Across the street from where the war began sat a small blue house tucked under large canopy trees. The trees hid most of the house from view, but to those who passed the small blue house on their way to the docks could see clearly through one of the corner windows. If they passed by early enough, they'd spot the ancient widow rocking in her chair, a book rested in her lap. Old Widow Jones—as the people in town referred to her as—sometimes waved to those who walked passed her home, a smile tucked under decades of skin and wrinkles, but rarely did she stop to acknowledge the youthful generation outside on the streets. Lost in her own world, she was, a world long gone by now.
Few stepped into the small blue house—her children, of course; all six devoted to their aging mother with the same love she showered them with in childhood, visited often; and the few servants she could afford came and went as their tasks demanded. To them she was not simply a widow to a man most forgotten in history but was Emma Blanchard Jones, the youngest and last surviving daughter of Leopold IV Blanchard, loving mother and abolitionist who believed in education for women and slaves. The daughter of a renown merchant and the wife of a man who helped shape the foundation of a country not ready for him. A woman who risked her reputation, her family, and her own life for the belief of one day living in a free land. Emma Jones was a lot of things, but it was being a devoted mother, wife, and philanthropist she prided most in herself. "Working hands keep steady minds," she'd tell her children when caught lounging lazily in the summer sun, instilling in them the same ideals she shared with her beloved husband.
Not many callers were received by Emma Jones, but to those who were received saw right away why this revolutionary widow was the town's beloved grandmother. Her forest green eyes spoke of many things those too young to remember what life was like before the revolution could only imagine. Her eyes were sharp despite their poor use in sight, hidden behind a large pair of spectacles, but those who knew her claimed they could see her thoughts well before she voiced them. Widow Emma Jones knew of hardship and sacrifice. She knew and understood that everyone was placed on earth to carry out a cross until their last breath, and she accepted that with the strength only a Founding Mother could shoulder. But despite all of life's hardships, her forest green eyes only spoke of love so young and so pure that one easily forgot her age all together. It was the hopeful gaze of adolescence gazing at her guests that warmed them to her cozy home, and it was the same gaze that made people wonder how this woman who had seen so much in her life be so hopeful and optimistic.
"Why it's because of my Killian, of course," she told a friend once, and lovingly clutched the small locket she's worn around her neck since her engagement to Secretary of State Killian Jones 74 years earlier. "He made me the happiest woman alive, truly."
And when asked how a woman her age continued to contribute so much to her numerous charities without so much as a pause, she simply shrugged and said, "Killian never rested a day in his life. If I'm to continue our work, I shan't in mine."
Emma was the last living connection anyone had to what life was like before the war, but rarely did she speak of it. All things in the past shall remain in the past, she believed, and emulated that ideal to the best of her ability in her daily life. Everything but one detail stayed hidden away in her memory: Killian Jones. Only in brief passings did she bring up her departed husband, but when she did, her eyes lit up like a young girl in love again. "He was quite the charmer, my Killian. The only man I knew who had the talent of moving a crowd to passionate fits with mere words."
When one morning the ancient widow woke to nothing but a world of black, she called for her eldest son Henry to come at once. "I've worked so hard to make your father's death not go in vain, but that's not enough." The middle-aged man tried to explain that his mother's devotion was more than enough, but she tiredly shook her head and lightly tapped at the journal in his hands. "We must write down his story, our story. Nothing can ever be forgotten once it is written. Please, for your dying mother, your departed father—do this one thing for us."
Henry finally agreed and told his mother to begin.
Emma Jones smiled her withered smile and said, "It all began off the shores of Great Britain…"