Free Write - Cat and Flowers

 D-L's Free Write

They call me Felix after the cartoon cat in the cat food commercial, the one with Robbie Williams singing. Only I'm cuter.

My real name is Satin for my silky coat.

It's been three years since I became the young couples landlord. They looked like a nice couple: young, smiley almost always cheerful.

Mornings, before they opened the flower shop, I'd sit in front of their flower shop. One rainy day, they let me in and then every day after.

They gave me a cushion and then food of various quality and even a litter box tucked in the back office.

I do some work for them. I listen to what clients say the want then go over to what it is: a bucket of flowers, big plants, little plants. If they don't notice me, I meow.

"I think he's showing our merchandise," the man Ted said.

She just smiled and reached for a kitty treat. Salmon, my favorite.

Nice to have good tenants.

Rick's Free Write

Zermatt was in a panic. The door was closed. The shopkeepers were not coming. He wanted them to open the door so he could curl up in the warm, sunny spot in the chair and observe the customers buying plants and flowers.

This wasn’t Sunday. The day they usually remained closed, and he would try to sneak into the church until an altar boy shooed him out.

In fact, it had been several days since the door last opened. Conges annuel? He peeked through the glass. The store was empty! No plants, no flowers, no chair!

His world was unravelling. What did this mean?

Zermatt – so named for the Matterhorn-shaped peak above his nose – began to wander the streets of the village, searching for the shopkeeper couple, or any inviting open door, careful to avoid the plethora of dogs (the small ones were the nastiest), peoples’ feet, bicycles, and kids on scooters. It was harrowing… and cold and wet.

After about two weeks, as he checked out the last section of Rue Victor Hugo, Zermatt sniffed a familiar fragrance. He looked up at the green-painted door, which was closed. But he had a sense this was the place. His new Florever home.

Julia's Free Write

She was out and about doing a few errands.

Ever since her husband had died and her children left with their own families for the four corners of the world, she had ruminated.

Perhaps it was time for her to do something for herself. Over the years she had had a good life, never really thinking about what she wanted to do.

Living in Northern Scotland, the winters could be rough, her arthritis was acting up more and many of her friends had either followed their children or opted for warmer climes. Maybe she should do the same while she could still enjoy it.

A few months of research later, she discovered that there were places on continental Europe with a few expats. Although she felt entirely capable of learning Italian, French or Spanish, she kind of wanted a core of English speakers: not that they would understand her accent.

It also needed to be near an international train line of airport.

And so it was, that she landed in a small town in Southern France.

Now to get on with her errands instead of staring at the cat crouched amongst the flowers!

Rick Adams is an aviation journalist and publisher of www.aviationvoices.com, a weekly newsletter reporting the top stories about the airline industry. He is the author of The Robot in the Simulator. AI in Aviation Training.  

Visit D-L.'s website  https://dlnelsonwriter.com, She is the author of 15 fiction and three non fiction books. Her 300 Unsung Women, bios of women who battled gender limitations, can be purchased  at https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/300-unsung-women-d-l-nelson/1147305797?ean=9798990385504 

Visit Julia's blog. She has written and taken photos and loves syncing up with friends.  Her blog can be found: https://viewsfromeverywhere.blogspot.com/ 

Lexington: Anatomy of a Novel Ch. 46-47

 

Chapter 46

Boston, Massachusetts

December 1774

  

MRS. GAGE SAT next to James’ bed. A tray with a bowl of soup and a cup of tea rested on her lap. Steam rose from both of them. “Good. You’re awake.”

James guessed it was early morning because of the light through the windows. He couldn’t be sure because a veil of snow drifted by the panes.

He was warm, almost hot, between two quilts covering his bed and the fireplace fire. The wood must have had some moisture pockets considering the crackles, the only other sound in the room besides the scraping of a spoon in the bowl.

Mrs. Gage spooned soup into his mouth. “Chicken broth. A little rice. It’ll help build your strength.”

He couldn’t remember when he’d eaten last. The pancakes?

How long had he been in bed?

How did the General feel about his orderly occupying one of his bedrooms?

Where was the General?

Asking would take more energy than he had.

“Finish at least half of the soup, then Robert will come to give you a sponge bath. We need you to sit in the chair so he can change your bedding.” Another spoonful dribbled into James’ mouth.

A man knocked.

“Come in,” Mrs. Gage said.

James recognized Robert from the 10^th Regiment. He was dressed in civilian clothes. The man carried a bowl of water. A towel was thrown over his shoulder.

Mrs. Gage handed him the tray and stood. “You can finish feeding him. I need to make sure the cook boils the ham for tonight’s meal. It’s Christmas Eve, you know, James.”

Christmas. He’d heard that the colonists had mixed feelings about Christmas. Because he came from Ely, Oliver Cromwell’s home, he grew up being told that Christmas had been banned by him. The idea didn’t seem that strange. He had heard that many of the most devout Bostonians still shared the Puritan viewpoint that Christmas was a pagan holiday.

His father had shared family lore about how their ancestors flipped religions between Catholic, Anglican and Puritan, depending on who was in power. He said it made him question not God but man’s versions of God. His father used to joke their religion was bread, but he would never say it to anyone outside the family. Caution because one never knew who would come into power next and what rules would be replaced with new rules.

He never imagined that another man would undress him even if all he had on was a night shirt that barely came to his knees. He wondered if it were the General’s. He knew he wouldn’t ask. The water was lukewarm. Robert soaped the cloth before wiping it on James body giving special attention to his underarms. Then he would dip the cloth in the already soapy water before “rinsing” the area he’d just washed.

Before he could warn Robert not to go near his prick, Robert said, “Don’t worry, I’m not going to touch your willie or bag.”

The sponge bath left him so exhausted that he fell asleep in the chair where Robert had deposited him like some castoff clothing.

A knock on the door woke him. Before he could tell the person to enter, Beth came in pressing clean linen to her chest.

She didn’t say anything but bobbed as a demi-curtsy.

He wanted to ask her about herself, but she acted as if he weren’t in the room. And talking still took more energy that he could seem to summon.

Without a word she stripped and remade his bed. Each movement was graceful. As a finishing touch she fluffed the two pillows before bouncing another curtsy and leaving with the dirty linen clutched to her chest.

Although the bed was only a few steps away from the chair, James grabbed onto the nightstand before collapsing in the bed and pulling the covers up to his neck. He was asleep within seconds. 

Chapter 47

October

Argelès-sur-mer, France

 I’M STILL SEARCHING for ways to tie Daphne and Florence more closely to the past.

