Entry Four

Letters from Mollie McGowan 

I really enjoyed doing a bit of creative writing in the setting, and using a lot of the information I learned in this class!

Our heroine, Mollie

Mary, the sister

June 30^th, 1773, Boston, Massachusetts

Dearest Beth,

It has been so long since I have seen you, cousin! How are you, and how are Benjamin, baby Charles, little Martha, and Agnes? Please give them all my love and regards.

I had to write you immediately, after what has happened today.

This morning Father decided to allow George to ask for Mary’s hand in marriage. Hardly fair, seeing as I have loved George dearly for twelve years, since I was seven years old. Mary is three years his junior! Only 16! How can Father think it is a good idea? How can they think marriage is a good idea when I adore him, and when our colony is in such turmoil? 

I admit, I don’t know much about the law, or about most things that Father discusses with George and Frederick, but I hear many things when I help Father in his shop. Just last night I heard Mr. Cooper telling Father that all the lawyers in Boston have been discussing the new tax that the King has imposed on us. Imposed, forced, are these words the truth?  I can’t see how it will affect us at all. 

And yet, George has chosen to marry Mary. How will the set-up house? He is but a blacksmith journeyman, and his workshop is barely begun. His business is not yet full-fledged. He needs someone diligent and frugal, unlike my sister. Mary is everything but. She begs Father to purchase her the finest cloth she can find; silks and satins and light spun cotton and linen, muslin, lace, velvet. Then she spends all her time stitching and planning and shaping gowns of grandeur, that everyone gawks at on Sundays, they are so fine. She trims bonnets with peacock and ostrich feathers.

Thankfully, Father’s shop is doing well, and we can still live well. He has always been so good about providing for us. I pray to not be envious of dear Mary, as extravagant as she is. I pray to be content with my green muslin for church, my two cotton day gowns, and my one grey silk for very fine days.

The last time I wore it was last year, before January. Christmas time, you know. I wore it to the ball at Colton Square, and danced with George, Abraham, and John. John and Abraham, as I have told you, are both British officers, and very fine, with tall cut boots and thick red woolen coats. I asked if they had their muskets, but they said they could not bring them to the ball. Sadly, I have not seen Abraham again, but I saw John once at the Governor’s house, outside standing watch, but when I went to speak to him, he darted away, and another soldier told me I couldn’t see him. I don’t suppose to know why he ran, but I can only assume that he is very shy.

That ball was the finest I have yet been to. My mother told me that I was the most beautiful girl there, but she only said that because she is my mother and feels compelled to say such things to me, though I know them to be untrue. My hair is far too yellow to be considered pretty, and my eyes set too wide apart. Frederick always says that it makes me look innocent and young and fresh, but I think they make me look like a heifer. Too brown to be pretty with my hair, and with my fair skin. Freckles cover my face and hands each summer as the sun burnishes them. 

This summer I have worked much in the garden behind my house, which has not helped my freckles one bit. Frederick has helped me a few times, but George stands inside with Mary, laughing with her, and not at all doing any work. How they shall manage when they are wed, I do not know.

My carrots plants have grown up good and strong, and the parsnip plants look beautiful and healthy. My cabbages are big, and quite delicious looking, and nothing is better than my fresh cucumbers, cool on a hot summer’s day. 

Mother rejoices that the rains come often, for it seems that each time I haul water for the garden, I rip my skirts, or else get them wet and dirty, making extra work. As you know, we spit up our tasks each day, and she often does the laundry, while I clean and garden and bake, and Mary sews for all of us, but mostly herself. In many ways, she has stopped surprising me.

What does surprise me is George! How could he do this to me? He knows how much I care. We told each other how we felt years ago, and now he is claiming that he loves Mary. I hardly remember them even speaking a fortnight ago. Now George barely even looks at me, and I believe that our last conversation, that I recall, was when we argued about our faith. He has known our whole lives that I have strong convictions, that church is imperative to me, that I do not tolerate foul language or dishonest speech. And yet! Yet! He swore in front of me, twice, and Frederick told him to cease, and he persisted! In front of a lady!

I do not understand why he does what he does any longer. But perhaps it is God saying that George is not Suitable.

At the ball I mentioned before, I think I also danced with Frederick. John commented that my hair looked elegant against Frederick’s chestnut hair. Perhaps that is a good sign. He noticed something about me, perhaps.

Mother insists on new gowns for the autumn. She says that there may be visiting occurring these next few months. I dearly hope that we may see you soon! I remember fondly the old times of our lives, when we would stay up, whispering, late into the night, under the eaves in your attic, buried under feather downs. Our little curls done up, for church. I miss being young, full of mischief, full of imagination. Perhaps one day you and I can raise children of our own, and live in the same town, able to see each other whenever we’d like. Why must Uncle Henry have you live so far away? New York is too far for us. 

George found a stray dog the other day, a russet brown dog, rather large and unkempt. He brought fleas into the house, and we’ve all been scratching for days.

Tomorrow is church, and Mary is telling me how all the girls will want to ask her what it’s like to be engaged. I told her that she ought to hold her tongue; everyone knows that it’s bad luck to speak of your engagement too soon. She just laughed and tossed her head, her long brown hair swishing. How I have despised her hair, and then felt such deep remorse and guilt. How can I feel this way about my own sister? 

