The sweet sound of sails snapping in the crisp wind brought a smile to Thad’s lips. He raised his spyglass and scanned the horizon. As with every other time he had done so since weighing anchor at the break of dawn, he breathed a prayer that those waters would remain clear. That no British ships would follow him out of Bermuda, that no new ones would appear. That he would make the Chesapeake free and clear, and that the Lord would provide a quick way back into the bay.
Home. Home to Gwyneth, who had yet to fade more than a shade from his thoughts since the Lord brought him to his knees last night. To his family—Philly had been heavy on his mind this morning too. And to Tallmadge, who would be eager indeed for the news he carried with him.
“If the wind stays with us, we should make it home in less than a week.” Michaels stepped up beside him, his eyes alight. “Though part of me would as soon stay out on open water. There are plenty of British ships begging to be harassed.”
Thad chuckled as he slid his spyglass closed. “True as that is, and much as part of me would love to play the menace, we need to get back. This information will be helpful to our military.”
Michaels snorted. “Assuming they listen, you mean. A grand assumption, if you ask me.”
“They will listen. This time they will.” They must. If they didn’t…well, then the entire region would pay for it, as they would for their months—nay, years—of refusal to prepare for the coming attacks.
Because this would be more than another raid. If Cochrane and Ross gave Cockburn his way, which they had sounded inclined to do while Thad treaded water by the hull of the Tonnant last night, then Washington City would be the next target. As soon as this newly arrived fleet made its way from Bermuda, they would plan the attack.
Assuming it took them another week where they were, then a week to organize in America, that meant two weeks after Thad reached home with the news to get everyone ready. Two weeks to strengthen their early warning method of keeping abreast of British activities. Two weeks to fortify and position troops. To call up troops.
A chill swept through him despite the balmy early August breeze. God of my end, my nation rests in Your hands. Deliver us.
As if in response, a gust of wind blasted by and sped them over another wave.
“I’m going to check my charts.” Thad gave Michaels a pat on the shoulder and strode toward his cabin. Henry was already inside, his gaze not on the navigation charts but on the map of the Eastern Seaboard. “Plotting where to bury your treasure?”
His friend offered him a wide grin. “Oh, I buried that long ago.” He turned back to the map and tapped the area along the Patuxent. “The system Smith set up under Barney ought to work well enough if we fortify it.”
“I have been thinking the same thing.” They had a reliable enough way of conveying information on the British movements. Cannons and guns were fired by one town as soon as the enemy came near, and tracking that from village to village gave the next one advance warning of their coming. And for more specific information, they had mounted couriers to take messages from one observation station to the next.
Thad had assisted in the construction of it months ago. He would put all the members on alert as soon as he got home, especially in the areas between the British’s current location and the capital city. As soon as the enemy moved that way, messages would begin to fly.
But as Michaels had wondered, would the politicians listen?
Thad shook his head. “I am not surprised they are considering Cockburn’s plan, yet I cannot quite believe they would do it. Tactically, it makes no sense. Winning Washington will accomplish them nothing in terms of position.”
Henry tilted his head to the side. “Ain’t you the one who said this war isn’t about gaining strategic positions?”
“Too true. ’Tis about destroying American morale—nothing more and nothing less. Dividing us. And they think destroying our capital will defeat our spirits.”
Henry’s lips twitched into another grin. “More the fools, them.”
Thad smiled back. “They have obviously not heard that their similar attack on the city of Hampton has become a rallying cry.”
“Still.” Henry nodded toward the map again. “Best to try to head them off and keep them away from the cities and townsfolk.”
No doubt the generals would have the same thought and would seek to meet them well outside the city. “Let us hope we have the strength to do so. Unfortunately, the newspaper articles that have convinced Cockburn we are weak enough to make this a viable plan are not mistaken.”
“There’s still time to strengthen.”
But enough? “Let us hope so.” Just as he would have to hope that there would be time enough to strengthen the foundations of his own house. To resolve the issues with Arnaud. With Gwyneth. To convince them both that they hadn’t the leisure to indulge in bitterness. Not when Washington was a target and Baltimore could easily be the next.
Thad could feel it, the coming wave of war. Feel it mounting on the horizon like a hurricane. They would all have to batten down the hatches of their defenses and of their lives because there would be no avoiding the thick of things. Not if they intended to hold on to their liberties. Even if that meant a certain risk to their lives.
