Gwyneth stood immobile upon the step, shielding her eyes against the merciless sun overhead. Midday. But which day? The same one she had seen briefly at the secretaire after her night of drawing? The next? The next week? She could remember only snatches after Thad smoothed back her hair. Voices echoing, a gentle touch that felt like Mama. The familiar clucking of Mrs. Wesley.
The nightmares. Cruel and dark, with vicious teeth and hurtful words.
She shuddered, wishing for a shawl to wrap around herself in spite of the heat that hung heavy and damp.
A bath had done wonders for Gwyneth’s mental clarity, but she hadn’t wanted to ask Rosie what day it was. Not when the woman already looked at her as if she might shatter with one wrong move. No, better to find those answers herself without alarming anyone.
Hanging from one of the tree’s limbs was a swing, no doubt there for Captain Arnaud’s little boy. What was his name? She strolled along the path toward the large maple. Jack, that was it.
Jack surely wouldn’t mind if she borrowed his toy for a few minutes since he was nowhere in sight. She brushed a few stray twigs and leaves from the wooden seat, mindful of the fact that her dress was her usual white muslin, easily soiled. Sitting down, she squeezed her eyes shut.
She ought to be in black. These last weeks ought to have been spent agonizing over whether to expend the cost on a specially made mourning gown or to dye an old one and broaden the hem. She ought to have been surrounded by the uncles and aunts who would be grieving her father, perhaps disappearing to Fairmonte for a respite with Papa’s brother and his family.
But thoughts of uncles sent a shiver up her spine and made her throat close off. She had thought them so close, her father and Uncle Gates. He was the one who most often visited, whose wife had seemed the most affected by Mama’s passing. And with no children of his own…
A sob heaved up and was caught. She swallowed it down. He did not care for them as she had thought. Not her, perhaps not even Mama. Certainly not Papa…
“Papa. Oh, Papa. I love you so.”
The wind snatched her whisper and took it over the roof, over the city. Perhaps all the way up to heaven.
With one toe on the ground, her hands wrapped around the rough rope, she gave herself a little push. She closed her eyes as the air caressed her hot cheeks and pretended she was a child again at Grandpapa’s country house. That the whiff of roses was Mama strolling her way.
“Oh, good. You are awake.”
The voice, feminine and melodic, brought her eyes open. Only when she spotted the strikingly beautiful woman coming through the back gate did she recognize it as belonging to Philly. Though dressed more casually than when in the library, she looked no less lovely now in simple pale yellow. And absent that panic in her eyes that came from a bubbling beaker.
Gwyneth offered a smile and put her foot down to stop herself so she might stand to greet the newcomer properly.
Philly waved her on. “No need to halt for my sake. I often sneak back here myself.” She leaned against the maple, not seeming the slightest bit concerned for how the rough bark might affect her fine dress. “Have you settled in?”
The very word seemed foreign. Her world had begun rocking long before she stepped foot on the Scribe, and she didn’t anticipate it settling any time soon. How could it, when her anchors were gone? Her smile no doubt went feeble. “Everyone has been very welcoming.”
“Ah.” The way the woman blinked gave Gwyneth the impression that she heard far more than her answer. She raised her arm and took a book from the basket dangling from it. “I brought you something.”
Gwyneth reached for it. From the wear on the binding, it seemed to be a well-loved tome. “Charlotte Temple. Why was I expecting some scientific treatise?”
Philly laughed. And no dainty society laugh for her, nay. She tossed her head back and let it come from deep within. “I learned long ago not to foist those on unsuspecting guests. Have you read Mrs. Rowson’s work?”
“I have not. A cautionary tale, correct?”
Philly laughed again. “If you ask those who enjoy it, yes. If you ask its critics, it is naught but a seduction novel.”
Chuckling, Gwyneth flipped open the cover and then drew in a startled breath at the familiar script on the endpaper. Mama’s hand, wishing Philly a felicitous birthday. “I did not realize…”
“Mmm.” Philly moved behind her and gripped the ropes of the swing. She pulled Gwyneth back and let her go. “Strange, is it not, to consider how people from such different places can be connected? Both my parents came from largely Loyalist families, and my uncle inherited an estate in England after serving in the British army during the Revolution. We have been working to reconcile the rift all my life, yet here we are at war again.”
