwina.”

  My interest perked. “Edwina?”

  “My wife. I met her on one of my trips into Boston. She died during childbirth, as did our babe. It’s been four years already.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  Mr. Gregory’s eyes remained on the road. “I miss her every day, but time does heal in its way. The Lord gives and the Lord takes. I’m trusting He has a plan in all of this.”

  My silence ate up the open conversation faster than the wheels ate up the dirt road.

  “For you, too, Miss Liberty.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I believe the Lord has a plan for you, too.”

  I didn’t bother hiding the snort that escaped. James began to cry, and I adjusted my clothing, put him over my shoulder, and patted his back.

  “You don’t believe in the Lord’s sovereignty?”

  Not since Grandmother had I known someone to speak of God in such a blatant manner. True, most Bostonians went to church and touted their Christian character, but few spoke of such matters. I shifted in my seat. An air bubble traversed James’s body, culminating in a loud belch.

  “It’s not that I doubt God’s sovereignty.” I tucked the blanket around James, began rubbing his back. “I suppose it’s His goodness and willingness to work in my own life that I doubt.”

  Mr. Gregory met my gaze, a smile on his face.

  “Am I amusing?” I asked.

  “Not at all.” He turned his eyes again to the horses. “Rather, I find your honesty refreshing.”

  “So glad I’ve refreshed you.” I glanced sideways at him, one side of my mouth pulled up tight to convey my sarcasm. “Aren’t you going to spout Bible verses at me or tell me I’m wrong to doubt my Creator?”

  He continued looking at the road, his body swaying with the movement of the wagon. “No.”

  “You’re going to leave me here believing God doesn’t care a whit about me?”

  His turn for the sarcastic look. “I think you already know all the answers, don’t you, Miss Libe
rty?”

  Did I? What had Grandmother said? “We are never so far away from God that He can’t reach His hand out to grasp us.” No matter the transgressions between us. All we had to do was turn and be healed.

  It sounded so simple, but what if the trust simply wasn’t there?

  I finished nursing James, ignoring Mr. Gregory’s question. My son fell asleep at my breast, and after I arranged him in the crook of my arm, I dug in the basket for a couple pieces of bread and cheese I’d packed that morning. I offered one to Mr. Gregory, which he took.

  I never did answer his question. Perhaps because I didn’t know the answer all that well myself.

  I DRAGGED MY EYES open at the tune of “Gonna Fly Now.” It lit up my phone in the darkness of my bedroom. I rubbed my eyes awake.

  “Feelin’ strong now . . .”

  “Won’t be long now . . .”

  Brad.

  I sat up straight, adrenaline rushing through my limbs, my mouth dry. He was calling. I shouldn’t care so much, but I did.

  I rolled over and grabbed my phone before the song closed out with lyrics about flying. “Hello?”

  “Aww, Annie, I woke you up.”

  “It’s okay. I have to open tomorrow, so I tried to make it an early night.” I glanced at the time on my screen: 10:04. “I think I already got in an hour. What’s up?”

  “Forget it. I can talk to you tomorrow.”

  “No, wait. I’m awake now.”

  “Okay . . . well, I—I wanted to talk to you. I just can’t leave things the way we did last Saturday. I’m sorry for pushing you, Annie.” I heard him shift the phone, inhale a wobbly breath. “You know, you’re right.”

  “About . . . ?”

  “I’m a fixer. I see something broken, someone hurting, I want to fix them. Including myself. Slap some duct tape on and plow through the pain. But I’ve been thinking . . . maybe being broken isn’t always such a bad thing.”

  I snorted. “Really? In whose world?”

  “Well, maybe being broken can bring us together, you know? Like it has a higher purpose. Maybe it’s how we help one another, look for meaning in this botched-up life.”

  I rolled his words around in my head, tried not to brush them off as idealistic. Like it or not, they poked at the shell I tried to erect around my heart, the one that assured me Brad could never understand. I thought of probing him further about his own ghosts, about his time in Iraq, but feared shutting him down and pushing him away. I much preferred this—him, back in my life, talking to me—than the silence of the last couple days. “I’m sorry too. For spazzing out on you.”

  “Forgiven. In a heartbeat. Now when can I see you again?”

  Warmth sprouted in my belly. He’d glimpsed my demons and hadn’t turned tail and run. I leaned back against the headboard, relishing the feeling of acceptance. “Why don’t you let me cook you dinner tomorrow night? If you’re free, that is.”

  “And afterward, if you’re still interested, we could look over something I found.”

  I kicked my covers off. “Something on Liberty?”

  “Not on Liberty, but on Thomas. The one we found at the society the other day that’s married to Amelia Gregory. I found another clue that confirms it. He was Granddad’s great-great-grandfather.”

  I looked over Brad’s shoulder at my laptop. The scent of my homemade meatballs lingered in the air, our sauce-splattered plates sitting in soapy dishwater in the sink.

  The tension from our last time together wore off over dinner, relaxing into comfortable conversation. I listened to accounts of his work, about a house built in 1795 that he and his team were redoing, about the many specifications for restoration required to keep a house “historical.” It felt . . . different to have Brad in my house, to cook for him, to hear about his workweek. Different, and rather nice. Maybe even natural.

  Brad clicked on a heading that read, Massachusetts Marriage Records, 1840–1915. The record was for Allen Kilroy. “It shows he married in 1853 to a Madelyn Warren of Boston. It also shows his parents’ names—Thomas and Amelia.” He clicked over to another page. “I found the birth records for a Jonathan Kilroy of Lexington. His parents were Allen and Madelyn.”

