Freedom's Light Page 2

  Hannah pulled on her cloak and tugged the hood over her head. The light mist still hung in the air, coating the view with a milky veil. She paused for a moment outside the door and listened. The only sound the wind carried back to her ears was the roar of the waves. She sighed and picked her way along the rocks and the sand to the lighthouse.

  Opening the door to the nearest tower, she flinched at the stinging smoke. Her eyes smarting, she climbed the steps to the light tower. She extinguished all four wicks on the first bucket lamp and picked up her rag to clean the glass. She hated the monotony of the job. She’d had to do very little of the actual work with John here, but now the entire dreary burden would fall on her shoulders.

  Rubbing the glass briskly, she let her attention drift. She hadn’t thought her life would be tending a light on a lonely coastline in Massachusetts. She still missed the hustle and bustle of Charles Town—parties and soirees with her sisters, Lydia and Abigail.

  Her hand paused at her duties, and her heart gave a sudden thump in her chest. She could ask Lydia to join her! Her parents would never spare their baby, Abigail, but surely they would allow Lydia to come to her. Her younger sister would keep her from loneliness and bring a bit of the southern ways Hannah so missed. She rushed through her cleaning and hurried back to the house with a smile on her face.

  Once the letter was composed, she resigned herself to making a duty call on her in-laws.

  Roses bloomed at the front of the stately two-story home, and Hannah breathed in the sweet aroma. She caressed a soft bloom but didn’t dare pick one. Beatrice would never stand for it. Her roses were her pride and joy.

  Hannah lowered her hand. Enough dallying. Straightening her shoulders, she pushed open the heavy wooden door. She could hear the murmur of voices from the parlor, and her heart sank when she recognized the deep tones of Arthur Goodman, the minister at the Congregational church.

  “Your daughter-in-law has fallen asleep in worship the past three Sundays, Mistress Thomas. The church must act on this.”

  “I am aware of this problem, Reverend Goodman. What my son ever saw in her, I will never understand. I suppose it was her pretty face, but I had hoped I had raised my son to know the difference between fluff and substance.”

  “You know, I am sure, mistress, the holy Scriptures command that an overseer must have his wife and children under control. I fear the church must act to remove your son from his duties as deacon until he is more able to control his wife.”

  Hannah clenched her jaw at the condemning tone of the man’s voice, and her temper flared. John was always warning her how her temper needed bridling, but she longed to rush into the parlor and berate them both for gossip. She’d endured the disdain of her in-laws and the community for a year now. But the minister’s harsh words tore at her heart. In her church in Charles Town, faith was real and vital, not this strict adherence to law. The entire town of Gurnet, Massachusetts, was governed by their narrow moral code. Their ancestors had fled England to seek freedom of worship. Why could they not accord that same courtesy to others?

  Breathing deeply, she leaned against the wall as they went on about her shortcomings. She supposed she should have bowed to the stern faith this community held, but it quenched the life from her.

  The inhabitants of the pristine parlor were still unaware of her presence as she stood in the doorway. Reverend Goodman’s fleshy form looked ludicrous perched on the delicate imported sofa, his large feet firmly planted on the lustrous red tones of the Oriental rug. The teacup looked tiny in his massive hands.

  Her mother-in-law, Beatrice Thomas, sat in the lady’s chair opposite him by the fireplace. Her face flushed when she finally caught sight of Hannah standing by the door. She rose with a soft whisper of silk and gave Hannah a brittle smile. “My dear Hannah, there you are. We were just discussing you. Would you care for some tea?”

  Hannah struggled against the hot words that threatened to spill from her tongue. For John’s sake, she would be respectful. “I would not, Mother Thomas. I can see you are busy, and I have duties to attend to. I will return at a more convenient time.” To her chagrin, tears spilled down her cheeks, and she turned and fled from the room. Now they would know she had heard their hurtful words.

