Freedom's Ring

by Heidi Chiavaroli

  It was an elopement notice from 1786, stating that a Beatrice Gregory had run off with a man who was not her husband. Apparently Benjamin Gregory wished to notify the public that he was no longer accountable for her debts. No other names were given.

  Brad rewound the reel and slid it out. “Two more, then we find some chow. Deal?”

  I agreed. Hitting roadblocks had a way of wearing on our hope.

  The next name in the book was a Constance Gregory of Lexington. We put back Beatrice’s microfilm and picked up Constance’s. It was a society news page from 1828 stating that Constance Gregory would be vacationing in Philadelphia for the summer with her aunt.

  Brad replaced the film while I wrote down the file number of the next Gregory from Lexington in the book. Cora Gregory, journal, 1770–1776. I went to the back wall to get the film box.

  This was much longer than the previous microfilms and appeared to be a record of midwife attendances. We skimmed through the first few, straining our eyes to read the old writing. Record after record of delivering babies, nursing children through a dysentery epidemic, salving burns, treating cases of worms. My stomach began to churn and I was about to suggest we call it quits early when a name caught my eye in an entry of spring 1771. The record looked like all the others, except at the top, written in Cora’s meticulous hand, was the heading, Assisted by Liberty Caldwell.

  “Brad, look.”

  He squinted at the screen. “Do you think that could be her?”

  “Maybe. She’s living at the right time. Her first name isn’t a common one in the eighteenth century.”

  We scrolled forward. More often than not, the name Liberty Caldwell appeared at the top of the page. Near the end of 1773, many entries listed her name as the Sole Midwife.

  “It looks like Cora took Liberty under her wing to train her, and eventually Liberty went out by herself.” I continued to scroll forward. A sudden time lapse appeared in mid-April 1775.

  “The war,” Brad said. “Begun at Lexington. Though people would still need a midwife. I wonder why there’s a break.”

  The next entry picked up in November 1775. A labor and delivery with Cora Gregory listed as midwife. And below her name, next to Assisted by, the woman we’d been hoping to find.

  Liberty Gregory.

  10 DECEMBER 1773

  Dearest Liberty,

  In the years I have been writing you, I have not once confessed my deep feelings. Some may say I am slow to act, or a coward to write you in this way instead of speaking them in person, but I sense your need for space, your need to find your way as a mother . . . alone.

  Yet the onset of this cold winter and the biting wind whipping off the harbor release a burden in my soul. I miss you, Liberty. I do not wish for our relationship to be only through paper and an occasional visit. Soon James will be old enough to realize he has no father like other boys.

  Liberty, I wish to be his father. I can think of no better pleasure than to hear him call me “Father,” except perhaps to hear you call me “Husband.” I make my intentions plain here so you may consider this request in the privacy of your oft-guarded heart. Don’t fret, my dear. I cannot imagine you any other way. Though if you accept my proposal, I do plan to tear down those walls bit by bit. Because, my love, your heart is my goal.

  See what you have done to a grown man! I doubt if I ever talked so foolishly to even Edwina. You do indeed make me a fool, dearest Liberty. And I believe I am a better man for it.

  I await your reply with an eager heart. There is much informal business to be done here in Boston.

  Should I hear from you with favor, I will plan to build a homestead in Lexington. I long for the country and farm life . . . and you. My sister’s recent marriage has proven well for her soul, and there is nothing to keep me tied to Boston. Does Lexington suit you? I pray it is so. Farewell, my love.

  With eager anticipation,

  Hugh

  21 DECEMBER 1773

  Dearest Hugh,

  Though I fear you are not fully aware what you heap upon your head, I must selfishly accept your proposal. Come as soon as you can, my dear. James has been asking for you.

  The Reverend Clark’s wife is due for her tenth child any day now, and I am to help her deliver the child myself. Little by little, Cora is releasing the midwifing to me. Her instruction is faultless. I have learned much—both in midwifing and in the managing of a household. Still, I feel I should persuade you to seek out another. And yet greedily, I pray you don’t.

