As Abigail went about her chores the next morning, Captain Prescott was never far from her mind. She was curious about him, which was to be expected. He was a stranger, after all. But in the time he’d been under her care, she’d peeked into the barn to check on him more often than necessary and knew she was being silly. Perhaps she could blame her excessive attentiveness on the lonely winter. Father and Isaac had been gone for months, and since the first snowfall, she’d ventured into town a very few times; usually only when she’d been sent for to assist with a birth. Most of the town didn’t call for her when a resident took ill, not without her father. But occasionally she’d tended to a minor injury. She’d hardly even been able to go to church with the roads iced and buried in snow.
Her only visitor was Mr. Kirby when he came a few times a week with his sleigh to pick up the milk. And the older man wasn’t much for conversation. Living more than a mile outside the small town had its drawbacks, so naturally she was glad to have someone to talk to, even if that someone was an American soldier who thought himself charming.
Once she’d dressed and set the kettle over the fire, she prepared a simple soup. Something to give her patient nutrition but not upset his stomach while he was still mending.
Abigail felt a rush of nerves as she packed bread and more bandages and medicines into the basket. What would Captain Prescott say today?
She couldn’t help but wonder about the soldier’s life. He spoke as a gentleman; obviously he was educated. And she liked the intonation to his speech. The blacksmith’s wife, Mrs. Elliott, from South Carolina, spoke similarly. Both pronounced their words a bit differently, farther back in their mouths, it seemed. And the vowels were drawn out. Captain Prescott must be from the southern states, she reasoned. And she didn’t like that at all. She knew what kind of people lived in the southern part of America. Wealthy landowners who profited off the labor of slaves. The very idea disgusted her. She’d heard tales of the cruelties of slave owners and considered anyone who could treat another soul with such brutality to be the worst type of creature. Nothing in Captain Prescott’s letters had mentioned slavery, but she didn’t consider that sufficient exoneration.
She threw on her cloak and stepped out into the frigid morning, wishing winter would end so she could see the sun for more than a few short hours per day.
Remembering how he’d called her a snoop yesterday made her stomach hot with embarrassment. Of course poking her nose into the man’s correspondence and personal things hadn’t been strictly necessary. But curiosity combined with loneliness had made her a meddler, she supposed. In any case, the letters had not been very interesting. One, that seemed rather cold, was from his father. But Abigail knew not everyone was as blessed with a father as affectionate as hers. Another was from a woman named Lydia and spoke mostly about mutual acquaintances, dresses, and parties. The other letters were military documents.
And his collection of rocks had captivated her. She’d not met anyone else who’d shared her fascination with geology. She wondered if he was interested in mineral compounds or just liked to pick up curious rocks.
Abigail paused outside the barn doors as her nervousness returned, making her insides squirm. She may have only imagined it, but there were a few moments the day before when she’d thought Captain Prescott was flirting with her. Of course, men had flirted with her before, but none of her suitors had lasted long. Men didn’t like when a woman was interested in science or doctoring, which was considered a man’s profession. Besides, not one of them could ever compare to her father. But Captain Prescott’s flirting had made her feel shivery. And it unnerved her. She couldn’t grow too fond of the man when she intended to turn him in to the soldiers at Fort Malden as soon as he was mended. And Captain Prescott was very difficult not to grow fond of. Abigail breathed in the cold morning air until she felt collected enough to enter the barn.
“Good morning, Miss Tidwell.”
Abigail stopped in the doorway, surprised. Somehow Captain Prescott had pulled himself into a sitting position. He’d manipulated the rope, drawing it to one side so he could rest his back against a wagon wheel. One arm rested in his lap and the other hung, suspended in the air. The quilts were wrapped around his waist. He bowed his head forward and gave a smile showing a flash of white teeth.
She smiled back and gave a curtsy. “You look much better today, Captain.” Maggie lowed loudly from her pen, and Abigail glanced toward her. “I have some food, but it will take me a little while to get milk. Would you like to eat breakfast now? Or wait?”
“I’ll wait if you intend to join me.” He rested his head back on the wheel’s spokes.
The position didn’t look at all comfortable, but Abigail was glad he was moving. Her father said patients recovered much quicker if they were able to get up and move about. She nodded and hurried to milk the cow.
A quarter of an hour later, Abigail returned. She took a pewter cup from the basket and scooped fresh milk into it. Removing a sock from one of his hands, she gave him the cup. She thought nothing tasted better than warm, creamy milk on a cold morning.
He took a drink and sighed, giving a nod. He must agree. Captain Prescott’s hanging arm dipped when he lifted the other to drink. Rather like a marionette. The lack of control over his limbs must be extremely frustrating, but he did not act like it bothered him at all.
He lifted his chin, pointing at the bucket. “That’s quite a lot of milk for one person.”
