Meredith Allard's Blog, page 20

Down Salem Way: Update

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A number of you have asked about Down Salem Way, so here’s an update.

I’m pleased to report that Down Salem Way is coming along quite well. In fact, it’s (slightly) ahead of schedule. The preorder date is still set for James’ birthday, April 19, 2019–his 357th birthday, to be exact. I’ll let you know when a final publication date is set.

I’m still in the whittling down phase of writing. While I’m chipping away at the manuscript, working to bring James and Elizabeth’s story front and center, I’ve thought of Michelangelo. He believed his statues were inherent in the marble and it was up to him to reveal the form. That’s how I feel about this part of writing. The story is inherent in the draft and I have to whittle away until I find it. Sometimes I have to go back and add a bit since connections are made that I hadn’t seen before. For me, it’s always about the last line of the book. Once I hit the last line I have my Aha! moment and say, “So that’s what this book is about!” Then I can direct everything toward that ending. Yes, I’ve hit the last line. No, I’m not telling–yet.

I thought I’d repost the first sneak peek from Down Salem Way I shared a while back. The manuscript is still not through final edits, but this version is different enough if you’d like to compare it with the original version here. Enjoy!

* * * * *

The winters are colder here, I am certain of it. Father and I arrived here, in the Massachusetts Bay Colony, but a year ago during what we were assured was one of the harshest winters in memory. I can feel it so in my bones, which feel brittle, as though they shall shatter like icicles against a hammer. While England grows cold enough in the sunless months, in New England tis as though the sky disappears beneath a woolen blanket. I cannot step one foot outside my home without feeling liquid ice in my veins, but that is life in Massachusetts in January. The sky looks nearly as it does in England, gradations of gray from near-black to tinder-slate that shed wind, sleet, or snow depending on its mood. 

This morn I met Father on the docks. He wished to inspect the shipbuilders as they banged out the hull of his latest vessel. Lizzie laughed as I piled on layers of clothing in an attempt to stay warm: my woolen flannel underdrawers, my linen shirt, my thickest worsted woolen leggings, perhaps not the most fashionable, but they are my warmest; my woolen suit of doublet, jerkin, and breeches, and my heavy, fulled woolen coat, the deep blue one that Lizzie says matches my eyes, though what matters my eyes when I cannot see for the blizzard. Lizzie pulled my coat close to my ears and knotted my scarf near my throat in an effort to keep whatever warmth I might take with me. I would cover myself in ten coats if I could do so without looking ridiculous. Even as I was, my wife could not stifle her giggles. 

“Good heavens, James. You look like a blue onion ready for the peeling.” 

“And shall you peel my layers away?” 

She blushed in that way I love, red-hot along her jaw. She pushed me toward the door as though she could not be rid of me soon enough. 

“Perhaps when you return home. If you’re lucky.”

I pulled my dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty closer and basked in her warmth. I ran my lips along the red that stained her cheeks. “I have been lucky thus far,” I said. “I cannot see that my luck shall not continue.”

Lizzie pulled my great coat closer around my neck. She opened the door and pushed me toward it. She shivered in the cold, kissed my lips, then pressed me outside.

“Go. Father is waiting for you.”

“Will you wait for me?”  

“Where else shall I be? What other man might I wait for who is tall and strong with hair the color of spun gold and eyes like the bluest, brightest jewels?”

I stepped further into the unfriendly gloom and the door closed behind me. I had lost the battle to my Lizzie, which is as it usually goes. 

I quivered in my boots as I walked toward the shore, warming my mind with thoughts of Lizzie, her wondering dark eyes, her dark hair, her luscious, berry-like lips. I needed something else to occupy my mind, but there was nothing. I am still struck by how sparse it is in Massachusetts. Unfriendly. Uninhabitable. 

“They call this a town?” I said aloud, to no one. I struggle to think of this place as a town. The Town grows a little livelier toward the harbor since tis the hub for shipbuilding and the merchant trade. Salem becomes more provincial at the Farms. There’s so little of everything here, and tis still a shock to walk amongst nothing but seashore to one side of me, farmland on the other, and wilderness further back. 

“Is this all there is?” I said, again, to no one. I heard the caw of a seagull, then doubted myself since even seabirds know to stay away from the shore in winter. 

I must have shaken myself as far as the sea, for finally I stood at the edge of the gray-black bay, the tips of my boots licked by the lapping waves, the ocean spray splattering my exposed face with bitter water like pinpricks along my cheeks. Again, I thought the cold in England wasn’t ever this cold. I squinted into the expanse of water, slapping my forehead when I realized I left my spectacles at home. What a confounded fool I can be. Twas an excuse to return home, I knew, to Lizzie. But my father waited for me. If I concentrated enough, so that my temples squeezed, I could see well enough. If I pinched my brain that much tighter, I could see past the ocean to England, and home.

A spray of salt water brought me back to myself. The air was even colder at land’s end. With my hat pulled over my eyes and my face turned away from the wind, I bumped into a man, a shipbuilder, I think. The man’s Monmouth cap fell to the ground, his leather pouch flung from his shoulder, and he grimaced with severity.

“My apologies,” I said. “I didn’t see you there.”

“Blind, are you?” The man spat in my direction. “A Pox on you!” With a hmph! he skittered away, his gray doublet and breeches blending into the slate of sea and sky. I laughed. Indeed, I am blind. I cannot see my own hand without my spectacles, which are at home with my Lizzie, where it is warm, where she is warm, her embrace warm, and I was there along an unforgiving shore whipped by the angry weather like a thief in the stocks. I stared into the distance, struggling to make out Father’s short, slight shape. Then I had a fright from one word: “Pox.”

I didn’t need that ill-tempered man to remind me of the fear of the Pox running along the shore. There has been another outbreak, and those living closest to the port suffer most. I wanted to be sitting in my cushioned chair before my hearth reading Samuel Pepys’ Memoirs of the Navy while Lizzie sat beside me knitting, mending, or chatting to me about her day. I pulled my scarf closer to my mouth, as though the meager movement would keep the Pox where it belonged, over there, away from me and mine. 

I arrived near the shipbuilders, hammering nails into wood until I thought my head would burst into a star-like pattern. With some struggle, I made out a vague outline of men and guessed Father was among them.

Did That Word Exist Then? Language in Historical Fiction

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Wonderful news for James and Sarah/Elizabeth fans. The last draft of Down Salem Way is finished. Really! Okay, the book is not finished finished because it needs final edits and other odds and ends, but the light at the end of the tunnel is bright and clear and within reach.

