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OCTOBER 1773 - PHILADELPHIA, Pennsylvania
“What must thee be thinking, Elizabeth? Thee knows to marry outside thy Quaker faith is forbidden!”
“But, Mother, I love him so!”
“What doth thee know of love? Thee is surely mistaking the kindness of John Ross for love.”
Elizabeth Griscom, called Betsy by her family since she was a little girl, was Samuel and Rebecca Griscom’s eighth child. Although ten of the seventeen babes born to Betsy’s mother had perished as infants, three of Betsy’s younger siblings, Hannah, Rachel, and George still lived at home. Two of the older girls, Deborah and Susannah, were already married and had children of their own. Sarah, to whom Betsy was particularly close, had recently married and left home.
“I daresay Sarah’s marriage hath put this rebellious notion into thy head.”
Betsy’s lips tightened as she carefully pulled a long handled griddle of piping hot corn cakes from the brick oven in the kitchen of the Griscom’s fine three-storey home in Philadelphia. “I confess I have spoken with Sarah regarding my feelings for John. And she agrees that what I feel for him does indeed run deeper than mere friendship.”
Mistress Griscom stirred the bubbling contents of an iron pot suspended over the flames. “The penalty for marrying this man is far too great, Elizabeth. Thee would be read out of The Society of Friends and never be allowed to attend another Quaker Meeting for the whole of thy life.” Betsy’s mother brought the wooden spoon in her hand to her lips in order to sample the savory stew she was preparing for her family’s dinner that night. “Clearly, thee hath not weighted the consequences of marrying outside thy faith.”
Betsy exhaled an exasperated breath. “I have thought of nothing else for months, Mother.”
“Ah. So, thee hath not been thinking about thy feelings for John Ross?” Turning from the hearth, Mistress Griscom leveled a stern look at her recalcitrant daughter. “Thee are a good Quaker girl, Betsy.”
“Yes, mother,” Betsy huffed. “I am a good Quaker girl. I have always been a good Quaker girl. I have never given thee a moments concern.”
“Then why would thee start now?”
The older woman skirted past her tight-lipped daughter. “Put the corn cakes on the table. Then summon thy father and George whilst I portion out the stew. I trust Rachel hath placed napkins all around.”
“Where is Hannah this evening?” Betsy asked.
“Your sister is staying the night with Sarah.”
* * *
ALONE IN HER BEDCHAMBER that evening, Betsy lay in the darkness unable to sleep. All that she had earlier declared to her mother was not, in fact, the whole truth—that for months she had thought of nothing else but how dear the cost to wed John Ross would be. The truth was, for a good many months, she had thought of nothing save how very, very much she wished to become John’s wife and to bear his children.
Betsy Griscom had known John Ross since she was a girl of twelve, the year she left Friends School and began her apprenticeship at William Webster’s Upholstery Shop. John Ross, son of a clergyman who was not a Quaker, and a few years older than Betsy, was already apprenticed to Mr. Webster. From the start, the two young people had gravitated toward one another. John had been kind and helpful to the shy Quaker girl whose remarkable talent with a needle and thread had astonished everyone.
John Ross had never once taunted Betsy for thinking she could compete in what was generally considered a man’s trade. But then it had never occurred to Betsy that any occupation would be closed to her. Quakers believed that men and women were equal in all ways; that no person, regardless of gender or rank, was superior to another. It was that particular belief that had brought Quakers to the New World in the first place. Quaker men did not remove their hats or bow down to anyone, not even a king; an act in England that was perceived by royalty as treasonous.
Yet it was another Quaker belief that had lately begun to gnaw at Betsy, namely, that for Quakers there was no actual marriage ceremony, or prescribed wedding vows. Quakers did not observe rituals of any sort. When a couple wished to marry, all that was required of them was to profess their love for one another before witnesses, and thereafter, in the eyes of God and the world, they were husband and wife. If that were the case, Betsy reasoned now, then she and John Ross were already married. Had they not more than once professed their love for one another . . . before witnesses? Their employer William Webster knew of their abiding love for one another. Their friends knew how deeply they cared. At picnics and other social gatherings, which she and John Ross had attended together, they were often teased about being sweet on each another.
