“Mama, you don’t know what it’s like nowadays to court a man.” Hannah said, keeping up with her argument. “You met Father so long ago—”
“In the dark ages?” my mother interrupted. “Is that what you think of me and my decrepit form?”
I silently chuckled at my mother’s humor.
Jacque had, again, lent us the Landau and four black draft horses that had a very quick gait and would get my mother, sister, and me back to Concord in record time. Jacque himself was somewhere near on his black thoroughbred, riding beside or slightly behind the carriage, which opened enough privacy for my sister to convince my mother that her Lieutenant Kimball was in fact a courteous young man.
“No . . . I’m sorry to sound so insulting, Mother, I just . . . I love him. I do. If you’ll only give him a chance—”
“Of course, Hannah, of course. I fell in love with your father when I was but your age, or was I younger? Since I’m so old I have a weakened state of mind. I can hardly remember a thing anymore.”
I laughed louder, which earned me a quick glare from Hannah.
“The point is, my youngest daughter, I will gladly give this man any and all opportunities when I meet him. Your own father courageously asked for my hand from my brutish father, who only threw him out after. I would never do that to your man, but I must meet him. That tradition in courting is invaluable and should still be obtained even amongst you younger people.”
Hannah nodded, but began another tirade about contemporary living.
Then something sparked in my mind. I remembered how the group of French dignitaries had interrupted our party last night, asking Jacque for a fact about who was King Louis XIV’s secretary. Jacque remembered surprisingly well who the man had been. All the Frenchmen chuckled and remarked how it was amazing that he knew his history so thoroughly, such a good French citizen to have memorized all the players of past courts.
My mind clicked. A cog finally caught and spun. Jacque, at dinner, had said his mother had been a spy for King Henry. King Henry IV? That was the last French monarchy with the name, Henry. Yet that couldn’t possibly be true, because King Henry IV was from . . . Lord, King Henry IV had been assassinated, if my memory served right, in 1610.
That was almost two centuries ago.
Hannah interrupted my mind’s flurry with her voice turned crisp yet slightly whiney. “I am not such a fool you think I am, Mother. And neither is my Mark. He has told me how he wishes to pay out his commission. He plans on retiring soon. He’s even promised me he will become a colonist.”
My mother was close to tears as Hannah’s incense grew. Her chin quivered, and her shoulders slumped.
I half screamed, “I’ve decided I’m going to elope.”
Both my mother and sister turned to me stunned. Their twin-like mouths open, two pairs of blonde eyebrows drew tight.
“Yes, I’ve made up my mind,” I rattled on, “I’m going to marry a Scotsman. One that wears a kilt, not breeches. And—and he’ll walk on his hands for me whenever I want.”
At that my mother leaned over and swatted my knee then began to quietly laugh, while a tear stole from her eye and ran down her cheek. She had a white kerchief already in her hands and dabbed at her face while her chuckling grew. My sister didn’t want to laugh, but soon enough she couldn’t purse her lips hard enough to stop her own snickers.
“Mathew will be heartbroken, you know.” Hannah shook her head with a small smile still on her face.
My mother chimed in, “Oh, he might understand. After all a man who can walk on his hands while he wears a kilt is quite a find. Not even your beloved father could pull off that feat.”
“For you, he probably tried a few times.” I arched a brow at my mother, who let her smile make fine lines around her twinkling hazel-blue eyes.
“He did try a few times.” She actually blushed.
I laughed so hard my belly began to ache, and the whole while, I could have sworn I heard Jacque’s laughter in my ears, bounce through my body, and invade my heart all the more.