Lexington: Anatomy of a Novel CH 10-11

 

Chapter 10

Ely, England

April 1773

 

JAMES WOKE BEFORE the rooster announced morning. He wrapped the rough wool blanket tighter around himself, although it made his skin itch.

This was the hard time each day; it was when he and Bess held each other and talked. Talked about the bakery, his brother, Alice, the baby to come, customers and their quirks, her family, the rooster, chickens and rabbits. Sometimes they made up silly word games.

Some mornings, before she got too pregnant, they made love as quietly as possible to not disturb his brother and sister-in-law.

Once Henry, the rooster, crowed there would be little time to talk until they fell back in bed, sometimes too tired but do anything but sleep, with the promise of “in the morning we’ll make love.”

James spent hours thinking about his life before comparing it to now without Bess. He thought about his boyhood chums. His pal Isaac worked with his butcher father; Thomas was an apprentice blacksmith to his father. When James stopped by the blacksmith shop with their bread order, he could hear Thomas’ father screaming at him.

At least William didn’t scream as loudly as the two fathers. It might be better if he had. His constant insults were more wearing. As small boys, William had been able to convince their parents that whatever he had done wrong was really James’ fault.

Their parents had stressed that their family, because of the bakery, would never go hungry. The world always needs bread and how lucky the family would be able to produce it. They made sure both boys and the three surviving girls knew each step of the process saying to them, “If your husbands die, you can come back and work, feed your children.”

Until his parents died, all the family, including cousins, would get together during festivals: St. George’s Day, Christmas, Easter and Lammas. After their deaths, each part of the family stayed in their own homes.

His brother-in-law, the baker in Little Thetford, had failed. William refused to let him work for him, with which James had agreed, much to William’s surprise. “Our reputation is important,” James had explained.

William had tried to take over the failed bakery customers, but the distance made it difficult to deliver daily. He wanted James and Bess to move the three miles to Little Thetford, to work that oven. It had tempted James, who had many recipes he wanted to try. William wouldn’t even consider changing anything that was successful. James couldn’t convince him that his ideas weren’t change but additions.

During the last three months of Bess’s pregnancy, she vomited two or three times a day. “Most women are sick in the beginning,” William had chided her.

Between her growing weakness from the nausea and her subsequent death the takeover was delayed. When James was ready, after Bess died, another baker had moved in. William had been furious that his business expansion plans had become impossible.

As James lay on his back, his hands behind his head, he wondered if he had taken over that bakery would Bess and the baby have lived. What would his life be like then? Probably just a variation of here: doing the same thing every day, every week, every month, every year of his life forever and forever. Only the monotony would have been better with her beside him.

James wasn’t overly religious. No matter what the vicar said, he doubted if God really cared so much about his daily small transgressions. If he were a good and generous God, he’d never have taken Bess or the babe but let them live a full life. Nor would a good God regularly flood the area destroying homes and crops.

He remembered Bess’ sense of humor and teasing, especially of William. More than once, William had slammed out of the room, the door banging back open from his force rather than staying shut. James loved Bess all the more for that.

He wished he could remember good things about William, but his older brother would steal the covers of the bed they shared as boys, trip him when he was carrying loaves, always when their father wasn’t looking. James would be accused of being clumsy.

James had given up trying to convince his brother of a variation in their product. Once when William had been sick in bed, James had changed the balance of flours and customers had liked the change.

William had been furious. For months he made James do the hardest chores.

“Why don’t you fight back?” Bess would ask him.

James didn’t have an answer. William was the oldest. Their father had said that was the way it had to be. But why, James wondered.

The cock crowed.

It was time to start another day. 

 

Chapter 11

Ely, England

April 1773 

 

JAMES SOLD ALL his bread. A good day all around. The sun shone as it had for the three previous days although the paths were still muddy.

As he walked by the Ouse, he noticed that the water had not receded, but it had not advanced either: another good sign of spring. The change in the weather meant that his clothes were dry. That had not happened in many weeks. The day had been the warmest since September, but then again James knew what seemed cool in September after summer heat was warm in April after the winter’s cold and damp.

He heard faint singing, almost as if he were imagining it, as he passed the Cathedral. It wasn’t coming from the church.

Maybe it was from the Noisy Rooster just to the left of the cathedral.

