“Her name is Elizabeth. She’s my sister’s daughter. My niece. She is grown, a young wife and a mother, and a woman of consequence. I have asked her if she will engage in correspondence with you, to expose you to the wider world, and she has happily agreed.”
“What will I say?” I cried. I thrilled and quaked at the idea. I was not yet a woman and could not imagine what interest she would have in someone like me.
“You must say whatever you wish.”
“Is she . . . kind?” I did not want to exchange letters with someone who would scold me.
“Yes. Very kind. You will learn from her what I can’t teach and even what Mrs. Thomas can’t teach.”
“Mrs. Thomas can read and write, though her writing isn’t fine,” I said, wanting to defend the woman who treated me so well. It was not her fault she was not a woman of “consequence.”
“Yes, but you live with Mrs. Thomas. No need to write her letters,” Reverend Conant said, always judicious. I’d never heard him mutter a bad word about anyone, especially good people, and the Thomases were good people.
“How many letters may I write?” I asked, breathless.
“You may write as often as you like, as often as you’re able.”
“That will be a great many. I like practicing.”
His eyes crinkled, but he didn’t laugh at me. “Yes. I know you do. And Elizabeth will welcome your letters.”
“What should I call her? Cousin Elizabeth . . . or Mrs. Paterson . . . or maybe I can call her Lady Elizabeth?” The thought thrilled me.
“She’s not a duchess, Deborah. We don’t have titles in America. I’m sure Elizabeth will do.”
“Why do they have titles in England?”
“Tradition. England is married to tradition and enamored with station. It is different here. A man is what he makes of himself. It is not something bestowed on him.” The reverend sounded so proud.
“And women too?”
“What?”
“Is a woman what she makes of herself?”
“Yes. A woman is what she makes of herself . . . with God’s direction, of course. We all need God’s direction.”
“But what if we don’t want to go in the direction God wants for us?”
“Then I suppose we’re on our own. I shouldn’t like to be on my own. Not completely.”
“No,” I whispered, though I often felt on my own. Completely. “What about King George?” I pressed.
“What about him?”
“You said we don’t have titles here. But he is still our king. Isn’t he? After the massacre in Boston, some are saying he shouldn’t be.”
“The only king I worship is the King of Kings, Lord of Lords, the Everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace.” Reverend Conant was frowning, and his jaw was tight.
I nodded seriously, but my heart was pounding too. Sylvanus Conant might be loyal, but he’d just spoken the words of a rebel.
March 27, 1771
Dear Miss Elizabeth,
My name is Deborah Samson. I’m certain you’ve been warned that I would be writing. I am not an accomplished writer, but I hope to be. I promise I will work very hard to make my letters interesting so you will enjoy reading them and allow me to continue. Reverend Conant tells me you are kind and beautiful and smart. I am not beautiful, but I try to be kind, and I am very smart.
I love to read, and I love to run, though I have little time for either, as there is always work to be done. But I read the Bible every day, and I am memorizing verses from Proverbs. Do you have a favorite? I will write one that I have mastered below, just for practice.
Proverbs 28:1, “The wicked flee when no man pursues: but the righteous are bold as a lion.”
I told Mistress Thomas that running is not the same thing as fleeing. I thought that was quite bold, like a lion. She did not laugh, though I saw Phineas grin. I am quite rebellious, I fear. I attend the First Congregational Church with the Thomases. Your uncle Sylvanus preaches each week, and though I am very fond of him, and he is very convincing, the hours of inactivity are torture.
Last Sunday, I lied and said I wasn’t feeling well and left before the final hour. I ran straight for the woods and spent a blessed afternoon climbing the trees and swinging from the branches. I know the path that cuts behind the tree line all the way back to the Thomas farm, and I have begun to clear it of roots and stones that would trip a girl up if she were running as fast as she were able—that girl being me.
Mrs. Thomas asked me what I was doing in my free time between chores and supper. I told her I was clearing the walking path. I even quoted scripture so she was assured it was a righteous endeavor. Proverbs 4:26 says, “Ponder the path of your feet, and let all your ways be established.”