The Lady is Fierce

December 17, 1773, just outside Boston, Massachusetts, the afternoon after the ‘Boston Tea Party’

“Cloise, please be a dear and arrange the tea for the Grinnells and Driscolls for this afternoon. I know Miss Stapleton has all of the particulars. But it never hurts to be certain.”

           “Yes, Mother,” Cloise Wilcox confirmed. She curtsied and departed the sitting room where her mother, Lady Jane Wilcox, and two of her mothers’ friends well as her friends’ daughters (schoolmates of Cloise) were chatting about the latest book they were all reading. It was quite challenging to concentrate on extracurricular activities with the state of the Colonies at present. Unrest was everywhere, and it was a powder keg ready, willing and able to explode at the drop of a hat.

           But tea it shall be, Cloise said to herself, resolutely. And she proceeded to walk down the Great Hall, as the family affectionately called the passageway, back to the side rooms to find Miss Stapleton. It was in one of those side rooms where the cook was going to try to prepare a teatime menu for the women meeting at the front of the home. Cloise was not certain at all about whether there was any tea to be had in the house. Miss Stapleton constantly had her finger on the pulse of politics and on the economy and would confirm plenty, some or absolute lack.

Cloise’s mother and father were committed Loyalists – elite ones at that – and thought themselves immune to the fractious dynamics of late. Cloise winced. The Wetherburn-Wilcox family had friends in high places – including Lord Wilcox’s being a first cousin to Thomas Hutchinson, the Royal Governor of the Massachusetts Bay Colony. This relationship had its drawbacks, but it definitely helped establish the Wilcoxes in Boston (Concord, to be precise) and contributed to their oh-so-lavish lifestyle. Cloise was musing on her family history and lost in thought as she walked the corridor. So lost in fact that she nearly bumped into a hard wall on her way. Correction, her head was down, and her eyes were looking toward her new pink-and-gold-brocaded slippers (a gift from the governor, courtesy of his wife, for Cloise’s twenty-first birthday). And she nearly bumped into this ‘wall’ because, at the last second, she had the presence of mind to look upward – and nearly flew out of those new pink-and-gold-brocaded slippers as she skidded to a halt on the marble floor and practically flew across the tapestry floor rug.

           Standing in front of Cloise was the tallest man she had ever encountered. Taller than her father and brother, and that was saying something. Six feet plus, mayhap. She performed her second curtsy within the last five minutes. “I beg your pardon, Sir,” Cloise said demurely, as she, then, allowed herself a view of the man in front of her. Well-bred, and well-dressed, indeed. The King’s Colors.

           “Ah, Miss, it is I who should be begging your pardon. I saw you coming, but I had, unfortunately, chosen, at that very moment, to take a look at a letter which was just dispatched to me, and, well, you know the rest.” He smiled.

           Cloise gave a small smile, awaiting his personal introduction. 

           When none came, for the man raised an eyebrow, in defiance, Cloise announced, “I am Lady Cloise Wetherburn-Wilcox. It is spelled C-l-o-i-s-e, but pronounced ‘Kloh-EES.’ An old French name.”

           “And, I, dear Lady, am General Braddock Milton, 5^th Marquis of Dunleavy. At your service.” He bowed expectedly and elegantly, adding, “where is such a pretty French Miss off to in such a hurry? Surely teatime is one of refinement, peace and quiet.” He smirked to punctuate.

           Cloise was a bit miffed. One, because she was on a mission for her mother and her friends, and time was ticking. Two, because this man – albeit handsome – was blocking her path. And, three, well, she was hard-pressed to think of the third given the handsomeness personified of this tall general with sable hair and rugged frame. And, indeed, a sable on his side. But she answered regardless. She was a lady, after all. Even though her rotund set of petticoats could not bypass this general without replying, she felt duty-bound to spar with him. Something provoked her, and she did not want to let the moment slip by her white-laced fingers. “If you must know,” she chided, I am heading to the kitchens to find some tea for teatime. Such as it is. Mother wants to maintain appearances after all. Undoubtedly, we have some teacakes, but the Hyson, well, that is another story.” She looked into the general’s eyes. Something glimmered playfully, and she knew not what. But she decided to let time tick to find out. And, then, she surprised herself, asking, “what, General, is in the letter that has you so distracted?” He almost seemed gentle with her – despite his military dress and presence of weaponry.