  I long to be the wife you deserve, my dear. I will try my very hardest in honoring you and our family.

  I hope your business in the town has not been too dangerous, and I pray you were not involved with those frightful Mohawks in the dumping of the tea in the harbor. Imagine—Mohawks romping about in Boston. You are indeed safer here in Lexington. When I think of all you work for, I am reminded of my brother and all that he died for. ’Tis not in vain, my love. I will be glad to have you near soon.

  With fondest thoughts and sincerest regards,

  Liberty

  “THERE SHE IS!” Brad stood up straight and hit his head on the microform machine. He rubbed his crown. “That has to be her. She must have gotten married sometime between April and November.”

  I couldn’t deny the thrill of finding Liberty. We had discovered her maiden name, that she had a career as a midwife, that she had lived in Lexington. These details made her all the more real to me.

  My fingers shook as I pushed the forward button, the entries one hundred times more interesting now that they had led us to the possible owner of the ring. I told myself this shouldn’t matter so much to me. None of it. Brad’s family, the ring, the poem, Liberty. None of it should matter at all. And yet it did matter, so very much. The bombing, the ring, Brad, Liberty . . . they were each becoming a part of my own story.

  Brad put his hands on my shoulders and gave them a squeeze. “The chances have to be about one in a million that there would be another Liberty Gregory from the area who lived in this time period. She must be the author of the poem.”

  “And maybe your ancestor.”

  “If we didn’t already have the line from the poem matching the inscription on the ring, I’d say it’s a long shot. But now I’m thinking it must be true. We just don’t have solid proof that connects Michael Gregory to Liberty. Maybe if we find her marriage license? Based on the journal entries, we know she was married after the battle but before the end of 1775.”

  I continued forward on the reel. We didn’t see anything new, a few entries with either Cora Gregory or Liberty Gregory. “Liberty most likely married into Cora’s family. If we can find Liberty’s husband’s name and then match his and Liberty’s names to a birth record for Michael, we’d have the proof we need.”

  Brad pulled the reel out of the machine and we scanned the frames we needed and downloaded them to his thumb drive. We went to the computer and Brad clicked on a website I hadn’t seen yet, then on Massachusetts Town Marriage Records, 1620–1850. He typed as much information as he had in the search box, and the first result was a hit.

  Hugh Gregory. Spouse—Liberty Caldwell. Marriage date—July 8, 1775. Marriage place—Lexington. I scribbled the information in my notebook. “We’re getting there, Brad.”

  Brad’s fingers flew over the keys as he searched for records on the birth of Michael Gregory. We landed five birth record results, but none of them listed parents as Liberty or Hugh.

  “Where is he? Don’t tell me we’re going to hit a wall now. He should be here.”

  The horrible feeling that we’d missed a step in our research washed over me. I looked at the sketch of Brad’s family tree. “Unless we’re missing a generation. Liberty and Hugh were married in 1775. Amelia was born in 1815. That’s forty years. Enough for another generation if they had their babies young enough. Maybe Liberty is Amelia’s great-grandmother, not her grandmother.”

  I didn’t state the other possibility: that there was no connection be
tween Brad’s family and Liberty Gregory. If so, our search ended here.

  Brad raked his hand through his hair. “We spent the whole morning looking for something on Michael and found nothing.” I could sense his desperation, and I couldn’t resist humming the Rocky theme song.

  He groaned. “I get it, I get it. I’m not giving up; don’t worry. We may not have found Michael, but we found Liberty Gregory, and that’s even more exciting.” He closed his eyes, opened them. “We can always continue looking online at home. We only have an hour left before they close. I saw another book on Middlesex County on the back wall. I’ll go get it.”

  My stomach rumbled as Brad left and came back with a red book titled Index to the Probate Records of Middlesex County Massachusetts, 1674–1871. He flipped to the Gs.

  “Plenty of Gregorys again. No Liberty.”

  “How about Michael? Or Amelia?”

