As a Christmas gift to you, I wrote a new Dreamer short story which you can read below the cut. I hope you enjoy it, and you enjoy your holiday–however you celebrate. Even if, like Alan, it’s just a day off and an excuse to sleep in…
Christmas was actually illegal to celebrate in New England for most of the 17th century. You could be fined for participating in the festivities. Puritan influences were felt well into the 18th century, and though it was no longer illegal, Congregationalists prided themselves for treating December 25th like any other day of the year. Outside of New England, and in the Anglican Church, the holiday was celebrated with church services, feasts and carols.
(For those of you who have read The Dreamer short stories, this one takes place a few months after “A Quartet of Prattlers” and references a conversation from that story between Ebenezer and Alan Warren.)
I’m back to working on the webcomic again, so regular updates should resume shortly. If you want a chance to win an I Heart Nathan Hale tee shirt, leave your question to a cast member below!
Merry Christmas!
December 25, 1774
Roxbury, Massachusetts Bay Colony
The edges of his ears were at odds with the tips of his toes. Each time the wind gusted, it cut right through the window panes and stung his ears. His nose was cold to the touch, but at least his nose didn’t hurt.
If he tried putting his head under the blankets, his breath made everything hot and sticky which was worse than having needles in his ears.
He had worn his stockings to bed knowing it was going to be a cold night. But now, the next morning, his feet were too hot. He contemplated taking his stockings off—maybe then he could bear pulling the covers back over his head.
Alan Warren sighed. Even if he could achieve an optimal temperature, he was too alert to fall back to sleep. But he didn’t feel like getting up, either.
So he laid there, debating whether he should hide under the blankets or take his stockings off, just to avoid thinking about what was waiting for him when he did get out of bed.
Or, what was no longer waiting for him. More honestly, who was no longer waiting for him.
Alan had embraced his bachelor’s life to the fullest, so long as he’d had Ebenezer to share it with.
True, after their summer apart, he could no longer deny that he loved Beatrice Whaley. And she could no longer hide that she loved him back. But their relationship was so fraught with impossibilities that he had extended their flirtatious friendship as far as he could. She was tired of waiting for him to take the next step but he was too terrified to do it.
The winter had come at just the right time to extend his stalling until the spring.
Which would have been exactly as he’d liked, except Ebenezer ruined the plan by getting…
Alan could barely think the word. Ugh. …Married.
Ordinarily, Alan enjoyed the frozen months as nature’s way of indulging the lazy streak that ran through him. People noticed if you took too many afternoon naps or midday swims while there was still work to do. But in the winter, a farmer had some leniency from the town’s judgement. A cold day spent ice fishing with Eben or taking Joseph’s kids sledding was a forgivable indulgence.
He spent a lot of time at his aunt’s farmhouse in the winter. When it was too cold to sleep alone, he’d go back to his old bed with Ebenezer and they’d lay awake talking deep into the night to the constant hum of Samuel’s snoring.
Home.
But home had changed.
This year, Jack, finished with his apprenticeship, moved to Salem to start a medical practice of his own. Joseph spent even less time in Roxbury than usual. Between the port of Boston being closed and the political unrest that had been unleashed, Sam Adams leaving Boston in Joseph’s care while he met with Congress in Philadelphia, and his budding romance with Mercy Scollay giving him new reasons to stay in the city, Joseph’s children—and brothers—almost never saw him.
All of which would have been bearable with Ebenezer around.
Ebenezer, the traitor, was probably cuddled up next to Ann Tucker, toes warm without his stockings on, happy for an excuse to stay in bed a little longer. The mental image of Eben’s marital bliss made Alan groan aloud in his empty room.
Ebenezer’s sudden nuptials were Alan’s own fault. Alan knew it.
Late this summer, Ebenezer had tried to convince Alan that he should move forward in his relationship with Beatrice Whaley. As if deciding to marry her and actually marrying her were the same thing.
After that, Eben began spending time with Ann Tucker. By convincing Alan to get married, he’d talked himself into it.
Except he hadn’t convinced Alan. There was no way that a shoeless, raucous Liberty Boy could marry the only child of one of the wealthiest crown-supporters in town.
None of that was Eben’s fault. Ebenezer was twenty-six and winter in New England was cold. Alan couldn’t blame him for getting married.
But he sure did miss him.
It had only been two weeks since the wedding and he was already falling apart. The dread of winter stretched long before him.
