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141 pages

English

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Description

A historical novel depicting the struggle of a loyalist woman during and after the revolutionary war, even being forced to leave her home and country. As property of her husband, she contends with him moving in and out of her life while she is left to provide food and shelter for their children in a remote environment.

Sujets

Historical

Fiction

Informations

Publié par	eBookIt.com
Date de parution	21 février 2013
Nombre de lectures	1
EAN13	9781456607968
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0500€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

The
Hollyhocks
Will Bloom Again
• • •
Maureen Chadsey

Copyright 2012 Maureen Chadsey,
All rights reserved.

Cover art by Bonnie Acker
Design by Andrea Gray

Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com
http://www.eBookIt.com

ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-0796-8

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

This book is dedicated to my family of past, present
and future courageous women

A grateful thank you to Amy, Betty, Charles,
Ginny, Joyce, Milly, Mona, Pamela and Sarah
for their invaluable advice.

• • •
Autumn
• • •

• • •
Coldly, sadly descends
The autumn evening. The Field
Strewn with its dank yellow drifts
Of wither’d leaves, and the elms,
Fade into dimness apace,
Silent.

— Rugby Chapel , MATTHEW ARNOLD

Chapter 1
T HE CRUNCH OF A FAST-MOVING GIG on the gravel road broke the lethargy of the prettiest Indian summer afternoon of 1775. The dust-raising wheels turned into the farmyard, scattering stones into the grass and sending children racing to be closer to the protection of their mothers.
Abruptly the occupant reined the horse to a halt before the lone oak tree where moments before the children had been scooping leaves into piles and jumping into the oak’s golden treasure, laughing and reflecting the glow of the season on their faces.
Occupying the gig’s entire seat was heavy-set Franklin Fremont. His booming “Halloo” coming from a tiny bow mouth set between fatty jowls stirred the people relaxing in front of the house. He lowered his large body with effort, looped the reins loosely over a tree branch, automatically gave a pat to his horse and strode toward the drowsy gathering.
Wariness and apprehension crossed the faces of the men as they rose to greet him.
“Please, please,” the children shouted, surrounding him and begging for the candy treats he usually carried in his pockets.
“Hush, children,” Alice Marsh, mistress of this farm, reprimanded their brash manners. “I have some apple pie and buttermilk handy, Franklin,” she politely offered, reluctantly rising from her relaxed position on a quilt spread on the grass, vexed that her few treasured moments of rest in the week had been cut short, yet disturbed by his somber countenance.
“Not now, thank you. I need to talk to the men.” His usual jovial face was forbidding and he marched past her, stepping over fat dog Porky lying on the stone step into the house. Refusing food! Why?
“It must be serious if Franklin is refusing food,” Elizabeth Dowd commented as she watched the backs of the men dressed in their striped jackets, dark breeches and white flannel stockings disappear through the doorway behind him. Motioning her clinging seven-year-old daughter away from her side, she said, “Run and play, Abigail.”
“It must be,” Alice worriedly responded. “Why do they always leave us out of the conversation?” she grumbled, knowing they were not invited in to hear what was to be said. The idea that women were not capable of understanding situations in the world that affected them frustrated her. She sighed and shooed her children back to play.
“Affairs of the world are for men’s handling,” Aunt Dorcas countered. She pursed her lips in a tight line, adjusted herself rigidly upright in the black kitchen chair and swept her fan furiously from side to side, its breeze causing the orange plume on her straw leghorn hat to sway in rhythm. At a burst of childish laughter she gave a sniff and an obvious what-can-you-expect disapproving shrug of her sloping shoulders. Actually, she hardly seemed to have any shoulders at all under her plaid cape, which she insisted on wearing even in this heavy autumn heat. Strict with her own children, all girls, she felt Alice was far too lenient and permissive with her children. It annoyed her that Alice even let the children sit at the table to eat. “In my day children were expected to stand and be silent as they ate,” she repeatedly reminded Alice. Now, here it was the Sabbath day and all children should be quiet, subdued and properly contemplating their sinful tendencies, particularly Alice’s rambunctious brood of unruly children.
