Loading...Hannah Allbright rode Lancaster, her husband’s favorite mount, down the charred and blackened streets of Pleasant Harbor Township, the stink of smoke and soot still lingered thick in the muggy summer air. Though it was her third visit into town since the burning she still wept at the site of her beloved village smoldering in ruin as she made her way to the mercantile, the lone building left standing after the Redcoats’ unprovoked attack.
If only the men had been here, she thought, bouncing sidesaddle as Lancaster kicked up filthy clouds of ash with each sturdy trot. The women of Pleasant Harbor had stood no chance against the British troops who marched upon their quiet village less than a week before and they could do little except watch and weep as the town that had taken nearly twenty-five years to build was reduced to cinders in a matter of hours. Hannah dabbed at her tears with a lace kerchief as Lancaster whinnied, gruffly blowing tarry soot from his stinging nares. It was early July, 1779.
Three years had passed since the people declared their independence from mother England but still, the revolution raged on. Lord Cornwallis and his British forces held most of the south despite meeting profound resistance from mercenaries, while in the north, General Washington and his troops were sustaining heavy casualties in their efforts to maintain control of West Point. In April, Colonel William Douglas of the New Haven Regiment, on his march to assist Washington, had recruited into his militia every able-bodied man and boy up and down the Connecticut coastline leaving Pleasant Harbor a village occupied almost exclusively by women, apart of course from the smallest of boys and the oldest and frailest of men.
Hannah persisted on towards the mercantile, passing the blackened remains of the grange, the silversmith shop, the tannery and finally, the First Church of Pleasant Harbor. It had been such a beautiful house of worship: heavenly white with a tall majestic steeple, four melodic bells housed within. Imported from France, the bells were gleaming domes of brass that would ring out joyously on special occasions as they had on that marvelous spring day in 1768 when Henry Allbright, a man at 29 and lawyer by trade, had taken 15 year old Hannah Griswold as his bride. Hannah could only imagine where her beloved husband was now: fighting courageously somewhere, dead in some makeshift grave, wounded perhaps. She tried not to think about it.
This time of year the church would be teaming with beauty and life: daisies and marigolds blooming vibrantly in her boarders, robins and starlings rearing their young in the secret alcoves of her spacious belfry; but today, the First Church was nothing more than a lifeless and smoky corpse. Among the debris Hannah spied the once proud church bells, blistered and warped from the intense heat, dormant and dull in the afternoon sun, never to ring again. Reverend Dandridge, Pastor of the First Church and far too on in years to join the militia, foraged through the rubble salvaging whatever he could of his decimated parish. Preoccupied by his labor — and perhaps some rather un-pious thoughts concerning those scoundrel Redcoats — he did not acknowledge Hannah as she and Lancaster trotted passed.
Upon reaching the mercantile, Lancaster’s metrical clomps came to a halt. Hannah dismounted and hitched him to the lone post outside. The powerful yellow steed neighed almost disappointingly at the barren trough before him, filled only with a grimy dusting of ash and a few buzzing flies rather than the fresh water he had grown accustom to.
The mercantile, undamaged by flame and seemingly out of place alongside the black ghosts neighboring it, sat at the far end of Main Street, overlooking the Harbor from which the Redcoats had attacked. General Tyrus, the man accountable for the burning, was a fierce warrior but he did possess some semblance of a heart. “Leave the mercantile!” he had ordered in his broad but delicate accent as he led his troops, loyalists and British regulars alike, from the harbor and up the cobblestones of Main Street, torches in hand, igniting all they surveyed. Tyrus burned Pleasant Harbor on orders of the King himself before steering his men north towards his true prize: the city of Danbury. Besides a smoldering pile of cinder, the General left in his wake a dozen or so sentries to maintain order and a fluttering Union Jack pitched amid the pyre that was once Pleasant Harbors Town Hall.
Mary Addams oversaw the mercantile, as she had each day since her husband had left for war, with her youngest son Owen at her side. Her two older boys fought along side their father. She welcomed the sight of Hannah Allbright as with her visits Mary always found much needed console as well as the latest news from the outskirts of town.
“Did you see any sentries on your trip, dear?” Mary asked as Hannah entered the quaint wooden building bringing with her a small cloud of ash that clung to the ruffles of her gingham dress.
“Not one, thank the Lord,” Hannah replied, meeting Mary at the counter with an affable embrace.
“I wish I could speak the same,” Mary remarked. “Two passed through today. Helped themselves to three fat rabbits they did, as well as a keg of cider. I swear that is why they left the merc standing: so they can pillage me blind.” Mary brushed a wrinkle from her apron and leaned in closer to Hannah. “So what brings you out of the woods today, dear Hannah?”
“Lamp oil,” Hannah answered. “Have you any?”
Mary shook her head with a grimace. “Not a drop, love. With the Post Road closed, getting supplies from New Haven is near impossible.” Mary noticed Hannah disappointment. “But, I could always spare a pint of my personal supply for you dear.”
Hannah’s face brightened. “Mary Addams, I am truly blessed to have a friend like you.”
“Anything for a friend.” Mary fetched the oil from a small cupboard in the rear of the store and added, “I also have some fresh candles that your neighbor sold me yesterday.” Mary looked over her shoulder to see what type of reaction the mention of Hannah’s neighbor would elicit.
“My neighbor?” Hannah responded innocently.
“You know,” Mary replied lowering her voice, “That Quincy woman.”
Lizbeth Quincy, or ‘that Quincy woman’ as she had become known around town, had inherited land west of the Allbright’s four winters past. Odd to say the least, Lizbeth was quite the conversation piece among the locals, especially the catty gossip types like Mary Addams. Twenty-Five years of age, Lizbeth had never married and lived alone in the woods with no man to fend for her. A descendent of the Boston Quincy’s, she led an arcane life, rarely journeying into town, only making the five mile jaunt once every few months or so to stock up on provisions and sell her candles, tobacco and quilts to the local merchants. A visit to the mercantile by Lizbeth Quincy always ruffled Mary Addam’s feathers.
“Lizbeth,” Hannah amended, detesting the term ‘that Quincy woman’ and always correcting those who used it, “gave me some lovely candles just the other day. But thank you for offering.”
Mary knew of Hannah’s friendship with Lizbeth and always fished to wet her curiosity whenever the topic of her peculiar neighbor arose. “She is unusual, is she not?” Mary pried but Hannah refused to bite. “I mean with her hair cropped so short and all,” Mary persisted.
“The Lord loves each and every one of us Mary Addams,” Hannah countered. “Even those whom choose to walk the un-tread path.”
