2PM Excerpt Reading and Discussion

[Pavarti, Novel Publicity Director of Marketing]

Below is an excerpt from The Midwife's Revolt. At 2 PM I will post some discussion questions. Looking forward to hearing your thoughts. And don't forget to take a minute to enter our giveaway! http://bit.ly/18SPrRO

Excerpt
Fall 1777. British General John Burgoyne has just surrendered after the Battle of Saratoga. Lizzie has had a servant, a girl named Martha Miller, forced upon her by Abigail Adams, because Lizzie can’t possibly take care of her farm by herself. Martha’s brother, Thomas Miller, is a known Tory and is suspected of being a spy. Lizzie gets it into her head that Martha is a spy for her brother—not an unreasonable assumption at a time when both sides were spying on one other.

We come now to a part in my narrative that I do not like to tell. Soon after we heard the news of Burgoyne’s surrender, I became suspicious of my own dear Martha. My thoughts began to run away with me immediately after I heard that Thomas Miller had stayed behind in Boston rather than leave with Howe’s army.
On the day after we heard the good news, we rode in Colonel Quincy’s fine carriage to Boston. Abigail sat by my side, and Martha was across from us. I looked at her and could not rid myself of the thought that she was a spy sent by her brother to oversee pesky Rebels in the North Parish, with a particular interest in the tiny lady who sat by my side.
In my own defense, and for the sake of Truth, I must reveal certain facts that I have thus far omitted from my tale. Since earlier that spring, Martha had taken up her own chamber once more. This in itself was not unusual, for even married couples slept in separate chambers in the summer, if they could. However, I had for several months caught her reading or writing letters, which she did not offer to share with me. Passing by her chamber one evening, I happened to notice several drafts of a letter made out to her brother in which General Howe was mentioned.
But what of that? Was the poor girl not entitled to communicate with her one living relation on earth? But the mind must have the story and, missing the truth, will piece together a fiction from ragged scraps. Thus, as we drove to Boston, my concern grew feverish in my brain until I had worked myself into a genuine panic.
We stayed at the house of Abigail’s uncle, Isaac Smith, where Abigail occupied her favorite room—a closet of her very own. It had a pretty little writing desk by a window. Abigail pronounced it a very great luxury to be without her children for a full day. She said she would use the time to write John a letter. Martha and I were quite comfortably installed down the hall, where we shared a bed.
I watched Martha undress for bed. To say I observed her might be more accurate, for in my overwrought state I fancied she would at any moment betray herself in word or deed. I don’t know precisely what I expected. Would she mutter, “Long live King George!” in her sleep?
“You stare at me quite profoundly,” she said mildly. “One would think you’d never seen a naked woman before.”
I caught the mild irony in her tone, as we both knew I’d seen women in every naked particular. Indeed, Martha’s slender little body was quite worth looking at. She had the kind of body clothing hides rather than complements. Her full breasts, slender, curving hips, and long, well-turned legs would have smitten any man who gazed upon them.
“I am thinking you are very attractive without your clothing.”
She raised her eyebrows and placed her shift before her, suddenly as self-conscious as Eve after biting the apple.
“Well, you parade about in manly garb astride a horse. So shall I be as Guinevere and fly naked through the streets. Oh, Lizzie—” her tone became cheerful “—I am so contented! For tomorrow I see my beloved brother. It has been too long.”
The next day, it was arranged that Mr. Miller would meet us by the wharf. We would take the colonel’s carriage. We set off for the wharf in some trepidation, for while few Tories remained in town, it was not unknown for sudden, personal conflagrations to occur. More than one man had been caught in a crossfire of muskets.
At the wharf, the celebration of Burgoyne’s surrender was in full swing, with fire displays and loud demonstrations. We stood observing a band of jokesters burning the king in effigy when a fine carriage pulled up beside us and a servant descended, then helped a tall young man to alight from the carriage.
“Thomas!” Martha cried. She went running toward him.
It was Thomas Miller, the notorious and beloved brother.
“Oh, sweet sister!”
He lifted her off the ground and hugged her fiercely. There were tears of joy on the poor girl’s face. When Thomas finally released her, Martha saw fit to introduce us. Another young, quite dandified man alit from the carriage behind Thomas and bowed deeply, though I doubted he knew to whom he was bowing.
Thomas introduced his friend, whose name I now forget. But he was the owner of the carriage and no doubt from a family of considerable wealth. Thomas’s friend soon mounted the carriage and waited there, not wishing to intrude upon the family scene.
Martha then said formally, “Abigail Adams, this is my dear brother, Thomas. Thomas, Abigail.”
