The icy wind whipped around the buildings and through the trees, moaning beneath a pale, white moon. A lone figure crouched beside the south wing of the Wren Building. Inside, the last hymn faded into the night as students and faculty of the College of William and Mary began to depart the evening service. Men buttoned their coats and secured their hats as they left the chapel; voices called farewells and groups parted, heading home to warm hearths and hearty suppers.
The figure crouched animal-like, ready to spring on its prey, while at the same time, remaining concealed. His ears strained to hear the voice or name of one student in particular.
“Andrew, you bear! I thought you were going to miss service tonight,” a youthful voice bellowed.
“Shhh. Do you want to get me in trouble?” Andrew responded good-naturedly. The two companions hurried merrily toward the boarding house where they roomed.
The silent figure moved forward and peered into the dark; seeing no one else about, he moved ahead, then stopped, hunched noiselessly against a tree, and listened. Satisfied that all had departed, he followed the two young men, moving silently in the shadows.
“Andrew, it is good to hear you laugh again. I know what a terrible ordeal your family has been through. I am sorry about your brother-in-law,” the youth said earnestly.
Andrew swallowed hard several times to rid his throat of the too familiar, painful tightness. His only respite had been moments of forgetting, conscious battles to think of other things, to go on.
“Thanks, Peter,” he croaked.
They had arrived at their boarding house, the glow of warmth and firelight hastening their steps to the door. On opening it, the welcome aroma of beef pie and fresh biscuits spurred them on even more quickly. The door closed behind them shutting out the noise and warmth inside, leaving the cold quiet of the night to the stranger in the shadows. He waited until the brick house was blanketed in silence, its windows dark. Then the figure stamped his feet to circulate the blood and shock them from the cold. The icy wind had died down to a constant whisper of cold breath from the north that bit through the woolen layers that protected the silent watcher. From his post he was fairly certain which room belonged to Andrew Wentworth, and he was confident of getting to it without any difficulty.
• • •
He crept stealthily across the deserted road and slipped into the shadows of the house. Finding the back door, he examined the latch and easily dismantled it. Then, with a furtive glance about, he quietly swung the door inward and crept into the back hall of the boarding house. To his right embers burned on the kitchen hearth; to his left a door was closed on the plump woman who ran the establishment. Her gentle snoring floated through the door and urged him forward.
Gradually his eyes adjusted to the dark enabling him to make out the forms of the furnishings. He skulked to the front hall and the stairs that led up to the boarders’ rooms.
One shape had not been evident, since it was so close to the ground. The intruder took a step and instinctively pulled away as the high-pitched screech of an affronted cat broke the stillness. Caught off balance, the stranger reeled to his right and tipped a slender stand, sending a plant crashing to the floor.
The snoring ceased and was replaced by the sound of rustling and scuffling. Noting a half-sized closet door beneath the stairs, the figure dashed to it, concealing himself just as the landlady emerged. Nightcap askew, she held a candle in one hand, a pistol in the other.
She crept forward cautiously and, seeing the plant, exclaimed, “Elmer, you have attacked my fern again! What shall I do with you, you naughty tiger?”
Scolding the cat, she picked it up, nestled it in her pistol-toting arm and took it to her room.
“We shall clean this mess up first thing in the morning,” she yawned as she closed the door behind her.
Slowly, the half-door opened and the silent figure emerged. Closing the door, he sidestepped the broken pottery, tested the first step, and then with catlike precision mounted cautiously, noiselessly. He looked at the position of the doors and calculated their placement from his view outside. Nodding in silent assent, he crossed the hall to the door on his far right. His gloved hand turned the brass doorknob, and he inched the door in. Stepping inside, he closed the door behind himself. Across the room, lying curled on the bed, lay Andrew, sound asleep.
The figure crossed to the boy and reached toward his head, then pulled his hand away. He crouched beside the boy, studying his face. With instinctive awareness, Andrew slowly awakened. He jumped at the sight of the figure beside his bed, paralyzed with fear for he could only make out a shadowy form. The figure clamped a hand over Andrew’s mouth, preventing any sound from escaping.
Had anyone been in the room below, he would have heard the muffled sound of a body slump to the floor.
• • •
The presence of the British soldiers was unnerving for the women, so Emily and Joanna decided to share a room. Will was sound asleep when they retired, but Joanna slept fitfully and Emily was unable to sleep at all. One thought possessed her throughout the night: Jonathon was alive!
