by Susan Foy
So the next day the stove was set up in a corner of the parlor and consuming its first load of wood as the family gathered around the table for Christmas dinner. The aroma of roasted goose filled the room, and the table was laden with pewter and silver and bowls of turnips, succotash, cranberries, and a plum pudding. Phoebe carefully carried a large bowl of punch in from the kitchen and set it on the sideboard.
“We have much to be thankful for,” Richard Fuller said as the room fell silent, but Phoebe thought she saw his lips tremble a bit. He asked the blessing on the food, asking for God’s protection and provision for the army and especially for their own loved ones who were fighting, and for a moment silence reigned when he finished. Then the bowls and platters began to circle the table and cheerful chatter filled the room as the guests and family filled their plates.
“We received a letter just last week from our friends, the Palmers, in New York,” Phoebe’s aunt commented as she refilled her plate for the second time with goose and stuffing. She was a plump, cheerful, talkative woman, one of Phoebe’s favorite relatives, although she was only related to the Fullers by marriage. “What an experience they are having with all those British soldiers in the city, and the Tories running everything. We might have the same condition here, if Washington’s army doesn’t stop the British soon.”
“Washington’s army is in no condition to stop anyone,” her husband observed gloomily.
“Did you give Phoebe her letter, Papa?” Kit asked.
Phoebe looked up from her plate, a spoonful of turnips halfway to her mouth. “A letter? For me?”
“The letter! Gracious, I did indeed forget!” her father exclaimed. “I picked it up yesterday when we fetched the stove home, and with all the activity here, completely forgot to give it to you.” He rose and crossed to his desk, then brought a letter to Phoebe. “Merry Christmas!”
Surprised, Phoebe examined the handwriting, expecting it to be Lavinia’s, for she had written to her friend several weeks before. But the writing was different, although she had, she thought, seen it once. Suddenly she broke the seal and scanned the bottom of the sheet for the signature with its large scrawling flourish.
“It is from Nicholas,” she breathed in amazement.
Her younger brothers snickered before their father stopped them with a glance, but Phoebe was oblivious. Nicholas had written to her! Why would he write her a letter? She could scarcely bear to wait to read it, and was torn between a desire for privacy and desperation to know its contents immediately. It would be rude to leave the table while everyone was eating, and so she restrained her impatience, although she barely heard the conversation that swirled around her.
As soon as Martha began to clear the table Phoebe rose as if to help her, and with her letter in her pocket retreated to her bedroom to read in quiet. As she opened the letter she admired Nicholas’s handwriting: neat and scholarly, yet very masculine.
My dear Phoebe,
I have an opportunity to send a letter by courier to Philadelphia this afternoon, and therefore will try to write a few hasty lines. I sense we will be going into battle soon, and I may not have the opportunity to write again; for this reason I feel the urgency to do so now, however disorganized my communication may be. I know no plans of the impending battle, and could not impart them if I did; however, I sense that Washington will not be satisfied without taking a stand before the end of the year. I believe you comprehend the desperate situation of the army.
I told you last week I had been reading the Bible that my sister gave me. I cannot well explain the new spiritual hunger I have experienced. Perhaps it is the result of facing death daily, or the influence of godly friends such as yourself. For several weeks at least, or even months, I have felt God calling me, but have scarcely known how to respond. Phrases from my reading, comments that you have made, memories of my mother—all of these have played repeatedly through my mind. I now believe God has been using them to reach me.
Two days ago I was reading the story of the lost sheep, which I had certainly heard before, but this time I knew the lost sheep was myself, and that God was leaving his ninety-nine sheep in the wilderness to find me. And then I read about the lost son whose father welcomed him home in the end, and God met me. I can offer no better explanation than that, but I felt God was speaking to me, saying “I am the Father who is welcoming you home, even if your earthly father never does.”