This morning it came to me … The Wayside Inn. In the 70s and 80s I’d eaten there several times when I lived in Waltham and worked in Maynard. It put me in touch with my Yankee roots just by walking in. Although my ancestor on my mother’s side, John Sargent, fought in the American Revolution, I’ve not been able to trace his life enough to know if he was at the April 18^th battle in Lexington. He probably hadn’t lived there, but it was not impossible that he would have been part of the Minutemen from other towns that had rushed to support the early rebels.

I could imagine Henry Wadsworth Longfellow sitting at the Inn getting inspiration and writing about the “crimson curtains rent and thin” and Bronson Alcott leaving Fruitlands with some of his friends to eat and wax philosophical.

In other times, I would have needed to spend hours in a library or visit the site. Visits during a pandemic of a restaurant across the Atlantic were impossible. Even without the pandemic, cost would be prohibitive.

My memories were of wood and roast lamb with mint sauce.

In describing any place, Victorian writers would go overboard almost creating a visual of every petal in a flower or every thread in a chair covering. Modern writers select just enough detail to allow the reader to “see” the scene as if they were there.

In my covid-safe office and my butterfly-decorated laptop (see only two details), I used the internet for the history and Google images for the way the Inn looks now. The Inn’s website provided the menu and information on historic drinks.

I also decided that if I had James stop at the Inn in his narrative, I’d better give it its historic name, Howe.

I made a mental note, that if/when I’m back in the area, I want to go there for lunch.

 

Lexington: Anatomy of a Novel Ch.44-45

 

Chapter 44

Argelès-sur-Mer France

May

 

 

BEFORE I PROCEED, I’m reviewing the first 42 chapters of the first draft.

What makes a first draft? Maybe that is not the correct term. Some people would say the first draft are the first words written down.

To me the first draft is the writing until the entire story is told. Each day, I’ll go over and tweak what is done before. Sometimes I’ll go back a couple of days. This not only tightens the writing, it primes the writing pump, but I don’t consider it a first draft.

What you call it isn’t as important as having the writing as polished as possible.

When the first draft is done, I’ll rewrite, rearrange chapters, paragraphs, sentences edit and polish. Then I hand it to my husband or my first reader for his editing.

Some of my reviewing is solving a continuity problem. Is Clark spelled with or without an e? Does James have one or two sisters, those sorts of things? Is a six-foot man in chapter 2, five-foot-four in chapter 10? That’s my punishment for not being the type of writer that plans everything in advance.

I discovered I needed to tweak the timeline for Daphne’s story. I have her researching when Florence’s work is already advanced. I will need to correct that.

Also, I need work on chapter numbering. The anatomy chapters, like this one, weren’t originally numbered but scattered among the numbered ones. In all my novels, I find the chapter numbers out of order at some point. Thank goodness for the Find button so I can read down the chapter list and see where I’ve messed up.

One thinks of writer’s creativity, but neatness counts: spacing, margins etc. No matter how careful one is, how many readers and editors there are, always, always, always some little mistakes show up after publishing. At least these days they can be corrected on e-books, but not on the print ones.

I had already decided that these two women will interest James: Mollie Clark and Sally Brewster. Both will play “walk on” parts as my “reader” at Glamorgan University described characters that appear, play a tiny role and then disappear. Love the British/Welsh university term “reader” rather than mentor, professor or thesis advisor.

I keep checking dates. I verified the second Boston Tea Party was in 1774 not 1775. I hadn’t known there were two Boston Tea Parties and I’m a Bostonian. I’ve even been on a replica of The Beaver, the first tea party ship, and I still didn’t know about the second one.

This is polishing, not wasted writing time. By polish I mean strengthening my verbs. “Ing” verbs can be weaker. I eliminate some adverbs. I change show to tell. Paragraphs have been deleted. Other paragraphs have been cut and pasted elsewhere.

The writing is still rougher than I like, but the story is progressing.

Global changes caught me out again. I wanted to change Mary’s name to Bess to match the name of the Brown Bess rifle. I did a find-replace. The word infirmary was changed to infirBess. It happened before in my novel Family Value when I changed Lou to Gino. Everyone knows about the southern state of Ginoisiana and a woman might want to buy a pretty bginose and skirt.

I wonder if the drawings will make the work less serious. I also wonder about how having the whole anatomy thingie changes the work. The novel has become three different ones in one.

Again I wish I were one of those writers that have everything planned out in advance, but I’m not. Writing a book, for me, is a bit like reading one. I’m never sure how it ends until I finish, although what happened to James has been predetermined by history.

Chapter 45

Boston, Massachusetts

December 1774

 

JAMES HOLLOWAY WOKE before Corporal Tilley roused the troops. It was still dark. The room sounded quieter than normal. There was less snoring. He felt cold.

His duties today involved spending the day at General Gage’s house, although the General was in Salem again. There were times he felt like a glorified family servant or bodyguard for the General’s wife, sons and baby daughter.

The only light in the room was from the setting moon. As he got up to pee, he noticed many beds were still empty.

Being the General’s orderly had many advantages. Sometimes he found himself torn between his regular duties, his responsibilities to the General and his own life. He suspected that he could get out of regular drills by saying he was working for the General and go off and do what he wanted. No one would know. Knowing he could do something and doing it were two different things.

The smell in the latrine was worse than he had ever smelled. He headed back to his room. Corporal Tilley had not awakened the soldiers. When James peeked into Tilley’s sleeping alcove slightly removed from the privates, the bed was made. Tilley was nowhere to be seen.

“Where is everyone?” James asked Adam, who was just stretching himself awake. Adam, originally from Brighton, occupied the cot next to James’. Adam had come from a baking family too and they often chatted about the similarity in their lives.

“They’re sick. Had major shits,” Adam said. “Some were bleeding. Others vomiting.”

“Where’s Corporal Tilley?”

“In the infirmary. He’s sick too.”

James dressed and went over to the half-filled mess hall. Were the missing men too sick to eat or were they on maneuvers? He hadn’t heard about another deserter, but he often missed news about the company because he was with the General. He and Thomas joked about James leading a double life.

He stood in the shortened line waiting for his porridge. As he got closer it looked so unappealing that he headed back to the barracks to gather his things for the day.

*****

James headed to the Gage household on Marlborough Street. It was still before dawn. Days were short as they approached the winter solstice. James found the amount of darkness depressing, not that December in Ely had been any better.

Not only could he see his breath when he inhaled, the cold air hurt his lungs. He pulled his collar up to protect his neck from the wind. Once again, he wondered why the lining was green when the rest of the uniform was red and white.

