A Buss from Lafayette Read online

  A Buss From Lafayette © 2016 Dorothea Jensen. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopying, or recording, except for the inclusion in a review, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Published in the United States by BQB Publishing

  (Boutique of Quality Books Publishing Company)

  www.bqbpublishing.com

  978-1-939371-90-4 (p)

  978-1-939371-91-1 (e)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015960175

  Book design by Robin Krauss, www.bookformatters.com

  Cover design by Ellis Dixon, www.ellisdixon.com

  Other Books by Dorothea Jensen

  Historical Fiction:

  The Riddle of Penncroft Farm

  Illustrated Modern Christmas Stories in Verse:

  The Santa’s Izzy Elves Series

  Tizzy, the Christmas Shelf Elf

  Blizzy, the Worrywart Elf

  Dizzy, the Stowaway Elf

  Frizzy, the S.A.D. Elf

  Praise for The Riddle of Penncroft Farm:

  “A fascinating merge of contemporary concerns . . . and historical fact.”—Booklist

  “An entertaining mystery.”—School Library Journal

  “Brings the past to life.”—Kirkus Reviews

  “Lars Olafson, 12, is not pleased to be leaving his friends behind when his parents decide to move to Pennsylvania to live on Penncroft Farm with elderly Aunt Cass. The only kid in the neighborhood is a girl, and Lars doesn’t appreciate his great-aunt’s conviction that he and Pat are sure to be friends. He becomes happier when he makes a new friend, Geordie, who tells wonderful stories about Valley Forge and George Washington—stories so fascinating that one would almost imagine that Geordie, with his odd clothes and peculiar speech, had actually been there. This is an entertaining mystery involving a missing will that could stand alone, but combined with Geordie’s enthralling tales of Valley Forge during the American Revolution, Jensen gives readers two terrific stories that are intertwined nicely and come together in a satisfying conclusion. Not only is the history presented in an interesting and painless manner, but also readers should come away eager to read more about this period. Middle graders are in store for a real treat with this offering.”—School Library Journal, Copyright 1989 Reed Business Information, Inc.

  Praise for The Santa’s Izzy Elves Series

  “[Frizzy, the S.A.D. Elf] . . . is a highly original and wonderfully developed children’s book . . . The rhymes do not seem forced and fit into the story perfectly. The illustrations are also a highlight, as the large full color images are superbly done, with depth and details that lets us see Frizzy and her other elf friends displayed upon the page. By coming up with a creative and engaging story, Jensen has succeeded at crafting a memorable Christmas story for children that is so good it’s possible it will be enjoyed year round.”—Red City Review

  “[Dizzy, the Stowaway Elf is] . . . an engaging contemporary spin on the classic 19th century poem, “A Visit from St. Nicholas” . . . The author propels her present-day take on the classic Christmas poem with gentle humor and suspense, smoothly incorporating lines from the original poem into her lively tale about a stowaway elf.—Kirkus Reviews

  To my husband, David, for all his support and encouragement,

  and to my niece, Clara, and grandniece, Summer, for the loan of their names.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Thanks to:

  Comte Gilbert de Pusy Lafayette, sixth generation grandson of Major General Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier, the Marquis de Lafayette, for answering a question about the Lafayette family tree during a visit to New Hampshire in 2010.

  Alan Hoffman, President of the American Friends of Lafayette and the Massachusetts Lafayette Society, for asking Comte Gilbert de Pusy Lafayette that question for me and for checking the historical accuracy of this story.

  The New Hampshire Historical Society, for making it possible to read the newspaper articles published in 1825 when Lafayette visited New Hampshire.

  Old Sturbridge Village, where my great-great-grandfather was born in 1838 (the actual Sturbridge, Massachusetts, that is), for their excellent publications about this era and for bringing it to life.

  The Hopkinton Historical Society and the Hopkinton Town Library, for information about our town during the American Revolution and during the nineteenth century.

  My husband, David; my sisters, Martha Johnson and Carolyn Pollak; and my co-grandparent, journalist Robert Wood, for proofreading the manuscript and giving me suggestions about the story; and my good friend, Judith Hampe, for giving me information about “old” New Hampshire.

  My sister, Louisa Wise, for providing the music used to enliven the trailer for this story.

  And special thanks to:

  The late Rita Nash Paine, fellow Jane Austen admirer, for passing along to me the kiss received by her great-grandmother, one of the little girls saluted by Lafayette with a buss—a playful, smacking kiss—in Massachusetts on his triumphal tour of 1824–25.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Tuesday, June 21, 1825

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Wednesday, June 22, 1825

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Thursday, June 23, 1825

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Friday, June 24, 1825

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Saturday, June 25, 1825

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Sunday, June 26, 1825

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Monday, June 27, 1825

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Afterword

  Selected Bibliography

  Glossary

  Tuesday, June 21, 1825

  I, Clara Summer Hargraves, of Gould Hill, in the Township of Hopkinton, in the State of New Hampshire, in the United States of America, in the Western Hemisphere, in the World, and in the Universe, do hereby take up my quill (well, pencil, as I am writing this by the pond so I can cool my feet in the water on this hot day) to keep a truthful mostly faithful account of my life from today forward.