A knock interrupted his misery, and as he jumped out of bed to answer the door, Alan was glad he’d decided to keep his stockings on.
The wind forced the door open as soon as Alan unlatched it revealing an unreasonably cheerful Paul Revere on the other side.
“Good afternoon, Alan!”
Alan hugged his chest and shivered. “Is it?”
Paul noticed Alan’s nightshirt. “Did I wake you?”
Alan gestured for his friend to come inside. “Naw. Just looking for a reason to get out of bed. Hadn’t come up with one until you knocked.”
Paul grinned and held up a letter. “I might have one for you.”
* * *
Outside of King’s Chapel, the letter in Alan’s hand felt less compelling than it had in his tiny farmhouse.
“Merry Christmas, Mr. Warren,” she had written. “Since your church doesn’t afford you the opportunity to celebrate today, consider attending mine instead. I’ll be at the service at King’s Chapel this afternoon and if we were to run into one another by chance, neither could be blamed for the encounter.”
After reading the letter, he’d put on his best suit without any recollection of doing so, and set out for Boston. The cold made the walk longer than its summer-self, but a pipe and flask of rum kept his toes warm enough to carry him into the city.
The service had already started by the time he arrived. Massive organ notes flooded the streets with the congregation’s voices riding atop it like the swell of a wave. The sound warmed him even more than the rum had until he remembered that he wasn’t supposed to be there.
Alan Warren was a Congregationalist like the rest of his family, and imagining his aunt’s reaction finding him at an Anglican church service flushed him with shame. Aunt Mary would probably cry if she found out—honest-to-goodness tears.
But then the absurdity of it made him laugh. Aunt Mary would be distraught; he suspected that God didn’t care.
Mothers could be so dramatic.
That truth sent a chill down his spine: Mrs. Whaley would never believe that he was there by accident.
Yet the letter tingled his fingers and warmed him up again. Beatrice. Her name was a rush that started in his chest but he couldn’t contain it there. Beatrice surged up into his cheeks then fell through the rest of his body like rain—hot at first, then sharply turned cool and tingly.
He hadn’t seen those green eyes in over a month, but time hadn’t lessened their power.
He’d go inside, show her he’d made the effort, but leave before her parents noticed him. He could even swing by Joseph’s house on the way home as an excuse for his presence in Boston on a day like today.
Merry Christmas, Joe. I know we don’t celebrate, but this blustery, cold, December afternoon seemed as good a time as any to stop by and say hullo.
Joseph would see right through him. But he’d laugh and invite him in anyway. They’d make a fire in his study, drink too much, and commiserate over Ebenezer’s recent matrimony. After a few bottles, Joseph would pry for details about Beatrice, and Alan would deflect with questions about Mercy. They’d silently call a truce, spending the rest of the evening discussing safe topics like politics, glad that tonight at least, they weren’t alone.
The rumbling of the organ masked Alan’s footsteps as he entered the stone temple and made his way up to the balcony.
He had never stepped foot inside of King’s Chapel before. Grand columns lined the aisle and the altar was decorated with festive sprigs of laurel. It wasn’t anything like his church in Roxbury—another reminder of the space between his and Beatrice Whaley’s worlds.
Thick crowds prevented him from stepping up to the railing, so he stationed himself behind a pocket of shorter women and children where he could scan the boxes below. He knew the Whaleys wouldn’t be in the balcony with people like him.
“ ‘Fear not,’ he said, For mighty dread Had seized their troubled minds…” the people around him sang.
It wasn’t hard to find her. Beatrice Whaley was facing the wrong way, the only one who didn’t have her nose in a hymnal, searching the crowd for him, too.
“Glad tidings of great joy I bring To you and all mankind, To you and all mankind…”
When they locked eyes, he lifted his fingers in a subtle wave. She broke into a huge, open-mouth smile before glancing quickly to see if her parents had noticed. They hadn’t.
She looked back at him, joy radiant on every inch of her face, and in that moment, Alan knew what the shepherds felt when the angelic choir ripped heaven open that first Christmas.
* * *
When Parson Caner began to administer the sacrament, Alan made his way down from the balcony. There was only so much apostasy he was willing to partake in for one day.
He hid himself outside behind one of the stone columns lining the stairs. The sun had dipped behind the rooftops but for the moment, smooth, lavender light extended the tranquility from within the church out into the streets of Boston.
