by Susan Foy
Phoebe perched on the edge of the bed with the two friends, pondering the question. “I’ve never actually asked her. And I’ve never had anyone want to court me yet. Of course, my mother didn’t object when Tom wanted to court Alice—” She broke off with a glance at Betsy, but Tom Kirby’s new love interest seemed engrossed by her own distress and ignored the reference to Alice.
“Your parents don’t care so much about religion, but they do care about politics,” Betsy pointed out to Rhoda. “Just imagine if you wanted to marry a Loyalist. Wouldn’t your father object to that? I’m sure he would.”
“I would object to marrying a Tory myself,” Rhoda laughed. “My father wouldn’t need to say anything against it. But if I met someone I really cared for, and my parents objected to him, I’d find a way somehow, you can be sure of that. I wouldn’t take no for an answer. And I really believe, if I were sure of my own mind and my parents saw that I knew what I wanted, they would agree in the end.”
Betsy stretched out full length on the bed and rested her pale, pretty face in her hands. “I’ve always believed I should obey my parents in everything that isn’t directly a matter of conscience. That’s what I’ve always been taught. You don’t agree with that?”
Rhoda leaned on her elbow, pulling her yellow petticoat down to cover her ankles. “Couldn’t you say that marrying Tom is a matter of conscience?”
Betsy still frowned in spite of her friend’s attempt at humor. “I don’t see it that way. There’s nothing in the Bible that says what person I should marry. So if my parents tell me not to marry him, shouldn’t I take that as an answer from God? That my first duty is to obey my parents?” She glanced up at Phoebe as if searching for agreement. “Don’t you think so, Phoebe?”
Phoebe opened her mouth to speak. It was a question she had wrestled with as well, although she had never yet needed to make such a choice.
“Don’t ask Phoebe’s opinion.” Rhoda bounced on the straw mattress, tossing her head impatiently. “She would never do anything to upset her mother. Even if it were a matter of conscience, as you say.”
Phoebe turned to her friend with an expression of surprise, bordering on indignation. “Why should you say something like that?”
Rhoda shrugged. “Don’t be angry, but ’tis the truth. You’re so worried about displeasing her. I can’t imagine you defying her in anything.”
“I think Phoebe is like me,” Betsy said. “We aren’t rebellious at heart. We both want to please our parents. You, Rhoda, you are much more independent.”
“Nay.” Rhoda shook her head. “Phoebe is different from you, Betsy. You obey your parents because you believe it is the right thing to do, because you believe God has told you to. Phoebe obeys her parents because their approval is important to her and she is afraid to lose it.”
Phoebe turned to stare at Rhoda in surprise. She had never heard Rhoda express this opinion so plainly before, although perhaps she should have guessed. She knew her friend did not mean to be critical of her, but she also knew the remark was not a compliment. Dejected, she traced the line of quilting on the bed cover with her finger.
“I think I displease my mother a lot,” she frowned, “usually without trying to.”
Rhoda laughed again. “That’s the truth. You displease her in little things, without trying. But you would never disobey her in something really important. Like choosing a husband, for instance.”
Phoebe turned to study Betsy’s troubled expression with sympathy. “Your parents don’t want you to marry Tom, and Rhoda thinks you should anyway.”
Betsy sighed. “They like Tom. But he’s a soldier and we’re Quakers. I don’t know what to do.”
Phoebe nodded. “And I don’t know what I’d do either. In your case, Betsy, maybe you need to decide whether you really agree with the Quakers in their attitude about war. Are all wars really wrong? I don’t believe they are—I think there are parts of the Bible that support war. But if you believe they are, maybe you shouldn’t marry Tom—if you disagree with him about something so important.”
Betsy managed a weak laugh. “And that’s part of my problem. When I hear my parents and the others at the Quaker Meeting talk about war, what they say makes a lot of sense. But when I talk to Tom about it, he makes sense too. How is someone like me supposed to know, when so many good and intelligent people disagree?”
The conversation moved on to the dance they had all attended the night before, and an hour later George called to Phoebe that they needed to hurry home for supper. She bade good-bye to her two friends and skipped down the stairs, her mind still full of the conversation. What was the right thing to do in Betsy’s situation? And Rhoda’s reflection on her character nagged at her. Of course she wanted to make her parents happy, especially her mother, who was sometimes difficult to please. Was that wrong? Would it be better to be like Rhoda, and not worry so much about it? Or to be like Alice, and please without trying?
And then there was the bigger question about war in general and this war in particular. As Betsy had said, how could Phoebe know who was correct when so many good and intelligent people disagreed? When the current rebellion was discussed in her home, her mother often reminded her that no government was perfect and they were all lucky to be English men and women. As subjects of the British crown, they were far better off than subjects of almost any other ruler, and it was their God-given duty to obey and submit instead of stirring up trouble. But then she would visit the Kirbys and listen to them talk about the rebellion with their friends. Then she would hear their indignation at the King of England, his tyrannical treatment of the citizens of Boston, his unjust taxes. It was the duty of free men to resist such treatment and to throw off the chains of tyranny, and those who refused were cowards and milksops. As for their British freedoms, they were simply demanding the rights that all free Englishmen had claimed since the Magna Carta. Listening to them, inspired by their passion, Phoebe felt sure they were right, just as her mother also seemed to make sense in her turn.