This is where the manuscript gets whittled down so it’s nice and shiny like. I’ve spoken in interviews and on this blog about how writing my novels is a bit like playing Goldilocks. My first drafts are too short, my second drafts are too long, and the third draft is, well, maybe not just right, but it does get there eventually.

Down Salem Way takes place entirely in Salem in 1691-92, rather than jumping back and forth from the present to the past like in the Loving Husband Trilogy. It’s also told entirely from James’ point of view. It’s important to me that James’ journal has the feel of being written in the 17th century. But what does that look like to modern readers?

The English language wasn’t standardized in the 17th century. Some English language historians believe standardization began in earnest in the mid 18th century, crediting Noah Webster’s spelling book in 1783 and his dictionary in 1828 with giving the English language a sense of stability. Before that, punctuation was hit and miss at best. Spelling was whatever it was (which, perhaps, is not so different from today, to the lament of English teachers everywhere). To add to the confusion, some letters of the alphabet were used differently. One source I consulted stated that the letter J as a consonant was still being substituted for I in the 17th century, which means that James could have been written as Iames. I’ll stick with the modern spelling, thank you.

Here’s an example of a love letter written in 1610 (from Folgerpedia), which looks similar to writings from later in the 17th century:

My best beloued cosen
I am v^e^ry glad to here from you, that you ar well, and I would haue you
thinke that it tis one of the greates[t] comfordes I haue in this world to here
of your well farer; I am very sory to here that your father is still in that
humer of offering you more wifes; but as for this; shee hathe a greate
porshone; wich I thinke if I hade; hee would not so much missl[i]ke of mee as
hee dothe; and besides shee is honorabell wich dothe goe fare with most men
nowe dayes; but I protest I writ not this out of any mistrust I haue of your
loue; for I haue euer found it more then I haue desserued; yett I know not what
shall deserue; and thus with my best wishes; for your good fortune; and
happy^n^es in all your bussines I rest euer –

your truly louing

frende while I breath

Jane Skipwith

Jane’s letter is actually easier to read than it appears at first glance, but still, I wouldn’t get far with a novel that looked like it was written in code. My Grammarly had a conniption with Jane’s letter. How do you explain to Grammarly that the passage was written in the 17th century?

My task, as I see it, is to give James’ words the rhythm of something written in the 17th century while being readable (and enjoyable) to modern eyes. Down Salem Way is James’ journal. Through reading it, we’re privy to his innermost thoughts, his feelings, his joys, his worries. We witness his ever-growing love for his wife, Elizabeth. We experience his highest highs and his lowest lows. This is James at his most raw. And he is a product of the 17th century, as we are all products of the times in which we live.

As I was writing Down Salem Way, I was keenly aware of the words in James’ journal. Was this a word that existed then? Was this something James would have written in the 17th century? As someone who loves to read historical fiction as much as I love to write historical fiction, I know how nothing pulls you out of a story faster than a misplaced word or phrase. James couldn’t say “Whazzup, dude?” in his journal. I mean, he could, but I would be banned from writing historical fiction forever after.

Etymology Online is a must-have resource for writers of historical fiction. With Etymology Online, you can type any word into the search box and it tells you which year the word came into use and where the word originated. I became obsessed with the etymology of words, and while I won’t say I typed every single word of the manuscript into the website, I did type in a few. Actually, I checked a lot of them. Not all of them. But most of them.

How do you find that balance between being historically authentic and still accessible to modern readers? Reading historical fiction is one way. Some authors do it just right, and others show you what not to do. One novel I found helpful was Daughters of the Witching Hill by Mary Sharratt. The story isn’t set during the Salem Witch Trials, but rather in 1612, in England, when seven women and two men from Pendle Forest were hanged as witches. From the first page, Sharratt creates a tone that feels authentic to the time while making for beautiful, engaging reading. Daughters of the Witching Hill is one of my favorite books I’ve read recently, and I highly recommend it.

Language in historical fiction is a fine line between staying true to the era while being readable to 21st-century readers. It is possible to do. Writing with patience and persistence is key. Willingness to experiment with different styles and structures is a must. Reading wonderful historical novels helps. And Etymology Online definitely doesn’t hurt.

Down Salem Way: Sneak Peek #2

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After an annoying bout of illness, I’m back to bring you the second sneak peek of Down Salem Way. I’m having a lot of fun writing from James’ point of view. It’s allowing me a unique perspective into James and Elizabeth’s lives in Salem in 1692.

For those of you who have been contacting me to ask about the publication date of Down Salem Way, don’t worry! The book will still be available for preorder on James’ birthday–April 19. Everything is coming along nicely. I think this book may be longer than the three novels in the Loving Husband trilogy, which averaged about 87,000 words.

Enjoy!

* * * * *

Despite the ceaseless sounds of hammering, it was still quieter than usual by the docks. The ship crossings lessened during the winter months. Twas hard enough for the ships to cross the unfriendly seas during calmer weather. Cold ocean crossings happened, but they were unstable at best and more dangerous than usual at worst. Whilst it may have been warmer in the southern destinations, in Massachusetts tis nearly impossible to navigate the ships safely into harbor. 

Still searching for my father, my heart beat in time with the snapping of the waves on the shore. I watched the shipbuilders brace themselves against the weather, the men’s woolen doublets hanging over their white linen shirts, their breeches coarse with work, their Monmouth caps fallen over their eyes. They tossed their coats carelessly aside since the physical labor warmed them more than any wool could. The fishwomen and the builders’ wives lifted their voluminous skirts just enough to step over the day’s catch, not enough to be dragged before the courts for indecency, while they tugged the kerchiefs around their necks toward their nose to keep the Pox away.

I made my way toward the huddled men and indeed found my father amongst them. I heard his hearty, stage actor’s laugh before I saw him near the wooden frame that would become The Elizabeth in a few months time. My father smiled when he saw me. He threw his arm around my shoulders, and though my father is several inches shorter than I, there was something about his infectious laugh that always made him appear taller, as though he might fill any room he entered. My father’s balding head was covered under a flat hat with flaps hanging to his ears. 

“Do you like the hat, Son?” my father asked. “The milliner finished this morn. It keeps what is left of my brain from freezing.” My father’s slanted blue eyes brightened whilst the other men bowed in my general direction. “You see, friends, here he is. My James. What better son could any father wish for?” The men murmured their agreement, then turned their eyes to watch the gray foam wash in from the bay.

“You look worried, Father,” I said. “Can you see trouble with the ships from here?” 

