On Thursday, as we ate our midday meal, Father said he meant to ride into Mayfield to attend the Committee of Correspondence meeting. “Since the militia is training afterward, ’twill likely be dark before Thomas and Israel and I return.”
Having grown used to his trips to the village for meetings and militia drills, Mother nodded. Our hired man, Thomas Boatrick, and his son Israel and over forty other men and older boys attended as well. It galled Ben greatly to be left behind with the women. Truth be told, it galled me that I was left behind too.
“I noticed the sugar bin is almost empty,” I said in a casual voice. “If war comes”—just saying the words tightened my stomach—“it might be wise to have extra on hand.” I looked innocently at Mother. “Ben and I could follow Father in the cart to buy sugar and be back before dark.”
“Since the blockade of the harbor, sugar is growing scarce,” Father said. “There might be other things to buy and keep on hand.”
Mother thought for a moment. “I’m running low on nutmeg, and we definitely need to buy more tea.”
For a second, Father looked thunderstruck. “I trust you are jesting, Goodwife. No tea or goods imported from England are to cross the Stowell threshold.”
Mother’s eyes twinkled. She did enjoy teasing Father. “My feelings are in agreement with yours, Mr. Stowell. Just the same, I do grow tired of the mint and chamomile we drink in place of good English tea.”
Father’s expression softened. “I miss my cup of tea too, but chamomile and mint it will be until the King and Parliament cease to tax us without allowing representation or voice in the matter.” His mouth turned stubborn like it always did when he spoke of the King. “Sugar and nutmeg are all you need?”
Mother nodded and turned her attention to me. “You must take an extra quilt and the warming box with you.”
A short time later, Ben and I climbed into the cart to follow the men up the lane. Israel turned and gave a cheeky wave, clearly pleased that he was old enough to ride with the men. Ben snapped the reins at Dolly and gave me a quick smile. Though he might envy his brother, he was still glad to be going to the village.
The weather had moderated since the Sabbath. Even so, the mushy snow and rutted road made it impossible to keep up with the men.
“After we finish at the store, can we go to the common and watch the militia drill?” Ben asked.
I pretended to ponder the question, for I enjoyed teasing as much as Mother. “Mother asked me to leave a recipe with Goodwife Rawson after we finish at the store and . . .” I paused and looked into Ben’s doleful blue eyes. “After that, we shall both stroll over to the common to watch the militia.”
Ben grinned. “I shoulda known you was just teasin’. You and Jonathan was—” His voice broke, and he shot me an apologetic look. “Sorry,” he whispered. Quickly changing the subject, he said, “By now, the men should be to the village.”
“One day you’ll be able to go with your father instead of riding in the cart with a woman.”
“’Tisn’t that, Mistress Abigail, for I like you just fine. It’s just . . .”
“I don’t like being left behind either. But we can still have a good time.”
For the rest of the trip, we hummed and sang, though we lowered our voices when we reached the outskirts of Mayfield so as not to invite censure as we passed the home of elderly Goody Parker.
Since committee meetings ran long, with everyone wanting to express an opinion, there was ample time to buy the sugar and nutmeg—both items smuggled in from the West Indies by enterprising seamen. Goodwife Morris was minding the store while her husband was at the meeting. The heavyset woman slowly measured out the sugar and spice, her movements punctuated by numerous questions. Aware of Ben’s restlessness, I sent him on to the common as soon as we left the store.
Once I had delivered the recipe, I set out for the common too, stepping carefully through the slushy snow in my pattens. As I neared the village forge, I became aware of two men arguing loudly.
“I ain’t fer lettin’ no stranger tell me what I can and can’t say ’bout the King and the rascals in Parliament . . . nor say not to drill with the militia,” elderly Matthew Giles shouted.
“I don’t care if you fought in the seven-year war or in a dozen wars, you’re still subject to the King of England,” a loud voice retorted.