Betsy sighed. For her parents to refuse to give them leave to marry was simply not fair. It was true that John would never pass the rigid tests and disciplines required by The Society of Friends. Those Quaker men charged with the task of investigating the prospective bridegroom would most certainly declare John Ross unfit, given the fact that both his father and grandfather had been ministers of another faith.
But they loved one another. So, why, Betsy wondered now, did her mother also not recognize that, in accordance with their strict Quaker beliefs and in the eyes of God, she was not already wed to John Ross?
* * *
WEBSTER’S UPHOLSTERY Shop, October 1773
“There is a public dance tonight at the Aubrey House Inn, Betsy,” John Ross whispered as the pair of them worked side-by-side stretching a square of burgundy damask over the seat of a heavy mahogany chair.
Betsy kept her eyes on her work. “I had meant to learn ten new French words tonight, John.”
“You are far too studious, Betsy.”
“Perhaps, I am; but as you well know Mr. Webster is scarcely able to converse with the immigrants. One of us should be able to speak French. I already know a good many German words,” she added. Already the largest city in the colonies, Philadelphia expanded weekly as boatloads of new settlers arrived from France, Germany and many other European countries.
John, a handsome young man with dark brown hair and brown eyes, grinned. “I meant to teach you ten new dance steps tonight.”
Betsy blushed prettily. “I am uncertain if I could sneak out again tonight, John. The last time we attended a dance together I was staying the night with my sister Sarah.” In a softer tone, she added, “Mother is pressing me to cease seeing you altogether.”
John’s head jerked up. “You’ve reached yer majority, Betsy. You are yer own woman now.” His eyes began to twinkle. “Oh, botheration. I know very well ye’ll not heed a single thing yer mother says.”
Betsy’s lips twitched. John Ross knew her very well.
“What are the pair o’ you a-whisperin’ about now?” William Webster strode into the cluttered workroom of his busy upholstery shop. The white-haired man, who always looked as if he slept in his clothes, stood with arms akimbo as he observed his young apprentices. “I for one will be relieved when you two tie the knot, although I’ll not want to lose you, Betsy, when ye become . . . that is, the day ye announce ye’re . . .” the elderly man grew flustered at the direction of his own thoughts. Clearing his throat, he said gruffly, “I’ll need ye to deliver those chairs tonight, John. Plenty more work to be done a‘fore this day ends.” Turning, he disappeared into another chamber.
John glanced over his shoulder as if to confirm that their employer had indeed exited the workroom. “There’s yer excuse to be getting home late tonight, love. We’ve three more chairs that must be upholstered before morning.”
“Oh, John, you know I dislike telling falsehoods.”
“But, I’ll wager ye like dancin’ with me a good deal more than ye dislike fibbin’ to yer mum.”
Betsy grinned. “You know me too well, John Ross.”
His grin turned wicked. “Not well enough.”
“Jo-h-n!” Betsy scolded, her blue eyes widening. After a pause, she said, “Very well, I shall send a note ‘round. But, for a certainty, I must be home by ten of the clock.”
“Which will give me a good two hours to enjoy holdin’ ye in my arms.”
Betsy’s lashes fluttered against her flushed cheeks. Two delightful hours spent in John Ross’s arms was well worth the discomfort of deceiving her mother.
* * *
THAT NIGHT A HUGE HARVEST moon hung low in the sky. The golden orb cast long shadows across the tree-shrouded lane as hand-in-hand Betsy Griscom and John Ross hastened toward their destination, a good half hour’s walk beyond Philadelphia on King’s Highway. On the way they passed several taverns, each ablaze with light as both travelers and local patrons alike flocked to the establishments to enjoy the delicious food and free-flowing ale.
