Rebellious Heart

by Jody Hedlund

  Amidst the glow of the fireplace and dim light of several candles, the intense lines of Mr. Ross’s face had disappeared. And when he leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, she had the urge to scoot her chair closer to him.

  Mary’s happy laughter drifted toward them, followed by Mr. Cranch’s.

  His eyes went to the couple, and Susanna’s followed. “I certainly hope Mother will approve of Mr. Cranch,” she whispered. “Otherwise I’m afraid Mary shall have a broken heart.”

  Mr. Ross’s eyebrow quirked. “Ah, yes. Your mother has great aspirations for whom you marry, doesn’t she?”

  The sudden tense undercurrent in his tone brought Susanna back to reality and to the fact that she was conversing with Benjamin Ross, whom she’d so foolishly degraded those many years ago.

  “I wish I could say Mother doesn’t have such high standards,” Susanna said, “but I’m afraid that wouldn’t be truthful.”

  A chill from the September evening slithered across the floor and wound its way between them, chasing away the warmth.

  “Surely your standards aren’t much different than hers.”

  She hugged her arms to her chest. “I admit, I’m caught in the trap of having to make a beneficial match.” As much as she longed to be free from the constraints of the way things had always been done, some chains were not meant to be broken.

  “So you’re still waiting for your rich prince after all.”

  The truth of his words pierced her and pushed her to her feet. “And just how are you different from me, Mr. Ross? I saw you with my cousin Hannah Quincy last evening. You weren’t hanging over every word she spoke because of their brilliance.”

  He sat back as if surprise over her words had pushed him there.

  “Don’t pretend you aren’t interested in status. An important Quincy like Hannah would be a fine catch for an aspiring lawyer like you.”

  He didn’t say anything for a long moment. “I call for a truce, Susanna.”

  At the sound of her given name, all traces of her indignation blew away.

  “In fact, I concede to your superior skill at arguing a case.”

  Somehow in an instant all the earlier warmth returned with the heat of a late summer day.

  “Please.” He motioned at her chair. “Sit back down.”

  “Very well, I accept the truce.” He was infuriating and intriguing and altogether likable at the same time. And she felt helpless to do anything but lower herself.

  He slid off his chair and onto one knee before her. With a devilish grin, his eyes glimmered with unspoken challenge. “Since we’ve called a truce, then I guess you won’t object if I view your foot.”

  Her breath caught in her throat.

  “If we want to keep the peace”—he dangled the measuring tape Mother had given him after dinner—“then we dare not disobey your mother’s wishes that I take your measurements.”

  “If you think I’m still overly prude to bare my foot, then you’re sorely mistaken.”

  “Then let’s see you do it.” His voice was low, and the blue of his eyes darkened to the shade of the sky at eventide.

  She knew she couldn’t refuse his challenge, that she needed to prove she was no longer the same silly girl who’d denied him a look at her foot. Nevertheless, her legs trembled, and she was grateful for the layers of her petticoats that hid her embarrassment.

  “I don’t think you can do it,” he whispered.

  “Of course I can.” Before her rational side could convince her otherwise, she crossed her legs at the knees, plucked off her worsted damask shoe, and lifted her skirt and the layer of petticoats underneath. She bunched the satin to her knee—much higher than necessary, a spurt of defiance giving her fresh boldness. When she reached the top of her fine silk stocking, she plucked the ribbon of the garter and loosened it. Then she began to roll down the delicate material, deliberately slow, inch by inch revealing her smooth untouched skin.

  He followed the path her stocking made, his expression remaining calm as though he made an everyday occurrence viewing the bare legs of women.

  As she passed her ankle, her heart quivered. She was relieved when he stopped her with a touch of his hand.

  “I need to take your measurement with your stocking on, Susanna.”

  “Of course.” She lowered her lashes to hide the mortification that was sure to be in her eyes. Had she really almost willingly bared her foot to Benjamin Ross?

