Authors: Lori Copeland
Chapter
One
“...and so, ladies and gentlemen, the Revolutionary War did
not begin in 1775, as most people assume. It began several years before. As
early as 1763, the first important incident of the war was instigated by the
British decision to keep a standing army in North America without consulting
the colonists. That was followed by the Navigation Acts, which included the
Quartering and Stamp acts of 1765, which further angered the colonists.” Ashley
Wheeler paused to draw a deep breath. The museum was unusually hot and stuffy
tonight. She glanced at the darkening windows, frowning. It was going to rain
again, she just knew it.
“The Townshend Acts of 1767, which placed duties on tea,
paper, lead, and paint imported into the colonies, further fed the colonists’
anger. They began a boycott, refusing to buy British goods, thereby forcing
Parliament to repeal the duties in 1770—with the exception of the tax on tea.
Britain steadfastly retained the tax to prove it claimed the right to levy
taxes for revenue. The British sent troops to garrison Boston, and a fatal
clash between the redcoats and the townspeople occurred on the night of March
5, 1770, which was later called the Boston Massacre. In 1772 Samuel Adams and
James Otis persuaded Boston to appoint a Committee of Correspondence. This
committee was formed to explain to other towns and to the world the rights of
the colonies and to show how Britain had violated these rights.”
Ashley paused a second time to wiggle her toes inside the
pair of satin, embroidered, buckled slippers. A mother of a blister was already
forming on her big toe, and the whalebone corset she wore, along with the steel
collar with long needles stuck upright to keep her head erect, were nothing
short of murder.
Drawing a deep breath, she eased the slipper off her foot
and tried to mask a grateful sigh. “Marie Antoinette should have been beheaded
a year earlier for introducing her latest ‘vogue’ in women’s gowns,” she
muttered.
Ashley’s friends would attest to what a lovely young woman
she was, with only one minor character flaw: speaking before she thought. Over
the years, she had worked on correcting the problem, but at times she
experienced minor failures—but only minor ones.
“Speak up," someone in the crowd shouted. “We can’t
hear you!”
Straightening, Ashley jerked her collar off, then tugged
back into place the wide farthingale that encased her hips. Forcing a smile,
she wedged her swollen foot back into the shoe and continued. “Then came the
famous Tea Act of 1773. On December 16 of that year, a band of colonists
disguised as Indians raided British ships anchored in Boston Harbor and threw
the tea overboard.
“In 1774 the Intolerable Acts were passed by the British
government to close Boston Harbor to commerce until the city showed
‘repentance’ for its ‘tea party.’
“As a result, the colonists met in the First Continental
Congress in Philadelphia in September 1774 to defend
American rights, and they decided not to export anything to
the British Isles or the West Indies until abuses were corrected.
“It was during this time that Patrick Henry sounded the
rallying cry: ‘I know not what course others may take; but as for me, give me
liberty, or give me death!’
“So by the year 1775, the quarrel between the American
colonies and England had reached a point where it seemed impossible to avoid
war. A forbidding array of tall-masted British warships sat in Boston Harbor.
Occupation troops dressed in scarlet coats marched in the streets, scoffing at
the resentment they stirred. The British believed themselves to be far superior
in courage and fighting ability to the Americans, whom they considered to be a
ragtag, disorganized force of small consequence.”
The air seemed closer. Not a breeze stirred in the small
museum. The form fitting gown with its tight corset, high waistline, and Empire
bust clung to Ashley’s body like epoxy. She winced as she heard the first roll
of thunder rumbling in the distance. Wouldn’t you know it? Another spring
storm, and every window on her car was rolled down.
Occasional flashes of light illuminated the windows now as
Ashley moved the group from room to room.
She knew most wouldn’t call her uncommonly pretty. Slender,
but not fashionably gaunt, she had nice cornfield-blue eyes, an unruly mane of
copper-colored hair, and more freckles than she’d ever wanted.
In school, Ashley had been the class tomboy, but at
twenty-nine, she prided herself on being more together, except when it came to
men. A frown marred her features as she thought about Joel. She had come so
close this time—so darn close. Moving to the Washington Room, Ashley continued
to point out various items of interest, deliberately pushing Joel from her
mind. It was over, and that was that.