In 1773 Pennsylvania inns were generally two-storied affairs, most built of stone with a porch across the front and two doors, one giving on to the taproom, the other leading to the living quarters of the proprietor’s family. Sleeping chambers for travelers were located on the second floor. Although most roads in all thirteen colonies were still rough and unpaved, traveling in “stages” where one covered a certain distance of one’s journey, then changed horses for the next stage, was becoming commonplace. These days, one often saw “stage-coaches” tooling up and down King’s Highway, which was the quickest and straightest route from Philadelphia to New York. Twice that night Betsy and John had to hug the outside of the dusty road in order to allow a stagecoach pulled by six large horses to rumble past.
“Perhaps we will take a stage-coach journey one day,” John said.
“Where shall we go?”
“Anywhere you like. Perhaps New York City or Brook Land Heights. Perhaps we’ll journey up to Canada. Now that the Indian wars are over, a trip up north should be safe enough. Would you like that?”
“I would like going anywhere with you, John.”
Upon reaching the busy Aubrey House Inn, but before advancing up the narrow stairs to the second floor where a spacious room, typically used for political meetings, wedding feasts, and tonight, a public dance, was located, Betsy and John paused in the common room where John purchased them each mugs of small ale and half servings of shepherd’s pie. The sounds of music and laughter drifting down from overhead caused them both to eat quickly.
Once above stairs, John wasted no time pulling Betsy onto the dance floor where amidst the chatter and gay laughter, dozens of couples were performing a lively contredanse. Those who were not dancing stood on the sidelines clapping their hands together. Because Betsy was not yet a proficient dancer, she had to concentrate to keep up with John, who was both nimble on his feet as well as musical. He often made up words to the music and, to Betsy’s delight, sang his impromptu ditties to her.
“My sweet Betsy is the prettiest girl here; her eyes are blue and her lips are rosy; had I a fistful of daisies, I’d give her a posy!”
Betsy laughed gaily. To be with John, away from the shop always lightened her heart. With John she felt happier than she’d ever felt in her life. She trusted him completely and knew that he would never do anything to hurt her, nor would he allow any harm to come to her.
After dancing non-stop for close on an hour, Betsy begged exhaustion and gratefully allowed John to lead her to a row of ladder-backed chairs positioned beneath the opened windows where wafts of cool air drifted in from outdoors.
“How about another mug of ale, love? I daresay I could do with a dram.”
Betsy nodded assent and watched as her handsome escort disappeared into the crowd of young people milling about on the edge of the dance floor. Other girls were also seated beneath the windows awaiting their beaus to bring them refreshments. Nearby, the deep-timbered voices of a knot of young men drew Betsy’s attention. Fanning her flushed cheeks with a hand, she began to listen when phrases like “the demmed tea tax” and “hung in effigy” reached her ears.
Her brow furrowed when she heard one fellow declare, “These days Lobsterbacks ‘er swarmin’ all over Boston!”
“Why, only last week, a hundred or more British soldiers marched bold as you please off a ship anchored in Boston harbor,” said another.
It quite surprised Betsy when John, carrying pewter mugs of ale in each hand, paused to speak to them.
“What were you and those young fellows talking about?” she asked when John returned and handed her a mug.
“The rebellion in New England,” he said before tipping up his mug.
Betsy’s gaze grew troubled. “I shouldn’t want something like that dreadful Boston Massacre to happen here.”
“Don’t fret, love.” John grinned. “I’ll protect you.”
Betsy’s pretty face relaxed into a smile. “I know you will, John.”
On their way home that night, John slowed his pace more than once to draw Betsy close for a kiss. As his kisses deepened, both his, and her, breath grew short.
“John.” She turned her head away. “We mustn’t.”
“I’m on fire for you, Betsy,” he gasped, burying his nose in her thick chestnut curls. “Sometimes at the shop, it’s all I can do to keep from kissing you then and there; Mr. Webster be dammed.”
“I feel the same about you, John.” Although it wasn’t what she really wanted to do, she pulled from John’s embrace and urged him back onto the road toward town.
“Perhaps it would make the waiting easier if we . . .” He turned to gaze into her deeply troubled eyes. “What are we waiting for, Betsy? I see no reason why we shouldn’t get married right now!”
“Now, John?” It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him that according to her Quaker beliefs they were already married.