  She suspended her foot before him, resisting the overwhelming urge to pull her stockings back up to her knees and tuck her feet back into the safety of her petticoats.

  If he could view her leg and foot with unabashed boldness, then surely she could sit for a moment without squirming.

  He lifted his hand toward her foot, but hesitated. Only then did she notice him swallow hard. The tips of his fingers made contact with the sensitive skin of her sole before moving to trace the edge of her arch. Through the thin layer of silk his touch still sent ripples of warmth up her leg into her stomach.

  “I guess I finally must admit you’re quite grown up.” Only then did he look up.

  His gaze caressed her just as surely as his hand on her foot.

  She shivered at the intensity of the intimacy, the heat in her stomach tightening. She knew she ought to pull away, that she ought not to encourage him, that she needed to keep their interaction businesslike.

  But even if his hold on her foot was feather soft, his grip on her heart was like a balled fist. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t think.

  “You’ve turned into a beautiful woman, Susanna” came his whispered confession, almost as if he were helpless to say anything else.

  The words stirred something inside her, something she couldn’t explain, which made her want to lean closer to him. She was sure he could hear the rapid tapping of her heartbeat against her ribs and see the longing in her eyes.

  She tried to form her lips into a smile. “Does this mean you’ve forgiven me for my past mistakes?”

  His gaze dropped. He fumbled for the measuring tape and lifted it to her foot. All the warmth of his touch evaporated and in its place was the brusqueness of a cordwainer.

  Had she read more into his words than he’d intended?

  “I truly am sorry for the intolerably rude things I said to you when we were younger.”

  “Let bygones be bygones.” He stretched the string across the length of her foot from her heel to her big toe.

  “Then you shall forgive me?” She wasn’t sure why she coveted his forgiveness, but suddenly she longed for it with a sharpness that set her on the edge of her chair.

  He flipped the measuring tape to the width of her foot but didn’t respond.

  An ache crimped a corner of her heart.

  Finally he sighed. “I forgive you, Susanna. But that doesn’t change who we are, does it?”

  Why did they have to consider who they were or what families they were from? But even as she asked herself the question, she knew it did matter—to both of them.

  “Perhaps we’ll be able to be friends?” she offered.

  “Perhaps.” His answer had a hollow ring to it.

  And much to her surprise, the uncertainty of his response left an emptiness in the middle of her chest.

  Chapter

  5

  Ben pitched another forkful of salt hay onto the heaping mound in the wagon. His hands were blistered and his muscles throbbed, but he felt invigorated in a way that he hadn’t since his return to Braintree earlier in the fall.

  “You’re keeping up with your brothers better than I thought you would,” his father called down from the top where he straddled the tall stack, his feet sinking deep in the hay. The tidal waters infused the sea grasses with salt and nutrients that would keep the cows and sheep healthy and well fed during the coming winter.

  “I’m surprised too.” Ben stopped and wiped his brow, letting the cool breeze off the bay bathe his face. They’d been working in the
marshes for several days. He had to admit that as much as he loved his books and practicing law, he’d also missed the satisfaction that came from spending a day under the wide-open sky. The wet scent of the wind and the sand surrounded him at every turn, filling his senses, reminding him of the many autumns he’d spent along the shore doing the same thing.

  “I appreciate your help,” his father said, looking out at the whitecaps rolling in over the distant beach. In an unguarded moment, Ben caught a glimpse of the all too familiar anxiety in his father’s eyes.

  “I’m more than pleased to assist,” Ben replied. Since his return he’d noticed the grooves in his father’s forehead and the slump of his shoulders. Even though his father never complained, Ben had overheard plenty of locals talk about how difficult the past year had been. With the continually rising price of British goods, his father—like many farmers—hadn’t been able to afford to hire help for the haying or the other work.

  With a frustrated shake of his head, Ben sank his fork into the cut grass his younger brothers had left behind for him to pitch into the wagon. They were already well ahead of the horse and wagon, doing the hard work of mowing the hay with the blades of their scythes.