He had to be careful where he stepped. Yesterday the snow thawed, but overnight the temperature had dropped freezing puddles on the sidewalks and making each step a potential walking hazard.

The clip-clop of hooves broke the silence as a firewood-filled horse and cart passed him. He saw no one else.

There was only a slight tinge of pink in the sky behind the houses. It seemed that even the sun was slow to start the day.

The Gage’s maid, Beth, answered his knock. “The family is eating breakfast.” James had never really noticed her closely before, other than her blue eyes were a bit like Mollie Clark’s. What made him think of her now? Her accent was local. He guessed if she were in her twenties, it hadn’t been long.

“I’ll wait in the study.”

“Mrs. Gage said you’re to join them.” She barred the door to the study.

“Thank you.” He had become quite familiar with the house’s ground floor. It was the most luxurious house he’d ever been in with its thick carpets and beautifully crafted oak furniture. On the walls hung paintings of people he’d never heard of, maybe the General’s and Mrs. Gage’s family or that of previous governors. He didn’t want to know enough to undergo the embarrassment of asking.

The dining room’s fireplace threw heat which did little to distill James’ chill. This room had a parquet floor polished to almost a mirror finish. Through the two windows, James noticed that the sun had completed its arrival.

Mrs. Gage and her two sons, Henry and John, sat at the table their half-empty dishes in front of them. Baby Charlotte was in a highchair next to her mother. James knew the boys were fourteen and eight, well-mannered lads, but not above a bit of mischief.

Mrs. Gage rose, took a cup and saucer from the sideboard and poured tea from the blue pitcher into a china cup. “Milk? Honey?”

“Plain, thank you.”

The Gage’s dog, Bones, stuck his nose from under the table moving the tablecloth. He had been trained not to bark or beg. He looked like he might be part Cavalier King Charles and many parts question marks. Mrs. Gage had found him on the street and although she had searched, the owners had never been found. The General was as fond of the dog as the rest of the family and would have liked to take the pooch with him wherever he went. Mrs. Gage and the children overruled him.

James found it amusing that Mrs. Gage had as much power in the home as the General did in the outside world.

“Sit. Sit. Breakfast, James?” Mrs. Gage asked. “There’s still pancakes.”

Normally, James would have jumped at the chance, but this morning the idea turned his stomach.

“Boys, you may be excused. Your tutor is waiting. And Henry, I do not, I repeat do not want to hear about any more of your shenanigans.” Mrs. Gage’s attempt to look stern did not succeed. Her smile belied her words.

Their chairs scrapped on the floor and the children left the room.

“Close the door to keep the heat in.” Then she called, “I love you. Ask Nurse to come down for Charlotte, please.”

Before James could refuse, Mrs. Gage served him three pancakes and a slice of ham.

James stared at the food. Ordinarily he would have loved every mouthful. Instead, he cut small pieces of the pancake and ham and nibbled at them.

“Today, I need to buy a newspaper. I want to visit my friend Annabelle Carver. The General worries about me being on the street with all the unrest.”

“I understand.” He did understand. More and more antipathy to what the locals were now calling occupation was giving way to a nasty trend of rocks being thrown at soldiers. It had gotten worse over the last two months. The colonists’ representatives refused to meet with the Governor’s Council.

James did not understand all the moves and countermoves of the colonists and the government. He did know that Gage hated the words democracy and representation. The only authority should be the Crown and parliament of which he was the representative under his title Governor. When the General first arrived in late spring, he was welcomed as the replacement for the previous governor. That warmth had evaporated as it became apparent he would enforce unpopular taxes.

The nurse arrived and scooped Charlotte from her highchair. The baby was a pretty little thing. James had never seen her cry, although he was sure she did.

Mrs. Gage kissed her daughter on the forehead, missing her sticky, honey-covered mouth. “While I get ready, can you take Bones for a walk, please?” She left the room. “Finish your breakfast first.” Mrs. Gage said please as if he had a choice. The General never said please. Even his tone lacked please.

James tried to get down a few more mouthfuls. Washing the ham and pancake down with tea helped some but he knew that he’d never be able to finish the meal without vomiting. Throwing up on the linen tablecloth would not be good.

Bones came up to James, put his paw on his knee. His sorrowful look claimed he hadn’t been fed for weeks, although his weight betrayed the last thing he needed was food. James didn’t care.

The dog made the breakfast disappear within seconds.

The dog’s leash was to the left of the door. There were four steps to the street. James had hoped that the fresh air would clear his spinning head.

*****

James opened his eyes. He wasn’t sure where he was. It certainly wasn’t the barracks. The walls were painted a soft blue. He could see snow falling sideways through white muslin curtains hung at the two windows opposite the bed. A stand with a white pitcher and bowl was on a chest of drawers in the corner.

He tried to sit up. Dizziness forced him back onto the pillow. Then he realized he wasn’t wearing his uniform but a nightshirt. And a diaper.

A knock at the door was followed by a soldier entering. Or at least James thought he might be a soldier. He wasn’t wearing a uniform. “You’re awake. I’ll call Mrs. Gage.”

Within minutes, Mrs. Gage entered the room carrying a bowl with steam coming from it. “Good. You’re awake.”

James wasn’t sure what happened. He was almost afraid to ask.

“Dear boy, when you took Bones out, you fainted on the stairs. You knocked yourself out. You have the same sickness that much of your regiment had and has still.

“What day is it?”

“Friday. Between hitting your head and fever you’ve been unconscious two days.”

“My clothes?”

“We had to have them cleaned. I’m afraid you soiled yourself. I know a lady shouldn’t say that.”

“How … I mean … who…?”

I had a private come from your barracks to handle your bodily needs. He’s slept outside your door in case you needed anything. Dr. Church was here too, although this isn’t his type of medicine. I didn’t know who else to call.”

James knew he should say thank you, but he could no longer keep his eyes open.

 

Coat Hangers & Knitting Needles A Victorian Woman Speaks

 Chapter 1

A Victorian Woman Speaks

My grandmother, Florence Stockbridge Sargent (or Dar to everyone who knew her), was the perfect Victorian lady. Even in the early 1960s she would never leave the house without her hat, gloves and corset.

I couldn’t imagine her having sex, and that is not a grandchild’s lack of imagination. She bragged that her late husband had never seen her naked, but they must have had sex at least three times because she had three children.

She often repeated the story of helping at the birth of her nephew, Lawrence. Her sister-in-law was in agony.

“You are next, Mrs. Sargent,” the doctor was reported to have said. “Not until I forget tonight,” my grandmother claims to have replied.