“But are the rumors true, Hannah?” Mary Addams posed, returning to the counter. “Does she really fire a weapon and hunt her own game? Is it true she smokes tobacco from a pipe? Does she…” Mary lowered her voice to a whispered hush, “really wear trousers and boots and dress like a man when not in public?”
The rumors were true but Hannah knew better than to placate Mary Addams’ idle chatter. “Gossip is nothing more than fire off a forked tongue, Mrs. Addams.” She left two coins on the counter and took the pint of oil Mary had placed for her.
Mary Addams felt a sudden shame realizing she had gone to far. “Forgive me, Hannah Allbright,” Mary implored. “With all the wretchedness about I have sought amusement in tittle-tattle. I should be ashamed.”
“It is your good deeds that will earn your place in heaven, Mary Addams,” Hannah said, indicating the pint of whale oil and grasping Mary’s hand.
“Bless you, Hannah Allbright,” Mary declared. “Bless you, indeed.”
Hannah stood for a moment and gazed at the harbor through the dirty windows of the mercantile.
“Is there anything else you require Hannah?” Mary asked. “Surely you did not make the long trip out of the woods for just a pint of oil.”
“That and a bit of company,” Hannah replied, turning her attention back to Mary and giving her hand one more squeeze. “I do get awfully forlorn without my Henry.”
“We are always here for you dear,” Mary Addams assured taking a fresh apple from a basket and handing it to her. “For Lancaster,” Mary smiled. Hannah thanked her and turned for the door. On her way out Mary Addams added, “And if it is company you desire Hannah Allbright, you always have Lizbeth Quincy.”
Hannah smiled politely and exited the store. She unhitched Lancaster and fed him the ripe apple, which he gobbled in one bite. Without mounting, she walked the powerful steed from the mercantile and to the commons overlooking the harbor. Once green and lush, the commons now lay barren and caked with filthy gray ash. Standing amid the dust that was once her town, Hannah looked upon the one beautiful thing left: the harbor. The waterfront was tranquil and a northerly breeze filled her nose with fresh salt kissed air. With her back to village it was almost possible to forget the war and misery, if only for a moment. Hannah watched as Mary Addams youngest boy ran towards the water with a net and stick in hand.
“Where are you off to, young Master Owen?” she called out as the boy skittered past.
“Off to do some fishin’, Ma’am.”
Hannah smiled at his innocence and watched him wade through the gentle waves with his trousers rolled up beyond his knees. The sun, an hour from setting, sparkled off the water and through the riggings of the few fishing vessels left anchored in the harbor. Noisy seagulls squabbled in the skies above while somewhere, unseen among the waves, a harbor seal barked for her young. For a brief moment all seemed right with the world until the winds shifted and once again Hannah’s senses were filled by the dank odor of smoke and soot. She enjoyed one last look at her beautiful harbor before mounting Lancaster and beginning the long journey home.
Dusk fell as Hannah Allbright made her way up the vacant and lonely streets of Pleasant Harbor Township. Even Reverend Dandridge had abandoned his labors and the village seemed eerily quite apart from the rhythmic clip-clop of Lancaster’s iron shoes against the dirty cobblestone. The shadows of evening crept steadily upon her as Hannah neared the outskirts and she prayed that she would not meet a sentry on her ride home. The cobbled streets yielded to wooded paths as she grew closer to home but still, Hannah found herself feeling all the more alone. The one notion that brought her comfort as she reached the clearing where her small cottage lay was something that Mary Addams had said to her as she left the mercantile: “You always have Lizbeth Quincy.”
******
Bathed in the sultry glow of lamp oil, Hannah Allbright stood before her full-length mirror, naked, brushing elegant auburn locks from the customary bun which she held them, her mind burdened by thoughts of her dear Henry. With each stroke Hannah’s arm would graze her violet nipples ever so slightly making them taught and ripe. Her downy breasts were pillowy yet firm and the sensation of her warm flesh against them stirred something deep inside and helped to quell her troubling thoughts. Hannah laid down her brush and cupped her full breasts tenderly, studying her reflection in the silvery mirror, a voyeur unto herself. Hannah had always taken pleasure in admiring her own nude form. She found her womanly features both pleasing and exciting: the supple curves of her hourglass figure, the soft velvety patch of ginger hair between her milky thighs and, of course, her ample and responsive breasts. Oh how Henry loved to grasp and suckle them when they made love.
Cuddling her bosom made her damp with excitement and she gave her hardened nipples one last pinch before guiding her hands over her smooth abdomen and down to her moistening nethers. Her soft mound was humid and sticky and Hannah admired her reflection with mounting lust as she watched her fingers disappear within the auburn thatch. Her eyes closed tight and a small sigh escaped her lips as her middle finger found the excitable nub that guarded the entrance to her heavenly canal.
In the hearth, a fire Hannah had built to cook her dinner died slowly in a series of hisses and pops but in her bedroom, a new fire began to seethe. Again, she thought of her beloved as her fingers traced through her soft folds, gently parting them and effortlessly sliding in. She opened her eyes to again gaze upon her mirror image. Her body gyrated rhythmically against the fingers buried deep within her sodden loins and her nipples stood firm and excited at attention. She so longed to be touched by another and to in return lay her hands upon somebody else.
Her body collapsed onto her large feather bed as her mind fell away into fantasy. Hannah closed her eyes to the real world and drifted away into one of her own making, surprising herself by the visions she conjured. For it was not Henry whom she saw in this sensual flight but rather someone more like herself: someone with soft features and smooth hairless skin. Someone who did not lay with her as a man would but one whom made love to her with kisses and touch.
Outside her window a crying barn owl went unnoticed as, without thought, Hannah brought two moist fingers to her breathless mouth and began licking her own salty wetness from them, a secret pleasure she had discovered long ago as a young girl. But in her mind it was not her own nectar she sampled; no, this honey belonged to someone else. Hannah savored the tangy dew of her fantasy lover as surging waves of bliss began coursing her quaking body. Her small frame bucked and rocked as noisy moans escaped her trembling lips. The sensation arose from deep within, from where her fingers penetrated and her thumb caressed, and spread throughout her entire being in powerful, undulating waves until even her skin tingled. The commotion frightened the lonely barn owl and she fluttered away into the starlit night.
For some time, Hannah lay in her bed, catching her breath, gathering her flushed and shuddering body back to a resting calm. But before opening her eyes and leaving her fantasy world completely she, for the briefest of moments, saw the face of her phantom lover. Hannah Allbright was slightly shocked to recognize the face of Lizbeth Quincy.
