10 DECEMBER 1773

Dearest Liberty,

In the years I have been writing you, I have not once confessed my deep feelings. Some may say I am slow to act, or a coward to write you in this way instead of speaking them in person, but I sense your need for space, your need to find your way as a mother . . . alone.

Yet the onset of this cold winter and the biting wind whipping off the harbor release a burden in my soul. I miss you, Liberty. I do not wish for our relationship to be only through paper and an occasional visit. Soon James will be old enough to realize he has no father like other boys.

Liberty, I wish to be his father. I can think of no better pleasure than to hear him call me “Father,” except perhaps to hear you call me “Husband.” I make my intentions plain here so you may consider this request in the privacy of your oft-guarded heart. Don’t fret, my dear. I cannot imagine you any other way. Though if you accept my proposal, I do plan to tear down those walls bit by bit. Because, my love, your heart is my goal.

See what you have done to a grown man! I doubt if I ever talked so foolishly to even Edwina. You do indeed make me a fool, dearest Liberty. And I believe I am a better man for it.

I await your reply with an eager heart. There is much informal business to be done here in Boston.

Should I hear from you with favor, I will plan to build a homestead in Lexington. I long for the country and farm life . . . and you. My sister’s recent marriage has proven well for her soul, and there is nothing to keep me tied to Boston. Does Lexington suit you? I pray it is so. Farewell, my love.

With eager anticipation,

Hugh

21 DECEMBER 1773

Dearest Hugh,

Though I fear you are not fully aware what you heap upon your head, I must selfishly accept your proposal. Come as soon as you can, my dear. James has been asking for you.

The Reverend Clark’s wife is due for her tenth child any day now, and I am to help her deliver the child myself. Little by little, Cora is releasing the midwifing to me. Her instruction is faultless. I have learned much—both in midwifing and in the managing of a household. Still, I feel I should persuade you to seek out another. And yet greedily, I pray you don’t.

I long to be the wife you deserve, my dear. I will try my very hardest in honoring you and our family.

I hope your business in the town has not been too dangerous, and I pray you were not involved with those frightful Mohawks in the dumping of the tea in the harbor. Imagine—Mohawks romping about in Boston. You are indeed safer here in Lexington. When I think of all you work for, I am reminded of my brother and all that he died for. ’Tis not in vain, my love. I will be glad to have you near soon.

With fondest thoughts and sincerest regards,

Liberty