Boston

Late October 1779

CHAPTER XIV

* * *

A quiet sound aroused Margaret from dozing in her rocking chair, and she hesitated a moment while she awakened enough to see Matthew close the door and begin with the buttons on his coat. She rose in the dim light of the single lamp on the parlor table, peered at the clock, and understood it was ten minutes before one o’clock in the morning.

“Are you all right?”

Matthew nodded. “Good.”

“Hungry?”

Matthew shrugged, and Margaret opened the oven and set a plate of hot roast beef and potatoes and gravy on the table, then sat down.

“Tell me about it.”

Matthew sat, said grace, and reached for knife and fork.

“Marsden is in a little valley not far north. Town’s gone. Indians burned it after they killed everybody. Just a few foundations left. Overgrown with grass. I found what must have been the church, and from there I had to guess where Tom’s house should have been. I buried him where I was told his wife and son are at rest, but there was no way to be sure.”

“A stream? John said there was a stream.”

“It’s there. Runs through the center of the valley. Beautiful. A raccoon and her young, and a doe and a fawn—right out in the open—weren’t afraid.”

He hesitated a moment. “Tom was there. I felt it. He’s at peace. After twenty-five years, he’s finally at peace with his wife and son. What was her name? Elizabeth? Elizabeth and Jacob? I think they were there with him.”

Margaret wiped at her eyes. “I’m so glad.” She waited until Matthew finished eating, then sighed and stood. “Well, tomorrow’s the Sabbath. It’s late. We’d better get to bed.”

They knelt together for their evening prayer, and then walked through the archway to their bedrooms.

In the glow of the single lamp on the table next to his bed, Matthew lifted his wallet from his coat and opened it. Carefully he removed and unfolded a paper, and tenderly laid a small, royal blue watch fob on his pillow. His initials, M.D., glowed in delicate yellow needlepoint, with a tiny heart stitched beneath. He touched it gently, and thoughts came.

It’s been three years. Where is she? Her family? Are they safe? Warm?

He was seeing Kathleen, tall, dark eyes, dark hair, beautiful, and he bit down on the anguish that rose in his heart. For a moment he saw her as she was those years ago when they were just emerging from their childhood years. He was intense, all knees and elbows, feet too large, and he loved her. She was just beginning the mysterious metamorphosis from girl to young woman, unsure of herself, knowing in her heart that she loved Matthew with all her heart.

In their thirteenth year, she had worked for days to make the watch fob to surprise him, just as he had labored for two weeks to carve and paint a tiny, wooden snow owl to surprise her.

Their surprises were complete. On a late summer evening, beneath the great tree in the backyard of the Dunson home, she clasped the little carving to her breast, vowing to treasure it forever, while he stood staring at the watch fob, knowing it was the most wonderful creation on the face of the earth. Without thought he kissed her a fleeting peck and for five seconds they stood facing each other in silence, shocked beyond words, thrilled to the very core of their beings. When she could collect her reeling senses she searched for something—anything—to say, found nothing, and not knowing what to do, she turned on her heel to walk away with Matthew struck mute, unable to believe he had actually kissed her.

From that day, both knew their hearts were bound together forever.

Matthew laid the small watch fob in his hand and turned it to the light, studying the tiny stitches that formed the letters.

His face clouded with the black remembrance of seeing the light in Kathleen’s eyes die when it was discovered that her father, Doctor Henry Thorpe, sworn Patriot, respected member of the Boston Committee of Safety to fight the British, was a traitor! A Judas! A betrayer of his family, his city, his country! The undeniable accusations, the trial, and the devastating decision by the court—banishment from the United States forever. Kathleen dead inside, her mother, Phoebe, rapidly disintegrating into a world of fantasy, the two younger children, Charles and Faith, floundering to understand, Kathleen taking it on her shoulders to hold them together.

Then came the day that would burn in his memory as long as he lived. She came to him and stared steadily into his eyes. Her mother had written to King George seeking a British pension for services rendered by her traitor husband to the Crown, and the King had granted it. Kathleen would not bring the shame of the Thorpe family on him.

They were leaving America for England. They would not return.