******
Lizbeth Quincy had indeed shocked young Hannah Allbright when the two women first met in the winter of 1775. Hannah had learned that Jeremiah Quincy, dead of consumption, had willed his land to relatives from the north and she eagerly made the trip through the snowy woods to greet her new neighbors upon seeing smoke once again billow from the farmhouse’s long dormant chimney. Hannah saw what she believed to be a young man peek from behind the curtains as she lifted the heavy brass knockers of the oaken door. “Can I help you?” the voice came from within. The voice was low but distinctly feminine.
“My name is Hannah Allbright,” she announced, shivering in the wintry chill. “I live over yonder and have come bearing gifts for the new lord of the manor.”
The heavy oak door swung opened and a young woman stood in the foyer. Her brown hair was cropped unusually short and her face, though pretty, was rather boyish. She stood much taller than Hannah and her posture was quite sturdy, much like that of a gentleman. But what surprised Hannah the most about this young woman was that she was wearing trousers.
“My name is Lizbeth Quincy,” the woman said politely. “Please, do come in from the cold.”
Hannah hesitated for an instant but not wanting to appear rude, entered the foyer and was led to the sitting room by her curious host. A comforting fire blazed in the hearth and Hannah welcomed its warmth. An open book lay beside the master’s chair and nearby, a clay pipe smoldered with an aromatic tobacco.
“Is your husband about?” Hannah asked, observing the distinctly masculine items.
“I have no husband,” Lizbeth replied offering Hannah a chair.
“Oh, I see.” Hannah remained standing. “Well then, your father perhaps?”
“No, it is just myself,” Lizbeth smiled. “May I tender you some coffee?”
“Oh, no thank you,” Hannah answered, fidgeting uncomfortably now. “I should not stay.”
“I see,” Lizbeth said and after a moment of silence added, “You spoke of bearing gifts?”
“Oh yes,” Hannah replied, remembering the basket of baked goods she had brought. “Of course,” she stammered, handing the basket to her host.
Lizbeth accepted the gift and placed it by the master’s chair. “Your too kind, I do wish you would stay,” she insisted. “It is terribly cold out and it is such a long walk through the woods.”
Hannah looked out the frosted window then back to her new neighbor. She removed her heavy overcoat and took her seat, smiling awkwardly. Hannah Allbright, who believed in the scriptures of “judge not” and “love one another” decided to stay.
“Does this mean you will reconsider the coffee?” Lizbeth asked, lifting the clay pipe and taking a slow drag.
Hannah, who had never witnessed a lady smoking in her life, watched as Lizbeth exhaled a blue billow that danced in the air before dissipating delicately. “Yes, please,” she finally responded, “I would love some coffee.”
“Very well,” Lizbeth smiled. “Please, make yourself at home.” She placed her pipe back on the table and disappeared into the pantry.
Hannah studied the small clay pipe, watching small eddies of smoke lift off the bowl and into the air. Her nose tingled at its richly pungent whiff. How many times had she longed to sample a puff off her husbands pipe but dared not ask. Scandalous, he would have remarked. Her hand reached for the pipe before she even realized what she was doing. The bowl felt warm in her hand and she sniffed at it cautiously before resting the bit on her lower lip. Hannah could taste the dampness left behind by Lizbeth’s mouth as she inhaled the fragrant smoke. She held it in her lungs and felt a sudden dizzying rush fill her brain.
“Do you like it?” The voice startled her and she coughed up a smoky cloud as she fumbled to replace the pipe to its place on the table. Lizbeth stood before her with a tray of coffee.
“I’m so sorry,” Hannah stuttered, embarrassed more at her lack of manners than her breach of social mores.
Lizbeth smiled as she place the pewter platter before her guest. “It is quite all right, Hannah,” she said with the slightest hint of laughter in her voice. “I told you to make yourself at home.”
The women sat and drank their coffee in near silence before Lizbeth finally spoke. “I make it myself.”
“The coffee?” Hannah replied uneasily, still feeling ashamed.
“No dear,” Lizbeth laughed again, “the tobacco. I grow it myself and mix the dried leaves with cloves and other herbs.” She stirred her coffee and took a taste. “Once the weather turns I hope to plant a new garden and grow enough to sell to the local merchants.”
“So you are a farmer?” Hannah asked.
“Not really,” Lizbeth answered, “I’m more of a crafts person. I also make candles and quilts. I hope to sell those as well. How is your coffee, dear?”
“Wonderful, thank you.” Hannah was beginning to feel more at ease. “But I confess, I do miss tea sometimes. But ever since those awful events up in Boston.”
“Oh I know,” Lizbeth shook her head in disgust as if she had been there. “It was dreadful.”
“You were there?” Hannah asked curiously.
“Unfortunately, yes.” Lizbeth put down her cup and resumed smoking what tobacco was left in her pipe. “The Tea Party, the Massacre, Breed’s Hill. I witnessed them all.”
“Then you are of the Boston Quincy’s?” Hannah asked, connecting the well-known surname with the city.
Lizbeth took a slow deliberate drag off the pipe as her green eyes momentarily filled with memory. “Well, I suppose,” she finally replied. “Though I’m sure my family would rather I not be.” Lizbeth puffed the last of her pipe and tapped the spent ashes from the bowl against the back of her boot. “That is why he exiled me here,” she added, wishing she had not as the words crossed her lips.
Hannah had never heard of such a thing and the statement puzzled her. “What in the world could a child do to make her father send her away?”
Lizbeth Quincy studied the face of her new neighbor and grimaced. “Oh, it is of no concern,” she finally answered, forcing a smile and taking another drink from her ceramic cup.
The women finished their coffee in silence and upon Hannah’s departure Lizbeth said, “I do hope we can see more of one other. It has been sometime since I have made a new friend.”
“Yes, of course,” Hannah replied truthfully as she bundled herself against the cold to begin the bitter walk home. “I am sure we will become the most wonderful of friends.”
******
That had been four years ago: before the war, before the burning, before her dear Henry had left her alone. Hannah maintained her acquaintance with Lizbeth and slowly a true friendship blossomed. Before long, Lizbeth’s idiosyncrasies went practically unnoticed by Hannah but Henry Allbright was not nearly as accepting.
“The woman is damn peculiar I tell you,” he would declare in his mellow lawyerly voice.
“Oh Henry,” Hannah would laugh, “Judge not less ye be judged.”