Parishioners began streaming out of the church, most of them the kinds of people Alan spent his time protesting. General Gage himself was one of the first to leave, followed by his stunning wife and a slave girl.
Margaret Gage stopped, turned to her servant and put a few coins in her hand. “Merry Christmas, Yvette. Take the rest of the day off.”
With permission granted, the girl Mrs. Gage had called Yvette turned to leave and bumped right into another young woman who was equally excited to be going somewhere else.
“I’m so sorry, Miss—” she stuttered but Beatrice wasn’t interested in an apology. She had her sights set on Mr. Warren.
“I’m fine,” she said and added a quick “Merry Christmas.” She hurried past Yvette without another glance and grabbed Alan by the arm, her smile was as big as it had been inside. “You came!”
“You invited me.”
“I didn’t know that was all it took. I’ll invite you to everything now.”
“Don’t tease me.”
“Don’t tease me.” She broke his gaze only to peer around the column. “My parents will be coming—they stopped to talk to Parson Caner, but my mother despises him. She won’t stay long. Be careful. My mother despises everyone.”
“Not you.”
“No, I’m fairly certain she despises me, too.” Beatrice grabbed his hands. “We have food—lots of food left over from supper.”
All of her touching him made it hard to think. He searched her face for clues about what she meant. Surely she wasn’t inviting him over—
Beatrice leaned to see past the column again. “Here they come— I have to go— Come to the back door, once it’s dark. The servants won’t be working tonight. If you see a candle in the kitchen window, it will be safe to come in.”
His heart began racing. He could not, under any circumstances, come into Thomas Whaley’s house uninvited. Especially to visit his daughter.
“Promise me,” she added urgently.
“I promise,” he heard himself say. Satisfied, she took her grin with her as she bounded down the steps to be reunited with her parents.
“There you are,” he heard Sarah Whaley predictably reprimanding her daughter.
“I saw a friend. Just wanted to say Merry Christmas…”
Sarah’s gaze fell on Margaret Gage ahead of them and she smiled approvingly. Beatrice did nothing to correct her.
Well, Alan thought, it wasn’t a lie.
* * *
The sky had barely turned black before a flame appeared in the window. And the flame had barely appeared before a gentle knock could be heard on the other side of the door.
He hadn’t rapped twice before Beatrice opened it to shush him.
“I didn’t tell you to knock.”
“I’m breaking into your father’s house. I felt the very least I should do is knock.”
She grabbed his fist. “He won’t know you’re breaking in unless you knock.”
Even in the dark he could tell that the Whaleys’ kitchen was the size of his entire house. His heart pounded. He needed to leave. He had come, he had made her happy. He would stay for a quick minute and then he’d leave to visit Joe. They would drink a bottle of rum and in the retelling of this moment, he would be much braver.
Beatrice took him by the hand and led him to sit down behind the counter where he wouldn’t be seen immediately if someone did walk in.
“Stay there.”
He heard clanking as Beatrice shuffled around the kitchen in the dark. A few moments later she sat down next to him with a china plate full of food.
“It’s not warm, but…”
He took the plate and poked at its fancy contents with the fork she’d handed him, afraid that if he took a bite, the grinding of his teeth might be loud enough for someone to hear.
Beatrice leaned against the wall and slid down to join him on the floor. “So what are your opinions on our Pagan festivities so far?”
He smiled a bit. “Tasty… and surprisingly more orthodox than I’d expected.”
She brought her knees up to her chest and leaned on them. “You think you have all of the answers, Mr. Warren, but you should listen to me more. All you see are differences when often you have more in common with people than sets you apart.”
Alan pointed at her with her fork, “Sometimes pretty big differences.”
“No, they aren’t. They’re petty differences.”
“Now wait a minute—”
“No. Listen to me. Whether the king appoints the governor or you elect him, either way, I don’t have a say. Whether London decides what’s best for Massachusetts or you do, I still don’t get to vote.”
He almost laughed, but she was being serious.
“Neither does my mother. Or that girl who bumped into me after church. Or General Gage’s own wife. Someone else gets to decide what’s best. You’re just upset because now you know what it feels like to be us.”
This time he did laugh. “I remember when you hated politics.”
“I still do.” She smiled at him and his heart took off running again.
The candle flickered as a gust of wind pushed through the cracks between the panes but the flame didn’t go out.
“So I hear a congratulations is in order for your brother. His wife—do you approve?”
