He had not meant to declare himself to her. What had incited him to such an extreme? Her eyes, of course. Those dark questioning eyes that made him turn to soft butter inside. Those inviting lips, which had tempted him nearly to distraction as he sat close to her in the arbor. That pert little nose, which wiggled in the most charming way when she spoke with passion about her interests. The scent of her lavender perfume, the modest cut of her gown that nonetheless enhanced her feminine form.
Frederick exhaled a happy sigh at the memory of her seated later at the pianoforte, enchanting the entire household with her exquisite playing. Despite months away from an instrument, she had quickly regained her skills. What an accomplished young lady.
He sat in his library with both feet propped on the desk, a pose that had earned him more than one scolding from Father. But somehow the earl’s specter seemed less ominous than before. Now Miss Folger’s image pervaded his every thought, his every feeling. His desire for her approval had begun to weigh more heavily upon him. While not quite supplanting Father, she had nearly attained preeminence. But pleasing her might turn out to be every whit as difficult.
Managing the plantation without slaves was a preposterous notion, of course, but somehow he must convince her of his kindly intentions toward his workers. Perhaps he could convince her of the good she herself could do for the slaves as the plantation’s mistress, much like Mother’s ministrations to the villagers near Bennington Manor.
As for the foolish rebellion up north, he had no doubt that would soon be quashed. A farmers’ militia had no chance against trained British forces, and the colonists had no navy to fight His Majesty’s unparalleled fleet. Frederick had not meant to deceive Miss Folger in regard to his opinions about the conflict, merely to diffuse her concerns about his feelings. Of course, he could never say so, but soon enough their differences would be settled by the course of history. He only hoped her friends up north wouldn’t suffer for their participation in that rebellious cause.
With her departure, he felt the ache of missing her presence mingled with hope that they could soon resolve everything. If only he could comprehend her thinking and satisfy her concerns.
“Ah! Of course,” he exclaimed.
Frederick rose from his desk and strode to the bookshelf. From behind John Milton’s Paradise Lost, he retrieved A Declaration of Rights and Grievances. His fingers touched the pamphlet, and he had to force himself back to the desk rather than to the fireplace to burn the seditious paper. He read it over in a few minutes and wondered about its implications.
Everyone had known for some time of the difficulties in the dissenting colonies. Father would rant about it from time to time, especially after a session of Parliament. Undoubtedly, the earl had been one of those who had voted in favor of the choking restrictions placed on Massachusetts Bay. But now that Frederick had settled in the New World, he found the punishments leveled against the colonists to be harsh in the extreme, despite their throwing a shipload of tea into the Boston Harbor in ’73. Many times he himself had longed to lodge a protest against the taxes on the plantation’s produce, but Father would permit no complaints against His Majesty.
“Interesting reading?” Oliver appeared in the doorway, and his gaze shot to the pamphlet. He sauntered across the eight feet from door to desk as Frederick struggled to fold it with nonchalance.
“Merely passing the time.” Frederick opened the desk drawer, put the document inside and then casually closed the drawer. Later he would place it where Oliver would never find it.
Oliver sat down and lounged in a wingback chair in front of the desk. He leveled a smug look at Frederick. “So you’ve fallen for the little Nantucket wench.”
Rage shot through Frederick. Leaning forward, he clenched his fists on the desk and glared at Oliver. “If you use that word to describe her again, I shall call you out.”
Oliver blinked and frowned. “Now, now, Freddy, no need for anger. I’ll call her whatever you wish.” He studied his fingernails, then stared at the ceiling. “Except Mrs. Moberly.”
Frederick sat back, grasping for the appearance of calm while his emotions stormed within. “Suit yourself. There will be no need for any form of addressing her when you’ve returned to London.” The quaver in his voice betrayed him.
Oliver’s face flamed red clear up to his ears. “When my letter reaches Lord Bennington, you will be the one who returns to London.”
Frederick went cold for the briefest moment. But the warmth returning to his chest was not anger, rather, an odd reassurance. So Oliver had indeed written the letter, and Father would soon know about Miss Folger. So be it. Let the dice fall as they would. He had not yet crossed the Rubicon, but the bridge was in sight.
“Why did you come in here, Ollie?” Frederick used the name he had called this former friend in childhood. Alas, when had they ceased to be friends?
Oliver smirked. “I thought you should know that I have written to Lord Bennington about your courtship.” Sarcasm laced his tone.
Frederick drummed his fingers on the desk. “Oh, my friend, what makes you think I have not sent a letter to Father, as well? Did you think I would let him continue to regard me as a wastrel when in truth I have discovered proof of your dipping into plantation funds?” Despising the tremor of anger in his voice, he focused on his quill pen and raised his gaze only when he could speak in a tranquil tone. “My father is no fool. He will quickly discern your purpose in accusing me of impropriety.”
“Do you think he will believe you, since you have showed such poor judgment in regard to other matters?” With a snort, Oliver stood and walked to the window, from whence he sent a sneering grin over his shoulder. “Besides, it is not as if I have absconded with the money. I have merely held it in trust for you against the day when you overspend and have need of it.”