“It is not all for me,” she said, taking the lid off a larger can and pouring the milk inside. During the warm months, the family kept milk in the springhouse, a cool storage area built into a hill, but in the winter, the barn’s temperature remained low enough. “My neighbor, Mr. Kirby, will take it into town to sell.” She replaced the metal lid and moved the milk closer to the barn door. Laying a cloth on the ground, she knelt beside Captain Prescott. “How are your injuries feeling today?”
“Better.”
“I am glad to hear it.”
He set the cup on the floor. “If I say I am healed, will you let me go?”
His voice was light, but she did not think he was teasing. She poured warm soup into a mug and handed it to him. “I apologize, but I cannot. I must turn you in to General Procter at Fort Malden as soon as you are well enough.”
His eyes tightened, but the rest of his face remained pleasant. “I see.”
She took bread from the basket and sliced it, careful to keep the knife away from the captain. “You are an officer; I’m sure you will be treated well.” A hot rush of guilt felt bitter inside, and she couldn’t bring herself to look at him as she spoke. “Would you like butter and jam?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
Abigail cut herself a slice as well, and for a moment they ate in silence. She was sorry to have ruined the pleasant mood and tried to think of things to say that might return the conversation to its earlier friendliness. “Your face is not as pale this morning.” She cringed at the stupidity of the observation. She glanced up and saw he was studying her. He did not look angry that she was planning to turn him in, simply pensive.
Abigail tried again. “Where are you from, Captain Prescott?”
He brushed some breadcrumbs from the quilt. “I’ve lived in Baltimore for the past six years, stationed at Fort McHenry.”
“Oh, my father told me about Baltimore. He said there is no city so culturally refined in all of the United States.”
He nodded. “I suppose there are enough balls, concerts, and theatrical performances to please even the most genteel members of society. My father and stepmother have a home in the city, and they insist on going out every night to some sort of entertainment or another.”
His lip curled the smallest bit, indicating that these pleasures were not to his liking. Abigail was rather jealous. She’d not traveled farther than the other side of Lake Erie, and while she enjoyed the gatherings in Upper Canada, they were not grand as she imagined an assembly in the elegant city of Baltimore to be.
He took another sip of the milk. “Did your father live in Baltimore?”
“No. He attended medical lectures from Dr. William Shippen at the College of Philadelphia. But he promised to take me one day to see a concert and the fine shops on Lexington Street.”
“And the war has put a halt on your travel plans.” Captain Prescott reached for a cloth, but his arm stopped. He winced at the pull in his side, and Abigail felt a renewal of the guilty sensation. She handed him the cloth, and he wiped jam from the corner of his mouth.
She nodded. “I suppose it has.”
“My family is from Virginia,” he said.
Abigail wrinkled her nose. “Slave owners.”
His expression changed, a small smile pulling at his mouth, but his eyes didn’t join in the smile, and she didn’t know whether or not her words had made him angry. “Not everyone in Virginia owns slaves, Miss Tidwell.”
She felt the reprimand, though she realized it wasn’t a denial. She tried again to keep the conversation friendly. “And do you have other family, aside from your father and stepmother?”
“An elder brother and a younger sister.”
Abigail smiled. “I’ve always wanted a sister. What’s she like?”
“Not at all like you.”
“Oh.” She pulled back, feeling insulted and rather hurt by the bluntness of his reply.
He smirked at her reaction. “My sister does not tie up men in her barn. In fact, I don’t think she has ever set foot in a barn in her life. She doesn’t know how to identify igneous rocks, and at the first sight of blood, she’d have fainted dead away.”
She softened, realizing he hadn’t meant his words to be a slight. They were actually rather complimentary. “Well, it is fortunate that I found you, and she did not.”
He raised his milk cup in a salute. “Fortunate indeed. Lydia would have needed more medical care than I if she’d discovered a wounded soldier.”
“Lydia.” She recognized the name from his papers.
“Yes, I believe you read her letter.”
She nodded, not bothering to deny it when he already knew. “You’re fond of her.”
“I love my sister more than any person on this earth.” Captain Prescott gave the first genuine smile she’d seen. And the effect was remarkable. His eyes brightened, sending wrinkles fanning from their corners. And his face lost its hardness, revealing a much more kindhearted man. “And I miss her dreadfully. Even though she is absolutely the most frivolous young lady who ever lived.”
Abigail smiled in return, imagining the captain as a doting brother rolling his eyes at his younger sister’s chattering. “And your brother. What is he like?”
The captain’s smile dropped away and his eyes tightened. “According to my father, he is perfect.”
She grimaced at the change in his demeanor, wishing she’d not asked the question that chased away his good humor.
He lifted a shoulder. “Surely you understand; you have a brother.”
Abigail cleared away the remains of the meal and brought the basket of bandages around to his other side to check his injuries. “I think my brother is more like you, sir. He is kind and loving to me. But I haven’t seen him for months. Not since the war began. He’s stationed—” She snapped her mouth shut. “I probably shouldn’t tell you.”
