Time Enough for Drums (9 page)

“And then there’s my father.”

“Yes. Fortunately, he respects my position, the same as he respects that of Reverend Panton. But that is neither
here nor there to you. You have lessons to learn. And no matter what goes on outside this room in the next few months, you will learn them. This is your war, Jemima Emerson”—he rapped the table—“and I am the enemy you must deal with. Now let’s get started.”

He got up to remove the silver tray, and as he did I noticed a letter on it. “What’s this?” I picked it up.

He held out his hand. “Your lessons first.”

“It’s for me! It’s from Raymond Moore and it’s for me and you’ve kept it from me!”

“The letter is to be read after your lessons. Now please hand it over.”

“I won’t.”

He set the tray down across the room, came back, and held out his hand. Our eyes met. “Give me the letter.”

I flung it down on the table. It missed and fell to the floor. He closed his eyes. “Pick it up.”

“Pick it up yourself.”

He did so. Then he stood for a moment, turning the letter over and over. “You’re determined to push me to the limit today, aren’t you? Very well.” He strode over to the fireplace. I saw his intentions immediately, ran across the room, and grabbed the sleeve of his coat. “Please, Mr. Reid.”

“Please? You’ve suddenly found your manners? Jemima, I have no intention of entering into battle with you every time I come into this room.” He made a move toward the fire.

“No!” I grabbed his sleeve again.

“Does Raymond Moore mean that much to you?”

“I promised to write to him. Isn’t it also part of being a lady, to keep one’s word?”

“You’re very clever, Jemima. And how will you behave in the future if I don’t burn the letter?”

“Most proper. Oh, I will.”

“And is that a promise you’ll keep to me?”

“Yes, sir.”

He smiled. “Well, that’s better. If Raymond Moore’s letters work such wonders, I think I’ll have them all given to me first. Then you’ll get them, after lessons. Tonight you may compose a reply to this one and let me read it tomorrow, so I can make sure your penmanship is in order. Now let’s get down to business.”

He was beastly and I hated him. We did geography and French and Latin and sums for four hours while Raymond’s letter sat between us. Then he set down Father’s old inventory book in front of me in the proper writing position. His hands were very clean, and when his coat fell open I could see how white his shirt was. He smelled of soap and tobacco, like my father, which is all I could say to recommend him.

Oh, he knew he was handsome, all right. He strutted about the room when he lectured on geography or listened to my French and Latin pronunciation, ever aware of the breadth of his shoulders under his well-cut coat and the six feet of height that nature had blessed him with.

“Remember the correct posture for good writing,” he said, adjusting the inventory book. “Does your wrist hurt? Can you manage?”

“No.”

“No, you can’t manage? Or no, the wrist doesn’t hurt? What did I just say about giving proper answers?”

“No, sir, the wrist doesn’t hurt. I can manage.”

“Good.” He filled his cup with coffee and took his papers to my father’s desk, where he stretched his long legs out in front of him. I started to write, thinking that I ought to mention to Father not to keep any papers from his Committee of Safety work on his desk. I wrote:

Oh, I’d ruined it! I’d ruined it! I leaned back in my chair to rest. My head was aching. John Reid was reading, taking no notice of me, going through those precious papers of his. I closed my eyes for a moment. When I opened them to look around the familiar room, I realized that his birch rod was not in its usual spot behind the door.

“Have you finished?”

“No, I’ve ruined it with spilled ink three times already. I’m never going to be able to do it right.”

He came over to examine my work. “You’re doing fine.”

“I’m not. My writing is terrible.”

“It will improve if you practice enough.”

“I don’t believe you. I’m sure there are certain things in life I’ll never be able to do.”

He sat down opposite me at the table. “Jemima, if it helps you, we all feel that way sometimes. Dan told me before he left that he hoped he had the sense of honor to uphold his rank, to keep his word and demand the same of others. your father confides in me often of his fear that he won’t raise his family properly. In three weeks I go off on a journey to do something that I hope I can have the courage and the wits to do right.”

“You’re going away?”

“I must go to Boston again.”

“What’s in Boston? Nothing but Tories. Are you going to see them?”

“It has something to do with my father’s estate.”

Mother had said something about his having property that had to be settled, but I hadn’t known it was in Boston.

“Why do you need wits and courage to inherit property?”

“You do if others are trying to cheat you out of it.”

“Oh.” But somehow I sensed he was lying about his reasons for going to Boston.

“I’ll have your course of study outlined for you so you can still do your lessons every day. And heaven help you if they aren’t completed when I return. Jemima, are you paying attention to me? What are you staring at in the corner?”

“You didn’t bring your birch rod today, Mr. Reid.”

“No, I didn’t. Somehow I didn’t think I’d need to bring it anymore.”

“Mother said you’ve never used it on anyone. Is that true?”

“Your mother told you that? Well, then, it’s no wonder I was having such trouble controlling you. No, I’ve never used it on anyone. But my students don’t know that. And as long as they don’t, they behave. Now you know my little secret. Will you give me away to my students?”

“No, sir.”

“And why?”

“Because if I do, they’ll be unruly and you’ll be provoked when you come to teach me. And then I’ll suffer.”

He smiled. “We are beginning to understand each other, Jemima. Come, now. Let’s finish the penmanship.”

