A Girl Called Samson (14)

I wasn’t sure I could fix the new discomfort between us. It made me angry, and I blamed Nathaniel. It was yet another mark against him.

I bid Phineas a tired good night and made to shut the door, but he stopped me with a foot shoved in the opening.

“Let’s run,” he said in a rush. “We’ll go as far as you want. I’ll even let you win.”

I gaped at him, though I immediately considered it. “It’s dark, you’ll get us both in trouble, and I don’t want you to let me win, Phineas Thomas.”

A ghost of a smile slid past his lips. “I know.”

We studied each other for a moment, still awkward and uncertain. Then he squared his shoulders and folded his arms. “Are you going to let Nat win?” His voice had turned slightly belligerent, but that was Phineas too.

Elizabeth’s counsel from long ago rose in my mind’s eye. “You must let the brothers win sometimes, just to encourage them. I find men are more apt to let us play if they believe they will triumph.”

But I didn’t want to encourage Nat. I didn’t want to encourage Phineas either, though I still wasn’t certain that’s what he wanted from me.

“I didn’t even know we were racing,” I answered softly.

“No . . . neither did I.”

“I’d rather things stay the way they are,” I begged.

He nodded slowly. “That can’t happen if you let Nat win. Everything will change.”

“It’s not a competition, Phineas.”

He smirked. “Sure it is.”

I was suddenly spent. “No. It’s my life. And I don’t know how many prospects I have. I have to consider them all.”

“Just wait, Rob. Wait. I’m not ready yet. Nat’s right about that. But wait for me.”

“For how long?”

“I gotta get out of here. I don’t want to be a farmer. I want to see the world. Climb some mountains. Kill some redcoats.” He grinned again.

“Sounds like I’ll be waiting a long time.” There was no sting in my words, but he wilted a little.

“I’d take you with me if I could,” he muttered.

“I know you would.” And what an adventure that would be.

“I’ll come back for you, Rob. If you’ll wait for me . . . I’ll come back,” he said, earnest.

His face was dear in the flickering candlelight, and I reached out and touched his cheek. It was still smooth, like my own, and such talk was as fanciful as fairies and Lilliputians. He had a life to live, and I wanted him to live it.

“Don’t you worry about me, Phineas Thomas. You start running and never stop. If I were you, that’s what I would do.”



June 15, 1775

Dear Elizabeth,

It is odd to think of you in a different place. When I picture you, it is on a grand street in Farmington, writing to me from rooms that are so different from the one I occupy. But now you are in Lenox, on the edge of the frontier, and I am envious. How thrilling it would be to walk out one’s door, turn west, and just keep on going. To see things no one has yet described, at least not in written words.

I don’t know if I would have the courage to explore, and yet it would call to me. To be separate from all that is familiar would be terrifying and yet exhilarating. You have your children and Mr. Paterson, but I have nothing that binds me to my home, nothing but my servitude, and the time will come when that is done too. I think on that day with both eagerness and trepidation; there are many ways in which one can be bound.

Nathaniel, the oldest of the Thomas brothers, says he wants to marry me, but when I think of marriage, I see my poor mother and the heartache and vulnerability her union brought her, and I want something else. Something more. I should like to see the world and test my mettle. To go on a quest. To do something no one has done before.

I know these aren’t sensible dreams, yet I still have them. As Antonio says in The Merchant of Venice, “I hold the world but as the world, a stage where every man must play a part. And mine is a sad one.”

Do you think it is true, that every man must play a part? I should like a new one, if that is so. But as Mrs. Thomas said, no one ever asks us.

I remain your most humble and grateful servant,

Deborah Samson



My favorite time of day was dawn, and more often than not, when time and the weather allowed, I would climb up Mayflower Hill—I’d named it for my ancestors—and watch the sun come. But days started early on a farm, and I’d already gathered eggs, pulled the weeds from the garden, hung out a load of wash, and helped Mrs. Thomas put out breakfast on the table before I could even think about slipping away.

I was out of sorts, and so was she. The entire household was on tenterhooks, and she shooed me off after breakfast, telling me not to come back until supper so she could “have a moment’s peace.”

I’d been halfway up my hill, moving at a good clip, when I heard Jeremiah calling for me to wait for him.

“Rob! Wait for me. I’ll come with you,” Jerry hollered. I wanted to be alone, and Jerry liked to chatter, but I found a seat and settled in, waiting for him to catch up.

He plopped down beside me, though we still had half a hill to climb. I let him rest, suddenly in no hurry to reach my destination. I hadn’t slept well. I’d dreamed of Dorothy May Bradford being pulled into the deep, her skirts wrapped around my legs, her hopelessness filling my chest.