“There is no scripture you can spout to make me ever understand that Quincy woman, Hannah,” Henry retorted. “She is a queer one. Why if I had my wits I would forbid you from even seeing her.”
To honor her husband, as well as out of fear that he might follow through with his threat, Hannah had kept her time with Lizbeth to a minimum. But now, with Henry away at war, she saw Lizbeth Quincy freely; nearly everyday, and much to her surprise felt little shame in doing so.
And now, this morning, she lay awake in her overstuffed feather bed remembering the dream she had had the night before, the one that visited her slumbers often of late, the same dream that had found her with her fingers in her bloomers and a damp spot on her sheets. I think I shall visit Lizbeth today, Hannah considered as the morning sun blazed through her window, vanquishing any hint of coolness the nighttime had left behind.
After performing her daily chores, which took half the time now that Henry was away, Hannah set her hair in a customary bun, dressed in her frilliest cotton gown and made her way through the woods to Lizbeth’s. The path had become well trod since Henry’s departure and it took her little more than ten minutes to cross. Junebugs hissed and chirped among the swamp maples that grew thick and tangled in woods coupling the Allbright and Quincy estates. The lush green canopy seemed to trap the afternoon humidity and Hannah’s dress was already moist with perspiration by the time she neared the end of the path.
Reaching the clearing, Hannah found Lizbeth in her small tobacco patch, pulling weeds and watering the rich green leaves from a tin can. “You look as though you need watering as much as my plants do,” Lizbeth commented upon seeing Hannah sweating uncomfortably in her ruffled gown. Lizbeth wore a white cotton shirt and tan trousers held by leather suspenders. A large ‘V’ of perspiration extended from her shoulders and across her pert breasts. Hannah could not help but notice Lizbeth’s button like areolas showing through the moist fabric.
“Perhaps if I were as bold as you,” Hannah replied indicating Lizbeth’s attire.
“Perhaps you should try sometime,” Lizbeth offered.
“Perhaps I shall,” Hannah smiled.
The women embraced and Lizbeth kissed Hannah on the cheek. “Here, help me with this,” she asked, handing Hannah the watering can. The two friends labored, taking turns watering and weeding until the can was empty.
“Me thinks we need some more water, Miss Quincy,” Hannah commented, tipping the can over to confirm its emptiness.
“Me thinks we need a break, Mrs. Allbright,” Lizbeth replied as she rose and brushed dusty soil from her pants. Taking Hannah by the hand, she led her to the babbling stream that cut trough the northern side of her property. “How about a swim?”
Hannah had taken notice of an ever-expanding cluster of gray clouds forming off to west. “But it looks like a storm is coming,” she stated, pointing to the ominous looking clouds.
“Nonsense,” Lizbeth exclaimed, letting her suspenders fall from her shoulders and undoing the buttons of her cotton shirt.
“What are you doing?” Hannah asked, watching Lizbeth pull her shirt over her head to reveal her naked torso.
“Going for a swim,” Lizbeth answered with a playful smile as she unbuckled her trousers and let them fall to the sandy ground.
“Unclothed?” Hannah questioned, a touch of embarrassment in her voice.
“Of course,” Lizbeth responded moving nearer to Hannah. “What other way is there?” She reached for and began undoing the silky bow adorning the front of Hannah’s dress. Hannah offered neither help nor protest and only stood there, unsuccessfully resisting the urge to admire her friend’s nude form as Lizbeth began removing the rest of Hannah’s garments.
Lizbeth’s body was much different than her own. Lizbeth’s frame was toned and strapping while Hannah’s was elegant and curved. Her breasts were much smaller than Hannah’s; Lizbeth’s nipples pink and sprightly while Hannah’s were sizable and the color of summer plums. The thatch between Lizbeth’s sculpted legs was thick and dark with undulate fur in contrast to Hannah’s light patch of wispy golden curls. But still, Hannah found Lizbeth’s body both beautiful and exciting all the same.
“You have never seen another woman this way before, have you Hannah?” Lizbeth asked stepping back and letting Hannah admire her entire body. Hannah shook her head side to side, not realizing that she, herself, was now completely nude. Lizbeth smiled and cupped her petite breasts. She guided her hands down her long willowy frame then turned and ran into the river which exploded in a raucous splash upon her arrival. Lizbeth dove under and as she emerged, large drops of water clung to her tanned and freckled shoulders. “What are you waiting for silly,” she called from the refreshing drink. “Come on!”
Hannah stepped out of her dress, which now lay in a mound at her ankles, and made her way into the flowing stream. Cool water kissed her heels sending a shiver up her body. She waded out and returned Lizbeth’s smile with one of her own. The revitalizing water felt wonderful on Hannah’s skin and her nipples began to enliven in the gentle current. Embarrassed, she kept her breast hidden under the water line. “Feels nice,” she said coyly.
“Mmmmmm,” Lizbeth answered, splashing water on her face and through her short brown hair. Lizbeth stood tall in the water, unashamed to display what the cool water was doing to her nipples. She wadded closer to Hannah who remained submerged to her neck. “Hannah Allbright,” Lizbeth declared, “I have known you for almost five years now and I have never once seen you wear your hair down.”
Hannah reached up and felt her bun. “Oh, I never wear my hair down in public Lizbeth.”
“I would hardly call this the town commons,” Lizbeth teased playfully, reaching under the water and taking Hannah’s shoulders in her hands. “Here, stand up.”
Lizbeth motioned for Hannah to stand and bashfully, she did, covering her breasts as they broke the surface of the water. Lizbeth reached behind Hannah’s head and began pulling the pins that held her auburn hair in a tight bun. Lock by lock, the golden-brown curls spilled across Hannah’s back and shoulders, down her chest and over her obscured breasts.
Lizbeth ran her wet fingers through Hannah’s ginger hair, further relaxing the well-tamed tresses. “You are so beautiful,” she remarked as she fondled Hannah’s flowing curls. Hannah blushed, to timid to make eye contact, to frightened to speak. Lizbeth’s gentle fingers caressed Hannah’s hair, down her neck, across her shoulders and finally, over her bosom, still well guarded by Hannah’s now trembling hands. Lizbeth’s hands grasped Hannah’s and delicately guided them down until Hannah’s breasts were fully exposed. “So beautiful,” she repeated.
