The Immortal American (The Immortal American Series) (7 page)

“No.”

He turned to me, his nose flared and stared at me like he’d never seen me before.

“No, you won’t pay me back.” I arched a brow and grabbed the bottle, hiding my smile.

“I was going to give you a hundred pounds as a wedding gift, and you cannot pay a gift back. How rude, Mr. Jones.”

He smiled and shook his head. “I can’t accept—”

“A hundred and fifty pounds, and if you say one more word, the price will keep going up. Well, until I run out of my savings.”

He silently snorted a laugh, then stole the bottle away from me, shaking his head. “I love you, Miss Buccleuch, you stubborn woman.”

“I love you too . . . Jonah. May I please call you by your Christian name now that neither of us will be a single person soon?”

“Only if I can call you Violet.”

I spat in the palm of my hand and extended it to Jonah. He looked disgusted, but spat in his and shook my hand.

“Firm shake, that is, laddie.” He laughed at my impression of my father’s Scottish brogue. I continued without the Celtic accent. “So when are you going to retrieve your bride,
Jonah
?”

“Well,
Violet
. I was hoping to take off when you get back from Boston.”

“Oh, yes, Boston. I’m going to Boston tomorrow.”

“That you are. Did you forget?”

“Why, yes, I did. In all your exciting news, I forgot. I am so happy for you, friend. Many congratulations on your upcoming marriage.”

“Thank you, Vi. I appreciate that. I’ve worked on your family’s farm now for almost five years. You know I think upon you and Hannah like sisters, don’t you?”

“And we think upon you as a brother.”

Jonah nodded, looking down at our shared ale. “Your father was one brave man, freeing me the way he did. I always thought of your da . . . I never knew my own father.”

“My father was very proud of you. I think my father thought of me as his first son and you his second.”

He laughed and shoved at my shoulder with one of his own. But then his smile sobered. “As your brother, may I take license to speak freely to you then?”

I squeezed his hard-worked hand with one of mine while smiling. “Of course.”

He nodded again and cleared his throat. “What I’m about to say is something that I think should come to light.”

“You think I should start farming wheat. I know. Last harvest wheat paid almost double what barley was. I just worry how wheat seems to not be hearty enough for the—”

“It ain’t wheat I was wanting to talk to you about, Vi. It’s about men.”

“Men? Oh Lord, not another lecture pertaining to . . . carnal intimacy. Mother just talked to Hannah and I a little more than a week ago about . . . that subject. I think because Hannah’s been so love struck with her beau. I understand vaguely what’s going to happen, but I—”

“Woman,” Johan interrupted, his voice firmer than I’d ever heard. “Will you be quiet for just one minute? I’m trying to talk.”

I bit my bottom lip and tucked my chin a few inches, which made him laugh.

“I’m sorry to have yelled, but my heavens, when you do get started talking there’s sometimes no stopping you.”

I nodded and snickered.

“All right, now . . . what I mean by talking about men is a man’s heart. I’ve known Mr. Adams since your da paid for my papers, and moved to work and live in this here farm. Mr. Adams, he’s followed you around in all that time, like you had a piece of his soul that he was gracious enough to wait until you returned it. I had to respect the man for his tenacity.”

I smiled, while Jonah eyed me. But then he said seven words which shook my whole world.

He turned to me pointedly. “Mr. Beaumont is a good man too.”

I blinked and tried to think of how I should react. I know I stiffened; my shoulders were almost touching my ears. But I forced a smile on my face and nodded as nonchalantly as possible.

“I think he might be a good man, yes.”

Jonah studied my eyes, then handed me the bottle. “You are a woman now. What are you, eighteen years of age?”

“Two and twenty, actually.”

“When did you get so old?”

I laughed, punched him with one arm, and with the other I slugged a drink back. Oh goodness, but I was getting drunk.

He smiled and nodded. “All the same, your mother might be giving some . . . kind of lectures, but I can tell you about a man’s heart. Mr. Adams, Mathew, he’s got a good heart, and he’s been in love with you probably since the day you were born. And you’re going to marry him?”