  “One Michael from Lexington. A will from 1864. If the Michael we’re looking for was born shortly after Liberty and Hugh got married, that would make the guy almost ninety years old. Did people live that long back then?”

  I bit my lip. “I suppose it’s possible, right? Any other Michaels?”

  Brad shook his head. “Not from Lexington. Might as well look.” He said the microfilm number to himself two times before going to the back wall again.

  When the reel was in the microform machine, he fast-forwarded to the correct number. The second page held Michael’s name; his date of birth—November 12, 1796; the date of death—October 16, 1864; and the probate date—November 7, 1864, along with the name of the person who had read the will.

  Brad returned to the first page, which began the will. We read.

  I, Michael Gregory, resident of the Town of Lexington, County of Middlesex, State of Massachusetts, being of sound disposing mind and memory, and conscious of my own mortality, do make this my last will and testament. First of all I bequeath my precious soul into the hands of God, trusting in the merits of Jesus Christ for salvation. My temporal and worthy estate I give and desire of in the following manner. My will is that all my debts and financial charges be first paid out of my estate by my esquire. I give and bequeath unto my daughter, Amelia Kilroy of Lexington, together with her husband, Thomas, the house built by the loving hands of my father, Hugh Gregory.

  “There!” I squeezed Brad’s arm. “That’s it. The connection, Brad.”

  “It has to be . . .”

  I looked at him, his face drawn tight at the desk where the film reflected the picture. “What’s wrong, then?” I followed his gaze to the last sentence before what looked like a lengthy list of Michael’s items began, along with to whom they were to be dispensed.

  Also to my daughter, Amelia, I leave one gold signet ring with the name of Smythe, given to me at the death of my mother, Liberty, and engraved with the anchor and horn of Christ, inscribed with the words Qui fortis salutem tribute.

  “I can’t believe it,” I whispered. “We found her.”

  Brad continued staring at the image. “I—she really is my ancestor.”

  A solemn silence spread over us like a warm blanket. It was an almost-holy experience, this finding of information that connected us with the past, with the family of the man who now sat beside me. It reminded me of my own mortality, of the fragility and beauty of life. I breathed it in as we sat with the picture, communing with history’s memories—a history I could no longer separate from myself.

  In a way, now, it belonged to me as much as Brad. So much more than it had when I woke in the hospital with my rescuer’s—Liberty’s—ring in my hand. More than when I’d discovered Brad’s card in Lydia’s living room. Nothing about this history was make-believe. The poem, Liberty, the ring, Brad . . . they were all swirling around me, catching me up in their whirlwind, inviting me to be a part of something bigger than myself.

  After a few minutes passed, Brad scrolled to the next screen, a continuing list of Michael’s smaller possessions and monetary disbursements.

  Brad flipped to the family tree I’d sketched. “According to the will, Michael Gregory was born in 1796, a year after Liberty wrote the poem. Gee, it took Hugh and Liberty twenty-one years to have a child. They must have been in their early forties, at least.”

  We scanned the images onto the flash drive, thanked the reference genealogists, signed out, and left the building.

  Brad slipped his hand into mine. “That . . . was so cool.”

  We walked half a block before I spoke. “Thank you.”

  He cocked his head to the side, swung his arm with mine. “For what?”

  “For letting me be a part of that little bit of magic. I know it’s your family, but I feel like . . .” Like I’m a part of it. Like it belongs to me, too. But I couldn’t finish the sentence, didn’t want to force myself into something so intimate.

  Brad dragged me toward a building, off the main part of the sidewalk. He pulled me close, wrapped his arms around me. “Like it’s your history too?”

  I shrugged. “Kind of.”

  “It is your history, Anaya.” He dipped his head to mine in a kiss as sweet as double-churned ice cream. When he pulled away, he lifted the ring off my sweater and bounced it gently in the palm of his hand. “This ring has a pretty neat past, and part of its past is you. I don’t regret giving it to you that day. In fact, my life has gotten a heck of a lot more exciting since you came into it. So don’t you dare apologize any more for sharing this journey with me, okay? Because, Annie, I’m having the time of my life.”