Abigail allowed him to kiss her hand. She bowed slightly, but not without casting me a fleeting sideways glance. I gave him my hand limply, with obvious reluctance. To his credit, Thomas Miller bowed respectfully. He then gazed across the crowded wharf. “Quite a celebration, isn’t it?”
Abigail had nothing to say to this, apparently, and remained silent.
“We’ve all been in ecstasies since we heard the news,” I said.
I took the opportunity to look at him. His was not a countenance one could immediately call handsome. He had a large, straight nose; big, wide-set eyes of an astonishing amber color; and a full mouth. His hair, like his sister’s, was a rich, dark brown.
Thomas looked entreatingly at Martha, who saw her cue to end the awkward scene by mounting the carriage. He took her hand and helped her up. From her perch, she cast me a regretful look. And as they pulled away, Thomas Miller glanced down at me briefly, then nodded respectfully to Abigail as he bade the horses go.
“Regards to your husband.” He tipped his hat to her. “General Howe is a very great admirer, as am I.”
Abigail and I looked at each other without a word. We both knew that, while General Howe might admire John Adams, he would not be distraught by the appearance of a noose around his neck.
“Insufferable platitudes!” I cried once brother and sister were gone.
But Abigail replied, “I thought his manner quite pleasant and sincere.”
“Then you have been too much out of company to recall the meaning of ‘pleasant’ or ‘sincere,’” I said huffily. I was angry at Mr. Miller, not her. But she took the offense, and rightly so.
“And you must take care not to judge men too hastily, for grave mistakes have been made by those more perceptive than you.”
Here, she turned her back on me.
This was the closest Abigail and I ever came to having an argument. She was older than I by eight years, and I had been insufferably rude to her.
We sat across from each other in silence on the journey back to her uncle’s house that afternoon. I had regretted my words moments after uttering them. Who was I to tell Mrs. John Adams that she had been so much out of company she did not know “pleasant” or “sincere”—she who had dined with Dr. Franklin and John Hancock, and even His Excellency and Martha Washington?
I felt miserably ashamed of myself. And yet, so much had my obsessive thoughts taken hold of me that, by the time we approached the house late that afternoon, I could not prevent myself from saying, “It would do well, I think, to take care what you say in Martha’s presence.”
I had said it to puff up my own flagging sense of importance and perhaps to regain some of my lost esteem in her eyes. It was an egregious error. For what had we, in those days, if not our loyalty to one another?
The effect of these words was fat upon the fire.
Abigail pulled herself up and faced me squarely. Though she was tiny, I felt she towered above me. “And how do I know that you yourself are not a spy?” she said. “You, of all people, have my ear and my trust. You are privy to my most private correspondence with John. You profess to be my friend and Martha’s. Perhaps you are not who you profess to be!”
Reader, if you had any idea how these words cut me, you would pity me. I watched her stride into the house, saw her aunt’s servant racing after her most officiously, leaving me alone and utterly bewildered on the road.
Moments later, I was able to compose myself sufficiently to move my feet toward the house. I dropped my bonnet, cloak, mitts, and scarf on a chair, crossed into the hallway, and followed her upstairs. I found her sitting with her back to me by the window, staring out at the steely gray autumn sky.
“Abigail. Forgive me,” I said. “I can’t live knowing I have fallen in your esteem.”
“There are many things we say we cannot bear, and yet we do,” she said calmly.
“No, truly, I cannot bear it. I will die.” And with these words I fell by her feet, took her hands, and lay my head pitifully in her lap. “You are my only friend. Without you, I am alone in the world.”
I thought she would say that Martha was my friend, too, and that I had grossly wronged her. Instead, she said, “You must learn to love yourself and your own company. As for others, there is no guarantee. You have only yourself for certain, until the last breath.”
“What a lonely thought!” I cried. “A terrible, most terrible lonely thought.”
My childishness, misery, and distraught tears pricked her maternal sensibilities at last. She placed a hand on my head and caressed me, and the touch of her hand made me sob like a child.
I threw my arms around her calves and hugged her tight.
Finally, she said, “All right. Enough. Ready yourself for bed, dearest. You will weep yourself into a terrible cold, and then you will give it to the rest of us.”
I smiled, though my face must have been frightful. “Dr. Franklin believes we must sleep with a window open.” I sniffed.
“Then we must do as Dr. Franklin says.”
She nodded toward the window, bidding me open it slightly. Then she patted the edge of her bed to let me know that I might stay the night if I chose.
And, with this brief exchange, our trust was reestablished. I forsook Martha that night, and Abigail and I slept soundly, snuggled against one another, until late the next morning.