He had carefully wrapped the small watch fob in stiff paper, packed it in his wallet, and carried it with him for three long years. How many times in the stillness of the night had he taken it out to look once more, and let the memories run, and feel the hot pain in his heart once more.

He carefully rewrapped it, pushed the wallet back into his coat, and turned out the lamp as he slipped into his bed.

Dawn found Margaret humming as she stirred the banked coals in the fireplace and added wood shavings, then kindling, and transferred fire to the oven in the kitchen. Brigitte helped with hot oatmeal porridge for breakfast while Matthew brought squash from the root cellar and Margaret worked cloves into the pork roast they would have for dinner.

The family stood for Matthew’s inspection before they walked out into the street, into a beautiful, exhilarating October day, the air clear and still in the warm sunshine, and colored leaves so brilliant they nearly hurt one’s eyes. Greetings were called and chatter abounded as they walked with their neighbors to the familiar, old white church with its steeple, and the bell calling the congregation.

They took the Dunson pew, and Matthew turned to the Weems pew where Dorothy was beaming, with Billy and Trudy on either side.

The Reverend Silas Olmsted, hawk-faced, gray-haired, bearded, shoulders hunched forward, led them in song and sermon, then closed with prayer, and the congregation emerged again into the bright sunlight to gather in small groups, feeling the touch of magic in the fall air, needing release, eager to talk and laugh, reluctant to leave. Billy and Dorothy stood with Matthew and Margaret and Brigitte while Adam and Prissy sought their own, to tease and run on the thick grass.

It was Matthew who saw Silas approach, and he saw the concern in the old man’s eyes as he spoke.

“Matthew, may I have a word with you?”

Matthew looked at Margaret, then Billy, then back at Silas. “Something wrong?

The old eyes were firm. “I don’t wish to alarm you, but do you have a moment?”

“Of course.”

He followed Silas back into the now-empty chapel, where the sun streamed through the stained-glass windows to transform the sparse room into a kaleidoscope of color.

Silas led him to one corner and spoke quietly. “I’m deeply concerned about Kathleen.”

Matthew started, instantly tense, focused. Kathleen? Gone three years? Has Silas heard from her? “Kathleen? What’s happened?”

“I received a letter from her the last week in September. It was written ten months ago, in January. I have no idea why it was so long getting here.”

Matthew struggled to control his racing fears. “What was in the letter?”

Silas looked toward the door, then reached inside his robe. “Read it. Maybe you’ll understand.”

Matthew opened the frayed envelope and silently read the letter.

Tuesday, December 29th, 1778

Dear Reverend Olmsted:

With heavy heart I write to inform you that my mother, Phoebe Thorpe, left us on Christmas Day, Friday, December 25th, 1778, and went to her final resting place in the cemetery at the village of Bexley, England.

Things are not well with the children, or myself, as long as we remain here. For that reason I write to tell you that I am making preparation to return to Boston in about eight months on a Dutch ship named the Van Otten. The captain is Jacob Schaumann. If you have not sold the home which I inherited, would you please not do so pending my return. It is my intention to sell it myself for whatever price I can get, and use the money to begin a new life somewhere in America. I also beg of you, tell no one of this, since there is much time between now and my return, and too much can happen.

I am unable to find words to thank you for your kindnesses to myself and my family.

With kindest regards,

Kathleen Thorpe

Matthew’s breath caught, and for a moment everything inside of him went dead. “This is the last you heard from her?”

“Yes. Now do you see my concern?”

“She said she would be here in eight months. That was ten months ago. Is that it?”

“Yes. You know about ships and the ocean. What could be wrong?”

For a moment Matthew’s eyes closed and his head tipped back. “Too many things. Storms, shipwreck, white slavers, high-seas pirates, a lying captain—too many things. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“You’ve been home only a few days, and she said she wanted no one to know. You read it. What can be done?”

Matthew skimmed the letter once more. “Captain Jacob Schaumann, of the Van Otten. I’ll go to the docks and find out what I can about the ship and the captain, everything I can learn about the weather in the North Atlantic for the past two months. October is bad for storms.”

“Will you do it?”

“I’ll need this letter.”

“Take it.”

