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As the Revere bell struck one from nearby King's Chapel, the six justices headed down the hallway and out into the spring-scented night. The servants discreetly entered after them, knowing from experience how late the monthly discussion, given its rancor, could run. One of them glanced curiously at the volume—simply titled Emma—resting on top of the others, before carrying the pile of books away in his white-gloved hands.

At the other end of the courthouse, the library clerk sat dozing at his station. He jerked awake as the servant put the books down with a cough, then checked his watch in a panic. The mail steamship SS China was due to arrive soon from Portsmouth, bringing a dozen different British newspapers for the clerk to place in each judicial chamber by dawn. Before heading to the Custom House to collect the news, however, he had one last task to complete.

Placing the books in an empty mahogany trolley, the library clerk wheeled the cart to the first row of standing shelves. One by one, he carefully slid each volume back in its well-worn spot under an ivory plaque the size of a postage stamp, finely marked AU, and in strict order of composition: 

CHAPTER TWO

THE NEXT MORNING

Beacon Hill, April 6, 1865

Well, Father, who won the majority? Emma or Mansfield Park?"

William Stevenson answered from behind his newspaper at the head of the breakfast table. "Emma, of course."

Charlotte, starved for victory no matter the hour, gave a little cheer. For the past two years, following her graduation from Miss Pride's Peacock Academy, Charlotte had asked older sister, Henrietta, more reserved but no less radical, to tote her to every suffragette gathering within carriage distance. The academy had turned both of William's daughters into ladies but failed to qualify them for college, making them disaffected as well as dutiful. Lucy Stone, Julia Ward Howe, Angela Grimké—New England was in no shortage of angry women. As the century wore on, they seemed to grow only angrier.

Charlotte pecked her father on his left cheek before heading for the sideboard to pile her plate high with johnnycakes, sausage, and eggs. William always marveled at his youngest daughter's ravenous diet, being strictly vegetarian himself. He was a strict man in many ways, even more so following his wife's untimely death. Something happened with premature loss—a realization that the ancient cartographers had been right. One sailed too hastily, too happily, until the darkest depths of ocean yielded their unknown threat: here be dragons. As a widower, William Stevenson's way of coping with two little girls had been to batten down everything in sight.

His sole indulgence was books—there could never be too many of those. In fact, he had been the one to suggest a reading circle at the state supreme court. The seven justices regularly met to discuss fictional characters as a refreshing change from the rigors of the bench. In contrast, local women's reading circles were becoming increasingly vocal on social issues at large. Barred from most universities, women like his daughters were intent on finding intellectual spaces of their own.

William's favorite such space was his library at home, to which his daughters had always enjoyed full access. Henrietta in particular spent hours at the large partners desk, poring over old law texts and political pamphlets. Now when his girls quoted Thoreau or Milton or Carlyle back at him, William knew he had only himself to blame. Still, he loved their youthful curiosity—very much like their mother, who had kept him young, too, for a time.

"Is Henrietta on her way down?"

Seating herself to his left, Charlotte nodded back between bites of sausage, little streaks of oil dribbling down between her long, bare fingers. Neither of his daughters wore jewelry—all of his late wife's remained in the opaline glass casket on her dressing table, next to the untouched hairbrush and half-empty bottle of Otto of Roses. From childhood, both girls had kept their hands free for climbing, digging, and secretive writing. William could only hope they were composing inoffensive novels up in that shared attic room of theirs.