The half-timbered building had been a spot for the locals to get a meal and a drink. It had been there longer than anyone in Ely knew. His father told him about going there with his grandfather and grandmother who had gone there with their grandparents. They drank mugs of beer and sometimes they ate. James had happy memories of his whole family eating beets roasted over the fire when he was little.

When James approached the door of the pub, he heard the words to a song he knew.

Come live with me and be my love,
           And we will all the pleasures prove

Two black horses were tied to the post in front of the pub: he knew almost every horse in the area. They were mostly work horses that pulled plows or carts. These horses with their polished leather saddles were definitely not farm animals, but of a quality he seldom saw.

He had to bend to enter the pub although he was not that tall: five foot eight, but the door opening was just over five feet.

Inside, when his eyes adjusted to the diminished light, he saw two men singing. A third played the flute before the small fire. A fourth person sat next to a drum. All wore red army uniforms.

Wonderful smells came from a pig suspended over the low flame on a spit in a fireplace large enough for a grown man, his wife and two children standing together. Slices had been cut off to feed Owner Jack’s earlier customers.

The music, combined with the smell of beer and roasting meat, made the decision to stay and eat an easy one. He chose one of the four long tables. Between limited fireplace light and decades, if not centuries of use, it was impossible to identify the wood used.

James threw his legs over the bench and put his elbows on the table. He and his friends, Isaac and Thomas, had spent many an evening there after work. When Bess was alive, she often went with him after dinner, especially during summer when they sat outside to drink a mug of beer before walking home hand in hand. Even grumpy William would cross the threshold on the occasions when Alice cajoled him to take time off.

A roast beet with a slice of pig would taste wonderful, but it was too early in the season for beets. Last year’s crop had been eaten a month ago.

Not only did the Noisy Rooster serve beer and rum, it offered travelers a place to sleep in one of its four rooms over the main hall. These were often people with things to sell from places that James had heard about but thought he’d never see. It made him sad that some people could have adventures while others, like himself, had invisible bars that kept him locked up as if in a jail — a big jail with grass, trees, streets, even friends and more — but a jail because it was impossible to break out.

The singers, drummer and flute player headed to the bar with their mugs for a refill.

“Hey friend.” James looked up to see Isaac standing there.

“Thought I’d come to see that Owner Jack did justice to the pig we sold him.” He held two mugs and sat them on the dark table before he straddled the bench opposite James. “We need some meat!” he called to Owner Jack.

“Get it yourself,” Owner Jack called back.

“So, who are the soldiers? Why the musicians?” Isaac nodded to a corner in the back.

Only then did James notice two men in the same bright red uniforms as the musicians. “I’ve no idea.”

The singers returned to the area by the fire. The group started a song about the thrill of being at sea and discovering new places. James tapped his foot to the music’s beat.

“Hey lads, can we buy you another beer?” One of the soldiers in the corner called to Isaac and James.

“Please do,” they said together.

One of the soldiers brought their two mugs to the table: the other went to the bar to buy beer for James and Isaac. James motioned with his hand for the man to sit. As the soldier swung his legs over the bench, James noticed his boots shone in the firelight.

Even in the reduced lighting their perfect look stood out compared to the three other men in the Noisy Rooster, all locals. Their clothes were dirt smeared. They were probably preparing the soil for the first planting. Even Isaac’s shirt was blood-spattered from whatever animal he’d butchered earlier.

“Corporal John Carver at your service,” the younger man said. He looked to be about James’ and Isaac’s age, early twenties. His hair was dirty blond and slightly matted from his big fur hat which he’d left on the other table. And that’s Serjeant Francis Longworth.”

Serjeant Longworth appeared behind them. When he sat the two mugs down, a few drops spilled on the wooden table. “At your service.” He went to where the two soldiers had been sitting to retrieve their hats.

James resisted stroking the black fur of the hats. He noticed there was a crest with the number 43 on its enamel. Soldiers were rare in Ely. So rare, these were the first he’d ever seen, although he had heard about them. The uniforms were as he had imagined.

William often complained that James wasted too much time talking to people, customers, neighbors or anyone passing through.

James ignored his brother’s complaints. He enjoyed learning about what others did, be it about the difficult birth of a lamb or a good eel catch. Even better was when a visiting merchant talked of life on the road and of cities like London, Birmingham, Edinburgh.

“What do you boys do?” Serjeant Longworth asked. He looked a bit older than Carver with tiny lines around his eyes.

“I’m a baker,” James said.

“Butcher,” Isaac said.