“I doubt we’ll ever gain your parent’s blessing. We’ve wasted too much precious time as it is. We should do as your parents did and elope.”
“If we did throw caution to the wind and married now, where would we live? I shouldn’t want us to begin our married life living with your sister and her husband, and I couldn’t ask Sarah . . .”
“I’ve some money tucked away. There’s a little house for rent on Mulberry Street, not far from Webster’s shop.” His tone grew excited. “I’ve been thinking, Betsy. Once we marry and have our own place, there’s no reason why we shouldn’t open up our own upholstery shop. With my skill and your talent, why, we’d be successful in no time. What say ye?” He brought her fingers to his lips and kissed them.
“Perhaps we should wait a bit, John . . . I-I mean, it would take a great deal of money to start our own business. We’d need so much . . . needlework supplies and trim and a vast quantity of fabric and . . .”
“I’ll wager yer Uncle Abel would extend us credit. He and his partner Mr. Drinker import fabric from all over the world. One shipment and we’d be in business.”
Betsy chewed on her lower lip. She’d often thought the two of them might one day own their own upholstery business, but . . . now? So soon after they married? “I-I don’t know, John.”
“Promise me you’ll think on it. And ye’ll also think about us eloping. I don’t know what your Quaker Bible says about marriage, but mine says it’s better to marry than to burn and . . . I’m burning up for you, Betsy. I don’t know how much longer I can wait.”
* * *
LATE OCTOBER 1773 - Webster’s Upholstery Shop
“There’ll be trouble if yer Uncle Abel’s ship docks in Philadelphia, Betsy. I believe it’s my duty to warn him.”
“I don’t understand, John. How can you know such things?”
The hour was late and Mr. Webster was above stairs taking supper with his wife, leaving his apprentices in the workroom to complete the tasks they’d been assigned for the day; Betsy stitching gold braid onto a pair of velvet draperies, John tacking canvas backing onto a sofa he meant to upholster the following day. Because they were alone in the rear of the shop, the two felt free to converse in normal tones.
“Don’t ask me how I know, love.”
“You’ve never before kept secrets from me, John.”
He pulled a printed handbill from the pocket of his breeches and handed it to her. “Here. You can see for yourself.”
Betsy’s curious gaze scanned the page. “It says Captain Ayers will be tarred and feathered if he lands the Polly in Philadelphia.” Her face a question, she looked up. “What does it mean, John? Why would he . . .?”
“The Polly is carrying tea, Betsy. British tea. And it’s consigned to James and Drinker, Importers. If I warned your uncle, perhaps he could get word to Captain Ayers to dock the ship downriver instead of sailing up the Delaware to Philadelphia.”
“But, cannot Uncle Abel also read this?”
“The handbills are not to be widely distributed. A protest is planned.”
“A protest?” Betsy murmured. “John, you are frightening me.”
He continued to work. “I know how you feel about war and fighting, Betsy, but colonists will not allow England to impose injustices on them forever. You are aware of the rebellion in New England. Whether Philadelphia Quakers like it or not, war will soon reach our doorsteps.”
Betsy did not reply. It was true; Quakers did not believe in raising arms, and certainly not in war or fighting. Still, Betsy knew of the heated debates going on now between the colonies and the king, about the hated Stamp Act in which Parliament had imposed a tax on every sheet of paper the colonists used for wills, deeds, books and newspapers, even for playing cards. The crown had also heavily taxed other commodities the colonists imported such as molasses, glass, lead, paint, and of course, tea. To be honest, she did not believe it was right, or fair, for the king to impose severe penalties on the colonists simply for wanting to live as freely as English citizens did in England.
“Betsy,” John’s voice cut into her reverie. “There are hundreds of British soldiers already garrisoned in Boston; even the governor of Massachusetts is loyal to the king. They say British soldiers are freely entering colonist’s homes up north and seizing whatever they want. Where will the tyranny end, Betsy?”
“Oh, John, I cannot bear to think on it!” Betsy dropped her needle and covered her face with her hands.
John flew to her side. On his knees before her, he cupped her tear-stained face in his hands. “I’ll never let anything happen to you, Betsy. I promise I will always be here to take care of you.”
