The Minister's Wife

Chapter 8

Abigail and Solomon St. Clair had arrived at the rectory midafternoon. A modest two-story brick building with green windows and shutters, it sat on the corner of a narrow lane dominated by the Anglican Church, where Solomon would serve as pastor. The wagons that carried their personal belongings—clothes, books, linens, and collectables—had been quickly offloaded, books placed on shelves, fresh linens put on the beds, clothes stored in wardrobes and dressers. Much of the furniture remained in the rectory regardless of the pastor, property of the church. What little the St. Clairs had brought only served to compliment what was already there.

A cozy study next to the kitchen contained a desk, two leather chairs, and a tiny table. Solomon sat and rubbed his chin, intensely focused. Upcoming sermons were far from his mind. He had a delicate problem to solve.

Abigail eyed him closely, a chessboard on the table between them. With an intellect that surpassed her husband’s, regardless of his brilliance, she usually beat him in chess, as well as many other pursuits. She now had him trapped, as she normally did, and he desperately sought to save his queen. Sometimes a bit cocky, it seemed he thought he had a solution. But he didn’t.

She hid a smile. “Take your time,” she said. “Not that it will help you.”

He chuckled. “I refuse to let you win three games in a row.”

They were interrupted by a cry from the street, followed seconds later by two more, each louder. People rushed past the parsonage, their voices carrying but their words not clear. For a forgotten lane off Second St., the commotion wasn’t expected. Solomon looked away from the board, his attention diverted, and listened to a neighing horse, more people shouting, and wagon wheels rattling on cobblestone.

“What is all the racket?” he asked. “It’s louder than New York.”

Abigail gazed at one of her knights. “I suspect it’s an isolated incident.”

“All while I’m trying to focus,” he muttered.

She studied the board with a wry grin. Solomon was in serious trouble. Protecting his queen was the least of his worries.

He moved a bishop, intended as a sacrifice, a clever maneuver—or so he thought. He sighed and leaned back in the chair, as if the inevitable had been averted. He looked at Abigail, trying to portray confidence, but not entirely successful.

She paused for a moment, only to make him think she was challenged when she actually was not. She didn’t want to offend him. But she ignored the bishop he had just repositioned and moved a rook halfway across the board. “Check,” she said, trying not to sound triumphant.

“Humph,” Solomon groaned, looking at the board with surprise. “I certainly didn’t see that coming.”

The noise from the street began again. Another wagon, more shouting, horses galloping by. It sounded like a city in turmoil, but there seemed to be no reason.

He looked at Abigail curiously. “What is happening out there?” he asked as he glanced at his pocket watch. “It’s past ten o’clock.”

“I’ll go and check,” she said. “You had best focus on the game.”

She went into the foyer and opened the front door. The lane in front of the rectory was deserted, but a man on horseback raced down Second St., less than a block away. A wagon followed, loaded with furniture, a headboard tied behind the driver with a table and chairs stacked against it. Wooden crates took the rest of the space, settled against the tailgate.

Across the street, residents of a brick townhouse loaded furniture into their wagon, and those a few doors down were climbing into their carriage. Yet the rest of the residences showed no activity at all, save the candles flickering in windows. Abigail studied her neighbors, scurrying in and out of their houses, some watching, others departing, and wondered why they were so afraid.

“What is it?” Solomon asked, appearing behind her.

“People seem to be panicking,” she said, perplexed. “At least some of them. But I don’t know why.”

“Let’s go out and see,” he said, leading her onto the pavement.

They walked down the lane to Second St. and watched another wagon pass, loaded haphazardly, three children in the back.

“Why are you leaving?” Solomon called.

“Congress is fleeing,” the man said. “Best get out while you can.”

“Are the British coming?” Abigail asked.

“If Congress is leaving, the British can’t be far away.”