"Abigal, are you just getting in now? I was growing worried," John Adams said as his wife entered their Beacon Hill residence. It was a cold Boston evening in the closing weeks of the year 1773.
"Pish-posh, you worry too much John. Brrr, I'm chilled to the bone. Is the fire still going?" Abigal replied as she brushed the snow from her shoulders and hung up her coat.
"Abigail, are those feathers in your hair? And what's on your face?" John asked as he followed her into the sitting room. Abigail took her seat by the roaring fire and rubbed her arms to warm herself.
"Oh," she touched her cheek and her finger tip came away stained red. "It was Martha's idea. The club was reading Mary Rowlandson's narrative about her capture by Native Americans. Martha thought the warpaint might put us in the proper mood."
John sniffed the air. "It smells like a brewery in here."
Abigail covered her mouth. "I'm afraid that would be me. Normally we would have had tea, but the embargo prevents that. So, we drank cider instead. When that ran out, however, the conversation started to lag. The narrative is a little dry. Fortunately, Sarah Revere had some rum on hand. Which was fun. Fun rum. We could probably sell that."
"Anyway, the rum was delightful, but didn't last very long, which made us all feel quite cross. Particularly since all we really wanted was a spot of tea. And we knew there were loads of tea on the ships in the harbor," Abigail leaned back and started to nod off.
"Abigail, what did you do? You didn't steal the tea, did you?"
Abigail shook her head sleepily. "Steal it? Like a common thief? Goodness no. But we did have a party." She smiled, then her head nodded forward and she started snoring.
"Uh oh," John shook his head. "I always knew those Daughters of Liberty were a bad influence."
THE END copyright 2014 John Lance
Note: I read Mary Rowlandson captivity narrative when I was an English major many eons ago. It was actually quite readable and an engaging picture of early colonial history.