“Do you like it?” Corporal Carver asked.

“Never thought about it,” Isaac said. “I always knew that I’d do what my family did. I’ll always have enough to eat and a roof over my head.” He turned toward the bar. “Hey Owner Jack, we need four samples of that meat. Take it off what we charged you.”

“Do you have any of the bread I sold you earlier?” James asked Owner Jack.

“A bit.”

“Bring that too,” James said.

“Will you take it off tomorrow’s bread cost?” Owner Jack asked.

“Why not?” James knew William would be unhappy, but he didn’t need to know. Alice would keep his secret, or so he hoped.

The four men ate in silence.

James finished the last bite and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Why are you here?”

“Giving men like yourself an opportunity,” Serjeant Longworth said.

James was curious, but it was Isaac who spoke. “An opportunity?”

James listened and watched the soldiers as they talked about different places that they had been with the 43rd Regiment of Foot. Corporal Carver let Serjeant Longworth talk. When he did say something, he side-glanced at his serjeant. More than once Longworth put a hand on his arm when Carver spoke, Carver would stop mid-sentence.

“You men ever travel?” Longworth asked.

Isaac and James shook their heads.

“So, you’ve never been to London?”

Again, the men shook their heads.

“Never been much further than five miles from here,” Isaac said, “if that.”

“Ten for me,” James said. He wasn’t sure about the distance, but he thought when he had needed to buy a cart in another village after their old one caught fire it was probably ten.

Corporal Carver took a swig of his beer.

The flute player trilled in the background.

“Remember the parade we marched in with the King?” Corporal Carver asked.

Serjeant Longworth put his mug down. “How could I forget? The carriage was golden. People cheered on both sides of the road. My horse rode right next to the King. It was like a personal introduction to His Majesty.”

“Were you always in London?” James asked. The idea of seeing the King George III, never mind a golden carriage, was something that never entered his mind as possible.

“Have you been to the colonies, the new world?” Thomas asked before either soldier could answer.

“I was too young for the war in Canada, but the stories the old guard, the ones who were there, tells us about it.” Serjeant Longworth rolled his eyes. “A couple of men they said were mustered out in the American colonies by choice.”

“And made a bloody fortune,” Corporal Carver said. “Remember Henry Smith? Ended up with a huge farm. Lots of opportunities. Even staying in the army, well, there’s money to be made when off duty. Ow! You kicked me.”

“That should be a secret.” Serjeant Longworth looked at Isaac then at James. “Pretend you hadn’t heard it.” He brushed an imaginary crumb off his sleeve. “Feel this wool. This jacket, it’s made from some of the finest cloth in England.”

James and Isaac did as told. James thought of the roughness of the blanket on his bed.

Longworth looked at each of the young men directly. His eyes seemed to go through to the back of their heads. “You two wouldn’t be interested in joining up? We always need strong men with a sense of adventure.”

Isaac shook his head. “Not me. I’m happy here. About to marry. Beautiful girl.”

“Wouldn’t want to change that.” Carver earned another glare from his serjeant.

“What about Thomas? He’s a blacksmith and hates it,” James said.

“Let me go get him.” Isaac left without waiting for an answer.

“We can wait. We’re spending the night upstairs. Serjeant Longworth speared a final piece of meat using his knife to put it in his mouth. “No use in saying the same thing twice. Good meat.” Turning to the musicians, he said. “Play. Let’s hear some drum with the flute.”

Isaac returned accompanied by a man the same age as James and himself. The newcomer was muscular. His face had a few days’ beard and his lower arms were ash covered. When he stuck his grimy hand out, Serjeant Longworth hesitated only a second before taking it. “Nice to meet you, Thomas. Your last name?”

“Miller.”

Corporal Carver brought meat and a mug for Thomas without anyone asking him to.

“I’ll admit it,” Serjeant Longworth said. “I’m looking for good men, strong men, men looking for adventure and a better life to join the 43^rd Regiment. And there’s guaranteed pay.” He pointed to the enamel medallion on his furred hat. Then he wrote a number in the condensation on the mug.

Isaac, James and Thomas all stared at it. A pound a month. This was more than James made in several months. Most of the money brought in by the family businesses was plowed back into those businesses.

“Free lodging,” Longworth said.

“You pay for the uniform,” Corporal Carver said.

“Which means our men take good care of it,” Serjeant Longworth said, but I suspect they would anyway. There’s a reason to be proud to serve King George the Third.

