Today, we return to Daphne Andrews as she tries to deal with her unhappy marriage. Eventually it will bring her to Lexington. James gets his first view of Boston and the unhappy colony. The entire novel is available from various online bookstores. Earlier chapters are on this blog.
Chapter 24
Boston, Massachusetts
May
DAPHNE ANDREWS SAT on her apartment building stairs and spied what might be Florence DuBois’s car doubled park. She rushed out between a black Audi and red Toyota to jump in after checking to make sure the license plate was diplomatic. It read “Hon Consular Corps 008.” Florence was behind the wheel.
She learned to check before jumping into a car without checking who the driver was. Five years ago in Edinburgh she’d had a date with Alex who drove a blue Renault. When a blue Renault stopped, she got in.
Alex was blond with straight hair: that driver had brown curls. “You’re not Alex,” she’d said.
“I could be,” he’d said. He pulled over on the other side of the traffic light. “I suppose you want to wait for Alex.” She’d found him good looking, but he’d worn a wedding ring.
As she fastened her seatbelt, she wondered if Florence would appreciate the story.
She did.
Despite Gareth’s warning to be careful what they talked about, Daphne hoped Florence would become a friend. Friends didn’t need to discuss consular business, but they could share other things, normal women things.
Gareth had left for work before 6:30, leaving Daphne cuddled in bed with her book, a cup of tea, and wondering how to spend her day. If she didn’t miss company politics, she missed goals — she did miss working. However, not having the morning rush to get to work was a pleasure.
The French Consul General’s wife had called at 8:30. “I know we planned to go out next Wednesday, but my two meetings today cancelled and rather than wait until next week, I thought I would take a chance you would be free. I hope this is not too early.” Florence took a deep breath. “Would you like to go to breakfast, then sightseeing with me?”
“How soon?” Daphne asked.
“Half an hour?”
A quick shower, her short brown hair blown dry, her legs shoved into jeans, a t-shirt and trainers or sneakers as they were called in the U.S., and Daphne was out the door.
The day promised to be one of those magic weather days with temperatures neither too high nor too low. The sky was an unreal blue.
“So glad you could come,” Florence said. “I almost didn’t call when my engagement was cancelled. You do realize spur of the moment plans are not usual with consulate duties.”
So far Daphne’s “duties” had been one tea party and a meeting with the CEO of some local tech company who was thinking of setting up a fifty-person office in Milton Keynes. The man’s wife planned to go, so Gareth wanted Daphne along.
“Have you had many postings?”
“We’ve been in South Africa and Brazil with Paris home breaks.”
A horn blared behind the car. If Florence’s car had one more coat of paint, she would have scraped it on the parked car she was passing. Daphne, who had been holding her breath at the close encounter, exhaled. “How do you feel about all those moves?”
“Good and bad. Fun discovering new places. Bad if I wanted a stable career path in some company. Hard sometimes on the kids. We ended up putting them in boarding school in Switzerland a couple of years ago.”
“How old?”
“Fifteen and seventeen. They are my stepchildren. Yves is older. He was a widower when I met him. The kids were part of the package.”
Daphne glanced at Florence, trying to guess her age. She was dressed in dark brown slacks and a beige t-shirt. A neck scarf with different brown swirls was twisted in a way that left Daphne wondering how she had done it. She assumed it was just part of being French.
They headed north onto the Zakim Bridge. Florence continued in the far-left lane until they came to the Malden exit where she crossed at what Daphne could only describe as a right angle. If she’d been Catholic, she’d have crossed herself.
“Where are we going?”
“First to breakfast in a time machine, then … did you ever read Little Women?”
“I loved it. I cried when Beth died.”
“I thought we’d go to Louisa May Alcott’s home. Steep ourselves in New England atmosphere.” Daphne decided Florence had a take-charge personality, which didn’t bother her. The French woman knew about the area and was willing to share.
Florence missed a turn, slammed on the brakes and went into reverse. At this point they were in a neighborhood of two-family wooden houses. To the left was a shopping mall with a Target and Dunkin’ Donuts.
