I let out a muffled squeak as once again I drove my needle into my finger. Aunt Ford's lips tightened with each additionally sound, though she had given up reprimanding me. I stared at my half-started embroidery forlornly. A small drop of blood was spreading and drying into a brown spot on the clean linen, as large swoops of thread crossed each other into a jumbled mess.
A knot of annoyance tightened within me. My brother, Obedience, never had to do anything as mind-numbing or as pointless as embroidery, and it showed. For what was he doing now? Fighting for freedom with General Washington and all of the other men whom treasured independence from the tyrannic Great Britain. And what was I doing now? Failing at making a bluebird out of thread.
No matter how hard I tried to mask my anger, my mouth hardened into a thin line. It was so unfair, how I had to sit and be content with sewing away, day after day, while blood was shed in battle grounds across the colonies for my freedom.
I didn't want someone else to fight for my god-given freedoms— I wanted to fight for them!
"Mercy, stop staring and start working," Aunt Ford snapped. She looked back at her lap, but almost instantly lifted it up again as we heard an unexpected sound.
There was a rapping on the front door. Urgent and heavy, the sound echoed through the silent mansion. Aunt Ford's eyebrows raised themselves so high on her forehead I was shocked they did not disappear. Beside her, Elizabeth didn't move, although I saw her sewing hand falter. The knocking persisted.
"Who on earth is out there in a foot of snow?" Aunt Ford said, delicately standing up. Leaving her embroidery on the sofa, she made her way to the large window at the end of the parlor. My aunt looked out at the mansion's front door, which was easily visible from the parlor. Like a deer being hunted she froze, and lifted a hand to her pinched, unsmiling mouth.
"My Lord," she breathed, not blinking at whatever she saw outside.
I launched myself from the chair I sat in, tossing my needle and thread to the floor. Hurriedly I came to stand by her side, and followed her gaze to the mansion's front door, and the people waiting outside it.
I let out a gasp at the sight. Seven gentlemen stood on the front stoop, six of them respectfully falling back from the tallest of them, who had a commanding posture, even from my limited view. Behind those gentlemen there were tall, uniformed men carrying muskets and bayonets. And beyond those, a group of servants and slaves mingled together, along with a very short women with a full gown and cap.
A look of pure delight must have crossed over my face, for Aunt Ford frowned even more deeply.
"Child, what are you doing with your expression? Do you know these vagabonds?"
I smiled, and slowly backed away from the window until I rested one hand on the parlor door. "Aunt Ford, please do not call General Washington a 'vagabond'." Leaving her and Elizabeth to their embroidery, I ran down the hall, unconscious of what anyone would say about my behavior.
The American army was knocking at my door.
YOU ARE READING
Mercy for the Patriots
Historical Fiction*ON HOLD Mercy Painter wants nothing more than to have the freedom she has long been denied by both her parents and society-- to speak her mind and have the same opportunities as men. So when General George Washington winters at her aunt's house, M...