“Tis a troublesome time for the ship owners,” my father said. “The waiting could kill you. Anything could happen from there to here and back again, and tis all too easy to lose goods and good men.”

“And profits,” said a portly gentleman. The man peered into the horizon as though he could make out his ships if he squeezed his eyes tightly enough. I thought to loan him my spectacles, then remembered I did not have them. 

“One bad decision, or one bad wind, and everything we have disappears to the depths of the ocean,” my father said. I have heard my father’s laments over the dangers of the shipping trade many times. My father, having tried his hand at several importing and exporting ventures, had settled on rum as his trade. The rum, made in New England, is shipped to Africa where tis traded for human beings, who were then sold to Caribbean plantation owners where sugar was purchased and brought back to New England to make rum. It could take a complete year for the ships to make the full journey, and that was a year of worry for the ship owners. Together, these men had built wharves along the bay, a safe place to unload goods destined for local markets or load cargo onto ships bound for distant ports. They also constructed warehouses and fashionable homes so everyone would know that they were not merely merchants, but successful ones. They also engaged with privateers when they felt they needed to—thefor business reasons. These men were more than shopkeeps who bought and sold goods. Some, like my father, had come from England with success already filling their pockets. Some had come from England with nothing more than the clothes they wore, and the wealth followed as a result of their enterprising spirit. The men gathered round my father were well dressed in their finely fitting, jewel-toned fabrics, perhaps a flashing jewel here and there. The merchants are not so overdressed as to be ostentatious since there those among the Puritans who would call them sinful for their vanity. The merchants wear just enough for others to see that they can afford that ruby ring, that jewel-studded walking stick, that finely tailored suit. 

The ship owners leaned their heads close in order to share both body heat and gossip about whatever they knew of interest in the Town or the Village. Many, including my father, had ties to Boston so they shared that gossip as well. The five-inch cock feathers on their hats reached towards the sky as though together they might lift off in flight. It was, I thought, not unlike a wake for ships not yet sunk or sailors not yet lost. I stood close enough to the group so I would not seem distant, but I do not care for the men my father keeps company with. My father has a small but profitable role in the trading—his ships travel to and from England, sending fish, rum, and molasses to the Mother Country, receiving beads, copper, cloth, and hardware in return, which he sells around the colonies for a healthy profit. I know that my father needs the cooperation of those with more extensive roles in the merchant trades, so I humor them for his sake. My father, ever ready with a bawdy joke and a vivacious laugh, finds the cooperation he needs. My father clasped my shoulder even more firmly and brought me closer into the circle of men. The sweet smell of rum, provided freely by my father, wafted toward me.

When It Rained at Hembry Castle: Free on Amazon through 1/23/19

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If you’ve been wanting to read When It Rained at Hembry Castle, a sweet Victorian romance, then now is your chance. It’s free for everyone on Amazon through 1/23/19. The novel will be available on KDP Select until 1/31/19.

What I’m Reading

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Since I’ve been spending most of my time writing Down Salem Way, a lot of my reading has been about either the Salem Witch Trials or life in the Massachusetts Bay Colony. One of my favorite parts of writing historical fiction is learning about the time period I’m writing about. I had a pretty good sense of what happened during the Salem Witch Trials from researching Her Dear & Loving Husband. However, I’ve had to go into much more depth about the era with Down Salem Way since the novel is set entirely in 1692.

One great book I’ve found about life in 17th century Massachusetts is Every Day Life in the Massachusetts Bay Colony by George Francis Dow. The book covers every aspect of life from the first waves of Puritan immigration to piracy to cooking to clothing. It’s been my first line of defense in understanding James and Elizabeth’s day to day life in 1692.

Another book that has been helpful is The Devil in the Shape of a Woman: Witchcraft in Colonial New England by Carol F. Karlsen. Karlsen’s work began life as a PhD dissertation, and she does a fine job making her research accessible to the public. It isn’t easy to take scholarly work and make it palatable for general readers (as I’ve learned from experience). Karlsen’s work isn’t strictly about the Salem Witch Trials; rather, it looks at witchcraft accusations throughout the New England colonies. As strong scholarly work does, Karlsen connects the dots as to how the witchcraft trials were more about colonial society’s (particularly Puritan society’s) expectations of women. The accused didn’t conform to society’s expectations so they were punished by being called out as witches. Karlsen also goes into detail about the accusers. These were women–younger and middle-aged–who were given a box to live in. When that box grew too small, these women began seeing visions and acting out, claiming the Devil made them do it. If you’re interested in colonial witch hunts, I highly recommend Karlsen’s work.

The House of the Seven Gables by Nathaniel Hawthorne (a descendant of Salem Witch Trials judge John Hathorne) isn’t set specifically during the witch hunts–or not much of it anyway. The story is about how the choices of earlier generations affect future generations. And it is set in Salem, and I have been to the house. I haven’t read it since I began writing Her Dear & Loving Husband nearly ten years ago (where does the time go?) and I thought now was a good time to reread it.

Circe by Madeline Miller has nothing to do with either the Salem Witch Trials or life in colonial Massachusetts. This was one of those brain break books I need sometimes when I’m in the middle of research. Miller has a talent for bringing stories from The Iliad and The Odyssey to life from different perspectives. If you loved Miller’s Song of Achilles as I did, you will love Circe as well.

Down Salem Way: Sneak Peek #1

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I’m sure at this point Loving Husband Trilogy fans have put Down Salem Way into a category with Big Foot, the Loch Ness Monster, and other urban legends: people want to believe in it yet no one’s actually seen it, so maybe it doesn’t exist after all.

Rest assured, the new James and Elizabeth story is right on schedule (maybe on schedule isn’t quite the way to put it since many of you have been waiting a while now). The official release date is Friday, April 19, 2019. Yes, you read that correctly–the new Loving Husband story will be released on James’ birthday.

I’ll have more to say about Down Salem Way soon. To keep us all going, here is the first snippet from Down Salem Way. Enjoy.

* * * * *

10 January 1691

Monday

The winters are colder here, I am sure of it. My father and I arrived here, in the Massachusetts Bay Colony, but a year ago during what we were assured was one of the harshest winters in memory, and I can feel it so in my bones, which feel bitter, as though they will shatter like icicles against a hammer. While England grows cold enough in the sunless months, in New England tis as though the sky disappears beneath a flat woolen blanket. I cannot step one foot outside my home without feeling liquid ice in my veins instead of warm blood, but that is life in Massachusetts in January. The sky looks nearly as it does in England, gradations of gray from near-black to tinder-slate that shed wind, sleet, or snow depending on its mood, but home, in London, but three decades past the Great Fire, there are more people, more public houses, more ways to deal with the discomforts. Here there is no warmth to be found, outside my home, at least, for inside my home dwells my Elizabeth. Outside, I shiver in an unkind howling wind. Inside, I find comfort of every kind.