  Humiliation and anger choked her, and she stumbled along the path up the cliff toward home. She rushed into the saltbox house. She put her palms against her hot face, then dropped her hands to her sides and paced the rug. She wanted to march right back over there and give them both a piece of her mind. She’d tried her best to be a good wife to John, but it was never enough for Mother Thomas. Was it her youth or her failure to conceive? Both were beyond her control.

  Hannah dearly longed for a baby—a child she could nurture and raise. She’d never mistreat or ignore her child, but the good Lord had not yet seen fit to bring life to her womb. She’d not yet given up hope.

  Gradually her agitation eased as she thought of the verse she’d read this morning in Proverbs 15. “A soft answer turneth away wrath: but grievous words stir up anger.” That had always been her trouble. It was hard to answer softly when her anger burned so brightly at injustice. At least she’d managed to bridle her tongue today.

  Hannah’s trembling finally ceased, and she was left with a deep sense of loneliness. The house echoed with silence. She had to get out of here, just for a little while. She hitched her eight-year-old mare Sally to the gig and set out for Gurnet.

  The breeze washed the heat and humidity from her skin. Ominous black clouds gathered to the north, and the wind snatched at her mobcap and teased tendrils of black curls loose from the ribbon, so she finally took off her cap and pulled the ribbon from her hair.

  Suppressing an irreverent grin, she pulled the gig to a stop outside the general store. She knew she looked like a fishwife, so she hastily dragged her fingers through her hair and plaited it. She climbed down and took her basket from the back.

  Ephraim Baxter looked up from behind the counter when she stepped inside the store. He gave her a toothless smile, but Hannah could see his wife, Edna, assessing her appearance. She obviously found it wanting—her wrinkled mouth scrunched even tighter.

  “Mistress Thomas.” Ephraim wiped his wrinkled hands on his stained apron. “How may we help you today?”

  Hannah smiled at both of them, in spite of Edna’s disapproving look. Any company was better than her own. After giving Ephraim her order, she wandered along the battered wooden floor and looked at the notions. Everything from pots, birdcages, and baskets hung from the ceiling, while the floor space was crammed with barrels of pickles and displays of spices and sewing needs. The scent of cinnamon mingled with that of leather and mint.

  She paused in front of the boiled hard-candy display. Why not indulge, just this once? The Thomas household usually frowned on such waste, but John wasn’t here to scold her, and she felt a bit reckless and defiant after her confrontation with Beatrice.

  “I shall take a bit of candy,” she told Edna.

  Edna’s pinched expression became even more pronounced, but she didn’t argue. She handed the candy to Hannah silently.

  “Where be Mr. Thomas this morning, mistress?” Ephraim handed her full basket back to her.

  “He and Harlis are off to join the Continental Army.” Hannah took the basket and checked to see if anything had been forgotten.

  Ephraim’s face brightened. “Aye, they be good men. Soon the British will be running back to England with their tails tucked between their legs.”

  “Some call it treason.” Hannah loved nothing more than a good discussion about something more interesting than tea and gardening.

  “Ha!” Ephraim shook his grizzled head. “’Twas worse than treason what King George has done. The paper said he has hired Hessians to help him win this war. He’ll soon find that no mercenaries can overcome Yankee fortitude.”

  “Hush, Ephraim. Mrs. Thomas has errands to run.” Edna looked at Hannah as if daring her to contradict her.

 
Hannah knew when she wasn’t wanted, and she gave a reluctant nod. She’d been eager to hear what else Ephraim had to say. With a smile of thanks, she hurried back out into the sunshine. The clouds had billowed higher and more ominous. She’d best get home or she would get caught in the storm.

  The wind was whipping the water into whitecaps by the time she stopped outside her saltbox home. Weathered to a soft gray, the house looked the way she felt—soft and worn with cares and griefs. Some days she felt eighty instead of eighteen.

  She curried the horse, then took her basket of goods and went inside. Thunder rolled out over the ocean, and flickers of lightning illuminated the sky. The storm was almost here. Perhaps she should get the lamps ready now. She sighed and hurried down the path to the rocky coastline.