At dawn Emily rose and went to the window. The soldiers had camped on the beautiful lawns of the manor. The horses had dug up the grass and made a mess of the flowerbeds. Emily sighed and let the curtain drop. She stretched and looked at Will in envy. He slept peacefully unaware of the threat lurking just outside.
Emily went down to breakfast, not feeling hungry, but knowing she must eat for the child she carried. She had felt its determined movements again, making its presence known. That and the hope of Jonathon being alive filled her with a swelling feeling of joy. But the ominous presence of the British tempered her elation.
Dulcie was laying out the ham and bread when Emily entered.
“It’s no good, Miss Emily. No good at all. Them soldiers all over the place, eatin’ all our food,” she shook her head in dismay.
“They will be gone soon, Dulcie,” Emily said, not believing it herself. She looked up feeling the woman’s eyes on her. “What is it, Dulcie?”
“They sayin’ that Master Jonathon is alive,” Dulcie replied gently.
“Yes, I know.”
“How can that be, Miss Emily, when you saw him die yourself?” she asked in a whisper.
“I saw him shot. I saw him fall into the sea. I saw the British pull him into their skiff. I do not know; he must have still been alive,” she answered, her heart soaring at the thought, but remaining calm in appearance.
The officer entered and greeted them.
“Good morning, Mrs. Brentwood. I trust you slept well?”
“When do you leave, sir?” she asked, ignoring his question.
“We leave when I give the order,” he stated flatly.
Emily glowered at him.
“I realized this morning that I have not introduced myself. I am Captain Arthur Walters,” he bowed before sitting at the head of the table.
“Captain,” Emily said disinterestedly.
“Come, Mrs. Brentwood, the hospitality of the Brentwoods is known far and wide. Surely you can do better than that.”
“Your presence is an intrusion, Captain. You are not invited guests, and your continued stay is most unwelcome. Surely you can see why my welcome is less than warm.”
Rising, he walked over to her chair and stood behind it. Emily froze as she felt his presence so near. He placed his hand on the back of her chair, his fingers just touching her shoulders.
“Perhaps if your welcome were warmer it would be easier on Captain Brentwood when we catch him,” he said in a smooth voice.
Emily felt sick; she shivered.
“Well, I see my words have some effect on you. You may seem cold on the exterior, but I imagine there is a passion that burns within you,” he said as he leaned nearer to her ear.
“That is something you can imagine for the rest of your life, if you so choose, Captain. But it is not something you will ever know for certain,” Emily said coldly.
“Do not be so sure, . . . ” he began, but pulled away and returned to his chair as approaching footsteps sounded in the hall.
Joanna entered and noted the look of repulsion that was in Emily’s eyes. She looked from her to the officer and silently understood. The man bowed to them and left.
“Joanna, do not leave me alone with that horrible man!” Emily cried.
“What did he do to you?” Joanna asked.
“Oh, he said vile things. He tried to seduce me in exchange for leniency for Jonathon. Oh, he is repugnant!”
Joanna put her arm around Emily’s shoulder, and Emily shuddered, recounting the exchange. The women ate breakfast quickly and sat together in the parlor. They contemplated ways to get rid of the soldiers, even knowing they were powerless to do so.
“When is David due back?” Emily asked. “Do you think he will be able to do anything?”
“He would be one man against all of them. Perhaps he will see them in time to go back for reinforcements. Oh, Emily, when will this end?”
• • •
For Emily and Joanna, the next few days were filled with tension and fear. The soldiers had obviously set up a camp for a long stay, and the grounds were being ruined. Food supplies were dwindling fast, and the women wondered how they would feed everyone on what little remained.
Emily went to the smokehouse to check on supplies. The day was unusually mild, and it felt invigorating to be out in the sun even for this short walk. The promise of spring floated in the fresh scent of the air.
When she entered the smokehouse, no one was there, so she began to take stock of the supplies herself. A sense of being observed overcame her, and she hurried through the remainder of her task. She had an unusual urge to run, to get out in the sun and be where other people were. Then she heard a twig crack outside as if it had been stepped on, and she abandoned her counting and went to the door. As she reached for the handle, the door swung open. Standing before her was Captain Walters. Emily gasped and stepped back.
“So, I see you are ensuring our comfort,” he said. “Making sure we are well fed and comfortable? The perfect hostess. However, Mrs. Brentwood, one of your guests has a particular request and only you can be of assistance.”