Gwyneth traced a finger over the inscription, its ink faded to brown. She scarcely noticed the gentle forward-and-back motion of the swing. “I had forgotten that. But it is how my father came to know your parents, is it not? In New York.”
“Indeed. Mama and your father…” Philly cleared her throat.
Half a smile found its way onto her lips. “I know the story. He was courting her until your father won her away, but they remained friends, all of them, even when it came out that your parents were Patriots.”
“They say it is a testament to your father’s noble heart.”
Gwyneth’s eyes shut again as she felt the earth sway. “I miss him.”
“I imagine.” Soft hands settled on her back when she swung back and pushed her forward again. “I miss my parents when I do not see them often, and Annapolis is near enough that I can visit them whenever I please. It must be much worse for you, being an ocean away.”
An eternity away. Gwyneth gripped the book until her knuckles ached. “And you have your brother here. That is surely a comfort.”
Philly chuckled. “For most of the last decade he was at sea far more than he was home. A regular swashbuckler was our Thad, able to find adventure where a sane person would see none.”
An image took shape behind her eyes of Thaddeus Lane with his boots planted on a ship’s deck, his hands gripping the wheel, an adventurous smile upon his lips. Strange how quickly the picture formed, and how it made her fingers itch for a pencil.
She flexed them, and the cloth cover of the book stole her attention again, reminding her of her mother. Papa had not been a sailor, but he too had been gone frequently on campaign. The separations had never been easy. “How long was he married?”
Perhaps it was too personal a question, but she would rather ask it of his sister than of him.
Philly sighed and gave her another soft push. “Only eight months, and he did not leave her side during it except for a week now and then on a quick run up the coast. Peggy was dying already when they wed. It was, in fact, largely why they wed, so he could care for her. She had no one else and no income.”
A noble act…and yet so very sad. “They obviously had no children, then.”
Philly cleared her throat. “She was with child when she died. ’Tis a topic still quite sore, so we avoid mentioning it.”
“Did it happen recently?”
“Two years ago.” A blustery sigh sounded from behind her. “It was a difficult time all round. Alain was thought to be dead, we lost Peggy, one of Reggie’s cousins was impressed, stolen right from the Virginia shore, I lost another babe…and then the war.”
Gwyneth nodded. Two years ago had been difficult for them too, what with Mama’s sickness coming upon her and Papa still in France.
“But there was good too. Grandmama Caro finally agreed to come live with me and Reggie.”
The smile was so bright in Philly’s voice that Gwyneth felt her lips tug upward in response. “You are close with your grandmother?”
“Very. I ought to have been named after her, but when Papa told her their intentions, she insisted they name me after my mother’s grandmother instead, in an attempt to heal the relationship there.” Something in her voice as she said it…
“Did it work?”
Philly emitted an unamused laugh. “Not a whit. Grandmother Phillippa never would have anything to do with us. But we tried.”
A hum filled Gwyneth’s throat. Her family had had its breaks too, but the biggest rifts had already been healed by the time she was born.
Her eyes became unfocused, her vision doubled, and she had to clutch at the rope to keep from toppling off the swing. Perhaps her grandparents’ separation hadn’t been the biggest rift. There was obviously hidden strife between Papa and Uncle Gates. Hidden, vicious strife. Devouring hatred.
“Speaking of Grandmama Caro, she mentioned a craving for an apple pie, and I have already used the last of my apples. I thought perhaps Thad has some stashed in the cellar.”
Gwyneth drew in a long breath and blinked until her vision returned to normal. Apples. Pie. Normal, everyday life. Strange how it could continue on an upside-down world. “Your brother is out, and Rosie mentioned needing to run a few errands as well. I am not certain if she has left yet.”
Philly chuckled. “That man is never at home when I come by.”
Gwyneth frowned and fastened her gaze upon the swaying house, searching her mind for more information on where Thad had gone. All she came up with was the question of how she even knew he was out. To be sure, she hadn’t seen him since she rose an hour ago, but she had come straight from her room to the garden. She hadn’t searched for him. Still, she was certain he was away. As certain as she was of anything else these days.
“Well, I will see if I can catch Rosie. Or else I shall check the cellar myself.”
Philly stepped away from the swing, and Gwyneth let her toes drag until she slowed to a halt. Perhaps she would read Charlotte Temple for a while. Or, better still, get out her paints. She had wanted to paint, hadn’t she? Something niggled in the back of her mind. Something particular. Something…perhaps a more complete version of something she had already sketched?
