Freedom's Ring

by Heidi Chiavaroli

  Then his words from a long-ago December night came to me, replaying in my mind as they often did when I entertained telling Hugh the truth.

  “You haven’t the slightest need for shame. It is not as if you were associating with those blackguards or putting yourself in a foolish position.”

  No, Hugh could never know the reality of my unpatriotic transgressions.

  “I do hope you will feel safe enough with me to tell me one day. I only want to know how best to keep you secure.”

  “You would hate me if I told you the truth.” My bottom lip quivered.

  A flicker of something foreign passed over Hugh’s features—doubt? “Why? Were you parading yourself about on the Common like a camp girl?” He laughed to dispel the crazy idea.

  “No, of course not.” Yet his reaction confirmed my fear. If I had sunk so low as to consort with the enemy, then he could possibly hate me. Consider me below him, even. The thought pricked my eyes with tears, and I turned my back to him and lay down to hide my emotion.

  “Forgive me, Liberty. That was crude of me.” His fingers found my braided hair, and relief filled me when I did not flinch at his touch. “Please say you’ll forgive me.”

  He had naught to ask forgiveness for. It was I who was buried in disloyalty and transgressions as deep as the tea in Boston Harbor. And yet the best I could do was move forward beneath Hugh’s love, beneath the hope of giving my son a future. No good could come from Hugh knowing the truth at this point.

  I turned to him, finding his face closer to mine than it had been before. “Of course I forgive you. And will you forgive me for not being able to share with you all of my past? Can we rest in the promise of a future together?”

  He leaned in slightly, and I thought he would kiss me, almost wanted him to. But he stopped short, ever the perfect gentleman, his fingers hovering above the coverlet. “I wish you would say we had reason to marry right away.”

  With one word from me, we could be wed the next day. Why did I hesitate, then? Was it the truth that I kept from him, the fear I had of leaving Graham and Cora, or was it more?

  “I think we should stay with our original intentions. Besides, the banns must still be read.” I could only pray the banns read in nearby towns would not reach the ears of the captain. I prayed they would not incriminate me. “Also, our home is not yet complete. Cora still depends on my help. Another month will hurt nothing.”

  He groaned, pressed a whiskery, glancing kiss to my cheek. “I’m not so certain about that, but I am certain you know what is best. I’ve waited for you this long; I suppose I can wait a bit longer.”

  We bid good night, and he left my chambers, closing the door tight behind him.

  I fell asleep, confident I had chosen a good man to spend the rest of my life with. Why, then, did I dawdle at the opportunity to wed him sooner?

  The sight of the scarlet coats bubbled and simmered within me. I hadn’t expected those coats in Lexington—Boston, yes, but what business did they have here?

  They arrived without much show on the common. Eight of them upon horses. No doubt they could feel the hatred targeted at them. I’d been sweeping the front stoop, and the bristles of my broom froze on the hard rock slab, my breaths shallow as I watched the redcoats tether their horses and enter Buckman’s Tavern, muskets at their sides.

  At some level I’d been able to fool myself into thinking all the events in Boston had been a bad dream. This life—the life I clung to and anticipated with Hugh, the one in Lexington—was real and true. Yes, we spent our nights grinding saltpeter, sulfur, and charcoal into a paste that would serve as gunpowder. We sent casks of olive oil, cured sides of meats, and bushels of corn and flour to smuggle past the gates of Boston, where our fellow men were being starved into submission. We gobbled up the Boston Gazette like piglets hungry for a meal, and the men signed their names on papers vowing they would mobilize at a minute’s notice. But while we rallied behind our Cause, at the same time it seemed unreal. Far away. I could pretend it was some illusion.

  But the sight of the harsh sunlight gleaming upon the epaulets against crimson coats made me doubt my fantasy. It brought reality screaming before me, mouth wide open and appearing like a child about to tantrum.

  I quickly finished sweeping the ledge, something akin to curdled milk in my belly. I opened the keeping room window, strained my ears to hear across the green, but I couldn’t make out anything of sense. Only men’s voices. Certainly the Regulars were only passing through. Certainly they didn’t have business here. Certainly they wouldn’t avail themselves of the newly prolonged Quartering Act, forcing entry into our houses to take our beds and food.