She must have forgotten. My Uncle Gordon was born in 1910, his sister Lois in 1915. Lois died during her first year in my grandmother’s arms, cause unknown, but she had “failed to flourish,” an often-used term to describe babies that do not seem to accept nourishment.

My mother was the replacement child born in 1917.

Anxious to preserve my purity, my grandmother cautioned me on keeping the proper distance from a boy on the dance floor. After I had dated my future husband for several months while a sophomore in high school, she asked if he’d ever kissed me. When I nodded, she asked, “On the mouth?”

I did not go into French kissing or our petting sessions in his 1950 green Chevrolet.

My imagination was boggled a couple of years later when we were discussing the small number of children her friends had. They were all wives in middle-class Massachusetts and were the essence of the cliché prim and proper. They could star in a period drama of their time.

Trying to think of them having a sex life is hard. My grandfather was an engineer and gruff. He could have taught strangers how to bark at dogs, yet never did a spring go by where he did not pick one endangered-species lady slipper from the land behind their house and give it to his wife. His law-abiding ways were put aside to bring her the pleasure of her favorite flower.

Had my grandparents and their friends practiced abstinence?

It was not something I could have ever asked. I didn’t have to. Dar voluntarily said that the families were small because her friends used the “knitting needle” trick.

[This was 1965. Griswold v. Connecticut had just been passed so as a married woman (I was 23) I could legally buy birth control for the first time since the Comstock Laws were passed in 1873.]

I sat there stunned, not sure that I understood what my grandmother was saying. Once I processed the information, so many thoughts raced through my mind.

If she used the knitting needle method, did she and her friends shove it up their vaginas themselves?

Did a friend help?

Was there a doctor who did it?

I wished I’d asked, but at the time, it seemed so inappropriate. I could not imagine how I would have gotten the words out my mouth. And as loving as my grandmother was, could I have assaulted her privacy beyond her remark about the “knitting needle” solution?

I believed my grandmother. Her friends had to have some way to control reproduction, because most had two or a maximum of three children. They would cluck at foreigners and Catholics, whom they said “bred like bunnies.” I can’t imagine all those Victorian ladies’ husbands going for years without sex. One or two, maybe, but certainly not all.

Next week: I'l write about the first abortion trial in the United States in 1714. 

Thus, when my grandmother referred to the “knitting needle” method of birth control, I was equally shocked that she said it in the same way that she would have said, “It’s time for bed” or “What will we have for dinner tonight?”

Unmarried sex was somehow not all right, but abortion, when necessary, was.

I am now older than my grandmother was when we had the “knitting needle” conversation, and it still shocks me for the casualness of it and the acceptance of something that seems outside the strict spoken moral tone of the time, never mind the legal.

The more I researched this book, the more I became aware that although there was so much talk about abortion being totally unacceptable, it was a solution for millions of women.

The next chapter will list the different methods of abortion. The following week, we'll cover the first abortion trial in the American colonies.

Lexington: Anatomy of a Novel Ch. 42-43

 

Chapter 42

Boston, Massachusetts

December 1774

 

 

THE ENTIRE REGIMENT, along with the 38^th and 52^nd regiments, were ordered to watch one hundred lashes be given to the deserter.

It was bitterly cold. A few snowflakes danced in the gusts of wind. James left the barracks. He stood in line with others. Thomas had saved a place for him in the first row at the end. Corporal Tilley stood next to Thomas. All wore full military dress as directed.

General Gage arrived last. He stood at the end of the first row next to James.

James wondered if the General was going to do the lashing himself. He had said he wanted to be present to reinforce how serious desertion was.

Two privates dragged the deserter from the building entrance of the small house used as a jail.

The deserter was not a big man, maybe five foot six or seven. He was slim but muscular. In civilian life he had been a farmer. He wore pants, not regimental pants, but pants farmers would wear tilling their fields. His legs and feet were naked as well as the area between his neck and belt.

From his vantage point of about 50 feet, James thought the man looked terrified as would anyone about to be whipped one hundred times.

“There’ll be a drum beat for every lash,” Thomas, who stood to the right of James, whispered. “I don’t know if they always do that.”

It was his first time to witness a lashing. James didn’t want to watch, but everyone had been ordered to keep their eyes open. “Hearing the whip and screams will set an example,” the General had said last night at dinner. “Discourages more desertions.”

The regiment doctor stood to the left of the deserter, close enough to observe, far enough not to get hit with the whip. He could call a halt if he thought the deserter was near collapse. James wondered if that was because they worried about the man’s well-being or if they wanted to guarantee he experienced every lash with full pain.

Danny marched behind four men. Each carried a whip. Each would be responsible for 25 blows. The boy beat out a slow rhythm. It reminded James of church funeral bells. The boy wore his smaller drum strapped over his shoulder and around his waist leaving his hands free for the batons. This drum, unlike the one he used for marching practice, had no artwork. It was painted a light green, the same green as leaves when they first burst out in spring. Today’s weather was as opposite to spring as possible.

Danny’s eyes met James’ or so James imagined. He wondered what Danny must be thinking. Sometimes, but not often, the two of them would sit together at meals, but they never really talked about anything of importance: weather, regiment gossip, a ball game that the soldiers played with a bat or a popular card game were their usual topics. Sometimes they mentioned life back home, Danny more than James.

Neither James nor Danny would play anything where they could lose money. James didn’t know why Danny was saving his money, but as for him, he wanted to be able to buy something at the end of his contract with the regiment. His plans changed regularly. He had ruled out a farm, but more and more thought about starting a bakery in one of the nearby villages. His bread was better than any he’d eaten in Boston, although he thought it could be the quality of the flour that made the taste vary.

He had to laugh at himself, realizing that he was thinking of recreating the life he had in Ely, with one major exception. He would be in charge not his brother. He imagined himself with a wife, someone like Mollie Clark or Sally Brewster. In reality their fathers would be a real impediment in courting them. Courting either would also be a good way to serve the General as a spy, because there was no doubt that their fathers were influential members of the Sons of Liberty.

At breakfast mess two days ago, Danny said he had a letter from his mother. “She wants me to say hello to you and remind you of your promise. What promise?”

“To keep your sorry skin out of trouble,” James had said. “Pass the salt.”

James brought his attention back to the scene in front of him. He didn’t want to be there. He hadn’t known the deserter all that well. They had shared night guard duty walking the streets once. The man was not chatty, but he did reveal he thought he had made a mistake signing up. He should be home on the family farm.

James didn’t want to see him hurt. He didn’t want to see anyone hurt, even if the person was guilty of desertion.

