Chapter 36
Boston,
Massachusetts
August
Three
people walked by. Each stared for a moment, maybe wondering if they were about
to witness domestic abuse. Then they looked away as if Gareth’s glare
discouraged them from interfering.
At
seven in the evening, the temperature was in the mid-nineties with ninety
percent humidity. Daphne carried a sweater folded in front of her, a woolen
shield. The couple were planning to eat at Legal Seafood in Copley Place.
Daphne knew the restaurant would be air conditioned to meat-preservation levels
… thus the sweater.
Gareth
had not been there before, but she and Florence DuBois had eaten lunch there
the previous week to discuss their project, which was progressing faster and
better than she could have imagined.
Until
a few minutes ago, she hadn’t told him about the project. The time had never
seemed right. Gareth was too tired after his workday. During the weekends he
might be more receptive, but he still allowed work worries to creep into what
could have been positive time.
Okay,
so workload at the consulate was overburdening him. Part of his problem was
replacing staff. Too many had quit under his predecessor. Those that remained
had little motivation and changing the atmosphere of a workplace took time.
Daphne
wasn’t sure she would like to work for her husband. He was demanding to the
point that she sometimes wondered if her hasty marriage had been a mistake. He
wanted his underwear folded a certain way in his dresser. His shirts needed to
be lined up by color. He didn’t like the way the cleaning woman polished his
shoes. These were things one never learned till after they lived with someone.
She
had thought the difference in ages might have been a help. Ten years wasn’t a
huge difference. There was almost twenty years between her new friend and
creative partner Florence DuBois and her husband Yves.
Daphne
had carefully planned tonight as the time she would tell him.
On
Saturdays there was no alarm. Check.
She’d
made love to him first thing. Check.
She’d
made a full English fry up for breakfast. Check.
When
he disappeared into his office, she’d brought him tea. Check.
It
had been too hot to suggest any sightseeing. Gareth, who happily went to
museums with her in the beginning of their relationship, hadn’t shown any
desire to do so now, air conditioned or not.
As
for movies, their tastes were far too different, but last night she willingly
sat through an old James Bond film, hoping it would put him in a good mood for
her announcement. She even made popcorn and brought him a beer. Although he
poo-pooed many American things, he did like Sam Adams beer. He didn’t get her
remark that the beer was the name of an early patriot who helped rout the
British. He was well read on history of the last 50 years or so, things that
might affect the U.K. current policy. Anything before that he called “ancient
history and a waste of time” unless there was a direct correlation to now.
Gareth
and she had made love a second time, before taking a nap. Naps were the
ultimate luxury in her husband’s opinion. After he woke, he suggested Legal
Seaford. Although she had eaten a fruit salad while he was asleep, she quickly
agreed.
Maybe
she should have waited until they had ordered their meals rather than springing
it on him as they walked past the BPL. “I’m not at all insane.”
“She’s
the French Consul General’s wife.”
“I
know that.”
“Well,
you can’t.”
“There’s
no money involved, just my time, although if it works …”
“What’s
the expression … cockamamie?”
“There’s
nothing cockamamie about a series of historical comic books. We are going to
concentrate before and during the first battle at Lexington.”
“And
you think anyone would listen to a Brit and a Frog? You’ve no credentials.”
“I
read history at Edinburgh University. She is a graphic artist.”
“One
doesn’t read a subject in the United States. They study it.”
“Same
thing. She went to art school. Those are good credentials, but it isn’t the
credential, it’s the product.”
Florence
had told her how she wanted to go to art school, but her father refused to pay
for what he claimed was a useless degree. She worked days and took classes at
night concentrating on computer graphics.
Then
she married. Ongoing art classes were scattered between their relocations and
caring for her stepchildren, Fanny and Yannick.
“We
want to show how ordinary people really lived not just the big names,” Daphne
said. “Let kids know what it was like to live in Colonial times.” She’d begun
spending time at either the BPL or out at Minute Man National Park, where it
seemed as if the park rangers knew the people who had lived in colonial times
personally. The women had agreed once they had the base concept, Daphne would
do the core story and the wording and Florence would draw.
A
lot was still undecided. What they had narrowed down was that there would be a
boy and a girl. One book or two? They weren’t sure. What if there were two
books with the girl in the boy’s story and vice versa. They could overlap.
Daphne
did not remember being so excited over a work project since the day she’d
discovered a treasure trove of 1801 letters from the second head of Tweed to
his son, who was about to take over the business. They were like reading a
novel. She’d rushed to the CEO. He was as excited as she was and gave her free
rein with the material. It had been a good balance to looking over old
accounting books. When she finished, the book had sold well in the gift shop.
Excerpts from the letters had been used in an advertising campaign.
“I
forbid it.”
The
word forbid had never been a good one
to use with Daphne. As a child once forbidden to do anything, she would do it,
even if she hadn’t wanted to. Over the years, she’d mellowed a bit, but the
word still activated every bit of her rebel DNA.
Why
had she married Gareth? Was it triggered by her friend Phillipa when she asked,
“What’s wrong with you; you’re the only one in our group not divorced yet?”
It
was true. Almost all the women she’d studied with at university had married
immediately after graduation, but most of those marriages had floundered. If
they hadn’t divorced, they wanted to.
Had
she met someone she wanted to marry before meeting Gareth, she too might be
divorced. Most of the men who asked her out were money and/or sports obsessed.
They didn’t share any of her interests or her theirs.
Gareth
had been different. Because he worked in the diplomatic corps, he was
interested in politics, not just current politics but the interconnecting
lines. He loved reading. They would often read parts of books to each other. He
could be funny. He was good in bed.