Phoebe, I have experienced such peace since that night, joy and comfort even in the midst of these dreadful circumstances. I do not know if I will return from this next battle; it is very possible I will not, and for this reason I wanted you to know that I have found peace with God before my death. Please, if I don’t return, I ask you to write to my mother. I know this news will be a great comfort to her. I hope my father will be glad to hear it as well.
Phoebe read the letter through once, so rapidly that she barely comprehended the whole meaning, but her heart flooded with joy and gratitude as she realized what Nicholas was communicating to her. Thank you, Lord, she breathed. Even if I never see him again, I’m so thankful that Nicholas has found peace with you.
She was in the middle of reading a second time when Alice’s voice came from the foot of the stairs.
“Phoebe, are you up there? Mother says to hurry down and help with the dishes.”
Phoebe dropped the letter on the bed and hurried below, a singing in her heart. Alice and Sally had already cleared most of the dishes while the men sat and talked around the table. Phoebe carried the coffeepot into the parlor and refilled her uncle’s cup, then her father’s. She noticed that Edmund’s place was empty.
“Where is Edmund?” she asked her father.
Her father glanced up. “He left the table a minute ago. He didn’t say where he was going.”
Phoebe refilled his cup anyway. Perhaps Edmund had gone to the kitchen to speak to Alice. She returned to the kitchen to help serve the pumpkin and mincemeat pies.
Her aunt looked up with a smile from the table where she was cutting the pies, her eyes bright with curiosity. “There you are, Phoebe! Did you read your letter? Who is this Nicholas who is writing to you?”
“He’s—he’s an old friend of the family.” Phoebe tried to sound casual, although she knew her eyes were sparkling. “He’s serving in the army with Washington.”
Her aunt shook her head at that piece of information. “A beau of yours?”
“Nay.” Phoebe knew she was blushing, although she shook her head firmly. “He used to be our neighbor and he visits whenever he is in town. He rides courier and comes into the city rather often.”
“But he wrote to you, not to your parents or Alice,” her aunt persisted, still with a twinkle in her eye.
Phoebe shrugged, trying not to smile. “I’m not certain why he did that, except that we have gotten to be friends.”
Her aunt still wore that knowing look, but there was nothing more Phoebe could do to convince her. If only her aunt were right! If only Phoebe could say, “Aye, Nicholas is my beau, we’ve been courting for several months now.” She felt a surge of longing at the image. But she knew the real reason Nicholas had written to her was that she was the closest link he had to his family, and the only one who understood how matters stood between him and his parents.
“Here, Phoebe, this spinning wheel is in my way.” Sarah pushed it aside as she bustled up to the table where Phoebe and her aunt were working. “Move it into the hall, will you please? That will give us more room in here.”
Phoebe opened the door to the hall and dragged the spinning wheel out of the kitchen and into the room where the other household equipment was kept. The hall was empty, but as she started back to the kitchen, she heard footsteps on the staircase and then saw Edmund emerge at the foot of it. He gave her one brief startled glance and disappeared into the parlor where the family was eating.
Phoebe stared after him, perplexed. Edmund had gone upstairs! Why would he do that? There was nothing upstairs to int
erest him, only the two bedrooms where the children slept. And Alice was in the kitchen; he couldn’t have been talking to her up there. How odd!
There was probably some simple explanation. On the other hand, he had seemed startled at the sight of Phoebe, as if she had caught him in the act of something dishonest. Why would he go sneaking around their bedrooms? Was he trying to steal something that belonged to Alice? She had heard of men who took their sweethearts’ gloves and handkerchiefs and kept them as love tokens. But that seemed like a silly thing for Edmund to do. He had never seemed like the sentimental type to her. Alice would certainly be astonished and perhaps offended if she learned he had resorted to such subterfuge.
With curiosity but no clear idea of what she expected to find, Phoebe climbed the stairs to her bedroom and glanced around. The chest where the girls kept their clothes was still closed. She went to open it, to see if anything was missing, although she doubted it. But with her hand on the clasp she glanced around the room and her eyes fell on the quilt that covered their bed.
Her letter! It was gone!
