Deleted Scene — Jane Tarkin, Author

This is a scene Jane deleted from Supreme and Risky Fate. It includes a genuine childhood friend of Deborah's, but all reference to her was subsequently deleted for length:

Eliza

Deborah picked her way down the muddy street of Middleborough swinging an empty basket. She stilled it when she recognized the largest of several horses tied at the farrier's rail; she skirted them widely and called a greeting to the smith, who was shoeing an ox.

"I say, sir—is yon Mr. Norcutt's Brutus?"

The smith Bob Richardson grunted. "Ay, that's Brutus. And a brute he is, too—he don't just kick, he will bite and strike, the wretch. You give 'un a wide berth, now." He finished clinching nails and dropped the hoof. "Let him down, Tom."

Because an ox could not support itself on three legs, its whole weight must be hoisted up by a sling. Deborah watched as the subdued beast was lowered and led away, till quite another spectacle caught her eye—for there were the Drew ladies out for a walk.

The Drews were Boston folks, who visited their Middleborough residence when they wished a rural air. Mrs. Drew's gowns were all fine English cloth, professionally turned out. But the niece Eliza was something beyond even her aunt—for though a mere child, she dressed in imported silks and satins, the gowns of a woman of wealth done in miniature. Today she minced along the high road in an elaborate blue sacque-dress, heeled pumps and the pattens that would preserve such finery from the mud.

Deborah did not know azure silk and French lace when she saw it. She only knew that Eliza Drew was very fine, and she was going to pass in front of Richardson's on her way home.

She began to edge away, aware suddenly of her sagging woolen stockings and the hat she had made for herself, braided wheat straw and home-loomed ribbon; but then her chin lifted. What was she afraid of, some smuggled stuff? She turned her back on the Drews and forgot them.

~

Prudence Drew greatly longed for a cup of tea. She did not know what had possessed her, suggesting this slog through town with the streets so dirty. Despite the best care she had wet the toe of her new moroccan pump, and they had yet to get back home again. Leading the chattering Eliza around a puddle, she decided that as soon as they were safely in the door, she would closet herself, take a glass of sherry and lie down.

Norcutt’s Brutus was blindfolded and led into the shop.

Deborah had stepped back to let the Drews pass, which they were doing without sparing her a glance. Suddenly there was the sharp report of a hoof striking a wooden wall, hard, and twice again; they all heard Mr. Richardson cry sharply, Oh Christ Tom, look out!

The apprentice screamed. The sounds of bedlam were issuing out now, a violent clang of metal—and as Deborah scooted back and cried instinctively, “Look out!” to the Drews, Brutus erupted through the door, trailing his blindfold by one ear and his tether rope through the mud.

Prudence Drew reached for her niece and leaped out of the way; but the Boston niece jumped the other way, a headlong charge into Deborah Sampson. Eliza Drew landed hard on Deborah and bowled her over into a mudhole the size and breadth of a horse pond. Norcutt’s Brutus ran away.

“Oh, Tom,” Mr. Richardson said.

Prudence Drew looked at her niece floundering atop the Thomases’ bond girl. She grasped her petticoats and went to peer briefly over the shoulders of the men who had come running out of their open doors and into the blacksmith shop; then, careless of her new pumps, she waded into the mud and hoisted out each of the girls by an arm, and hurried them off home to Mr. Drew’s house.

~

Eliza Drew looked up without pleasure as the maid led the Sampson girl into the parlor, where Eliza had been set to wait as for an intimate guest. Why she had been set to do so was a mystery to her, for surely this was someone to be dealt with by the kitchen staff?

Silently she eyed her own sapphire wrapper on the creature's back. The borrowed mules on her feet—those were possibly her uncle’s. Aloud she said, "Won't you sit down? My aunt asks your forgiveness and says she'll join us later."

When finally they reached the foyer at home, her aunt had stood off and looked at her.

"Dear me, Eliza, just see your clothes!" Prudence had cried, as mud pooled at their feet in the hallway. "We must thank Miss Sampson for plucking you from harm's way."

The Sampson girl had said, "Yes ma'am—I have showed all the valor of a mattress."

"That's one of mine, you know," Eliza said now, eyeing Deborah's wrapper. "You're too big for it. How old are you, anyway?"

"Twelve."

"Oh. I'm twelve, too . . . This stuff is naught but weeds," she advised unnecessarily, removing the teapot cozy, "raspberry leaves and mint. Will you have lemon or sugar?"

Deborah eyed Eliza's sullen face. "Tell me, miss—what is Boston like?"

"I suppose you've never been beyond Middleborough?"

"Ay, I have. I went to Plymouth when I was little and saw the sea. I lived beyond Plympton till I was eight, and then I came here."