“Food?” Isaac asked.

“It depends,” Longworth said. “If we’re marching in the woods what we catch is ours. Fish too. Fresh from whatever river or lake we might be nearby. In the barracks, camps, there is a slight cost, much lower than at a place like this.”

Thomas had touched neither his meat nor his mug. “What do we have to do, supposing we were to join?”

“Tomorrow morning come to the town hall with me. Sign up in front of a magistrate. The time varies. We’ll go to Winchester for training along with the other recruits. So far, we’ve signed up eight people. My goal was ten.”

Thomas peppered the two soldiers with questions.

Would he be used as a forger?

What if he decided to marry?

Where would he get a uniform?

He was good with horses: would he be able to work with horses?

Did he need to supply his own gun?

Longworth fired back answers.

“Forgers are always of use, but other jobs available. People who were shoemakers as civilians tend to be shoemakers. Tailors can be tailors. It’s silly to waste a skill. But there’s no rule if you were a shoemaker before the army you have to be one in the army.”

“Many soldiers have wives. Sometimes they go to various assignments with their husbands, sometimes they stay home. Sometimes they can go, but the husbands don’t want them. They want freedom.”

They laughed. Not James. If Bess were alive, he would want her nearby.

“Uniforms will be made to order after men arrive in Winchester. That’s where we’ll train this crop of recruits.”

“A good horseman is always needed, but privates usually don’t ride. Horses are for officers. Still, it helped to be able to ride and care for the beasts.”

“You two have horses?”

“Because of what we do, travel far and wide to find the very best men for our regiment,” Serjeant Longworth said.

“Makes sense,” Thomas said.” They are beautiful animals you have.”

This made James wonder if this was for him. He wasn’t great with horses, more because he never needed to be. The one horse they had would pull the cart to pick up the flour from the miller and plow their small vegetable patch which produced enough to feed them but not enough to sell. She was a sweet old thing, a bit on the lazy side. Imagining her in battle was impossible.

“Mostly we are foot soldiers.” Serjeant Longworth continued sharing information between bites of food and sips of his beer.

“The army will supply weapons, most likely a Brown Bess. You’ll need to learn to load and shoot.”

Bess, the name of his late wife. James wondered if this was a sign that he should sign up. Maybe Bess was telling him to grab the chance at adventure, to do things he never thought possible.

At this point Carver said, “We spend more time learning to load fast. Bullets are too expensive to waste on practice. And the bayonet …”

Serjeant Longworth grabbed Carver’s arm. “Most of the guns have bayonets. You’ll learn to use them too. But I suspect you hunt.”

James had brought home more than one rabbit, many pheasants and usually one deer a season. He was a better shot than William, which wasn’t saying much. “I do. I’m not a terrible shot.”

Isaac broke in, “How much time will we fight in a war?”

Serjeant Longworth laughed. “Much of our work is peacekeeping, like in the colonies. But you might see action if King George needs us. We would fight for the glory of England and His Majesty.”

“I’ve never seen action and I’ve been in five years,” Corporal Carver said, earning a smile from his superior.

They had another round of beer, before James excused himself saying, “If I decide to join up, what time should we be at the magistrate?”

“Ten. We would leave for Winchester right after, picking up the other recruits I’ve signed up. Mostly we’ll travel by carriage.”

 

I Hate Hating

I hate finding myself hating. It's not my normal nature.

Normally I have dog biscuits for pooches in the village. They know I feed them and we exchange pats and tail wags. I can look like the Pied Piper with my doggie treat bag in place of a flute and four-footed, fuzzy creatures trotting after or gazing up at me.

A few months after someone loses a loved one, I send flowers with a thinking of you message or take them to lunch. This was my mother's trick. She believed grieving people have lots of attention immediately after the death of their loved one, but in a few weeks or months, their grief is ignored and that's when they need someone to be there for them.

I make sure no one is alone on Christmas.

I find joy in a blue sky and also when snow falls.

Colors make my eyes happy.

Although I enjoy alone time, friends are important. I love listening to their happy times, but try and be there for their sad. I don't want to be just a fair-weather or foul-weather friend.

My daughter and I are friends. I'm a friend to her friends. When we lived together both of us would chat with whomever was calling and after a few minutes or more pass the phone on with the words, "It's for you."

If I see someone who needs help with a bag, I will carry it. 

I give money or time to good causes.

I don't usually think of myself a bad person.