Matthew refolded the letter and tucked it into his coat pocket and had started for the door when Silas grasped his arm.

“Don’t make this generally known.”

“I’ll have to tell Mother, and probably Billy. He can help.”

“Do what you have to do. If that poor child is gone . . .” Silas’s eyes were pleading.

Matthew said nothing as he walked out the door, directly to the waiting families. “Something’s come up. Billy, can you come with me now? Maybe for the rest of the day.”

Billy’s eyes opened wide. “Yes. What’s happened?”

Matthew turned to Margaret. “Mother, will you take the family home and finish the day without me. I don’t know when I’ll be home.”

Margaret’s face paled. “What’s happened? What kind of trouble?”

“I’ll tell you as soon as I can. You’re not to worry. Understand?” He turned to Dorothy. “I’m sorry to take Billy. I’ll explain when I can.”

Dorothy shrugged. “Any danger?”

“No. We’ll be at the docks.”

The two left the churchyard, and Matthew handed the letter to Billy. They slowed while Billy read it, then both broke into a trot northeast onto Franklin, then east to India Street, and down to the east docks of the Boston Peninsula.

Billy asked, “She’s two months late?”

“Yes. I’ve got to know why.”

They went south on the docks to the first ship tied up unloading, strode up the gangplank, and faced the officer of the deck. With Billy at his shoulder, Matthew spoke, “Sir, I’m Matthew Dunson. I’m a navigator. I’ve just received news of an overdue ship from either Holland or London. Have you come in from the North Atlantic?”

The officer held his distance, eyes suspicious. “Yes.”

“What was your port of origin?”

“Cherbourg.”

“What was the weather?”

“Bad. Delayed four weeks.”

“Hear of any ships lost?”

“Three.”

“Any of Dutch registry?”

“One.”

“What name?”

“The Amsterdam. Went down with all hands one hundred twenty miles northwest of La Coruna. Hurricane. We turned back, but she didn’t. Have you lost someone?” The suspicious eyes softened.

“Maybe. Heard anything of a Dutch ship named the Van Otten?”

The officer pondered for a moment. “Heard of her, but nothing this trip.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The man watched as Matthew led Billy back to the heavy oak planking of the docks and stopped.

“If we separate we can cover twice as many ships. The Dutch flag is three bars, red on top, white, blue on the bottom. Watch for it. You work south, I’ll go north. Meet back here at six o’clock.”

The docks ran for four miles, from the Colony Depot on the east side of the peninsula to Fruit Street on the west, with ships moored on one side of the street, and on the other, weathered warehouses of brick or frame and office buildings with names of national and international shipping companies printed in square letters across the windows or on signs above. Separately, the two men walked the gangplanks of the ships that were loading or unloading and entered the doors of shipping companies when lights showed inside. The day wore on, and as the sun dipped to the west and set, they each retraced their steps to meet back at Indian Street.

“Anything?” Matthew asked, and Billy shook his head.

“Can you help again tomorrow?”

Billy pondered for a moment. “I offered to work on some books of account for my old employer. The Bingham Foundry—one of his biggest clients. I’ll finish about noon.”

“Your mother will need to know about this, but try to not let it go further.”

Billy nodded.

At full dark Matthew closed the front door behind him and walked into the kitchen. Margaret and Brigitte were waiting. Margaret set a hot supper on the table, and they sat own, the women silent, waiting. Matthew laid Kathleen’s letter on the table in front of them and began eating.

Margaret read silently, gasped, and put her hand over her mouth. “Phoebe’s gone!” she exclaimed softly. Brigitte started, then settled, and Margaret finished reading and handed her the letter.

“You and Billy went down to the docks to find out about that ship?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Did you learn anything?”

“There was bad weather in the North Atlantic—hurricane—three ships went down. We’ll go back tomorrow. I’ve got to know what happened.”

Dawn came clear and calm, and the Boston docks were alive with tall ships moving in and out. Dock workers dressed in woolen sweaters were going to and coming from the vessels being loaded or unloaded. Matthew worked his way through the crowds and continued the search. At one o’clock Billy found him and they separated.

