“Patrick Henry saying ‘I am not a Virginian but an American,’” Nathaniel said angrily. “Now, God in heaven, what does that mean?”
It was his first night home after a near-disastrous two-month voyage at sea. He had come alone, thank heaven, without his wife. October 2. Outside a cold rain slashed against the windows. Inside candles glowed in sconces on the dining room table. He was older, handsomer, and richer. And though I knew he was foreign agent for a slave trader and we had fought bitterly, the sight of him still benumbed me.
Months we had been parted. Yet the span of his shoulders was still familiar to me, as was his walk, the tilt of his head, every nuance of tone. Of what shallow stuff, I asked myself, is the heart made, then? And does it never forget?
“Phillis, pass the buttered beans to Lieutenant Graves,” Mr. Wheatley said.
I did so. The board was set lavishly. You would never have known that Boston’s port was closed. Where did these British officers get their supplies?
“I am afraid,” said Graves, helping himself to buttered beans in great plenty, “that when you people find out what it means, it will be too late.”
“Too late for what?” I asked.
Nathaniel glowered at me. I paid no mind.
“For conciliation,” said Graves.
“There never should have been a Congress in Philadelphia,” Nathaniel went on. “Now the fools in our very own county introduce the Suffolk Resolves. Has anyone heard what’s in them?”
No one answered. Graves and Rochefort were too busy devouring the side of mutton, roasted apples, sweet ham, and Sulie’s muffins.
“They call for every town to form a strong militia,” Nathaniel recited. “They call for acts of Parliament to be disobeyed and all taxes to be paid not to Britain but to the treasury of a provincial independent government. By God, it’s a declaration of war for Congress to countenance such demands.”
“Don’t forget the call to cease all trade with Britain,” Graves said between bites.
“Madness,” Nathaniel said. “Why, more than seventy members of Parliament own plantations in the West Indies. They have large interests in colonial goods. They will be ruined.”
“It will never be enforced,” Mr. Wheatley said.
Everyone looked at him. He was lucid this evening. Nathaniel’s return had done wonders for him.
“The reason being,” he explained, “that the southern colonies have scarce any market, beyond England, for their rice and tobacco.”
“Pray so, Father,” Nathaniel said, “pray so. Good Lord, what have I come home to? Everything is in a shambles.”
He was in such a befouled humor that I dreaded his summons, yet I knew it would come. And come it did, the next morning.
It was still raining. The eaves dripped. The house was chilled, and Bristol went about tending the fires. Graves and Rochefort had gone out to attend to their business. Mr. Wheatley was out, too, meeting friends.
“Who is this John Peters?” Nathaniel asked. He sat before a cheery fire in his room, taking a late breakfast.
“A greengrocer. He has a stall in North End Market. Before the officers came, and after the port was closed, he supplied us with food. Else we might have perished.”
“Where did he get this food?”
“I did not inquire.”
“Did it never occur to you that you should have?”
“No. We were in dire need. Would you have your father starve?”
He took a mouthful of fish and eggs, reached for a scone. “You’ve lost none of your sauciness, I see.”
“Should I have?”
“I hear tell he’s asked you to marry him.”
I let my breath out, slowly. Sulie. She listened at doors. How else would he have known? I had told no one. “Yes.”
“Has he pressed his suit with Father?”
“We have not spoken of it to anyone yet.”
“And why? Does he think you’re some scullery maid to be dallied with?”
“We haven’t dallied, Nathaniel.”
“You are a ward of this family.”
“I am free,” I said. “Your father freed me.”
“Ah yes.” He took a long draught of chocolate, set his cup down, and wiped his mouth with his linen napkin. “So you have what you desire, then. Freedom, which cures all ills. Does it pleasure you, Phillis?”
“I’ve not had time to notice.”
He laughed. “Welcome to freedom. To say it has its constraints is not to do it justice. The colonies will learn.”
I said naught, not wishing to anger him further.
“You are still writing, I see.”
“Yes.”
“I saw your poem about Graves in the Royal American. Do you think that was wise?”
“I did not consider the wisdom or the stupidity of it. I just wrote it,” I said.
He sighed. “Don’t try to flummox me, Phillis. You have become nothing if not an artful jade.”
My face flushed. “How so?”
“You use people. You got your friend Obour and Reverend Occom to sell your books. To say naught of poor Reverend Hopkins in Princeton, who loathes poetry.”
“I was as helpful to him as he was to me,” I said.
He waved aside my protest. “You are demure with clergymen because you need their backing. You wrote to John Thornton, the rich philanthropist, claiming that the freedom my father gave you was perhaps the deserved wages of your evil doings. When all you ever wanted was freedom. You know how pious he is, and that he might think you vain and un-Christian if you said otherwise.”
“How do you know all this?”
“You carry my name,” he said. “It would be remiss of me not to know how you are using it”
“I have used it to no ill, Nathaniel.”
“Not yet, but you will.”
“How can you say such?”
“Then you wrote that letter condemning Christian ministers who have slaves,” he went on quietly, “and waited until two weeks after my mother died to publish it.”
“She urged me to publish it.”
He got up and went to the window and stood looking out at the rain.
“I am a free nigra woman, Nathaniel,” I said to his back. “I must do everything I can do to exist.”
“Do you wed this John Peters for a roof over your head, then?”
“I have not said that I will wed him.”
He shrugged. “It matters little to me if you do,” he said, “but I feel it incumbent upon myself that I tell you I do not like him.”
“You scarce know him,” I pointed out.
“I know of his kind. He cannot support you, Phillis. He cannot keep you in the way you have been kept here.”
“It is not my desire to have any man keep me. I shall make my way on my own. Freed by the fruits of my pen. Remember, Nathaniel?”
“Don’t use old memories on me, Phillis. They no longer suffice. The world has changed and so must we. Or we will not survive.”
“You’ve become hard, Nathaniel,” I said.
He turned from the window. He picked up his coat and put it over his arm. “As I must, to exist in the world. And as you never can be. Which is why I predicted once, a long time ago, that free, you would perish.”
“Thank you for your confidence in me,” I said.
He gathered up his hat and some papers that he put in an oilcloth bag. “I must go out.” He walked by me to the door, then turned. “You may stay in this house as long as you wish, Phillis. Don’t wed John Peters because you think you must go.”
He was staring at me intently, and for just one flicker of a moment I thought I saw some of the old Nathaniel, my old friend and mentor.
“Thank you,” I said.
“I would, of course, be much gratified if you would look after my father. His mind is going.”
So, then, the reason for his kindness. But I know I saw something of my old Nathaniel there, something he quickly wanted to hide. “I was not planning to leave him,” I said.
He nodded briefly. Then he was gone.
I felt myself split in two. I collapsed in a chair, crying for the effort of not betraying my true feelings for him. I plunged into the depths of my soul, sitting there, such depths as I never knew existed.