Rowena loaded the long rifle Derec had purchased before he left. She had the flint in the flash pan, the gun at half-cock. She poured in the black powder, pushed a ball down the barrel with a ramrod, and prepared to fire for target practice.
Sam watched her from a few feet away.
She sprinkled powder in the flash pan, snapped back the steel, fully cocked the rifle, aimed at a tree stump and squeezed the trigger. The heavy rifle recoiled against her in a cracking discharge; the rise of smoke stung her eyes.
A startled long-legged heron flapped into the sky, away from the commotion.
When the smoke cleared, Rowena smiled, or what passed for a smile these days. She’d splintered the top of the stump. Several stumps in the yard had similar gouges. “I’ll be an expert in no time.”
“You’ve practiced well.” Sam nodded, arms crossed. “We both have, Mistress. We’re prepared.”
She set the maple stock on the ground, barrel pointed to the sky, and wiped sweat from her brow. The humid late August air cloaked her like wool, her bodice already damp. The scent of foliage intensified to cloying, along with the sour stink of her body odor.
For all their worry about a Spanish invasion of East Florida, nothing had happened so far, but she intended to be ready. Spain, backing the rebels, demanded the return of the remainder of Florida when the war ended.
She grimaced at the ongoing hostilities. Would the loyalists be asked to leave if Britain lost? The rebel states had ratified their Articles of Confederation, declaring their sovereignty, and set up a central government, as if their success was already established.
She stared at the road, its emptiness a rebuke. Where the hell was her husband? Three months was too long. A stab of fear streaked up her spine.
The British soldiers captured in West Florida were taken to Havana. The Spanish negotiated to trade them for Spanish prisoners on British prison ships. Could Derec be one of the men trapped on the island of Cuba? She fought down the despair that would chew her to pieces if she succumbed to it.
With her father, she followed the conflict’s events in newspapers, broadsheets, and gossip picked up from town. In June, General Cornwallis with Major Simcoe had destroyed rebel stores in Virginia. The French General Lafayette, aide to General Washington, attacked Simcoe near Williamsburg, Virginia. Much to Rowena’s displeasure, Simcoe withdrew, and the young upstart Lafayette claimed success. Why hadn’t the wretched French minded their own affairs?
She massaged her shoulder from the rifle kick-back. Torrential rains in July crippled both armies, whose men suffered from malnutrition and disease. Earlier this month, the rains slowed. Attacks continued in the Carolinas.
“When will this damned war be over?” she muttered, then realized she’d spoken aloud.
Sam shook his head. “The question we all fret on. I heard General Rochambeau, sent to assist Washington, is haughty and difficult, thinkin’ himself superior like them Frenchies do.” He spoke in a high voice and flapped his hand below his nose, obviously trying to amuse her. “Mayhap this distemper will weaken the rebels.”
“We keep hoping, don’t we?” Rowena trailed her hands along the smooth gun barrel. “At least Washington’s attempt to retake loyalist-held New York failed.” Her father had groused that the rebel commander wanted to remind the northern colonies there was still a war. “A small triumph.”
“Aye, we’ll take what we can.” Sam held her gaze, his now sympathetic. “He’ll come back, Mr. Derec will. He’s clever, resourceful. You must have faith.”
“I try every moment. I really do. Thank you for being my second in command here.” She handed the rifle to Sam for cleaning and walked back to the cottage. Often Rowena felt like a ghost floating through her life; she gripped everything in so tight, that if she showed any emotion she might splat against a wall and drip down it into a puddle.
She flipped a dried-up palm frond aside as she walked, scattering ants like soldiers called to arms.
The last report had Washington gathering his troops and heading for Philadelphia, but would he go south to support Lafayette? General Cornwallis was encamped at Yorktown, Virginia. He awaited reinforcements and supplies from the sea. With any luck, he’d get them in time to beat Washington.
Rowena said a prayer for Derec, and her brothers who might still be in Virginia, supposedly with Cornwallis.
She checked the few fruit trees for insect infestation. Trees that had flourished there when they moved in: the strange, peachy-colored, fluted starfruit, and the plump yellow guava. Soon, they’d pick this tropical produce to sell at the market.
Inside the cooler house, the thick coquina walls a shelter, she sighed. How much longer could she manage? Minutes later, at a knock, she checked out the window, then reopened the door.
Aunt Elizabeth gave her a weary smile. “I came to check on you, dear.” She entered with Mary. Both women looked wilted from the heat. The cart and mule stood outside. “Did I hear gunfire?”
“It was only me.” Rowena wiped her hands on her apron. “Manning the fort, so to speak.”
Her aunt set a basket on the kitchen table then hugged her. “We’ve been to market. I brought a dessert called baklava. All those blathering foreigners with their stalls offering bizarre food. This one is from a Greek man who insisted I try a taste. He was pushy and inappropriate.” She huffed. “It’s very sweet, made with honey.”
“Thank you.” Rowena hadn’t much stomach for desserts anymore. She knew the market was full of Greeks and Italians, encouraged to immigrate to Florida to form the settlement of New Smyrna, which proved unsuccessful. The newcomers hated the humidity and most fled home; the ones who remained crowded into St. Augustine.