Looking, I saw Mr. Giles shake his cane at a tall, well-built man. I immediately recognized the proud tilt of his head. My temper rose. How dare the Tory speak like that to a man as brave and sweet as Mr. Giles!
Without thinking, I hurried toward them, my long skirt and cape tangling with my pattens, my indignation rising with each step. Their angry voices drowned out my approach.
“I won’t bow to a king who puts a hand in my pocket for taxes while the other shakes a finger at my nose and tells me when to breathe!” Mr. Giles’s cane was perilously close to Mr. Whitlock’s nose.
“He’s your king. You’re his subject!” the Tory responded hotly. “Can’t you get that through your thick head? He’s your king!”
“Only God is my king!” Matthew yelled, swinging his cane.
In a quick movement, Mr. Whitlock snatched the stick from Mr. Giles’s hand and made as if to turn it on him.
“Stop!” I cried. “Stop this minute!”
Both men turned in surprise as I moved between them, Gideon Whitlock holding the cane high, Matthew Giles staring at me with a dumfounded expression.
Before either could speak, I turned on the Tory. “What kind of man are you to hit someone half your size?” I demanded.
Though his breathing was quick, Mr. Whitlock’s voice was calm. “I had no intention—”
“I saw what happened, and I heard what you said!” Anger rose hot in my chest. “Mr. Giles suffered a serious injury while defending us from the French and Indians, and now you come here . . . a stranger . . . and presume to tell him what he can and cannot do?”
I was vaguely aware that a crowd had gathered, but I paid them no heed. Nor did I wonder how attraction had somehow attached itself to my anger. Instead of my heated words making Mr. Whitlock angry or ashamed, something very like amusement shone in his eyes.
Frustrated, I hurried on. “Furthermore, you should know that—” The weight of a heavy hand on my shoulder brought my angry words to a halt.
“You have said quite enough, Abigail.” Father’s voice was tight with suppressed anger, and his hand on my shoulder squeezed hard like he wanted to shake me.
“He was going to hit Mr. Giles and—” My anger shrank at the sight of Father’s stern expression.
“Mr. Giles is capable of speaking for himself . . . as is Mr. Whitlock,” Father said, his blue eyes as cold as his voice. “Find Ben, and go home at once.”
I knew better than to argue when Father spoke in that tone. Nonetheless, I took time to look at Mr. Giles to reassure myself he was all right. His weathered face was still flushed with anger and his hat slightly askew, but instead of meeting my eyes, he kept his gaze squarely on his adversary.
I gave Mr. Whitlock a parting look that failed to elicit anything more than the lift of his brows. Father stood at his side, a stern expression on his face. Since Ben was part of the crowd, it didn’t take me long to find him.
Though his face was bright with excitement, such wasn’t the case with many of the others. Some avoided my gaze, and others, especially the women, looked at me with disapproval.
Shame replaced anger as I realized my actions would be common knowledge by nightfall. When are you going to learn to guard your tongue and think before you rush in? It wasn’t the first time and probably not the last time I would ask myself that question. When, Abigail? When?
As we left the crowd, Ben looked up at me with questions shining in his eyes, but his regard for me was such that he didn’t voice them until we were in the cart and had left the village.
“What happened, Mistress Abigail? Folks was saying old Mr. Giles and that man was ’bout to fight.”
“A very rude man,” I corrected, “who grabbed Mr. Giles’s cane and was about to hit him.”
Ben’s eyes grew large. “Truly?”
“Truly,” I repeated; yet as I spoke, I wondered if Mr. Whitlock had only held the stick high so Matthew Giles couldn’t reach it. Even so, the Tory shouldn’t have goaded him.
“The way you tore into him was somethin’,” Ben said in admiration.
Instead of pleasing me, his words only made me feel worse. Had I mistaken Mr. Whitlock’s intentions? No matter how many times I tried to put the thought aside, it stayed. “Please, I don’t wish to talk about it.”
“Yes’m.” His voice held disappointment, and I was aware of the questioning glances he gave me on the very long ride home.