John Reid left for Boston in the middle of February and was back before the middle of March. I spent time every day in Father’s study with my lessons, but it was difficult to keep at them on my own. I was lonely and would have preferred even Reid’s stern presence to the silence in the room, broken only by the crackling fire and occasional footsteps in the hall. I was easily distracted. A few times Betsy Moore came to call, bringing a book and promising Mama that she would sit and read or hear my French. But we ended up talking. And then Hannah Fry, one of the women in Mama’s Society for the Promotion of Industry and Frugality, with whom I sewed for the army twice a week, gave me a novel to read and I spent a lot of time with that. It was reading, after all, wasn’t it?

I received another letter from Raymond Moore.

I was glad that John Reid was away and unable to see the response I composed in return, for I took the opportunity to pour my heart out to Raymond before Reid would once again be reading my letters.

A letter came from Daniel:

On the twelfth of March John Reid came home.

I was in the upstairs hall when I heard a horseman ride into our stable yard in back of the house. I ran to the window to see who it was.

I recognized the horse, Star, but not the man who dismounted. He wore a rifle frock, much like one of Dan’s regulars, frontier leggings, and a wide-brimmed hat pinned up on one side and decorated with a turkey feather. And he carried a long musket. As I watched him hand the reins to Cornelius and dislodge his saddlebags, he turned in the direction of the house, saw me at the window, and waved.

I had always considered John Reid somewhat of a dandy, for I’d never seen him dressed in anything but his finest-cut coat and breeches with his hair tied in a perfect queue. Now he looked like a backwoodsman. He had a beard, and if not for the horse I wouldn’t have recognized him. I knew he’d taken Star as far as New York and left her there with friends and taken a carriage the rest of the way to Boston.

You would think the Prodigal Son in the Bible had returned, the way Mother and Father carried on.

“John, we’re so happy your mission was a success,” Mother was saying as I walked into the parlor. Father was serving brandy, and John Reid stood in front of the fire.

“Jemima.” He bowed, and I stared at the tall, tanned figure in the rifle frock with a leather belt cinching the lean waist, from which hung a sheathed hunting knife. Surely
this was not my tutor! But it was. He straightened up, and I saw beyond the growth of beard and sunburned face to the intense brown eyes twinkling mischievously at me. “You look well. It seems you’ve grown an inch taller in my absence.”

I curtsied. “Hello, Mr. Reid. I was about to say how different you look.”

“A fine mess is what I look. Have you been doing your lessons?”

But I could only stare, speechless. “Every day, John,” Mother said.

“And her behavior?” He smiled at Father.

“We have no complaints,” Father said. “Jem has been studying religiously. And she’s been helping Sarah with the sewing for the army.”

“Good.” He reached into his saddlebags and brought out gifts—a book for Mother, some tobacco from Boston for Father, and a hunting knife for David.

“He’ll be home for supper, John,” Father said. “I hope you can join us.”

Reid ran his hand over his face. “If Lucy could supply me with some hot water for washing and a shave. I have a clean shirt in my haversack.” And then he handed me a packet. “To go with that beautiful blue dress,” he said.

I opened it to find three hair ribbons, one blue, one lavender, and one yellow. I fingered them lovingly, for they were much finer than the ones Father had in his shop. When I looked up, I saw him studying me with satisfaction. I could barely find my voice to thank him, for something in his gaze disquieted me. “I’ll see you in the study after supper to look at your work,” he said firmly as he picked up his things. “Let’s hope it’s all in order.”

I trembled, watching him take his leave of the room. I
had forgotten what it was like to have him in the same room with me, and now he was back, more arrogant than ever, filling the house with his presence.

“This French is not complete, Jemima. I left more than this for you to translate.”

John Reid’s shadow slanted against the wall in the candlelight as he stood over Father’s desk examining my work. He had shaved and tied his hair back in a queue. But instead of his usual coat and waistcoat he wore a clean white shirt and a black silk stock at the collar. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing muscular arms.

“Well?” he looked at me. “Why is the French incomplete?”

“I did as well as I could without assistance.”

He nodded and went through my sums. “These seem all right, although I can detect some errors upon a glance. Have you read all your Shakespeare?”

“No, sir.”

“And why? Your mother said you spent the required hours each day studying. Or were you in here writing to Raymond Moore?”

“I’ve only written him two letters in your absence. I did a lot of reading.”

“But not Shakespeare? Or the Milton or Dryden I assigned?”

“No, sir.”

“What, then? Come on, out with it.”

“Henry Fielding.”

“A novel?” He scowled in disbelief, for novels were looked upon as frivolous and time-wasting. “Where did you get it?”

“From one of the women in Mama’s Society.”

“Do you have it still?”

“Yes, Mr. Reid.”

“Then get it for me, please.” His face was white with anger, even under his sunburn.

“It isn’t my book. I have to return it.”

“Will you get it for me, please?”

I went to Father’s bookshelves, where I had hidden the book behind some others, and gave it to him.

“
Tom Jones!
Romantic nonsense! Whose is it?”

“Mrs. Fry’s.”

“So this is what you’ve been doing while you told your parents you were studying. What do you think they would say about this?”

“Will you tell them?”

He set the book down. “There is no need to. I’m capable of handling this myself. The first thing I’ll do is return the book to Mrs. Fry.”

“But I haven’t finished it yet!”