Read A Buss from Lafayette Online
Authors: Dorothea Jensen
A Buss from Lafayette
A Buss From Lafayette
© 2016 Dorothea Jensen. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopying, or recording, except for the inclusion in a review, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Published in the United States by BQB Publishing
(Boutique of Quality Books Publishing Company)
978-1-939371-90-4 (p)
978-1-939371-91-1 (e)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2015960175
Book design by Robin Krauss,
www.bookformatters.com
Cover design by Ellis Dixon,
www.ellisdixon.com
Other Books by Dorothea Jensen
Historical Fiction:
The Riddle of Penncroft Farm
Illustrated Modern Christmas Stories in Verse:
The Santa’s Izzy Elves Series
Tizzy, the Christmas Shelf Elf
Blizzy, the Worrywart Elf
Dizzy, the Stowaway Elf
Frizzy, the S.A.D. Elf
Praise for
The Riddle of Penncroft Farm:
“A fascinating merge of contemporary concerns . . . and historical fact.”—
Booklist
“An entertaining mystery.”—
School Library Journal
“Brings the past to life.”—
Kirkus Reviews
“Lars Olafson, 12, is not pleased to be leaving his friends behind when his parents decide to move to Pennsylvania to live on Penncroft Farm with elderly Aunt Cass. The only kid in the neighborhood is a girl, and Lars doesn’t appreciate his great-aunt’s conviction that he and Pat are sure to be friends. He becomes happier when he makes a new friend, Geordie, who tells wonderful stories about Valley Forge and George Washington—stories so fascinating that one would almost imagine that Geordie, with his odd clothes and peculiar speech, had actually been there. This is an entertaining mystery involving a missing will that could stand alone, but combined with Geordie’s enthralling tales of Valley Forge during the American Revolution, Jensen gives readers two terrific stories
that are intertwined nicely and come together in a satisfying conclusion. Not only is the history presented in an interesting and painless manner, but also readers should come away eager to read more about this period. Middle graders are in store for a real treat with this offering.”—
School Library Journal,
Copyright 1989 Reed Business Information, Inc.
Praise for The Santa’s Izzy Elves Series
“[Frizzy, the S.A.D. Elf]
. . . is a highly original and wonderfully developed children’s book . . . The rhymes do not seem forced and fit into the story perfectly. The illustrations are also a highlight, as the large full color images are superbly done, with depth and details that lets us see Frizzy and her other elf friends displayed upon the page. By coming up with a creative and engaging story, Jensen has succeeded at crafting a memorable Christmas story for children that is so good it’s possible it will be enjoyed year round.”—
Red City Review
“[Dizzy, the Stowaway Elf
is
]
. . . an engaging contemporary spin on the classic 19th century poem, “A Visit from St. Nicholas” . . . The author propels her present-day take on the classic Christmas poem with gentle humor and suspense, smoothly incorporating lines
from the original poem into her lively tale about a stowaway elf.—
Kirkus Reviews
To my husband, David, for all his support and encouragement,
and to my niece, Clara, and grandniece, Summer, for the loan of their names.
A
CKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thanks to:
Comte Gilbert de Pusy Lafayette, sixth generation grandson of Major General Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier, the Marquis de Lafayette, for answering a question about the Lafayette family tree during a visit to New Hampshire in 2010.
Alan Hoffman, President of the American Friends of Lafayette and the Massachusetts Lafayette Society, for asking Comte Gilbert de Pusy Lafayette that question for me and for checking the historical accuracy of this story.
The New Hampshire Historical Society, for making it possible to read the newspaper articles published in 1825 when Lafayette visited New Hampshire.
Old Sturbridge Village, where my great-great-grandfather was born in 1838 (the actual Sturbridge, Massachusetts, that is), for their excellent publications about this era and for bringing it to life.
The Hopkinton Historical Society and the Hopkinton Town Library, for information about our town during the American Revolution and during the nineteenth century.
My husband, David; my sisters, Martha Johnson and Carolyn Pollak; and my co-grandparent, journalist Robert Wood, for proofreading the manuscript and giving me suggestions about the story; and my good friend, Judith Hampe, for giving me information about “old” New Hampshire.