  My father’s new wife gave me this journal the day she married him, exactly one year ago. Before then, she was only my aunt Priscilla, a Boston old maid schoolmistress, no less. She is so very prim and proper that I call her “Prissy,” but inside my head—not to her face. That would just be courting trouble!

  Prissy married Father a scant, sorrowful week after Mother died. I must confess—but only to these pages—I often do and say things I know will irritate her. Not an admirable thing to do, but I do it anyhow. As today is my fourteenth birthday, however, I am trying to turn over a new leaf.

  My stepmother deems me a hopeless hoyden, more a “romping boy than a proper girl” as she so often puts it. She keeps harping at me to ac
t like a lady. But ladies do not have any fun, with their long skirts and their turned-up hair. They sit around doing embroidery, which is another name for torture, as far as I am concerned!

  Today is also the day summer begins. My mother gave me my second name because I was born on the first day of summer. She joked that I owed my hair color to the strawberries she had been picking—and eating—when I decided to arrive. (I suspect that she nearly named me Clara Strawberry Hargraves and am most thankful that she did not.) Father says my hair came from my grandmother, my mother’s mother, who died before I was born, and not from the berry patch. Nevertheless, my dear mama called my hair “strawberry blonde.” I do miss hearing her say that. Indeed, I do miss her sorely in every way, from her lively imagination and her quicksilver wit to her loving caresses.

  Now all I have is a stepmother who calls me a hoyden, and certain persons—Dickon Weeks and my dread cousin Hetty especially—who call me “carroty pate” and“pumpkin head” and other horrid names. It all seems dreadfully unfair. No one else in my family is cursed with this color! My father and brother have handsome chestnut-brown hair, and Mother had blonde hair like spun gold out of the Rumpelstiltskin story. I loved helping her brush it every night, when she grew too weak to do it herself.

  Prissy has blonde hair, too, I believe, although she keeps it well hidden under a mobcap. Needless to say, she never asks me to brush it for her. Nor would I ever want to do so.

  How I wish my hair looked gold like Mother’s, or black like Hetty’s, instead of this infernal red! But that will change as soon as I get enough pennies in my pocket to carry out my plan!

  My plan is simple enough. A few weeks ago, I saw an advertisement for “Simeon’s Lead Combs.” It said that combing the hair using one of these every day would turn red hair into “a beautiful shade of black!” The next time I was in Mr. Towne’s store, I learned that he carries these combs. I do not know if I have enough pennies saved yet, but I will ask Mr. Towne how much this miracle worker will cost. As soon as I get up the nerve, that is.

  What heaven it will be to have hair just like Hetty’s! Although my stick-straight hair will never curl like hers, at least it will be “a beautiful shade of black.” She will never be able to call me “pumpkin head” again.

  Prissy is calling me to supper. I must run!

  CHAPTER 1

  I sprinted through the woods to the house, skittering to a stop in the hall by the dining room. That was where we always ate our evening supper, as Prissy preferred its “elegance.” The pale green walls, white painted cornices, and corner cupboards could be called elegant, I thought, but when Mother was alive, “elegance” was not necessary for us to enjoy our food and each other’s company. Indeed, we took nearly all our family meals in the less-than-elegant kitchen.

  I went into the dining room, a little breathless from my run, but exhaled a sigh of relief that Prissy was not yet there. Almost immediately, my brother Joseph came in to join me. This was not surprising, as Joss was never late for any meal. Four years my senior, he was of a medium height, several inches shorter than Father. Joss found this disappointing and always insisted that he still had one more growth spurt to go. He made up for his lack of length by the impressive muscles on his frame, put there by years of hard labor in our fields.

  Our stepmother soon came into the room. Tall and thin, except for her growing belly, she wore a voluminous, high-waisted, blue-striped gown. As always, her head was covered by a white lacy mobcap. Her neck was concealed by a ruffled collar called a “betsy” after Queen Elizabeth, who apparently had worn gigantic ruffs in her day. Sometimes I thought such queenly attire suited Prissy, especially when she made proclamations and expected me to obey. Sometimes I did feel like her lowly subject, a somewhat rebellious one.

  Now I felt the usual twinge of resentment as I watched her take Mother’s place at the foot of the table.

  Father, who had entered closely behind his wife, was carrying a large, covered china bowl. Over six feet tall, he was a handsome man, with only a few strands of silver in his short brown hair. Despite the heat, his neck was swathed in a cravat, as Prissy liked to see him “dress” for dinner.

  Joss and I bowed and curtsied to our elders, as dictated by good manners, before taking our own seats.

  “How are you feeling, my dear?” Father asked, as he moved to sit down at the head of the table.

  I smiled at him. I always liked it when Father called me “my dear,” just as my mother had often called me “dear daughter.”

  “Very well, thank you, Father,” I answered.

