Notes

“HOMEFRONT”
Completed April 2020.

In the parlor room, it was stiflingly hot, even with the windows open and a soft breeze blowing through. It rustled the hem of her thin blue dress, revealing the tips of worn, mud-speckled leather boots beneath it. Temperance Webb was painfully aware of how underdressed she was for the occasion, but she couldn’t seem to bring herself to mind.

Mrs. Virginia Foster, the hostess, had eyed her wearily without a word, busy arranging and rearranging the small plate of pastries. She found it altogether inappropriate for Ms. Webb to be clean-faced and clad in nothing but nightclothes for the neighborhood ladies’ formal get-together. But now, in the sweltering afternoon heat of a Massachusetts summer afternoon, the waxy white paste Virginia had donned to preserve her complexion dripped off her face at an alarming rate. A beautiful tragedy, really, how Mrs. Foster looked less like a proper young Loyalist and more like a wilting candlestick. Ms. Temperance Webb was inordinately pleased by this fact, though she was more than wise enough to hide her humor behind the cup of tea.

“Have you heard?” Ms. Winnie Payne jerked her head with a sniff, wild eyes darting around the room of summer-weary women. There was a discontented murmur from amongst the crowd, as each shared their theories or fussed over her refusal to come out with it, already! She gave another toss, clearing her throat in an uncomfortable approximation of a donkey’s bray, and sniffed in a way that was meant to be nobly superior. In Temperance’s humble opinion, the whole affair reminded her of a spooked stallion on a hot, storming night.

Ms. Payne hadn’t yet finished, though, as she’d paused to take a long swig of her drink. The teacup was lowered into her lap. It clinked sharply on the way down, bumping against the brass buttons of Winnie’s dress. Ms. Temperance Webb watched as Mrs. Foster’s nose wrinkled, smoothing out only once it was evident that her cup hadn’t been chipped by Ms. Payne’s unsteady hands. Ms. Winnie Payne continued, flicking back that long mane of hair again. “Those foolhardy Patriots have stationed a camp right outside the city. Dreadful. Just dreadful.”

'A whinny from Winnie,' Temperance thought, burying her snort in a sip of Mrs. Foster’s oversteeped imperial tea.

~

“How long have you been mooning after that Hopkins boy?” Charity Webb fussed, combing through her cousin’s hair with ferocity. Temperance, to her credit, did not flinch at the harsh tugging or protest the silken ribbons being woven in alongside the tightly wound curls. “Won’t you give up? We can’t have you marrying a Patriot, much less a Patriot military man.”

“I am not mooning,” she said primly, “I simply find him interesting, that’s all.”

Charity snorted in a distinctly unladylike manner, and gave one of the many golden ribbons in Temperance’s hair a particularly vicious yank. “Whatever you say, dear.” This time, she could not bite back the yowl of pain. Perhaps it was because of Charity’s guilt over causing her pain that she was able to avoid having her face powdered white beyond recognition.

Donned in her finest yellow sundress, Temperance parted from Charity’s side that afternoon on the town with the excuse that she “simply wished to grab a bite from the bakery down the street.” This was a half-truth, of course. She really did stop by old Fergusson’s shop, picking out a small tart from the selection, and wandering the bustling street with treat in hand. But the other half of the truth was this: Temperance Webb meant to sneak down to the furthest corners of the marketplace, where the surgical supplies were distributed, in hopes of catching a glimpse of the Doctor.

Today was a day full of luck and surprises, it seemed, for Dr. William Hopkins was mid-purchase, arms stuffed with linens and a bottle or two of brandy. The young Doctor, alerted to her approach by the gentle click of her heels against stone, turned and smiled in greeting. “Ah, Miss Webb! Good afternoon.”

“And a good afternoon to you as well, Dr. Hopkins,” Temperance replied, curtsying as she was expected to do, before allowing her posture to relax. She smiled at him, wry, in a way she was sure that Charity would’ve scolded her for, had she seen it. “Here to refill your supply, yes?”

“Aren’t I always?” said Hopkins, with a tilt of the head in the direction of town where everyone knew the battles were taking place. He sighed. “Shame, too. Who knows what kind of disaster I’ve left that tent to? We just don’t have the manpower to keep things running smoothly.”

“I see,” Temperance murmured, waving her goodbyes as the Doctor strolled off, clinging tightly to the clean linens. She stood there for a moment longer, brooding, as he disappeared around the corner. “Manpower, hmm?”