At three-forty p.m. Billy studied a ship newly arrived under a flag he did not recognize, tied to the Aspinwall Wharf, next to the landing of the Winnisimmet Ferry. He walked up the gangplank and stopped before the deck officer.

“Sir, I’m Billy Weems. I have need to inquire about a ship that is long overdue. Do you come from Europe?”

“Lisbon. Portugal.”

Billy was aware of the strong Spanish-Portuguese accent.

“Do you know anything of the Van Otten? Dutch registry?”

The small, bearded officer thought for a moment. “Sailed from London three months ago?”

Billy came to instant focus. “Yes.”

“Hurricane in the North Sea—she was damaged—put in at Lisbon for repairs. I saw her.”

“Is she still there?”

“No. She sailed the day we sailed.”

“Has she arrived here yet?”

“No. We distanced her. One day, maybe two days behind us.”

“What ship is this?”

“Ferdinand.”

“Thank you.” Billy spun and ran thumping down the gangplank onto the dock and turned west, working his way through the stacks of crates and cargo and the milling throng. At four-thirty p.m., panting and breathless, he caught up with Matthew.

“There’s a Portuguese ship—the Ferdinand—at Aspinwall Wharf. They saw the Van Otten.”

With the sun casting long shadows from the masts of the tall ships, Matthew trotted up the gangplank of the Ferdinand, rising and falling gently on the incoming tide, and faced the deck officer.

“I’m Matthew Dunson, a navigator. Do you have knowledge of the Van Otten?”

The man glanced at Matthew, then studied Billy for a moment before recognition showed. “The Van Otten should be in tomorrow or the next day.”

“Do you know which company her captain trades with?”

The man pursed his mouth for a moment. “DePriest, I think.”

“Thank you.”

Matthew spun and Billy followed him trotting, three hundred yards south, stopping before a square, weathered brick building with a peeling sign across the front, DEPRIEST INT’L TRADING, LTD. Inside, a man in black tie and shirtsleeves had just locked the door, and Matthew banged.

Irritated, the man opened the door a foot. “Yes?”

“Are you expecting the Van Otten?”

The man sobered. “Yes. Have you heard something?”

“The deck officer of the Ferdiand says she’ll probably be in within two days.”

“He told us.”

“Do you know Captain Jacob Schaumann?”

“We know him.”

“Is he reliable?”

“Been fair with us. What’s your interest in this?”

“Does Schaumann take on passengers?”

“Sometimes. Are you expecting someone?”

“Maybe. Thank you. Very much.”

The man locked the door and disappeared in the office.

Hope surged through Matthew. He turned to face Billy. “She might be on it. Kathleen might be coming home.” He looked east, toward the mouth of the harbor, to the open sea. “You go on home. I’m going to stay. She could arrive yet today. Tell Mother I’ll be home after dark.”

“Want me to wait with you?”

“I’ve taken you away from home too much the past two days. You go on.”

It was past ten o’clock when Matthew pushed through the door into the parlor, and minutes later Margaret set a bowl of steaming beef broth before him while they talked.

At five-thirty a.m. Matthew was back on the docks, his telescope in his coat pocket, peering intently eastward into the gray dawn, watching the mists swirl on the sea. As the morning progressed, the mists gradually cleared, revealing a clear sky and bright sunshine. Matthew stood with his telescope extended, moving constantly back and forth, searching for any speck that might appear on the horizon. He paid no heed to the pungent odors and incessant sounds and bustle around him as the merchantmen were being unloaded of their cargoes of tea, silk, and spices from the East or porcelain and wool from Europe.

Three times before noon he stiffened and tracked a fleck on the horizon until it became sails and then a ship and then a schooner or a frigate from New York or the West Indies. He was unaware when the sun reached its zenith and began its slide toward the western horizon, nor did he care that he had not eaten. In his heart and mind was but one thought. She might be coming—she might be coming. It repeated like an unending chant, and he could hear nothing else.

At two-thirty p.m. Billy walked up beside him, and Matthew looked at him long enough to shake his head, then resume scanning the horizon with his telescope. At three p.m. Matthew turned to Billy. “No need to stay.”

“Sure?”

“Go on home. She might not come in until tomorrow, or the next day.”

Billy turned to go, and at that instant Matthew started and then his breath constricted, and Billy stopped.

