Here is chapter 2 of When a Daughter Became a Woman. I do not own Liberty Kids!
When a Daughter Became a Woman
Chapter 2: Welcome (Anne's POV)
Sometimes father annoyed me. This would be one of the times he did. Why did we need an apprentice? Once James Jr. got back from Europe, we would not need an apprentice anymore. What was the point of it?
I was downstairs helping mother clean. She wanted the print shop to look nice, when the apprentice arrived. I cleaned the printing press. I ran my rag over the wet ink spills and dust. Father never cleaned the printing press. It was always dirty.
Suddenly the door to the print shop burst open. In ran father with a piece of paper in his hand. He ran over to mother and kissed her cheek. Then he ran to me and kissed my forehead. He took a step back and looked at me.
"You look just like your mother," stated father.
I looked down, at the dress I was wearing. It was mother's when she was my age. It fit pretty well. The dress was white and purple. It was a nice dress and even after all these years, it still looked good.
"Thank you, father," I replied.
"I see you are cleaning the printing press."
"Yes I am—since you never do."
Father laughed and put a hand on my shoulder, and whispered, "You are truly, just like your mother."
"What was that, James?" asked mother.
"Nothing, Sarah," lied father.
Then I heard a knock on the print shop door. Father took a deep breath, before walking over to the door, and opening it. I walked over to mother and stood beside her. She gave me a look of hope, before turning back to face the door.
As father stepped to the side, I saw a man walk through the door. He had long brown hair and he was around my height. He looked at father with his gray eyes. Then he set down his bag, and shook father's hand. They said a few words and then father turned to mother and I.
"Mr. Dixon I would like you to meet my wife, Sarah," said father. Mother curtsied and the apprentice, Mr. Dixon, bowed and said, "It is a pleasure to meet you Mrs. Hiller."
"It is a pleasure to meet you too Mr. Dixon," replied mother.
"And, this is my daughter, Anne," continued father. I curtsied and Mr. Dixon bowed. Once he finished bowing, he looked me directly in the eyes and whispered, "It is a pleasure to meet you Ms. Hiller."
"Likewise, Mr. Dixon," I answered.
Mr. Dixon nodded his head and picked up his bag. Then he turned back to father, and father showed him to his room. Once they were up the stairs, mother gave me her 'I am disappointed in you look'.
"Anne, did you truly just say, 'Likewise, Mr. Dixon?' You could have said simply, 'It is a pleasure to meet you Mr. Dixon.' What you said was rather rude," explained mother.
"Well I did not think meeting him was a pleasure. So saying that it was, would be a lie," I replied.
"Anne, can you act like a young lady for once?"
"Mother, I do act like a lady. I act like the lady, Anne Hiller."
After dinner I walked up the stairs and into the writing room. I sat at my desk, and opened the drawer. I pulled out an envelope, which had all of my brother's letters to me in it. I opened the envelope and took out his most recent letter.
Dear Anne,
I hope you are doing well. Europe is very different from America and I hope to come home soon. This "war" between Britain and France is a mess. It just goes on and on. I have to wonder if there will ever be peace again in the world. I have not seen battle yet, and though it would be interesting to see, I fear it would also be…tragic. The stories father told of us, of when he and mother went around writing about the war, sound great. But when I look at the injured here, I wonder if it is worth it.
I talked a few days ago with a British soldier, named Walter Alexander. He was injured in battle and lost an arm. His friends were killed in battle, and he saw them die. War is not what people make it out to be. It is horrible and there are no winners…only losers.
I wanted to keep reading, but then I heard someone walk across the room. I looked up and saw Mr. Dixon standing, right in front of me. He stared at me and I stared back.
"Do you need something Mr. Dixon?" I asked.
Mr. Dixon shook his head and whispered, "No, Ms. Hiller. I was just looking around the print shop." Then he walked over to my parent's drawings of each other, which they drew when they were fifteen. Next Mr. Dixon turned back towards me, "These drawings are done very well. Who drew them?"
"My parents drew them; my mother drew the one of my father, and my father drew the one of my mother."
"Really? I would have never guessed. They look as if they were done by true artists."
"Well, Mr. Dixon, my family is full of surprises."
Mr. Dixon nodded and walked around the room. I picked up my brother's letter that I dropped, when Mr. Dixon walked in. I opened it and started reading it again, but I saw Mr. Dixon staring at me. So, I set the letter down.
"If I may ask," began Mr. Dixon, "…is that a letter from a suitor?"
I laughed and answered, "No it is not."
"Then may I ask who it is from?"
"It is not the place of a gentleman, to snoop into a lady's personal life," I quoted my grandmother.
"I do not mean to pry. I am just simply—curious."
"Well if you want to know Mr. Dixon the letter is from…my brother."
"You have a brother?"
"Yes, I do. He is in Europe, at the moment, writing about the conflicts between Britain and France."
"So your brother is learning to be a journalist; so he can run the paper when your father is no longer fit to."
There…he said it. My brother was going to run the paper. My brother was the journalist. My father was the one who ran the paper. Mother and I never did anything. We could not do anything because we were women. Almost every man thinks that way. It is so…annoying! A woman can do anything a man can do, and she can do it better.
"Yes my brother is learning to be a journalist. He was taught by a great teacher," I agreed, though secretly I was lying.
"Who was his teacher?" questioned Mr. Dixon.
"My mother."
"I see your mother—your mother? That is not correct. Your brother learned from your father. Women do not work or write."
"Oh, but you are very wrong about that. My father and my mother own this newspaper. My mother wrote articles for the newspaper with my father when she was fifteen. My mother helps print the newspaper and write articles."
"That does not make much sense."
"Oh, but it does. You see my brother will not get run the newspaper, after my parents cannot—I will. I write articles for the paper. I work with the printing press. And my family does not need some boy, who does not know anything, helping us! If you stay more than a week here, Mr. Dixon, you will learn that women are just as capable as men—and if not more!"
Once I finished talking I looked up at Mr. Dixon again. His eyes were wide, he was staring at me, and his mouth was wide open. I put my brother's letter in my desk and I stood up. I walked over to Mr. Dixon and put my hand under his chin. I pushed his chin up and closed his mouth.
"Mr. Dixon," I began, "it is not polite to stare at a lady."
With that I walked out of the room, leaving Mr. Dixon standing still…pondering what I had just said to him.