Love & Misunderstanding

Prologue:

- 1842 -

It was an unusually bright day in the town of Portsmouth, as many of the civilians awaited the emergence of an immigrant family from Germany, whose ship had just recently docked. For the first time in what seemed to be forever, there was not a rain cloud in the sky to hide the sun. Any ordinary family would have been grateful for the rare sunlight in our typically dreary town, but of course we were not any ordinary family. We were the Gilmore's and it seemed that because of that very fact, we were obligated to hate everything that others might find pleasant.

Actually, that was not completely accurate. It was not that we hated all things pleasant, or rather not the family as a whole, but it was my mother. I never understood why she was the way she was, but I did not dare to question it, for fear of punishment. She might not have hated everything pleasant, for I had never known terribly much about her, but we all knew that she hated sunlight. It was most peculiar, but whenever she was exposed to a vast amount of sunshine, she got terrible headaches that usually made her ill, forcing her to retire to bed for the rest of the day. Although, to be honest, most of us did not mind because it allowed us more time without her constant scrutiny.

Among others who had crowded into the harbor for the occasion, our close family friends, the Caldwell family, were also in attendance. Like many, they were eager to meet the family of immigrants. It was not every day that people moved to our town from different countries. A few families had left, most of them among the lower class, seeking a better life for themselves, but never before had anyone immigrated here. Father was not able to learn much about them, only that they were a family of similar wealth and ranking to the Abbott's and the Caldwell's, placing them in the middle class.

A hush then fell over the boisterous crowd all of a sudden as a middle-aged man emerged, followed by a woman and two young children. My father, being the gentleman that he is, immediately stepped forward and extended his hand to the man. The man seemed reluctant by my father's welcoming gesture, but he eventually shook his hand after a gentle nudge from the woman, presumably his wife.

"Welcome to Portsmouth," father began his introductory speech. "I am the Governor, Sir Charles Gilmore."

"Jonathan, stand up straight," mother scolded me quietly, poking me in the ribs to ensure that I did so.

I groaned, but did as she had commanded me, even though I did not want to. Did she not understand how uncomfortable it was to stand around in the heat of the day wearing such hot and stuffy clothing? One would think that she did, considering the fact that she often complained of similar issues. As always, it seemed that adults had every right to complain, while children were expected to just be silent and endure it.

"This is my wife, Elizabeth," father continued, "our sons, Vincent and Jonathan, and our daughter, Caroline."

"Heinrich Hoffman," Mr. Hoffman replied. "This is my wife, Johanna, our son, Alexander, and our daughter, Helene."

From the very beginning, Mr. Hoffman seemed strange to me. He spoke with a thick German accent that made it difficult to understand what he was saying. He had short slicked-back hair and a ridiculous-looking mustache that resembled a huge gray caterpillar. His face was almost constantly scrunched up into a scowl, and for a moment I questioned whether he even knew how to smile. It certainly did not seem like it.

Mrs. Hoffman, on the other hand was relatively normal. She was short and stout, much like Mrs. Caldwell, and actually seemed genuinely happy. Her light brown hair was pulled back into a neat bun, and placed atop was the usual bonnet. Her eyes were a beautiful bright shade of blue, which I was sure everyone would agree to be her best feature.

The young boy named Alexander was apparently eleven, according to what I overheard his mother say to the women, while his sister, Helene was only six, a year younger than myself. As Helene's eyes ventured about, taking in the unfamiliar sights around her, I began to take notice of how extraordinary she was. Although I had to admit that she did have some lovely features about her, I could not help but notice how frail she looked. Her skin had nearly no color in it whatsoever. She looked like a porcelain doll that would break at the slightest touch.

"I would like to introduce you to my good friend, Joseph Caldwell," Father said to Mr. Hoffman, motioning for his long time friend to come forward.

"It is a pleasure to meet you," Mr. Caldwell greeted him, shaking his hand as well. "This is my wife, Margaret, and our three children, Matthew, James, and Mary."

Mr. Hoffman looked him up and down. "Are you a Hochwürden?" he asked, fumbling for the correct word.

"I beg your pardon?" Mr. Caldwell questioned.

We all looked back and forth among ourselves, trying to figure out what exactly Mr. Hoffman had called him. It seemed that no one in the crowd knew how to translate German. Even Mr. Seymour, who was fluent in many languages, was unable to understand him. After a while, Mr. Hoffman's son came forward to act as a translator for us.

"You must forgive my father. He is still adjusting to the English language," Alexander explained. "I do believe he asked if Mr. Caldwell was a minister."

"Oh, I see" Mr. Caldwell nodded his head in understanding. "Yes, I am indeed the reverend of the local church."

Everyone then broke off into groups, women gathering in one spot to talk to Mrs. Hoffman, while the men gathered in another to try to talk to Mr. Hoffman. As they did so, I snuck a glance over at my friend, Matthew Caldwell, whom I noticed to be wearing a mischievous grin on his face. I watched as he reached into his coat pocket and took out a small, wooden slingshot. He then bent down and picked up a few medium-sized rocks. At first, I wondered what he was planning to do with them, but I learned soon enough as he began to fire them at the frail Miss Hoffman. To this very day, I can still recall her scream.

"Helene, what is the matter?" her mother asked, fighting her way past the group of women to reach her daughter.

"That boy is throwing rocks at me!" she cried, pointing to my friend.

"Matthew Caldwell! How many times must I tell you not to play with that slingshot?" Mrs. Caldwell yelled, storming over to her oldest son and seizing the slingshot from him. "Apologize to the poor girl this instant!"

"Sorry," he grumbled.

Miss Hoffman remained close to her mother from that moment onward, clinging to her dress as the women continued on with their conversation. I had no doubt that she was now afraid of Matthew, just as many other children were. At that moment, I actually felt sorry for her. I understood my friend's character better than most others, and knew that he would make her life miserable for many years to come.

It was in those carefree childhood years that I actually cared about the issue. Life still looked somewhat bright to me back then. I did not realize that my life would one day seem so dark and meaningless. I did not realize that I would one day lose all interest in the unfortunate little girl who had angered Matthew Caldwell.