  I searched the screen for a date. “The birth year checks out and everything.”

  “All the dots connect. I do have ancestors by the name of Gregory.”

  I squeezed his shoulder. “Good work, Mr. Kilroy.” I opened my notebook and started scribbling down information. “So now we switch over to Amelia’s side, right? Try to find out who her parents were?”

  He nodded, opened another tab on my laptop. “I think I found something on her last night.” He gave me a sheepish grin. “I stayed up until one.”

  “Wow.”

  His fingers flew over the keys. “I searched her for two hours. The records are definitely slim once we start heading back to the early nineteenth century, but I did find something on Amelia Gregory in the society news. Only again, there’s no way to be sure it’s in fact our Amelia, but it’s a perfect match for the information we have so far.”

  I skimmed over the digital picture of a rather worn newspaper clipping from the Boston Gazette, March 1834. The article told of a dance at Munroe Tavern. It spoke of dance cards, a practical joke repeated from a dance some twenty years earlier, and an Amelia Gregory who insisted on relieving an ill Negro servant woman of her duties. When a patron made a fuss that without the sick woman, they would not be served, Miss Gregory stepped in and served the drinks herself, much to the dismay of the young beaus named on her dance card.

  “And look, I found a book of Lexington’s history online, with a copy of Amelia’s dance card.”

  I squinted at the computer. “Thomas K.’s name on half the spots on her card.”

  “It must be him, and this must be his future wife, my four-times-great-grandmother. I think we should go back to the society, search for some clues in their microform. Or maybe the Massachusetts Archives in Dorchester. There’s only so much we can find online, especially now that we’re so far back.”

  I grabbed up our water glasses and added them to the sudsy dishwater. “Seems you’ve done pretty well. Sure you need me?” I kept my tone light but avoided his gaze.

  The chair scraped against the linoleum and I felt his presence behind me, smelled soap mixed with spicy cologne and, always, a hint of wood. I stilled at a touch on my elbow. “You’re not mad I found things on my own, are you?”

  I shrugged and turned, surprised by the solid wall of Brad that stood less than a foot from me. “Not mad. Maybe a little disappointed. Selfish, I know.”

  Here I was again, revealing more of my unflattering self to this guy I was fast becoming attached to. I was surprised when he stepped closer. I inhaled a shaky breath, my heart dancing beneath my lungs.

  “I feel like I’m the one who keeps letting you down.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “I know I don’t measure up, Annie. . . .”

  I wondered if he was thinking the same about me. My fingers touched his sweatshirt, hesitant. I wouldn’t lie to him. He didn’t measure up. I’d pictured an athletic-looking, lean man. Maybe a runner who’d finished the race an hour before me. A doctor who cheered on a friend. A Red Sox fan, of course. But not an emotionally scarred ex-soldier. Not a tattooed contractor who resembled a lumberjack more than a marathon runner.

  “No, you don’t.”

  He gave me a sad smile, started to pull away. I held on to his sweatshirt, made a bold move of stepping in closer. “But there is no one else I’d rather be standing here with right now. Fantasy . . . or real.”

  The words were out, in the air between us before I fully thought them through. I checked . . . and discovered they were sincere, which caught me off guard—maybe as much as what Brad’s closeness was doing to my body.

  Those green eyes came alive with a request so potent I couldn’t look away. He lowered his lips to mine in a kiss that drew me with its promise but held me with its sweetness. A kiss that shattere
d me, and then pulled me back together.

  When we finally parted he tugged me in for a long hug, pressed his mouth to the top of my head. An intense longing to never let him go—to confess feelings I hadn’t yet had time to explore—overtook me. I kept them at bay. I hadn’t ever felt such a strong connection to another person before.

  “I’m really glad we found each other, Anaya.”

  “Me too.”

  “And I promise not to do any more searching without you.”

  “Thank you.”

  He lifted a hand to the hollow at my neck. His fingers brushed my throat and he pulled the chain until the ring was above my sweater. He ran his thumb over the stones, the inscription. “You are strong, Annie. And I’m hoping to prove it to you one of these days.”

  I guided his hands away from the ring. It was time I revealed a deeper part of myself to him. “Brad . . .”

  He waited.

  “There’s something I think I should tell you.”

  Whether or not he would admit it, I saw his guard go up. I saw it in the way his body tensed, the way his jaw tightened ever so slightly. And after a statement like that, why shouldn’t it?

  “Okay . . .”

  My middle trembled, and I breathed through my nose to settle the feeling. “I’m not proud of my actions these past couple of years. I abandoned my sister and niece for more than twenty months because I couldn’t face reality. I’m a coward, Brad.” Warm tears gathered in my eyes. “And I can’t let you stand there thinking I’m some strong heroine or even a strong victim. I’m a horrible person. Rather than pushing through the pain and sticking with the people I care about, I ran out on them. It’s only fair I warn you.”

  He studied me and I wanted to turn away from his pressing stare. “Annie, I have no illusions of you being perfect.”

  “Phew, glad that’s cleared up.”

  “And I’m sure you don’t have any imaginings about me being so either.”

  I shrugged.

  “You know, last night, when I was searching around on the computer about the ring—which of course, will be my last time ever doing that . . .” We laughed. “I tried to find out about the crest of the ring too. I think there might be more to it than we’ve thought about.”