This morn my father expected me to meet him by the bay, which I did, dutifully. He wished to inspect the shipbuilders as they banged out the hull of his latest vessel, The Elizabeth, named for my wife. Lizzie laughed at me as I piled on layers of clothing in my meager attempt to stay warm: my woolen flannel underdrawers, my linen shirt, my thickest worsted woolen leggings, perhaps not the most fashionable, but they are my warmest; my woolen suit of doublet, jerkin, and breeches, and my heavy, fulled woolen coat, the deep blue one that Lizzie says matches my eyes, though what matters my eyes when I cannot see afore me for the blizzard. Lizzie made certain I looked the part of a gentleman before I left the house, knotting my cravat tightly near my throat in an effort to keep whatever body warmth I might take with me as close as I can for as long as possible, making sure I wore the matching vest and leggings in the same dark, heavy wool of my great coat. I took the coat with the collar and a cape over the shoulders, the one that fell past my knees. I would cover myself in ten such coats if I could manage to do so without looking ridiculous. Even as I was, my wife could not stifle her giggles. 

“Good heavens, James,” she said. “You look like a blue onion ready for the peeling.” 

“And shall you peel my layers away?” I asked. She blushed in that way I love, red-hot along her jaw. She pushed me toward the door as though she could not be rid of me soon enough. 

“Perhaps when you return home,” she said. “If you’re lucky.”

I pulled my dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty closer to me and basked in her warmth. I ran my lips along the red that stained her cheeks. “I have been lucky thus far,” I said. “I cannot see that my luck will not continue.”

Lizzie pulled my great coat closer around my neck. She opened the door and pushed me toward it. She shivered in the cold, kissed my lips, then pressed me outside.

“Go,” she said. “Father is waiting for you.”

“Will you wait for me?” I asked. 

“Where else shall I be?” She smiled that smile I long to see. We have been married but this one month and already her smile is the light of my life. “I shall be here, at home, waiting for my handsome husband. What other man might I wait for who is tall and strong with hair the color of spun gold and eyes like the bluest, brightest jewels?”

I took a step further into the unfriendly gloom and heard the door close behind me. I sighed, knowing that I had lost the battle to my Lizzie, which is as it usually goes. That, as my father says, is being a good husband, though there are many who believe tis the man’s right to dictate. My father does not agree. 

“We Wentworth men are easily led astray by the love of a beautiful woman,” my father likes to say. “You have been, as I was by your mother, as my father was by my mother. Tis a weakness some say. I say we have gained far more than we have lost.” 

I quivered in my boots as I walked, leaving behind the woman who has not led me astray at all but who has shown me, each day since we have been married, what a joy life could be. I did not know what it meant to wake up smiling each morn until I married my Lizzie. I warmed my mind with thoughts of my beautiful wife, her wondering dark eyes, her curl-filled dark hair, her luscious, berry-like lips.

Alas, though my mind was content, my body was not as I slid across the frigid ground. I did not have far to walk, but it was far enough. This home, the one I share with my wife, is one of the larger houses in the Town, not far from the bay where my father waited. I looked for something to occupy my mind besides my wife but saw nothing. I am still struck by how sparse it is in Massachusetts. Unfriendly. Uninhabitable. 

“They call this a town?” I said aloud, to no one. Being from London, I struggle to think of this place as a town. And it becomes even more provincial at the Farms. The Town grows a little livelier toward the harbor since it is the hub for shipbuilding and the merchant trade.

“Is this all there is?” I said, again to no one. I thought I heard the caw of a seagull, then doubted myself since even seabirds knew to stay away from the shore on such days. There’s so little of everything, and tis still a shock to walk amongst nothing but seashore to one side of me, farmland on the other, and wilderness further back. I am surrounded by more trees than people. Though for someone such as I, who prefers the company of books, perhaps tis not such a terrible thing so long as I have my wife beside me.  

I must have shaken myself as far as the sea, for finally I stood near the edge of the gray-black bay, the tips of my boots licked by the lapping waves, my toes curling, the ocean spray splattering my exposed face with bitter water like pin pricks along my cheeks. The wind licked my lips raw, and I pulled my fur collar closer around my ears, my hair matted with wet, and I found myself thinking again that the cold in England wasn’t ever this cold. I squinted into the expanse of the water stretching far and away across the ocean, and I slapped my own forehead when I realized that I left my spectacles on the table near my bed. What a confounded fool I can be, I thought. How will I get through the day without my spectacles? Twas an excuse to return home, I knew, to the warmth of my hearth, and my Lizzie. But my father was waiting for me, and I do not like to disappoint him. I decided that if I concentrated hard enough, so that my temples squeezed and my brain pinched, I could see well enough. If I pinched my brain that much tigher, I thought I could see all the way past the ocean to England, and home.

I wish I could take my Lizzie, hire one of my father’s ships, and go back to England, to where I am comfortable, to family and friends and others I have known my whole life, where I could return to my studies and the work I was meant to do. This merchant life does not come naturally to me. It never has. Tis my father with the business sense, my father who can talk to anyone, buy anyone a round at the public house, my father who understands how to get what he needs with a smile or a laugh. But one day. One day I will take my Lizzie home. I will stay a while yet to help my father settle his business ventures, and then my wife and I shall go. In England, I felt my life had purpose. In Massachusetts, nothing has purpose. Except for Lizzie. Everything makes sense when I am with Lizzie. 

I was brought back to myself by a spray of salty ocean water. The air was even colder standing at land’s end, if that were possible. The men mulling about pulled their knitted woolen caps closer over their ears and their woolen coats and scarves closer to their chins to keep out the poking wicked wind. I focused on the horizon where the gray of the sky met the black of the sea, making the distance disappear. With my hat pulled over my eyes and my downward stance, I walked into a man who must have been a shipbuilder since that was the only trade happening on the docks. The man’s Monmouth cap fell to the ground, his leather pouch flung from his shoulder, and he grimaced with severity.

“My apologies,” I said. “I did not see you there.”