As he spoke, he stepped inside and closed the door behind him. Emily backed up to keep her distance from him. He approached her slowly.
“I think you should cooperate, Mrs. Brentwood. It might save your husband’s neck from the gallows. Just think—you might save him from swinging in the wind. Have you ever seen a hanging? It is not pleasant, but most interesting the way the body jerks when it drops, the snapping sound of the neck breaking . . . But, no more of this kind of talk; our conversation should put us more in the mood to become better acquainted.”
He stood before her, his breath brushing her hair as he spoke. His eyes roamed up and down her body making her feel undressed.
“I have no wish to become any better acquainted with you, Captain. The only thing I wish to see is your back as you leave my home,” Emily snapped, trying to still her trembling.
“You shall see more than that before this day is through,” he whispered.
He pulled her to him and bent his mouth to hers. Emily turned away, and he grabbed the back of her head, pulling her by the hair until she faced him.
“You can be kinder to your guests than that, Mrs. Brentwood,” he seethed.
“I hate you!” she screamed at him.
“I knew there was fire in you,” he laughed.
He pulled her close and forced his mouth down on hers.
She tried to turn away, but his grip on her hair tightened until she thought he would pull it out. She struggled to get away from him but he tightened his arm around her. Finally, he pulled away and let her go so suddenly that she stumbled backward almost losing her balance. Steadying herself at a table behind her, she reached back and her hand touched the wooden handle of a tool. Her fingers clasped it instinctively, though she could not identify what it was.
He moved toward her.
“So, you like rough play?” he sneered. “I can play rough games.”
He drew his hand back and slapped her across the face. She cried out at the sting of the blow, her cheek ablaze where he struck her. Anger flared in his eyes, and Emily’s heart pounded.
He reached back again, and she steadied herself for the next blow. But he stopped.
“This is no good,” he said hoarsely. “I must try something else.”
His hands reached for the clasp on her cape. Deftly he unfastened it and let the wrap drop to the dirt floor. He ran a finger from her jaw, down along her neck to the top of the swell of her breasts. He traced the swell and stopped. Emily’s breath was shallow, but she tried to hold her breath so her bosom would not move against his finger.
“That is more suitable, Mrs. Brentwood. Calm yourself and allow your guest his pleasure,” he taunted.
“I will allow you nothing!” she spat.
He placed his finger in the top of her bodice.
“Then I will simply take what you will not give,” he threatened.
With one movement he ripped the top of her dress roughly grabbing her breast. Emily grabbed the tool in her hand, brought it around and swung it at his head. He was taken by surprise and moved into it. She struck him with the meat cleaver on his shoulder near the base of his neck. The leather strap of his uniform impeded some of the impact, but the blow was still severe. Stunned, he fell to the floor. She turned the cleaver to the blunt side and hit him soundly on the head.
Blood oozed from his shoulder, and he tried to rise. He teetered dizzily, and then fell to the dirt floor, unconscious. Emily flew to the door and stepped out. She fastened the latch from the outside and raced to the house clutching the bodice of her dress to her, her knees so weak they could barely support her. She stumbled and fell once, covering her dress with dirt. She rose and wiped the tears from her eyes so she could see where she was going, streaking more dirt across her face. When she reached the house, she called frantically for Joanna.
Dulcie saw her first and exclaimed in shock.
“Miss Emily, what on earth happened?”
Emily collapsed into a chair by the hearth. She felt faint from running and tried to catch her breath. Her chest heaved and the torn material dropped. Dulcie sucked in her breath, her eyes filled with horror.
“Who did this to you?” she demanded.
“Dulcie,” Emily gasped, “get Joanna quickly!”
Dulcie hurried toward the front of the house calling Joanna’s name. Soon the two women rushed back into the room. Emily had recovered enough to realize the impact of what she had done. Her body trembled as a result of the encounter with the captain, and in fear of its ramifications.
Joanna ran to her and held her quivering form.
“Was it Captain Walters?” she asked, already knowing the answer.
Emily nodded dumbly. Dulcie brought a basin of warm water and began to wash the dirt from the girl’s face. The girl winced when Dulcie brushed the spot where she had been struck. Dulcie gasped in horror when she saw the bright red bruise under the smeared dirt.
“What did he do to you?” she exclaimed. Joanna saw the mark too, through tears of outrage.
“We must do something about him. Joanna. Send for Dr. Anderson quickly,” she demanded.
