“I do not want to look down on my husband,” I said.
“So find a man of stature.”
“Psalms 68:6: ‘God setteth the solitary in families: he bringeth out those which are bound with chains: but the rebellious dwell in dry land,’” I said. “I am solitary, indentured, and rebellious. I fear it is dry land for me.”
“We should liken the scriptures unto ourselves, Deborah, but you have never been chained,” Reverend Conant said, though he chuckled at my application of the text. “You are a woman of great fortune,” he added.
My eyebrows surged beneath my cap, and he amended his words. “You are a woman of great worth, and I warrant the Thomases would be hurt if they heard you dismiss them that way.”
“I warrant they would,” I agreed.
His brow was furrowed and his blue eyes troubled as he continued. “You have been such a joy to me. I have no daughters of my own, but in my heart, I claimed you the first time I saw you. You looked like a foal, big-eyed and long-limbed, so eager to please, so precocious and precious. You deserved more than Mistress Thatcher, fond as I was of the old widow. You haven’t missed her too much, have you, Deborah?”
“I have not missed her at all,” I said frankly. Reverend Conant laughed again. He never seemed to mind the irreverence that slipped off my tongue. He’d always valued honesty more than propriety. Perhaps it was partly his fault I was the way I was.
“She was harsh, and”—he seemed to search for the right word—“jealous.”
“Jealous?” I gasped.
“Widow Thatcher was old. Her life near over. You were young, with boundless energy and a mind unclouded by age and suffering.”
“I suffered plenty.”
He frowned at that, and the groove between his eyes deepened. He looked old, I realized suddenly, and his color was off.
“You have been happy here, though, haven’t you? With the Thomases?” he asked again. “Mistress Thomas tells me there is nothing you can’t do. You plant, you build, you cook, you sew. Young Jeremiah says you’re a better shot than all of the brothers.”
“There is much I can’t do.” I sighed. “But I have little control over that.” I sounded bitter, which was unlike me. I did not complain. Especially not to Reverend Sylvanus Conant, who had been my true friend and advocate. “If I am skilled or at all accomplished, it is because you believed in me,” I said, moderating my tone.
“You needed so little encouragement,” he said.
“Yet you gave it abundantly,” I answered, a lump rising in my throat. He was so dear to me.
“Put an old man’s mind at ease, child,” he begged. “Tell me I did not fail you.”
“Never. Not even once. I would have memorized the entire Bible had you asked.”
“You almost did.”
“And I have a new recitation to share,” I said.
“Oh yes? And what is that? The Book of Revelation or perhaps the entirety of Hamlet?” He was teasing me, but I had memorized the Divine Assembly for a pat on the head and a bit of praise.
“The declaration, have you read it?”
“I have.”
“And what did you think of it?” I asked, impatient.
His eyes twinkled. “I haven’t formed any firm opinions. Remind me what it says.”
He had always been thus, encouraging my education in whatever form it took, and so full of admiration when I learned something new.
“‘When in the course of human events,’” I began earnestly, and he stayed silent as I spoke the words, my voice ringing like his had from the pulpit an hour earlier.
One Sunday, Reverend Conant did not attend meetings. The congregation gathered, filing into a church that was ominously empty. After fifteen minutes of impatient waiting, Deacon Thomas was sent to check his quarters to see what delayed him. He was toppled over by his bed, still wearing his nightshirt and his cap. Deacon Thomas said it appeared as though he’d knelt to pray and his heart had failed him. The town grieved his loss, but no one more than I. I wrote to Elizabeth of his passing:
I have lost my truest friend and protector. I can’t imagine my life without him. He was your uncle, and I should be sending my condolences to you, yet I am inconsolable myself. I know I should not complain when so many have died and while your beloved John is in harm’s way, but I loved the reverend and he is gone, and I cannot grasp it. Who will listen to my recitations and marvel at my wit? Who will challenge me without censure? And how will I ever sit through another Sunday sermon?