Captain Prescott was watching her closely, and she realized she’d almost told something that could possibly endanger her brother, or His Majesty’s Army. Although she wasn’t sure what she could and couldn’t say, remaining quiet on matters of troop movement when speaking to the enemy was likely the best policy.
She removed the bandage on his arm and found the cut was still healing exactly as it should. He leaned forward while she removed the bandages from around his torso, and she found the more serious wound to be in good shape as well. “Soon enough, you’ll be back on your feet, Captain,” she said as she rewrapped it. “I’ve only seen one other arrow wound, and it was shot by accident. The Oneida nation is typically very friendly.”
“I doubt these Indians were Oneida. More likely Shawnee or Iroquois, or at least part of Tecumseh’s Confederacy.” His jaw was tight. “You, of course, know they are British allies. A small, lightly armed band must have been too tempting to pass up, especially with the prices the Crown pays for American scalps.”
“That is not true.” The very idea horrified her. “His Majesty’s soldiers are gentlemen of honor.” She was certain. One had only to meet Isaac to see the truth of that. The rumor must be American propaganda.
Captain Prescott remained silent and just watched as she finished wrapping his torso. His silence was actually more disconcerting than if he’d argued the point. She’d helped her father treat a man in Detroit who’d been scalped and, even though she did not cringe at the sight of blood, the absolute brutality of the act had sickened her.
“And what were you doing with your small, lightly armed band?” she asked, more to change the path of the conversation than out of actual curiosity.
He quirked a brow. “I probably shouldn’t tell you.”
Abigail felt acutely aware once again that they were on opposing sides of the war. For a short while, she’d almost forgotten. Getting acquainted with Captain Prescott was probably a poor idea. Realizing the war kept him away from Lydia just as it kept her away from Isaac had made her think they had more in common than not. And that just wouldn’t do. Not when she was to turn him in as soon as he was healed.
Once she’d finished ministering to his injuries, he leaned back against the wagon wheel, pulling down his dangling arm and allowing the other to rise up. He rolled the stiffness from his shoulder, and Abigail thought again how uncomfortable the position must be. She took his hand and checked the skin on his wrists, glad to see the rope hadn’t rubbed it raw.
He leaned his head back and regarded her. “What do you do with all your time, Miss Tidwell, since your father and brother are away? I mean, while you aren’t tending to your barn prisoners.”
She didn’t deny that she was alone. Lying was becoming tiresome, especially when he could so clearly see the truth. “Well, as I said, I usually help my father. It seems someone is always ill in Amherstburg, though the residents don’t call for me as often with him away. And I serve as the town’s midwife.”
He opened his mouth to reply but closed it, glancing toward the door.
A moment later, Abigail realized what had stopped him. She heard a horse. Had the entire morning passed already? “My neighbor, Mr. Kirby.” She suddenly felt frantic. What if he entered the barn and found Captain Prescott? Would he take him to the fort? What if he looked into her windows and saw the captain’s mended clothes hanging in front of the hearth? “Keep quiet,” she whispered. She hurried to the door and carried the milk pail outside. “Hello,” she called, closing the barn door behind her. “How are you today, Mr. Kirby?”
He climbed out of the conveyance, grumbling. At just over sixty years of age, Mr. Kirby was a perpetual grumbler. He lifted the pail into the sleigh and took out an empty one. “Heard there was a skirmish nearby.”
“A skirmish?”
He nodded. “Met some redcoats in the forest.” He jerked his head backward, indicating the road behind him. “Apparently a group of spies were attacked by Indians. Don’t know if there were any casualties, but if I see one of those Americans nosing around here, heaven help me, I’ll finish what the Shawnee started. Don’t want those scoundrels threatening honest citizens. Need to keep my family and my property safe.” He lifted a rifle from the sleigh’s seat to prove his point.
Abigail grew cold.
He pointed at her. “You be careful, miss. No telling what those wild Kentuckians would do to a young lady, alone. I’ve half a mind to bring you home to stay with Mrs. Kirby and myself until your pa returns.”
Abigail forced a smile. She waved her hand dismissively. “Don’t worry yourself. I’ll be fine. I have my father’s musket.”
He scowled and grumbled something under his breath while he returned to the seat in the sleigh. “You’ll let me know if you see anything. Anything at all.”
“Of course.” Her smile felt painted on. “Good day, Mr. Kirby. Thank you again for delivering the milk for me.”
He nodded and flicked the reins.
Abigail watched until the sleigh was out of sight behind the trees. Her legs felt like soft noodles. Knowing Captain Prescott had no doubt overheard the entire conversation, she didn’t return to the barn. He’d know that she lied to protect him, and she felt confused and . . . ill. Her head hurt, and she needed to sit down and think. She didn’t know exactly how to reconcile what she’d just done. Had she betrayed her country? What would Isaac say if he ever found out?