The tourists moved about, murmuring oohs and ahhs as they
snapped pictures of heirlooms once belonging to George and Martha Washington.
Ashley found her ears tuned to the storm as it grew closer.
Did she dare cut short the tour and roll up the windows on her car?
Hold off twenty minutes, she implored silently as another
crack of thunder shook the museum. Twenty minutes, and she would be spared the
agony of sitting on a wet front seat again.
But hope grew dimmer as a searing bolt of electricity sliced
across the sky, followed by another thunderous boom.
Shoving her heavy wig, adorned with flowers, lace, feathers,
pomatum, and powder, farther back on her head, Ashley sighed. Wet seat, here I
come.
She waited at a set of double doors until the small group
had once again collected before her.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we are about to enter the ‘bedroom’
of the museum, where you’ll find authentic costumes of the Revolutionary period
on open display. Please remain behind the roped areas, and, for the comfort of
others, please refrain from smoking, eating, or drinking. Thank you.”
After swinging open the heavy wooden doors, Ashley leveled
herself against the wall, stifling a groan as she felt both her feet being
trampled by the zealous group surging through the doorway.
Tears stung her eyes as she molded herself against the door
frame in an attempt to escape the onslaught. Good grief. Now she was maimed for
life!
Snapping open her fan, she closed her eyes and fanned
herself rapidly, praying she wouldn’t keel over in a dead faint.
“Are you all right?”
Ashley opened her eyes to see a fellow tour guide, Sue Martingale,
peering anxiously at her.
“No, I’m crippled for life,” she predicted.
Overhead, rain began falling on the window skylight, lightly
at first, then more heavily, until it sounded torrential.
“Darn it!” Ashley snapped the fan shut.
"Your car windows rolled down again?” Sue guessed.
“Yes. Sue, I hate to ask, but can you take over for me? I’d
hoped to get to the health club right after work, and I don’t want to sit in a
puddle of water!”
Sue straightened her mobcap. She was a little eccentric but
was known around the museum as a real trooper. Her fellow workers knew that Sue
could be counted on in a crisis. “Say no more. Martingale to the rescue!”
Ashley wilted with relief. “Thanks, I’ll give you my
firstborn.” Last time it rained, it seemed as if she’d walked around with a
damp backside for days.
Sue started forward, then suddenly turned, lowering her
voice. "The weirdo isn’t in the group, is he?”
“No, no sign of the pincher,” Ashley whispered, grateful
she’d at least been spared that.
Sue’s face grew solemn as she studied Ashley for a moment.
“You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine, except I think I’m getting another cold.” Ashley
avoided Sue’s probing gaze and turned back to look at the milling group.
“Did you see Joel?”
Ashley appeared not to hear the question.
“Ash?”
“Yes?”
“Did you see Joel?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
Ashley’s cheeks colored. “I took the coward’s way out.”
“Oh, great.”
“I know, but he was busy with an emergency appendectomy.”
Ashley knew she sounded more defensive than was necessary. After all, whose
life was it?
“And you couldn’t have waited until he was through to let
him know that you were ditching him?”
Ashley’s chin firmed. “I didn’t ’ditch’ him. I just bowed
out--quietly.” At Sue’s look of disbelief, she hastened to add, “It just wasn’t
right, Sue. I was always waiting around for Joel.”
That was the problem. She’d spent their entire courtship
waiting. Joel was always in surgery, making rounds, or with a patient. Granted,
some people might think she was being petty, even selfish, but she was tired of
hanging around a doctor’s lounge until all hours of the night in order to spend
a few, brief moments with the man she was engaged to marry.
After all, wasn’t an engagement period a time when the two
participants got to know one another better? That was how it was supposed to
work, wasn’t it? But in the three months she and Joel had been engaged, she
could count on one hand the times they had been able to share an evening alone
without the phone or the beeper interrupting.
“So now what have you done?” Sue said hopelessly.
“I left him a note...with the ring inside the envelope.”
Sue looked aghast. “Oh, Ashley. Not again. Every time you
get near an altar you back out!”