Danny’s beat slowed and stopped. The deserter stopped and faced the brick wall. One soldier grabbed one of the man’s hands. He tied it to a metal ring. A second soldier did the same with the deserter’s second hand forcing his stomach to touch the wall. The deserter had to turn his head and rest his cheek against the brick. His hands were above his head.

The General turned to speak to the officer directly behind him. “This should be a lesson to everyone.”

Maybe the lesson was not to get caught. What if the traitor hadn’t stopped where he had near Worcester but had travelled onto Springfield or gone north to New Hampshire? What if he had taken refuge with the Indians? If he’d gone into the wilderness, if he had gone further and faster, he would not be about to suffer the whip.

The four men stood evenly spaced behind the deserter. Each held a whip of leather strips about three feet long. They had been twisted into a handle that the beaters could grip. James wasn’t sure if the strips were made of rope or leather, as if it mattered. Each stroke would hurt like hell. Stupid expression, James thought. No one knows what hell is really like.

The wind velocity increased as the snow became heavier, although still not blizzard strength. It gave a veiled view to the whipping.

Chatter through the regiment said the deserter was lucky. Although whippings weren’t common, 100 was usually one of the lighter sentences. Up to 300 could be the norm. However, with the half a dozen strips coming from the handle, wouldn’t that mean 600 lashes instead of 100?

“Do you think they’ll go light on him?” Thomas whispered.

James shrugged. Did rope hurt more than leather? He didn’t want to think about the pain the man was about to undergo. Gage spoke to the doctor but what he said wasn’t heard. As the highest-ranking officer present the General was the one to give the order to start.

Danny did a drum roll at the General’s signal.

One of the four soldiers administering the punishment stood directly behind the deserter. The other three stood to one side.

Danny picked up his batons as the man raised his arm, the whip dangling. Danny hit the drum hard, the sound echoing at the exact moment the whip seared the flesh of the deserter. The man did not scream.

Again, again, again, again.

The other soldiers were mute as if mannequins on display in some war museum.

James knew the traitor had friends in the ranks, but none of them would break formation to help. He found himself counting as the number of lashes mounted. Eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two. Then he realized that the serjeant in charge was counting aloud.

The man doing the whipping stepped back to allow a second soldier to take his place.

The drum beat continued. The serjeant’s counting continued until, “Forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty.”

Danny’s single drumbeat marked the whip cutting the deserter’s back.

The traitor’s mouth did not open. James assumed he wasn’t screaming. Or maybe the snow was blurring his vision. He wasn’t sure he could be as stoic. Yes, he was sure — sure that he wouldn’t be able. He had never planned to desert. Serving out his contract couldn’t come fast enough after witnessing this. Still, he would do his duty as he had sworn to do.

Red stripes crisscrossed the deserter’s back.

“Stop!” The doctor’s voice broke the rhythm of the whip and drum. He walked over to the man and examined his bloody back. He took the man’s pulse. James thought he heard him ask if the man preferred to continue now or tomorrow, although with the wind, that would have been impossible to make out what was being said. He didn’t see the deserter’s lips move. “Continue,” the doctor yelled. Everyone on the parade ground heard.

The third man took the place of the second man.

It started again: the crack of the whip whistling in the wind and the single drumbeat.

The fourth man took the place of the third after the seventy-fifth slash.

Then, “Ninety-five, ninety-six, ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred,” James counted aloud along with the serjeant.

“Cut him down,” the doctor yelled.

The two soldiers, who had fastened the man to the wall, undid the shackles. The deserter fell to the snow-covered ground. One soldier took the man’s feet, the other under his arms and headed back to the jail leaving a patch of red snow.

 

Chapter 43

Boston, Massachusetts

December 1774

 

 

THE NIGHT BEFORE General Gage was to leave for Salem, he told James he wanted to convince Samuel Adams to become his spy. James was ordered to sit in the corner of the General’s office, say nothing but observe the two men during their meeting. Afterward, the General wanted a full written report. James was forbidden to take notes. The General was afraid that would intimidate Adams.

James had done this before. He wondered what people talking to the General thought about a soldier sitting in a chair mimicking a statue.

James had become proficient in melting into walls. His excellent memory meant he remembered the major points after a meeting. He knew from writing other reports that the sooner he wrote it, the more complete it would be. If he waited three or four days, there would be holes in it. He also knew if he reread the report five or six days later, some detail he could add might work its way back into his head. He hated asking the General if he could write an addendum. The General always said yes, but with a look of disappointment.

General Gage was slated to go to Salem in the morning. He told James to stay to write the report as well as make sure Mrs. Gage was safe. The General did not want her wandering around Boston alone where some rebel might attack her.

They heard a knock. The maid Beth showed Adams into the General’s study.

James thought Adams a bit chunky. Although he had heard the rebel was in his mid-thirties, his full head of hair was graying. Strands had escaped the leather tie holding his hair in place. He was well-dressed as his status as Clerk of the House of Representatives dictated. James knew he was also a delegate to the Continental Congress made up of delegates from other colonies. They had held their first meeting in Philadelphia during the fall.

At the Green Dragon, James had heard people mumbling that if there hadn’t been a blockade of Boston Harbor, the Congress would never have happened. And if there hadn’t been the Boston Tea Party, the harbor blockade wouldn’t have happened. James was always amazed how one event melded into another. It made him think of a runaway hoop rolling down a hill so fast it was next to impossible to catch it.

Allegedly, the Congress wanted to improve relationships with King George and his representatives but at the same time they wanted the King to understand their point of view The letter that they had sent to the King had had no response although it was still too early to expect much. Their letter had probably just reached the King, and he would not have had time to think of an answer.

The General had been outraged that the delegates tried to contact the King directly. He had not been able to discover everything that went on in that meeting, and if it was one thing the General hated was having partial information. James understood this, because to make a good decision, one needed all the facts or at least most of them. Thus, James had been asked to find out all he could about Adams. It wasn’t hard: so much was known. He was born into a Puritan family, attended Boston Latin before Harvard and seemed much more suited to politics than business.

What James didn’t say in his earlier report on Adams was that the man was stubborn. Everyone he spoke to mentioned his stubbornness.

Because the General was one of the most stubborn man he ever met, he figured this meeting might be a battle of equals in personality despite a difference in rank. He also knew that Adams did not care about rank. He cared only about results, or so people reported.

“Thank you for coming,” the General said. “We’ve a lot to talk about.”

Adams shucked his coat and put it over the arm of one of the upholstered chairs. He seated himself upright in one chair when the General suggested another. A coffee table was between the two men.

