Henry became serious, though his eyes still smiled. “It was a productive day, and I intended to stop by and share the news with you, but I had pressing matters to attend to here at home. I’m sorry.”
“There’s no reason to be sorry. You owe me nothing.”
“Nay. I feel I owe you a great deal.”
His words puzzled me, but he went on to tell me about his day.
“Among other things,” he said, “we made a formal call for a Continental Congress to convene on September the fifth in Richmond. We also elected seven delegates to attend.”
“Will you be one of them?”
He shook his head. “I was nominated but refused to accept.”
“Why?” I finally leaned against the back of the sofa to get a better look at him, surprised he’d turn down the nomination.
“My father has made his feelings known about the congress.” He crossed his arms and looked down at his feet. “He knows where I stand on these issues, and surprisingly, he respects my opinions, but he’s asked me not to have such public involvement. I’ve agreed to honor his request.”
It wasn’t difficult to see that this pained Henry. He had been born for his role in this fight. He loved people and drew energy and strength from their presence. To be left out would be terribly difficult for him, but his loyalty to his father was also tobe commended—though I guessed it would not stop him from being involved.
“We’ve also come to a difficult decision.” He returned his troubled gaze to me. “One that we’ve debated each time we’ve been together, but we all agree that everything else we’ve tried has not worked. Parliament will not listen to our petitions, nor will they listen to our resolutions or our pleas. Instead, they create more acts to limit our freedom.”
He was referencing the Intolerable Acts, passed in Parliament since the Boston Tea Party. The first was the Boston Port Act, which closed the port of Boston, and then there were others specifically aimed at Massachusetts. But the most recent act had affected all the colonies. It was the Quartering Act, which made it legal for a governor to quarter British soldiers on privately held property without the consent of the owner.
Henry watched me closely as he shared the rest of his report. “We are calling for a boycott on all British goods in the colonies until they lift these unlawful acts.”
I tried to appear surprised, but I had known this was coming. Boycotting English supplies was one of the tactics the colonies would use to put pressure on Parliament. It would mean paying higher prices for goods produced in the colonies, shrinking my coin purse even further.
“I planned to stop by to speak to you tomorrow,” he continued. “The convention has asked that you print a petition asking every merchant and colonist in Virginia to sign, promising to boycott English goods.”
“’Twill not be an easy task.”
“You’re right, but I believe this is the only way Parliament will take us seriously. We must hurt them where it counts, and right now it’s estimated that over two and a half million British subjects live in the colonies. If we all boycott, or even a large portion boycotts, we will make a lasting impression.”
The idea of a boycott was daunting, but it was the least ourfamily could do when I knew how much more others would give. I nodded, eager to help. “We will print the petition, and we will be the first to sign it.”
Though I spoke confidently, dread settled over my spirit. To affix my name to a document in defiance of the governor, Parliament, and the king was daunting. How much harder would it be for the others who did not know the outcome of this act of defiance and who would be putting everything on the line for freedom’s call?
“Thank you,” Henry said, pride and something more shining in his eyes.
Stanley entered with a tea tray, which he set on the table near us and then took his leave once again without saying a word.
Silently, I served the tea, handing a cup to Henry. Outside, darkness had fallen, and the rain still patted lightly upon the windowpanes. Inside, the fire made the room feel warm and cozy, begging me to stay.
How I longed for this moment to continue, though I knew it couldn’t last. I was drawing closer and closer to my return to Lord Cumberland.
Visions of the night before tried to overpower my senses, but I would not let them. I was a different person in 1914—at least, that was what I was trying desperately to believe. Here, in this time and space, I was simply Libby Conant—not Anna Elizabeth Fairhaven, Marchioness of Cumberland. I didn’t want my other life to touch me here. Especially now, with Henry.
“I should go,” I finally said.
“I will walk you home.”
“There’s no need.”
“I cannot let you walk home in the dark by yourself.”
I brooked no argument, and when we rose, he gently placed my cloak about my shoulders before leading me back to the entrance, where he took his own cloak off a hook.
We left the house and walked in silence to my home. The rain was falling harder now, and I shivered.