“Yes, you know that.”

Jonah nodded. “I do. I know that you should be careful of Mr. Beaumont. He’s in love with you too.”

It was a thunderclap of information. I was too shocked to act or feel the reverberations echo in my body, but just shook my head.

“Listen, missy, I know when a man is so in love with a woman he can hardly breathe. I know that because the first time I saw Bethany, my . . . fiancée, I nearly fainted. I’d never seen a woman so beautiful. Aw, you and Hannah are awful pretty, but I think of you two like—”

“Like sisters, I know.” I laughed, but then defended Jacque as quickly as I could think. “But you’re wrong about Monsieur Beaumont. I’m no one of significance, especially to him. I’m a woman who wears breeches; I’m overeducated; I—I work with dirt; I’m always a mess; I look atrocious–”

“Violet,” Jonah interrupted again, but with his jaw set the way it was I couldn’t find any more words to counter his point. He continued, “I overhear men talking about you. I know you never hear the talk, nor do you ever pay no heed to the men. You’re too busy, inside that big head of yours with all those ideas of yours floating around. But they talk about you. Yes, many a man might find you peculiar, but there’s something about you. You have spirit, girl, and there is no hiding that. And there’s no hiding from the fact that you are a pretty girl, er, woman.” He paused, but then gave himself a quick nod. “I’m telling this to you now so you know, and so you know about Mr. Beaumont.”

I began to shake my head again, feeling my cheeks burning. “Monsieur Beaumont . . . I’m just a country bumpkin to him, I’m sure. Even if you are remotely right, Monsieur Beaumont is not the kind of man who would hurt me.”

“I am not talking about that Frenchman hurting you.” Jonah patted my hand. “No, he’d never hurt you. He’d hurt himself. He looks at you like he’s dyin’, Violet. Like he’s dying. I never seen a man so happy to be suffering.”

What Jonah said resonated within me, my heart. But still, I had to keep up an appearance of innocence. “Well,” I huffed, “even if somehow you are right, what are you suggesting I do about it? I’m engaged . . . to be married . . . to another man.”

Jonah nodded. “Let him know that. Mr. Beaumont needs to hear it from your lips that you’re taken. The sooner, the better.”

“Jacque knows I’m engaged. He knows it.”

“Violet, men, men’s hearts are sometimes unstoppable. Take for instance me, I’m
buying
my wife. I’m buying her freedom. There’s only one thing that would stop me from marrying that woman, and that’s her. If she’d said no, I’d’ve a broken heart, never be the same again, but I wouldn’t be asking for money, something I swore I would never do. But I did it for her, and I’d do it again. I’m going to travel through Virginia country where the settlers don’t take kindly to free black men, and the Indians are known to scalp travelers. Yet, I’m a going. I want that woman to be mine with all my heart. Are you crying?”

I nodded and wiped at my wet cheeks. “It’s so beautiful.” I hiccupped. “Your love for your fiancé. You have to stop telling me how much you love her or I’ll blubber for days.”

“I haven’t seen you cry since your daddy passed.”

I sniffed and smiled. “I know. Lord, I’m a mess.”

He smiled sagely. “Nah, you aren’t a mess. You’re just a romantic fool.”

“Don’t tell or I’ll punch you in the nose.”

“And such a lady.”

“That’s what a lady would do, I’m sure of it.”

Jonah smiled down at me. He patted my hand again. “Just tell him yourself, Violet. Tell Mr. Beaumont that you love Mathew and you’re going to get married to him. That Frenchman needs to hear it from your lips that you love another.”    

I breathed a sigh of relief. Jacque’s carriage that was to drive my family and me to Boston did not carry him. The driver said that Monsieur Beaumont had traveled ahead and was waiting at the inn we were expected to dine and stay that night. I had pictured myself sitting in between my sister and mother in the carriage, across from Jacque, and how I would have exploded from the desire to touch him. Thank God that didn’t happen.