Gwyneth’s face filled his vision again, and he shut his eyes to better see it. Was she well? Sleepless again? Would he return to that shadowed shell, one filled with anger with him instead of the horror of her loss? That need that hit him last night, that had kept him praying for two solid hours…
“She’s all right.” Henry gripped his arm and gave him a tiny shake. “You felt the peace last night like I did after we prayed. You wait and see. My Emmy’s there, and you know well she can set the world to rights with one bat of her pretty eyes.”
Laughter brought Thad’s eyes open again. “I don’t doubt it. Still, I worry for her. Does that ever stop?”
Henry gave him a look that labeled him an idiot. “What do you think?”
Thad sighed and pulled out his navigation charts. He thought he had a whole host of worries that would be waiting for him when he got home, none of which were ever likely to fade. So he had best see about getting them home safely and quickly. And keep his heart inclined toward prayer.
“He said what?”
Gwyneth pressed her lips together, but still she couldn’t hold back the smile. And why should she? Dabbing her brush in the sepia, she added depth onto Emmy’s countenance and then glanced up at her model again. “That you had three noses.”
From behind her, Philly laughed in that full, lively way of hers. “Oh, Emmy, you should see the look on your face. Paint her like that, Gwyn.”
Emmy repositioned her hand on her rounded abdomen and made an unsuccessful attempt to school her features. Though the outrage had faded, now it was a grin that marred the peaceful expression Gwyneth had put to canvas. “He has never forgiven me for besting him in that footrace when we were children, that is all.”
“No, more for your refusal of a rematch after he grew a foot in eleven months.” Laughter colored Philly’s voice, though a moment later she set her cup down with a clatter, and her “Oh, dear” sounded anything but amused.
Emmy abandoned her carefully set pose and rushed to her friend. Gwyneth put her brush down and spun too, to find that Philly had put her head in her hands and was drawing in a series of deep but shaky breaths. “Are you ill, Philly?”
The woman waved off Gwyneth’s question, nearly smacking Emmy in the face as she did so. “It will pass. Give me a moment.”
Emmy eased down beside her with drawn brows. “What is it? You are never ill but for when…are you…?”
Gwyneth looked from one of them to the other, feeling out of the circle. And then dreadfully naive when Emmy’s meaning struck and heat flooded her cheeks. Not that she had any reason to feel embarrassed by a married woman being with child. Especially when the couple obviously wanted a babe so much and had been so long denied one.
Philly whimpered, though it sounded more an emotional response than a physical one. “I am not certain. I think perhaps, but…perhaps not. I almost hope not, much as I hope so. I am…I am so very afraid.”
That was something Gwyneth could well understand. Setting her paints down, she moved to Philly’s other side and slid an arm around her. She was hardly an expert on this, with no wisdom to offer or intelligent questions to ask, but she could sit beside her, and she could pray peace upon her. She could be a friend.
Emmy smoothed a hand over Philly’s hair with all the warm familiarity of a sister. “I know how hard this has been on you, Phil. I do. And for sure and certain, the Lord never promises His children will have no pain. But He does promise He will see us through it. Each and every time.”
“I know.” But Philly kept her hands over her face. “He has, and I know He will. But I still…I was beginning to think I would never again—I am afraid to hope. Because if I hope and am disappointed, it will hurt so much more than if I do not let myself expect anything.”
“Would it?” When both women looked over at her, Gwyneth shrugged, surprised at herself for speaking. “It seems to me that if one does not hope, one does not really have faith. Fear…fear is natural. But Jesus offers to take us beyond that if we keep our eyes trained on Him. Does He not?”
Emmy winked at her and patted Philly’s shoulder. “You listen to the girl. Mama and I have filled her full to bursting with Scripture and prayers this last week and a half, haven’t we, Gwyn?”
“You have.” And in the past six days, since that night when she had heard the whispers of the Lord, clarity had begun to return. Those verses and prayers had filled her mind as she went about her daily tasks. The monsters still lurked; she could sense them. But they daren’t come close, not so long as she remembered those promises of peace and held them tight to her heart.
Philly rubbed at her eyes. “I need to speak to Reggie about my suspicions. I haven’t yet, being not quite certain, but he should know. Whatever comes, we can weather it together.”
