The Immortal American (The Immortal American Series) by L. B. Joramo Page B

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