  His emerald eyes cut to my core, and I felt myself slipping—falling—into a heady web of feelings I couldn’t quite piece together or pull apart.

  Again I caught a glimpse of the good that had come from that horrible day. The world might always contain evil, but somewhere in the last month I’d found a hope that out of darkness, something good—something that knew love more powerfully than hate—could be born.

  MAY 1774

  “Confound that King George, and confound the Regulars!” Graham slapped his copy of the Boston Gazette on the wood plank table, startling me from the letter I penned to Midwife Louisa.

  Nathaniel and Michael eyed the paper, waiting for their father to give them a nod signaling they could snatch it up.

  Rebekah stood from her spot on the floor where she played with James. She laid a gentle hand on Graham’s massive arm, soothing the political beast within. “What is it, Papa?”

  His expression softened little. “Oh, only that the high and mighty in London have ruled that the Port of Boston is to be closed.” He picked up the paper. “The House of Commons calls us a ‘nest of locusts.’ Not one ship may enter, not one may leave, except His Majesty’s warships and transports, until every farthing of tea is paid for.” Graham rubbed his eyes. “’Tis a good thing you left when you did, Hugh. Half of Boston will starve beneath such an order.”

  Over his pipe, Hugh’s steady gaze settled on me, and not for the first time, I wondered if I was the only one of us who held secrets. Yes, he’d left to come build a home for our future, but had his reasons for leaving Boston been twofold? How involved had he been in the treasonous acts in Boston, in the circular letters flying about the colonies? The scent of dinner—fish stew and corn bread—lingered heavy in the air.

  “I take it the troops are back in town, then?” Hugh looked at James, playing on the floor with three wooden blocks, curls thick at the nape of his neck.

  Graham nodded, slid the paper to his boys.

  My chest grew tight. The thought of the captain—or the lieutenant—back on the mainland stirred up a long-forgotten panic within me. Yet certainly neither would seek me out over a bit of silver and a ring. . . .

  Later that night, as I changed into my dressing gown and settled into my bed, James already sleeping snug on his straw-tick mattress on the floor, a soft knock came at the door of my chambers.

  I sat up. “Who’s there?” I said in a loud whisper.

  “Hugh.”

&
nbsp; I gathered the blankets to my chest, called through the closed door, “I am settled for the night.”

  “Please, Liberty. May I come in?”

  I sat up, adjusted the coverlet around me. “Very well.”

  His familiar form, still clad in work clothes, stood at the threshold. He left the door slightly ajar.

  I wondered what being married to this man in just another month would be like. I knew I didn’t deserve him. I knew I should tell him the complete truth surrounding the events of James’s conception, and yet I could not risk losing him—losing the safety and comfort he provided.

  Quiet steps. Candlelight on the nightstand, flickering against the wall. The sound of James’s heavy breathing, content in sleep.

  “Forgive me for this impropriety, but I must speak with you, my dear.” The floorboard creaked as he approached and knelt beside my bed, though he did not touch the coverlet with as much as a pinkie. The scent of soap and leather and fresh-cut hay wound around me, and his breath smelled of mint leaves.

  Warmth radiated through my body. I wanted him close, and I didn’t. I longed for his embrace at the same time that I feared it. Would the intimacies of marriage bring forth fresh memories of the captain’s crimes? Would I ever be able to find rest in a husband’s arms?

  His teeth glowed white in the light of the candle. “The news of the Regulars—how does it sit with you?”

  I sat up, tucking the covers around my upper half. “How do you suppose it sits with me?”

  “Liberty, now is not the time to take offense. I—I only wonder if we should marry sooner. I want to protect you and James. While I don’t believe James’s father would come looking for the girl he accosted, we can’t be certain. You have never told me exactly what happened that night.”

  His words pinched my heart, and I thought perhaps I should be out with it. Tell him I had worked for the Crown. I had used King George’s money to survive. I had cared for an enemy soldier.