Joanna nodded to Dulcie and the woman hurried off. Joanna took over cleaning Emily’s face and gently dabbed the tender area.
“We must check on him,” Joanna said.
Emily nodded and the two went back to the smokehouse. They peered into the window and saw the officer lying on the floor.
“Is he breathing?” Emily asked.
“I cannot tell from here,” Joanna answered. “Emily, we must go in and tend him. If he dies, they will hang you.”
Emily looked at her with eyes wide with fear. “All right,” she assented.
They unlatched the door and entered the room. Emily picked up the cleaver that lay where she had dropped it. Joanna bent down over the captain and felt his pulse; it was weak. Noting that he was still alive, she breathed a sigh of relief. Quickly she unbuttoned his coat and ripped open his shirt, tearing it into strips and pressing them against the gaping wound.
“He has lost a great deal of blood,” she observed. Emily could barely look at him.
“We have to move him inside, Emily; we have to get some of his men to move him.”
“They will punish me for this! Joanna, I am so frightened,” Emily cried.
“If we can save his life, it will be better. Emily, he attacked you. That is plain to see. Even they have a code of conduct to uphold.” She looked sympathetically at Emily. “We must go to them with you in this condition.”
Emily began to protest, holding the material closer to her bosom.
“Emily, they must see what he has done to you . . . and what he intended to do.”
Dulcie found them and informed them that someone had gone for the doctor.
“Them soldiers want to know who is sick. I told them Miss Emily was feelin’ ill. They’re on their way to the house, Miss Joanna. What should I do?”
Joanna thought a moment. She looked at Emily for a time. Finally, Emily nodded.
“Bring them here, Dulcie,” Joanna said firmly.
“Miss Joanna, you think that’s a good idea?” she protested.
Emily nodded. Dulcie shrugged her shoulders and left. Soon she returned followed by two soldiers. They entered the smokehouse and took in the scene. One of them dropped to his knees beside the captain and began to tend his wounds. The other looked at Emily and then back at the wounded man. It was clear what had happened.
They carried the captain to the house and up to one of the bedrooms. Dulcie brought water and clean linens, and the one who tended him in the smokehouse gave her instructions on preparing some items he needed. She hurried off, and he rolled up his sleeves and turned back to his captain.
The captain’s breath was shallow, his face ashen. Emily and Joanna stood aside watching the soldier’s ministrations. He worked quickly, cleaned the wound and bound it. When Dulcie returned with the items he had requested, he made a thick poultice, applied it to the wound, and then bound it again. When he was finished, he turned to the women.
“I do not know if he will live or not. There is another regiment nearby. We have sent for the officer in charge there. He will have to make the decision about what charges will be brought,” he explained.
“Charges?” Joanna asked.
“If he dies, ma’am.”
“He attacked her!” Joanna cried out, enraged.
“He is an officer of the king, ma’am. She is the wife of a traitor.”
Joanna looked at Emily whose eyes were filled with fear. The other soldier who had come upon the scene stepped into the room.
“Tim, here, will stay with you ladies at all times until the other officer arrives,” he said.
Tim opened the door for the women to exit the room. They went to Emily’s room where Dulcie had fresh water and linens laid out for her. As Emily washed and changed into a fresh gown, Joanna stayed with her and they spoke in low tones, knowing that Tim stood just outside the door.
“Joanna, I am frightened,” Emily cried softly.
“It will be all right. Everything will be all right. That soldier seems to know what he is doing, and Dr. Anderson will be here soon. Captain Walters will live, Emily.” Joanna comforted her.
They were allowed to go downstairs, and Dulcie met them.
“I fixed some dinner for you,” she said.
In the dining room, neither could eat. They played with the food on their plates for a time until Dulcie tired of urging them to eat. Finally, they retired to the parlor.
Dr. Anderson arrived in the early evening and examined the captain. He was impressed by the care the soldier had given him and said there was little else he could do. It would be merely waiting now to see if the captain were strong enough to pull through.
Emily tossed and turned throughout the night. When she dreamed, it was nightmares about being confined in a British jail. When she awoke, she was covered with sweat and her heart raced.
She rose with the dawn and paced her room until Joanna awoke. Together they checked on the captain. The same soldier was attending him, and they were relieved to know that he was still alive. He lay back against the pillow, his face pale, and his breath shallow. The soldier informed them that he had been much the same throughout the night.
“The fact that he is still alive this morning is a good sign; however, he still is in danger of death,” he explained.
