by Lorin Grace
Rebecca stepped closer to her husband. “But, dearest—”
“Don’t you dearest me. You told me you would handle her behavior years ago when we first heard allegations of her browbeating the other girls at school. When Mr. Whittier blamed Elizabeth for spreading the malicious gossip that almost ended his daughter’s engagement, you told me you had her under control. When she ruined Miss What’s-her-name’s dress at the Christmas ball two years ago, you claimed it was an accident. When she became the most notorious flirt north of Boston, you said it was necessary. Then she pursued a married man, half dressed in the middle of the street in front of the parsonage, no less. Samuel Wilson ended any hint of courtship weeks before marrying Lucy. Your daughter’s excuses in those matters only point to her slatternly manner. Woman, I say no more! Your daughter is beyond the pale!”
“But—”
“I will not suffer her to continue to make a fool of me.” Thump, thump! Ebenezer spun to face his daughter before thumping his walking stick a third time. “You are forbidden to leave your room until I find some relation to take you in for the duration of your retrenchment.”
“Even for Christmas?” Elizabeth asked, wide-eyed.
“Especially for Christmas! And any gift your mother bought will be returned or sold as I am sure it will be more foppery. What you shall receive is one of those little Aitken Bibles. Now go!” Ebenezer raised his cane and pointed it up the stairs.
The walking stick shook, her father barely controlling his rage. Fearful that trying to cajole him now would only bring more reprisals, she scurried to her room to prepare for a later battle.
Gideon buried his head in his hands, attempting to pray, but no words came. Nothing came. Consuming numbness swirled about him.
The morning’s service had ended in disaster. How was it possible to ruin the Christmas message? The sermon he’d planned, forgotten in his melancholy, had been replaced by rambling thoughts. Instead of being full of hope and rejoicing, it had become a requiem. The faces of his parishioners had stared back at him, questioning. Gideon had stumbled to find his place, but it was pointless to pretend he found joy in the sermon. The doubts he struggled to hide from his congregation had overshadowed the angel’s declarations of joy. Even the older women’s faces had fallen from expectant to bewildered as he’d endeavored to rein in his thoughts and follow his notes. By the time he’d mumbled his amen and called for a benedictory song, anger had replaced confusion on many a face.
Would the church elders come today and inform him of his dismissal, or would they be kind and wait until after Christmas? Two weeks ago, the chair of the selection committee had informed him they were considering seeking a replacement pastor for the little flock, and a letter lay drafted and ready to mail to the seminary from which he’d graduated. But they’d voted to give him another chance. Gideon was positive the letter would be sent posthaste.
Last year’s Yuletide sermon had been sublime, his first in Greenwich’s little white church. In the front row, his wife’s face had been radiant, as Mary’s must have centuries ago. Ruth’s rounded form had inspired his homily as he focused on the thoughts of a young Mary shunned, turned from the inn, and then hosting shepherds and kings. The impending birth of his child had acted as the catalyst for feelings of Christmas more poignant than he imagined possible. Rejoicing had been natural, comfortable, and expected, and the congregation had rejoiced with him. It was the best of all Christmases.
Another minister had preached the Easter sermon while he’d prayed at Ruth’s bedside. His infant son already lay in the cemetery adjoining the churchyard. The prayers he’d uttered had failed to penetrate the ceiling of their little cottage or were ignored completely.
Left on his own, he listened to platitudes he once gave freely. How empty. How meaningless. Dare he offer guidance to his congregation when he’d lost all confidence in the Divinity that had once guided him? His fellow clergymen gave unsatisfying answers to his questions. The Bible seemed to contradict itself. No wonder disagreement of the various denominations became contentious at times. Had God willed his wife and son to die? Was this a learning experience, as some claimed? Or punishment for his arrogance in believing he had been called to lead others?