I wish I could say that the painful argument with Abigail spelled the end of my suspicions about Martha, but it did not. I am of such a nature that, once an idea enters my head, it is like a tapeworm—no amount of pinkroot will rid me of it.
Martha stayed on several days with her brother, and when she finally returned to snowy Braintree, she looked refreshed in spirit. My jealous love of Abigail had, if anything, grown since I’d quit Boston. I did manage to ask, “How was your visit?”
“Oh, wonderful. Lizzie, if only…” Here, she gave an enthusiastic rendering of that happy reunion, about which I asked not a single question, and she soon fell silent. While at first Martha might have ascribed my coolness to indifference toward her brother, she quickly sensed my coolness toward her person, as well. The house felt cold and lonely, though we both were at home.

We had been back in Braintree but a few days when Abigail called upon us to say that she had, that same morning, received a letter from her “dear Friend” with both the most excellent and the most bitter news.
“Well, don’t stand there—tell us,” I said, ushering her in from the freezing cold. It had begun to snow, and I had tarried nearly all night delivering a woman of her first child.

(cont in comments)

[Pavarti, Novel Publicity Director of Marketing]

Martha, who had tarried all night with me, stood by the fire. She was making bread, and it was nearly done. But she had hardly slept, and twice already that morning she had burned herself in the task of retrieving the loaves from the back of the oven. It was one of those blasted old fireplaces that often consumed its poor housewife in flames. Martha seemed to have grown particularly careless with herself; her right forearm oozed two nasty open blisters.
When she saw Abigail, though, her wan face lit with joy. She wiped her hands on her apron and went to greet her.
Having set her cloak and hat over the back of my tall chair, Abigail began, “Well, the good news is that John shall be home early this year. In a fortnight!”
“That is wonderful,” I agreed. “And what is the bad news?”
I set before us three bowls of a hearty ham-and-bean soup with Martha’s warm rye bread, upon which we greedily lathered sweet butter.
“The bad news is that he has just received word that he is to leave again in February. For France.”
“France!” I stared at her. “You have agreed to this?”
“Do I have a choice?” She smiled. “It is a mission of the utmost significance.”
“What is in France that could be of such importance?” I asked in ignorance. Abigail looked at me, aghast.
“What is in France? France is in France, Lizzie,” she said. “It is fully expected that John will be instrumental in—”
“Abigail!” I stood, rudely interrupting her and making Martha jump. She spilled her spoonful of soup and burned herself for the third time that day.
“Abigail,” I said again, more softly this time, “I have full forgotten the cider. How stupid of me. Martha, would you kindly fetch some cider from the cellar?” I handed her a pitcher for the task.
Though exhausted to the point of faintness, Martha complied without complaint. “Of course,” she said. “I am thirsty as well.”
Once she was gone, Abigail hissed, “Lizzie, what is the matter with you? Have you gone mad?”
“Indeed, I’m not mad. But don’t you think it unwise—terribly unwise—to reveal something of such patriotic import, some fact upon which our very success or failure depends, to the beloved sister of a man in General Howe’s employ?”
She moved close to me. “Lizzie, you are incorrigible. Surely we have enough problems without suspecting each other at every turn. This has got to stop before—”
Suddenly, we both perceived Martha standing before us, holding a pitcher in her hand. The cellar door was open; apparently she had never descended. She set the pitcher on the table. Her hand hovered there for a moment, shaking, as if unsure of its purpose. A bread knife sat upon the table. She took it up and held it in one fist. Her face was white when she turned to us, taking us both in. Slowly, her eyes focused on me. Neither Abigail nor I uttered one syllable.
“You think I’m a traitor, don’t you?” she asked me.
“I—”
“Say it. You think my brother a spy and I his willing accomplice. Since you hardly know your own brother, you cannot conceive that I might love mine without regard to his politics. Such lack of understanding I can bear, as it stems from ignorance. But what I cannot bear is the thought that you—” she stared at me “—and even you—” she turned to Abigail “—believe me capable of being disingenuous with my dearest friends. My sisters. Did I not weep for you, Lizzie, when first you told me about Jeb? Did we not cry together upon hearing of the terrible retreat at New York? Did we not laugh together with joy at the news from Saratoga? You think me capable of such crocodile tears of joy and grief? What a monster I must seem to you.”
“We think no such thing,” Abigail said gently.
“You may not,” she conceded, tears of misery flowing now, “but what of her? And to think…to think of the bed I have shared with you, and the night upon night I have tarried by your side. Not for gain—God knows, there has been none of that—but because I so admired you…”
“Martha,” I began, but she interrupted me.