  “Heard a rumor that the British officer was moving out of Braintree,” his father said. “Guess the rumor was right.”

  Ben followed his father’s gaze to the coastal road. At the sight of Lieutenant Wolfe and his assistant, along with several other soldiers, Ben straightened. Their horses were loaded with their haversacks and supplies. They were clearly moving out of Braintree.

  He hadn’t rested easy since the officer had taken up residence in their community during the past month. The lieutenant had demanded accommodations under the antiquated Quartering Act, which hadn’t pleased any of the farmers who were already struggling. Having to give free lodging and meals to the lieutenant and his men had only strained their empty purses all the more.

  No one had been able to understand why the British had sent the lieutenant to their community. But Ben suspected the king was attempting to determine exactly how much smuggling was going on up and down the coastline outside of Boston, especially if parliament was getting ready to enforce the Molasses Act and put an end to the illegal activities the colonists relied upon.

  Ben didn’t want to think about what would happen to tradesmen and farmers like his father if they had to depend solely upon British imports. The king already picked the colonists’ pockets every day. Without the option of smuggled goods, the king’s stealing would grow even worse.

  “Have you heard where the lieutenant is going next?” Ben asked, tossing hay up to his father.

  His father shook his head. “No one knows.”

  “Hopefully he’s taking his red monkey suit and his puppets back to Boston.”

  The lieutenant swerved his horse off the road and began galloping toward them, almost as if Ben’s quiet muttering had traveled across the field and reached his ears.

  Ben plunged the tip of his pitchfork into the muddy marsh and stared at the approaching officer, unwilling to let a king’s soldier scare him.

  “Be careful, son. There’s a time for war and a time for peace. And we need to know which is when.”

  Ben hadn’t discussed his involvement with the Caucus Club with his father, but he didn’t doubt his father had guessed his leanings. Ben had always harbored dissatisfaction with the methods the British used in governing the colonies. But since his days in law school, as well as his growing friendships with Boston merchants like Cranch, his frustrations had only increased.

  “Esquire Ross,” the lieutenant called as he drew near.

  Ben’s muscles tensed. Even though he wasn’t technically involved in any of the smuggling, he’d agreed to act as the liaison between the Boston merchants and the smugglers. Had the lieutenant learned of his role?

  The officer reined his horse and nodded at Ben. “Congratulations are in order for your defense of Mr. Sewall earlier in the week.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant. It’s easy to defend someone who’s innocent.”

  The officer sat straight. His tall, cocked officer’s hat lent him another foot of height, making him even more imposing. But it was his sharp piercing eyes that sent a shiver of unease up Ben’s back. The hard glint was anything but congratulatory or friendly.

  “Seems you are gaining quite the reputation for defending rascals both in and out of Boston.”

  “Everyone deserves a fair trial, rascal or not.”

  The lieutenant studied him a moment, taking in his sweat-stained hat down to his mud-caked boots. A derisive grin formed at the corners of the officer’s pinched lips. “You have a way with words, Esquire Ross. It’s lamentable that you have to waste your eloquence on the guilty.”

  “And I suppose you’re qualified to act as judge?”

  “Much more qualified than you. Then again, even the swine need someone from among their own to defend them.”

  A sharp rebuttal rose swiftly.

  “Is there something we can do for you, Lieutenant?” his father interjected before Ben could utter his response and shot him a glance that issued caution.

  The lieutenant didn’t bother to acknowledge his father’s question, but instead pinned Ben with a final glare before spinning his horse and trotting away.

  “What was that all about?” his father asked when the lieutenant was back on the road with his regiment.

  Ben lifted his pitchfork and wished he could send it flying into the air after the lieutenant. “Just one more example of someone with power thinking he can intimidate those without it.”

  His father slid down the hay mound, sending a spray of dust and grass into the air. “Let him go, son. He’s not worth the frustration.”