“Ha!” The tension in Frederick’s chest burst free. “If that is true, then return it to me with a full accounting of your expenditures.”
Oliver stared out the window. “And if I do not?”
Once again, Frederick drummed his fingers on the desk. “I do not wish to discredit you to my father. However, you have already betrayed me, and I think it only fair—”
“I have not ‘betrayed’ you…yet.”
“But your letter?” Hope sprang up once more.
“Awaiting the next shipment to Lord Bennington.” Oliver coughed out a mirthless laugh. “Surely you don’t think I would be fool enough to entrust it to just any merchant vessel, do you?”
“Ah. I see. So no harm has truly been done.” Frederick permitted a wave of jubilation to flow through him. “Oliver, let us put aside all this foolish rancor between us. There is no reason we cannot help each other achieve our desired goals.” He offered him a genial grin. “Give me the money and the letter, and I shall help you devise a satisfactory future for yourself.”
Oliver crossed his arms and clenched his teeth. “I suppose you mean away from St. Johns Settlement.”
“Do you not agree that would be best?”
Oliver puffed out a mild snort. “I shall give it some thought.” But as he left the room, the sly narrowing of his eyes did nothing to reassure Frederick.
Rachel stood inside the kitchen house door. “How is Sadie?”
“Shh. We must speak softly.” Inez tilted her head toward the cot where Robby lay asleep. “She slept well through the night. I think the lemonade made this possible.”
“I’m glad. Mr. Moberly sent a generous portion, for Dr. Wellsey is convinced that lemon can heal fever.” Rachel lifted Sadie’s sheet to inspect her injuries, but shuddered at the blackened, peeling skin visible at the edges of the fresh bandages.
“Ah. Mr. Moberly.” Inez gave Rachel a sidelong look. “A very kind man, sí?”
“Yes.” Rachel covered Sadie’s feet. “And I know you want to hear all about my conversation with him yesterday.”
“Sí.” Inez leaned close. “You must tell me everything.”
Rachel glanced out the door. “I have to help Papa in the store soon, but I can tell you this. I lay awake long into the night considering what we discussed.” She motioned for Inez to sit with her on the raised edge of the brick hearth, where a cast-iron pot hung above the embers keeping warm the cinnamon-flavored oat porridge. The room had a cozy atmosphere, with garlic, onions and dried peppers hanging from the low rafters, and the fragrance of other spices blending into an aromatic stew for the senses.
“Mr. Moberly says he can no longer refer to us as mere friends.” Rachel enjoyed the grin creasing Inez’s angular face. “Instead, he insists we are courting.”
Inez’s whole body shook as she clearly tried to contain her mirth. “Did I not tell you?”
Rachel struggled to mute her own laughter, but truth soon seized her. Soberly, she gave Inez the details of the previous day. “How can I receive his courtship until we resolve our differences over slavery and the revolution?” Her heart aching, she studied the maternal concern in Inez’s expression.
“Mistress, this thing I have heard of el patrón. He is a kind master.” She held her hands in a prayerful pose, and her eyes moistened. “If a man must live in la esclavitud, enslavement, then he must pray to belong to such a one as Mr. Moberly.”
The intensity of her words brought tears to Rachel’s eyes. “But why must anyone, man or woman, be enslaved?”
Inez took Rachel’s hands in her soft grasp. “This I do not know. It is simplemente the way of this world.” Her brow furrowed. “Mistress, I know how this matter troubles you, but I cannot advise you. Only Dios can.”
As they rose from the hearth, Rachel embraced Inez. “I know. But you can pray for me.”
“Sí, señorita, that I always do.”
Rachel left the kitchen house and hurried across the patchy grass yard to the store’s back door. She wished for more time with Inez, for no one else could be trusted to keep her deepest secrets. Inez possessed a true servant’s heart, such as the apostles exhorted Christians to have. Rachel could not imagine her friend ever rebelling against her servanthood. Nor, for that matter, could Rachel picture her encouraging the revolution. Although the Spanish woman had seen much injustice in her long life, she accepted it with grace that could come only from God. Yet surely there was a time when one should and must stand up against the forces of evil domination, whether by a slave master or a wicked king.
Once inside the back room, she heard Papa’s cheerful banter, and curiosity propelled her through the burlap curtain and into the shop. At the sight of Major Brigham, she almost withdrew. Before she could retreat, both Papa and the officer turned and saw her.
“Here she is.” Papa beckoned to her. “Come, daughter. Hear the good major’s news.”
Her face burning, Rachel forced a curtsy. “Good morning, sir.” Her feet seemed reluctant to obey as she forced herself across the floor. True, just one week ago, she and this man had helped to save Sadie and Robby. But though Major Brigham and Lady Augusta had attended services yesterday, they had left the church immediately afterward, speaking to no one. If Lady Augusta had pointed her aristocratic nose any higher, she would have fallen over backward wearing that ridiculous wig and enormous bonnet.
“Miss Folger.” Major Brigham nodded briefly, but he also smiled. Rachel was not the fainting sort, else she might have required smelling salts at receiving such courtesy from the man. “I bring you and your father good tidings from Governor Tonyn.”