Florence parked as far away from the stores and as close to the road as possible.
She led Daphne past a florist, a dry cleaner and a newsstand to a small brick building proclaiming Dempsey’s “Breakfast and Lunch” and into a time warp with booths, red tables, chairs, and a glass case filled with muffins and bagels. Behind the counter a man was frying eggs and making pancakes on different parts of the grill. The smell of coffee was welcoming.
“Florence!” A woman behind the counter rushed out and hugged Florence, who hugged back, no French two-cheek kisses.
“When I went to Mass College of Art, I lived near here. It wasn’t convenient, but my father thought I would be safer in the suburbs than the inner city. This was my hangout.” She turned to the woman. “How long has it been?”
“Two? Three years, I think. At least.”
Holding the woman’s hand, Florence said, “I wanted to let my friend Daphne know about you. She’s from Scotland.”
Florence insisted on the waffles. The waffles were as good as Daphne had ever eaten, thick and crispy.
Daphne held her rapidly-cooling coffee cup in both hands. “May I ask you some questions?” She didn’t want to be rude, but she was curious.
Florence nodded.
“You went to school in Boston? Art school? Why, if you’re French? They’ve art schools in France.”
“Half. My mother’s American. From Wakefield, just northish of here. Spent lots of summers around Boston with relatives. Fell in love with New England. My father is French. Like my husband, he was in the diplomatic corps. I like to blame my childhood moves on the fact that I can’t settle. Can we get another coffee, please?”
The waitress heard and filled their cups. Daphne thanked her. “I did notice your French accent in English varies.”
Florence laughed. “Doesn’t it though? I can do other accents too. Depends on whom I’m talking to. Bad habit. Some people think I’m mocking them. Yves signals me when I do. My French accent is perfect Parisian when I want. Unless I want to give it an English twist. It is ever so much fun. Yours is understandable Scot.” When Florence said this, she sounded like she lived on Lothian Road in Edinburgh all her life.
Daphne was startled for a moment, then laughed. “Not bad. You sound like we should wander down to Princes Street for tea and scones.”
“Art and accents, my two best talents.” As they finished their second cup of coffee, she said, “I had an ulterior motive for asking you out.”
Daphne took a sip of her renewed coffee. It almost burned her mouth. Florence was becoming more interesting by the minute. More interesting than her own life. Daphne had lived in her parents’ house from the time they’d brought her home from the hospital until uni.
“My husband is a widower, and he worked with my father. He’s in between my father and me in age. We met, fell in love. He’d been a single parent for five years. The kids are mainly good kids. We all had a bit of adjustment to me as stepmother. Enough about me, tell me more about you.” Florence ate the last bite of her waffle.
For a second Daphne heard Gareth warning her to be careful. What she did say was how she’d been fascinated with history since she was a little girl. She’d had a Greek period when she pretended her dolls were different gods and goddesses. “And I had a medieval period. I didn’t want to know just about kings and queens. I wanted to know what people ate, wore, played. One afternoon I dug up our back garden in case some artifacts were buried.”
“Your parents must have loved that.” Florence ate her last bite of waffle.
“I think they went from being pleased that I wasn’t a wild child to more of a good-lord-what-are-we-going-to-do-with-her.”
Florence laughed. “What about boys?”
“I attracted nerds mostly. In uni I semi-blossomed from a wallflower. At one point, I wanted to change my image. I had a makeover. Would you believe it?”
“Tell me more.”
“There was a store in Edinburgh that redid hair, makeup and wardrobe.”
“So, you went from ugly duckling to swan?”
“More like a crow to a parakeet. Something with a little color. After that I was asked out a little more. I’d date a man for a few months. Mostly I’d break it off because he wasn’t that interesting. Sports, sports, sports, making money, going to the pub and getting pissed.”
“And Gareth?”
Danger, danger, maybe. “We ran into each other. Literally. I came out of a bookstore after buying a book on weaving looms. He was watching a bagpipe player. I wasn’t looking where I was going. He wasn’t looking where he was going. He helped pick up my things, offered to buy me a coffee or tea.” There, nothing compromising.