  “He was intolerably rude to both of us. Doesn’t that bother you?”

  “It isn’t worth my time.” His father raised one of the horse’s hand-hewn mud boots intended to keep the mud from weighing the beast down. He combed his fingers over the boot and dislodged a clump of thick sludge.

  Ben shook his head. All too familiar anger and helplessness twined through his gut like leather stitching. He was weary of the mockery from those born to a higher class. More than that, he was weary of watching his family struggle to survive year in and year out.

  His father had made incredible sacrifices for him to go to Harvard, to make sure he was never in want of books or anything he’d needed in his pursuit of education.

  Surely now he could make his father proud of him by rising higher, gaining more, and becoming someone great. If he bettered himself, then he’d be able to help his family. He could repay his father for all his sacrifices. He could keep men like Lieutenant Wolfe from making a mockery of them.

  Ben swiped off his hat and knocked the dust from it. “We’re all created equal, Father. And I can’t sit idly back and let men or kings deny us our fundamental and unalienable rights.”

  “I know you can’t sit back, son.” His father’s eyes lit with pride. “You’re different than me, and you’re destined to do more than I ever could.”

  Fresh determination surged into Ben’s blood. He knew he couldn’t rest. He had to continue to work with all the industry and ambition he’d always employed.

  And of course the right match with the right woman wouldn’t hurt either.

  “I’m very pleased with your progress learning your letters, Anna,” Susanna said to the last of the young girls who remained in the big kitchen. In the dismal gray afternoon, the light from the hearth and several large candles added a homey glow to the back room of the parsonage.

  “Thank you, Miss Smith.” Anna wrapped her worn cloak about her shoulders, but her eyes were riveted to the oak hornbook with the faded sheet of yellowish horn covering a printed page of letters, syllables, and the Lord’s Prayer.

  “Would you like to take the hornbook home with you?” Susanna closed her copy of the New England Primer, which she preferred versus the old hornbook that had once belonged to
Grandmother Eve.

  Anna nodded eagerly. “Oh, would you let me?”

  “Of course.” Susanna fanned her overheated face with her apron. The warmth from the enormous stone fireplace permeated the kitchen, along with all the tantalizing scents of Phoebe’s preparations for the evening repast—corn chowder and roasted duck.

  “I promise I’ll be careful. And I’ll keep it dry.” Anna tucked the hornbook into her cloak to protect it from the cold drizzle that had started falling during school time.

  “I have every confidence in you,” Susanna said, wishing each of her girls was as eager to learn as Anna Morris.

  She glanced at the open door to the other girls already well on their way down the winding road. At least they came to her lessons when they could. “Hurry now and catch up with the rest.” Susanna ushered the girl toward the door.

  “I want you girls to make sure you stay together.” Even though nothing had happened over the past week since Hermit Crab Joe’s trial, she couldn’t shake her fear that it was only a matter of time before someone else was hurt. “Please be careful.”

  “Yes, Miss Smith.” Anna pulled up the hood of her cloak and started outside.

  Susanna put a hand on her arm. “Wait.” She grabbed an apple tart from the long plank worktable and held out the delicacy to Anna. “Take this too.”

  “Thank you.” Anna’s face was etched with a hunger that was all too common among the children of the poor widows of the parish.

  Even though Susanna made certain the girls had something to eat—usually bread, cheese, and apples—when they came to her dame school, she knew they were always battling hunger. Their mothers couldn’t earn enough to provide for all their needs, even with the spinning and weaving work Mother provided.

  “Go on now.” Susanna nodded toward the other girls.

  Anna tucked her hands into the folds of her cloak, hiding the tart, and then she skipped off into the cold autumn afternoon.

  Susanna leaned against the open doorframe, letting the cool mist brush her hot cheeks. She derived great pleasure from imparting knowledge to the impressionable young minds and only wished she didn’t feel so inadequate as their teacher. After all the time she poured into helping the girls, she’d hoped to see more progress by now.