Alan set the fork on his plate and leaned against the counter. “It isn’t Ann I disapprove of.”
“If you’re about to get cynical about marriage, too, you can stop.”
He looked down at his plate. “I’m not cynical. Just… lonely,” he whispered.
His honesty surprised her. She reached out and took his hand.
“Me, too.” She hid her face behind her knees, but didn’t let go. “But not right now.”
He smiled. “No, not right now.”
She peeked up at him with one eye and gave his fingers a squeeze.
“Merry Christmas, Mr. Warren.”
“Merry Christmas, Miss Whaley. As first Christmases go, this one has been exceptional.”
“You’ll come again next year?”
“Don’t tease me.”
“Don’t tease me.” She grinned and buried her face in her knees again.
Alan remembered what he’d thought about pretending to be brave when telling Joseph about this night. Suddenly he wanted to be brave. If he didn’t kiss Beatrice Whaley now, when would he?
He let go of her hand and touched her hair. She looked up, surprised.
He leaned toward her and as he did, she didn’t pull away. But shifting his weight forward had titled the plate in his hand. The fork slid off and landed with a cacophonous clang on the floor.
They froze, but Alan could not hear anything over the sound of his heart. Beatrice quickly rose to her feet.
“Eve!” she shouted cheerfully as the kitchen door swung open.
Eve, Beatrice’s servant girl, scanned the room knowingly. “Where is he?”
Beatrice laughed casually and bent over to pick up the plate and fork on the ground. “Just me— I was hungry but I spilled my plate. This is why mother says to eat at the table. I’ll clean it up myself.”
She was so calm that for moment Alan himself almost believed he wasn’t there.
“No, I have it, Miss Whaley.” Eve came near to pick up the plate of spilled food and when she did, she noticed a shoe sticking out from behind the counter. “Mr. Warren… Come out.”
Now Beatrice panicked. She grabbed Eve by the arm. “Don’t say anything to my parents, please, Eve, please—”
Alan stood up sheepishly.
“I’m going to let you walk out of here, Mr. Warren.” Beatrice relaxed her grip on her friend. Eve pointed the fork menacingly toward Alan. “But I’m going to watch you go so I know that you did.”
He hurried toward the door, then stopped and looked back at them. Beatrice looked as disappointed as Alan felt.
In a moment of madness he closed the gap between them, held her chin with one hand, pushed her hair off her face with the other, and, with Eve watching, kissed Beatrice on her cheek.
His whole body melted and before Beatrice had a chance to react he was to the door again, tipped his hat and said, “Merry Christmas.”
Eve shook her head and said, “Merry Christmas, Mr. Warren. Tomorrow, you’re on your own.”
He bowed his head and said, “Fair enough,” before disappearing outside.
The air felt like spring. He loosened his scarf and skipped down the street toward Joseph’s house.
* * *
Alan saw a light in Joe’s study and rapped on the window. Dr. Warren was asleep at his desk, presumably not for the first time. Maybe having a woman around wouldn’t entirely be bad for his cousin. He vowed not to ask too many questions about this Mercy Scollay.
He knocked again. “Joe—wake up.” His cousin shook his head and opened his eyes a few times. Alan pounded a third time.
“Alan?” Joseph stood up and opened the window. The cold air rushing in extinguished his candle but it seemed to wake him up.
“Merry Christmas, Joe!”
“What?”
“It’s Christmas. I celebrated today. Like a proper Pagan. Don’t tell mum.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I was just leaving Miss Whaley’s house and thought I’d stop by.”
“The Whaleys’?”
“I’m a Pagan and a Tory now. She’s convinced me of it all.”
“What’s gotten into you? It’s freezing. Were you really at the Whaleys’?”
“Yes. But don’t tell them I was there.”
“Are you drunk?”
“Not yet. But I have a plan. Let’s visit Eben. Grab some rum or that flip you’re so fond of. Just because he’s married, doesn’t mean he’s not our brother. I need a night with my brothers.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Joseph grinned and grabbed his coat. But before he could climb out the window Alan hissed, “The rum, Joe. Bring the rum.”
“Yes, yes—” the doctor left the room and Alan could hear him rummaging around in the kitchen.
Alan stuck his head back through the window. “Joe?”
His cousin’s voice echoed warmly down the hall, “What else, Alan?”
“Nothing. I’m just glad that I got out of bed today.”