Although afraid to hope, Emily felt more encouraged than she had the previous day, and she whispered silent prayers for the man who had attacked her.
The women ate a light breakfast and took Will out for a brief walk. The bright sunshine was discordant with the mood they were in, but the weather was mild, and both felt a need for fresh air.
“Joanna,” Emily said, “even if Captain Walters lives, I shall still face charges of some sort.”
“I have thought of that, too, Emily,” she answered. “I wish David were here. Perhaps we could whisk you away and hide you somewhere.”
“That would only put all of you in danger,” Emily replied. “Perhaps if the captain lives he will drop charges in order to save face.”
“It seems that there should be some code of conduct that officers must observe,” Joanna agreed.
They returned to the house and sat in the parlor. The presence of the soldiers made movement on the grounds uncomfortable, so they spent most of their time inside. They rang for tea, and as Dulcie brought it in, they heard horses approaching.
Emily saw three riders coming up the drive; all were adorned in the scarlet of the British troops. The officer of the other regiment was here to decide what charges she would face. She trembled, and her stomach lurched. She turned to Joanna, who put her arms around her.
They watched the officer and his men approach the camp and dismount to speak to the soldiers. One soldier gestured to the house, speaking animatedly. The officer who seemed to be in charge nodded and spoke with them for a while. Then the three turned and rode toward the house.
Emily looked at Joanna in dread; tears filled her eyes. She brushed them away, straightened her shoulders, and answered the door. Joanna followed, holding her head high in an obvious effort to appear calm. Emily smoothed her skirts, brushed a wisp of hair from her eyes and opened the door. Amazement overtook her as she stared into the eyes of Michael Dennings. He had changed considerably since that day in her London parlor when he had proposed to her. He stood tall and striking in his officer’s red uniform. An air of command enveloped him, and his eyes held a maturity that war adds to every man who endures it. He was no longer the naive, innocent Michael she had known.
“Michael?” she whispered.
His eyes conveyed a warning, and he shook his head so slightly that only Emily could perceive his message to her.
“Mrs. Brentwood, I am Captain Michael Dennings, and I am here to speak to you about the incident in which a fellow officer was very seriously injured,” he said in a loud, clear voice.
Emily was bewildered. The scene seemed so bizarre. Here was Michael Dennings, her lifelong friend, dressed as a British officer and speaking to her as if she were a stranger. Surely this was all a bad dream. All of it—Jonathon’s capture, Captain Walters’s attack on her, Michael’s coldness—surely, this must be a dream. Panic gripped her, and she began to sway. Joanna was behind her in a moment steadying her balance.
“Emily, I am here,” she whispered urgently. “It will be all right; stay calm.”
Joanna’s voice had a soothing quality that revived her. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. When she opened them she found Michael’s upon her. There was no coldness there, rather a look of concern and anxiety.
“Mrs. Brentwood,” he said, “perhaps we can discuss this matter inside.”
“Of . . . of course,” she stammered.
She stepped back to allow him to enter. He started toward the door and paused when his men followed him.
“You two wait out here,” he ordered. The soldiers looked at each other in confusion.
Michael proceeded into the manor, and the door closed behind them.
When they were safely in the drawing room, Michael exploded.
“Emily, what has happened?”
Joanna jumped in surprise. She looked at the young officer in bewilderment, then at Emily.
“Joanna, may I present Michael Dennings, a dear friend of mine from London.”
Joanna appeared startled at the name. Perhaps she remembered Emily speaking of him as the boy she nearly married to escape leaving England. He no longer was a boy, but a handsome young man, albeit in the uniform of the British army.
“How do you do, Captain Dennings,” she said.
Michael bowed to Joanna then quickly looked back at Emily.
“What has happened here? I have been told that you almost murdered Walters,” he said. “Where is he?”
They led him up to the room where Captain Walters lay. The captain looked just as he had that morning. The same soldier still tended him and explained to Michael the treatment he had administered. Michael nodded, then stepped to the bed and felt the captain’s pulse. He looked anxiously at Emily.
“This is quite serious,” he said quietly. “How did it happen, Mrs. Brentwood?”
Emily was distressed by the coldness in his voice. She explained the confrontation in the smokehouse, and the way she had defended herself. When she finished, he turned to the soldier and asked him to corroborate her story.