“That’s not fair. I don’t ‘back out,’ I just change my
mind.” Well, yes, she did back out—maybe more like run out—but marriage to one
man seemed so...permanent.
“Ash, you’ve had more marriage prospects than most women
dream about, yet you continue to cast men aside like dust balls. Are you nuts?
You love Joel. This time it was the real thing!”
“Maybe....” Ashley swallowed the lump in her throat. Joel
was different; Sue didn’t have to remind her of that.
“First there was Jon—”
“Jon was a two-timer. I caught him with another woman, and
he had the nerve to say she was a secretarial prospect.”
“Didn’t he hire her?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“And Eddie? What about Eddie?”
“Eddie wasn’t ready to make a commitment.”
“He asked you to marry him, didn’t he?”
“Well, yes, but I don’t think he meant it.”
“What about Lon? Lon was a prime husband candidate if I ever
saw one.”
“Maybe, but he wanted to move to California and I
don’t—besides, being married to a senator and living separate lives...well,
that isn’t what I want either.”
“And then there was Joel.” Sue shook her head sadly.
“Honestly, Ash, Joel’s perfect for you, and now you’ve let him go. How many
chances do you think you’ll have to find true happiness?”
Ashley didn’t feel good about what she’d done, and wasn’t at
all sure it was the right thing—but it was done, and she couldn’t undo it. By
now Joel had found her note and the ring. Besides, another man would come along
in a few months, and she would think she was in love with him too. It always
worked that way.
“I’ll admit that maybe I should have given this engagement a
little more time—but my mind’s made up. I never see Joel. And once we’re
married, it’s not going to get any better.” She shrugged lamely. “I’ve had to
cancel so many parties that most of my friends believe Joel’s a figment of my
imagination.”
“Ashley...he’s a doctor, and he just happens to be
everything you want in a man. You’ve got cold feet again, tell the truth.”
Ashley’s chin firmed. Joel was almost everything she wanted
in a man—except that he was already married. To his profession. Call her
selfish, call her shallow and unreasonable. Was it wrong to want to be called
Mrs. Joel Harrison, and have a man to back up the claim?
Another clap of thunder shook the building as Ashley looked
anxiously to the windows again.
“You’re a fool, Ashley Wheeler. Men like Joel aren’t
shooting out of the ground like mushrooms,” Sue warned, glancing at the crowd
that was wandering about restlessly now.
“Well, mushrooms have a tendency to give me the hives,”
Ashley returned lightly.
“Sheesh.” Sue straightened her mobcap again. “You’re
hopeless.”
“I have to go,” Ashley murmured. “My car is probably
floating down Huntington Avenue by now.”
“So go—big chicken.”
The two exchanged forgiving grins.
Turning, Sue addressed the group once more. “Ladies and
gentlemen, my name is Sue and I will be continuing the tour with you. To your
left, you will find an original gown worn by Betsy Grisom Ross. There are
records indicating that Betsy was employed making ships’ colors, et cetera, but
there is no real evidence to support the story that Betsy Ross made the first
American flag. The legend was started in 1870 by her grandson, William Canby,
in a speech to the Historical Society of Pennsylvania...”
Ashley hurried toward the entrance, pausing long enough to
grab her large catchall bag—the bag Sue called Ashley’s “trunk” because she
carried everything she owned in it and never went anywhere without—and rummaged
for her keys. If she was lucky, she could pull the car closer to the entrance
and avoid another drenching when she got off at nine.
The buckled slippers weren’t going to allow her a graceful
retreat, Ashley realized, as she made her way to the front door. Heads turned
and eyes narrowed with disapproval as the heels clattered against the wooden
floor.
The curator of the museum stepped out of his office, his
brows knitting together at the sound of all the ruckus. His forefinger shot to
his lips as he scowled at her.
Nodding apologetically, Ashley slowed her steps, tip-toeing
the rest of the way across the room.
Pushing through the swinging doors into the foyer, she
spotted an umbrella and quickly commandeered it. Rain was falling in a deluge
as she pushed through the front glass doors. Though it was only four, rush-hour
traffic was already backing up.