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Jemima clutched the clock to her chest, watching in consternation as the newspaper reporter twisted round in front of his truck and yelled to her:
“If it’s real, it could be worth a fortune! You might be rich!”
She stared at him in amazement. To look at the stranger’s expression, you would think that a tiny scrap of paper had created some terrible emergency – like the world was going to end somehow. Then her father had started toward him, and the young man had dived into the truck, cranked the motor, and drove off.
She watched the truck as it disappeared down the road, trailing dust.
Her father climbed the porch steps and paused in front of her. He put his big hands lightly on her shoulders.
“Are you all right, Mima?”
She looked up at him, and nodded mutely.
His whole body seemed to relax. He exhaled, and released her—but planted his hands on his hips.
“Well, then, tell me— what was that?”
She blushed, and shook her head. “I don’t know, Daed. An English man wearing a fancy suit came out this morning asking to buy this clock –” she presented it to him – “the clock I bought in town, because he said it belonged to his mother. I went to get it, but before I could sell it to him, a newspaper reporter drove up and told me not to sell the clock, because it might be valuable.”
Jacob King tilted his head to one side and studied at the clock doubtfully. “It looks plain enough to me,” he observed, picking it up and turning it back and forth.
“Oh, but it’s not the clock itself, Daed,” Jemima said earnestly, “it’s the letter that was hidden inside. Look.” She handed the little yellowed note to her father.
He read it, and his frown deepened. He uttered a deep, skeptical grunt.
“Probably a prank of some kind. Pay it no mind, Mima.” He handed the letter back to her. “The English are crazy, and greedy for money always.”
He lifted his head, and gazed out over the fields in the direction that the strangers had fled. His expression darkened.
“But if any other Englishers come back, I want you to come and get me. I’ll take care of them.”
“Yes, Daed,” Jemima murmured submissively.
“Now come and make me a sandwich, daughter,” he told her, putting an arm around her shoulder. “Since my work has been interrupted, I may as well have my lunch now.”
Jemima walked into the house arm in arm with her father. She set the clock down on the kitchen table, and the letter beside it then went to the refrigerator to make her father lunch.
Deborah walked in while she was doing it. Her quick eye fell at once on the clock.
“What’s that ugly thing?”
Jacob turned to look at his youngest daughter with a warning glint in his eye. “That is the clock your sister bought for you with her own money, so you could have one to replace the one that broke,” he told her sternly.
Deborah picked it up and flipped it contemptuously. “It’ll probably be broken, too, in a few weeks,” she complained. “It looks a hundred years old! I never get any new things!”
“Enough!” Jacob thundered, and stood up.
Jemima looked up at her father in dismay, and even Deborah knew better than to open her mouth when her father’s good humor finally ran out.
“That’s the last word of complaint from your mouth, Deborah,” he boomed, “or next time, it won’t be Scripture verses, but the woodshed! Don’t think you’re too old to be taken over my knee!”
Deborah shut her mouth with a snap.
“That’s right!” her father told her sternly, and sat down, still glowering. “And because you spoke to your sister with disrespect, you can do her chores for the rest of the day.”
Deborah’s eyes looked as if they were ready to pop out of her head, but she remained silent. Jemima stared at her father in awed silence, and handed her sister the apron.
Rachel King came hurrying into the kitchen, drawn by the sound of her husband’s voice. Her eyes went to his face, and she looked a question.
“I know what you’re going to say, Rachel, and it won’t work this time,” he told her. “I’ve put up with the last bit of naughtiness from your daughter that I’m going to stand!”
“My daughter, Jacob?”
He looked at her, and the mild expression on her face seemed to weaken his resolve. “Our daughter.”
She leaned over and kissed him, and he looked away, grumbling into his beard.
Rachel turned to Deborah.
“Deborah, you can make dinner tonight, too, as a reminder to watch your tongue,” she said calmly.
Deborah swelled visibly, but one look at her father’s simmering expression stifled the outburst.
Rachel’s eyes moved to Jemima. “Jemima, you may do as you please until dinner is ready.”
Jemima nodded, glanced almost fearfully at her younger sister, and moved to retrieve the clock, and the letter. She took them upstairs to her own room, and closed the door behind her.
She put the clock down on the little table beside her bed. Then she padded to the window and sank down on the floor in front of it.
She rested her head on the sill and unfolded the little letter. She hadn’t had time to even read it. She had to admit that she was curious.
Flowing, graceful script covered the little page.
My Dearest Martha, it began, Tonight I am thinking of our last words together before I left to begin this Great Adventure of which we are all a part. No words can express how keenly I felt the Ties between us, or how strong and entwining they are.
Jemima put the note to her lips, smiling in surprise and delight. She had never expected a love letter.
A night does not pass that I do not see your Dear face when I close my eyes, or dream of you beside me. Though time and distance may part us, I feel your presence near me always, and the knowledge that your Thoughts are with me is my comfort in our present distress.
Jemima’s mouth opened slightly. When and where he had written these tender words—in a tent somewhere maybe – just before battle?
I leave to our God the outcome of our Great Struggle, and commend my soul to its Maker; but whether I go to Him tomorrow, or return to your dear side, know that your Name will be my last breath, and your face the last in my memory, when I close my eyes.
Yours ever,
G. Washington.
Jemima lowered the little note. Her mouth trembled, and her eyes filled with tears.
It was beautiful.
Her eyes returned to the page. It was the soul of a man deep in love – a man who was unsure if he would live to see his sweetheart again.
She pressed it to her chest, closed her eyes and smiled. She imagined this man coming back to his home again, and his wife running to meeting him, laughing, arms outstretched.
Then she opened her eyes again, and looked back down at it.
Her father thought the letter was an English prank, a joke. But why would anyone make up such a letter, only to hide it away?
It was so tender, so loving. Did words like these come from a deceitful heart?
She ran her hand lightly over the paper. Wouldn’t it be wonderful, if it was truly a love letter from George Washington, to his Martha?
She remembered her father’s words—but he hadn’t commanded her to destroy the letter.
She got up from the window, and walked over to the opposite wall. She ran her fingernail over the wall panel, and pushed down on one point. A tiny bit of bead board popped out to reveal a hollow space.
Jemima placed the love letter into the secret space and smiled. She thought to herself that it might not really be genuine – but that she was going to keep it, just in case. She carefully replaced the cover.
She told herself that she might as well keep it secret. A calf-eyed love letter—from George Washington? No one would ever believe her, if she told them!
Then she lay down on her bed, bit her fingertip and giggled.