“That’s a good idea, and you should speak with your mama too. She always knows what to say when I’m anxious. Besides.” Emmy smiled that stunning smile of hers, directing it to Gwyneth over Philly’s bent head. “We probably oughtn’t talk too much about such things in the presence of a young thing like Gwyn.”
Philly managed a partial smile of her own and eased back up. “She is not so young. I was married by her age, as was Amelia. And I daresay she will be in the near future too, given the way my brother has been looking at her.”
“Humph.” With a superior sniff, Emmy lifted her chin and folded her arms over her bulge. “After hearing how he insulted me, I’m not sure Thaddeus deserves a pretty little thing like our Gwyn. Three noses…”
Chuckling, Gwyneth looked up at the sky to gauge the angle of the sun. The ideal morning light had shifted, and so she might as well pack up her oils and brushes and finish the painting tomorrow. Emmy would be happy to sit for her again, she knew. Not that Gwyneth really needed a model before her, but it had been pleasant, these past five mornings, to chat and get to know each other while she put color to canvas. An easy, beautiful time. No heavy-handed muse breathing down her neck and forcing oddities into her work, no burning to paint anything but the image before her.
To make a friend. To learn more about the Lanes, what it had been like to grow up in their house. To hear about how so many frowned upon Emmy because of her mixed blood, but how love had finally found her when Thad decided to take to the seas and so had met Henry, who had come home with him one night, seen Emmy, and fallen head over heels.
The paths of their lives could be so unpredictable, so seemingly random, but always the Lord led them where they needed to be. And He had led Gwyneth here. Right here, at this point in time. Chased away by horror, yet ending up surrounded by friends.
Philly stood slowly and came to Gwyneth’s side to look at the canvas. “Nearly done and so very breathtaking. What will you do with this one?”
Gwyneth swished her brushes around in a jar of turpentine. “I am not certain. Give it either to Henry or Rosie, though I have not decided who should have it. Or perhaps I shall let them fight for it.”
Emmy laughed and gathered up the lacy shawl that had slid from her arms to the ground while she modeled. “That could be sporting.”
Reaching for a jar of paint and its lid, Philly sent Gwyneth an almost hesitant look, which was strange for her. “Gwyn…if you mind my teasing about you and Thad, you have only to say so.”
She could not resist the twitch of her lips. “And you will do what—stop? I find that very hard to believe, having seen this family interact for several months now.”
Philly grinned too. “Well, I wouldn’t stop teasing him, but the last thing I want to do is scare you off with it.”
Scaring her off—a valid concern not all that long ago, but at this point? She wanted to be nowhere else. The thought of Uncle Gates finding her here still lit a fuse of panic, but she would give that, too, to God, and trust His leading.
Gwyneth screwed a lid back on another pot. “You needn’t fear that, Philly. I have no intention of going anywhere, certainly not before that brother of yours returns and answers a few questions about why he didn’t see fit to tell me about Peggy yet thought to kiss me senseless.”
Philly’s eyes lit with mischief. “Senseless, you say?”
“Phillippa!” Emmy’s tone was admonishing yet ended on a laugh. “Don’t pry.”
“Why ever not? ’Tis a matter of scientific investigation.” Still grinning, she leaned close. “Have you not ever wondered why one man’s kiss can leave us cold and another make us melt like wax?”
Emmy slapped at her friend with the end of the shawl. “And when have you conducted that experiment?”
“Not since I met Reggie, I assure you. Or, well—he was the final installment of said experiment. Which, granted, did not have enough data to be thorough.” She closed up another color of paint, that light still glinting in her eyes. “It is an intriguing phenomena, though. And one of chemistry, which we all know is my area of expertise.”
Gwyneth slid the paints into their box and angled a saucy grin at her friend. “Were your brother here, I imagine he would say that his library rug contests your claims of expertise.”
“That was entirely his fault, startling us like he did.” Philly added another jar to the lot and then sighed. “I think I shall go find Mama. And Gwyn?”
“Hmm?”
Philly leaned over and gathered her close. “I hope you keep him, so we might keep you.” With those whispered words, she turned and bustled her way into the house.
Gwyneth glanced at Emmy, who smiled and followed her friend inside at a more sedate pace. For her part, she finished storing her supplies, carried everything in, and headed toward the kitchen with a light step. As soon as she entered the warm room, she snagged her apron from its hook and clapped her hands together.
“What will you teach me today, Rosie?”
