“Who told you that I do such a thing? Do you suspect me of not being loyal to the Crown?”
“Oh, no, Mistress.”
I noted how her friendly familiarity had gotten formal when I confronted her motives. I rose and stood with one arm against the mantel of our fireplace. With my other hand, I touched the rim of my house cap twice and watched her from the corner of one eye as I pretended to stir the bean pot. She made no like movement. I said, “I hope your family has stayed warm with the blankets I gave you.”
“Yes, indeed, Resolute.”
“It is only against the law to trade in such. I am still allowed to make them for my family and my friends. It was a gift to you from our best, Emma. Nothing less than any neighbor would do.”
“Of course, dear friend. I meant nothing by it. It’s just, we have need of so many things. Prices are so high. I hope you don’t think I would do anything against the law.”
I turned to face her and smiled. “Absolutely not. It was but a misunderstanding. I am sure you need the money.” I wondered if she might even be paid for witnessing against any neighbor thwarting the law. Lest my words seem like the accusation it was, I added, “We are all finding prices higher. Doing with less.” We finished our ale and she packed up her goods, with her cloth of boiled eggs atop the basket so it looked as if that were her only burden. As I watched her call her children and walk away, the smile left my face. I would have to be far more discreet in everything I did and said from this day forward.
Before long the ladies to whom I sold cloth made it clear whether they would flaunt British law or not. I came very near to being caught trading in woolens one day. I rolled a length of wool in a sack, and once in Boston, placed it in the coal bin of Constance, the dressmaker. I made other stops and returned, to find inside a pouch holding a pound and ten shillings. Then the next week when I repeated the charade, I opened the coal bin and found the pouch, but in it were two colonial paper notes, virtually worthless unless I were to trade in Loyalist shops. I took the money and boldly walked inside. I wanted gold, not paper, and I would have it. There were four people in there, three women and a man I knew not. I handed Constance the notes. “For my bill,” I said, then whispered, “Would you please change these for gold?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Whatever do you mean? I carried no credit for you, Mistress MacLammond.” She raised her brows to the man. He stepped closer to me.
I felt the hairs on my arms rise and a tingling took my fingertips. Angered, fearful, I said, “No, no. Fancy that. I have gone to the wrong shop. It is money I owe the butcher. What a silly mistake I have made. I’m sure the only things you butcher in this shop are ladies’ gowns.” I made my way to the door, resolved never to trade with Constance again. I felt doubly sad for it, though, knowing that the split between Loyalists and the rest of us would only deepen.
CHAPTER 33
January 2, 1765
Five years can pass like the blink of a cat’s eye. I had not opened the chests my brother left with me. Though I spoke not of him, he would return, I knew, for when he was not with us, I heard about him instead. He had gained repute as a smuggler, and it was sometimes said with a low voice and a wink, “This be got by trade or by Talbot?” as a way of acknowledging the fact. He was hailed for it. Though I feared for him, I took pride in his reputation, too. Every day I held his image in my mind’s eye and thought of him standing on the foredeck of his great ship, the wind filling the sheets as she moved across swells. I pictured him happy, standing there. Each woman I met, I considered as a bride for him, but none was fitting. None could replace his first love, the sea.
During those years August made furtive sorties on land. Sometimes he boldly occupied his house in Boston. Often he unloaded his “trade” on the harbors. Once in a great while, he came in the dark of night with a wagonload of things to put in the double floor of our barn, or the upper room over my loom, or in the eaves where Cullah had built shelves then closed them off from view. While Lexington had once seemed rather isolated, and its only thoroughfare simply a path between Concord and Boston, now with a great influx of poor people we were hailed night and day by straggling travelers, so that I told Cullah we might as well open an inn, but he did not laugh at my jest.