"Why'd you come here?"

"Because the cousin I was living with died."

"Why were you living with your cousin?"

"Because my father died when I was little."

"Oh." Eliza was silent, aware she was doing just the sort of blunt questioning from which her aunt had been laboring to dissuade her. "My mam died when I was three. I don’t remember her."

"I'm sorry," Deborah said politely. She drained her cup, and with a better will Eliza stirred to refill it.

"Boston is very elegant. The streets are filled with carriages. The ladies and gentlemen dress very handsomely. I myself usually wear my hair up over a roll and stuck about ribbons and whatnot. But Aunt made me wash it when I came, for the flour-paste on it was getting weevily."

Her guest looked at her aghast. "What'd you put flour-paste on it for?"

Eliza laughed. She held her hand half a foot above her head.

"My barber does! To help it stick up over its cushion, of course, and sugar water, too, to keep the curls in. It itches vilely after a while. I don't mind being without it here—because my roll's so heavy, it makes one's neck ache."

"If it irks you so, whyever do you wear it?"

"Why, all the ladies do, in Boston. You would, too," Eliza threw in generously, "if you but lived there."

It seemed to Eliza then as though a spark caught between them. Before her eyes, the other girl’s back straightened, her elbows elevated with mincing primness, she raised her teacup and drawled, "Oh yes—very likely."

Lying down with a wet cloth, Prudence Drew wondered just what should have occasioned all the laughter pealing out from the parlor. With a sigh she swung her feet to the floor.

"Oh, bless you, yes," she heard Eliza say, "last year I saw a lady's horse get spooked, just like that nag today. She fell off and her big tall headd'ess bust open, and all the stuff she had piled inside to hold it up fell out: wool and tow and horsehair and gauze, and some loutish boys ran over and started kicking all of it about the street. The story made the paper, and— Oh, hello, Aunt. A cup of tea?" As they rose, Eliza leaned and breathed in Deborah’s ear, "And I got to see all of it."

Deborah curtseyed respectfully. Eliza carried cup and saucer to the seat Prudence had assumed and poured tea for her. Finally, after a spell of no one saying much of anything, Deborah asked quietly, "Ma’am, what of Tom—the smith's apprentice?" for she had seen the lady look into the shop afterward.

Prudence had seen white bone and red blood, and then she had not looked anymore. But she only said, "I don't know, I fear. We shall send to find out.

"Bless us, look at the time! Peg—" for the maid had come in with hot water, "what of Miss Sampson's clothes?"

"Clean but wet through, ma'am."

"Well, that won't do. We'll have to lend her something—"

"Oh," cried Eliza, "something of mine, Aunt. She may wear one of mine!"

Their guest blinked. She said doubtfully, "Are they all like this morning?"

"What, that? Oh no, that was just an old thing."

Helplessly, Deborah began to laugh. After a second of surprise, Eliza joined in—and as Prudence watched them, an idea blossomed. Eliza was such a lonely child. Deborah Sampson was a bond servant, but distinct from the common herd. She was known to receive the special notice of the minister and his lady, and her mother's people were Bradfords.

"It had better not be attempted, my dear," she said as they panted for air, "Miss Sampson stands a whole head above you. I've something that will serve. But tell me, miss," addressing Deborah, "can you write?"

"Can I write, ma'am? Yes of course. I learned when I was but small."

"Our Eliza needs to practice her hand. What of this, Niece? Perhaps, whenever her master can spare her, Miss Sampson might come again; and when you go home to Boston, she could become your correspondent. Would you care for that?"

"Oh yes please, Aunt," Eliza cried. "Miss Sampson, do come again, and I shall strive not to wet you!"

"Very well, then. Here is letter-paper; you shall have some now." While she was busy at her desk, up bounded Eliza so recklessly that the china clattered. "Good heavens, miss, what are you about?"

"Your pardon, Aunt, but I've something for her too." She returned directly and laid a small object beside Deborah's dish.

It was an elegant penknife. The blade was finely tempered to hold an edge. The ivory handle bore the lovely image of a merchantman heeling under full sail: a treasure.

"My father did that picture himself," Eliza said, "back in his sailing days."

"But I couldn't take this, Miss Drew!"

"Nonsense," said Eliza. "My father gave it me and it is mine to dispose of. I have my mother's, too, you see—the sister of this." She took it up and held it out to her.

Deborah looked at the exquisite object and the white hand cradling it, and caught a glimpse of something else altogether. A vista quite as vivid and alluring as their King's Birthday treat all those years ago: granite shingle alien under her feet, a horizon blurred in the blue distance, the hard sparkle of the Plymouth sea.

Eliza offered it to her with every encouragement, and Deborah accepted it.