Reforming Elizabeth Read online

  Dress circa 1785-95 photo credit: The Met Museum Public domain image.

  Fichu circa 1795-1800 photo credit: The Met Museum Public domain image.

  Cover photos: Piotr Krześlak, Guillermo Avello, Dmytro Sheremeta, and Deposit Photos

  Cover Design © 2017 and formatting by LJP Creative

  Edits by Eschler Editing

  Published by Currant Creek Press

  North Logan, Utah

  Reforming Elizabeth © 2017 by Lorin Grace

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher. This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, locations, events and dialogue in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are represented fictitiously.

  First printing: May 2017

  ASIN: B072BJB2MN

  For Blaine—“Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

  But bears it out even to the edge of doom.”

  Sonnet 116.

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Historical Notes

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  One

  Movement on the snowy street below distracted Elizabeth from her sewing. She rubbed the windowpanes to remove the condensation that had accumulated on the freezing glass and saw the unmistakable broad-shouldered form of Samuel Wilson step out of the parsonage gate. A single set of footprints marked his progress in the falling snow.

  He must have managed to annul his ridiculous marriage to that boorish Lucy Simms. Now he could declare himself for her. At tomorrow’s Sabbath services, Reverend Woods would make an announcement and try to stanch the scandal. As if Samuel’s marriage to his unconscious bride was anything but scandalous. Tomorrow was too long to wait.

  She scanned the street. No other people ventured out on this blustery day. This was her chance. Elizabeth rushed down the stairs, careful to not step on the squeaky spots, and grabbed her cloak. She fumbled fastening the silver frog and lifted up the hood. The reflection in the mirror smiled back. Perfect. From the fur-lined wool framing her face, she pulled one golden curl forward and simpered her most practiced of expressions—the one with her mouth slightly parted, the smile she used only for the most eligible of bachelors.

  One step from the door, she pivoted back to the gilded mirror and ripped the fichu from around her neck and shifted her stays lower. The cloak opened at the perfect angle to show off her womanly assets, which her favorite crimson gown flattered more than any other, then she stuffed the lacy scarf up her sleeve and ran out the door before she could rethink her boldness or be seen by her father.

  Magistrate Ebenezer Garrett dipped his pen in the inkwell and corrected another error on the report his clerk had delivered earlier. Saturday or not, he’d sequestered himself in his study to review the document. This time his analysis would bring him to the attention of Governor Increase Sumner. The information must be flawless that he might obtain an appointment to a committee or higher judicial post. The monotony of his work in the tiny North Shore town wore on him. Anything would be more exciting than issuing a handful of marriage certificates and charging Abner Sidewall with public intoxication—again—or listening to petty complaints involving roosters, fence lines, and swearing on the Lord’s day.

  The front door slammed, rattling the study’s windows in their wooden frames.

  “What in tarnation? No interruptions. After twenty years as a magistrate, people should leave me alone on Saturday,” he muttered as he straightened the papers on his desk and sat up a bit taller.

  When no knock came at the mahogany door separating his domain from the rest of the house, Ebenezer leaned back in his chair. Who would slam the door, if not the careless maid letting in some impatient citizen who couldn’t wait to meet with him until Monday?

  No sound echoed in the hall. He adjusted his spectacles and returned to reading the report. The snow fell harder, dimming the room, and he turned up the lamp. Outside, a flash of red amid the snowflakes caught his eye. What’s the commotion in front of the parsonage?

  He laid aside the papers and stepped to the window for a closer look. His Elizabeth owned a cloak the same color. What on earth? He rubbed the pane, hoping to clean the wavy glass, but the combination of condensation and snow made a clear view impossible. A woman came from the parsonage and joined the man and woman near the sleigh.

  “Samuel Wilson and his new bride, Lucy,” he grumbled. “What is Elizabeth up to now?” Ebenezer had made a habit of muttering to himself to make up for the lack of intelligent conversation in his home.

  Not caring to answer his own question, Ebenezer turned from the sight when the newlyweds climbed into the sleigh.

  Just as he reached the desk, a screech filled the air. Startled, his hand brushed the uncapped inkwell, tipping the bottle over on the desktop and soaking the report.

  The shriek outside decrescendoed into a wail, not unlike the cry of a panther he’d heard in his youth. Ebenezer’s voice mingled with the woman’s cries as he took in the damaged papers.

  “Elizabeth!” Ebenezer ran from the room faster than most men of his age or bulk were capable.

  He didn’t bother to shut the front door as he rushed into the street where his daughter knelt screaming. To his credit, he did look for blood before hauling Elizabeth to her feet, the swift movement instantly stifling her scream and causing her cloak to fall back, revealing more of his daughter’s chest than any father would be comfortable viewing. Without a word, he propelled her into the house and thrust her into a chair in his study.