“What will it take to convince you? Must I suffer a deep wound for the Cause, as you both have? Will you believe me true then? So be it.”
Before we could move to stop her, Martha thrust her left hand out and sliced across her palm as a butcher cleaves a filet. And though the pain must have been extreme, she did not flinch or cry out, but merely took a single sharp inhale of breath before dropping the knife and collapsing to the floor.
I ran to her, Abigail close behind. There was no time for reproach. Blood flowed everywhere. I grabbed my medical sack and pulled out a clean cloth to press to the wound. Blood seeped through at once, and I knew she had cut very deep.
“Boil water in the kettle,” I instructed Abigail. “I must clean the gash or she will die of infection.”
She did as I asked without a word. Martha nearly fainted as I poured the hot water into the wound, then bandaged it with the clean cotton cloth I normally used upon a woman after childbirth. After this had been accomplished, we led her toward the bed in the parlor, though she muttered it was a scratch of no consequence. Abigail eased Martha’s stays and bodice as I transferred some hot coals from one fire to another, soon warming up the room.
Martha’s eyes were open and blank as I applied a cool cloth to her face. Looking at her full on in this objective manner, like a patient, I recalled how young she was—not seventeen—and how I, although quite young myself, was the world to her: mother, sister, and friend. In my suspicion, I had robbed her of all three at once.
“Rest a while,” said Abigail. “I will watch her.”
“I cannot rest,” I replied quickly. Having ascertained that the bleeding had fully stopped and that there was as yet no redness or swelling at the site of the gash, I put on my cloak and took up my bonnet and mitts. Turning to Abigail, I smiled weakly and said, “I must walk. I won’t be long.”
As I left the house, the cold wind off the sea assaulted me furiously. I wished to see no one and headed down the dunes, unconsciously making toward the open, iron-gray winter sky above the water. The snow was thick in places, covered by a dense, slippery crust made by a brief rain the day before. I slipped; the jagged ice scratched my calves. But my legs were soon numb and I felt not the tearing of flesh, though I later found blood on the edge of my petticoat. I walked across the snow toward the sea, letting the wind and the salt air slash my face. Ice froze between my wet eyelashes and nostrils and lodged in my throat and lungs with every breath; still, I did not stop.
I reflected upon my ignoble suspicions of Martha. I knew them to be ignoble, and yet I was still not convinced that she had told me all there was to tell. Something important was missing. Perhaps I would never know it. Was it my right to know her secrets? Martha owed me nothing. She did not owe me—and nor did I merit—her most profound confidences.
I reached the town landing. It was desolate save for two old men hoisting a coffin-sized crate from a dory. They grunted with the effort and soon succeeded in tying a rope twice around the heavy load and dragging it toward a waiting cart and horse. The horse’s breath made clouds in the frigid air; it stomped its foot impatiently and shivered, gazing myopically at me with big, brown eyes.
I wondered what was in the crate, hoping it was sacks of flour, but doubting of it. Finally, curiosity got the better of me. I inquired what was in it.
“Oh, a body, miss. That of a boy died at Freeman’s Farm, what’s family wanted him buried here.”
Freeman’s Farm had been one of the battle sites in New York a few weeks earlier. I apologized and thanked them for telling me, then turned away. It seemed an ill omen. Soon the men were gone, leaving me alone.
I held my cloak around myself as I gazed out at the black sea and black sky. The sun already seemed to be retreating. Men, women, animals—even the sun seemed to shrink from my company. I thought perhaps I was unfit to live. Over there, across the water, lay England, where my father had died. In that water, in its cold deep, my brother floated, whether beneath the waves or upon a ship’s deck I did not dare to guess.
As I stood at the water’s edge, a thought occurred to me: could I envy Martha? Like myself, she was an orphan with neither money nor connections. Yet there was a difference: she had a living brother.
There is no more despicable emotion on earth than envy, yet none so common to the human heart. Could it be? Could it be that envy had poisoned my heart so? This thought had the ring of truth in mine own ears.
I felt I must repent my sin and beg forgiveness at once, and returned to my cottage. I banged through the door, threw down my cloak and bonnet, placed my boots by the fire, and announced, “Martha, I am heartily ashamed of myself. I have searched my soul and do believe I have found the source of the poison in my breast: envy! You have a brother to love, and I know not what has become of mine.”
Martha closed her eyes and nodded.
Abigail merely observed, “Your ankle is bleeding.”
I looked down and, sure enough, I must have caught my ankle on a sharp edge of icy rock. The bottom of my petticoat was bright red.
“Come, let me staunch that before you track blood all over the house.”