Trump has turned me into a hater with what he is doing to my birth country. I hate him, ICE, his incompetent cabinet and the ignorance shown by most MAGA people who put him in power.

I saw a man in a red MAGA hat in a tiny village in the south of France. It is the only one I've ever seen. I wanted to yell at him, kick him, which would be stupid. He was well over six feet and I'm just over five.

I know Iran's leadership for decades has represented what I don't believe in. It's especially grating to my feminist instincts. But I know enough history to understand why the Iranians have animosity to the U.S. 

I don't believe any country has a right to change another government's rulers. When the U.S. has tried, the new governments are equally bad or worse. I hate that the U.S. feels it can just attack anyone they feel like, because that's what they are doing.

I feel guilty that I hope that if the families of those killed and those that will be killed have parents who voted for Trump know that they had a part in their child's death. That they were too ignorant and/or stupid not to realize the lies their government has been spouting. 

In Washington D.C. there's a long black 246-foot wall with over 58,000 names of soldiers who were killed in Vietnam. They never should have been there. Secretary McNamara later wrote about the mistakes and outright lies people were told. The owners of many of those names on the wall thought they were protecting their country and went to their deaths proudly for a cause, albeit a phony one. Others were drafted. Some who survived were badly damaged physically or mentally or both. I hate those responsible and the fact it is happening again only increases my hatred.

Weapons of Mass Destruction lies killed too many people from the U.S. from Iraq from Afghanistan. For nothing. Nothing. Nothing. The Taliban are back in control.

Wikipedia has a list of the wars the  U.S. has participated in since before it was the U.S.  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lists_of_wars_involving_the_United_States Wikipedia says 

"As of the current date, the United States is involved in 8 publicly known military engagements across 6 different wars. Wars with direct U.S. involvement include War on terror (Somalia, Syria and Yemen), the war on cartels (Venezuela) and Operation Epic Fury (Iran). Wars with indirect U.S. involvement include the Russo-Ukrainian war (U.S. involvement), the Gaza war (U.S. involvement), and the Israel–Hezbollah conflict." Wikipedia

The U.S. not only has turned its back on 70,000 people killed in the Gaza genocide, and it is a genocide no matter what mealy-mouth politicians claim, but punishes those that speak out against it. It doesn't mean that I supported the October 7th attack on Israel but 1000 people against 70,000 isn't any kind of balance.

My hate list includes Trump, Netanyahu, Stephen Miller, and any congress member that backs Trump, the incompetent cabinet, the new lineup at CBS that spews Fox-like propaganda, people who didn't get educated enough to be fooled by leaders and more. 

That's a lot of hate. No one I hate feels the wrath that leaves me with a knotted stomach. I fight to push it away and replace it with the beauty of life. I try not to feel guilty for hating and not being able to do anything to stop the atrocities all around me. 

The most I can do is write articles like this. The people that need to be removed from power are the same ones destroying my birth country from within. They will never see my words or pay the price for the damages to Americans and to others around the world.

Lexington: Anatomy of Novel Chapters 8 and 9

Chapter 8

Ely, England

March 1773

 

 

WHEN JAMES WALKED into the bakery, two candles tried to light the room. In the dimness he could see Alice washing dishes.

“Where’ve you been? I coulda used your help to finish cleaning,” William said from the shadows. He sat at the table.

James didn’t bother to answer.

Alice went to the cupboard and took out his dish. It had bread soaked with the juice of a chicken and a few pieces of dark meat. She poured him a mug of beer.

“I wouldn’t have saved it for you,” William said.

Before James sat, he handed Alice his pouch. “Sold everything.” He almost always did, but when days were misting like today, the bread would get too wet and had to be thrown away. Depending on where he was, he would give it to his customer for the pigs. If it wasn’t ruined but still not up to the quality the bakery was known for, he would reduce the price telling people to put the bread over the fire. Sometimes it helped. Sometimes it didn’t.

As soon as he finished eating, he went to his room, the room he had shared with Bess. Her presence was still there. In his imagination he could hear her singing.

Alice had been happier when Bess was around. The sisters-in-laws talked, laughed and almost read each other’s minds.

Bess did not like William. “If he smiled, I’m sure his face would break,” she had said one night as they whispered about the day’s activities before falling asleep. Mostly she hated how William spoke to James and Alice.