They made small talk about their wives and children. Adams had two surviving children from his first marriage, none from his second. “I hope your family is settling in well, General?”

“My wife is from New Jersey. She is as comfortable here as she was in London.”

Adams leaned back. “Why did you ask me here, General?”

He gets straight to the point, James thought.

“I don’t suppose you know where the missing cannons are?”

“Missing cannons?”

“Stolen. We’ve also lost gun powder and . . .”

Adams crossed his legs. “I would say then, your security needs to be increased, General. I would also suggest that it is not in the best interest of the citizens of Boston and nearby towns to be under threat from the soldiers.”

James watched the General’s grimace, the one he made when trying to control his temper. “If we knew how to remove troublemakers, we could serve all the population better.”

“And how do you define troublemaker?”

“Perhaps people who dress as Indians to throw tea in the harbor rather than pay tax.”

The General was 95 percent sure that Adams had been one of those Indians. He’d complained about it enough times to James or in James’ hearing to others.

“In general, General, there are many colonists who do not understand why taxes are imposed on us at all. We have no say. The money goes back to the home country.”

“The money is used for your protection. It pays for the soldiers.”

“Soldiers we do not want here.”

James noted that Adams lowered his voice to the point that the General had to lean forward to hear Adams speak.

“That is no excuse. We’re here to protect English people, English property.”

“We are no longer in danger from Indians. But we are in danger from our own countrymen.”

“Maybe not real Indians. I wonder how you would look with war paint, Mr. Adams?”

James thought that statement might be bad strategy if he wanted to get Adams on his side. Rumors, reliable ones, had Mr. Adams as one of those temporary red men. It was hard imagining the immaculately dressed Adams with feathers, buckskin and war paint.

Adams laughed. “General, are you referring to the attack on the Beaver? What a waste of good tea that was.”

“We can agree on the waste. I also was referring to a shipment that was on the Fortune last February. More of those light-skinned Indians.”

Adams set back in his chair. “I heard that it was a measly 35 boxes.”

“Still, soldiers are needed to protect against Indians whatever the shade of red.”

“It seems to me, General, the only Indians that attack these days are those that don’t like taxes imposed by London.”

“Before we can change those taxes or lift the embargo on the harbor, we must have the troublemakers removed.”

“There’s an interesting word, troublemaker, General. I believe the colonist would call them heroes, although Indian heroes are an interesting concept, don’t you think?”

There was a long silence. James suspected that the General wasn’t sure where to go. His intention had been to offer Adams a large sum of money for names.

“Not everyone in Boston would agree with you. They want the unrest to come to end. They are loyal English citizens.”

“As we all do, General. Fewer soldiers, taxes decided locally and spent locally, perhaps on our own militia, would probably do that.”

A chicken-and-egg argument, James thought. He was getting stiff, sitting in the uncomfortable chair, barely moving not to call attention to himself.

The General stood up and walked to the window and looked out for a minute or two before turning. “Mr. Adams, I was hoping you would consider helping us. It could benefit you in any way you see fit.”

Adams stood and picked up his coat. “I believe, General, we are too far apart on how to solve disagreements between colonists and the Crown until the Crown can give us some of the things I spoke about earlier. But I thank you for your time.”

He walked to the door. “I can show myself out.” He shut the study room door behind him. They heard footsteps then the outer door open and shut.

The General checked the short corridor to the outside. He slammed the door to the study shut so hard that the figurines in the bookcase quivered. It was followed by a string of obscenities that James had never heard the General use.

Mrs. Gage rushed in. “What’s happening?”

Immediately the swearing stopped. “I failed at getting Adams on our side.”

“From what I’ve heard about Mr. Adams, he’s so dedicated to his cause, even if he gave you information, could he be trusted?” She put her hand on her husband’s arm, something James had seen her do whenever the General seemed to be getting upset, although that was usually when the children were getting too boisterous for the General’s liking.

The General took several deep breaths. The red in his face returned to his normal color. “I’m going to Salem tomorrow, Dear. What are your plans?”

“I need to do some errands. I want to visit some of the officers’ wives while the children’s French tutor is here in the afternoon.”

The General turned to James. “I want you to stay and accompany my wife at all times. Then put on your civilian clothes and continue to try and find what the hell, excuse me Mrs. Gage, anything that might help us.

He went to the table where there stood a bottle and several glasses and poured a glass of port to offer to James, who shook his head.

His stomach was queasy. “I need to . . .” He wanted to go back to the barracks to his narrow army bed. If it weren’t the most comfortable sleeping place, it was easy to disassemble in case it needed to be moved to another location.

The General swished the port in his mouth. “We are Englishmen who must do whatever the King wants us to do.”

“Adams believes in his cause more than he believes in anything you could do for him,” James said.

“And he’s wrong.”

As James walked to the barracks he shivered in the wind. He thought about the rebels. The King giving no consideration to their needs bothered him. In Ely, when taxes were raised on flour, it had been a problem. It meant the price of bread had to be raised. Their customers complained and had to raise prices on their goods. It seemed to James a never-ending circle. He had no idea how to change it but refusing to pay the taxes didn’t seem right either. Was there no way to make the King and parliament understand?

He was tired. He just wanted to sleep. Inside the room where 30 of his regiment slept, he noticed 15 empty beds.  Maybe there was some kind of mission he missed hearing about.

He debated taking an extra blanket from the empty cots. He could return it when the soldier returned from wherever.

 

Lexington Anatomy of a Novel Ch. 40-41

 

Chapter 40

Argeles-sur-Mer, France

May

 

 

My husband didn’t come to bed until four in the morning. He’d been on a zoom meeting of the hickory golf board of directors. The meetings start at 8pm EST, which is 2am our time in Central Europe, and the meetings generally run two hours or more.

His neck and shoulders were stiff. I gave him a message before a cuddle. As usual, Sherlock saw us and didn’t want to be left out. He nosed his way between us.

My husband and dog fell asleep almost immediately.

I did not.

I’m happy I didn’t.

For weeks, I’d been trying to work out the story line for Daphne’s and Florence’s comic book. I didn’t want to include the actual drawings and story but enough for the reader to get an idea of what it is about. And I thought of a way to tie it into 1775.

I also thought of how Gareth can reveal his lack of stability as well as Florence’s and Daphne’s first step in getting a publisher.

There is something wonderful about being married to another writer. He reads his writing to me, too.

Had he not interrupted my sleep, who knew when I would have solved the plot issues that had been niggling at me for far too long.