Later, after Abigail had bandaged my ankle, neither of us talking much, while Martha stared at the ceiling in a rigid state of hurt, I divulged that secret I had dared not say before: “Well, I suppose if John is to risk his life to make a treaty with the French, the least we ladies can do is make some good blankets for him for the crossing.”
I saw Martha blink, but she said nothing. Abigail, however, had a slight, satisfied smile at the corner of her lips.
Abigail and I began dyeing wool the next day—a smelly, messy task best done in warmer months. In a few days’ time, though her left hand was still bandaged, Martha joined us. She had few words for me at first. It was her turn to observe me, and I let her. She had great powers of observation, and I prayed humbly that she would merely dislike me from then on and not loathe me enough to leave. She let me flap in the breeze a good while—several weeks, in fact—before letting me know, as we read companionably by the kitchen hearth of an evening, that she had forgiven me. She let me know not by words but by leaving off work a moment and placing her hand on mine. So forcefully did I feel her touch, bereft of it as I had been, that I wept.
“Oh, Martha, you don’t hate me, then?”
She sighed. “I tried, but could not. For, were the situation reversed, I should feel just as you have felt.”
I hugged her to me then, grateful I had not destroyed our friendship.
That same day, Abigail, Martha, and I hung the dripping skeins upon the warping board. We dressed the loom and tied the heddles to make a nice, warm, overshot weave. And with this wool we wove two blankets, one for John and the other for John Quincy. One was red and white, the other blue and white. They each had thirteen stars and were signed: M.M., A.A., and E.B., November 24, 1777.