At first his congregants had shown patience with his grief, but as young widows had wooed him with meals and the mothers of marriageable daughters cornered him on each Sabbath afternoon over dinner, it became apparent they felt he should cease mourning. Death from childbirth was common enough—at least a tenth of his male parishioners lost a wife or two. Gossips claimed old Mr. Whittaker had married three women in all.
Gideon tossed a log onto the fire. No point in letting the meager flames die. He didn’t need someone checking on him because smoke didn’t rise from the chimney. He didn’t wish to see anyone. When the room grew dim with the setting sun and only a few embers remained, he banked the fire and moved to his bed, his limbs stiff from sitting so long.
He should try to pray again.
“It isn’t fair,” Elizabeth complained to the empty room. She worked off her gloves and threw them at the mirror.
Looking at her reflection, she wondered again why such an ugly gown existed. Grandmother Garrett should have been named Prudence instead of Patience. Her dresses lacked style and were most likely made from the cloth sold at bargain prices because others refused to buy such drab colors. The brown wool-and-linen dress boasted no adornment whatsoever. Not even a fancy button. The collar, five inches above the neckline of her favorite crimson gown, felt like a noose around her throat. The high-collared shift, something an old farmer’s wife would wear to keep warm in the winter, scratched her chin every time she dipped her head. The muddy brown did nothing for her complexion, robbing her face of color and making her blue eyes appear as pale as if they’d been laundered too many times.
She yanked out the pins holding her hair in the unflattering bun father insisted she wear, and her flaxen locks tumbled down to her waist.
Elizabeth picked up her brush, then set it down. She studied her reflection from each side. The Puritan-style bun may be as unfashionable as the dress, but it added curl to her straight hair. Glorious. Long, soft waves of gold now tumbled down her back, and she admired the way the light played off her blonde tresses. Maybe the bun would come in handy, after all. She gathered her hair back up in one hand and allowed it to fall. Mother said men adored long hair. If she arranged for it to uncoil on cue, the action would be a perfect flirtation.
For the next half hour, Elizabeth experimented with various ways to pin the bun so it would fall on demand, but without success.
A knock on the door ended her explorations. The door opened and the maid, balancing a tray, entered. “Pardon, miss. The magistrate said to serve your meals up here.” The girl set the cloth covered tray on the dressing table and retreated.
Elizabeth wrinkled her nose. The smells coming from under the cloth were not the delectable ones rising from the kitchen below. Roast duck, baked squash, spice cake, and plum pudding had teased her nose and stomach since before church. The tray on the table promised none of those. Gingerly, she lifted the corner of the cloth. Coarse brown bread, pease porridge, and cheese. Even the servants fared better today.
This ghastly repast would not do. She hefted the tray and marched out the door, but when she was halfway down the stairs, her father appeared at the foyer.
Arms crossed, he glared at her. “Where are you going?”
Elizabeth lifted her chin. “To the kitchen.”
“The maid will be glad to know you saved her the errand.” Ebenezer took the tray from her. “Now back to your room.”
“But I am hungry.” Elizabeth tried to pass her father.
Ebenezer lifted the cloth covering the tray, “Obviously not hungry enough to eat the food you were brought.”
She wrinkled her nose and snorted. �
�That isn’t food. It is slop.”
“This slop, as you call it, is the very food that keeps the Commonwealth going. I was raised on it. And it is the only type of food you will get until you learn to be grateful for your bounties.”
“Never!”
“You may wish to reconsider your choice of words, child. I shall see that another tray is sent up tomorrow. Nothing like a bit of hunger to help one be thankful.” Ebenezer turned his back on her and walked toward the kitchen.
Elizabeth stomped her foot on the stairs and followed the smell of roast duck.
“Back to your room. Or must I lock you in?” Ebenezer set the tray on a side table and took a step toward her, his face turning the shade of a ripe holly berry.
She raced back to her room before he made good on locking her door or saw the tears she fought to hide.