For two full minutes Matthew studied the incoming sails and the cut of the ship. Square sails, squat, square ship, unlike the slim lines of schooners or frigates. “She might be Dutch,” Matthew said quietly. He was scarcely breathing.

Billy stood quietly, unmoving, waiting while minutes passed.

Suddenly Matthew hunched forward and for an instant dropped his telescope from his eye and stared, then raised the scope again. “Her colors are Dutch! Dutch!” he exclaimed. “Red, white, blue! It has to be her.”

Billy turned on his heel and was gone, and Matthew realized it but did not move, standing like a statue, waiting for the name on the bow of the ship to come into focus large enough to read.

Minutes became a quarter of an hour, then half an hour, and Matthew waited until he was certain, then exclaimed, “Van Otten! It’s the Van Otten! She might be on it—has to be on it.”

The ship came steadily on, square sails full, blunt bow carving a wake, and Matthew studied the rail through the telescope. There were only the seamen, making ready for the pilot boat to meet them and bring them into the harbor. Hawsers were cast, and reaching hands on the pilot boat caught them, and the small boat turned and began the slow work of bringing the ship through the channel into her dock. Matthew’s eyes did not leave the railing, searching for the figure of a woman, or children, but there were only seamen on the main deck and two officers by the helmsman. He felt a sick grab in the pit of his stomach and licked dry lips, suddenly fearful.

Behind him he heard his name called, and he turned. Billy was there with Margaret and Brigitte and Adam and Prissy and Trudy, working through the crowd. Matthew turned back and watched as seamen cast their hawsers and rough hands tied up the ship. One man raised the hinged section of railing for the gangplank, and four pigtailed sailors moved the heavy oak structure forward to lower it thumping on the dock. They locked it in position and stepped back.

Matthew stood rooted, eyes sweeping the rail. Then two seamen came with trunks and set them by the gangplank, and suddenly she was there behind them, moving forward with the children beside her.

Matthew leaped to the gangplank and she saw him and her hands flew to her mouth as he pounded upward. Then he was on the deck, and he swept her into his arms, and she threw her arms about him and buried her face in his shoulder. She clung to him, and he held her with all his strength, and they stood in the warm, early November afternoon sun, eyes closed, lost in each other, aware only that the terrible ache in their hearts was gone. Tears of relief, of wild joy, came, and they let them come. Hardened seamen, faces seamed and burned brown by sun and sea, stopped near them on deck and stood in respectful silence at the sight of a man and a woman who loved each other more than life. Charles and Faith looked at the two, and at each other, and shuffled their feet, knowing something profound was happening but unable to understand the depth of it.

On the dock, Margaret clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle a cry, and tears of joy rolled down her cheeks. Brigitte stared at the scene, seeing herself and Richard up on the deck in the embrace of sweethearts, and she reached to wipe at brimming eyes. Adam and Prissy and Trudy stood wide-eyed, unmoving, awestruck.

Billy’s heart was bursting for Matthew. His friend. The brother he never had. The child, the adolescent, the man, who had been there as far back as memory could reach. Standing up on the deck holding his world in his arms, tears on his face, lost in the most powerful, sacred feelings the Almighty has given to His children. Billy glanced at Brigitte, and saw her face, and did not look again.

After a time, Matthew took Kathleen by the shoulders and held her away from him, studying her face as though he could not believe she was home. He reached to gently wipe at the tears that were flowing, and she let him. Then he held her face in his hands and kissed her with a tenderness and yearning that had been gathering in his heart for three long, desolate years.

Only then did he become aware of the first mate standing nearby, and he turned to him as the short, stout man spoke in a thick Dutch accent.

“Sir, we can move the trunks to the docks at any time.”

For Matthew it was coming from a far place, back to the world of reality. “I didn’t mean . . . am I holding up your crew?”

A smile crossed the man’s face. “It’s all right. These men will wait. Let us know when.”

“Now will be fine.”