Two days after their wedding, William had barked at Bess. She’d come at him with a dish yelling if he ever spoke to her like that again she’d not only knock him cold while he was out she would cut off his balls. He never raised his voice to her again.

Despite some people thinking night air was bad for one’s health or even that evil spirits might fly in an open window and steal one’s soul, James left the shutters open. A half-moon could be made out through the haze. This is my life, he thought. It has been my destiny when I was born. He turned on his right side. Born without choices. What would it be like to have choices?

 

Chapter 9

Boston, Massachusetts

May 

 

DAPHNE ANDREWS STRETCHED out in bed. Her husband, Gareth, slept on his side facing her, not quite snoring, more putt-putting.

A sliver of sunlight peeked through a crack where the heavy forest green drapes didn’t quite meet. This temporary apartment was more like a Victorian home in Mayfair or any of the tony neighborhoods in London or Edinburgh trying to recreate a bygone era.

She slipped out of bed to open the drapes and to see Comm Ave. What was it with Americans or maybe it was just Bostonians? They couldn’t call anything by its full name.

Commonwealth Ave. Comm Ave. Pats not Patriots, BU not Boston University. Oxford at home wasn’t known as OU, but then OU was the Open University. That big skyscraper a couple of blocks away was the Pru not the Prudential. Her temporary personal assistant, who worked with her two days a week to make sure she acted as a proper consul general’s wife, had done a list of Bostonese words, as Daphne dubbed it. It was four pages long. Daphne now had a whole new vocabulary: Cape, Pike, Mass General and on and on.

And anything that was extra good was “wicked,” which had nothing to do with evil.

Her memory had always been good, which had earned her a first in history at Edinburgh University, although she always felt it didn’t live up to her oncologist and physicist sisters in her parents’ eyes.

Not that they had ever said anything directly. That she could write in a calligraphy that would make a medieval monk weep with jealousy was not important in an age where programming software counted.

Since she had had no desire to teach, her father had predicted she’d never use her degree. “Useless,” he’d called it while saying he knew she’d worked hard for it.

He was wrong. For the past five years she was the archivist for Scottish Tweed, Ltd., a family business since 1705. She had been tasked with tracing its growth, but also to go through all the family records to capture their personal histories as well as their financials.

Management wanted her to go through the archives with the goal of writing a book about the firm starting with the 1700s when the cloth was made by women with home looms. She was to add what was happening in Edinburgh, Scotland and the world at the same time. The ancestors that made major advances should have an entire chapter each gleaned through journals and surviving letters.

One couldn’t say she loved her job. She adored it passionately. Ferreting out how people lived as they improved the company’s product and premises was one thing, but to also create a juxtaposition with events in Edinburgh, Scotland and the world? There was almost never a morning that she didn’t hop out of bed, excited about her explorations.

In the beginning, she thought that the book would be chronological. Six months into the project she realized there were special topics, some related to the industry itself like looms and manufacturing processes. The family had okayed a cookbook with recipes handed down from cook to cook over generations. They had it printed and sold it in the company store where people browsed after the factory tour offered to the public.

She had created brochures on wool, looms and weaving techniques that helped publicize the tours of the factory.

Over the years, she had gone through thousands of letters, journals, financials and scribbles. She was deep into the early 1900s when she’d quit to marry Gareth.

How she ended up with someone in the diplomatic corps, she was never sure. He’d bumped into her on Princes Street.

Theirs had been a commuting relationship for the short time they had dated.

Her father warned her to marry in haste was to regret in leisure. He said it only once, as he did when warning any of his three daughters. He claimed that relieved him of any responsibility if things went wrong. They had their own lives to lead. He didn’t say he didn’t like Gareth, just that he didn’t know him.

When Gareth was appointed Consul General in Boston, the commute across the Atlantic was not as easy as grabbing the train from London to Waverly Station in downtown Edinburgh or vice versa. Marriage had seemed the solution, a civil ceremony, with no friends or relatives present. “Good thing I never dreamed of a white gown and veil,” she told her parents, but sent them photos taken by a clerk with her phone.

She’d turned over all her research to the new company historian, a graduate of Edinburgh University like herself. “I never thought I’d find a job doing research,” he’d said.

She understood. She wished Scottish Tweed would let her continue working off site. Hamish, the son of the current head, would have been happy to let her. His father said, “Absolutely not.” What was it about fathers, she wondered.

Hamish had become a good friend. He itched to update the company from the 19^th century, jumping over the 20^th into the 21^st. Only during the past year had his father allowed him to create a website and online store. Sales had quadrupled in the first three months.