  I kept busy in the house the rest of the morning. The children were at school, Graham was in the fields, and Cora was visiting two patients. I usually loved days like this—days when it was only me and James and the wash and perhaps a poem or two. But today I didn’t care a pig’s tooth to be in the house alone with my son, every sound on the green making me jump, every passing clop of a horse making me contemplate a spot to hide.

  After I fed James his noon meal, I tucked him upstairs for a nap, grabbed the clean wet wash sitting in the bucket in the backyard, and began the task of hanging it up to dry. The scent of lye mixed with that of Cora’s herb garden. I stooped to pick up one of Michael’s socks and pinned it to the line.

  Then, a knock. It echoed in my head before plunging downward into my chest, reverberating around my insides until it produced nausea. I thought to run upstairs to fetch James and come back down to hide in the barn. Yet the notion was surely a silly one. The knock could be any number of people—was not the wigmaker supposed to come today to powder Graham’s wig? And how many a message boy happened upon our house bringing news of a person in need of a midwife?

  Still, I pretended not to hear the door, continued to hang the laundry with a rhythm I didn’t normally practice.

  Bend and clip.

  Bend and clip.

  Bend and clip.

  Images of Captain Philips at the door, demanding I return his sterling, caused me to pick up my pace. He’d be mad with anger that I’d stolen from him. And I could only give him a few pounds back—the rest had been spent. I imagined him forcing me in the house, punishing me in some obscene way. I imagined James waking to see his mother hurt, confusion and panic in his eyes.

  No.

  I wouldn’t allow it. I’d scream for help or . . . my eyes landed on a sharp ax beside the shed. Well, I’d do what I must to protect my son.

  I continued my rhythm, praying whoever continued their incessant knocking would eventually leave. How I regretted not accepting Hugh’s offer to marry me sooner now. I was a fool to think I could test fate—test the Regulars. They’d killed my brother, stolen my innocence, and now I thought they would change their intent?

  “Good day! I’m sorry to trouble you, but I’m looking for someone.”

  I froze at the sound of the man’s voice, joyful and familiar. I fumbled with a pin at the line, let it drop to the muddied ground at my feet.

  Then I turned.

  The lieutenant stood tall in his shiny boots, the only difference since I’d last seen him being a ruddier complexion and an extra spattering of lines around his eyes. His epaulets signaled he’d been promoted. The insignia glinted against the sun.

  With quaking hands, I fumbled with my skirt, searching in my deep pocket for the ring, which I always kept on my person, along with the last few pounds of the purloined sterling silver. Something about the weight of the ring and the money brought me comfort, reminded me of the means I had to provide for myself if all suddenly went wrong as it had on that long-ago March night.

  Neither brought me any consolation now.

  In my desperation, I dug farther, feeling for the metal, tearing stitches in my haste. I needed him to leave. Now. He could not be here. In this moment, he frightened me more than Captain Philips ever could, for the sight of him shook up long-buried forbidden feelings.


  “Miss Liberty . . . it is good to see you.”

  I clawed at the fabric, desperate to give him back what I owed, desperate for him to take it and leave. My fingers found a deep corner, where they brushed the sought-for metal, or was it the captain’s sterling?

  He took a step toward me and I ordered my fingers to cooperate.

  “Are you—quite all right?”

  I pushed my fingers into my pocket, stitches tore at the side of my dress, but not before my fingers grasped the contents I pursued and pulled them forth. In my trembling hands, Alexander’s ring spilled on the ground, alongside the coin. I practically crawled to the spot where the signet ring lay faceup beside a mud puddle, a brown splatter on its otherwise-flawless surface. I scooped it up and thrust it at the officer.

  “Forgive me. Take it and go. Not a day has gone by that I didn’t wish I had passed it over.”

  He looked at the ring, clutched in my muddy fingers, through squinted eyes. Then he reached up a hand, folded my fingers over the heirloom.