           “My dear – may I please call you Cloise?”

           Out of the corner of her eye, she spied her Mother peeking around the sitting room door. And Miss Stapleton coming round from the kitchen. But Cloise was determined to see how this conversation would go. “Yes, you may. Permission granted.” She smiled. She knew the contents of the letter were none of her business. But it was a mystery. With the Colonies in disarray and out of her control, this letter business seemed to be the one thing that she could control. And this general was putty in her gloved hands.

           “Cloise, then. Since you asked, I have just been meeting with your father. And we both have come from the governor’s office. This letter, dispatched late last evening and only this morning having arrived, bears some very good news for your family and very likely others.”

           “What, pray tell, might that news be?”

           “That despite the recent – very recent I should point out – shortage of tea in our midst, your family will not be without.”

           “Indeed?”

           “I know some people – in fact, former university mates – who are in League with George Washington and his cohorts. I have an ‘in’ with John Hancock. And, before you gasp, you might want to ponder this. John Hancock – and, here is where I should really keep silent, but, because your family is who it is (and I must admit, Cloise, I feel a connection to you), I will share – John Hancock is an agent for the Crown.” He paused. Then, whispered. “Do not let that get around.” He gave a half-smile then.

           “Ah, that explains it. So how does it benefit us?” Cloise queried.

“Naturally the tossed tea was a setback. And we have laws. But we have ways.” He winked. “If you would like to accompany me…”

General Milton worked his way around Cloise’s full skirts and took her by the hand to the front of the manor home, to the heavy wooden doors that the stewards quickly opened. “Here you will find all you seek,” he waved his hands, open letter and red seal included. “Behold.”

           In front of the home, surrounded by the perfect sunny afternoon, though, wintery, landscape, and floral pathways leading to the drive on either side, was a two-horse carriage. And, beside the carriage, being unloaded at breakneck speed, were multiple boxes of tea. General Milton gave some orders just as the last box was carted away, toward the back of the house, toward one of the storage buildings - with one box headed for the kitchen outbuilding. Miss Stapleton, Cloise noted, was scurrying outside to meet the carrier. No doubt to ferry the tea back in the house and, ultimately, in the Staffordshire teacups.

           No sooner had all of those activities transpired than Miss Stapleton and two maids were rolling a cart toward the sitting room toward Cloise’s mother and her friends. Cloise and General Milton had agreed to take seats on the pink-and-gold floral tapestry, walnut, hand-carved-framed sofa, in the sitting room, amongst the party, as if nothing was amiss. And, of course, nothing was that afternoon.

           Seated a foot or so apart from each other but close enough to whisper, Cloise praised General Milton, having just moments ago been instructed to call him Brock. “My thanks, indeed, Brock. My thanks, indeed.”

           Brock Milton looked upon the room and, then, back to Cloise. “To quote William Shakespeare, my dear, from a Midsommer Night’s Dream, “Though She be but little, she is fierce.’”

           “Brock, you have no idea. No idea whatsoever.” Cloise glanced around the room and back at Milton. A bond was then cemented, and who knew where that would lead. It suddenly proved a true constant in these dynamic times.

“……..and I confess I had not hitherto ready Pamela with such passion! Can you imagine? Why, I must say, this is the best for our little book club to date.” Upon conclusion of ensuing giggles, Cloise’s mother issued a resounding declaration. “Now, then. Tea, I think, Ladies!”

Biscuits flew from the cranberry-and-emerald Staffordshire-designed plate, one after the other. And, thus, directly, newly-brewed, newly-steeped Hyson tea was poured into matching cranberry-and-emerald Staffordshire-designed teacups, as if it were any other day.

The End