Rebellious Heart (4 page)

Susanna peeked through the window at her younger brother, William, sitting under the tutelage of his teacher. Jealousy twined around her heart and pulled taut. What she wouldn’t give to be inside the parsonage at the table, studying with him.

She tugged at the ribbon of her cape and loosened it, letting it droop from her shoulders. Due to the chill of the September afternoon, her mother had insisted she don the outer garment over her riding suit during their visits to the poor widows. But the heavy cape had only overheated her and now added to her irritation.

William twisted his pencil above his slate and stared at a faraway spot on the wall while his tutor read to him from the thick volume of
Rollin’s Ancient History
.

Susanna had to swallow the bitter words she wanted to shout at her brother through the window. There he was, surrounded by their father’s massive library with a knowledgeable teacher at his leisure, and yet he failed to apply himself or appreciate the privilege of his education.

He was an ungrateful boy.

She spun away from the parsonage before she gave liberty to her unkind words. Her father had always admonished them to say all the handsome things they could of people and never to speak ill of anybody.

But sometimes Father’s instructions were too difficult to follow, like now when she wished she could trade places with William.

She’d begged her parents to send her to one of the rare academies in Massachusetts that admitted girls. When they’d refused, she pleaded for the chance to at least sit with William during his lessons. And while her father had been open to considering the arrangement, her mother had insisted on training her daughters properly. Mother had instructed her and Mary in simple writing and arithmetic, as was appropriate for preparing young girls to manage their own homes someday. Anything beyond the basics was deemed unnecessary and even ostentatious.

“Reading books is a waste of time for girls,” Mother said too often. “As long as you know how to read the Bible, then what more do you need?”

If it hadn’t been for Grandmother Eve’s encouragement and additional instruction, Susanna was sure she would have withered up and died by now. As it was, every time she’d visited Grandmother Eve at Mount Wollaston, the dear woman had provided excellent lessons in her unique way of blending learning and amusement. She’d not only instilled in her a love of reading, but of writing and thinking deeply.

“Susanna Smith,” her mother called from the garden where she’d stopped to give instructions to Phoebe, who was finishing picking the root vegetables. “If you’re going to stay outside, you must wear your cloak.”

“Yes, Mother.” Even as she pulled the cloak back over her
shoulders, her heart rebelled against the action. She was nineteen years old, and Mother still treated her like she was nine.

“In fact,” Mother continued, “I suggest you go straightaway into the house. You’ve been out long enough, and we don’t want to chance you getting ill.”

“I beg you not to worry.” Susanna moved away from the window, away from the parsonage and toward the gate. “The ride and the fresh air have invigorated me. Besides, I’ve promised Phoebe I’d gather a basket of fresh apples so she can make apple tansey tonight.”

Susanna unlatched the gate and slipped through before her mother could intercept her.

“Don’t be gone overlong,” Mother called after her. “It isn’t safe.”

As Susanna had predicted, after yesterday’s trial and Hermit Crab Joe’s freedom, Mother had worried about traveling without a male chaperone. She’d insisted Tom accompany them, even though he was already busy enough with all his harvesting duties.

Susanna started toward their old slave whose slumped shoulders were outlined in the shadows of the barn as he tended the needs of the horses they’d ridden that afternoon during their visiting around Weymouth’s North Parish.

Even if Susanna balked at Mother’s overprotectiveness, she more than willingly joined her mother’s charitable efforts to provide relief to the poor women who had no trade or means to earn a living for their families. As the minister’s wife, Mother took her duties to look after the widows and orphans quite seriously.

She admired Mother’s determination to care for the needs of the women who’d lost their husbands during the years of fighting with the French and the Indians. Although the
Treaty of Paris had brought an end to the hostilities earlier in the year, it hadn’t brought any solutions to the suffering of the widows.

More important than the food and cords of wood they distributed were the supplies for spinning yarn and weaving cloth they gave the women. When the widows finished spinning and weaving, Mother sold the cloth and was in turn able to pay the women.

“Miss Susie,” Tom said with a gentle smile as she stepped into the barn. “Let me go get the apples. I don’t like seeing you go against your mama’s wishes.”