Three
A light rapping broke Ebenezer’s concentration. He stopped writing and glared at the door. His wife believed she was the exception when he said to stay out of his study. No wonder his daughter lacked discretion.
“Dearest, I know what to do with our daughter. May I come in?”
Ebenezer stifled a groan. The sweetness in his wife’s voice reminded him that too many sweets caused stomachaches and even headaches. Better to get whatever she had in mind over with than to suffer all day. He covered the letter with a blotter and gestured for his wife to come in and take a chair.
“My sister Lydia is so lonely and longs for a companion, and her husband has all the best connections. I think we should send Elizabeth to live with her. There are many advan––”
Ebenezer cut her off before he had to listen to all the virtues of his wife’s silly sister. “I agree. Sending Elizabeth to an aunt’s may be the best way to teach her the essentials lacking in her education. In fact, I am composing a letter to her aunt this very moment.”
“You agree?” Rebecca’s brow furrowed. The poor woman, unprepared for his easy capitulation, seemed to be at a blessed loss for words.
“Yes. I think her aunt would work wonders with her.” Ebenezer’s grin should have warned his wife all was not as she assumed.
“Oh, well … in that case, may Elizabeth come down for Christmas dinner? Reverend Woods and his wife are coming, and with Nathaniel’s arrival last night, there will be only five at the table.” The fluttering of Rebecca’s hands betrayed her nervousness.
“I already told you, she will stay in her room, and she shall continue to until the day she departs.”
“But, dearest—”
“Mrs. Garrett!” Ebenezer straightened in his seat. “I will not be crossed in this. I don’t care whether President Adams is coming for dinner or the room is unbalanced. If it bothers you so much, ask Cook or that little mouse of a maid to dine with us. Elizabeth stays in her room. Now leave me.”
Ebenezer shuffled papers in front of him, pretending to read them. Rebecca opened and closed her mouth several times, but not a sound escaped. At length, she left the study.
Careful not to make a noise, Ebenezer circled his desk and checked the hallway. He shut the door and turned the key. Wiping his brow, he returned to his desk. If his wife read the drying paper next to his blotter, she would have realized the aunt he’d referred to wasn’t his vapid sister-in-law. No, Elizabeth had received enough coddling in her life. The last thing she needed was to live in Brookline with her own maid and suitors plied on her at every turn. Elizabeth required something entirely different.
He returned to the desk and picked up the newly composed letter. This aunt would be perfect. He signed the letter with a flourish and dusted the fine paper with a bit of salt. After folding the missive with care, he dabbed sealing wax on the open edge. Ebenezer reached for his seal but stopped. This was not official correspondence. He removed his father’s signet ring from his smallest finger and used it instead.
Turning the letter over, he wrote, “Mrs. Mindwell Richards, East Stoughton, Massachusetts.”
The ninth chime of the mantel clock faded as a knock sounded on the door—the first sound on his door since someone had left a plate of food on his doorstep for Christmas dinner yesterday. This visit would not be as enjoyable as that of the lukewarm roast goose, congealed gravy, and pickled beets.
Before reaching for the knob, Gideon straightened his coat and vest. As suspected, the three men of the selection committee stood on his porch, their faces grim.
He let them in and indicated they should sit at the table. Mr. Thomas shook his head and remained standing. “We will not be long.” The other two men nodded their agreement. “We notified the seminary, and they will be sending a new candidate this week. We expect you to be ready to leave on Friday’s stage.” Mr. Thomas consulted a paper in his hand. “Reverend Ingram indicated you would be welcome to stay in the dormitory while you look for a different assignment. Do you require assistance in packing? Some of the women folk will come clean on Friday after you leave.”
Four days. They must have sent their message off to the seminary before his disastrous Christmas message. They weren’t giving him an opportunity to bid farewell to the congregation or say his good-byes to friends. Looking at the three men in front of him, he wondered if he even possessed any friends to whom he could give his adieus. Gideon realized they were waiting for a response.