Matthew led Kathleen down the gangplank to the dock where Margaret seized her to hold her to her breast, with Kathleen’s arms around her, and they were both weeping. She kissed Kathleen on the cheek and released her, and Brigitte was there, arms around Kathleen, the two young women locked in an embrace. They parted and Kathleen turned to throw her arms about Billy, and he held her for a time before he stepped back. Then they were all chattering, laughing, and weeping, trying to grasp the full meaning of what was happening.

Kathleen was home! The three dark years without her, without hope of ever seeing her again, were behind them. She was home! Kathleen and Matthew were whole again, consumed in the wonder of the reawakening of their reason for living.

The seamen set the trunks on the docks, the first mate came to give Kathleen the receipt for payment of her passage, tipped his cap, and walked back to his ship.

Margaret took control. Kathleen and the children were coming to the Dunson home for a few days while they made plans. No arguments! Matthew hailed a man with a horse and cart and, with Billy helping, loaded the trunks. He paid the man one-half his fee, the other half due when the trunks were delivered, gave directions to the Dunson home, and the man climbed to the high seat of the cart.

With Matthew and Kathleen leading, they walked away from the docks toward the center of Boston, where Matthew stopped two carriages for hire. They all boarded the coaches, Matthew gave directions, the drivers slapped the reins on the rumps of their horses, and the small procession moved from the city to the narrow cobblestone streets bordered by trees blazing with the colors of fall, white picket fences, and sturdy homes.

They were one block from the Thorpe house, windows shuttered, yard in disarray, when Kathleen stiffened, and Margaret leaned forward to place her hand on her knee.

“You’re not going there. You’re coming to stay with us for a while.”

“That isn’t—” she began, but Margaret cut her off.

“No arguments. That house has been closed for years, and it’s not the place for you to be, at least for now.”

“But there are three of us, and all the trunks . . .”

Billy said, “Could Charles and Faith stay with us? We have an extra bedroom. Faith can sleep with Trudy.”

Margaret bobbed her head. “It’s settled.”

Matthew nodded. “Billy and I can open the Thorpe House. It will be good to have someone there again.”

The following morning, with Brigitte and the children gone to school, Matthew, with Kathleen by his side and Margaret behind, stepped out into the crisp, clear November air. Smoke from chimneys all over Boston rose straight into the air like wispy white columns supporting the heavens. They walked steadily toward the Thorpe home, and Matthew felt Kathleen stiffen as they approached. The salt sea air had peeled the paint on the once proud front fence, and the gate sagged on rusted hinges. The boarded windows gave the eerie feeling of blind eyes. The grass in the yard was clumped, long and shaggy, and had partially overgrown the brick walkway that led from the gate to the front door. The trees had spread their branches at random, misshapen, some broken and dead.

Kathleen fumbled for her key and handed it to Matthew. The lock complained, and the door groaned when he swung it open. They stepped into the once gracious parlor, and the dank, musty smell of stale air and mold slowed them. For a moment Kathleen’s chin trembled, and Margaret saw it. She walked on into the gloom of the silent, vacuous room, stopped in the center with her hands on her hips, and looked about for a moment, aware that few things in life are more melancholy than an abandoned home that had once been filled with life and hope and laughter.

“Well, it looks like we have work to do. Matthew, get the boards off the windows and get them open. Got to get some light and air in here.” She shook her head. “No curtains, no furniture, no anything. This place feels like a tomb.” She turned to Kathleen. “One good thing about it. Now we can fix it the way we want. You ready?”

From behind Matthew came Billy’s voice. “Yes, we’re ready.”

For eight days they labored, dawn to dark. Washing, scrubbing, sewing, digging, trimming trees, grass, flower beds, painting, hanging doors and gates, cleaning chimney flues, moving in furniture, beds, lamps, lanterns, stocking the root cellar, the pantry. Slowly at first, then more rapidly, the dark memories of the shattering downfall of Henry Thorpe, and the ghosts that lurked within the walls faded. They returned to the Dunson home each night, exhausted but with a feeling of excitement, a growing sense of satisfaction at what was happening. The house Kathleen thought she could never again call home was rapidly becoming a thing of pride for her, and for them all.

On the ninth day, with the late afternoon sun casting long shadows eastward, Matthew quietly took Margaret outside to stand by the back wall where Billy had split and stacked four cords of firewood.