  I wished I could summon a cringe at his touch. I had sworn to myself—to James’s memory—never again to cross this line. But the tender gesture gave me no reason to cower—it only made me want to cry. Standing before me was the only man who knew the struggles I’d gone through, and here, he treated me as though I were more than a victim, more than a common thief, with a single touch.

  I pushed my hand at him, his still wrapped around mine in a warm embrace of fingers. “Please, sir. Forgive me.”

  “Liberty.” He spoke my name in a brush of a whisper, slight admonishment in his tone. Exactly as I had always pictured Jesus speaking Mary Magdalene’s name after He rose from the grave.

  A tear eased out of my eye and I silently cursed it. Why should I cry now?

  He squeezed my fingers. “I do not want the ring back. ’Tis not why I came.”

  “Please, please take it. I only feel guilt when I think on it.” I stopped. “If you didn’t come to secure the ring, why have you come?” To retrieve the money? Did he know of my child?

  “I wished to be certain you fared well.” He swallowed, his throat muscles bobbing in one smooth motion. “I have often thought of you since we left for Castle Island. You are not the only one to feel guilt these past years. Every day I’ve wished I had changed the course of things.”

  My bottom lip trembled. “Concern yourself no longer. What is done is done.”

  He released my hand; his eyes wandered briefly over the stray chickens in the backyard. “I also want to tell you that Captain Philips . . . he is back in England.”

  The words took a few minutes to sink in, but when they did, relief flooded my veins.

  “I did file a complaint against him for his actions in Boston . . . for what he did to you, but as you can imagine, it did not gain much credit. Yet when he requested to serve the king in London, it was granted.”

  I swallowed around the dryness in my mouth. “Thank you.”

  “I have come to ask your forgiveness, Miss Liberty. For underestimating the evil he was capable of. For not reaching you in time . . . that day.”

  I turned back to the wash, my mind still fuzzy from his presence, the ring still tight in my hand. I did not wish to talk about that day, to relive my humiliation in front of this man.

  “Please. I feel responsible. Many are the nights when I long to turn back time, when my guilt consumes me. I haven’t even the right to ask, I know. But will you forgive me?”

  The blood boiled hot beneath my skin and I whirled on him. “There is naught to forgive! Did I not willfully return to the house that day? Did I not raise that candlestick to his head? Did I not have a choice to steal from you? I’m sorry if you feel guilt, but I cannot forgive a crime where none has been committed.”

  His bottom lip shook. “The man who pointed me to you—Dr. Richards over at the tavern—he said you have a son. A son but no husband.”

  Heat crept up my neck to my face. I didn’t answer. Curse that Dr. Richards. While most assumed I was a widow, Dr. Richards seemed always willing to discredit me or Cora in any way that might gain him a patient or two. Even if that patient was a redcoat.

  I spun back to my laundry, feigning not to hear the question. Or statement, rather. The heat of his gaze seared my shoulders, and for some mad reason I wanted to turn toward him and tell him all. How I hated all the Regulars—even him—with a passion that scared me. How I held the horrible secret of my disloyalty from everyone—even my intended. How I hated myself now for even wanting to confess these things to him—the enemy.

  His footsteps from behind. Then a feather-light touch on my elbow.

  “Sir . . .”

  “Please, Liberty. You’ve called me Alexander once before.” His intimate tone caused a not-unpleasant shiver to scurry up my spine.

  I shook my head, my face still at the clothesline. “You were right about something that night. I was young. I am wiser now, and I think—I think you should leave.”

  And I hated myself for wanting him to stay. I conjured up images of my brother’s bleeding body in the snow on that early March night, tried to pin the blame on the lieutenant as I had when I’d stolen his ring, but all I could see was him standing up to Captain Philips for my safety that same night, the sheen in his eyes and a hatchet in his hand after the captain had left my chambers that last horrible day.

  I stooped to pick up a pair of Graham’s breeches. Alexander gently tugged them from me. “Do you know how many dreams I’ve had taking me back to that day? Every time—every dream—I chop down that door in time to stop him from that unspeakable act.” Raw pain consumed those green eyes, and I didn’t doubt for a moment that he told the truth.