  Elizabeth gasped for air. Her blonde hair tumbled out of its confines on one side, a hairpin dangling dangerously near her eye. She swatted it out of the way. For a moment, Ebenezer caught himself wondering if his daughter were deranged as his gaze fell from her face to her bared chest. He turned away.

  “Cover yourself at once!” His bellow echoed throughout the house and brought his wife, Rebecca, scurrying from the direction of the kitchen.

  She stopped in the doorway. “Is something wrong?”

  “Look at the mess!” Ebenezer wiped a blotting cloth over the spilled ink, smearing it farther.

  “Oh, my! Don’t try to clean it that way. Elizabeth, go tell Cook—”

  Elizabeth darted from her chair, her cloak falling to the floor.

  “Stop! You are not leaving this room.” Ebenezer’s voice echoed off the ceiling.

  Elizabeth obediently sat back down.

  “I said to cover yourself this instant!” Ebenezer demanded, his face flaming with more than anger.

  Rebecca turned her attention to her daughter for the first time. “Good he
avens! Where is your fichu?”

  When Elizabeth pulled the length of cotton from her sleeve, Rebecca snatched it out of her hand and let out a little gasp. She wrapped the scarf around Elizabeth’s neck, then blocked her husband’s view as Elizabeth tucked the ends into her bodice.

  “Why ever did you take it off?” Rebecca asked.

  Elizabeth’s gaze moved from her mother’s perplexed face to her father’s enraged one, and she began to sob into her hands. Her mother spouted endearments and patted Elizabeth’s shoulder.

  Ebenezer pulled Elizabeth’s hands down, revealing dry eyes. “I told you before—she only pretends to cry. Now stop your coddling and leave us. This time I will take our daughter in hand. She shall not embarrass us again.”

  The following morning Elizabeth pled a headache, mostly true, and begged to remain home from church services. Wrapped in her dressing gown, she reclined on her bed, sipping the willow-bark tea her mother had sent up.

  The two antiquated ensembles her father had asked the maid to bring down from her grandmother’s trunk in the attic hung near the window, which she’d propped open a half inch. Both frocks stank of camphor wood—the stale odor the only thing worse than the out-of-fashion excuses for clothing. Drab-brown and washed out gray, with necklines four inches higher than the least-fashionable gown she owned and made of homespun!

  Appearing at church services in either dress would be as bad as walking in with a pet skunk. Elizabeth’s cheeks burned as she thought about the fool she made of herself yesterday. Samuel had rebuffed her every move. Then Lucy had appeared from who knows where and smiled at her husband, giving every indication they were indeed a very happily married couple despite rumors to the contrary. The soft gaze Samuel had given his wife ruled out any annulment. Never had Elizabeth been put down so thoroughly. No wonder her frustration had come to the surface, screaming itself out in the street. Perchance she’d experienced a moment of madness. Usually she maintained her emotions until in private.

  The image of Samuel’s mortified face as she’d leaned toward him flashed through her mind. Perhaps she’d gone too far in removing the fichu.

  She sipped her tea and tried to think of ways to modify the horrid dresses. Her only consolation became the hemlines, and for the first time in her life, she let out the hem of a skirt. Grandmother Patience had stood just under five feet—two inches shorter than Elizabeth. Not that she minded being shorter than most women. Men seemed to enjoy the way her small frame could be tucked under their arms.

  Her father had forbidden her to wear any of her own clothing until she demonstrated she could dress modestly. Her elegant gowns were to have the necklines raised to more “appropriate levels,” which meant to the Puritan level her grandmother had worn her entire life. Of course, she must do this herself. She wouldn’t trust anyone else to the task. Elizabeth’s sole talent was with the needle, and father couldn’t tell basting from a finished seam.

  For the rest of the week, Elizabeth dressed simply, remained indoors, appeared contrite, and stayed out of her father’s way.

  Forgoing the Williamses’ Christmas ball was a sacrifice, but with nothing new to wear, it wasn’t much to miss. But then, the Williamses’ ball never was as fun as the Gordon’s New Year’s Eve ball.

  With any luck, her father would calm down by then. Elizabeth couldn’t help but wonder if she would have received any punishment had the ink not spilled on Father’s precious report. As if the governor even cared about what trifling matter her father pontificated about this time.

  She pulled her wrap tighter against the cold wind seeping in the window, hoping the stench of camphor would soon dissipate. Being stuck in her room all week was penance indeed.

  “Reverend Gideon Frost.”

  Gideon stared at his ordination certificate, tempted to add it to the sermon notes fueling the meager fire. He should have continued as his father’s apprentice and become a shoemaker. Too bad his brother Aaron had taken over the shop upon Father’s death, leaving no room for him in the one-man business. What arrogance to believe I had been called as a preacher of the word.

  Five years ago, his calling to minister and help people had fueled his every desire. So long ago, Gideon felt, as if he looked back on a different person.

  With the conclusion of the war and the first American printing of the English language Bible, new denominations had sprouted and thrived. Under the Massachusetts Parish Church system, most churches remained Congregationalist. New sects were allowed in the community by vote as parish churches, and a few obtained that status, but those that did so thrived on tax contributions.