When she made it home, she wasted no time in making a decision. “Thank heavens for wigs,” Temperance Webb sighed, before seizing a fistful of her delicate hair and raising the bronze shears. The silken ribbons and dark strands of hair decorated the wooden floor in artful clumps, surrounding her bare feet in a halo of gold and brown. She felt remarkably light, afterwards, as she retreated to the linen closet to find a broom for sweeping away the remains.

~

In the sweltering summer heat, each and every lady other than Temperance sat and stewed within the tight confines of their formalwear. There was a swell of voices, soft comments and displeased murmurs about this “Patriot development.” Many of the sweating women had risen meekly from their seats at least once, making sure to empty their cups of the too-warm tea and to treat themselves with sticky-sweet lemonade in tall glasses. Temperance was next to do so, quietly plucking one of the glasses off of Mrs. Foster’s elegant display and sliding a small desert onto her gold-rimmed plate.

“I simply don’t understand it,” groused Mrs. Ester Chamberlain, who had been eyeing the pastries and lemonade pitcher morosely, but refrained from partaking so as not to burst her corset. She engaged in a brief struggle for the proper adjective. “Why those dreadful, dirty Patriots are so opposed to the glories of the King’s reign. Simply don’t understand it at all.”

Temperance Webb hummed, and took great pleasure in dramatically savoring the small slice of cake in full view of Ester.

~

There was something inordinately satisfying in having pulled off her deception. The old stable boy’s clothes, cinched in the right places with a few swift stitches, fit her slim frame well enough to be convincing. This was the thought that followed Temperance Webb as she darted around the tent, juggling bloody and clean linen wraps alike, doing her best to tune out the panicked cries of wounded Patriot men. Today, she was Thomasson Webb, an upstanding young man of high society with an interest in medicine and the Patriot cause. And almost all of that statement was true!

A head poked into the tent, one of the younger soldier boys. “Mail!” he barked, waving around a fingerprint-smudged envelope. Temperance— no, Thomasson today— lowered her voice to a gruff pitch, thanking the boy for his service, and snatching the delivery from his hands. When the boy was gone, she ran a hand through her own choppy hair, before looking to inspect the letter itself. It was nice paper, most likely another of the never-ending stream of marriage proposals directed at the handsome Doctor.

Temperance Webb scratched at the crimson seal absently until it finally fell free, and shook the letter’s contents out onto the table. Neat, looping cursive she recognized as the work of governor's daughter Grace. A marriage proposal—of course— but it was interesting to know that the governor wasn’t in the king’s pocket.

“Letter for you, Doctor!” she called. Dr. Hopkins took it from her, waving a lazy hand in thanks, and retreated off somewhere to read it in private. Temperance watched him go with a slightly disappointed frown, before swiping the saw he’d left unattended. She exited the tent with the water jug and a rag, scrubbing it clean of blood before it saw its next use. With luck, it might make a difference.

~

Miss Hannah Fulton, the youngest of their number, cheerfully stacked her plate high with pastries, careful to avoid getting sugar dust on the pale blue of her gown. The girl flushed a mottled pink that shone through her own caked, powdery face when she caught Mrs. Foster’s disapproving eye. Chastised, she scampered back to her seat, too ashamed to touch her collection. Temperance smiled at the girl with a sort of softness she was not naturally inclined towards, in hopes of urging her to eat. This was mostly to help resist her mighty urge to leer at the hostess.

“Miss Hannah,” she murmured, leaning over to whisper. “Would you mind too terribly if I asked you to recommend to me one of those sweets? You see, they all look so divine, but I’m not sure what to try next.”

Hannah’s eyes widened, before the girl shook her head. “Not at all, Ms. Webb!” Pleased, she began to nibble at each of her selected desserts. Temperance smiled sweetly at her hostess, fluttering her lashes like one of the little porcelain dolls they sold in the markets. Mrs. Foster raised her nose, turning away to chat with Ester by her side.

~

For once, it was quiet inside the tent, no screams of pain from wounded soldiers or unpleasant smells of decay. The few patients were all half-asleep, and the last surgical procedure had drawn to a close. Dr. William Hopkins took the time to sit down, wiping the sweat on his brow with a nearby rag. He watched Thomasson Webb closely as the boy grabbed for the nearby water pitcher and poured some of its contents into his hands, scrubbing his face vigorously. “Pass that over here,” he called to the boy, eyeing the stack of bottles nearby. Thomasson nodded, and turned on his heel to bring the water pitcher to his superior.

Dr. Hopkins frowned at his assistant. “I meant the brandy. Bring it over here, please.”

Webb froze up, flushing, before hurriedly grabbing the bottle and passing it to him. The Doctor smiled, finally, and motioned for the boy to follow him out of the tent.