Daphne came from the kitchen and stared into the basket. “Looks delicious, it does.”
Her aunt removed her kerchief. “It’s always a chore to shop. This colony is overrun with beggars and debtors from England, along with the foreigners. They’re loud, unsavory people.” She dabbed her cheeks and fanned herself. “And this weather is atrocious.”
“Don’t forget the African slaves, Ma’am.” Mary shook her head, her homely face in a frown. “Forced into labor to grow cotton, silk, an’ such. They’re beaten, these slaves. ’Tisn’t right.”
Aunt Elizabeth shrugged. “Yes, those southern loyalists were lured to relocate to Florida if they could bring their slaves. A terrible condition no matter what we might think of dark-skinned people. They should be sent home.” She flung up a hand as if to dismiss that subject. Then she touched Rowena’s cheek. “You once told me I needed to eat more; now I must insist you do the same, dear. You are looking too thin.”
“You’re right, of course. I appreciate your concern, Auntie.” Rowena was sincere, but lethargic, especially with the steaming humidity. She needed to shake off her fugue.
Daphne brought out plates and cut up the flaky baklava, putting a slice on each one. “Please sit an’ eat, Mistress.”
Rowena sat at the table with her aunt. Daphne served lemonade with the dessert.
The warm drink—no luxury of ice houses here—was still refreshing, if tart. Rowena ate a morsel of the crumbly baklava. “It’s good. A little rich and sweet, quite chewy.”
Mary hovered over them as if anxious for a slice.
“Daphne, please serve yourself and Mary a piece of the dessert,” Rowena said. The girl quickly complied.
Her aunt pointed her fork. “We must change our tastes, our way of life. Do you know your father is thinking of sailing to Nova Scotia, if we lose the war? And he’s beginning to fear we will.” She took a large bite, chewed, and swallowed. “I hear it’s freezing cold there. One extreme to the other.”
“I can’t leave. How would my husband find me?” Rowena stiffened and suddenly panicked at being abandoned by everyone. Even her father’s confidence in victory waned, something she’d noticed. She met her aunt’s gaze. “I’ll stay here and raise hogs. Pork is much in demand, Sam said. We visited a hog farm last week to check on the feasibility.” But the expense—and the stench!
Her aunt exchanged glances with her maid. “Dear, I realize you hold onto hopes that—”
“I know you think Derec isn’t coming back, but he is.” She tapped her fork on her plate edge in sharp clicks, the food barely touched. Her composure on the verge of rupture again, she clung to her own words. “I won’t hear any more. Now, everyone finish your desserts.”
* * *
Four nights later, Rowena tossed in her sticky sheets. She’d crushed lemon balm leaves, rubbed them on her flesh and around the open window, to deter mosquitoes. She craved the breeze. The insects hummed outside. Night birds called.
Her worries darted in her brain. Could she raise hogs? What if Derec never returned? No, no, no. She turned and punched the damp pillow. Perhaps she should dress as a man again and join the soldiers who patrolled the Apalachicola River that divided East and West Florida, in case the Spanish did attack. She might find out her husband’s fate.
Turning again, she willed herself to relax, to think more practical thoughts in the lonely darkness. There were more caps to knit for sailors to sell at market, along with the fruit. She rearranged the sheets and strained to quiet her mind.
She’d half-fallen asleep, almost drifting, then heard a heavy rustle. A footstep? Eyes now open, she saw a shadow at the window. Her pulse jumped and she reached for the pistol on her night table. An Indian, rebel deserter, or runaway slave might be lurking. Serge sometimes came around, for protection he said, or to leer at Daphne.
Anyone creeping about this late deserved retribution; she held the pistol tight in her hands.
Sam slept in the parlor these last months. Daphne had her curtained-off corner near the hearth. Rowena opened her mouth to call for Sam.
“Lady of the mist,” a voice whispered from the window.
Was she dreaming? Or was someone trying to trick her?
“Don’t move, I have a weapon.” She pointed the barrel.
“Ye’d shoot yer own husband, cariad?” That burr of a voice she knew so well swept over her. “The doors were locked. I didn’t wish to wake anyone else.”
She gasped, about to tumble from the bed. Her entire body shuddered. She’d be furious if it was a dream. Her voice cracked. “Derec?”
“Ye have any other husband?” A long leg slipped in through the window, followed by a man’s form.
She set the pistol onto the table, her thoughts in a whirl. Her questions spewed out on excited breaths. “Are you all right? Where have you been? Were you a prisoner?”
He entered fully, shadows shifting. The mattress sagged with his weight. His arms reached for her. She melted into the comfort of his embrace. “Lemony-smelling lady. I’ll tell ye everything in the morning, love.” He kissed her forehead, his fingers gentle in her hair.
Squeezed against his chest, to her chagrin, she burst into tears. The gush of emotions broke loose like a torrent, eroding her walls, leaving her limp. He stank of sweat and decayed vegetation as if he’d spent months in the jungle. She hugged him close. “After I…after I; well, I may not be tempted to toss the kettle at you this time.”