Lizbeth stepped even closer to Hannah until at last, their rigid nipples touched. Hannah shuddered at this wondrous commotion. How long had she ached to be touched by another? How long had she dreamed of being touched by Lizbeth Quincy? For weeks now her slumbers had been filled with visions of Lizbeth’s hands on her lonely body and just now she was beginning to understand why. A rush flooded her brain much like the time she had secretly sampled Lizbeth’s tobacco. Her body felt both warm and cold at the same time, every nerve tingling, every cell aware. She found the sensation exhilarating, confusing, and overwhelming all the same. Lizbeth fingers remained in Hannah’s hair, their nipples pressed firmly against each other’s and now, unseen under the water, Hannah felt Lizbeth’s muscular leg caressing up and down her own.
Lizbeth smiled at Hannah and moved even closer until their hips touched as well. Her right hand traced down Hannah’s back and rested upon the small area just above her buttocks. The ripples in the water mimicked those coursing through Hannah’s excited body. With her left hand, Lizbeth cupped cool water and let it trickle over Hannah’s chest. Heavy droplets of fresh river water raced down Hannah’s breasts and clung to her nipples like morning dew on ripe fruit. She was completely unaware that Lizbeth spoke to her the entire time, repeating how beautiful she was and how wonderful she felt in her arms. With each new touch Hannah could feel her reservations melt away like winter leftovers in springs sun kissed embrace.
The resonance of babbling water and the glimmer of fading afternoon sunlight upon the waves created a dreamlike aura and Hannah felt herself fall deeper and deeper under Lizbeth’s amorous spell. Upon her neck she felt velvety lips converge on the softest of spots and seal into a suckling kiss.
Henry use to kiss me this way.
The words were as clear in her brain as if someone had spoken them aloud. She opened her eyes, not realizing that she had ever closed them. “What did you say?”
“I said your skin tastes delicious,” Lizbeth answered, smiling as she removed her mouth from Hannah’s tender throat.
“No, about Henry,” Hannah asked, still flustered but feeling the sexual energy being drained from her body as quickly as it had come.
Lizbeth relaxed her embrace interpreting the unexpected change in Hannah’s demeanor. “Hannah dear, I didn’t say anything about Henry.”
“Oh.” Hannah stood motionless in the water. “I thought you…” But no more words came. Her body ached to be back in Lizbeth’s arms but her brain suddenly forbid it, consumed only with thoughts of Henry. She turned, silently waded back to shore and began dressing.
In the west, the dark clouds Hannah had noticed earlier continued to brew as Lizbeth stood and watched from the water. “Hannah, do you know why my father sent me to live here all alone?” she asked abruptly as the sun began to disappear behind a veil of darkening clouds.
Hannah looked up. Lizbeth’s expression had turned forlorn and silent tears began to well in her green eyes. “No,” Hannah replied.
“He caught me making love with his chamber maid.” Lizbeth looked down to the water. Hannah wondered why Lizbeth would suddenly decide to say such a thing and resumed dressing thinking she had spoke her peace but Lizbeth continued. “I loved her so much. We fell in love when we were just girls, far too young to understand our feelings for one other. She was beautiful, the daughter of a freed slave. She was of Jamaican descent and her voice would ring with the accent of her ancestors as she would recite the love poems she composed for me. Her name was Claudia.” Lizbeth smiled through her tears upon hearing the name escape her lips for the first time in years. “I don’t know what infuriated father more; the fact that he caught me lying with another woman or that she was a Negro.” Lizbeth sniffled and wiped a tear from her eye with the back of her hand. “Father said if he were not a Christian he would have disowned me and throw me in the gutter with the rest of the whores but instead, he packed me in a carriage and banished me here making me promise to never return.”
Shadows enveloped the women now as the dim western clouds blossomed into menacing thunderheads. Hannah had stopped dressing while listening to Lizbeth speak but hastened her efforts upon hearing the first rumbles of thunder call from the west. “And what of Claudia?” Hannah asked cautiously as she laced the front of her petticoat.
Lizbeth shook her head, still gazing down at the water, watching her tears make small eddies in the flowing waters. “I never saw her again.” Another low grumble reverberated across the skies. “Father said he would have her killed but one of the house servants told me he really sold her into slavery to one of his southern acquaintances.” Once again she wiped her eyes. “I’m not a bad person Hannah. I can’t help who I am.” Lizbeth at last looked up from the water and to Hannah who was now fully dressed. “Or whom I love.”
The growls of thunder grew angrier as Hannah rose from the banks of the careening brook. She looked to the threatening skies and then back to Lizbeth, still standing naked and alone in the rippling water. “I’m sorry Lizbeth. I must go.”
Lightning could now be seen far off in the distance, stitching a tapestry that traversed the darkening skies. “Hannah,” Lizbeth appealed. “You are the only person besides Claudia who has ever accepted me for who I am. Please, I don’t want to lose you as well.”
As the first drops of rain began to fall, Hannah Allbright turned and ran for the path that led from Lizbeth Quincy’s home to hers.
******
Hannah Allbright’s heart stopped dead in her chest upon reaching the end of the path. Hitched to her front porch was a gray mare. Out of breath, she clutched the front of her dress and felt her heart sink like an anchor and break into a million pieces on the lonely ocean floor. The horse on her porch looked just like Reverend Dandridge’s and the only reason he ever made the long journey to the outskirts these days was to deliver bad news from the warfront. A growing breeze howled through the trees as the thunderstorm announced its arrival from the west but all Hannah Allbright could hear was the agonizing thud of her breaking heart.
Hannah walked the stepping stone path to her front porch like a prisoner awaiting sentence. Warm summer raindrops camouflaged the tears growing fat and sorrowful in her eyes. As she entered the house, lightning ripped the sky in two and the heavens at last bleed in a drenching squall. In her distress Hannah failed to notice the Royal issue flintlock rifle propped against the porch wall.
A lamp burned from within the pantry and Hannah could see the shadow of a man in its flickering glow. Hannah stood for a moment in the foyer and took a deep and calming breath. “Reverend,” she announced as bravely as she could, “I am home.” The shadowy figure paused. Hannah heard a rustling then watched as the shadow turned and grew larger answering her call. To her surprise it was not the Reverend to appear in the doorway but a Redcoat: one of Tyrus’s sentries. He was grubby and rumpled and Hannah initially felt relief at the sight of him. The reprieve would be short lived.
“Well, well, well,” the sentry bellowed, peering at her through devious slits, “What have we here?”
It was fears turn to preside over her emotions now and Hannah stood paralyzed as the sentry, an intimidatingly muscular man, loomed over her until a loud clap of thunder made her jump and scream out. Her screech amused the sentry and he chuckled heartily at her timidity.
“There is nothing you want here,” Hannah finally cried meekly, backing away from her unwelcome caller.