“What’s the matter, William?” Thomasson asked, a little on edge. Hopkins waved a hand, procuring two small glasses from the pocket of his coat. The brandy bottle was poured evenly between the two of them, before he passed one over to his assistant with a pleased smirk.

“Nothing is the matter. I simply wished to congratulate you on your excellent work today, Webb,” said the doctor, bringing their glasses together to meet for a toast in a terrible waste of military rations. The glass clinked, and both men took a sharp swig of the contents, wiping at their faces with the rough edge of shirt sleeves. “You’d make a fine doctor in your own right someday.”

Dr. Hopkins didn’t really understand the humor in his words, but something about it sent Webb into a fit of laughter.

“Me, a fine doctor?” his assistant spluttered, teary-eyed with mirth. “Wouldn’t that be the day?”

~

Temperance’s plate had been cleared off quite some time ago, so now she sat stewing in the company of fine society. Meanwhile, poor Jane Abbott from two houses down wriggled uselessly in her seat. The girl huffed and puffed, quiet in her discomfort. Clearly, it had been a poor choice on her part to wear leather undergarments on such a hot, hot day, and clearly, Temperance was not the only woman eagerly awaiting the end of the gathering.

Their polite hostess, Mrs. Foster, sat at the head of the room, nodding along to the flow of conversation. Winnifred had already started up another tirade about “those dreadful Patriots,” sniffling as if she’d had their gunpowder blown into her face. Ester’s eyes were half-glazed. She seemed somewhat in a trance, either enchanted by the forbidden sweets, or simply bored to tears by the conversation. In Temperance’s humble opinion, it could have been either.

“Yes,” Mrs. Foster sighed, subtly stirring her fourth sugar cube into her abysmally-brewed tea with a dainty spoon. “All this talk of war, all this fighting… truly a shame how many Loyalists have fallen for it, and enlisted.” There was a heavy silence for a moment, as each and every woman in the room suddenly recalled with crystal clarity the whereabouts of Mr. Foster. Someone cleared their throat on principle. Temperance stared steadfastly at her mud-tipped boots. Mrs. Virginia Foster’s gaze flicked to her, then, suddenly keen and conniving. “Really such a shame, isn’t it, Ms. Webb?”

~

The fourth letter of the day was crumpled up and dropped in the bin of linens to dispose. “I don’t suppose I need ask your thoughts on that proposal?” Thomasson Webb said between laughs, pointing at the annoyed crease in the Doctor’s brow. This only served to deepen the crease.

“No, I don’t suppose you do,” he groused, wiping his hands clean with a rag in the way that Webb had insisted upon and had quickly formed into a habit. “It’s a shame. The one lady I’d like such a letter from hasn’t sent one along.” Now, Dr. Hopkins prided himself on his keen eyes, and he was most certain in his vision. So there was no mistaking it; Thomasson wilted like a rose in the sun after he’d spoken.

“Webb, you never tell me anything about yourself,” the Doctor said, shaking dry his damp hands. “I feel you know so much about me,” he paused. “At least, about the women interested in me. Meanwhile, I know only of your fixation on scrubbing my tools clean. Tell me, are you married? Have you any siblings?”

Thomasson Webb, the clever boy, smiled easily as he could manage with sweat beading on his brow. His voice was dramatically lower. “Aye, I’ve one sister.”

Hopkins peered at his assistant, eyebrows rising. “But I thought I heard tell that there was only one Webb child in town? You do have a sibling?”

Thomasson shrugged, looking down to the unconscious patient on the table, whose leg had been repaired by his impeccable stitching. “I suppose that depends on who you ask, sire,” he said, primly, and it was then that the candle in his mind lit up. Of course. She would be the type. “Her name’s Temperance Webb,” continued Thomasson, and Hopkins was sold.

“Well,” the Doctor said airily. “I should hope she is amenable to a proposal.” He did not bother to hide his smirk at Thomasson’s— Temperance’s— startled jolt.

~

Temperance smiled politely over her tea, though the sentiment didn’t reach her eyes. It was an exceedingly difficult task to keep herself from simpering in her reply.

“Yes,” she said at last, carefully neutral in her inflection. “A shame, how many young men we’ve lost to the war.” Mrs. Virginia Foster seemed pleased to see her neighbor agreeing with her opinion, unaware of exactly how double-edged that statement really was.

Temperance Webb took another long sip of tea on that sweltering summer afternoon, ignoring the itch of the wig on the back of her neck and the pleasant weight of a ring in her front pocket, and watching her neighbors titter like birds with keen eyes. William would be waiting for her gladly that evening, she knew, and that made the effort of keeping appearances worth all the while.