At dinner Father was saying that the government treats us so badly, from England. How can he say that? Are we not loyal subjects, under the king’s rule? Does he not have the right to tax us as he wishes? Why do men believe that everything is an insult? 

Father says that he believes that men know best, and that they should be able to do as they wish with their own money-including using it for the good of our own colonies. What does Uncle Henry think? I feel so confused about this matter and cannot tell what I think. Not only that, but George was grimacing at me over the table all evening Why does that horrid boy persist in reminding me how much I care for him? 

We ate bread and parsnips, with some meat that Mother bought at market today. George fed his parsnips to the dog, which he has dubbed Rex. It seems to me somewhat treasonous to call a dog the king.

Love, Mollie

November 14^th, 1777, Boston, Massachusetts

My Darling Frederick,

How fondly I think of you! How wonderful to me were yours eyes the day I turned around and found you watching me. I remember so clearly, how you caught my hand and told me you were in love. Not just with me, but with my family, my faith, and my God. How you held me as I cried that night, when my father was brought home, hurt in a riot. Your hand in mine was a steady comfort, and wondrous blessing. 

Mother interrupted us that day, I think. You had told me how you felt toward me, and then she bustled in, skirts switching and eyes darting. 

“Mollie,” she said, “There are dishes that need washing. Frederick, go study your lawbooks or some such useful thing.” 

You laughed, and ducked your head, and I felt myself blush. Mother’s eyes sparkled, and you good naturedly laughed your way out the door. As soon as mother turned her back, you stuck your head back through the door, and gave me the biggest smile I’d ever seen. And I had not yet even responded!

How could I, when my heart was racing faster than I believed it could? How could I think straight, when all I had seen for months was your face in my dreams, your words echoing in my head, my love for you growing day by day? If I had voiced all these thoughts to you, would you ever have believed them? 

Mother always told me that I felt things so strongly, that it would be my failing. She was right. I love deeply and strongly, but this time is different than ever before. I loved one man George, who broke my heart and married my sister, your best friend and fellow apprentice. 

And yet, you stood alongside both of us, watching things fall into place, and I never dreamed that I should come to feel about you in this mysterious way! 

Your face is the dearest face to me.

Father said that if we were in love, that we should be wed, but you said you wanted to build a home for us before we married. Then Father argued with you and said you should have asked him before you spoke to me, and how you had gotten my hopes up and now I would have to wait and what if evil passions overtook us? 

But you stood strong, and you looked him in the eye, like the man I have grown to love more than any other, and you told him your plans. A house in a few months, a marriage a few months later, children, work, church, and faith. You had it all planned out. A spark danced in your grey eyes, determined to do all that you had seen and prayed for. 

My heart lurched within me then, knowing that this is how it would be. Seeing your future stretching out in front of you is no small thing. But it’s one thing to be fearful, and yet another to see it looming and reach out to grab it firmly, with both of your hands, not matter how small they may be.

That’s what I yearned to do, and by God’s grace, I have done so. In all things, I pray I have grasped fully, and lived honestly. And the years still loom ahead. They are ever present, just a few moments away. 

Yet this world is chaotic. It always changes.

God is good to us. 

In May, as soon as the flowers had opened, you and I held hands in the small church on Thistledown Lane, as we were pronounced man and wife. Love, we are each others, now and forever more.

That same day, we heard news of unrest in New York, where my cousin lives. Our wedding day was colored dimmer by the rumors that buffeted us. Meetings with the king had failed. We were at war with England. With our homeland. Our Mother. 

How could we betray her thus?

Yet we did. We. The Americans. That’s what we had to call ourselves. But why? We were not America. We were Massachusetts. New York. Virginia. I wept that day, my face in my gown, my tears staining its pale skirts. You held me. I wept for our future that we had planned so very carefully.

It was only a few weeks later when the first battle was fought, one which we somehow scraped through but did not win. 

I wouldn’t speak to you for three days when you told me you wanted to join up. Our lives mattered more to me. 

“Please,” I begged you. “Please, for the sake of our child, my love!” 

And you stared at me, your eyes wide. “Our child?”

I nodded. Our child. Already, within just a few weeks of marriage, I bore a child inside of me. You kissed me, and cried, both of us did. 

And still you left. How could you? How could you leave to fight? You told me it was for the babe, but how would that help him? A child needs his father with him. A wife needs her husband.

Yet it seemed that once again, the Lord gives and takes. I’ve been given much, but more has been taken, I feel. 

There was a morning. A specific morning. I hadn’t had any pains yet, but I felt something inside. Not the baby. In my chest, behind my lungs. A ripping, or tearing, or something that felt similar.

I cried out, for you. For you alone.

Please, Frederick, come back to me! Do not be gone from me forever! I cannot raise this child on my own! Our son needs you. Our small Fred needs you. He needs a father to teach him right from wrong.

I cry, every night. For a long time, the tears would not come. My eyes would ache and sting, and yet I could not cry. To cry was to admit defeat. To admit I played and lost, again. To admit that all this had been in vain, and that my heart was broken once more. 

It’s been over a year. Why can I not lessen this deep rooted pain that indwells me? It is as though my very soul is silent, broken. 

Mother suggested I write to you, to help myself understand. I can never understand. I shall lay this letter on your grave tomorrow. I will weep beside you, out son in my arms, and I shall curse the day my God took you from me. Does He not see I need you?

The Lord gives and takes away. Can he not take me away too?

Love, Mollie