  “Actually, Clara, I was not addressing you,” he replied. “You yourself are nearly always very well.” He turned to his wife. “Priscilla?”

  My smile faded. I did not like sharing Father’s attention with Prissy, especially on my birthday.

  “I am well enough, Samuel,” she answered, “for a woman who’s near to bursting with child.”

  That was another reason I was unhappy. Mother had told me that babies came from a father and mother loving each other, but how could Father love someone other than Mother? It filled me with such a sea of emotion that I could hardly speak.

  I grimaced and shifted my feet under the table. I know that most families do not mark birthdays with any particular celebration, but still, I know that Mother would have remembered by now that today is my birthday, I thought. Taking a deep breath, I said, “Yes, it is very hot, but after all, it is the summer solstice today—the longest day in the year.” Surely this hint would remind my father that it was my birthday.

  But it only reminded him of something else.

  “Oh, yes, the solstice. It is our wedding anniversary, is it not, my dear?” Father lifted Prissy’s hand to his lips and gently bussed it.

  Her face, already pink from the heat, flushed a little deeper. She looked at my brother and me and pulled her hand away. “None of that nonsense, now, Samuel,” Prissy said primly, looking as if she might give Father’s hand a smack in return, but with a ferule instead of her lips. After all, she had been a schoolmistress for many years, so she had probably used the two-foot-long willow switch on plenty of children’s hands. And people did say, “old habits die hard.”

  The serving dish was full of salmagundi, a salad made of cold vegetables and meats, dressed with herbs, oil, and vinegar. Prissy filled plates for everyone and passed them around the table.

  I was so upset about everyone forgetting my birthday that I had lost my appetite, but Joss dug right in to his supper. He located a piece of beef in the pile of salmagundi on his plate, speared it with the tip of his knife, and brought it to his mouth. This was his habitual way of eating, despite Prissy constantly urging him to use the new-fangled three-pronged forks she set on the table.

  “When we cooked our dinner at midday, Clara and I nearly swooned from the heat,” my stepmother said. “But I thought a nice, cool salmagundi for supper would fill us all up tonight. Even Joss.”

  “I do not think anything will fill up Joss,” Father said, grinning at my brother. “But I was exactly the same at eighteen, a sort of combination of an empty pit and a starving horse when it came to meals. Or between meals, for that matter.”

  At that, Joss stopped eating—something that did not happen often—and spoke up. “Dickon Weeks says his mother told him that they eat salmagundi on pirate ships.”

  Hearing the name of one of my chief tormentors brought a momentary blush to my face. “Really?” I asked. “Dickon claims that pirates eat salmagundi? Is not salad rather too girlish a dish for them? I always picture them gnawing on joints of beef. Maybe even bloody joints of beef.”

  “I think Mrs. Weeks—or perhaps Richard Weeks himself—is confusing two different dishes, Joseph,” Prissy said. “Perhaps she is mistaking salmagundi for Solomon Gundy, a kind of pickled fish paste from Jamaica.”

  I listened intently. My stepmother did have a lot of information stored under that white mobcap, and I liked learning new things. I even liked learning abou
t disgusting things like pickled fish paste, no matter how much I resented and disliked the source of the information.

  Hearing her interesting explanation, however, I glanced at the vegetables on my fork, happy that we were eating the salad, and not the pirate, salmagundi.

  CHAPTER 2

  We all ate our salmagundi in silence for a few minutes, until Father took a drink from his glass of ale and smiled at my brother and me. “I saw Dr. Lerned today, children. He is quite excited about what is happening this week,” he said, with a deliberate air of mystery.

  “You mean Aunt Pris—er, the baby coming?” I asked.

  “No, this is someone much more famous than your baby sister or brother is likely to be, Clara. And, yes, your stepmother did used to be your aunt Priscilla, but now she is your mama. Please try to remember.”

  “Yes, sir. I shall try,” I promised sullenly, fixing my eyes on my food and finally starting to eat.

  “What was Dr. Lerned so excited about?” Joss asked.

  “The Nation’s Guest,” Father replied. “He arrives in New Hampshire today.”

  “How can a nation have a guest?” I scoffed. “What a silly idea!”

  “This is a man who actually helped us become a nation, Clara,” my father said, waving his fork in the air for emphasis. “If it were not for Lafayette, France would never have fought on our side in the Revolution. And without help from France, we would not have won the war. To mark the fiftieth anniversary of the start of the war, Lafayette is visiting all twenty-four of our states. And yes, he is our most honored guest.”

  “Lafayette,” said Joss, overloading his knife with food again. “Frenchman with lots of names. Rich young nobleman, a ‘marky’ or some such thing.”

  “He was a marquis, Joseph,” Prissy said, pronouncing it as Joss did, but emphasizing the second syllable. She smiled. “Our troops grew so fond of him that they often called him ‘Our Marquis.’ Lafayette later renounced his title, however, during the French Revolution.”

  I did not know what “renounced” meant, but I did not have to ask because Prissy was quick to explain that it meant “officially gave up.”