Free The Schoolmaster's Daughter by John Smolens

bosom.” He glared down the table toward Abigail’s mother, who was still holding the teapot. “Pour , my dear. Pour our daughter a cup of English tea—tea that was brought here so that we might partake of its beneficial properties and give thanks to that fair island from whence it came!”
    â€œTaxed tea,” Abigail said. “No thank you, Mother.”
    â€œTea, like liberty,” her father said, “does not come free.”
    â€œTaxed tea, taxed stamps,” Abigail said.
    â€œMob rule,” her father said. “That’s what the likes of Samuel Adams are after.”
    â€œAnd you do understand,” Abigail continued, “the issue is not the taxes—”
    Imitating a whining child, her father said, “Taxation without representation!”
    â€œNext thing they’ll tax the air we breathe, or perhaps the salt in the ocean?”
    Her father raised his hand and slapped the table loudly, causing the china to clatter.
    There was silence. This was the moment, usually, when Abigail could look across the table at her younger brother; on some occasions he would diffuse the moment with some remark that was so inappropriate that even his father would, if only momentarily, be drawn back from the brink of his rage. Recently, during such a pause in the argument, Benjamin had leaned sideways, crossed his eyes as he stared at Abigail, and then he broke wind—a long, resonant fart, which caused their father to get up from the table and storm off to his study.
    But now Benjamin wasn’t at the table, and there was only the silence, a deep, treacherous silence, which for years had made the days in this house often intolerable. Silence, until Abigail’s mother put the teapot back on the coaster and said, “Well, my arm is growing weary.” She spread butter on her biscuit, but soon put her knife down with a clatter, and stared at Abigail with round, moist eyes. “Tell me, is he in the attic?”
    â€œNo, Mother.”
    â€œHe’ll return,” Father said, chewing. “Always does. Just like a dog that wanders off, sniffing about, only to return when he gets hungry enough.”
    â€œBenjamin is not like a dog,” Abigail said.
    â€œI suppose you’re right.” He pushed the last of his biscuit into his mouth. “More like the water rat, always going down to the wharves, or rowing out into the harbor, returning with sacks of fish or clams. The tides, that’s about all he knows. Once we get this port in operation again, I should inquire about a position for him aboard some merchant vessel. See the world, a different sort of education, that.”
    â€œIt would pain Benjamin greatly,” Abigail said, “to leave Boston.”
    â€œYou and I, as well,” her mother murmured, without looking up from her plate.
    â€œWell,” Father said, “he can’t learn anything. Lord knows I’ve tried to educate him.”
    â€œWith your ferule,” Abigail said. “He’s not someone you can beat into submission.”
    â€œCan’t hardly read or write—Latin or English.” Father suddenly laughed, which he often did as an announcement that he was about to make a joke. “He’s only well schooled in haddock, flounder, and cod.” He slapped the table and howled. “Why, when the boy was three he could tell a fluke from a flounder! And he lacks patience to learn a trade. So send him to sea, where it’s difficult to wander far from the deck of a boat.”
    â€œI do not want our youngest shipping out,” Mother said firmly, though her voice quavered slightly. “It’s no place for a boy who’s—”
    â€œDon’t,” Abigail said. “You think you can control our futures, dictate our lives.”
    â€œYou need direction,” her father said. “You both require direction.”
    Mother said, “And besides—”
    Abigail pushed