“I did not see any of this, sir,” he answered. “All I know is that when I arrived, Captain Walters lay unconscious in a pool of blood; Mrs. Brentwood stood over him, and a blood-spattered meat cleaver lay beside him.”
“Mrs. Brentwood, did Captain Walters threaten you with a weapon?” Michael asked.
“Why, not exactly . . . ” she began. “But he had his pistol in his belt—”
“In his belt, not ready for use?”
“Well, yes . . . that is . . . no,” she stammered in confusion. She noticed that Joanna had left the room. Where was she? Emily desperately needed her right now.
“Well, you simply attacked him, then, for no reason?” Michael demanded.
“No reason! He was about to rape me! I was defending myself—”
“That is your word against his, Mrs. Brentwood.”
Emily could not believe this nightmare. Was Michael so bitter about her rejection of his proposal that he would see her imprisoned or, worse yet, hanged? She could not believe this of him.
“No, Captain Dennings, here is some evidence,” Joanna said from the doorway. She carried in Emily’s torn dress and handed it to the officer. His face blanched when he saw the ripped material. He glanced at Emily, anger showing in his eyes. He replaced it quickly with a cold, flinty stare.
“Let us return to the drawing room to discuss this further,” Michael suggested.
The soldier who tended Captain Walters gave Emily a smug smile. She brushed past him and followed Joanna and Michael to the stairs. Her mind raced as they descended. She must get Michael to believe her story. If he did not, she would surely be sent to prison.
“Would you care for tea, Captain Dennings?” Joanna asked as they entered the drawing room. She rang for Dulcie at Michael’s assent.
Emily stood by the hearth trembling and needing its warmth. Michael walked to the windows to check on his men, and then crossed to the drawing room door and closed it. He strode to Emily and put his hands on her shoulders.
“Em, are you all right?” he asked anxiously.
Emily collapsed into his arms in relief and sobbed.
“Oh, Michael, why did you frighten me so? Why did you treat me so cruelly?” she cried.
“I had to, Em. If this does not look like a fair and objective decision on my part, they will send for someone else to decide your fate. No one must know that you are my friend.” He shot a warning look at Joanna.
“You can trust Joanna, Michael,” Emily reassured him.
Michael looked down at her tenderly. He gently touched the bruise on her face. Anger filled him again.
“Walters has a reputation for this,” he spat. “I would like to go up and finish the job you started.”
“Michael, please,” Emily said.
Dulcie entered, and Michael quickly stepped away from Emily and sat down. They sat back and relaxed with their tea.
Emily explained again what had happened. Michael listened intently, his eyes blazing.
“We shall have to do this carefully, Em. Above all, do not let on that you know me.”
After tea, Michael returned to his men, and Emily and Joanna relaxed a bit. Perhaps Emily would be saved after all.
• • •
Captain Walters improved the next day and even regained consciousness briefly. Captain Dennings informed his men that they would remain for a time to see if Captain Walters would improve enough to tell his side of the story. The soldier who tended him continued giving Emily smug smiles that communicated his conviction that she would pay for injuring his captain.
Three days later, Walters had improved enough to stay alert for some time and was strong enough to be questioned. Michael dismissed the attending soldier and talked to Walters alone. He was with him for some time, and when he emerged he immediately sought Emily and Joanna in the drawing room. Again he checked the windows and closed the door. He sat beside Emily on the settee and took her hand.
“I have talked to Walters,” he said to her. “He was very weak, but very determined to see you punished.”
Emily’s heart sank.
“Oh, Michael, where will they send me? Michael, I am going to have a child. How can I go to prison if I am going to have a child?” she cried.
Michael’s glance inadvertently dropped to her waistline. He looked back up at her and blushed in embarrassment. He would not have noticed on his own, but now it was evident that Emily’s trim waistline had filled out.
“You will not go to prison, Em,” he promised. “You see Walters and I sampled many a tavern together. One night he outdid himself on ale, and there was an accident with a young prostitute. I was not there when it happened; he told me about it later . . . She did not survive, and her family brought charges against him. Of course, as a British officer he was able to have the charges dismissed, but not without a severe warning. In any event, I reminded him of it today. I doubt that he will charge you with any crime. In fact, I had the distinct impression he would like to leave Brentwood Manor as soon as possible.”
Emily threw her arms around Michael.
“You are a dear, dear friend!” she cried. “Oh, Michael, how can I ever thank you?”