“No, I will not need help packing, nor do I require a ticket for the coach, as I have Jordan to ride. My books and clothes will not take long to put in a trunk, which can be sent by freight or stage.” The house and its furnishings, other than the cradle tucked in the attic, belonged to the church and would be passed on to the next minister.
Gideon shifted his weight and waited for a response. Mr. Thomas looked to the other two men, then reached for the door. Gideon beat him to it and opened the door wide. None of the men looked him in the eye as they shook his hand and left, taking any warmth the day had kindled with them.
Gideon mounted the narrow stairway. Packing his single trunk would not take long. And with no sermon to prepare, there would be little to do for the rest of the week. Perhaps he would leave earlier.
Crack, crack, crack.
Each swing of the ax sent splinters flying. Gideon blinked back tears. He had no desire to miss because he could not see clearly.
Whack, whack, whack.
Again and again he swung the ax, destroying months of his work. He couldn’t take the never-used cradle with him. It wouldn’t fit in his trunk. Nor could he leave the unused piece behind to an undetermined fate.
“Reverend! Reverend!” The shouting interrupted his swing, and he lowered the ax.
“What are you doing, son?” Only one person had called him son. Mr. Whittaker. The old man shuffled closer, leaning on his cane.
“Now, why did you go and do that? Turned all your hard work into kindling,” the octogenarian said as he bent over and retrieved a sliver. “Not even big enough to start a fire.” He let the piece fall between his fingers to the ground. “Come, son, it’s too cold out for my old bones.”
Gideon turned toward his house and wiped his tears, hoping the old man hadn’t seen them. He felt Mr. Whittaker’s cane rap against his leg. The old man wielded his cane the same way Gideon had used a sword in his youth.
“Not at your place, son. You probably don’t have a decent fire in there. My little Martha left my meal over the fire, and there is plenty to share. Someday you’ll have a granddaughter like my Martha.”
Gideon leaned the ax against the back door and grabbed his discarded coat, all the while biting his tongue. He would never be a grandfather. His only chance for a posterity had died months ago. He followed the old man across the path and into the next yard.
Two fires still burned in the enormous kitchen fireplace, making the kitchen much warmer than Gideon’s home had been since the last of summer fled. Something
delicious simmered in the pot hanging over the larger fire. The scent of still-warm bread lingered in the air. Gideon closed his eyes and breathed in the homey aroma. He missed the scent of a busy kitchen. Ruth’s kitchen.
Mr. Whittaker interrupted his thoughts. “Will you grab a couple of those bowls down and fill them?” he asked as he slipped into a chair at the table. “Get the teapot and cups, too.”
Gideon set the requested items on the table and took a seat.
Mr. Whittaker mercifully kept up the one-sided conversation. Gideon found he was unable to speak, afraid that emotions he’d rather keep private would seep out.
“Ah, I left England behind to fight for independence, but I never quite gave up my love of a good cup of tea.” The old man stirred his cup and inhaled the steam. “Nearly killed me when my wife signed the pact to protest the tea tax with the other women back in ’70—or was it ’71? Then the war. All those years without tea.” He shook his head and took a sip. “I like chocolate well enough, and tolerate coffee, but on days like today I need my tea. Reminds me of my Ruthie.”
Gideon’s body froze at the name, the tea in his mouth moving neither down nor out. He stilled his hand before he could spill his tea and forced his throat to relax and let the liquid pass. He didn’t dare ask the question he was almost sure the old man was begging him to.
Silence filled the room.
“You want to ask, but you can’t say her name, can you?”
Gideon stared into his empty teacup.
“Son, how many children do you think I have?”
“Six?”
The old man slapped his leg and roared with laughter. “Not by half. If you count my boys who died in the last war, eight of my children lived to maturity. Ten did not. Two died along with their mothers in childbirth.” Mr. Whittaker punctuated his words with little jabs of his spoon.