  Hannah entered the first tower and started up. The stairs were steep, and she was out of breath by the time she reached the top. She stood for a moment and looked out over the roiling sea. A longing as sharp as a cramp gripped her. Oh, to be able to travel the world over instead of being stuck in a remote place like Gurnet Point. Far in the distance, a ship sailed south. If she could have changed into a bird and flown off to meet it, she would have done so. Pushing away the fanciful musings, she began her tasks.

  She carefully filled the pots as John had shown her, trimmed the wicks, and made sure the glass was clean and smudge-free. After descending the steep spiral steps, she walked to the other tower and repeated the preparations.

  By the time night fell, wind-driven rain lashed the house, and thunder shook the windows. Hannah watched anxiously from the window to make sure the lamps were still lit, but both towers beamed with a reassuring glow. At midnight she went out through the gale and refilled the oil, cleaned the glass, and trimmed the wicks again.

  The night stretched before her like the black Atlantic Ocean she could only hear, endless and vast. It would be the first of many such nights.

  CHAPTER 2

  Lydia Huddleston leaned out the window of her coach and waved to the scarlet-clad British soldiers marching in formation beside the road.

  “Mercy sakes, child, get back in here!” The older woman beside her tugged on Lydia’s arm until she pulled her head back in with reluctance.

  “I just love soldiers.” Lydia sighed. “They look so dashing in their uniforms. Did you see the blond one blow me a kiss?”

  Martha Nelson, Lydia’s chaperone, gave a scandalized sniff. “Why I ever agreed to see you to Boston, I shall never know! You had best keep such sentiments to yourself once you reach Yankee soil. You shall find yourself tarred and feathered and run out of town.”

  Lydia smiled. “Hannah would not let them.” She was eager to see her older sister. It had been over a year since they’d been together. She’d been only too happy to quit her job at the millinery shop and leave the angry home she was raised in when she received Hannah’s letter. Father had not been inclined to allow her to go, but Mother had brought him around. Lydia had felt badly about leaving Abigail behind. The poor child had cried and begged to be allowed to come too, but their parents refused.

  The hills rolled endlessly, and occasionally she caught glimpses of deep-blue water through the trees. She gave a contented sigh. Soon she would be living along the ocean and could watch the ships sail past. Mayhap she would even have an opportunity to talk with some soldiers. Massachusetts was crawling with redcoats. She dreamed of marrying a British soldier and living in England someday. And why couldn’t she? Anything was possible with her beauty and nerve, so her mother had always told her.

  The steeples of New York gleamed above the treetops, and Lydia leaned forward again. The last she’d heard, Galen was stationed in New York. His sister, Margaret, had stopped by the millinery shop just last week and said she thought he’d be there indefinitely. Wouldn’t it be grand if she found him?

  “How long shall we be in New York?” she asked Martha.

  “Three days. You are to stay out of trouble, miss. Once you get on the coach and leave for Plymouth, you are my responsibility no longer, but until then, you must keep your nose clean. Do you understand me, me girl?” She fixed her steely gray gaze on Lydia.

  “Of course,” Lydia said airily. “But surely, Mistress Nelson, we must see something of New York.”

  Martha gave another disdainful sniff. “Just see that you stay by my side. A mercy it was for your dear mother that I agreed to look out for you. You would have disappeared with some soldier the first day had I not restrained you.”

  Lydia ignored her and stared out the window. Martha had been a necessary trial. If she had not agreed to be chaperoned, her father would not have allowed her to come. He was still bitter about Hannah running off with John and was not inclined to do her any favors.

  Lydia had thought her older sister mad to reject Galen’s offer for her. John was so much older than she, and so stern and sober when their father had invited him to dinner one night. A true Puritan. She remembered how full of fun and laughter Hannah had been when they were growing up. One day, just days after Hannah’s sixteenth birthday, that all changed, and Lydia had never understood why. But maybe this trip would bring them close again, and she would be able to find out just what had caused Hannah to disappear a few months after that fateful birthday, only to send them a letter two months later announcing her marriage to John Thomas. Lydia had been incredulous when she heard the news.