“By taking good care of yourself and that babe. Congratulations, Emily,” he grinned, and then looked at her soberly. “Mine is one of the groups assigned to find Jonathon, Emily. If you know where he is, tell him to avoid the southeast coast. That is where they are concentrating.”
Emily’s eyes shone with gratitude; she clasped his hand.
“Actually, Michael, until these troops arrived, we believed Jonathon to be dead. With my own eyes I saw him shot, saw his body fall into the sea, and saw his body dragged into a skiff by the British. I could not believe it when Captain Walters said they were searching for him. When this conflict is over between us, Michael, I hope you will come back and visit as a friend,” she said sincerely.
“The conflict is between us, Emily? You side with the patriots?” he asked in surprise.
“I side with whoever is victimized by a stronger, tyrannical power, Michael. This was a source of bitterness between Jonathon and me, but now I understand what the colonies have been fighting for.”
• • •
The next afternoon David arrived with a group of armed men, Randy among them. They rode up the drive and halted at the camp. Michael came out to greet them.
“What are you doing here?” David demanded hotly.
“We are under orders to search for Jonathon Brentwood,” Michael replied.
“You and your men pack up and get out as soon as—”
Emily and Joanna had come out of the manor when they saw him arrive. Joanna broke into a run.
“David! David, you are home!” He dismounted as she ran to him. He caught her up in his arms.
“Are you all right, Joanna?” he demanded.
“Yes, darling. Please come inside,” she asked.
“No. I intend to get these men out of here—”
“David, please. You do not understand. Please come inside.”
“Yes, David. Randy, you too,” Emily added.
The two men followed them inside leaving the others to stare down the British.
“Please explain!” David demanded.
“Jonathon is alive!” Emily exclaimed.
“We had heard rumor of that in town. But no one knows where he is. He has disappeared,” Randy said.
“Emily was attacked by one of the soldiers,” Joanna blurted out. The men froze. “Emily—” Randy crossed over to her, taking her hand.
“I am all right, Randy. But I made him pay. He lies upstairs recovering from his wound.”
The men looked at each other in apprehension, the ramifications apparent to them.
“Emily, did he—” David did not know how to finish the sentence.
“No, David.”
A look of relief crossed his face, and then concern returned.
At a knock on the door, Dulcie ushered in Michael. David stiffened at his presence, and Randy clenched and unclenched his fists. Michael looked apprehensively at Emily.
“I trust these people with my life, Michael,” she said softly.
“Then you had best introduce us before they carry out whatever they are plotting at this moment,” he suggested.
“Of, course,” she laughed. “Randy, David, this is my dear friend, Michael Dennings.”
“Oh, the one you almost—” David stopped at a stern look from Joanna. “Oh . . . well . . . It is a pleasure,” he finally managed.
Emily explained to them Michael’s protection of her, and they began to relax. She also told them of Michael’s warning about the search for Jonathon.
“The Raleigh Tavern was abuzz with news of his escape,” Randy explained. “He received a severe wound to his side, but only a flesh wound at his temple. It stunned him, but did not stop him. Not our Jonathon. Gates has half his crew searching, but no one has turned up a clue as to his whereabouts.”
“They traced him quite a distance out of Norfolk, but lost his trail after a day,” Michael explained.
Speculation about Jonathon continued until suppertime, when they invited Michael to join them.
“Thank you, but I must, at all costs, appear at odds with all of you,” he replied. “Walters is steadily improving, and with luck we will be away from here the day after tomorrow. I will, however, return someday to accept Emily’s most gracious offer.”
Emily escorted him to the door, but paused before opening it.
“Michael—” She blushed and looked down.
“I know, Emily,” he said quietly.
“I am so sorry that I hurt you, and now you save my life when you could have . . . I can never thank you enough.”
“Emily, I will always carry you in my heart.” He looked down uncomfortably, and then looked into her eyes. “I could not bear to see you hurt. Brentwood is a lucky man.” He kissed her cheek then opened the door. Emily watched his soldiers salute him, and he jammed on his tricorn as if leaving in anger. She whispered a prayer of thanksgiving for his friendship.
• • •
True to his word, Michael ordered Captain Walters carried out to one of the wagons, and the regiment set out for Williamsburg two days later.
A sense of peace pervaded the house at their absence and spirits rose at the thought of Jonathon’s survival. Randy remained with them for several days to reassure himself that no redcoats had lingered.