“Love at first sight?” Florence went to drink her coffee and realized it was empty.
“Like at first sight. We did a lot of commuting between London and Edinburgh. Then when he was about to get an overseas assignment, he asked me to marry him.”
Florence started rummaging in her backpack. She brought out a hardback comic book. “You read French?”
“Better than I speak it.”
Florence flipped through the pages of drawings about the Marquis. The detail of the underground fighting the Nazis was intricate. She couldn’t judge the writing quality. “Fascinating.”
“In France, bande dessines are popular. I’ve a proposition for you.”
Daphne was curious. She could imagine Gareth saying, “Stop.”
“How would you feel about working on a bande dessine together. You would do the historical research and I’d do the drawings.”
It sounded like fun. “What subject?”
“We could decide together. Maybe something about the American Revolution. At the moment, I’ve no idea about the story.”
“You don’t have to decide now. Let’s pay and head out to meet Louisa May Alcott.”
Suspecting she would regret it, Daphne said, “It is a great idea. I’m in.” She paused. “At least to investigate more.”
Chapter 25
Castle William Island, Boston
July1774
THE TWO SPEAKERS, a major and a captain, had come from headquarters to Castle William Island. The Island, visible from Boston, was named for King William III. James didn’t know much about King William, but he was impressed that the island had 100 cannons to defend the colony if necessary.
The regiment slept in a stone fort for the first two weeks as they waited for transfer to Boston proper. After the cramped quarters on the boat, it was luxurious.
As long as he was on land, James Holloway didn’t care if he were in the city or on the island. He was curious what was going to happen next. He hoped that the speakers were there to talk about the local situation.
They were. They were dressed in pristine regimental uniforms and wore white powdered wigs but were without the big fur hats. Instead, they wore a tricorne with one corner leaning over their left eye.
The soldiers from the ship sat on benches in a great hall packed with red-clothed bodies. They had been ordered to wear their good uniforms. The last few hours had been spent brushing and pressing them into shape. Their boots were shined to mirror finish.
James and his friend Thomas Miller found seats in the first row.
Sweat ran down James’ face. If things were this hot in July, what would August be like? He didn’t want to use his coat sleeve to dry his face, but he had no cloth in his pocket. He let it run. It tickled.
James figured what the speakers had to say was important because of their ranks. No lowly serjeant or lieutenant was trusted to impart mission information.
The major began. “You’ll be called lobsterbacks by locals. It is not a term of endearment.” As he talked, he paced. He slapped a baton into his hand, making a steady beat against his words. The captain sat on a wooden chair behind the major, saying nothing, but nodding from time to time.
James found it hard to believe when the major said, “You’ll be shocked at how many people want to separate from England. You’ll pass them on the street, buy their news sheets, eat the fish that they catch.”
James frowned.
“What’s the matter?” the major stopped pacing and talking at the same time and stared at James.
What made the major challenge him?
“I guess nothing, Sir. I just thought everyone loved our King. Loved England.”
“Some do. The problem is it is impossible to know who does and who doesn’t. Who is plotting against us. Which means you can’t trust anyone.” Then he resumed pacing. “Don’t get drunk and let down your guard.”
“Do you have any names we should be looking out for?” The voice came from the back of the room. James couldn’t see who was talking.
“Look out for people like Samuel Adams; he’s a real troublemaker. Dr. Benjamin Church. And there’s the editor of the Boston Gazette, Benjamin Edes. John Hancock is another troublemaker. He appears to be a merchant and a fire warden, but he is a pirate too, although we’ve never been able to prove it.
The captain mumbled something and the major nodded. “There’s an excellent silversmith by the name of Paul Revere. He writes too many articles. And James Swan. He’s a financier.”
Before he finished, he had listed over fifty people.
“Mostly they call themselves The Sons of Liberty. Stupid name. That’s not for Massachusetts only. The group exists in the other colonies. We have all their names at headquarters. I want you to memorize their names. If you meet them, we don’t expect you to do anything. Just be aware and report any illegal activity.”