She went to the bed, but nothing was there. Perhaps it had fallen on the floor. She searched the floor around the bed, pulled out Sally’s trundle bed, and got down on her hands and knees to search under the bed. She found an old hair ribbon and two buttons, but no letter.
She groped in her pocket. Perhaps she had put it in there and forgotten. Her pocket was empty.
Edmund took my letter! The thought was incredible, but there it was. I left the letter here, he came up, and now it is gone!
Was she mad? Was she imagining things? Why on earth would Edmund want a letter from Nicholas? Why would he care about that? It made no sense.
And then she remembered the letter Nicholas had copied that had vanished from the desk the night when Edmund was visiting. A letter from his commander, Nicholas had told her. Information about the war. Could all these disappearing letters possibly be a coincidence?
She felt cold inside, and her breath began to come fast. What had Nicholas written about the army? Something about a battle before the end of the year, that Washington intended to take a stand. Had he given any other particulars? Any details? She couldn’t remember.
She ran down the steps two at a time, almost ripping her best petticoat. The rest of the family was seated around the table in the parlor eating pie and drinking coffee, but Edmund was missing. She ran to the kitchen where she found Alice giving instructions to the servant.
“Where’s Edmund?” she demanded, grabbing her sister’s arm.
Alice looked up, surprised at her breathless agitation. “He just left. He came in here a moment ago and told me he needed to go home early. His parents are expecting guests today and wanted him to be there to meet them.”
“He just told you this now? He didn’t mention it earlier?”
“He didn’t, actually. I was surprised he had to leave so early, because he hadn’t told me so before.”
Phoebe hesitated, but the coincidence was too great. “Edmund took my letter.”
“Your letter? What do you mean?”
“The letter from Nicholas. I left the letter on our bed upstairs. I saw him coming down from the bedrooms, so I went up, and the letter was gone.”
Alice’s face darkened. “Don’t be absurd, Phoebe. Why would Edmund care about a letter from Nicholas?”
“It came from the army! He probably thought it contained military information.”
A sudden look of fear crossed Alice’s face, and when she spoke her voice was sharp with anger. “What are you saying, Phoebe? Edmund is no spy! He cares nothing about politics!”
“How do you know, Alice? I saw him at the State House last July, when they were reading the Declaration! And you’ve heard the things he’s said, about how foolish we are to try to fight the King’s army.”
“And so? You were there that day as well, but you are no spy!”
Phoebe suddenly snatched her cloak from its peg on the wall. “I have to find him. I have to stop him.”
Alice grabbed her arm, and Phoebe had never seen her sister look so angry or so afraid. “Are you mad, Phoebe? Do you know how much trouble you can cause by making wild accusations? Let me talk to Edmund first. There’s probably some simple explanation for all this. Edmund wouldn’t do anything so foolish or dangerous.”
Phoebe hesitated, for she had never opposed Alice in her life. But something, instinct or intuition, told her that this time she was right and Alice was wrong.
“I have to go.” She shook off her sister’s hand and dashed out the door.
There was no sign of Edmund on the street. How much time had he gained on her? Five, ten minutes? No more than that. Where should she go first to look for him? She had no idea. She knew where he lived, and there was always a possibility that he had gone home, just as he had told Alice. It was the only place she could think of to look.
She started down the street at a trot, the iciness of the winter air striking her face and freezing her breath as she ran. She tasted snow in the air and smelled it in the low-hanging clouds. In her haste she had forgotten her hood and mittens, and she dug her hands into her pockets for warmth. She needed to formulate a plan before she arrived at Edmund’s house. Could she just walk up to him and say, “Edmund, my letter is missing. Did you take it?” Edmund would surely never admit to such a theft. She would feel foolish asking the question. On the other hand, such a move would at least make him aware she suspected him. Perhaps he would hesitate to pass the letter on to anyone if he knew he had aroused suspicion.