They sat at supper one evening when they heard a carriage approach. Rising, David went to the door to greet the guest and returned to the dining room with Deidre. They all were shocked at her appearance. Her usually carefully coiffed hair was disheveled, pinned haphazardly and hanging in her face. No color highlighted her cheeks, which were drawn, attesting to her hunger. Her eyes were dull, her mouth slack. Looking around the room, she raised her hands in a helpless gesture.
“I have nowhere to go,” she stated simply. “The slaves have fled, the food is gone, my home is mortgaged to the British, and they refuse to allow me to remain.”
There was no spark of defiance; no fight remained in the beaten woman. The room was quiet as each digested this news. Joanna looked at Emily. It was her decision; it was her home.
Emily rose from her chair and went to Deidre. She put an arm around the woman’s frail shoulders.
“Come and eat, Deidre. Of course you have somewhere to go. You will stay right here with us,” she said softly.
Deidre looked into her eyes. “I—”
Emily shook her head imperceptibly.
Deidre looked at her with what appeared to be a mixture of disbelief and gratitude.
They all resumed eating supper.
• • •
Life had become more agreeable at the manor, but Emily grew more impatient and anxious about Jonathon each day. The weather had remained mild, so she took many walks and busied herself with the gardens to try to calm her thoughts.
She was on the veranda when she saw a carriage rolling up the drive. Hastening out to meet it, she hoped it would bear news of Jonathon. She exclaimed in surprise when she saw her brother alight.
“Andrew!” she cried as she ran up to embrace him.
“Em!” he caught her up and swung her around.
“Drew, be careful,” she said, laughing. “I have such good news, Drew. Jonathon is alive! But I do not know where he is. Have you heard anything of him?”
“Em, I must talk to you. Come for a ride with me,” he urged.
“What is it, Drew?” she asked, concerned.
“Just come with me, Em,” he insisted.
“Drew—”
“I must talk to you about an important decision I find myself faced with. I trust your judgment, Em.”
She paused for a moment.
“All right. Let me get my wrap,” she agreed.
Emily ran into Joanna in the hall.
“Whose carriage is that?” she asked Emily.
“It is Drew. He needs to discuss something with me, something urgent. I hope he is not planning to marry already!” Emily exclaimed.
Joanna laughed.
“Well, have a pleasant ride.”
The air was brisk, but the sun warmed their faces as they rode along. Emily pressed Andrew, but he said he would reveal his news at the right time. They rode for quite a while as Emily related the story of Captain Walters and Michael Dennings to him.
“Drew, how far must we ride before you tell me what this is about?” she implored.
“Just a little farther, Em.”
Soon they came to a small clearing, and Emily recognized the cabin where she and Jonathon had spent their first night. Memories of their lovemaking flooded her, and her heart raced. She had refused to allow herself those memories for so long, too painful to bear while she believed Jonathon dead. But now she let them wash over her like warm, gentle waves. She blushed at them and was suddenly very warm. She turned to look at Andrew. His face was covered with a wide grin.
“Andrew, what—?”
He helped her down and led her to the cabin door. He opened it, and she stepped inside. Her eyes took a moment to adjust from the brilliant sun outside to the dimly lit room. When they did, she saw a figure lying on the bed.
Her heart stopped, and she could not breathe. Her knees buckled, and Andrew supported her weight.
“Jonathon! Jonathon!” She ran to the bed.
“Love,” he whispered as she buried her head in his chest. “My beautiful Em.”
She looked up at him through her tears. Her hands stroked his face and chest, their desire for the feel of his body unquenchable.
He pulled her forward and kissed her long and full. His mouth on hers was the sweetest sensation she had ever known.
Emily laughed and cried. She barely noticed Andrew’s quiet exit; she presumed he would return to Brentwood Manor to share the news.
• • •
Once her eyes had adjusted to the darkened room, Emily saw how pale and weak Jonathon looked. Concern gripped her.
“Jonathon, we must get Dr. Anderson to look at you,” she insisted.
“You are the best medicine for me, Em,” he argued.
“Oh, Jonathon. I cannot believe you are really here!” She bent to kiss his lips. “What happened? How did you get here? How did Andrew find you?”
“Stop, stop! I shall answer your questions later, love. But right now I feel the need for some tender ministrations.” He chuckled.
“I do not think your health is quite ready for that, Jonathon,” Emily scolded.
“Well, we could explore just what my health is ready for, Mrs. Brentwood.”
“I can see the British were not able to tame you,” she teased.
“Only you have ever been able to tame me, love.”