She stood, her brows pulled down. What had she even sketched? And what was wrong with her, that she could not remember something so basic? She recalled the pencil in her hands and that intense concentration Mama had called her muse. The crick in her neck from being too long hunched over the desk. That burning need to join line to curve and shade to light. And the startling realization that night had passed and morning had come along with Thad.
His fingers on her forehead, brushing through her hair.
Her cheeks burned. His image filled her mind’s eye. Those yellow-topaz eyes, looking at her with the same focus she gave her art.
Did he really distrust her? Think her so ignoble that she could be here to spy?
“Are you all right, Gwyneth?” Opening her eyes, she saw that Philly had walked to the door but stood in the threshold, waiting. “You look flushed. Perhaps you ought to avoid the midday sun until you have acclimated to the heat.”
The mere mention of it made her realize how heavy and humid the air hung. Yet the thought of going back inside… She had scarcely seen the sun for two months, being always closeted below deck on the Scribe under the fearful watch of the Wesleys.
But she needed a bite to eat, or at least something to drink. She could take it by an open window, perhaps, and enjoy both sunshine and breeze. She smiled at Philly and followed her in.
Mrs. Lane emerged from the library when she heard them enter. She embraced her daughter and then grasped Gwyneth’s hand. “Up already? I had hoped you would rest more than a few hours.”
No lost day, then. Gwyneth smiled and realized it must have been Mrs. Lane who helped her up to bed that morning. Hers was the touch that felt like Mama’s. “I suspect it will take some time to adjust. But I feel better than I did on the ships. Clearer.” Mostly.
“Good.” Mrs. Lane looked as though she would say more, but the sound of the front door interrupted her.
Thad charged around the corner, so fast that they surely would have collided had Mrs. Lane not pulled them to the side. “Thaddeus! Did I not teach you against running in the house?”
He grinned and doffed his hat. “You always said no running in your house. This one is mine.”
Laughter sparkled in her eyes, though her lips remained straight. “But I am in its halls and in danger of being bowled over. Have a care.”
“Yes, Mother. Sorry, Mother.” Looking as though he would rather laugh than play the part of meek son, he nevertheless leaned over to plant a kiss on his mother’s cheek. Then he turned his probing gaze on Gwyneth and frowned. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”
“She is not an owl, Thad.” Philly turned toward the kitchen. “Have you any apples for Grandmama Caro?”
Thad pursed his lips, his gaze still on Gwyneth. “You were asleep when I left an hour ago, at least. You had to have gotten five hours.”
He had left only an hour ago? That was when she had awoken. Perhaps she had heard him leave and that was what roused her. It would account for that insistence in the back of her mind that he was not at home.
“Perhaps if the air cools this evening, we will all go for a promenade. A bit of exercise would no doubt help.” Mrs. Lane turned Gwyneth around with her.
Philly was already halfway down the hall. “The apples, Thad?”
“It depends on how many Jack pilfered while he was here.” Amusement wove through the words. “That little imp will devour them by the half dozen if he isn’t checked.”
Mrs. Lane chuckled. “I tried to limit him. Go look, Philly. There ought to be plenty left.”
His gaze was still upon Gwyneth. She felt it like a hand upon her cheek, but she couldn’t be sure whether it meant to slap or caress.
She darted a glance up at him. No hatred spewed from his eyes, no suspicion. But then, even when he had narrowed his eyes at her last night—was it just last night?—it had been only intensity in his gaze. Contemplation perhaps, or calculation. But no dislike.
Thankfully Mrs. Lane kept a hand upon her arm as she guided her toward the kitchen, for her vision blurred again. She kept moving, but with each step the floor wobbled more.
Fire balled in her stomach. When would this stop, this infuriating weakness? They would all think her a burden, an invalid, a spoiled child incapable of standing on her own feet.
Mrs. Lane’s voice echoed in her ears, but she could make out no particular words. A chaotic din filled her mind.
Or, no, it was just that the entire household had converged upon the kitchen. The fog lifted from her eyes enough as they stepped into the room that she could see the Wesleys had both appeared, along with Mr. Lane, his arms laden with baskets from which Rosie unloaded vegetables and fruits. A Negro man leaned against the wall—he must be Henry, Rosie’s son-in-law. Philly was telling her father about something that required sweeping gestures of her hands, and little Jack had even returned. He bounced about like a marble in a ring, chanting, “Apples? Apples? I want apples!” until Mr. Lane stopped his ricocheting with a hand atop his head. The chant dissolved into giggles.