Betsy flung her arms around his neck. “But how can you stop the British from coming here, John?”
“Since Quakers refuse to fight,” he spoke into her hair, “your family and others like them will be safe from the British. It is only we rebel Patriots who will be hanged for treason.”
“But you are a Patriot.” She drew away, her blue eyes moist with tears.
He nodded. “And I hope my wife, my future wife, will understand that I must fight for the freedom of every single colonist in the country, whether they be Patriot or Quaker.”
Betsy sniffed back her tears. “I do understand, John. Truly, I do. And I do not wish to spend another day, or night, apart from you. I love you with all my heart, and more than anything, I want to become your wife and . . . and to help you fight your battles. I will marry you, John Ross,” she said decisively. “I will marry you now.”
* * *
NOVEMBER 4, 1773, PHILADELPHIA
Crossing the broad Delaware River could be hazardous at any time of year but it was especially hazardous in winter. Tidal currents were strong, at times running over two knots. Even a moderate wind could whip up nasty waves which when they crashed down onto a small skiff could easily sink it, or at the very least, send up an icy spray that quickly drenched the vessel’s occupants.
“I had hoped we might leave work in time to catch Cooper’s last ferry this evening,” John told his pretty little wife-to-be, the pair huddled together on a backless bench of the small fishing boat John had hired to row them across the mile-wide river on that chilly November night.
“No matter, John, I can already see land.” Betsy’s long gaze scanned the horizon. “We’ll make it across in no time.” She tugged her worn cloak tighter about her shoulders as a brisk wind churned up the dark water.
John snuggled closer to her. “So long as we don’t get drenched and the marriage license in my pocket ruined.”
“Perhaps I should hold on to it.”
“I’m the man.” John grinned. “I’ll keep our marriage license safe, just as I’ll keep you safe.” His arm tightened about her shoulders as the small boat dipped perilously close to the choppy black water.
Upon reaching shore, John and the other man dragged the small boat onto dry land. Once John paid the fisherman, he and Betsy trudged up the slippery slope to Hugg’s Tavern located near the waterfront of the neighboring colony of New Jersey. John’s friend, William Hugg, Jr., proprietor of the tidy tavern, had Justice of the Peace James Bowman waiting inside to marry the couple. Once there, John handed over the required ten shillings for Bowman’s services then, he and Hugg, as his witness, signed the surety bond declaring to the officials of the province of New Jersey that the proposed marriage was lawful, free of impediment and that both parties were of a legal age to marry.
While the men took care of business, Betsy glanced around the dimly lit tavern. Next to the bar stood a tall case clock that had only one hand. Betsy surmised the hour to be seven, but how many minutes past that it was impossible to tell. Suddenly, a serving wench burst into the common room from the kitchen, her hips swaying as she sashayed across the room balancing two platters of steaming hot food and freshly baked bread. The aroma of the bread tempted Betsy, who’d eaten next to nothing all day. The girl’s full breasts bounced as she advanced toward a table where two scrubby fishermen sat. Noticing the men’s leering grins, Betsy expected the girl would no doubt receive extra pennies for her trouble tonight.
Standing before the hearth, her gloved hands clasped behind her back, Betsy inched closer to the crackling flames in an effort to warm her backside. A wave of sadness washed over her when she realized she was about to be married in a common tavern wearing no new finery and without her mother or sisters present, and carrying no flowers. But, that didn’t matter. She was a grown woman and she loved John Ross, and more than anything, she wanted to become his wife, to make a home for him and to bear his children. It was silly to put off their nuptials simply because her parents disapproved the match.
On the other hand, John’s sister Joanna was sympathetic to their plight. As a wedding gift, she had given John enough money for the newly wed couple to spend their wedding night at the splendid new Wayfarer Inn located a few miles inland. Betsy had brought along her nightshift and hairbrush and before leaving work today, had sent a note to her mother telling her she would not be returning home tonight . . . and not to worry. Her parents would know soon enough that she and John Ross had married. Betsy had confided their plans to her older sister Sarah, who would relay the news to their parents on the morrow.