His
good qualities seemed to override his bad, although his desire to control
everything around him seemed to be getting worse. When preparing for their move
to Boston, Daphne had left him in charge since he didn’t like the arrangements
she’d made.
He
hadn’t reached the OCD stage and insist all the cans in the cupboard be lined
up exactly like in that movie Sleeping with the Enemy with Julia
Roberts. He wanted to know what she was doing with her day. Mostly she would
give her destination which was often the BPL. He hadn’t thought anything of it,
nor had he asked her why so often.
He
would plan everything in advance and was uncomfortable when plans changed,
which surprised her when he suggested they go out to eat after his nap.
“Do
we go eat or not?” Daphne asked. “There’s two lobsters with our names waiting
for us.”
Gareth
sighed. All right. I could use a good gin and tonic, but we aren’t through
discussing this.”
Yes we are, because I’m not going to stop, Daphne thought. She could always play the card that she needed something to keep her mind occupied and her duties as his wife would never do that. He’d mentioned a couple of times starting a family. She wasn’t sure she was ready or if it was right to bring a child into their relationship as it was.
Chapter
37
Boston
December
1774
James Holloway had
just entered her father’s bucket shop. Brushes from what looked like a pen
point to one as large as his thumb were in front of her. Dishes were filled
with ground something or other. Metals maybe?
She was working on
a leather bucket maybe two feet high and a foot across. It was larger than some
of the buckets on display outside the shop.
He was surprised
at how pleased he felt that she recognized him out of uniform from the two
times they had spoken earlier. “Soldiers can have a day off,” James said. He
didn’t say that the General wanted him in civilian clothes. His orders were to
walk around the city to integrate with those who might have connections to the
rebels.
“I can’t expect
you to find the people who stole the cannons or the missing powder,” the
General had said. “But maybe you can eliminate where not to look.”
It’s a good
thing, James had thought. He had no idea how he would be able to do that at
the same time he knew he would try his best.
His first stop
would be at the bucket shop where the owner was rumored to be a Sons of
Liberty. John Brewster was suspected of having participated in the second
Boston Tea Party in February, when rebels threw thirty-five boxes or so off the
decks of the Fortune into the harbor. That was less than the first Tea Party
almost a year ago today, but it had added to the anger in London against the
Bostonians.
It wasn’t the
father but the daughter that interested James, but there was the saying of
killing two birds with one stone, not that he wanted to kill either father or
daughter.
The General had
received orders from London to do whatever was necessary to bring the rebellion
under control. Whatever necessary included increasing the drills. Bullets were
still too precious to have regular target practice, but the speed of loading the
Brown Bess weapons had increased through extra drills. Searches for stolen
ammunition increased. Guards on potential trouble makers had increased.
Between his work
for the General and normal duties, James felt stretched. He was slower than
many in loading his weapon because he practiced when he could instead of
several hours daily. He marched less than the others, although he still did
guard duty nights after the General released him for the day.
Today was his
first day on civilian surveillance. He had wanted to go with Thomas and several
of his company into the woods while they searched for a defector. Private Isaac
Thompson had been missing for two days. He was tagged a runaway, heading west.
James wondered
what the western part of the colony was like. He had been north, south and east,
at least to the sea. Because he was accompanying the General, he was most often
on horseback, which had improved his riding.
He’d been up the
coast to Salem so many times with the General that he knew when to expect the next
farmhouse to come into view. He’d visited Woburn, Winchester, Arlington. Mostly
he had seen farms with stretches of woods and a few village buildings.
He’d heard the
further west one went, the more unsettled it became. Villages gave way to farms
then to forests with a few scattered farms with primitive cabins. And if you
went far enough there were Indians. Someone said they were Nipuc. The Pennacok
were to the north. How could you tell one Indian from another, he wondered. He
knew how to tell a Frenchman from an Irishman from a German by accents. It was
possible to recognize a Scot from someone in Ely by their accents and their red
hair and beards on some. But an Indian?
He was sure he had
passed Indians on the street based on coloring and long black hair. Negroes
were easier. Their skins were light brown to so black they were like staring
into a forest on a moonless night. Their hair was tightly wound. Some, he knew,
were slaves. Some were free men.
A negro had been
killed during what the propogandists called the Boston Massacre five years ago
this next March. James only knew about it because rebels kept talking about it at
the Green Dragon.
Today James wasn’t
worried about negros or Indians. He wanted to make a good impression on Sally,
but if she was a patriot sympathizer, which she surely was, he might be
considered a traitor if he courted her.
A private had no
business looking for a wife. William always accused him of living in an unreal
world. Damn it. Why was William still bothering him?
“That looks
fascinating, he said to her. Can you tell me more of what you’re doing?”
“Mixing paint,
putting it on the buckets.”
“I can see that.”
John Brewster came
through the door backwards. He carried large pieces of leather in his hand and
had to use his ass to prop the door as he entered. The leather was deposited in
a corner of the shop next to the fireplace.
He glared at
James. “I’ve seen you with the soldiers at the Green Dragon. Unless you want to
buy a bucket, you aren’t welcome here.”
James debated
buying a bucket, but they were too expensive for his meager salary. “I was
interested in the painting. Your daughter is talented.” He picked up one that
had a village house burning and a line of men with buckets trying to put it
out. Most of the buckets were much simpler with initials or designs. There were
some with fruit trees in blossom.
“Aye, she is.
Which is why I’m the most successful bucket maker in Boston.”
Before James could
say anything, Brewster continued, “She is a respectable young woman, and
shouldn’t talk to a British soldier in or out of uniform.”
“I meant nothing
by …”
“I suggest you
leave.”
“Papa …”
“Quiet, Sally.”
Out on the street,
James realized the only thing he had learned was the degree of antipathy for
the soldiers by one patriot.
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