“The governor?” Rachel grasped for an air of nonchalance, but her squeaking voice no doubt gave her away.
If the officer noticed, he gave no sign of it. “Indeed. You are both invited to the capital for the governor’s ball.” He seemed proud of himself for bestowing such news.
Her jaw slack, Rachel looked at her father, whose chest was puffed out as though he had harpooned a particularly large whale.
“Say something, child.” Papa’s tone chided her. “Do ye not wish to know what brings us such honor?”
Rachel’s belly clenched. Her proud father, once one of Nantucket’s most respected whaling captains, now in obeisance to this officer in that despicable King George’s army.
“Forgive me, Papa. I fear I am stunned into silence.”
“Of course.” Major Brigham smirked. “It is stunning news, after all. But as His Majesty’s representative, the governor endeavors to do everything to make our colonists happy in this vast wilderness.”
Rachel nearly bit her tongue to keep from adding and no doubt to avoid the troubles King George has caused with the northern colonists. “But why invite us?”
“Ah, well.” Major Brigham fingered a nearby bolt of lace and inspected it through his quizzing glass. “I sent word of the fire to His Eminence immediately after the storm. My messenger returned last evening with the news that the governor insists upon rewarding the community’s efforts to extinguish the fire before it destroyed the entire settlement.”
“The storm would have put it out even if we had not lifted a hand.”
“Rachel.” Papa glared at her, fury riding on his brow.
Major Brigham turned his quizzing glass toward Rachel and looked at her up and down. “Perhaps so. Perhaps not. But on the battlefield, the soldier who acquits himself with courage receives his reward, no matter how the battle is won.”
“Well said, sir.” Papa’s stormy frown forbade Rachel to deny it.
“In any event, the governor asked me to choose appropriate representatives, for we cannot have the entire populace sail down to St. Augustine, now can we?” He inspected his glass, blew on it and then brushed it against his red coat. “I could think of no better choice than you and your courageous father. And of course, Mr. Moberly, if he can get away.”
A pleasant shiver swept through Rachel. This changed everything. “Pray tell, sir, exactly when is the ball to take place? For I must have a new gown.” She sent Papa a sweet smile and batted her eyelashes.
Major Brigham snickered at Papa. “The ladies always require a new gown, do they not?”
Papa grimaced, but if he truly resisted the expenditure, Rachel would remind him that Lady Augusta had already seen her blue gown.
“July eighth, two weeks from this Saturday, Miss Folger. You should have plenty of time to prepare.”
As the major left, several customers entered in his wake, casting cautious, curious glances at the officer as they bustled into the store. Taking care of the newcomers’ needs, Rachel and Papa had no chance to talk until Mr. Patch came in to tend the store while they ate their noon meal upstairs. When they sat at the table, she waited in vain for him to address the subject, for he seemed lost in thought as he ate.
“Papa, how can you sit there and devour your dinner when you know I am anxious to hear all Major Brigham said before I entered the shop.”
He looked at her with surprise. “Are ye, then? ’Twasn’t much. Same as he said to ye.” He shoved a spoonful of bean soup into his mouth.
Rachel tapped her foot under the table. There was more, she felt sure of it.
“Come to think…” Papa took a large chunk of bread and dipped it in his broth. “The major also mentioned that some loyalists from South Carolina will no doubt be there. With all the rumpus going on up north, they’re feeling a mite fretful about the dangers to wives and children.” He shrugged. “Not unlike me bringin’ ye down here afore ye got yerself in trouble with those addlepated plans to spy on General Gage.”
She stared down at her plate, her appetite gone. This old argument never solved anything.
“Seems to me,” he said, “ye’d do yerself some good by makin’ friends with some of these English. Where d’ye think yer people came from? England, that’s where.”
Rachel sent a sly look in his direction. “Do you not think your friendship with Mrs. Winthrop is enough fraternizing with the enemy for both of us?”
“Well, now, if ye recall, ye gave yer approval—” A glint lit his dark brown eyes, and a smug smile formed on his lips. “And I s’pose ye think I’ve not noticed yer moon eyes over Mr. Moberly, nor his lovesick stares in yer direction.”
Heat filled Rachel’s face that had nothing to do with the day’s warmth. “Well. Good. I am glad you noticed. At last.”
To her shock, Papa’s expression sobered and he narrowed his eyes. “Aye. I’ve noticed from the first day he walked into the store that he was smitten with ye. And why wouldn’t he be?” He frowned. “And ye, girl, ye be the one fraternizing with the enemy.” He stood and tossed his napkin to the table. “Finish yer meal. I’ll be downstairs.”
She couldn’t read his expression as he left the room, and her heart ached with confusion. Did he approve or disapprove of Mr. Moberly?
But another thought interrupted her musings. If she did become friends with the English in St. Augustine, perhaps she could learn something of value for the patriot cause. Surely all the ladies would not be snobbish like Lady Augusta, at least not the ones from South Carolina, whose ancestors had settled there long after the Folgers had made Nantucket their home. But, if those ladies had taken on airs, Rachel would simply have to resort to eavesdropping. For was that not the quintessence of spying?