Mrs. Lane headed for her husband—or perhaps the boy—and Gwyneth feared her knees would buckle, traitorous things.
But then new hands braced her, cradling her elbows from behind. Thad. Obviously, as everyone else was in front of her. A glance down merely confirmed it. His long fingers, yes, curling around her arm. With that jagged nail on his left pointer finger, and the scar upon his opposite knuckle. Rough enough to declare he was a man of trade, yet smooth enough to prove he had done well at it and paid others, now, to take on the heavy burdens.
And strong. Strong enough to all but lift her from her feet and set her gently upon a chair at the wide, thick table. When he then pressed a cool tin mug into her hands, she lifted it to her lips.
Lemonade. Sweet and tart and blessedly cold. Gwyneth let her eyes slide shut and sipped again.
“The market was all abuzz.” The elder Mr. Lane? It must be. “I trust you heard the same news I did, Thad.”
“About the action along the Patuxent?” His voice flowed steady and smooth over her.
“Aye.”
“Battles? That close to us?” Who was that? A female, but who would be talking of war? Aunt Gates perhaps. “Who won?”
“There was no tactical advantage to it, but Barney’s men won the day.”
Barney. She had heard that name. One of the American leaders. Gwyneth sighed and leaned onto the arm she propped on the table. “That is a shame.”
The silence pounded, scattering the lovely haze that had overtaken her. Her eyes flew open, and her pulse raced when she saw that every single person in the room stared at her, even little Jack.
Oh, heavens. What had she said? Had she…? No, surely she had not replied to their news as she would have had Papa been the one sharing it. She was not so stupid, nor so insensitive.
The fire seemed to leap from the stove directly onto her face. “Forgive me. I am so sorry. I was not thinking—Of course, you would…it is just that my father and his friends…forgive me. Please.”
They all moved again, their gazes shifted, but she felt no relief. Not until Mrs. Lane knelt at her side and pressed a cool hand to her hot cheek. Gwyneth blinked burning tears away and focused on the warm green eyes of her hostess.
“We understand, Gwyneth,” she said. Softly, calmly. “You are accustomed to giving the opposite reactions of ours to such news. We do not hold that against you. And never, never feel you must feign anything in our company. You may disagree all you like with us, with our positions, with our loyalties. Do you understand?”
How could she, when she had just shouted with that careless murmur that she was their enemy? Gwyneth shook her head.
Mrs. Lane smiled and smoothed the damp tendrils from Gwyneth’s cheek. “For years during the Revolution, I had to pretend to be what I was not. I had to deny everything I held dear. You will not be asked to do the same. Think what you will, believe what you will, sweet one. Our only requirement is that you take no action that could endanger us.”
She covered the woman’s hand with her own and held on lest the tide snatch her away from this oasis and out to the ravaging sea. “I could not. Would not. I swear to you that.”
A plate slid onto the table, a yellow square covered in melting butter. She sent a questioning look up, and up still more into Thad’s face. He nodded toward the plate. “Corn bread. Sweet but hearty. You need to eat.”
“Thad.” What did she intend to say? She could hardly expect her feeble words to convince these people that she could be trusted, that though she wished her homeland victory always, that did not mean she wished theirs defeat. She let her gaze drop. “Thank you.”
He nodded and then turned back to his father. “That is not all I heard. They are raiding again.”
Raiding…again. The words made something clang in the back of her mind, some memory from home. Words drifting down a hallway, out of Papa’s study. His precious voice, raised in frustration. Insisting that this was not how England waged war.
Mr. Lane sighed. “Provisions?”
“If only that, it would be nothing beyond the expected.”
Another, deeper sigh. “We have friends along the Patuxent.”
“I know. Let us pray they abandoned their farm before the British arrived. The reports I heard were of savage attacks on innocents. Houses burned, churches destroyed.”
“Much like Hampton.”
“But at Hampton ’twas the Independent Foreigners that committed the atrocities.” Thad’s tone was hard, cool. “Now the British ranks all seem to have adopted the tactics that outraged them at the start.”
Though her stomach churned, she picked up the crumbly bread and told herself it was hunger that made her hands shake so. Not fear, not dread, not revulsion. Only hunger.