[Jodi]

P.S. I read this scene a lot...it's one of my personal favorites.

[Pavarti, Novel Publicity Director of Marketing]

I can see why!

[Gaele]

there was so much going on in this excerpt...

[Pavarti, Novel Publicity Director of Marketing]

So first point up for discussion:
What caused Lizzie to suspect Martha was a spy? Have you ever suspected someone you knew of being a spy – why?

[Pavarti, Novel Publicity Director of Marketing]

What did Abigail consider a great luxury “for a day”? Why would this be a luxury even in modern times?

[Gaele]

Pavarti wrote: "So first point up for discussion:
What caused Lizzie to suspect Martha was a spy? Have you ever suspected someone you knew of being a spy – why?"

A couple of things - not all shown in the excerpt - Martha's habit of quietly appearing (although I think it was more that Lizzie was super-focused on her task at hand - or in her own reflections ) Then Martha's habit of quickly stopping conversation with her brother if Lizzie entered - and her haste to talk to him out of her hearing. Since Thomas was a Tory - and not quiet about his affiliations, and Martha being privvy to her chats with Abigail - she couldn't help but wonder.

And yes - I have. I've also met some "real" ones. My father was an odd bird - but he often worked with companies who utilized the skills of Mossad for security, and his father was a lawyer in Hoover's office - dealing with his "personal" issues and investigations of agents / etc.

[Embe, Novel Publicity Marketing Assistant]

Pavarti wrote: "So first point up for discussion:
What caused Lizzie to suspect Martha was a spy? Have you ever suspected someone you knew of being a spy – why?"

I believe it stemmed from her suspicions of Martha's brother whom she believed because of his connections and suspected activities.

While i haven't suspected someone of being a spy perse i doget suspicious of people at times - like they have ulterior motives I may not like if i knew them... if that makes sense?

[Pavarti, Novel Publicity Director of Marketing]

After Martha left with her brother Thomas – what did Lizzie and Abigail discuss, why did they come close to argument? Have you ever had such an experience with a friend or family member?

[M.C.V.]

Just got here and I relish every word so...be patient

[Pavarti, Novel Publicity Director of Marketing]

Abigail said at one point: “You must learn to love yourself and your own company. As for others, there is no guarantee. You have only yourself for certain, until the last breath.” – what did she mean by this and how can it be applied to our modern lives?

[M.C.V.]

OKAY seems like the closet is the luxury oops it was the next sentence and God bless her as a mom I relate
" Abigail pronounced it a very great luxury to be without her children for a full day"

[M.C.V.]

Pavarti wrote: "What did Abigail consider a great luxury “for a day”? Why would this be a luxury even in modern times?"

OOPS Added as comment not reply "Abigail pronounced it a very great luxury to be without her children for a full day"

[Pavarti, Novel Publicity Director of Marketing]

What did Martha do in an effort to PROVE (as she felt it would) that she was in fact NOT a spy? Have you ever felt you had to go to such extremes to “protect your good name” – if so what made it worth it?

[Pavarti, Novel Publicity Director of Marketing]

I'd give you a shiny nickel for a day without my children!

[M.C.V.]

Gaele wrote: "Pavarti wrote: "So first point up for discussion:
What caused Lizzie to suspect Martha was a spy? Have you ever suspected someone you knew of being a spy – why?"

A couple of things - not all show..."

Surely the relationship of the brother with the loyalist. Yes I think my grandfather was a WWII spy.

[Embe, Novel Publicity Marketing Assistant]

Pavarti wrote: "Abigail said at one point: “You must learn to love yourself and your own company. As for others, there is no guarantee. You have only yourself for certain, until the last breath.” – what did she me..."

I think, at least this is how i took it, it means in the end the only person we really have to count on 100% is ourselves.. and if we don't do that we are in trouble!

[Andrea]

Lizzie suspected Martha of spying for her brother because she would receive some letters and wouldn't share their contents. Also, Lizzie saw some correspondence to Martha's brother mentioning a prominent general.