“Blind, are you?” The man spat in my direction. “A Pox on you!” The man skittered toward the sea, his gray doublet and breeches blending into the slate of sea and sky, gone from sight as quickly as he appeared. I laughed to myself as I thought, indeed, I am blind. I cannot see my own hand before my face without my spectacles, which are at home with my Lizzie where it is warm, where she is warm, her embrace and her soft body warm, and I am stuck here along an unforgiving shore being whipped by the angry weather like a thief in the stocks. I sighed, resigning myself to the fact that the wind would have its way with me. I squinted into the distance, struggling to make out the short, slight shape of my father. When I arrived at the dock I had a sudden fright brought on by one word: “Pox.”

I thought there must be someone there, but even with my poor eyesight I saw I stood alone. Then I recalled where I heard the word—the man I stepped on had cursed me with it. I did not need that ill-tempered man to remind me of the fear of the Pox running along the Salem shore. There has been another outbreak, and those living closest to the port suffer. Once again I was reminded that I would rather be sitting in my cushioned chair before my hearth reading Samuel Pepys’ Memoirs of the Navy with Lizzie sitting beside me knitting, mending, or simply chatting to me about her day. I pulled my coat closer to my mouth, as though the meager movement would keep the Pox where it belonged, over there, away from me and mine. I arrived near the shipbuilders, hammering nails into wood until I thought my head would burst into a star-like pattern. With some effort, I made out a vague outline of men and guessed my father was among them.

To be continued…

Christmas With the Wentworths

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To celebrate the winter holidays, I thought I’d share Chapter 10 from Her Loving Husband’s Curse.

I hope all of you have a wonderful holiday season wherever you are, however you are.

* * * * *

A December storm broke over Salem, swinging the skeleton branches of bare-backed trees, dropping buckets of snow here and there—along the wide lawn of Salem Common, on the roof tops, covering the wooden House of the Seven Gables, hanging icicles from the Salem Witch Museum and Witch House—leaving Essex County a winter landscape fit for a North Pole postcard. The bay was flat and gray, reflecting the blotted sky and heaving clouds. It was Christmas Eve, and everywhere was decorated with Santas and reindeer and snowmen. Christmas lights, red lights, green lights, blue and white lights, rainbow lights, brightened the storm-darkened streets.

Sarah sat by the diamond-paned window in the great room watching the snow fall. Cinnamon-scented candles burned on the kitchen counter, and pine wreaths with red glass balls decorated the walls. The Christmas tree—Grace’s first, and James’ too—stood tall and green in the corner near the kitchen, decorated with rainbow lights and garland. The whole house glowed comfort and warm. Sarah thought of her favorite holiday song, “Silent Night,” and she hummed it, the lyrics fitting her mood: “All is calm, all is bright…” She thought of Grace, asleep in her crib, her golden curls framing her face like an angel’s halo. “Sleep in heavenly peace…” Grace was so like her father. Sarah smiled, and when she saw her reflection in the window she laughed out loud. She could see her own joy reflected back to her. 

Life doesn’t get better than this, she thought. 

The cauldron had been removed, leaving a screened-off fireplace, and a low fire burned, sending warmth into the great room. She turned on the radio and holiday music filled the space, the mellow tones of Bing Crosby’s voice lulling her. She checked the basket beneath the Christmas tree and saw that she had wrapped all her presents, for James and Grace, for Olivia and Martha, for Jennifer and Chandresh, for Timothy and Howard, for Jocelyn, Steve, and Billy. She would see them all the next night, Christmas night, when they would gather together in the wooden gabled house to celebrate. She went into the kitchen and checked the apple pies in the oven, then stirred the soup on the stove, crinkling her nose and closing the lid as quickly as she could. She realized she would do anything for her husband. When she heard the squeak of the front door as wood scraped against wood, she smiled. No matter how many times she saw him again, it was special.

[image error]Photo by Rodion Kutsaev from Unsplash

“Hello.”

“Hello yourself.”

She threw her arms around James’ neck and pointed up her chin. He kissed her, then brushed a few stray curls from her eyes. She took a step back, examining him, wondering. 

“What is it?” he asked. 

“I want to know how you know Chandresh from the Trail of Tears. I want to know what happened. And don’t you dare tell me another time, James Wentworth. I’ll scream loud enough to wake all of Salem if you tell me another time.”

“Another night?” 

Sarah wasn’t amused. “Is it something bad? You shouldn’t be afraid of telling me something bad. I’m not that fragile, James. Chandresh told me you helped his family. Tell me how you met him. Tell me what you saw on the Trail of Tears.”

“It’s a long story.”

“We have time.”

James sighed. “You win,” he said. 

“I always do.”

He went into the kitchen and made a pot of her favorite tea, Earl Grey. She sat on the sofa, watching him while he moved easily through the slick, modern kitchen. He wasn’t concerned when she remodeled, and he wasn’t upset when the cauldron was removed. “My life is now,” he said when the workers arrived to carry the heavy black pot away. “I don’t live in the seventeenth century anymore. We could get rid of it all, Sarah, the house and everything in it, and it doesn’t matter. You’re my home now.” As he brought her some tea, cream and two sugars the way she liked it, she realized she was amazed by him. He was so strong in every way.

She sipped her tea while he paced the great room, to Grace’s bedroom, to their bedroom, and back. He often paced when he spoke about the past. Finally, he said, “What would you like to know?” 

“How did you meet Chandresh?”

“Chandresh lived near me when I lived in the Smoky Mountains in the 1830s.”

“The Trail of Tears happened in 1838,” Sarah said.

“Yes.” 

“I thought you were in London in the 1830s.”

“I was, until 1837, when I came back here. I returned to London in 1843.”

“That’s when you tutored at Cambridge and met Dickens.”

James nodded. “When I returned in 1837, I came here to Salem for a while, but it was too hard. I kept wandering to Danvers to see the Rebecca Nurse Homestead, and I’d go to the Old Burying Point to spit on Hathorne’s grave. Not that I told Nathaniel I did that, though I suspect he wouldn’t have minded very much.”

“You knew Nathaniel Hawthorne?”

“I can’t say I knew him well. He was so shy he hardly said a word in company. If he said a complete sentence he was talkative that night.”

“There’s so much I want to know about you. But tell me about Chandresh.”

James stood near the window, looking at the mesh-like snowflakes fluttering down from the clouds. “He and his family were pushed off their land with the others.” His fingers tapped his legs as though he were typing out frustrated words. “It was more than losing their land. It was the unfairness of it all.”

“Unfairness shouldn’t surprise you.” Sarah patted the sofa, and James sat beside her. He leaned his head against the cushion and closed his eyes. His gold hair fell away from his face, and Sarah remembered why she was so taken when she saw him the first time, the very first time, in 1691. Sitting across from her at the supper table, he looked so thoughtful, so kind. So beautiful. And it was true. He was all those things. She stroked his face from his temple, down his cheekbone, over his lips, to his chin. He opened his eyes and smiled. 