She had almost forgotten George until he spoke and interrupted her musings. As they strolled along the cobbled streets side by side, he began with a note of hesitation in his voice, “There’s something I wanted to mention to you, Phoebe, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course not.” Phoebe glanced into his face, surprised by his serious tone.
“I know Nicholas Teasdale has been calling on you when he’s in town,” George said. “I don’t know him well, you understand, I only know him by reputation.”
Phoebe felt her heart skip a beat and hoped she wasn’t blushing. George knew her too well. “He doesn’t have a good reputation? He’s a perfect gentleman whenever he visits us.”
“I certainly hope he acts like a gentleman in our home.” George kicked a loose stone out of his way. “In an army camp, men behave differently. Not that Nicholas is the worst, compared to some of them, but…I just want you to be careful, to be wary.”
“What have you heard?”
“He runs with a bit of a wild crowd. He likes to drink more than he should and— well, he socializes with women who are not exactly of the best sort.”
Phoebe felt a sense of disappointment that she knew was absurd, since Nicholas was really nothing to her but a friend of the family. She digested this information in silence and finally replied, in what she hoped was an indifferent tone, “Aye, well, you needn’t worry about me. He’s not interested in me—he’s interested in Alice.”
George walked along in silence for a moment, and when Phoebe stole a glance at him, she saw him nodding to himself, as if in satisfaction. “That’s well, then. Alice can take care of herself.”
Phoebe shot him a hurt, reproachful look. “Alice can take care of herself—and I can’t?”
“You understand what I mean, Phoebe.” George laughed and rubbed his sister’s shoulder affectionately. “Alice has a heart of stone. No man living could take advantage of her.”
“And I’m so weak I’ll fall into the a
rms of the first man who winks at me,” Phoebe scowled.
“Not weak perhaps, but—soft, sentimental, persuadable. Someone like Nicholas could probably charm you into some indiscretion, and I want you to be careful.”
“I’m not so weak as you think,” Phoebe returned stiffly, and hoped she was telling the truth. It was mortifying that her brother had read her so easily, and that he had such a low opinion of her fortitude. And he knew Alice well enough to guess she would not be swept away so readily. The comparison, as usual, was humbling to her.
“He comes from a religious family,” she replied after walking on for a moment in silence. “His mother was a very devout Christian, if I remember rightly, and I thought that Lavinia was too. What do they think about his behavior, if ’tis as bad as you say?”
George shrugged and sighed a bit. “They likely don’t know everything that happens when he’s away from home. And Nicholas isn’t the first young man from a good family to go a bit wild and disappoint his parents.”
“Aye, that’s certain.” And all the more reason to put him from your head, she told herself firmly. If you want to break your heart, at least find someone worthy, someone you can look back on later in life and be proud of having loved.
* * *
George returned to New York and life in the Fuller household returned to normal. One evening early in August Phoebe and Alice were sitting in the parlor sewing while their mother and Sally visited a sick member of their church and their father and the boys worked out of doors in the summer evening twilight. The windows were open to admit a faint breeze, and the silver on the cupboard reflected the fading light. Rhoda Kirby had dropped by the evening before, and Phoebe was mulling over the Kirby family dilemma as she put the finishing touches on three shirts for her brother Jonathan.
“Rhoda’s brother Tom wants to marry Betsy Snow, that Quaker girl he’s been courting, the next time he comes home on leave,” she informed Alice. “But Betsy’s parents won’t consent until he joins the Quaker meeting. And he can’t become a Quaker as long as he’s a soldier. So he has to choose between fighting in the army and marrying Betsy. What a dilemma!”
“He doesn’t have any place courting Betsy Snow in the first place.” Alice bit off the thread on her needle and tied the ends.
For a moment Phoebe fell silent, taken aback. “You think it is wrong for him to marry a Quaker?”
Alice snipped off a new length of thread and held it up to the eye of the needle. “He should choose his church based on his own convictions, not on trying to please some girl’s parents.”
Phoebe considered for a moment. Alice was right, of course, in principle, but sometimes it was difficult to know how to put her principles into practice.
“So you think it is always wrong for people of different churches to marry?” she asked. “After all, the Quakers are Christians like we are.”
“They may be Christians, but they have wrong beliefs.” Her sister picked up the shirt in her lap and began to ply her needle. “Their belief in pacifism is just one example. How can Tom Kirby justify joining a church that teaches pacifism when he has served in the army for months? ’Tis nothing short of hypocrisy.”
Phoebe digested this statement. Alice was completely logical and always made perfect sense, especially when she was able to discount human emotions. Perhaps it was hypocritical of Tom to become a Quaker if he disagreed with one of their basic tenets. Still, shouldn’t there be room for a certain amount of compromise, even in matters of faith? The Fuller family was Methodist, attending the new church called St. George’s, whose pulpit had recently been occupied by Francis Asbury. Phoebe liked the Methodist church, in particular the hymns, which were lively and modern, but a limited number of young men attended there. If she were to meet a man who was, for example, Presbyterian—like the Teasdale family—would it be terribly wicked of her to change churches? But she dared not voice such a heretical idea to Alice.