  I broke the connection. “’Tis not your fault. Please. You must leave.” Whereas before I was frightened for my own life and that of my son, now I wanted him to leave for an altogether different reason. This man—enemy or not—was on my side. I couldn’t bring myself to hate him so, and yet he was still very much the enemy. And I was a traitor.

  He clasped my hand in one smooth motion, and I prayed Cora wouldn’t happen upon me in such a state. A state which I had to continually remind myself I was not enjoying in the least.

  His thumb rubbed a small circle on the inside of my wrist, and though it should have felt presumptuous, it did not. “Since my return to Boston, I’ve been set on finding you. You are a bit of a tough chase, too.”

  “You shouldn’t have bothered.”

  His thumb went still at the spot where my pulse thrummed up a rapid, disloyal beat. “I’ve come to ask your hand in marriage.”

  I blinked, mind numb. I couldn’t have heard right, and yet his hands, his eyes, his posture, left me knowing I indeed heard him correctly. “That is the most preposterous thing I have ever heard.”

  He straightened. “I do not see that it is so very silly. I could bring you beneath my protection. Help you raise your son, even. I could find you a place up north, perhaps. I care for you, Liberty. I have not stopped thinking about you these past years.”

  “You hardly know me. No doubt you have dreamed me into a fanciful damsel in distress. You only feel needless guilt, and it is causing you to make rash and unwise decisions.”

  “What is unwise about marriage to a woman I care for, to a woman whose life will forever be hard because of my poor choices?”

  “And I suppose you’d have me raise my son a Tory?” I spat the words.

  “No. No, this has naught to do with political matters. I realize it won’t be easy, but I would do whatever it took.”

  His words lingered between us. Was I fancying the idea, or did he hint at desertion? Would he leave the Crown for me? I cast the idea aside. Ludicrous. No sane officer would entertain such a notion.

  I closed my eyes, took a deep breath. “Alexander.”

  I felt his fingers along the smoothness of my cheek, and I leaned into them, shame erupting in my belly, the scent of cedar familiar. I opened my eyes to see his face close to mine.
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br />   “Yes?” he said.

  “Alexander, I am betrothed.”

  His hand dropped. “I see.”

  “Surely you see this is for the better. You can be released of your guilt without having to marry an American. Isn’t that right?”

  “Liberty, I care not what side of the Crown you fall on.” He laughed—a short, humorless sound. “You never saw yourself for who you truly are.”

  “I know who I am.” A traitor. A thief. Though Hugh made me feel far apart from all of those ugly words. Of course with him, I would always be hiding truth in the shadows. With him, I would always be a liar.

  Alexander’s shoulders drooped, and he shook his head. “You were always like an angel to me.”

  I wanted to climb inside his thoughts and view myself the way he claimed to view me. What did he see that was so incredibly good?

  “You are happy with this man, then?”

  Foolish question. Marriages were not about happiness. They were about a mutual need requiring fulfillment. A safe and nurturing environment in which to rear children. “I am content, yes.”

  “Might you be more content with me?”

  I folded my arms in front of me. “You are entirely too bold to ask such a question.” And I was a fool to even think on the answer.

  He smiled, but it quickly melted off his lips. “You will never see past this red coat, will you?”

  I shook my head, heard James babbling upstairs to himself. “I think not.”

  He pressed his mouth into a thin line. “May I at least see you one more time before I go back to Boston? It is the least you could do for me, no? I have made up an outrageous lie to take my troops down here as it is. I am staying at Buckman’s Tavern. Will you meet me tonight? Just so I may say good-bye to you for good?”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Please, Liberty. I wish no regrets when we part this time.”

  I couldn’t say no. Did I not owe him this much? “Very well.”

  Once again he smiled, revealing the dimple in his left cheek. I’d forgotten about that pleasant dip of skin.

  He lifted my hand in his to graze my knuckles with his mouth. “Thank you. You have—”