“What was I talking about?” he asked.

“Chandresh.”

“Right.” He closed his eyes again. “You were here in the 1690s. You know what the Europeans thought of the natives.” 

“They thought the natives were inferior. Uncivilized.”

“European society centered around owning land. The more land you owned, the wealthier you were, the higher you were on the social ladder. But the native people didn’t believe in owning land. They believed land was meant to be shared. They worshipped nature, and they believed in a great spirit that created all life, and they believed all life was interconnected—the people, the rivers, the animals, the trees.”

“They believe all life is interconnected. They’re still here.”

“You’re right,” James said. “Then, the Europeans couldn’t understand the natives, their way of life, their way of thinking. The native people lived in the natural world, but the Europeans needed to separate themselves from nature. They built dams, cut down trees, built fences—this is mine, that’s yours over there. The native people’s creation stories emphasize having respect for all living things, not dominion over them. When the settlers realized the natives didn’t believe they owned the land, that made it easier to take it. It took years of wrangling, but finally the United States government got the land concessions it wanted from Cherokee leaders and pushed the people west to Oklahoma in the 1830s.” 

“Was Chandresh forced to walk?” 

“He was, along with his whole family. Nunna daul Isunyi, the Cherokee called it. The Trail Where They Cried. Chandresh didn’t know me when they began walking. He couldn’t see me then.”

“He couldn’t see you?”

“That part comes later.” James sniffed the air. “What is that? Not cookies?”

“Oh no.” 

Sarah rushed into the kitchen, slid on the heavy cooking mitts, and pulled the browned apple pies from the oven. She turned off the burner and moved the soup pot to the cool side of the stove. James stood behind her.

“What is that?” he asked again. 

“When I was writing the menu for Christmas dinner I remembered making blood soup when we were first married. I made blood pudding then too, but that’s a sausage and I didn’t think you’d like that as much. I found a recipe online, and…” 

“And…?”

“I used some blood from one of your bags and added some spices.” She opened the lid and dipped a ladle into the soup. “Can you eat it?” 

He leaned over the pot and inhaled deeply. “It smells good. I’m going to try some.” 

Sarah pulled a bowl from the cabinet and ladled in some soup. She grabbed a spoon from the drawer and set the bowl and the spoon in front of James as he sat at the table. He looked eager to try it, which pleased her. When he brought the spoon to his lips, she watched his face. 

James nodded. “It’s good, Sarah. The spices are different, but I like them.”

“Really?”

“Really. This is the first normal meal I’ve had in over three hundred years. Thank you.”

When James offered her a bite, Sarah wrinkled her nose.

“It’s all for you,” she said.

“You used to eat blood soup.” 

“I used to eat a lot of things I find disgusting now.” 

He ate a few more spoonfuls, nodding at each taste. “It couldn’t have been too pleasant making this.”

“I’ll do anything for you, James. I’ll even make you blood soup.”

[image error]Photo by Annie Spratt from Unsplash

Suddenly, James sat still, his head to the side, listening. Sarah knew his preternatural mannerisms well enough by now to know he heard something she couldn’t.

“What is it?”

“A smug, self-satisfied shuffle about five miles down the road.” James shook his head. “Geoffrey.” 

“What about him?”

“He’s here.”

As if on cue, Geoffrey knocked an offbeat tune on the front door. When Sarah stepped away, James grabbed her arm. “Where are you going?” he asked.

“To let Geoffrey in.”

“Why?” 

“Because I like him and I’m not leaving him outside on Christmas Eve.” 

“You like him?”

“He’s funny.”

Geoffrey’s voice boomed through the door. “That’s right, James. I’m funny.”

“You’re not that funny,” James said.

“I’m funny enough.”

Sarah opened the door, and Geoffrey bowed. “Good evening, little human person. How is the littlest human person tonight?”

“Good evening, Geoffrey. She’s fine. She’s sleeping.”

“Very good. One night I’ll come round whilst she’s still awake. I’d like to see her again.” He dropped onto the sofa and stared at the Christmas tree as though he had never seen one before. “Bringing the outdoors indoors. And it’s all sparkly like. Interesting.” Then he sniffed the air. “What’s that?” He skipped into the kitchen. “It’s… it’s…” He stood near the stove and sniffed the soup, closing his eyes while he savored the acrid aroma.

James pulled the bowl toward him. “My wife made it for me.” 

“What is it? You must tell me.”

“It’s blood soup,” Sarah said. “I made it for James for Christmas. Would you like some?” 

Geoffrey sat next to James at the table. “Let’s have a go.” 

Sarah pulled a bowl from the cupboard, ladled some soup into it, then set it in front of Geoffrey. 

“You can celebrate Christmas with us,” she said.

“Did you really make this for James for Christmas?” 

“I did.”

[image error]Photo by Ian Schneider for Unsplash

“That’s rather nice, actually. I forgot how pleasant it was to have a wife, someone soft and warm who thinks about things like Christmas and soups one might like to eat. My wife always went on about little things she could do for my comfort. She was quite the little homemaker she was.”

“I didn’t know you were married,” Sarah said.

“Oh yes. My Becky was plump and pretty, just the way I like them, but it was a very, very long time ago. Nothing to concern ourselves with now, though I seem to be thinking of her more and more these days, especially when I’m here. All the memories…” He looked at James and sighed.

“Try your soup, Geoffrey,” Sarah said. 

He took a spoonful and nodded. “This is excellent, little human person.” He emptied the bowl in two bites and eyed the pot on the stove. 

“Would you like some more?” Sarah asked.

“Please.”

While Sarah filled his bowl, Geoffrey eyed James with an odd intensity. “When is your birthday, James?” he asked.

“Why do you care about my birthday?”

“I was just wondering when your birthday was, that’s all. You needn’t be so huffity-puffity over a simple question.” 

“His birthday is April 19,” Sarah said.

“How old are you?” Geoffrey asked.

“I’m more than 300 years old,” James answered. 

“More than 300? Heavens, you’re old.”

“I’m younger than you.” 

“That’s true enough.” Geoffrey’s eyes narrowed. “How old am I?” 

“How do I know how old you are?”

“When were you born?” Sarah asked.

“I haven’t a clue. It was ages ago.”

“Did anything special happen the year you were born?” 

“Don’t encourage him,” James said.