She shook herself to erase the thought of the Teasdales from her head. Just then she heard a knock on the door, and the footsteps of Martha, the houseservant, as she hurried to open it.
The parlor door opened and Nicholas entered.
Phoebe felt a warmth spread up and suffuse her face as Nicholas greeted the two sisters. Alice rose to welcome him and offered him a seat with perfect poise.
“What great good fortune, to find two charming young ladies home together,” Nicholas exclaimed, dropping into the empty chair between them. “Not that I don’t find the rest of your family charming as well, you understand.”
Phoebe laughed, and then reflected silently that Nicholas might be even more pleased to find only one charming young lady. Perhaps she should leave him alone with Alice. But she was in the middle of making buttonholes on Jonathan’s shirts, a tedious and painstaking business, and it would be awkward to get up and leave in the middle of her task. Not that she was eager to leave, but neither did she want to intrude her presence where she was unwelcome.
She was relieved when Nicholas struck up a conversation that included both of them, relating the latest news of the war and his own plans. He was only stopping in Philadelphia tonight in order to deliver several messages, and would return to New York the next day. As he spoke he noticed Phoebe’s volume of Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded lying on the table, picked it up, and leafed through it idly.
He grinned at Phoebe. “I see you are an admirer of Samuel Richardson.”
“How—how did you know it was mine?” she exclaimed in confusion.
“For some reason I didn’t believe it was the type of book Alice would read.”
Of course, he would realize that immediately. “’Tis a frivolous book, I know,” she blushed, wishing she had hidden it in her room.
“I must confess, I read a bit of it myself years ago. Not the whole book. I just skipped through until I found the bawdy scenes.”
Phoebe blushed deeper, but had to laugh. “Don’t you think it has an exciting story?”
“In more ways than one,” he agreed. “That Mr. B was quite a naughty fellow, wasn’t he?”
“But he improved greatly in the end,” Phoebe pointed out.
Nicholas glanced down at the volume in his hands, then shrugged and tossed it back onto the table. “The conclusion was not terribly realistic.”
“You believe that virtue is never rewarded?”
“Aye, perhaps it is, more often than I might wish,” he laughed. “I suppose you believe men can be changed by the love of a good woman.”
“I don’t know.” Phoebe hesitated, on less familiar ground now. “I know God is the only one who can change people. But Pamela trusted God and did what she knew to be right, and perhaps Mr. B admired her for that.”
She saw him smile at that, a bit sardonically she thought, and wondered if she had said something terribly naïve and silly. “Richardson wrote a second book that didn’t end quite so romantically. Have you ever read Clarissa? Her lover was even wickeder than Pamela’s.”
“I beg you not to encourage Phoebe to read more of those books,” Alice interposed. “She already neglects all her serious studies to read novels instead. Her French would be better than mine if she studied more, for she has a better memory, but she doesn’t apply herself.”
Nicholas turned to Alice with deference. “All of us would do well to employ our time as conscientiously as you do, Mistress Alice,” he said gravely, but Phoebe thought she discerned a twitch in the corner of his mouth, and when he glanced back at Phoebe, he winked.
They were distracted from their conversation by another knock at the door, and a moment later Edmund Ingram entered the parlor.
Phoebe glanced swiftly at Alice. She perceived that her sister blushed very slightly and seemed just momentarily disconcerted, but she recovered her composure in an instant and introduced the two men, who bowed very politely to each other.
It was now absolutely necessary for Phoebe to remain, for leaving Alice alone with two men would be awkward beyond belief. Edmund to
ok a seat on the far side of Alice and instantly commanded her attention, and to Phoebe’s joy Nicholas turned and devoted his attention to her. He began to speak again about the army, describing in detail the fortifications and the numbers of regiments, the locations of each and the plans for battle with the British. Phoebe was a bit surprised by his choice of a topic. Most men would not consider a young woman to be fascinated by military strategy and wondered why he believed she would be. Perhaps he couldn’t think of anything more interesting to discuss. At any rate, she was too pleased by his notice to feel terribly critical, and found his description of Fort Washington nearly as interesting as he seemed to consider it.
Finally, after chatting on in this manner for about twenty minutes, Nicholas said he needed to leave, rose, and bade farewell to the three of them. Phoebe finished the buttonhole she was working on, and, deciding that chaperoning Alice and Edmund was more tedium than she cared to submit herself to, rose to go to the kitchen where she heard her mother clattering around. But as she started toward the door she noticed a paper lying by the parlor door and picked it up.
It was a letter, addressed to Robert Morris of the Secret Committee of Congress in Philadelphia.
“I think Nicholas must have dropped this,” she said to the other two, frowning. “He likely intended to deliver it tonight. What should we do?”
Edmund broke off in the middle of his sentence and stared at the paper in her hand.
“Where he is staying?” Alice asked. “We could send someone after him.”
Phoebe frowned and shook her head. “He didn’t say.”
“And there are dozens of taverns; he might be in any one of them,” Edmund added. “Who is the letter addressed to?”