The housekeeper looked up from the sink with the same frown she’d given her every other day she had asked the question—as if that would deter her. “I’m baking bread today, and you will just be in the way. Get on out of here and go make a picture.”
Instead, Gwyneth laughed and moved over to the counter, where two bowls were already sitting. “What kind of bread?”
“Nothing special. Just regular ol’ wheat. You don’t need to be gumming up those smooth hands of yours with the dough, now.”
Gwyneth tied the apron strings over her white day dress. “Nonsense. Though perhaps I ought to wash the paint from them first, hmm?”
Rosie made a disapproving noise, but she stepped aside to give the younger woman access to the wash water. “Don’t know why you got it into your head you had to learn how to cook. Ain’t that why I’m here?”
“And what about when you go to visit Emmy for a few days after she has her baby? Who will cook then?”
“Mrs. Lane can manage—”
“And so should I be able to.” She sent a warm smile toward her companion. “Can you not see, Rosie, how important that is? When I was in England, had I sullied my hands in the kitchen, it would have meant my family was poor. It would have meant no chance of a good match.”
Rosie huffed. “Well-off girls don’t cook here neither, Gwyneth.”
“But here, in this family, they can. I can learn how to help when help is needed. I can be useful.” More than just a pretty miss, taught more than how to play the pianoforte or embroider. She could do something that, in times of need, could lift a burden for someone.
As Gwyneth had known she would, Rosie sighed and handed her an old towel for her hands. “The most important lesson in bread making is knowing the dough—whether it’s too dry or too wet, which ain’t never the same day to day. The air has an awful lot to do with it, and the dough don’t rise a hoot on a dry, cold day. You’ll have to learn where to put it to rise in the wintertime so’s it gets enough heat from the stove but not so much it starts crusting up too soon.”
Gwyneth dried her hands and prepared to absorb all she could. She mixed, she kneaded, she added flour, she punched, and she nodded when Rosie indicated it was elastic enough, noting the consistency. Then she covered her beautiful ball of dough in its bowl and smiled at the victory.
A knock sounded on the front door, and both she and Rosie looked down at their messy hands.
“I got it, Mama,” Emmy called from out the hall. Her footsteps sounded, and a moment later they heard the squeak of the door opening.
“Good morning.” A male voice echoed their way, familiar enough to make Gwyneth want to run for the closet. Apparently Nathaniel Mercer was back from his trip to Virginia. “Is Mrs. Lane or Miss Hampton in?”
Another set of footsteps, this one the sure, measured step of Winter. “I am in, sir, but I regret that Miss Hampton is otherwise engaged this morning.”
And planned to be every morning, and any other time he might drop by.
There was a softer exchange that Gwyneth could not make out, and then the soft pad of Emmy’s steps toward the kitchen. Gwyneth moved to meet her as she entered the room, curious about her new friend’s reaction to the man.
His voice came her way again, too soft at first for her to catch over the other noises of the house, though as soon as she halted, she could make it out again. “…lovely young woman, and breeding too. If you feel the need to sell, she would fetch a high price, and I would be happy to—”
“You overstep yourself, Mr. Mercer.” Winter’s voice was as frigid as her name. “Emmy is no slave, nor is her mother. We have no slaves in the Lane family, as it is an abominable institution. Now I will wish you good day.”
Emmy looked positively smug, even making a little kicking motion as if to boot the man out the door.
Mercer cleared his throat. “I do apologize. I only thought—”
“I know what you thought, and I wished you good day. Now good day. And I thank you not to darken these doors again.”
Oh, Gwyneth could kiss that woman, and she would have run out to the hall to do so the moment the door slammed shut had she not been aware of the flour and dough still caking her hands.
Emmy shook her head. “Never in my life have I more wanted to spit in the face of a man. And oh, but does it make me miss my Henry. I hope they come home soon.”
“Soon.” Saying the word lit a lamp inside and warmed the oil of Gwyneth’s being until it spread all through her, as Thad’s kiss had done. “I think it will be soon, Emmy. I think they are close.”
“Do you?” Emmy’s voice was hopeful and just relieved enough to indicate she trusted her word.
Odd, really. But no odder than the surety she felt as she nodded. “I am certain of it.”
Emmy grinned at her mother and nodded toward Gwyneth. “I think Thaddeus really has met his match.”
Gwyneth indulged in her own little smile as she cleaned the dough from her hands. He had indeed. In ways he had probably yet to realize.