Читать книгу A Stand for Independence - Valerie Tripp - Страница 7

pring kept its promise of beautiful days. Huge white clouds sailed across the gloriously blue sky. The apple trees were heavy with pink blossoms, and the air was sweet with their delicious scent.

Felicity loved being with Grandfather. Elizabeth did, too. She joined them in the garden almost every day before lessons. Grandfather sat in the shade with Posie at his feet. He watched Felicity weed, water, and prune her plants. Elizabeth made miniature landscapes out of the cuttings. She used twigs and stems for trees and moss for grass. Buds and petals were her flowers, and leaves were her ferns.

One afternoon, Grandfather studied Elizabeth’s landscape. “What place have you made here?” he asked. “This is a miniature of a real garden, is it not?”

“Oh, ’tis my garden at home—I mean, in England,” answered Elizabeth.

Grandfather nodded. “You miss it, do you?” he asked.

“Aye,” said Elizabeth. “My family came here to Virginia in the fall. This is my first spring away from England.”

Felicity sat back on her heels and looked at Elizabeth. She had never heard Elizabeth speak this way before. She had never thought about Elizabeth missing England.

Grandfather spoke thoughtfully. “I grew up in England, too,” he said to Elizabeth. “I, too, was transplanted to the soil of another country. ’Tis not easy to feel at home in a new place.”

Elizabeth sighed. “You see, sir, my parents are Loyalists,” she said. “And some people here have different ideas. They say the colonies should not belong to the king anymore. ’Tis hard to know what to think.”

“Humph!” snorted Grandfather. “All this talk against the king and his governor is stuff and nonsense! ’Tis the ranting of irresponsible scoundrels. The colonies are part of England and will be so forevermore.”

Felicity looked at Grandfather’s stern face. It’s a good thing he did not hear Ben and Isaac talking about the governor, she thought. She went back to her digging.

Felicity did not want to hear any more disturbing talk about the king and England. But it seemed to follow her like an unwelcome, bothersome fly. That evening, after supper, Ben went off to visit a friend. After Ben left, Grandfather frowned.

“You had better keep an eye on that young man,” Grandfather said to Father. “He is much too interested in the militia. He’ll be shirking his duties at the store to sneak off and watch them muster if you don’t stop him.”

“Ben is a good lad,” said Father. “I trust him.”

“Humph!” said Grandfather. “How can you trust someone you know is disloyal to the king? I heard Ben say the colonies should be independent. These young Patriots talking about rebellion know nothing about trust or loyalty. They have forgotten that loyalty is a promise to honor our old and valuable traditions.”

“Aye, sir,” said Father. “We must honor traditions. But perhaps we must honor new ideas, too.”

“Balderdash!” sputtered Grandfather. “New ideas are new nonsense! People are nothing if they are not loyal to their old values and traditions. They are irresponsible—”

“Now, now,” interrupted Mrs. Merriman. “Please let us have no arguing and disharmony. I hope there is room in the world for old ideas and new ideas, just as there is room for, for…” She looked around the room and smiled when she saw the spinet. “Just as there is room for old songs and new songs.” She sat at the spinet and started to play. “Let us sing together.”

Felicity could see that Grandfather was still cross. But he and Father were gentlemen, so they politely joined in the singing. And soon enough, the music soothed and cheered everyone.

“Felicity, my dear,” said Grandfather. “You have a fine voice. I think perhaps you have your grandmother’s gift for music. I have brought something for you. Wait here.”

He left the room for a short while. When he came back, Felicity could hardly believe her eyes. Grandfather handed her a guitar! A beautiful, graceful guitar! It was made of the same shiny wood as Annabelle’s guitar, but Felicity thought it was much finer. It had a flower carved in the middle where Annabelle’s guitar had only a hole.

Felicity hardly dared to touch the guitar. She looked up at Grandfather and asked, “Is this…is this for me?”

“Aye,” said Grandfather. “It belonged to your dear grandmother. You must promise to be very careful with it.” He glanced at Father and said firmly, “It is old and valuable, and so it is something to be treasured.”

“Indeed, yes,” said Mrs. Merriman quickly. “We shall keep the guitar in the house, in the parlor, where it will be safe.”