Mathew had traveled ahead as well, saying something about rum and rights to be had for all. I’d laughed and kissed him on his cheek.

In the glass windowed Landau carriage (Of course it was a huge glossy black Landau, the best of the best. It was sent by Jacque.) I couldn’t keep my eyes open as soon as we were on the highway, even though Hannah had finally admitted her engagement to Mother, and they were bickering about the arrangement. Still, I slept almost the whole way to Boston on my sister’s shoulder while she and my mother debated if Lieutenant Kimball’s actions were moral or not. My mother thought the lieutenant should have asked her first for my sister’s hand in marriage, but my sister thought he would have asked our father, but since Da had passed away, he didn’t know the proper channels of offering himself to our family. I vaguely was aware of the argument in a haze of sleep, and only once was interrupted a few miles shy of Boston by traveling lobsterbacks, strangely enough, asking for directions to Concord.

Gladly, I accepted the sleep, as I didn’t want to make any comments of my own. I, too, wanted Lieutenant Kimball to at least pay respect by introducing himself to my mother or even just to me before he’d proposed. This excuse for not having any time off was no justification at all. I knew the redcoats had at least one day off—that was general knowledge. Also, Dr. Prescott, one of the doctors in Concord, had told me about his latest trip to Boston and seeing many of the troops having leisurely days. Lieutenant Kimball could have come the twenty miles from Boston to Concord. True, it was a long trip, but would it be that time-consuming for the one you love? I thought not.

I woke when we stopped in front of the inn in Boston. My sister informed me that she had seen a fabric shop while I had been softly snoring on her, and we
had
to make a quick stop to shop during our visit in Boston. I smiled and nodded, calculating how much fabric we could afford. What a nice diversion my sister provided for me in quickly spinning how much money we could spend, instead of obsessing if Jacque was eagerly awaiting me, like I was of him.

By then, it seemed the more I struggled with trying to forget him, the more I would ponder over every word he uttered or the way the sun sunk into his black hair, reflecting a dark blue light, almost as deep of a blue as his eyes. That deep shade had become my favorite color.

Like a poorly made musket, all my attempts at ending my regards toward Jacque had backfired on me. The sparks of his essence were burning me, yet I loved the sting.

Still, vain or not, I felt I was strong enough to overcome my emotions. For the sake of everyone I loved, I had to . . . eventually.

We were guided into the inn by a friendly young woman, who gave me a letter from Mr. Adams and explained to us that Monsieur Beaumont would wait for us in the inn’s dining room, but that we were to take our time with settling into our apartment.

I read and giggled at Mathew’s note that indicated he would not be dining with us.

I am far too drunkenly to ride my horse in my condition
in my condition.

I could smell the rum off the paper, and chuckled all the more when I noticed he’d written the date four times, March 20
th
in our Lord’s year of 1775. I was glad that Mathew was having such a good time already. In a day, he would have to be back in Concord, clerking for the supposedly secret congress session.

With two relations of Mathew’s already such staunch politicians, Mr. Samuel Adams and Mr. John Adams, I wondered if Mathew would inevitably serve his country of Massachusetts by becoming a statesman too. I wasn’t sure I would like to become a politician’s wife. Mrs. Abigail Adams, Mr. John Adams’ wife, the only female relative of Mathew’s who openly liked me and talked with me—the other Adams women thought I was far too educated, like Abigail–told me that she didn’t like the long days when her husband was so far away. But she was one that triumphed in her duty, and would be happy when her husband was making speeches in congress and happier still when he was at home.

I sponged my face from the travel’s grit with sweet smelling rose soap that Hannah had remembered to bring. She did know how to pack for the occasion. She also had brought with her enough rose, honeysuckle, and apple blossom water to scent all of the brigades of redcoats stationed in Boston.

As I rinsed and baptized myself in floral scents, I washed away the thoughts of Mathew, of getting married, of responsibilities. I was in Boston, going to meet Jacque. I felt like giggling like Hannah and clapping and jumping at the same time too.