Alice glanced away from Aunt Dorcas. Though quite proper and keenly aware of Dorcas’ defense of the old custom, she dared break this rule believing it was good for the young children to run and play. During the week there were far too many chores — food preserving, candle making, hauling hot water to the outside tub, scrubbing the dirty clothes and draping them over the bushes to bleach and dry, spinning yarn and on and on. The endless list demanded everyone’s attention and allowed little time for play or for her to have the opportunity to watch them. Maybe, because she was so tired, she was secretly expressing her resentment of Aunt Dorcas and Uncle Ezra for being here. Even on this farm food was scarce but they had eaten extra helpings of the dinner food that she had planned to use for another meal during the week. As close relatives who had helped their nephew Josiah over the years, they assumed they were entitled to the best gleanings of the harvest for their own root cellar and had filled the back of their wagon this afternoon. Then Aunt Dorcas had condescendingly dumped a pillow case full of out-grown girls’ clothes in Alice’s lap for her to rework for her own daughters Penny and Susie. “I know they need the food as much as we do and Aunt Dorcas was just trying to be helpful,” she chastised herself, feeling ashamed at her lack of charity and gratefulness.
Uncle Ezra’s forceful voice interrupted the women. ”Pompey, get the wagon ready,” he hollered to his slave. “Immediately! Dorcas, get in the wagon!” he ordered. His wife gasped in astonishment. Within a matter of flurried minutes Aunt Dorcas and Uncle Ezra were out of the yard and on the way to their town, Pompey and the vegetables bouncing in the back, dust spewing into the air behind them.
“Can’t be bothered with the time of day now, can he?” commented Paul Dowd wryly, motioning to the trailing cloud of wagon dust hanging in the heat. Paul, Elizabeth’s husband, had strolled over from his farm across the road with his chattering five-year-old son Peter hop-skipping along beside him.
“Paul,” Josiah Marsh spoke solemnly from the doorway. “Come in here,” he ordered, motioning him into the house.
“Off and play, Peter,” commanded Paul, giving his son an affectionate pat on the behind. Quizzically glancing at his wife he followed Josiah into the house.
“Whatever can be the trouble?” Alice questioned out loud as she automatically gathered glasses from chair sides and set them on a tray. Elizabeth was surely as much in the dark as she was about the afternoon’s interruption.
“Oh, ‘tis probably just another old political tempest in a teapot. You know how worked up these men get over the least little thing,” Elizabeth replied, readjusting her heavily pregnant body on the tall kitchen stool while alternately fanning her perspiring face with her handkerchief and rubbing her forehead. She was trying to persuade herself it was not too serious. Ordinarily she was content with her small world and not too concerned over events or circumstances outside the sphere of her farm, church and immediate community.
The continual worry lines appearing lately on Alice’s forehead deepened as she looked at her friend. “Are you feeling unwell?”
“‘Tis just a headache. From the heat, I’m sure,” she answered, trying to put forth a reassuring smile.
“Well, I wish I knew what was going on,” Alice said as her worry increased. Absent-mindedly she arranged and rearranged the buttermilk glasses on the silver tray beside her. So engrossed was she in straining her ears to catch a word or two from the house, that she failed to pause and admire her chased tray. It had been an extravagant wedding gift from her family. They had taken many of their Spanish silver dollars to the local silversmith to have them converted into the tray she now held. Eleven years later it was still a prized and precious gift that filled her heart with pleasure whenever she used it to serve company. Seldom was it in use now, for fear it would be confiscated by a British soldier or other unwelcome Whig official who walked in uninvited to look for contraband tea or firearms. She hid the tray in the bottom of the flour barrel and only brought it out to use for special visitors.
Baby Midge began to whimper and Alice stooped to gather her youngest daughter in her arms and dab away the perspiration beading upon the baby’s face. The baby laughed when Alice blew into her neck, giving her kisses and hugs. Tears of despair welled up in Alice’s eyes and she hugged the baby close. Why? Why must these children of hers be forced to suffer for the intolerances of the adults in their world? She found it harder and harder to keep a rein on her emotions. “Surely somehow we can smooth out our differences before there is any more violence!” she asserted out loud. She shuddered, remembering hearing of all the lives lost in the battle at Lexington last spring. She did not like any form of conflict and the very thought of violence between neighbors, and even against England, created a knot in her stomach. There had to be a way for adults to accept differences without fighting, even if animosity ran high. She held the baby closer until it struggled to get down and run with the older children.
Inside the house Josiah and Paul’s voices rose in fiery argument. Then dire, grim silence. Paul marched out to the yard, his face red and set with anger as he took Elizabeth’s arm, called their children to come and strode rapidly along the roadway. Elizabeth turned a puzzled look at Alice.
Again, Alice’s c