She reached the house before deciding for sure on a plan. Slowing her pace, she approached the door, her heart pounding, as possible approaches swirled through her mind. What could she possibly say? “Edmund, I know you’re a spy, and I’ll report you if you don’t return my letter to me”? She would never be able to say such a thing. She felt a thickness in her throat made it impossible to swallow.
She knocked on the door and a moment later heard footsteps within. Edmund’s mother, a rail-thin woman in a checkered apron, her graying hair tucked under her mobcap, opened the door.
“Phoebe!” The woman held the door open for her. “Come in! What are you doing here?”
“Good day, Mrs. Ingram.” Phoebe stepped into the hall and glanced around, trying to breathe normally. “I’m looking for Edmund.”
“Edmund? Goodness, child, Edmund isn’t here. Isn’t he at your house? He told me Alice had invited him for Christmas dinner. That she wanted him to meet your relatives who were coming to visit.”
Phoebe nodded, still panting. “Aye, he was there. But he left a few minutes ago. He said you were having company, and wanted him to come home early.”
Mrs. Ingram shook her head, her expression puzzled. “Why would Edmund say something like that? We don’t have any company here today. I assumed he would be spending the whole evening at your house.”
Phoebe felt her heart plummet. For a moment she was speechless with dismay.
“I don’t know where to look for him now,” she said finally.
“Goodness, I don’t know either. Why would Edmund make up a story like that? All I can imagine is he wanted to meet some other friends and was afraid your sister would disapprove. He may be at a tavern with his good friend, Harry Hastings.”
Phoebe took a deep breath, trying to think. “Do you know what tavern he usually visits?”
The woman frowned. “Let me think. There is one called the Blue Bell, but I don’t know exactly where it is located. I’m sorry, Phoebe. Is this a crisis? Has something happened to Alice, or your parents?”
“Nay.” Phoebe managed a smile. “’Tis nothing like that. My family is well. I wanted to ask Edmund a question, but I’m sure I’ll have another opportunity the next time he comes to call.”
“I’ll tell Edmund you were looking for him.” Mrs. Ingram clearly wanted to be helpful.
“You needn’t trouble yourself. I’ll talk to him later.” Phoebe was already opening
the door. “Thank you.”
Out on the street she looked right and left. Which direction was the Blue Bell tavern? There were so many taverns in Philadelphia. Was it near Market Street? She started in that direction, praying it was the one she remembered. The wind bit into her face and whistled in her ears. Frantically she scanned each tavern sign she passed, ignoring the curious glances and snide remarks from some young men who had imbibed too much Christmas cheer.
Finally, after walking the cobbled streets for what seemed like several miles, she spotted a tavern with a picture of a blue bell hanging in front, and she opened the door. Warmth enveloped her and the scent of roast pork and ale met her nostrils. Inside the door she paused to catch her breath and let her eyes adjust to the gloom. Her eyes scanned the faces at the tables.
“Welcome, mistress. Are you looking for someone perhaps?”
Phoebe looked up to see a tall balding man who appeared to be the tavern owner.
“I was wondering—” she paused to catch her breath, “does a man named Edmund Ingram ever come to this tavern?”
“Aye, Ingram, certainly he does. I know him well. Several times a week at least.”
Phoebe nodded eagerly, turning once again to search the faces. “Is he here now, by any chance?”
“He was here, I believe,” the man told her. “Perhaps an hour ago, but he didn’t stay.”
Phoebe’s heart fell. “He—he didn’t say where he was going, did he?”
She saw a slight, knowing smile at the corners of the man’s mouth, and suddenly blushed at the situation she found herself in. But it didn’t matter what this man thought of her. Nothing mattered but finding Edmund and her letter.
“Nay, I fear not.”
Dejected, Phoebe turned to the door. Once on the street, she started slowly for home. She had no idea where Edmund might have gone. Probably it didn’t matter now anyway. Edmund had had ample time to read her letter and pass whatever information it contained to whomever he wanted.
She was halfway home, passing the street that led to the Kirby home, when another idea struck her. She turned and headed to the Kirbys’.