Geoffrey tapped his temple as though he were trying to jolt open some long-gone memory. “I remember Mother saying she named me Geoffrey Charles because I was born the same day as the future King Charles the First. Then there was something about the East India Company being granted a royal charter the month after I was born. She said she thought of naming me Geoffrey Shakespeare since I was much ado about nothing.”

James kept his mouth shut. He opened his laptop and searched the Internet. “1600,” he said. “King Charles the First was born on November 19, 1600.” 

Geoffrey grasped Sarah’s hands and danced with her around the great room, swinging her around, arm in arm like an elegant line dance. He stopped dancing and looked over James’ shoulder, his eyes squinting at the words through the glare of the flat computer screen. “What is that with the words on it?” 

“It’s a computer,” James said. “How can you be in the twenty-first century and not recognize a computer?”

“I am in the twenty-first century, James, I am not of the twenty-first century. I came of age in the days when bookbinding was an art. I am appalled at the state of what you call literature these days. In my time, we didn’t have electronic doodahs like iPigs. I prefer hardcovers that hurt your back when you carry them. That is a book. Though I suppose reading on a Snook is better than not reading at all.”

“On a Nook, Geoffrey,” said James.

“Whatever. It’s all nonsense. I’m from a courteous time when we had more eloquent forms of communication.” 

“Town criers.” 

Geoffrey turned toward James, his hands on his hips, his eyes slits, his lips pursed in annoyance with his vampling. “Do not mock a perfectly acceptable form of communication. A clean, simple way to get information, that. The town crier arrived, said his bit around town, and left us be to act on or ignore the news as we saw fit. You can’t pretend you don’t know things these days. Information is everywhere. When that story about vampires being real gets out it’ll be around the world in sixty seconds, let alone sixty days.” 

“Who’s putting out a story about vampires?” Sarah asked.

James shook his head. “Don’t pay any attention to him.” 

Geoffrey looked at James, at Sarah, then James again. He shrugged and tapped the laptop keys like a little boy trying to play the piano. “So what else does your magic box say about London in the seventeenth century? What else happened when I was born?” 

James swatted Geoffrey’s hands away, typed seventeenth century London into the search engine, and scrolled through the results. 

“Well? What does it say?”

“I don’t know,” James said. “I haven’t gotten there yet.”

“When did you start speaking like an American with that ridiculous accent?” 

“What are you talking about?” 

“You’re English.”

“I most certainly am not English.”

“You were born in London.”

“In 1662. A lot has happened since then, you know, a little something called the American Revolution.” 

“Oh that.”

“Oh that?”

“A little misunderstanding turned into a major blowout because you children couldn’t be bothered to pay your taxes.”

James glared at Geoffrey. “I think it had something to do with taxation without representation.”  

“Are you still blowing that old horn?” Geoffrey’s frustration showed as two pink spots on his white-blue cheeks. “You know perfectly well that whole taxation without representation shtick was a ruse. You had representation through the colonial legislature, yet you only paid one twenty-sixth of the taxes we paid. We were just trying to recoup some of our losses. You children were expensive to care for, needing protection from the natives over here and whoever else over there.” 

“There wasn’t enough representation. Our votes wouldn’t have counted for anything.”

“Aha!” Geoffrey hopped from foot to foot, pointing at James, the glee everywhere in his bright eyes and wicked smile. “Finally, after more than two hundred years you admit you had representation. Taxation without representation my patooties.” Geoffrey paced the great room, propelled by his agitation. “You know the real problem? You didn’t care about the tax levied on tea. You cared that we undercut the price of tea from the smugglers. Surprise! Most of the colonial leaders were smugglers! And let’s not forget that the English agreed to stop stealing land from the Indians. That wasn’t good enough for you greedy, land-hungry colonists.”

“Don’t you dare call me a land-hungry colonist,” James said. He stood to his full height, eye to eye with Geoffrey. “I did everything I could to help the people after their land was taken. I even slunk as low as you.” He stopped short, unable to continue. Sarah didn’t know.

“I know what you did,” Geoffrey said. When Geoffrey saw the shocked expression on James’ face, the way James looked at Sarah to see if she noticed anything odd about the turn of their conversation, he backed away. He whispered so only James could hear. “She doesn’t know?” James nodded. “You keep a lot of secrets from your little human person.” James nodded again. 

In a voice loud enough for the neighbors to take part in the conversation, Geoffrey said, “I think you need to write an essay admitting how you wayward American children had representation through the colonial legislature, there, Professor Doctor James Wentworth, and get it published in all those boring scholarly journals only academics read. It’s about time we get that story straight.”

“I think you should go around Massachusetts as a town crier and shout it out at all the public buildings,” James said. “You can start at Faneuil Hall in Boston. You can leave right now.”

“I think…”

Sarah pushed her way between them, arms out, keeping them on separate sides of the room like a teacher breaking up a fight on the playground. “Boys,” she said, “please, let it go. It was a long time ago.”

“Listen to your wife,” Geoffrey said. “She’s smarter than you.” He walked back to his corner by the kitchen. “What about you, Missy? When did you start speaking with that ridiculous American accent?”

“I was born in Boston,” Sarah said.

Geoffrey pointed at Sarah’s head. “You were born in Boston.” He pointed at her heart. “But you were born in England.” He looked toward the kitchen. “Can I have more soup?” he asked. 

James shrugged. “Help yourself.” 

After Geoffrey left, James stood outside making sure the annoying creature was gone. He looked perturbed, James, as if Geoffrey were an unfortunate relation you have to deal with maybe on Thanksgiving and Christmas or Easter, and then you don’t think about him the rest of the year. When James walked back into the house, Sarah took his hands. 

“I don’t understand why you invited him to our wedding if he annoys you so much,” she said. “He thinks you’re friends now so he stops by sometimes.”

James shook his head. “I don’t understand it myself. I’m appalled and fascinated by him at the same time. I hate him for abandoning me after he turned me, yet I feel drawn to him, connected to him, like he has some answer I’ve been looking for. Perhaps it was the note.”

“What note?”

“After he came here the first time he left me a note saying he hadn’t abandoned me the way I thought he had. He kept track of me, he knew everywhere I was, everything I did, but since I was doing all right he stayed away.”

“Maybe he thought he was doing the right thing. Maybe he thinks creating vamplings is like being a mother bird who pushes her young from the nest—that’s how you help them fly.” 

James shook his head. “There are other ways to help vamplings learn to survive. You help them by being there. Teaching them. Letting them know they’re not alone in the world.” 

“Like being a parent.”

James smiled. “Yes,” he said.

Sarah brushed some stray gold strands from his eyes. “Geoffrey’s a link to your past.”