Chapter 41

Chapter Boston and Sudbury, Massachusetts

October 

 “FLORENCE! DAPHNE WAS gobsmacked to see her friend standing at her door. “When did you get back?” Daphne was still dressed in pajamas and big fuzzy blue slippers. She held an almost empty coffee mug in her hand.

“May I come in?” Florence took off her dark glasses.

“I thought you were still in France.” Florence’s family emergency had slowed work on their project. Her mother was suffering with pancreatic cancer. Florence had left in the August heat and humidity to care for her in Paris.

Now Halloween decorations were all over Boston. Leaves were turning red and yellow. Leaf piles, made for kicking, hid much of the brick sidewalks. In the mornings and after the sun went down, it was possible to see one’s breath.

Without asking, Daphne led Florence into their state-of-the-art kitchen, which seemed out of place in this otherwise Victorian apartment with its high ceilings, decorative moldings, oak wainscoting and antiques all of which belonged to the consulate.

The coffee pot was half full and warm. Daphne grabbed a mug and filled it for Florence and topped up her own. She didn’t bother with milk and sugar because she knew Florence took her coffee black. So strong, they joked, it could melt the china.

“I got back two days ago,” Florence said. She wore dark jeans, a flowing-sleeved blouse and a scarf in some convoluted folds around her neck. She carried a heavy sweater which she dropped on one of the four stools arranged around a gray marbled center island.

They were alone. A month before, Daphne had asked that a cook only be there if they were entertaining, which to date they had not done. Maya, the woman who had been assigned to them, had found another job, higher paid, in a Boston restaurant which Daphne thought was a win-win. The woman had a good job: she didn’t have to try and keep the woman busy. If they did need to do a formal meal, she or the consulate could hire a caterer.

Stephanie, who had been assigned to her for any secretarial needs (almost none), had returned to her family in Wales and wasn’t replaced. A cleaning woman came in three times a week, which was enough. This wasn’t one of those days.

“Where’s your staff?” Florence asked.

Daphne told her as she sat kitty corner to Florence, her two hands around her coffee mug. “I really prefer having the flat to myself most of the time.”

She hesitated to ask Florence about her mum.

One of the reasons, even in the short time they had partnered in the comic book project, was that they often read each other’s thoughts.

“Mum died two and a half weeks ago. I know I should have e-mailed you, but after her last few weeks being a full-time nurse, clearing out her apartment and getting a notaire going on the paperwork, which will take forever … My father has been useless.”

Daphne put her hand on Florence’s arm. “No should about it. You had your hands full. How are you handling it, the emotional stuff that is?”

“A little numb. We were able to put aside all our old battles. She was one tough lady. Maybe all those moves around the world.” Florence was quiet. “I often wondered why she didn’t come back to Massachusetts. She told me she felt more at home in Paris.” Then Florence stopped talking and fiddled with her coffee cup.

Daphne did nothing to fill the void, waiting for her friend to continue.

“It’s funny, I’m an orphan, but no one feels sorry for an adult orphan.”

“I can feel sorry for you if it will help. What time do you want me to start?”

Florence laughed. “English humor, I love it. When I arrived back, I didn’t realize how tired I was. Jet lag like I’ve never experienced before. But this morning I woke up, ready to get back to work on our project.”

“I’ve been working on it, especially the Abigail part.”

“You have formed the characters?”

“Yes. For example, the twins are the only children of William and Dorothy Billington. Dorothy had lost at least three children with miscarriages and two other children had died before they were four. Not sure how we should deal with so many kids dying.”

“Real people?”

“Composite is more like it. I found letters and diaries. Took a bit from here and bit more from there. It’s mixed enough that plagiarism isn’t an issue although I’m not sure of United States plagiarism law for materials written close to 250 years ago.” She had debated checking with the consulate, but that would alert Gareth how deep she was still working on the project. Maybe she could have checked with one of the law schools in the city, but then again she didn’t want to do anything that would involve an expense.

Gareth had given her an allowance making her feel as if she were a child again. It was more than enough to buy lunch, go to a movie or pay a museum entrance even clothes. However, he wanted to go with her to check that they were suitable.

Suitable?

When she worked at the tweed company, she wore jeans or slacks. Rummaging around in dusty files did not lend itself to suits. For board meetings, when she briefed the family who sat on the board, she had two suits, blue and black, that she would alternate. A different scarf or blouse would vary her appearance, although she doubted that the board members paid any attention.

More important were her PowerPoints.

That was another life, where her battles were what should be included. Sometimes, two family members, brothers in their 80s, worried about revealing family secrets so far in the past that that anyone who participated in those secrets was long gone.

Sometimes Daphne ached for those days when she was responsible for herself only.

“Earth to Daphne. Earth to Daphne.”

“I’m sorry. You were saying?”

“Do we want to go into that much detail? This is a comic.” Florence hopped off the stool and poured herself more coffee. She held the pot in the air toward Daphne, who shook her head.

“I agree, but be aware even if we don’t say it, it needs to be there,” Daphne said.

“I wasn’t arguing.”

“I know. And like any good bande desinée each frame will have lots of detail in the drawing …”

“… which is why we have to spend more time in those old houses in Lexington so I can make sure we get the details right.”

Daphne had more to share about her progress.

During Florence’s absence, Gareth had made several trips to the main embassy in Washington. This left her time to work without his being aware of what she was doing, even though she felt uncomfortable in keeping it a secret. The need to keep it a secret for peace in her marriage bothered her more.

When he wasn’t in Washington, most days after he left for work, she headed for the Boston Public Library. At times it felt much like having an ordinary job with fixed hours. She thought of the building with its marble central staircase and lion statues almost as a palace.

She’d fallen in love with the reading room and the rounded ceiling above. She loved its green lamps placed strategically along long wooden tables. She loved ordering the books and waiting for their delivery. Some could not be removed from the library. Others could.

Rather than take them out and leave them around the apartment where Gareth might question why, she sent them back to the archives. It wasn’t the type of reading matter that would be in great demand as a best seller would be. Still, when the book she was working with was there the next day, she felt a sense of relief.

It felt good to have a project where she could immerse herself as she had when she did research at uni or searching the records of the textile company to write a company history.

At night, whether Gareth came home early or late, she could have continued working but instead would read mysteries, biographies and chick lit. Even if her at-home reading was relaxing after her research, she felt sneaky. She may not have liked her actions, but she did like the peace that enveloped her marriage when she gave in to her husband.

She had acknowledged something was wrong with her marriage where she couldn’t follow her interests without annoying him. That he deemed the project “stupid, a waste of time, slacking her wifely duties” and on and on annoyed her even more.