I think at times it's hard to trust people but right now we don't have the same situations. Back then there were spies all over and you didn't know who you could trust.

[M.C.V.]

Jodi wrote: "P.S. I read this scene a lot...it's one of my personal favorites."

I have to say your writing is magnificent, I am right there in the era, each sentence transported me!

[Gaele]

Pavarti wrote: "Abigail said at one point: “You must learn to love yourself and your own company. As for others, there is no guarantee. You have only yourself for certain, until the last breath.” – what did she me..."

This to me is the whole crux and center of her being - that reliance is self-promulgated: that nothing is guaranteed - so being able to care for yourself - make your own way, and be giving yet not expecting. It was one of those sentences that I was able to relate the differences in spiritual belief (not religion) that was so prevalent and important to the education of the day. That Abigail understood the universality of existence - while others will contribute to your experience -each one is individual and you need to realize that your life and experience are ultimately your own doing. If you constantly whinge about people not living up to your expectations - perhaps you need to realize that your expectations are of little import - that you set them and achieve them for you alone - and give of that freely - only to hope for the return.

[Pavarti, Novel Publicity Director of Marketing]

And the last prompt is:
How did Martha show her forgiveness of Abigail? Do you find it difficult to forgive people who mistrust you – what do you do in an effort to move beyond it?

Our next event is at 3PM so keep on chatting, I'm really enjoying reading all your thoughts!

[Embe, Novel Publicity Marketing Assistant]

Pavarti wrote: "And the last prompt is:
How did Martha show her forgiveness of Abigail? Do you find it difficult to forgive people who mistrust you – what do you do in an effort to move beyond it?

Our next event ..."

once people have hurt me I find it very difficult to give - as many people in my life can attest to it sometimes takes me years to process into a state of forgiveness but i do eventually get there.

[Gaele]

Pavarti wrote: "And the last prompt is:
How did Martha show her forgiveness of Abigail? Do you find it difficult to forgive people who mistrust you – what do you do in an effort to move beyond it?

Our next event ..."
Mistrust me? I can't do anything about that. I try not to give people options to doubt. The reverse - I'm a pretty liberal forgiver - unless it's something dramatically horrible. Everyone gets a level of trust with me - some just get enough rope to hang themselves(which usually means in some sense that I know they will be a lemming off the cliff) - others get more.

Martha Participated and helped. It wasn't a 'given' that she weave or dye - but those blankets were important and helping when she didn't have to was telling.

[M.C.V.]

Pavarti wrote: "After Martha left with her brother Thomas – what did Lizzie and Abigail discuss, why did they come close to argument? Have you ever had such an experience with a friend or family member?"

Lizzie felt that Abigail had not identified the lack of sincerity. Lizzie was 8 years younger and as such had never made a remark in that Tone to Abigail, whom she obviously admired. Yes I am the sixth of 8 kids and I have had certain moments with older siblings that seemed relatable. Actually even with friends.

[M.C.V.]

Pavarti wrote: "And the last prompt is:
How did Martha show her forgiveness of Abigail? Do you find it difficult to forgive people who mistrust you – what do you do in an effort to move beyond it?

Our next event ..."

Sad but she cut herself!
"Before we could move to stop her, Martha thrust her left hand out and sliced across her palm as a butcher cleaves a filet. And though the pain must have been extreme, she did not flinch or cry out, but merely took a single sharp inhale of breath before dropping the knife and collapsing to the floor.
I ran to her, Abigail close behind. There was no time for reproach. Blood flowed everywhere. I grabbed my medical sack and pulled out a clean cloth to press to the wound. Blood seeped through at once, and I knew she had cut very deep."

[M.C.V.]

Pavarti wrote: "And the last prompt is:
How did Martha show her forgiveness of Abigail? Do you find it difficult to forgive people who mistrust you – what do you do in an effort to move beyond it?

Our next event ..."

Motherhood beckons so I have to miss a few more events, which is such a bummer because this is WOW!