Chapter 8
I awoke in my own bed, my Mama
looking anxiously down at me. "You gave
us quite a fright, darling," she said in the voice she always used when she
wanted something from me. "I hope now
you've learned your lesson about going out by yourself." What did Charles
tell them? I wondered, praying it
had not been the truth. "Your sister
Meg comes back from school in a week, and we cannot have you acting in such a
manner while she is here!"
Ah yes. Meg. Perfect Meg, with
her blond ringlets and starry blue eyes.
She always had been Mama's favorite, and why shouldn't she be? Meg was always so much the Tory daughter,
the pet of all the soldiers. Was she
not engaged to a British Major now?
Mama had always been so blind about Meg. She never noticed how she beat her servant,
Sukey and how she toyed with her beaux endlessly, leading them on to do her
every bidding, and then discarding them when they were no longer needed.
"Are you listening, Abby? Such a
coincidence that it should have been your own brother Charles who saved
you." Mama was speaking to me. I suppose he did save me, didn't he? I
thought, but not from the dangers of the street, from you. I did not know what Charles had told my
family, but I was grateful. Mama looked
at me pointedly, speaking slowly, annunciating every word with precision.
"You always were so fascinated with him, weren't
you? He left this family, just like you
always wanted to." Mama realized how
cruel she'd been to me, and was now trying to think up an excuse. You would do that, wouldn't you? I
thought, you hated me without reason, and now you're trying to find a reason
for your hatred. Well, it doesn't work
that way.
I didn't go to Chris' funeral. I had heard it would be a grand affair, his
funeral procession more of a parade, with hundreds of people, perhaps 50 of
which knew him. The Patriots were
determined to make a martyr out of Chris, and I wondered, would he really
like to have his death glorified so? But
I knew the answer to that question: Chris would be proud-no, beyond proud-for
his death to act as propaganda for them.
He would feel as though he had died fighting for the cause he believed
in so much.
I first started by asking Mama if I might go out the
day of his funeral. "No, Abby, of
course you may not go out," she told me.
"Do you mean to tell me that after what happened to you just a few
nights ago, you want to risk your life again?" she asked, more exclaiming in
exasperation, really.
"Please Mama," I entreated, "I must go out this
day!"
"No, Abby, I refuse to let you go. Today, of all days, is not the day for you
to be on the streets. Those treasonous
'Patriots', as they choose to call themselves, are holding a parade for that
scum boy who was 'murdered by the British',"
I said nothing, only pleaded with my eyes that she would let me go. She said this last statement, looking at me
hard, and she saw. "But that is why you
wish to go, isn't it?" Oh Lord, have mercy on me now!
"Why do you wish to go, anyway?" she asked, as a
look of disdain came over her face. She
snapped, "There are two reasons why people are attending that street rat's
funeral. First, because they knew him,
and second, because they are Patriots."
She was yelling by now. "Which reason is it, Abby?" she asked, grabbing my arm, as her
nails pressed deep into my skin. "Look
at me! Which reason is it? I'll get an honest answer, Abigail!" she
looked straight into my eyes, with her clear blue ones, exactly like Meg's,
looking like a cat about to pounce.
"I knew him, Mama." I said it so quietly, it was a miracle she
even heard me, but I looked straight at her, defying her fiercely. However, I did not tell her that I was a
Patriot, knowing that though I was giving her a reason to hate me even more I
was not giving her a reason to kill me, which she would certainly do if she
knew my loyalties.
She slowly released her strong grip on my arm, and
sat down on the settee. She no longer
looked like a cat, but a beaten horse, after running too far and too long. She always hated me. I thought. This should make her happy, because it
justifies her hatred.
"I tried to teach you to be a quiet
young lady," she said after a long silence.
"But you had too much spirit.
You always did, Abigail. And
that spirit is what will undo you." She
said, as she glared solemnly at me.
"Oh Mama!" I cried, and put my arms
around her on the settee. She removed
them from her person, and held me at arms distance, disgusted.
"Abby, I will not allow you to go. While I see that you will most likely never
be anything close to a fine lady, you are still my daughter. And as such, you will not associate with
such riffraff. You will not leave the
house without an escort. And you will
NEVER disgrace this family again."
"Mama, I
promise you, I shall behave perfectly, if only you allow me to go to his
funeral!" I pleaded, no longer defying her, as it had taken me so much courage
to do.
Of course I was not allowed to go. What had I expected? But I knew my Mama was capable of much more
than yelling at me, and frightening me with her clear blue eyes. I resolved to be more obedient to my
parents, much as I hated them now more than ever. Somehow Chris' death had been a sort of wakeup for me. It showed me that the path my life had taken
could not continue forever, and eventually I would have to better my ways. But could I simply be an obedient daughter
forever? And one day, could I marry a
piggish Englishman and be an obedient wife?