“A fluke,” his father had said.

“I’d quit, but if I’m patient this will be mine,” he’d told Daphne at her farewell whisky. “Go and marry your old man.” This was said with a smile, because he joked about Gareth stealing his young historian because he was really looking for a daughter not a wife.

It was true that Gareth was 15 years older than she was — not that it bothered either of them. He said he found her knowledge of the world exceeded all the women he’d ever met and dated. Kiddingly, or so she thought, he called her, “My walking encyclopedia.”

Gareth had two sides. A fun side and a stuffy side, depending on where he was and what he had to do. Some days Daphne wondered if he’d left his fun side in London. She felt pressure from work probably contributed to his grouchiness. What worried her was that he treated her as a child not as the intelligent adult he claimed he’d fallen in love with.

She admitted that she didn’t know much about diplomatic protocol, but she hadn’t needed to attend too many events in the month they had been in Boston. Before anything, she would ask for a briefing on what was expected. The assistant, Priscilla, gave her how-to-be-a-CG-wife lessons. So far, she had committed no gaffs.

The briefings didn’t bother her. It was more his assuming she couldn’t find her way around a new city and needed guidance in things like arranging the cupboards that annoyed her. He didn’t like how his underwear was folded, although it was done by staff. He slammed the door when she said that he could do it the way he wanted if he were unhappy.

She considered the many small irritants as adjusting to a marriage, adjusting to a new country. The hardest part was adjusting to not having her own projects and work. She was used to losing herself in her work. At first lazing in bed with a book, electronic or paper, was a luxury.

Gareth left early in the mornings. He didn’t get back until eight or nine at night. He was seldom hungry having eaten at his desk or at a consulate-required event. Often, he’d brought work home and after a kiss on her cheek disappeared into the room he had commandeered as his study.

Gareth had found the consulate operations a mess. The previous CG had suffered from cancer before his heart attack. Combined with his desire to manipulate the staff, it meant nothing worked as it should. Many of the local staff had quit in frustration leaving too much work for the remaining people.

Granted much of the work was paperwork, visas, banking arrangements, etc.: boring but necessary.

The couple tried to make Sundays sacrosanct. This Sunday they would wander over to Harvard Square, a.k.a. The Square, for lunch, take advantage of the bookstores and maybe watch the students in The Yard or Yahd as the locals called it. In Bostonese she thought it “wicked” fun.

She had made acquaintances with two other CG wives, but she wasn’t interested in being a lady who lunched any more than was politically necessary. She found excuses not to go shopping with them. Gareth had been unhappy about that. “Suggest a movie,” he said. She did, but they weren’t interested because they didn’t like Hollywood films.

She padded into the kitchen and made two cups of coffee. A knock at the front door produced the neighbor from the floor above handing her their Boston Sunday Globe.

Although they read newspapers and magazines online from several countries in French, English or German, they both liked sitting at the table, their coffee in front of them with croissants from the bakery around the corner on Newbury Street, handing sections back and forth. They would read headlines or bits and pieces to each other.

“We could do it online,” she had commented on the first Sunday that began the ritual.

“But I like the rustle of the paper,” Gareth had said.

“And the smell of the ink.”

Despite feeling at loose ends, a phrase she hated because it made her feel as if part of her body would fly off, she told herself she was content. After years of concentrating on studies or work, there was a freedom to decide at the last minute to do what she wanted.

A coffee aroma filled the kitchen. She removed the croissants bought late yesterday afternoon from the toaster oven, put plates, butter, honey and coffee sugared as Gareth liked it on a tray, placed the tray on top of the Sunday Boston Globe and headed to the bedroom.

“You’re an angel.” Gareth was sitting up in bed. Daphne crawled in next to him.

Daphne took the magazines. Gareth, after checking the front page, went for the editorials. “Good. Nothing about the Brits. Not even the Prime Minister.”

Daphne saw an article about Minute Man National Park. She showed it to Gareth. “Isn’t that where the two unknown Brits are buried, where you laid a wreath or something last month?”

Gareth’s mouth was full of croissant. He nodded.

“Instead of going to Harvard Square, let’s go there today. We can run over to the square on the Red Line for a coffee any time.”

Gareth swallowed. He looked out the window.

“I don’t really feel like driving and I don’t want to bother Tom on his day off. Let’s stick with the Square.”