“She’s still anxious about the murder.” Susanna stretched for one of the woven baskets hanging from a hook in an overhead beam. The dust of the recently cut hay sprinkled down and tickled her nose.

Tom paused in unhitching a bridle. His warm brown eyes probed her.

“She has to realize sooner or later I’m not a child anymore.” Susanna dangled the empty basket from her arm. “I can make some of my own decisions, can I not?”

“She just loves you. That’s all.”

“And she shows you an abominable lack of consideration.” Susanna had long ago asked her parents to give Tom and Phoebe their freedom. She couldn’t understand why any human being needed to be owned by another. But as a Quincy, her mother had grown up with slaves and didn’t see any reason why they needed to make changes to their circumstances—not when they treated their slaves as well as any servant, if not better.

“It’s all right, child.” Tom resumed his care of the fine mare she’d ridden earlier. “Your mama’s a good woman. ’Sides, you know she’s not my real Master.”

Susanna nodded and patted the mare’s flank. She’d heard Tom’s explanation her whole life, and she loved him for it.

“My real Master, He rules from heaven, and I take my orders from Him. And as long as He says to serve and obey my earthly master, that’s what I’m gonna do.”

Susanna knew she would ultimately do the same too. She would never willfully disobey God or her parents. Mother was only doing what she thought was best for her—even if she became slightly smothering at times.

After all, Mother had allowed her to conduct her dame school in the kitchen for the local girls. She’d helped provide the supplies and was supportive of her efforts to teach the young girls, although the schooling only consisted of basic writing, reading, and sampler work.

“Susanna!” Mary’s call came from near the parsonage.

Susanna gave the mare a parting slap and retreated from the comfortable shadows of the barn into the fall sunshine. The clouds half covered the sky, rendering it the same misty gray as the distant waters of the Massachusetts Bay. The breeze blowing off the sea and the long estuary brought a damp chill.

Mary stood by the garden fence, tendrils of her fair hair dancing with the wind around her face and highlighting the excitement in her features. “You’ll never guess who has sent me a letter.”

Susanna’s thoughts returned to the party at Grandmother Eve’s and the attention Richard Cranch had lavished upon her sister all evening. “You’re right. I’ll never guess. I can’t even begin to imagine who would send you a letter.”

With a dreamy sigh, Mary pressed a sheet of paper to her breast.

Long into the night, when they’d finally snuggled under the coverlet in their bedchamber at Grandmother Eve’s, Susanna
had listened to Mary whisper about Mr. Cranch and how kind and thoughtful and funny he was.

Unfortunately all the talk of Mr. Cranch had only made Susanna think about Mr. Ross. She’d given herself a lecture numerous times, telling herself to put all thoughts of him aside. He was after all, by his own admission, in disagreement with the policies of the king. What if he decided to join the ranks of those who were growing discontent with British rule? Everyone knew the men who spoke of rebellion were either fools or hotheads.

Besides, Mr. Ross had paid altogether too much attention to Hannah. And most suitors who were enamored by her witless cousin were usually seeking her dowry.

“Wealth, wealth, wealth—it is the only thing that is looked after now,” she’d whispered as she watched him at the party hovering over Hannah, jumping at her every insignificant whim, and smiling at her every boring word.

Susanna knew she couldn’t be too harsh on Mr. Ross for his conjugal aspirations. After spending the afternoon delivering goods to the poor with Mother, she was reminded again that they could only offer such assistance because of their affluence. If she hoped to carry on the work of helping young women, then she herself would need to have substantial means. That meant only one thing. She must do her best to find a suitable husband.

As much as she’d liked to think she was no longer the same silly girl who had once dreamed of marrying princes and rich merchants, what other choice did she have besides making a good match?

“Mr. Cranch has asked to come calling this evening,” Mary called breathlessly. Of course, Mary had never been at a loss for suitors, but so far none had captured her attention quite
the way Mr. Cranch had. “Father has agreed to let me invite him to dinner this evening.”