  The coach stopped at a low-slung building with a large sign proclaiming it the Golden Lion. Lydia was eager to get out and stretch her stiff muscles. A young boy brought the steps, and moments later they alighted on firm ground. The scent of cabbage roiled from the dirty inn before them. Carriages lined the street, and Martha started toward them to ask for conveyance to their lodgings.

  “Can we not go into the inn for some refreshment first?” Lydia begged. “My throat is full of dust.”

  Martha hesitated, then gave a reluctant nod. “Aye, a body could do with a cup of tea.”

  Lydia led the way inside, and they were soon seated at a battered wooden table with steaming cups of fragrant tea and a plate of biscuits before them.

  Lydia stared around the room with eagerness. The inn was packed with British soldiers. Several saw her interested glance and returned the perusal. She must look a sight after so many days on the stage. Just one more week of travel, and she would be with Hannah. But in the meantime, she meant to make the most of the opportunities at her disposal.

  After tea they hired a carriage and spent the night in comfortable lodgings three blocks away. The next morning while Martha was engaged in a spirited discussion with the proprietress of the establishment, Lydia slipped outside. Last night they’d passed the British headquarters just two blocks down the street. She was determined to take advantage of the opportunity to find Galen.

  A young officer, his eyes drooping sleepily, looked up when she entered the building. “May I help you?” His gaze flickered over her, and he sat up a bit straighter.

  “I do hope so,” she said with her winningest smile. “I’m looking for Lieutenant Galen Wright. Please inform him his sister is here.” She told the lie without an ounce of shame. She would have been his sister if Hannah had not been so stubborn.

  He wrote the name down. “I shall see about getting the message to him. His sister, you say?”

  “That is right. His sister Lydia. If you would be so kind as to inform him that I am residing just down the street at Larson’s Inn, I would be most grateful.”

  The soldier leered at her. “I will give him the message, miss.”

  “You are too kind.” She deliberately showed her dimple. “My brother will be very surprised to find me here. I thank you for giving him the message.” She gave him one last smoldering glance, then hurried back to Larson’s. When she slipped back inside, she was relieved to find that Martha hadn’t even missed her.

  If fortune smiled on her, she would soon see Galen’s blue eyes and blond hair.

  Galen strode through the streets of New York, e
njoying the snippets of loyalist conversations he heard. He had wasted no time in joining the British forces after the Continental Congress had passed the Declaration of Independence. Did those separatists really think a bunch of colonials could stand against the might of Great Britain?

  He reached the headquarters and went inside to see why he had been summoned. “Lieutenant Wright reporting as requested.”

  The man seated at the desk looked up. “You had a visitor this morning. A young woman who claimed to be your sister, but she did not resemble you.” He leered and winked at Galen. “Lydia, she said her name was.”

  Galen raised his eyebrows. “Where is she?”

  “Just down the street.” The man handed him the piece of paper.

  He took the note, perused it, then pocketed it. “My thanks, sir.” He couldn’t imagine why Lydia would be here. He hurried down the street toward Larson’s. Maybe she had news of Hannah.

  The old lady who answered the door obviously was a colonial. Her dislike shone in her eyes. He asked for Lydia, and she showed him to the parlor with reluctance.

  Moments later he heard the sound of running feet in the hall, then Lydia burst into the room. He stood to his feet, and she rushed into his embrace. She’d grown up since he’d seen her last. A year ago she was a skinny blonde girl with windblown hair. She had turned into a very beautiful young woman. But she wasn’t Hannah. Nevertheless, he enjoyed the press of her lithe young body and only grudgingly let her go. “What are you doing here?”

  She pouted prettily, then sat on the sofa beside him. “Hannah sent for me. John has gone off to war—for the colonials, of course—and she wanted some company.”

  Galen was silent for a moment. John was in the war now—and vulnerable. He barely heard Lydia chattering beside him. This was his opportunity, and he didn’t intend to miss it. Hannah would be his yet. The war had opened many doors for him. Here was one more.

  CHAPTER 3

  SEPTEMBER 7, 1776