Annoying was perhaps the wrong word. Gareth’s moods could change from lovable to ranting in minutes. She was never sure what would set him off. The ranting side was nothing she’d seen in their short courtship or early days of their marriage before moving to Boston.

His mood swings also varied from happy to sad with little warning of what triggered the switch.

When she figured out how to deal with it, she would. Now wasn’t the time and she wasn’t even sure she would recognize the time when it arrived.

She shared none of these problems, not so much of not wanting to reveal them, but there was no one she could talk to.

Her friend Victoria was at a critical point in her Ph.D. thesis. Daphne didn’t want to distract her.

Her parents were too far away to help. If she were to pack up and move in with them in Scotland while she sorted her life out, she had no doubt they would do everything they could to help with only minimal clucks.

At the same time, she knew they would talk in bed at night, keeping their voices low, saying how they knew Gareth was not the man for their beloved daughter, that something always seemed off. They might mention his exceptional good looks, his Oxford degree and his place in the government, all of which were reasons to look deeper for they were distrustful of anything that looked too perfect.

It was like she was living in a romance-type novel: young woman thinks she meets man of her dreams: her dreams slowly evolve into a nightmare. Maybe nightmare was too strong a word, but bad dream could work as a description. In a romance novel, Mr. Right would appear and save the heroine. She didn’t want to meet Mr. Right. She just wanted a smooth life: successful, handsome husband with interesting job, no money worries, a chance to see different places — a checked-off list of why she should be happy.

She wasn’t happy.

Often, before Florence had left for Paris, Daphne debated confiding in her. But that would mix personal into their project. She didn’t want to do that. Keeping them separate felt better. And then, Florence was the wife of another diplomat.

It didn’t help that Gareth said he disliked Florence and wished that Daphne didn’t spend so much time with her. When asked why, he had gone into his office, almost slamming the door. He hadn’t emerged until after she was asleep.

She didn’t know if Gareth knew Florence had gone to Paris. Maybe he thought that Daphne was no longer seeking out Florence’s company but the lack of the woman in and about their lives had reduced tension. It was just one more subject that they didn’t discuss.

“Let’s go to lunch at the Wayside Inn, then to Lexington so I can take some photos of the houses for the artwork?” Florence asked.

“Give me time to get dressed.”

*****

A waiter ushered them to a linen-draped table near the fireplace where little gray squares of a an almost burned-out log were outlined in red. A waiter added another log. When it fell on top of the old log, ashes flared up with a thud and crackle. Sparks flew up the chimney.

When the women arrived, most tables were either empty or people were shoving credit cards into wallets and reaching for jackets.

“It’s a good thing we aren’t allergic to wood.” Daphne swept her hand to indicate the floors’ wide planks, the wood-paneled walls and wooden beams holding up the wooden ceiling. The atmosphere was cozy compared to the cool day outside with a wind that was stripping the remaining colored leaves from trees.

“What do you expect? It goes back to the 1700s,” Florence said.

“How did you know that?”

“Longfellow wrote about it. At the time it was called Howe’s Inn or something like that. Just for the hell of it, I took Early American Lit course nights last year, never thinking I’d sometime be working on a book about the period.”

Daphne had to admit, although she kept it to herself, life took strange twists. A year ago, and a little more, she thought her life in Edinburgh was settled into a satisfactory routine of research, reports and seeing a few girlfriends for a drink or show.

A waiter appeared. “Would you ladies like a cocktail?” He was seriously cute with his curly dark hair and brown eyes one could fall into. He oozed charisma. Not that she was thinking of being unfaithful to Gareth, but she liked to admire nice-looking people. He would not be the man who saved the heroine like in that romance novel she had just read. She would save herself.

“Do you have anything typically New England, maybe even something typical of the Revolution era?” Daphne asked. Maybe they could use the meal in their comic book. She liked to feel history not just read about it. Among her thrills were when she stood on the spot where Mary Queen of Scots was crowned as a baby and in the palace room where Mary’s lover was killed.

“There’s our Cow Wow; it was the area’s first mixed drink with rum and ginger brandy.” He had a smile that if it were a TV commercial, a light would shine off a tooth and the audience would hear a ping.

“Sounds powerful,” Florence said.

“Or there’s the Stonewall with gin and apple jack.”

“What’s apple jack?” Florence asked.

“An old New England drink going back to the 1600s,” he said pinging.

“Sounds pretty strong, but we’ve work to do this afternoon. Maybe just a glass of wine,” Florence said.

“Excuse her, she’s French,” Daphne said. “I’m driving, so a Coke.” They wouldn’t be using alcoholic drinks in their comic book.

“Let’s go New Englandy with our meals,” Florence said.

“Nous avons New England Yankee pot roast. “Aussi quelque chose with cornbread stuffing and cranberry sauce.” Another smile without its ping.

Daphne looked at the menu. “What’s a Boston Scrod?”

“A fish,” the waiter said. “Usually haddock, but always a white fish. Very Bostonian to call it scrod.”

They selected the pot roast and the cornbread stuffed chicken and decided to share between them.

Once the waiter left, Daphne reached into her backpack and pulled out a folder. “Wanta discuss Abigail.”

“Bien sur.”

“Don’t bother to take notes. I’ll e-mail you this file and photos of things like the clothes when we get back.”

“Abigail is either 12 or 13. She has a twin brother. None of her siblings survived either checking out of the womb or giving in to the various diseases of the day. She attended the local elementary school, reads, writes. Her parents want her home to help with chores.”

“They had schools?” Florence asked.

“Blame the Puritans. They made a law that every town of 50 families or more must have a school for boys and girls. This was so they could read the Bible.”

“Maybe we can include that in the story, her going to school, not the law itself.”

“She could hate it or love it. Oh, I didn’t tell you. She lives on a farm and her father is one of the Minutemen.” That’s what they called the men who served in the militia,” Daphne said just as the waiter brought their drinks and left with another ping-style smile.

“I knew that,” Florence said.” We need to give her character. Make her a rebel?”

“I thought of that. She doesn’t like to embroider although her mother makes wonderful samplers. She’s garbage at sewing, but she’s good at spinning, cooking in the open fireplace and churning butter. Maybe a series of panels with her doing chores, which might come as a shock to modern children.”

“They might like the no-school part,” Florence said.

“Not so sure after the schools being shut during the pandemic,” Daphne said.

“We could have her dress as a boy and fight the British. Or maybe she could dream about a mobile phone,” Florence said.

Daphne stared for a moment then laughed. “I have missed you so much.” She had not realized how much until that moment.