“Tomorrow I’m going to ask Kathleen to be my wife. Is it too soon after all she’s been through? Do I have your blessing?”

With eyes brimming, Margaret embraced her eldest. “Too soon? Between you two? You have my blessing. You’ve had it since you were children.”

Matthew held his mother close and bent his head to kiss her cheek. “Thank you. Thank you.”

The following afternoon, with the work finished of making the Thorpe house into a new home, one filled with their labor of love and new hope, Matthew added a log to the fire in the fireplace then helped Kathleen with her coat. They walked out into the chill November air for the return to the Dunson home. They prepared their evening meal with Kathleen’s eyes shining in anticipation. With the supper dishes finished, Matthew drew Kathleen to one side, and without a word helped her with her coat, then put on his own.

She faced him with an unspoken inquiry in her eyes. Are we going somewhere?

He raised a finger to stop the question, opened the door, took her by the hand, and led her out into the starry night, filled with the sounds and the smells that were the foundations of the mosaic of their lives. Without any conversation he led her back to the Thorpe home, through the gate and front door and into the parlor. He helped her with her coat, removed his own, and sat her at the dining table, then turned to light a single lamp on the fireplace mantel. Kathleen’s face was a study in puzzlement, with only a slight hint of an inner excitement.

In the light of the fire and the single lamp, Matthew knelt before her on one knee, and there was a gentleness and an intensity in his voice and face that she had never before heard or seen as he took her hands in his.

“Kathleen, I love you above all else in life. For three years I thought I had lost you. I could not bear that again. I am unwilling to go further without knowing you are mine forever. I have brought you here to ask you to be my wife. Will you consider it?”

Neither knew how long Kathleen sat without moving, looking into Matthew’s dark eyes, heart bursting with a joy she had never known. When she found her voice, she raised a hand to touch his cheek and quietly said, “Yes. I will be your wife.”

He raised her up and reached to kiss her tenderly, then drew her into his arms. They stood thus for a long time, in the warmth of the home in which she had been raised, with the firelight casting shadows.               

Without a word Matthew helped her with her coat, shrugged into his own, and together they banked the fire, turned the wheel that shut down the lamp, and walked through the door out into the starry night. Content just to be together, they walked without speaking, arms linked, through the quiet streets. When they reached the Dunson home, Matthew held the door for her.

Inside, Margaret stopped still in the archway to watch the two enter. For three seconds she studied them, their eyes, their faces. Her heart leaped, and she instantly burst into tears.

“Oh, would you look at you two! When is the wedding?”

* * * * *

They came to the small white church in two’s and three’s and in families, in the bright sunlight of a November Sunday afternoon. The Reverend Silas Olmsted stood, wearing his black robe, white hair shining, bearded face aglow with a rare joy as he faced his congregation. Most of them had known Silas since they could remember; they were a family. His family. They filled the small chapel to share the wedding of two they had known from childhood and had helped raise.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to join these two young people in the holy bonds of matrimony. Matthew Dunson and Kathleen Thorpe.”

Before him stood Matthew, tall, straight, wearing the uniform of a Continental Naval Officer. Beside him was Kathleen, in a simple white dress fashioned with loving hands by Margaret and Dorothy.

“Marriage is ordained of God. It is the highest and holiest covenant between a man and a woman.”

Billy turned far enough to glance at Brigitte. She was staring at her brother, silently wiping tears, and an ache surged in Billy’s heart. Her Richard is gone—she’ll never stand beside him. Never.

“Who gives this woman in marriage?”

Billy stepped forward. “I do. She has conferred that authority upon me.” Billy glanced at Matthew as the thought passed through his mind: First Eli, now Matthew—I’m always giving these women to someone else in marriage. When is it my turn? He could not stifle the flicker of a wry grin as the thought left him.

“If any have reason these two should not be joined as husband and wife, let them speak now or forever hold their piece.”

Margaret’s face was a mix of memories, heartache, joy, anticipation, and she had her handkerchief ready.

“ . . . Matthew Dunson and Kathleen Thorpe. By the authority of the state of Massachusetts vested in me, I pronounce you husband and wife, legally and lawfully married.”

A sigh filled the chapel.