“Oh, yes,” the sentry leered, rubbing his scruffy chin and looking Hannah Allbright up and down, “I believe there just might be.”
Hannah tried to flee but the sentry, despite his girth, was far too swift. He grabbed her by the sleeve and turned her around, tearing the silky fabric of her dress and leaving her pale shoulder naked and exposed. The hulking intruder pulled Hannah to him and pressed his thick rubbery lips against hers. Hannah flailed her head back and forth and began beating his brick wall chest with ineffective blows. The sentry laughed at her ineptitude. His breath reeked of cheese and ale.
“You are uninvited, sir” Hannah gasped, her entire body trembling, her brown eyes wild with fear. The sentry only laughed all the more before slapping Hannah hard across the face and sending her to the clack board floor. A salty taste filled her mouth as bright red blood began to flow from the inside of her lip.
Hannah Allbright’s once peaceful home, so quiet since her husband had left for war, was now filled with the pitiable snivel of her own whimpers. Hannah shut her eyes tight, praying the intruder would leave but she could still hear his panting and wheezy breaths over the steady gallop of swollen raindrops beating upon the tin shingles. Another clap of thunder shrieked across the sky.
“Oh yes,” the sentry hissed around a sinister grin, watching Hannah cower on the floor with her eyes shut tight and blood trickling from her swelling mouth, “I like that.” Unbuckling his trousers, he leapt on top of her and grabbed her face with a meaty hand. He rubbed his thumb in her blood and smeared it across her quivering lips like some gaudy cosmetic. “Mmmm,” he growled, “Aren’t you a pretty tart.”
Again, the sentry pressed his lips to Hannah’s, taking pleasure in her helplessness and growing all the more excited by the coppery taste of her pain. Wanting so much more of her, he ripped open the front of her ivory dress and groped at her plentiful breasts, which heaved rapidly in terrified breathes, still held tight within her petticoat. He buried his filthy mug in her cleavage and was about to rip her breasts free when the awareness of piercing steel upon the back of his neck brought him pause. “Who goes there?” he asked cautiously without looking back, recognizing the razor edge of a bayonet against his perspiring flesh.
“Get off her,” a female voice demanded. “Slowly!”
Hannah opened her eyes at the sound of the familiar and unfaltering voice. Behind her attacker stood Lizbeth Quincy: a flintlock rifle in her ever-steady hands. The sentry turned slowly to see the face of his captor only to be met by the barrel of his own weapon. Lizbeth lower the bayonet to the sentry’s flabby cheek and repeated her demand, “Get off of her, now!”
“Let’s be calm love,” the sentry grumbled, still not budging.
“Now!” Lizbeth shouted, thrusting the bayonet hard enough against his clammy flesh to draw blood. The sentry rose inelegantly, groping to keep his unbuckled trousers from falling to the floor and turned to face Lizbeth. Hannah, free from the sentry’s bulky prison, scampered across the floor and cowered in the corner.
“Its all right there deary,” the sentry reassured, maintaining his composure, never really believing that a woman, of all people, would dare shoot a British regular. “Lets not get our knickers in a knot.” He buckled his pants cautiously and raised his hands above his head. Lizbeth held the bayonet inches from his sweaty face; a single drop of blood dripped from its steely tip.
“Now,” Lizbeth ordered with un-frightened authority, “get out of here!” The sentry complied, vigilantly backing to the doorway and down the front steps. Lizbeth, her green eyes narrow and severe, followed him step for step.
The sentry had taken notice of Lizbeth’s short hair and men’s trousers. Standing in the pouring rain and under the lightning filled skies he yelled, “What the hell kind of wench are you?”
“The kind you’ll be sorry you ever met,” Lizbeth shouted over yet another deafening thunderclap.
The sentry laughed as he took hold of his horse’s reigns. “I’ll just come back here with more men, missy!” he barked back. “And then you and your whore friend shall be the sorry ones!”
“No,” Lizzie calmly replied, never taking her aim off her target. “I don’t believe you will.”
And with that Lizbeth pulled the trigger of the sentry’s rifle sending a lead slug trough his windpipe and deep into his spinal cord. The sentry fell backwards instantaneously, the muscles below his neck no longer receiving commands from his shattered spinal column. His limp body fell off the walkway and into a thorny patch of brambles. His eyes seemed to scan the stormy heavens aimlessly as his mouth floundered for a breath that was not there, finding only a mouthful of summer raindrops instead. He died a moment later.
Lizbeth unhitched the sentry’s horse and with a swift slap to her backside, set the mare free. She dropped the rifle on the front porch and rushed inside to find Hannah who cowered in the corner, crying and still in distress. Hannah screamed when Lizbeth took her in her arms. Her terrified eyes darted about wildly and Lizbeth held her trembling body close despite Hannah’s attempts to push her away. “Hannah, its Lizbeth,” she whispered as she wiped drying blood from Hannah’s chin and replaced the red stains with loving kisses. “It is okay, dear one,” she reassured softly. “I’m here.”
Hannah, finally realizing it was now Lizbeth’s arms she was in, clutched her tightly in return. “Oh Lizbeth,” she cried, “Is he gone? Please tell me he is gone.”
“He is all gone, my precious,” Lizbeth assured, peering out the open door at the lifeless body lying off the rain soaked walkway. “He will never bother you again.”
“You will protect me?” Hannah shuttered, her lips shivering as she spoke.
Lizbeth looked back down to Hannah and began stroking her hair. “I will always protect you,” she affirmed.
The two women lay on the floor enveloped in one another’s arms, Hannah feeling secure and warm in Lizbeth’s adoring embrace. She looked up and noticed her husband’s riding crop hanging from a rounded peg on the wall. You were not here to protect me Henry, she thought, looking back up to Lizbeth who was gracing the top of her head with tender kisses. But Lizbeth was. Lizbeth eyes stated their intent and without hesitation, Hannah’s permitted. Slowly, she leaned closer to Hannah until their lips lightly touched. She paused only a moment until at last Hannah closed her soft brown eyes.
For Hannah Allbright, the world went silent as Lizbeth Quincy’s succulent mouth closed upon hers in a loving kiss.
******
Tepid bath water enveloped Hannah Allbright; her lips still tingled from Lizbeth Quincy’s breathtaking kiss. Her husband had kissed her at least a thousand times but never once did he use his tongue the way Lizbeth had. Lizbeth had parted Hannah’s lips with her strawberry tongue and she found the sensation of Lizbeth’s wet muscle searching and probing the insides of her mouth delightful. “It is how the French kiss,” Lizbeth had giggled.
