Daughter of Liberty

Town Home

Hidden between the pages of her Latin school book, Lane poured over the pamphlet. It was a difficulty to not melt into concentration as she shielded it from her family in the carriage. It was all very fascinating. Published writing by Samuel Adams himself. These kinds of things were the reason her father came here in the first place. To quench such radical thoughts.

"You are the only people who refer to themselves as Lord and Lady here," Lane spoke as she closed the Latin book.

Her father raised his eyebrow, "The title is ours according to the king."

"But we are in the colonies-" Lane spoke before she could bite her tongue.

Adeline turned her nose up, "This land is soverign land of King George-"

Lane drowned her out, turning to the small window instead. She pushed aside the curtain. They were entering Boston.

The county abruptly stopped to the tall crowded buildings of Boston. The partial stone, partial mud streets were full of people. Lane had come to Boston when she was seven years of age. The way there was little distinction between poor and rich had fascinated her. They were all in a hurry to get where they needed.

They passed the docks. The ocean held little memories for her, but they had been pleasant. However, England's ocean and the colonies were very different. 

"I do miss the fresher air," Eleanor lamented. She was looking sadly out at the docks as well. The smell of fish was never wonderful but it turned Eleanor's stomach in an entirely different way.

Eleanor hated the crowds and the filth. Lane watched the thatched roofs turn to boarded homes. "Might I take a stroll out when we are home? My legs are woefully stiff."

Adeline's mouth thinned, but Theodore nodded, "Take the footman with you."

"Whatever for?" Lane asked in surprise. This had never been a stipulation before. She valued her freedom.

Theodore clasped his hands, "Adeline was right to show me you should have always at least had a maid accompanying you. In such delicate times, the footman will do well."

Delicate times.

Too delicate for a woman's constitution.

When they arrived, Lane jumped from the carriage before the footman could assist her. She looked up at him, "Shall we go then?"

She had never cared to notice who her footman was. He looked only to be three years older than her. The idea infuriated her. "My goal is to lose you and you won't be ready for it."

He trailed her down the street. It was like a very annoying shadow. She did not pretend to even consider the shops as she passed them.

"Lady Carrington, it is not advisable-" the footman began.

Lane grabbed her skirt and ran. The crowd in front of her was blocking the entire path and she squeezed through them. Elbows slammed into her side as she ducked her head. Heated by the moment of action, Lane never considered why the crowd had gathered. The heat clung to her and beads of sweat formed on her forehead. She scrunched her nose at the smell.

After a particularly hard shove, Lane was shot out of the crowd. Tripping on the back of her dress, she fell flat on her butt. Lane winced in pain.

"Lane?" A voice called above her as a shadow covered her. But it wasn't the footman. She looked up to meet Henry's face.

She smiled at his bewilderment, "You seem surprised to see me."

He reached down and helped her up, "Truthfully, I wasn't expecting to meet you on the ground of a rally."

The words seeped in. A rally. Lane looked around. The boisterous crowd was facing a raised Dias where two or so men were yelling. They had the disclaimer of the tea tax in hand and they were rallying the people.

"If England refuses to treat us like we are one, then let us be separate!" One man yelled.

Another man began a new cry, "Taxation without representation!" The cry carried through the crowds.

Lane noticed Henry's silence. "In truth, I was just trying to escape my babysitter. This seems more fruitful."

Lane let out a loud hoot. It felt good and it melted into the shouting. "Why should we not have these rights?" She shouted over the noise to Henry. The crowd surged forward.

A hand wrapped around Lane's arm. The footman stood behind her, trying to catch her breath. "Miss Carrington, you cannot be here."

"Who is that?" Henry asked, turning to notice the footman.

Lane did not look up from her glaring match, "My footman."

"Does he have a name?" Henry asked.

Before Lane could ask why, the footman answered, "Fletcher. But we aren't here to listen to this. Lady Carrington is going home."

"I do want to listen to this," Lane protested. She stomped her foot in the dust.

Fletcher's eyes darted around and then they landed on hers, "Please" he pleaded. "Something isn't right."

Before she could ask what he meant, the cheering was interrupted by a cry. Soldiers rushed forth to seize the men on the dias.

Lane was thrown back, but Fletchers hand kept her from being trampled. "We need to get you out of here," he yelled in her ear.

"But Henry! These people aren't doing anything wrong'" she yelled back.

He was steering her now and shielding her from the chaos. "They are speaking blasphemous of their king."

Lane couldn't push through. The crowd was getting tighter as the guards surrounded them. She leaned against the shoulders, but to no avail. "I cannot get through!"

And then Fletcher was suddenly not beside her. Panic bloomed in her chest and her breathing hitched.

"Lady Carrington," Fletcher called from above. He had jumped onto a cart and was reaching for her. Lane grabbed his arm and he hoisted her up.

From the vantage point, they could truly see the uproar. Soldiers were seizing men and throwing them to the ground. Some of the crowd was fighting back, others were shielding the rebel leaders, and still more were running about in panic.

"Follow me," Fletcher called to her. Instead of jumping back down, he leaped onto a market table. The seller had abandoned it. From one thing to the next, he climbed very fast. Until he was slightly stranded in the center of it all. Fletcher grabbed hold of the swinging sign connected to the building and pulled himself up and onto the roof.

Lane followed. The table. Her feet wobbled. The hay stacks. A dress is utterly preposterous. The barrel. She almost fell.

Finally she reached the sign. "You cannot expect me to have the upper strength to pull myself onto that roof," she declared as she looked up at Fletcher.

He jumped down beside her, "I assumed that with all that bravado, you could back it up."

Before Lane could argue with him, he reached his hands around her waist and hoisted her up. She was able to ungracefully wiggle across the sign before getting onto the roof after that.

Fletcher joined her a moment later. "I'm not being payed enough for this," he sighed. "I'm just supposed to be driving carriages around."