“Do you wish to give your bride a ring?”

Carefully Matthew placed a simple gold wedding band on Kathleen’s finger.

“You may kiss your bride.”

The two beautiful, radiant young people turned to face each other, and Matthew drew her close, and Kathleen raised her face to his kiss. Women wept and strong men looked at the floor, then the ceiling, then at the two young people who were lost in the each other, oblivious to the world.

Muffled sobs and sniffles filled the chapel, then open, joyful talk as the newlyweds turned to walk down the aisle, out into the sunshine.

The street to the Dunson home, and the yard and the house, were filled with friends and loved ones who gathered to laugh and hug the newlyweds, and confer their blessings upon them. Brigitte and Trudy and Prissy brought tray after tray of breads, tarts, and pastries, and gallons of sweet apple cider to the tables in the parlor and dining room, where they steadily disappeared. The pain and suffering of the war faded in the warmth of the chatter and the laughter and the renewing of bonds between old and beloved friends. The sun set and lamps were lighted. As twilight drifted into darkness, the gathering began to thin, and finally the last of them donned their coats, hugged Margaret and Dorothy and the newlyweds one more time, and were gone.

Margaret marched to the cloak rack near the front door and took Kathleen’s coat, then Matthew’s, from their hooks and walked to the two, standing side by side near the parlor fireplace. She handed them to Matthew.

“Good night.”

Kathleen raised a hand in protest. “There’s so much to be cleaned up . . .”

Margaret shook her head. “Not for you. Good night.”

Matthew helped Kathleen with her coat, then put on his own, and turned to his mother and took her by the shoulders.

“Mother, thank you. There is nothing else I can say. Thank you.”

He pulled her inside his arms, and she reached to hold him for a moment.

With her chin trembling, Kathleen seized Margaret to hold her tight, and Margaret held her, kissing her cheek, murmuring, “Bless you, child. Bless you.”

Matthew turned to Billy, and the two men silently embraced each other.

Brigitte wiped at her eyes, and Kathleen walked to her to embrace her, then backed away without speaking.

Trudy and Prissy and Adam stood near the food table, watching the adults, wondering when all the tears and hugging would cease so they could resume the real purpose of the evening, which obviously centered on devouring more of the tarts and pastries.

Matthew walked to Dorothy, and reached to hold her, and she held him, followed by Kathleen.

The couple paused at the front door for one moment to look back at the people who were the core of their lives. Then the two of them stepped out into the night. They walked arm and arm in the cobblestone street, saying nothing, slowing as they came to the gate leading to the Thorpe home. Matthew held the gate, then opened the door, and they entered. While Matthew lighted the parlor lamp and added wood to the coals banked in the fireplace, Kathleen walked quietly into the master bedroom and closed the door. Minutes later Matthew followed.

She stood beside the great bed in the dim light of a single lamp. She wore a white nightgown, closed at the throat and wrists, long dark hair brushed free, and white slippers on her feet. He paused for a moment, knowing he would see her thus but once in his life.

He came to her and took her hand, then went to his knees beside the bed. Kathleen knelt beside him, her hand clasped tightly in his. He bowed his head, and she bowed hers, and Matthew spoke.

“Almighty God, Creator and Father of us all. Humbly we come to Thee as we begin our lives together. We acknowledge Thy benevolent hand in all good things. We seek Thy Holy Spirit to guide us in our union, always. We seek Thy Spirit and Thy strength that we may never offend the holy and sacred vows we have taken this day. May we be fruitful and our children faithful to Thee. May the love we feel grow to fill our lives forever. We ask in the name of Thy Holy Son. Amen.”

Neither of them moved. A quiet peace had entered the room, and they remained on their knees for a time while it entered their hearts and grew to fill them. They waited until it began to fade, and then it was gone.

Matthew stood, and Kathleen came to her feet facing him. He reached for her, and she came inside his arms and her arms closed about him as she raised her face to his.

Notes

Matthew Dunson, Kathleen Thorpe, Billy Weems, and their friends and families are all fictional characters. The streets and port of Boston are correctly named and located (Bunting, Portrait of a Port: Boston, 1852–1914, map on inside of cover).