Lizbeth returned to the tub with another bucket of fire-warmed bath water and spilled it gently over Hannah’s naked body. Earlier, Lizbeth had assisted Hannah from the floor and for the second time that day, disrobed her. She had started a fire and drawn the water for a cleansing bath as Hannah watched with nervous anticipation. “Let me wash him from you, dear,” Lizbeth had asked between luscious kisses.
My husband or the Redcoat, Hannah had initially thought in response to Lizbeth’s request. But now, with Lizbeth also nude and sponging soapy bath water over her bare shoulders, it did not seem to really matter either way.
Lizbeth dropped the sponge to the floor and worked her bare hands on Hannah’s supple skin. She started at her neck and worked down to her shoulders, her strong hands kneading any lingering tension from Hannah’s weary soul. “That feels wonderful, Lizbeth” Hannah cooed dreamily as placid waves resonated off the walls of the copper bathtub. Lizbeth smiled and lowered her hands to Hannah’s breasts, cupping them tenderly and squeezing Hannah’s engorged nipples between her middle and index fingers. “Oh, my,” Hannah gasped, leaving her mouth open to be met by yet another of Lizbeth’s moist kisses.
Outside, the raging storm had subsided into a tranquil shower and a choir of peep frogs commenced with a harmonic chorus of chirps and hums. A curious skunk, foraging in the damp for his dinner, had found the waterlogged body of the British Regular instead and he sniffed at the lifeless figure before ambling away, uninterested. In the morning, Lizbeth would set fire the sentry’s clothing and bury his naked body in her tobacco patch, but tonight, she had a far more pleasurable agenda on her mind.
The bathwaters cooled but the same could not be said of Lizbeth Quincy and Hannah Allbright. The couple adjourned to Hannah’s chambers where Lizbeth lay her new lover upon the cloud-like feather bed and began adorning her nude and eager body with affectionate kisses. Hannah trembled at the attentiveness of Lizbeth’s cherry lips, as if a million butterflies were delicately landing upon her tingling skin. In her ecstasy, she adoringly gazed upon Lizbeth in the reflection of her dressing mirror, the same one she had watched herself in so many times, her excitement building, her respirations becoming swift. So long had she imagined how one woman could love another, and now she watched amorously as Lizbeth showed her how.
Lizbeth’s flesh seemed to glow in the amber radiance of the smoldering hearth, the only light remaining in the small cottage. Her mouth explored every inch of Hannah Allbright, who purred softly and ruffled the down covers of her feather bed with a blissful writhing. At last Lizbeth found herself at the divine mound between Hannah’s creamy thighs. “Have you ever been kissed here before?” she sighed, parting Hannah’s spongy folds with the most delicate of touch. Hannah’s only reply was a lusty moan as Lizbeth’s handsome face disappeared within her ginger thatch.
Henry had kissed Hannah once like this before but his efforts had been clumsy and uninspiring. Lizbeth, in contrast, used her mouth and tongue on Hannah the way a fine sculptor would use his hands on clay: affectionately, indulgently, proficiently. Hannah imagined the only thing that could feel any more pleasurable than the sensations Lizbeth elicited upon her quivering body would be the touch of a thousand angels.
The room was balmy and both women glistened in the fire glow with light beads of perspiration. In the mirror, Hannah observed that Lizbeth had taken to touching herself as well, burying busy fingers deep within her own saturated flesh and the vision filled Hannah with the sudden insufferable urge to sample Lizbeth Quincy the way she was sampling her. “Lizbeth…” she panted. “Lizbeth please let me taste you.” Her body squirmed and writhed on Lizbeth’s attentive mouth. “Oh please, let me taste you, my dear.”
Lizbeth raised her head with a salacious smile, her face glossy with Hannah’s wet lust. She shimmied her body up to Hannah and kissed her whole on the mouth. Hannah recognized the taste of her own salty tang and consumed ravenously from her lover’s lips. “That is you,” Lizbeth purred, flicking her tongue over Hannah’s the way she had tickled her nethers moments before. “And this,” she continued, removing sticky fingers from her own damp region and placing them to Hannah’s eager lips, “this, my love, is me.”
Hannah licked Lizbeth’s fingers only once before sucking them deep into her willing mouth. She was surprised by how distinctly different Lizbeth tasted for her own womanly flow but lavished in the marvelous flavor all the same. As Lizbeth Quincy’s pungent sauce dissolved within her mouth, Hannah Allbright was consumed by the urge to taste Lizbeth from the source. She took Lizbeth’s face in her hands and engulfed her mouth with a passionate kiss. “Please, oh please dear Lizbeth,” she implored between lusty kisses. “Please let me love you the way you love me.”
Lizbeth returned Hannah’s kiss and then shifted her body until the women lay with their most private of places directly before each other’s face, Lizbeth on top of Hannah. Lizbeth reached under, grasping Hannah’s buttocks with firm hands and as her tongue resumed probing her lover’s saturated nest, she found Hannah’s other pert hole and began encircling it lightly with gentle fingertips. Hannah gasped as beautiful bolts of electricity shot from the region and flooded her soul. She began panting hard, mouth agape, gazing up at Lizbeth’s succulent aperture. A sultry drop of honey fell from the folds and onto Hannah waiting tongue. This is so beautiful, she thought as Lizbeth lowered her body onto Hannah’s impatient mouth.
The rains were gone and silvery beams of moonlight now peered through the windows, bathing the women in a heavenly blush. The musical peep frogs continued their serenade throughout the night as Hannah and Lizbeth accompanied them with their own chorus of tender moans and breathless sighs until at last they slept, carefree and satisfied, in one another’s arms.
Somewhere to the north, the situation was not so pleasant. Things were looking grim for the men of the New Haven Regiment as they persisted with their violent game of war and death. Henry Allbright slept uneasily, hungry and wounded in a gravel ditch, surrounded by the bodies of his fallen comrades. The only thing that sustained him through the long night were thoughts of his dear wife Hannah.
******
By the late summer of 1779, the news from the warfront had not been good. The men of Pleasant Harbor, fighting with the New Haven Regiment, had suffered numerous casualties at the Battle of Danbury and though some of the survivors had returned to their families, most wandered the Connecticut Valley as mercenaries, fighting in the small but frequent skirmishes that continued to erupt as the War for Independence lingered on. Reverend Dandridge had made countless visits to the newly widowed, notifying them of their misfortune but so far, Hannah Allbright had not been among them. She continued her regular journeys into town seeking information but had yet to receive even a hint of information on the whereabouts of her husband.