“You mad at me or somethin’?” Ben asked when he stopped Dolly at the barn and helped me out of the cart.
“No. I’m only mad at the Tory.” And yourself. Because of your foolish interference, Ben didn’t get to watch the militia drill. “It was Gideon Whitlock’s fault,” I rationalized, and I entered the house with a scowl instead of a smile on my face.
***
I dreaded Father’s return, knowing that despite my age of nearly twenty years, he would feel it his duty to lecture me on my conduct in the village. Didn’t I live under his roof and bear the Stowell name? Weren’t the actions of a man’s family a reflection on himself? If he couldn’t govern those of his own household, how could he be expected to regulate anything else?
Mother questioned me almost at once. “What’s wrong, Abby?”
Not wanting to have to explain twice, I shook my head and concentrated on refilling the sugar bin. “If I may, I’d rather wait until Father returns to tell you.”
Mother sighed. If the problem involved Father, it was serious. When he entered the kitchen an hour later, Mother’s greeting was subdued, and Bethy and I said nothing. Instead, we each dished up our hot soup.
Father usually had much to recount after a trip into Mayfield, but tonight, other than saying grace, he made no attempt at conversation. Following his example, we ate in silence, the clink of plainware on dishes filling the uncomfortable silence at the table. As the minutes passed, I grew more unsettled.
I took a deep breath. “I apologize for my conduct today, Father. But old Mr.—”
He held up his hand. “I don’t wish to have my digestion upset by speaking of this now. I will expect you in my study after you’ve washed the dishes.” His tone was even rather than angry, but his clipped delivery said it had taken effort.
“Yes, sir.” My reply came as even as his, and I thanked providence that I wasn’t a woman easily provoked to tears. Pride saw me through the rest of dinner and washing up.
“Go,” Mother finally said. “Get whatever is wrong over and done with so we can return to normal.”
I untied my apron and hung it on a peg. Neither Mother nor Bethy spoke again, but I saw concern in their eyes.
My slippers made little noise as I walked to Father’s study. My heart beat quickly as I knocked on the closed door.
Father immediately opened it, the act telling me that instead of sitting at his desk, he’d been pacing the floor or staring into the kindled fire.
Neither of us spoke as he crossed the room to his desk.
“Sit down, daughter.” He indicated the chair that usually sat next to the fire but was now placed squarely across the desk from him.
I did as he said, my head high, my fingers unclasped and resting ladylike on the folds of my quilted petticoat.
Father studied me for a long moment, his expression solemn and his blue eyes on mine. Time stretched so long, the paneled walls with their shelves of books seemed to fade until there was only Father and me.
“I don’t think I need to say that I’m disappointed in your conduct and the scene you caused in the village.”
“No, sir.” My hands moved uncomfortably in my lap as he continued to hold my gaze.
“I realize that what happened today is partially my fault.”
I blinked in surprise, even as I noticed that the lines on his face had deepened in the past weeks.
“I have been too lenient with you . . . allowing you to share in Jonathan’s studies and to speak your mind more freely at home than a woman should.” His hands shifted on his desk. “I took risk, but I felt it unjust to deny your quick mind the opportunity to learn and grow.”
“An act for which I daily thank you and God,” I said quickly.
Father acted as if I hadn’t spoken. “Had you learned to school your tongue in public, perhaps no great harm would have come of it, but after today—” He shook his head.
“I never meant to cause a scene or embarrass you,” I said, “but when I saw Mr. Whitlock bullying Mr. Giles, I couldn’t let it go unanswered.”
“Did you not stop to think that Matthew Giles might not wish to have you interfere? That he’s capable of taking care of himself?”
“I didn’t interfere,” I protested.
“Didn’t you?”
The flush to Father’s cheeks told me only tight control kept him from losing his temper. “Did he invite you into the conversation? Did he ask for your help?”
“No . . . but he . . .” The realization of what I’d done made me stop.
“Matthew Giles may be old and crippled, but he doesn’t welcome a woman who thinks him so feeble she must come to his defense.”