My sister, Louisa Wise, for providing the music used to enliven the trailer for this story.
And special thanks to:
The late Rita Nash Paine, fellow Jane Austen admirer, for passing along to me the kiss received by her great-grandmother, one of the little girls saluted by Lafayette with a buss—a playful, smacking kiss—in Massachusetts on his triumphal tour of 1824–25.
T
ABLE OF
C
ONTENTS
I, Clara Summer Hargraves, of Gould Hill, in the Township of Hopkinton, in the State of New Hampshire, in the United States of America, in the Western Hemisphere, in the World, and in the Universe, do hereby take up my quill (well, pencil, as I am writing this by the pond so I can cool my feet in the water on this hot day) to keep a
truthful
mostly faithful
account of my life from today forward.
My father’s new wife gave me this journal the day she married him, exactly one year ago. Before then, she was only my aunt Priscilla, a Boston old maid schoolmistress, no less. She is so very prim and proper that I call her “Prissy,” but inside my head—not to her face. That would just be courting trouble!
Prissy married Father a scant, sorrowful week after Mother died. I must confess—but only to these pages—I often do and say things I know will irritate her. Not an admirable thing to do, but I do it anyhow. As today is my fourteenth birthday, however, I am trying to turn over a new leaf.
My stepmother deems me a hopeless hoyden, more a “romping boy than a proper girl” as she so often puts it. She keeps harping at me to act like a lady. But ladies do not
have any fun, with their long skirts and their turned-up hair. They sit around doing embroidery, which is another name for torture, as far as I am concerned!
Today is also the day summer begins. My mother gave me my second name because I was born on the first day of summer. She joked that I owed my hair color to the strawberries she had been picking—and eating—when I decided to arrive. (I suspect that she nearly named me Clara Strawberry Hargraves and am most thankful that she did not.) Father says my hair came from my grandmother, my mother’s mother, who died before I was born, and not from the berry patch. Nevertheless, my dear mama called my hair “strawberry blonde.” I do miss hearing her say that. Indeed, I do miss her sorely in every way, from her lively imagination and her quicksilver wit to her loving caresses.
Now all I have is a stepmother who calls me a hoyden, and certain persons—Dickon Weeks and my dread cousin Hetty especially—who call me “carroty pate” and“pumpkin head” and other horrid names. It all seems dreadfully unfair. No one else in my family is cursed with this color! My father and brother have handsome chestnut-brown hair, and Mother had blonde hair like spun gold out of the
Rumpelstiltskin
story. I loved helping her brush it every night, when she grew too weak to do it herself.
Prissy has blonde hair, too, I believe, although she keeps it well hidden under a mobcap. Needless to say, she never asks me to brush it for her. Nor would I
ever
want to do so.
How I wish my hair looked gold like Mother’s, or black like Hetty’s, instead of this infernal red! But that will change as soon as I get enough pennies in my pocket to carry out my plan!
My plan is simple enough. A few weeks ago, I saw an advertisement for “Simeon’s Lead Combs.” It said that combing the hair using one of these every day would turn red hair into “a beautiful shade of black!” The next time I was in Mr. Towne’s store, I learned that he carries these combs. I do not know if I have enough pennies saved yet, but I will ask Mr. Towne how much this miracle worker will cost. As soon as I get up the nerve, that is.
What heaven it will be to have hair just like Hetty’s! Although my stick-straight hair will never curl like hers, at least it will be “a beautiful shade of black.” She will never be able to call me “pumpkin head” again.
Prissy is calling me to supper. I must run!
I sprinted through the woods to the house, skittering to a stop in the hall by the dining room. That was where we always ate our evening supper, as Prissy preferred its “elegance.”
The pale green walls, white painted cornices, and corner cupboards could be called elegant,
I thought
, but when Mother was alive, “elegance” was not necessary for us to enjoy our food and each other’s company. Indeed, we took nearly all our family meals in the less-than-elegant kitchen.