  A traveling preacher from one of the new denominations had inspired Gideon to join him after a particularly poignant meeting. Gideon paced the room, recalling—for the hundredth time that month—that meeting. He wished he still felt the fire.

  The notes to his last sermon burned to gray ashes. Gray as the low clouds. Gray as his life.

  Once, his faith had guided his every action, dictated his every thought. A faith he only pretended to maintain now. He still believed in God, but reconciling his feelings with his readings in Holy Writ and theological treatises left him with more questions than answers. Questions that gnawed at his heart. How could he shepherd a flock if he couldn’t discern the truth of God for himself?

  He buried his head in his hands. His tears had long dried up, replaced only with a gray emptiness.

  If only Ruth hadn’t died, he would not be questioning his faith.

  Two

  Father’s vise grip on Elizabeth’s elbow propelled her out of the church, across the street, and into the house. Only when he let go did Elizabeth dare reply to his whispered accusations. “I did not ogle a married man!”

  “Do not lie to me. You were staring at Mr. Wilson when I came to sit down. Then you kept trying to look at him through the entirety of Reverend Woods’s sermon.” Ebenezer’s face grew red, his thick gray eyebrows accentuating his frown.

  Elizabeth turned her back to her father and removed her cloak. She gave her mother the tiniest of conspiratorial eye rolls. What would it take to calm Father down this time? She turned to face him and plastered on a well-practiced innocent face. “I did not stare at him. I only admired his wife’s new dress.” Turning to her mother, she continued. “Did you see her hat? And the lace—some of Mrs. Wilson’s best work. Who knew Lucy Simms would ever turn out so fine? Almost pretty, wasn’t she?”

  Rebecca nodded in agreement. “I was shocked to see—”

  “Mrs. Garrett, we are not speaking of clothing or how Mrs. Lucy Wilson has improved.” Ebenezer put a particular emphasis on Lucy Simms Wilson’s last name. “We are discussing our daughter’s behavior toward Mr. Wilson—a married man whom my daughter continues to throw herself at, embarrassing us all.” He allowed his coat and hat to be taken by the houseboy before stepping into the parlor.

  “Father, I did not throw myself at him today. I told you, I learned my lesson. I would never have pursued him had I realized he was actually married. The circumstances were so peculiar, and they never courted after his return.” Elizabeth bowed her head in a way she hoped showed remorse.

  “Yes, dear, she’s been most contrite. She’s hardly complained about the ugly dress you forced her to wear today. Why, she is the laughingstock of all the girls. Who else wore a high-collared, decades-old dress on Christmas Eve? I shall never live the shame down.” Rebecca fanned herself and flopped into her favorite chair.

  Elizabeth tugged at the sleeve of the mud-brown wool frock she’d worn to church. She’d chosen it over the gray one because the cloth had lost most of the camphor stench.

  “Never live it down! A dress? You’ll never live it down?” The windows vibrated with his bellowing. Elizabeth winced. Last week’s fight all over again—Father acting a magistrate instead of a father, deciding her actions were differen
t than she intended. Couldn’t Abner Sidewall, the town drunk, start a fight or swear at the reverend and give Father something else to do?

  Elizabeth held out the skirt of the dress. “Father, this is a severe punishment. I mean, this dress is—”

  Thump! Ebenezer slammed his walking stick on the floor, causing his wife and daughter to jump. “No more! You are going to be retrenched if it is the last thing I do! Not only in frivolities but in manners. Child, you’ve missed the entire point. It is not just last week’s behavior. The pattern of your life must be turned and reformed. Pruned from the wild tree into something … something useful.”

  Retrenched? Wasn’t that the phrase Grandmother Patience Garrett used when someone needed dire reform? Did Father think her as bad as all that?

  “Can’t this wait a few days?” Rebecca Garrett placed her hand on her husband’s arm. “Today is Christmas E—”

  “Absolutely not!” Ebenezer cut his wife off with a roar, his face flamed with indignation. “Did you not see your daughter making eyes at Samuel Wilson before the service started? And she thinks this is about a dress! Last week in the middle of the street she threw herself at the same man, her bosom bared for the entire world to see.” He punctuated his remarks with thrusts of his cane.

  Elizabeth shrank into the corner. Her father never hit women or anyone else she knew of, but the way he was wielding his cane, she began to worry.

  “Elizabeth, darling, go check on dinner while I handle your father.” Rebecca waved Elizabeth out of the room.

  Though Elizabeth thought it impossible, her father’s face grew redder, the veins at his temples pulsing. “No! You will not leave. And I will not be handled.” Thump! The walking stick connected with the floor again. Elizabeth froze in the doorway. “Mrs. Garrett, you’ve failed our daughter, and I am taking over. You’ve raised a strumpet.” He turned to Elizabeth. “I will have no more of your wanton ways.”