Chapter 1 – Mommy Knows Best
I woke that morning with the same feeling as I had every day in the recent months: an uncomfortable combination of guilt and longing. As usual, I woke up alone, craving just the opposite. The banging on the door to my room began again. I quickly wrapped my robe around my body and called out,
"You may enter." My mother appeared in the doorway. She truly was beautiful. Her dark blonde hair was pulled high on the back of her head with several ringlets at her ears. That morning, she wore a pale velvet gown that rippled lightly around her feet when she moved. Lace traced the deep neckline and a pale silk scarf dangled gracefully from her shoulders. Her mouth was perhaps her best feature. She could light a room with her smile or make you want to crawl into a hole with her scowl. She always said that a person could make you believe whatever they wanted just in the expressions on their face. She made people believe. The morning sunlight played on her face through the cracks in the heavy curtains on the other side of the room.
"Margaret, we have things to attend to today. Have you forgotten your lessons?" No matter how free a soul my mother had, she was very proper. How could she not be? She was the only daughter of the governor. She was raised proper and intended to do the same for me. She didn't want me to end up on the streets someday with no skills and no education. That could very easily happen in those days, especially to women. My father always warned that "if something were to happen" to either himself or my mother, that I could be left with very little. That was just the way things worked. They wanted me prepared.
"No, ma'am. I'll be down shortly," I replied. There never was any arguing or questioning with my mother. One just did what they were told.
My father crept up behind her then, still in my doorway. He looked at me first, raising a finger to his lips, indicating that he did not want his presence announced. He wrapped his strong arms around her, not allowing her to move. She giggled.
"William Turner!" she exclaimed. "Don't make me scream." His hands flew up in mock surrender. He always played that he was scared of her. Maybe he really was.
"Am I to be punished?" he asked jokingly. Mother got a devilish grin on that mouth of hers. She knew exactly what he was implying and did not intend to let him get away with it.
"Yes, you are," she whispered. She whipped around, her gown flying about her bare feet, and began to tickle him. The fact that he was one of the most ticklish men alive was a secret that was jealously guarded by our family. He shrieked like a little girl as he struggled to free himself.
"Elizabeth! No! Someone help me!" He continued to cry out until he managed to pry himself lose and run off down the corridor like a scared puppy with its tail between its legs. I just shook my head.
"Honestly, mother. Sometimes you two behave just like children."
The morning moved on as it always did. I glanced at the clock in the hall often. The minutes slipped by slower than I could stand and I grew more and more anxious. My lessons seemed boring and my attention wandered. I watched intently out the parlor window, down the road to where the local shops stood. I waited impatiently all morning. Noontime came and went. By then, I was more than anxious. I was worried. Nicolas had never been late. Not once.
"Mother," I asked. "Wasn't Mr. Kingston scheduled to drop off the new horseshoes at the stable this morning? It isn't like him to be so tardy." Mother looked at me, a puzzled expression drawn across her face.
"Nicolas Kingston?" she inquired. I nodded. "Margaret," she continued. "Haven't you heard? Mr. Kingston has fallen ill, poor thing. I don't know how he plans on making a living when Dr. Morris has put him on a strict bed rest. He'll be laid up for quite some time, I'm told. Even Dr. Morris can't figure what exactly is wrong with the poor boy. 'Similar to pneumonia,' he said, 'only different'. Strangest thing really…"
I didn't hear any more. I was out the door of the parlor, pulling my overcoat on, and stepping out onto the street, making a run to the blacksmith shop, my breath short and worry already filling my heart. Nicolas, I knew, would not stay in bed, no matter how ill he was.