But today, Hannah did not concern herself with the things she could not control. Today she lay in a meadow of tall grass — populated by black-eyed susans and yellow daisies that grew unfettered for as far as the eye could see — and dozed off in the arms of her lover, Lizbeth Quincy, who recited love poems by heart as she ran her slender fingers through Hannah’s graceful auburn hair. Gentle breezes rolled over the meadow, contorting the wild grasses into undulating waves and keeping the August humidity at bay. Watching the lazy summer clouds and listening to the soothing tenor of Lizbeth’s voice had made Hannah’s eyelids heavy and she slept lightly until being stirred by a sudden change in Lizbeth’s tone.
“Hannah,” Lizbeth abruptly announced. “Open your eyes.”
“What is it dear?” Hannah asked sleepily, looking up with a drowsy smile and reaching to caress Lizbeth’s tanned face.
“Look!” Lizbeth pointed beyond the meadow and towards Hannah’s house where a man in uniform was breaching the forest.
Hannah turned her gaze to the direction in which Lizbeth pointed. Her smiled faded immediately. “My dear Lord,” she gasped. “Henry.” He was leaner than when he had left, gaunt even, and his hair was long and unkempt, but even at this distance she recognized the man to whom she was married.
With out thinking, she rose and ran to him, her heart racing as fast as her feet, but stopped halfway. Oh my God, Lizbeth. She turned and spoke aloud the words she thought. “Oh my God, Lizbeth,” she cried, covering her mouth with both hands.
Lizbeth stood and walked to a sobbing Hannah. Meeting her, she placed her hands on Hannah’s shoulders. “Do you love him, Hannah?” she asked firmly.
“I…” Hannah looked over her shoulder at Henry who had yet to notice them in the field. “I do not know what I should do.”
“Do you love him?” Lizbeth repeated, doing her best to mask the excruciating sting growing steadily in the of the hollow pit of her chest
Hannah stood motionless and quiet, her eyes spilling with salty tears until the forlorn caw of an unseen crow broke the silence. “Yes, Lizbeth,” Hannah finally replied. “Yes I do.”
“Then go to him,” Lizbeth managed with a warm but poignant smile.
“But I love y…” Hannah began as Lizbeth put a finger to her crimson lips.
“You are a beautiful, precious flower Hannah,” Lizbeth interrupted as she stroked Hannah’s sorrowful face. “But you belong to someone else. I have known this all along and it is the chance I took.”
The wild grasses hummed in the breeze like a sad orchestra. Hannah glanced back to her husband before turning to Lizbeth once more. “But what of us, Lizbeth?” Hannah asked. “What of you?”
Lizbeth looked to the cottage and knew it would not be long until Henry noticed them standing in the field. “I know of loss Hannah,” she said. “She is an old friend of mine. I will be fine.” Lizbeth removed her hands from Hannah’s face and settled them in the pockets of her baggy trousers. “Now go,” she insisted, afraid she would not be able to fight back her tears much longer. “Go be with your husband.”
Hannah grasped Lizbeth by the shoulders and kissed her cheek. “I do love you, Lizbeth Quincy,” she wept. “And I always will.” The two women held the pose for a moment then Hannah turned and ran for her husband.
Lizbeth Quincy stood alone in the meadow, sobbing bitterly, and watched unnoticed as Hannah rushed into the embrace of her waiting husband. They kissed as Henry lifted his wife in the air and spun her around joyously. Their amorous dance lasted about a minute and then Henry Allbright buried his head in his wife’s shoulder as she led him inside. The lonesome crow cawed once more as Lizbeth dried her tears. “And I love you too, Hannah Allbright,” she whispered under her breath as the shadows grew long and she turned for home. “And I always will.”
******
Red and orange leaves peppered the cobblestones of Pleasant Harbor as Hannah Allbright accompanied her husband into town to assist with the ongoing rebuilding. The summer rains had washed away most of the soot and ash and two new buildings already emerged from the ruble. The clamor of sawing lumber and pounding hammers filled the air near the wooden skeleton of a new town hall; out front, high on a pole, the Stars and Stripes waved majestically in the autumn breeze. A few blocks down, a fresh granite corner stone stood in place at the future home of the Second Church of Pleasant Harbor. A large crate sat nearby containing a shinning new bell that awaited a belfry to call home. Reverend Dandridge, who was proudly showing it off to some townsfolk, stopped to wave as Henry and Hannah Allbright passed.
At the mercantile, Mary Addams tended shop with her three boys. She wore a green gingham dress and Hannah thought it was nice to see her something other than widow’s black. Ever the gossip, Mary approached Hannah to fill her ears with all the latest hearsay from around Pleasant Harbor. Hannah smiled politely and tried to excuse herself but Mary had a question she felt only Hannah could answer.
“And by the way, Hannah,” Mary Addams inquired, “What ever became of that Quincy woman? I have not seen of her since last summer.”
Hannah had not seen Lizbeth either, not since that day in the meadow. The week following Henry’s return she had made the hike through the woods only to find the Quincy residence deserted and still. She thought at first that perhaps Lizbeth had returned to Boston seeking reconciliation with her father but she knew that was something Lizbeth would never do. No, instead she believed that Lizbeth had ventured south, was quite sure of it in fact, to search for someone she had not seen in years, someone with brown skin and a gift for composing the most beautiful of love poems.
But Mary Addams did not need to know that. “I do not know what ever became of Lizbeth Quincy,” Hannah replied. “Now if you will please excuse me.”
“Well, it is not like anyone will miss her,” the widow Addams snickered as Hannah turned to leave.
Even the most astute observer would have had trouble recognizing the heartfelt pain that Hannah Allbright concealed as she exited the mercantile to join her husband who had wandered down to the harbor to speak with some friends. But Hannah had become quite adept at concealing her emotions over the past few months. She greeted her husband’s acquaintances respectfully with a kind smile as she locked her arm with Henry’s and turned her gaze to the south, over the harbor and out into the azure sky.
******
Though at times it seemed hopeless, the War for Independence was about to turn in favor of the struggling colonist and soon, a new nation would be born from the seeds of American determination and strength and an undeniable feeling of joy would spread throughout the land. But for Hannah Allbright, a certain sadness remained. She would never again see Lizbeth Quincy but she would never forget her. She would never forget the devoted friendship, the affectionate moments or the passion filled nights. But most of all, she would never forget the love. On warm summer evenings, she would sit alone in the meadow behind her small cottage and whisper softly into the southerly winds, “I love you Lizbeth Quincy…And I always will.”