James wondered if and how he would meet any of them.
“If you find any information about plans, meetings of the so-called patriots, come to me. If I’m not available, go to Captain Turner. Do it immediately. Timing is important. Each and every one of you can be a spy. Tell them about the tea, Captain.”
I already know about it, James thought.
The captain walked to the front of the stage. “Those bastards have imagination. They dressed as Indians and threw a boatload of tea into the harbor because they didn’t like the tax. Real Indians haven’t been troublesome for years.”
“Big teapot,” Thomas said.
The major stomped to where Thomas sat. “What was that?”
“I hope not.”
“Your name?”
“Thomas Miller, Private.”
“And you are with …?”
“The 43rd, Sir.”
“Not a joking matter. Your life and all our lives depend on controlling these traitors.”
The information session went on and on and on before they were dismissed to sail the short distance to Boston proper. Considering that there were nearly 400 of them being transported from Castle William Island to Boston Common where they would be bivouacked, it took the rest of the morning.
Once they docked, two serjeants lined them up in rows of four where they stood in the heat. The sea air smell mixed with that of fish, some of which had been left too long in the broiling sun. Horses hitched to carts left their droppings, contributing to the odor. The shuffling of feet combined with normal dock sounds of crates being loaded or unloaded and voices calling out created a cacophony.
“One hundred rows of soldiers marching through their streets should intimidate them,” Thomas whispered. Of course, they would be intimidating as the troops marched down Treamount* Street to the beat of Danny’s drum, James thought.
Their uniforms were pristine. Their boots, rifles and sabers shone. They marched in lockstep. Their footsteps to Danny’s drumming echoed against the buildings on both sides of the road.
They passed brick building after brick building. During the briefing, the major had explained that Boston was nearly destroyed by fire a while back and it was now forbidden to build a wooden building. “Too bad,” he said. “It would be easier to burn them out in case of an insurrection.”
Although he was supposed to keep his eyes straight ahead, James couldn’t help peeking at homes and shops. Bostonians, men, women, children, pressed themselves against the buildings allowing the soldiers to pass.
The major had said about 15,000 people lived in Boston. “It’s all kinds including blacks and Indians.” James had heard about Indians. He’d seen drawings. Would Indians be running around Boston streets in loin cloths and feathers? If they were dressed like the regular population, how would he be able to identify an Indian from an Englishman? They called them redskins. How red, if red was the real color of their skin? He’d seen one black man in Winchester, who was really brown, not black. Yet, ‘white’ men were pinkish to tan.
*Treamount: Tremont Street in today’s Boston.
A boy, probably no more than seven or eight judging by his size or lack thereof, tried to march in step with the soldiers, until his mother grabbed him by the collar.
The troops came to a huge green field. On one end were rows and rows of tents that would hold two or three soldiers each. Like the troops, they were in perfect formation with even rows on each side of a dirt path that released dust onto perfectly shined boots.
Three tents were at the front of the first road and at right angles to the others. A corporal emerged.
Other soldiers, earlier arrivals, occupied many of the tents. The new arrivals broke into rows of two. As they came to an unoccupied tent, they peeled off, going inside to wait.
James and Thomas entered a tent to see a corporal sitting on one of the three cots. The soldier stood, “I’m Corporal John Tilley here to welcome you. And your names?”
“Thomas Miller, James Holloway,” James said.
“You’ll see a lot of me. I’m off to meet more of you new arrivals.”
The dirt floor was hard packed. Three cots and three empty chests were arranged against the three sides where there were no openings. They dropped their things onto the beds. The third bed had a rifle on top of a blanket. The chest was open with clothes neatly folded.
“We’re home,” Thomas said.
“My tent mates.” Another private stood at the door. He was the same height as James with red hair and a flushed face. “Just went out for a piss. Moses Fletcher. I’ve transferred into the 43rd.”
James tried to take it all in, wondering how much more his life could possibly change
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