This story was intended to
be longer but the gift of unlimited amounts of time is something I haven't been blessed with (especially since I'm going out of town for the holiday).
Hopefully, the shortened version will leave you with hope for Liason's future and appreciation I have for my country's history. Thanks for reading. :
)
The crusty pages were dry and brittle to the touch.
There were darker spots where moisture had blotted out the fine script leaving the once pristine lettering blurred and faded with the passage of time.
Gingerly, ever so carefully, Elizabeth turned the loose sheets within the leather binding mindful of handling the worn paper of her attic find delicately.
She'd never imagined such a rare treasure was concealed within the antique wooden cradle that had been carved so long ago. The rough hewn edges and plain lines had grown smoother with each generations use until someone in the family had decided to paint it, rendering it a decorative show piece instead of the functional bit of heritage it rightfully was.
Yet, something about the dust covered cradle had called to her as Elizabeth had been stowing away the clothes Cameron had outgrown over the summer, the ones she'd removed to make room in his bureau for the heavier fall and winter garments her little boy needed. And that's when the expectant mother had caught a glimpse of the object stuffed behind the flowered settee that her grandfather had hated while she dropped the moth ball filled storage container into place.
Knowing the wooden heirloom had been passed down through generations of her ancestors, from mother to daughter, Elizabeth couldn't resist the early nesting urge bearing down upon her to clean it up. It had lain ignored for decades when only male children had been produced during her father's generation and during that time had accumulated a layer of grit that dimmed the overly vibrant hues that now adorned the cradle obscuring its innate attractiveness. And the artist in her had been driven to restore the wood and bring the natural beauty of its truth to light.
Elizabeth had simply needed a project, as well, to take her mind off her current predicament; for what mother-to-be wanted to continually remember that she was on the verge of yet another divorce and the father of her unborn child was almost happy to think there weren't going to be any branches shooting off of his family tree.
And while she'd been toiling to return the heirloom to its original condition, stripping the garish paint from the earthy wood, brushing away the concealing layers she'd noticed the small crack. After removing the remaining paint that had filled what she'd thought had been a just a small split in the wood, she'd found the treasure hidden in the dark recesses of the cradles hollow base.
She fingered the cover, knowing that at one time, the outer shell had been soft and supple, hand tooled from the finest rawhide available in the colonies. The rich material had once been a deep brown with a natural grain to the tanned hide that added inherent beauty to the simple protection it offered the sheets of paper within.
Now, the jacket felt ready to crumble under centuries of decay, the once sturdy binding felt like crumbled confetti ready to float negligently to the floor with the merest of pressure; raining remnants of history over the ground as if they were inconsequential moments to be swept away without heed to their significance.
But the young mother knew better.
She didn't need to be well versed in historically important dates or adept at remembering political intrigues to know that to most scholars, the words contained within the memoirs would not be a significant find. Their intrinsic value would be in adding layers of understanding to the revolutionary charged times and nuances to the mindset of colonial youth during the country's birth that have been misconstrued, watered down, or romantically popularized by cinematic tales like Johnny Tremain.
Yet, those esteemed experts would miss the crucial lesson to be learned from the flowing script that looped with precision despite being written by a rudimentary quill. The dark ink had faded to a light golden hue blurred by water marks but it didn't diminish the sentiment held within the simple memoirs.
Her tenth great-grandmother Abigail's words, a proper young woman with a rebellious heart who'd defied her Tory family so many generations ago, had offered wisdom beyond her meager years. It wasn't from the contemporary knowledge of the times she'd shared about baking golden current bread, the perfect plum pudding, or where the strawberries had once grown wild along the sea bank. Nor was it her cherished secret for making the sweetest turnip pie born of this soil that made her a daughter of liberty instead of a subject of the king.
No, her ancestor had turned her well-bred back on her privileged upbringing and followed her heart into the humble beginnings of a new life. She'd married a proud man who'd used his strong hands to gently love her, his able back to provide for her and their family, and his keen mind to show her that your existence upon this earth should be filled with the right to choose.
She'd narrowly escaped the arranged marriage her parents had tried to press upon her to a redcoat officer, she'd almost succumbed to expectations that had been cultivated within her since birth because her fear of the harsher realities of life and her inability to see how she'd fit into her Nathan's world had warred with her love for the man.
But when the time had come for Nathan to take his stand, to be counted among those sons fighting for liberty within the colonies, she'd fled her family home with a haste born of fear to lovingly tend his blood soaked body. She'd nursed him through the raging fever and sewn his torn flesh. And she'd mended a resolute decision within her own mind.
In the end, Abigail had walked the path her heart had blazed. She'd placed her more pampered hand in Nathan's battle scarred and work worn one until death would bid them part. Their vows had been faithfully sealed everyday of their lives with the sweat of their brows, the love they shared, and the family they created.
In her final epistle to her only daughter, Abigail had implored her sweet Hannah to always remember the gift her father had bestowed upon them, and the charge to teach that same testament to her future daughters that true "Liberty was the right to choose."
Somewhere through the passing of generations, the age old family wisdom had become passé and glossed over until it eventually lay dormant when the wooden cradle had become just a decorative display piece. And instead of her mother or grandmother teaching Elizabeth that family truth from the nursery; it had been the father of her unborn child who had done the honors.
She wondered if the lessons Jason had unknowingly taught her about freedom would have sunk in faster if she'd already been schooled in the lore of family tradition at the time he'd asked her to go away with him, heartbreakingly pleading for her to choose to leave with him as the intensity of his desire for her to be free burned within his gaze.
Her time to make that choice had long since past. She'd realized that her declaration of wanting Lucky over her own freedom had become a poisonous weight around her shoulders and she was taking legal steps to relieve herself of that destroying burden. And she and Jason had moved on through many bouts that had tested the endurance of their friendship but their connection had persevered and continued to flourish despite all the barriers placed in their way until now.
She was at another crossroads in her relationship with Jason.
And this time, instead of offering him the opportunity to make his own decision like he had her, to weigh the options and determine what was right for him, she'd allowed him to believe Carly and Sonny and their lies.
Instead of respecting Jason enough to make his own choices because she didn't see how she, Cameron, or their unborn child would fit into his world, she'd opted to conceal his impending fatherhood from him.
It was selfish and it was unfair.
She could continue to justify her actions, she could defend her decision by noting that it was safer for them all, especially their unborn child, to not be a Morgan. And if Jason ever found out, her friend would probably find a way to understand and forgive her.
Yet, she was no longer able to make those allowances to herself.
Elizabeth couldn't deny the truth that had stared back at her in the faded pages of the crumbling tomb, the wisdom her great-grandmother had garnered through living through a revolution of her country and her heart. She could no longer deny that she needed to respect the history of her friendship with Jason and give him the choice, the very freedom that he'd given her.
She needed to tell the man she loved that he was going to be a father.
Lovingly she placed the worn leather book beside the revived cradle, the truth of its beauty now bared in the natural glow of the polished wood. She touched a gentle hand to her growing stomach before gathering her fall coat and following her own path to liberty.
She needed to give Jason the gift of freedom that he'd given her.