Felicity cradled the guitar in her arms. She felt as if she had been given something magic, something full of enchanting music waiting to come out, waiting for her to bring it out. She brushed the strings with her fingertips. They were out of tune, and the fine old ribbon tied to the guitar was frayed. But to Felicity the guitar was perfection. It was a treasure.

“Thank you, Grandfather,” she said. “I promise to take good care of the guitar. Someday, when I am older, I’ll play it for you. We’ll sing together.”

Grandfather’s eyes were their softest gray. “Indeed we shall, my dear girl,” he said. “I know you will guard it well and keep it from harm. You are a young lady to be trusted.”

Later that night, when she was lying in bed, an idea wormed its way into Felicity’s thoughts. Now I have a guitar, she realized. I have a guitar that is finer than Annabelle’s. How I wish I could show it to her! Felicity quickly reminded herself that Mother had said the guitar must be kept in the parlor so that it would be safe. She was not to take the guitar out of the house. So Felicity tried to push the idea away. But somehow, it would not go.

Days passed, and soon it was April twentieth, the day before Felicity’s birthday. That afternoon, Mother, Nan, William, and Grandfather went to visit old Mr. Fitchett. They left before Felicity went to lessons, and they were not due back until early evening.

After Felicity waved good-bye to them, she wandered into the parlor and took the guitar down from the tall bookcase. She plucked the strings. ’Tis too bad the guitar is so out of tune, she thought. She tried to tighten the strings herself, as she had seen Miss Manderly do when she was tuning Annabelle’s guitar. But she did not know how the notes were supposed to sound. Felicity put the guitar back in its place. She stared up at it.

Perhaps, she thought, perhaps Miss Manderly would tune the guitar for me. And perhaps Miss Manderly could teach me a song to play at our party tomorrow! That would be a fine surprise for everyone. Surely Mother and Grandfather would not mind if I took the guitar out of the house for such a good purpose. Indeed, I should think they would be pleased.

But in her heart, Felicity knew Mother and Grandfather would not be pleased if she took the guitar without asking. And in her heart she knew the real reason she wanted to bring the guitar to Miss Manderly’s house. She wanted Annabelle to see it. She wanted to make Annabelle jealous.

Quickly, before she could think more carefully, Felicity took the guitar down from the bookcase again. Her hands were cold as she carried it out the door and along the street. She had a sickly feeling in the bottom of her stomach that she was doing something wrong, but she walked briskly to her lessons, as if she could leave the feeling behind her.

Elizabeth gasped when Felicity entered Miss Manderly’s parlor. “Oh, Lissie!” Elizabeth exclaimed. “You brought your grandmother’s guitar, the guitar you told me about. It is beautiful!”

Felicity knew Annabelle was staring at the guitar as she handed it to Miss Manderly. “My grandfather gave me this guitar,” Felicity said proudly. “I was wondering if you might tune it for me?”

Miss Manderly smiled. “I should be pleased to,” she said. “This is a fine old instrument, Felicity.” She tuned the strings and then strummed a few chords. “Hear the depth of sound it has. Such a rich tone!” She handed the guitar back to Felicity. “Guard this well,” she said. “It is a work of art.”

“Felicity,” said Annabelle in a sweet voice. “I did not bring my guitar today. May I hold yours? I will show you how to play a tune.”

“Thank you, Annabelle,” Felicity said politely. “But I think Miss Manderly and I must be the only ones to hold the guitar. ’Tis very old and very precious. I promised to be most careful with it.”

“Indeed!” said Annabelle. She looked at the guitar again with a little pout on her face. Then she looked away.

Felicity turned to Miss Manderly. “Would you teach me to play a little, Miss Manderly?” she asked. “Just a chord or two, or a short tune?”

Felicity held the guitar, and Miss Manderly placed her fingers on the strings. It was more difficult to make music than Felicity had thought, but she tried very hard. And the old guitar seemed eager to sound beautiful.

“You have a good ear and a firm touch, Felicity,” said Miss Manderly. “When you are old enough for serious lessons, you will do well.”

Annabelle pretended not to hear, but Felicity knew she was listening because her pout grew poutier. When lessons were over, Annabelle flounced out ahead of Elizabeth and Felicity. Felicity smiled to herself. Annabelle is envious of my guitar! she thought. Felicity was pleased. She had forgotten about the sickly feeling in her stomach.