Sickness and shame gathered in my stomach. How I must have hurt the dear man. “I . . . I didn’t think,” I stammered.
“You didn’t take time to think,” Father countered. “Your penchant to speak before you think has caused problems in the past but never in public.”
Tears threatened, and my mouth trembled. “I thought only to help. I’m truly sorry.”
“’Tis to Matthew Giles you owe your apology.”
Pride warred with contrition as I nodded. “’Twas the Tory’s fault. If he hadn’t goaded Mr. Giles—”
“They were arguing politics as men often do,” Father interrupted.
“But he grabbed Mr. Giles’s cane.”
“With the intent to protect himself and calm the situation.”
His words struck deep. Hadn’t I wondered if such was the case? “How can you be so sure?” I asked.
“I’ve had more years than you to assess men’s actions. Trust me.” His expression softened. “And trust that I think only of your welfare when I say you must learn to guard your tongue.” Sighing, he rose in a show of dismissal. “Think long on this as you approach your Maker in prayer tonight. God has given you a keen mind, but you must learn to school it.”
***
Instead of joining Mother and Bethy in the sitting room, I slowly climbed the stairs to my bedroom. I hadn’t received such a scolding in a long time. Think, Abigail. You must learn to think before you speak.
The words followed me into my room and perched on the bed as I undressed. After donning my nightgown, I braided my long blonde hair and knelt by my bed to pray.
Like Jacob in the Bible, I wrestled with the Lord, sometimes trying to justify my actions and words, then contrite and pleading for forgiveness for hurting Matthew Giles.
I missed Bethy’s warm body when I finally climbed into bed, missed the sound of her soft breathing on the pillow next to mine. Other than a relentless stream of unpleasant thoughts, chilling cold and darkness were my companions. I tossed and turned until Bethy came upstairs and climbed into bed. Not wanting to talk, I feigned sleep when she twice whispered my name.
It wasn’t long until Bethy was asleep, her stillness like a taunt to my wakefulness. After what seemed like hours, I climbed out of bed and put on my lined wrapper and slippers. Going to the window, I quietly opened the shutters.
The front yard was bathed in the glow of a half-moon whose light silhouetted the bare-branched trees into a tracery of delicate lace. Under the trees, the partially melted snow lay in a quilt of irregular black-and-white patterns.
Unbidden peace stole over me, quieting my restless, guilt-ridden thoughts. The sight of a horse tethered to the corner post of the fence jerked me from tranquility. Puzzled, I stared at the horse while my mind searched for a possible explanation. I’d heard the clock in the sitting room chime eleven. Who had come to see Father at such a late hour?
Curiosity sent me creeping down the front stairs. Reaching the bottom step, I saw a slit of light beneath the study door and heard the faint sound of male voices. Who could it be? Was it Thomas Boatrick on some farm matters? But since he and his family lived in the rooms over our laundry house, why would he ride a horse?
Inquisitiveness impelled me out the front door. The cold hit me like a physical force, and had I not been so curious about Father’s guest, I would have turned back.
Intending to stay outside for only a minute, I stepped away from the house for a better view of the study. Both windows were shuttered from the inside, but a chink of light escaped through a knothole in the closest one. By standing on tiptoe, I could fit my eye to the knothole and peer inside.
I blinked, then blinked again. Surely not! Yet even as the thought formed, I knew I wasn’t mistaken. Gideon Whitlock sat across the desk from Father, the two men in deep conversation.
Too stunned to think rationally, I could only watch and wish they would speak louder. Even a word or two might give a clue to their business, which, judging by their expressions and the closeness of their heads, was serious indeed.
Rather than arguing, they looked like men bound in a common cause, though whether ’twas Tory or patriot, I didn’t know. I knew only that I was so shaken I opened the front door, climbed the stairs, and got into bed in a half daze. There, confusion and sickness edged with fear lay in my stomach like a heavy weight no matter which way I turned. “Oh, Father,” I whispered into the dark silence. “What is going on?”