Note: I have found my subplot. Don't worry I'll get to James and his experiences from being a baker to being in 10th Regiment of Foot and taking part in the early days of the American Revolution.
Chapter 3
Boston, Massachusetts
April
“I THINK IT’S bloody hypocritical.” Daphne Andrews looked in the closet for her jacket. She’d only lived in the apartment for forty-eight hours. Between movers and staff, everything they had brought from London had been put somewhere, location yet to be determined.
They hadn’t been installed at the British Consulate General’s home, where they should be living. A fire, two weeks before they had arrived for the assignment, had made the place inhabitable. Repairs were estimated to take at least three months. If American workmen were like British, Daphne wasn’t counting on their time estimate.
The Consulate had scurried around to find this Commonwealth Avenue, four-bedroom flat in a brick building located in the neighborhood Bostonians called Back Bay. In the 1600s it had been underwater or, so she had been told at the briefing for her and her husband.
The flat, like the official residence, had come furnished with everything imaginable, including four pizza cutters. Who needed four pizza cutters?
The flat covered the second floor of the building. Each room was larger than her basement studio in Edinburgh where she’d lived before marrying Gareth two months ago. While waiting for their transfer, she’d moved to London.
From the little she’d seen of Boston, she thought she’d enjoy their time there.
This apartment was four times larger than Gareth’s London flat in a modern building with square, uninteresting rooms. These rooms had character with high ceilings, moldings and bay windows bathed the rooms in light. A fireplace with a marble mantle might take the chill off the room on a cool April evening.
Whoever readied the apartment for them had prepared logs and kindling for a fire. All they needed was a match from the box to the right of the basket containing more logs.
Looking through the floor-to-ceiling windows she saw three- and four-story brick apartment buildings from converted mansions. The trees on the center grass strip dividing the street had not begun to unfurl. Why should they? It was still bloody cold for April.
Boston reminded her a bit of some sections of Edinburgh, which she missed. If Gareth hadn’t been appointed Consulate General after the last one dropped dead of a heart attack, they might still be there waiting for his next overseas assignment, and they would have continued with their commuting relationship rather than marry. Training from London to Edinburgh or vice versa on weekends had been the norm in their nine-month relationship.
He thought he would be assigned to some African country or even the boondocks in the United States. Daphne knew if she married a diplomat she would need to get used to many different places and cultures. Moving periodically to God-knows-where would be the norm in her marriage. Part of her was thrilled at the challenge and adventure; part of her worried she would miss the rich cultural life offered by places like London or Edinburgh.
For the first assignment as a couple, she wasn’t worried about finding culture in Massachusetts. Boston had theaters, museums and forty-four universities.
Some of her friends thought it was fabulous, adventurous, amazing. Others wondered how she would be able to create a stable family life. So did Daphne.
Nine months ago, she hadn’t even known Gareth. They had met by accident, literally. He had bumped into her on Princes Street, knocking her over. He apologized, claiming he’d been looking at the bagpiper, dressed in a kilt and playing “Amazing Grace.”
Gareth offered to buy her coffee and a scone.
He’d been in Edinburgh on a government errand. She was drawn to him in a way that she’d never been drawn to any other man.
She had expected that eventually she would find someone, maybe another historian like herself, and end up living near her parents in the same section of Edinburgh where she’d grown up. She wasn’t panicking as she approached thirty that she wasn’t married, engaged or living with someone. It would happen someday … or not.
Except it had happened, and here she was in Boston with a challenging new role as the wife of the head of the Boston British Consulate. There would be many events where she would be hostess or required to appear. Today wasn’t one of them.
“You’re going to a ceremony that
celebrates our loss of thirteen colonies. What you should say is good riddance.”
Gareth frowned. “I thought you loved history?”
“I do, but I’m not sure I want to see a lot of fake British soldiers get beaten by the rag-tag rebels.” She half smiled. “It might be fun if this year the rebels lost and we Brits won.”
Gareth frowned. “Daphne, as my wife, you have to watch your tongue.”
Daphne found her jacket. “Go. I’m going to watch the Boston Marathon.”
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