“I suppose he is.” James looked at the pot on the stove. “How about more of that soup?” 

“I can do that.” Sarah ladled more soup into his bowl and set it in front of him “Look how normal we are,” she said. “A husband and wife together on Christmas Eve, the husband eating soup, holiday music in the background, a fire in the hearth, our daughter asleep in her crib getting ready for her first Christmas. We’re just like other families.”

“We were visited by Geoffrey and you think we’re like other families?”

“All families have a crazy relative. It’s mandatory.”

“Geoffrey a relative? God help us.”

James finished the soup and licked the spoon. “That’s one thing Geoffrey was right about,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“You’re smarter than I am.”

Sarah smiled. “I know,” she said.

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Her Loving Husband’s Curse: Free on Amazon Until 12/14

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If you’ve read Her Dear & Loving Husband and wanted to read the second book in the series, Her Loving Husband’s Curse is free for everyone on Amazon through 12/14/18. Enjoy!

Cooking in the Massachusetts Bay Colony

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One of my more popular posts is about food in colonial Massachusetts. Here’s more information about the types of meals the colonists ate and other interesting tidbits about cooking in the Massachusetts Bay Colony.

Breakfast was a busy time of day in the Massachusetts Bay Colony. The women were busy with milking cows and other chores, and it wasn’t convenient to cook a hot meal in the morning. Often the colonists ate a morning meal of leftovers from the previous day—meat or fish, bread, cheese, milk, and beer. For the poorest among them, they would make do with hasty pudding, a recipe brought from England. In England, the pudding was made with wheat flour and boiling milk until it had the consistency of an oatmeal porridge. In the colonies, hasty pudding was made with cornmeal mush instead.

Cornmeal became popular among the colonists because it was more easily available, and women made what became known as Indian bannocks where cornmeal and water were mixed and spread an inch thick on a board and placed before the fire and baked. This was one of the more common forms of bread. Sometimes the water was mixed with rye meal instead, which created a brown bread. 

Dinner (an early afternoon meal, now more commonly known as lunch) was the largest meal of the day. Anyone a fan of the crockpot or one pot cooking? That type of convenience cooking was popular among the working class during colonial times as well. Often meals such as leek soup, eel pie, and pork and apple stew were cooked in one pot over the hearth fire. Baked beans, another recipe brought from England, were also common on colonists’ tables. Other dinner meals might include small chunks of boiled meat with vegetables such as beans or peas. The wealthier colonists would cook their meat and vegetables separately, or, more likely, they had servants to do the cooking for them. Colonists shared our love of sweet desserts, and often meals ended with ice cream or a fruit pie. 

Droughts and floods happened in the unpredictable Massachusetts weather, sometimes destroying an entire year’s worth of crops. Food was hard enough to come by in colonial America, so preserving what you had was essential. Wealthy people might have underground cellars packed with straw and ice, which kept the area cold enough to act as a refrigerator of sorts. Traditional methods such as dehydrating and salting were more commonly used. Other methods of preservation depended on the type of food. Beans were salted, pickled, and dried. According to Oliver (2015), here is a recipe to keep beans green during the winter: “Boil salt and water to make a strong pickle; string the beans, and put them in a tight wooden firkin;sprinkle them with salt as they go in; when the pickle is cold, pour it on, and put on a weight to keep the beans under; they will keep in the cellar till the next spring. They should soak several hours in cold water before they are boiled.” Butter was coated with salt and then soaked to remove the salt before use. Bacon was also salted. Ice cream was eaten as soon as it was made, and milk was made into cheese and preserved with a wax-like substance.

Beverages were kept in the cellar or the coldest part of the house. Water wasn’t considered safe, so the colonists drank beer and ale. According to Johnson (2017), people in the northeastern colonies like Massachusetts may have been healthier than their southern counterparts because of the abundance of apples and the hard cider made from them, of which the colonists drank copious amounts. The wealthier citizens, who had most of their goods imported, were more likely to have wine at their disposal. Imported foods and goods were often obtained at shops in larger towns, such as Boston in Massachusetts, usually by barter since coins were scarce.

Chimneys had a brick oven with an opening in the kitchen fireplace. Cooking was a fire hazard for colonial women, and they had to beware that their woolen skirts didn’t catch the flames. Domestic animals were considered too valuable to kill for food, but game was plenty in Massachusetts. The meat was roasted on iron spits which were held by curved brackets and the spit required constant turning. In poorer families, that duty often fell on a child, while the wealthier had a “jack”—a pulley and cord fastened over the fireplace that, as it unwound, turned the spit and kept the meat from burning.

The poorer colonists used trenchers, carved wooden bowls, to hold their meals. The poorest families would often share one trencher amongst themselves. They drank from tankards made of wooden staves, and the only utensils they had were spoons and sometimes knives. Forks weren’t common until the later 17th century (they were in use by the time Down Salem Way takes place in 1692). The colonists used their knives to move their food from their trenchers into their mouths. The poorer colonists had earthenware or stoneware bottles and jugs. The wealthier had pewter or even silver at their disposal. China dishes or dishes made in Holland were imported by the East India Company.

I’ll talk more about children in the Massachusetts Bay Colony in another post. For now, it may be interesting to note that children were not seated at the table with the adults for meals. This may be because poorer families simply didn’t have enough chairs or space for the children to sit at the table. The children would stand behind the adults with their plates or trenchers, and they ate whatever was handed to them. In other families, the children sat at a side table and went to the main table for their food and drink. In the wealthier families, there was more formality during meals (think Downton Abbey in colonial Massachusetts). Children were given some wine in order to drink to the health of their parents. According to Oliver (2015), one such blessing from the children was “Health to Papa and Mama, health to brothers and sisters, health to all my friends.”

Not a bad way to begin a meal.

References

Demos, J. (2000). A little commonwealth: Family life in Plymouth Colony. New York: Oxford University Press.

Dow, G. F. (2012). Every day life in the Massachusetts Bay Colony. Courier Corporation.

Johnson, C.D. (2017). Daily life in colonial New England. Santa Barbara, CA: Greenwood Press.

Oliver, L. (2015). 
Colonial and early American fare. Retrieved from http://www.foodtimeline.org/foodcolon...

Her Dear & Loving Husband: Free on Amazon 11/27 – 12/1

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Her Dear & Loving Husband is free for everyone on Amazon from Thursday, 11/27, through Saturday, 12/1. If you have a Kindle or the Kindle app and you’ve been wanting to read the first book in the Loving Husband Trilogy, now is your chance.