“Then I really must make haste to pick apples for Phoebe so your Mr. Cranch can enjoy her apple tansey.”

“
My
Mr. Cranch?”

“Yes.
Your
Mr. Cranch. You know you’ve already won his heart.”

At least Mr. Cranch wasn’t self-seeking like so many of the men who came calling. He had enough prestige and prosperity of his own that he didn’t need Mary’s. Instead he seemed genuinely enamored with her.

Was it too much to expect the same, to find a man who would love her for her inner qualities rather than her outward assets?

Susanna wound her way up the gently rolling hill behind their large home to the orchards. She strolled among the trees laden with apples and pears, but didn’t stop until she’d crested the hill.

She took a breath of the crisp air, inhaling the sweet tang of the apples that had fallen and were already fermenting beneath the trees. She feasted upon the surrounding farmlands, on the old clapboard houses weathered by the sea sitting upon their one- or two-acre plots. In the distance, wetland swamps and beaches were coated with seaweed the farmers would cart away to restore vitality to the soil.

Everything entreated her to stay and relax. Even the nearby wooded heights among the granite outcroppings gleamed with the vibrancy of the changing leaves.

She dropped her basket into the yellowing grass and wished she’d thought to bring her newest book from Grandmother Eve. As it was, she dug into her pocket and retrieved the small volume of poetry she’d managed to hide. In spite of
the slight chill, she needed the peace to read without Mother hovering over her.

Susanna shrugged out of her cloak and spread it on the grass. Surely she had nothing to fear. Even as she glanced around and attempted to reassure herself she was completely safe, a twig snapped nearby.

She jumped and searched the sloping orchard for signs of danger. She tried to silence the hard thump of her pulse and listen for any other sounds.

Except for the
dee-dee-dee
of a chickadee, the orchard was silent.

A chill breeze rippled the ruffles of her sleeves and sent shivers up her arms.

Out of the corner of her eye she caught the slight movement of a dark shadow. But when she turned her head, she saw nothing but the peaceful orchard.

“Everything is just as it should be,” she whispered. She was only nervous because of yesterday’s trial. She had no reason to worry. Mr. Ross and Parson Wibird had insisted Hermit Crab Joe was no longer a threat.

Nevertheless, she picked up her basket and gathered her cloak and decided not to linger.

As she plucked the ripe apples, every flitting silhouette seemed to jump out at her until she found herself picking faster and glancing around more often, gleaning little enjoyment in the task she usually found so pleasant.

She’d only filled her basket half full when another twig snapped, this one louder and more distinct.

She stopped, her hand midair. She spun and saw what appeared to be a young woman before the form slid behind a trunk, obviously trying to escape from the orchard undetected.

“May I help you?” Susanna called.

The woman darted forward, her apron bulging with apples.

“Please, don’t go.” Susanna started after her. “I mean you no ill will.”

The woman tripped, stumbled to her knees, and gave a cry of pain. The apples in her apron tumbled around her.

Susanna dropped the basket, picked up her skirts, and bolted toward the stranger.

The woman looked over her shoulder, giving Susanna a glimpse of beautiful but delicate features etched with fear.

“Please don’t be afraid.” Susanna held out a hand, hoping the stranger would see it as a gesture of peace.

“I’m so sorry.” The woman crawled forward, scrambling to rise and get away at the same time. Her feet were bare, which wasn’t unusual for a poor maiden, not on fair-weather days when one might attempt to conserve a pair of shoes.

What was unusual was the condition of the young woman’s feet. The heels, arches, and toes were slick with blood and dirt. In places, the flesh was sliced open.

Susanna pushed her hand against her mouth to stifle a gasp.

The stranger rose to her bloody feet, but not without another cry. She grabbed a low branch to hold herself upright, but it broke like dry kindling and she crumpled to the ground again.

Susanna hastened to the woman’s side and knelt next to her. “My dear woman, you’re in need of a doctor.”

“No!” Her thin cheeks were streaked with dirt, her bodice ripped in several places, and her hair hung in a loose, snarled mess beneath her dingy muslin cap. “Please don’t call anyone.”