Bridget waited in the parlor in the slanted shadows of late afternoon for her father to return. She had not eaten all day. He had taken her back to the house after spoiling her attempt to catch up with Philippe and given her instructions to wait for him. After several vain attempts by her mother to coax her to talk, Sarah gave up and left her alone. At last Bridget heard Amos coming through the house, and her mother’s undertone of concern as she encountered him in the hall.
“Gigi?” Amos entered the room.
“Father.” Her voice was low and foreboding. “What have you done? Where is Philippe? What . . . have . . . you . . . done?” Her voice rose with each word until she was screeching at him. She ran to him and dissolved in tears as she pounded his chest with her fists.
“There, there, my dear. No need for such histrionics. Sit down.” He pulled his hysterical daughter onto the settee with him.
She buried her face in her hands and sobbed. “Where has he gone? Why have you done this? We could work things out. I know we could. We could have reached a compromise.”
“And that’s exactly what it would have been—a compromise. You are too valuable and too precious to live in a compromised situation all the rest of your life, simply because you—”
“Simply because I what? Fell in love with a wonderful man? Someone who would love me and take care of me and treasure me?”
“Take care of you? A former indentured servant who does not share your faith nor your feelings, from what I have gathered, and whose family would be against you as well? You are too young to realize the heartache that would bring to your lives. The blush of young love soon fades, and you are left with the harsh realities of everyday life.”
Bridget thought of David and Ella, and Bradley and Penelope, and the grumbling she had heard among the young wives about their husbands. And although she believed her parents held a certain affection for one another, they were not exactly an example of passionate married love.
“Be sensible. You are thinking with your heart. You would be no different than anybody else and your relationship more difficult than most. If his family objected, which they most assuredly would, you would have to start from scratch on your own. How could he afford land? Certainly not with the wages I gave him.”
“Is my dowry not going to be substantial?” She stared at Amos, narrowing her eyes. “You gave him his final wages and released him, didn’t you?”
“I did.”
“So he’s gone home.”
“Yes.”
“That’s simple. I know where his family is. I’ll follow him. Perhaps Bradley would take me. You cannot keep me from him forever.” Bridget stood. “And why did you not give him land? I know you’ve done that in the past for indentured servants. Philippe has been one of your favorites, and you did not give him land!”
Amos tried to take his daughter’s hands, but she pulled away from him. “It’s true. He was one of my favorites, but it’s rather obvious why I did not set him up with land.” He took his pipe out of his pocket. “I did give him the Percheron.”
She spoke barely above a whisper. “I’m glad you did that.” She blotted her tears with her handkerchief. “I will find a way for us to be together.”
“You will not hear from him anymore, and you will not attempt to follow him again. He gave me his word that he would not contact you.”
“You . . . you made him promise not to see me again?”
He tapped his pipe into an ash holder. “Philippe understands that you can never be together as husband and wife. He understands that a clean break right here at the outset is the easiest and best solution.”
“Easy? You think this is easy? This is anything but easy.”
“It may not seem like it now, but in the long run, my dear, believe me, it is the easiest solution. Philippe needs to be in the bosom of his family after six long years of being separated from them. Let him go.”
Bridget fell silent. She twirled a curl round and round on her finger. In spite of her protests, her father’s reasoning began to penetrate her emotions. She did not wish to cause Philippe any further anxiety. Glimmers of the dreadful truth began to settle in her heart—Philippe was gone. She would never see him again. “I shall always love him.” She tried to swallow a sob that came out in a gasp. “I . . . I shall never forget him.”
Sarah entered the room as Amos embraced his daughter. “I know, I know, my dear. There is a part of your heart that will always remember him. He was your first love.”
ADRIAEN WALKED UP THE STEPS OF THE PORCH WITH A FULL basket of eggs. She opened the door to the large keeping room and set the basket on the table. “The hens must be content these days. There are eggs everywhere in the coop.” She laughed. “We’ll need to make egg pie.”
Madeleine took the basket and set it on the hearth. “Pierre will be glad of that.”
“And spoon bread. Jean loves spoon bread.”
Vangie came out of her room, a smaller bandage on her head than the day before. “Good morning, Maman, Adriaen.”
“Good morning!” Adriaen’s early morning exuberance brightened the room as much as the sunlight that flooded through the shutters she was opening. “How’s the head? Healing well?”
“Yes, thank you.” Vangie pulled her shawl around her shoulders and sat in the rocking chair beside the fire. “It still throbs now and then, but it is much better.” She picked up the yarn she had been spinning the evening before and started to work.
“Vangie, eat something before you start on that.” Madeleine ladled porridge into a bowl from a kettle that had been simmering over the fireplace. The men had already gulped their breakfast down with some cider and gone out to the early morning chores. A rabbit roasted on a spit over the fire.
“I’ve fallen behind. I need to get this done.”
“That can certainly wait until you’ve had some nourishment. Come sit at the table.”
“I’ll just eat here by the fire. I’m cold.”
Madeleine sighed as she spooned butter into the hot porridge and poured milk from a pitcher on the table for her daughter. “Molasses?”
Vangie nodded and stood, reaching for a cup of cider on the table. She took a step backward and seized the back of the rocking chair. The chair tilted with her, and she grabbed hold of her head.
“Vangie!” Madeleine dropped the bowl of porridge and dashed to her daughter’s side, catching the frail girl before she fell. “Sit down! Sit down before you fall.”
“I’m fine, just a little light-headed. I simply got up too fast.” The two women helped her resume her seat in the rocking chair. “Really, I am fine.” She looked at the porridge mess on the floor. “I’m sorry.”
Adriaen had already begun to wipe it up. “No problem, child. This is easily taken care of. I’m glad, however, that your mother hadn’t yet poured the molasses in it. Now that would have been a sticky mess.” The young mother-to-be raised herself from the floor and sat on the bench by the table. “That’s getting harder and harder to do.”
“You should have let me do that.” Madeleine spooned a second bowl for Vangie.
Adriaen gathered the dishes and began to help Madeleine get started on dinner. “Oh!” She clutched her expanding abdomen with her hands.
“Adriaen? Are you . . . is everything well?”
“The baby is turning somersaults again.” She laughed. “He’s kicking me.”
“That’s good. It means he is healthy.” Madeleine eyed her sister-in-law. “It looks like that baby is dropping already. We may have a new arrival sooner than we expected.” She began to take eggs out of the basket. “I don’t have time to do the egg pie for dinner. Let’s make spoon bread. That’ll be good with the rabbit.” She chuckled. “It was a long time before I could eat rabbit after our journey from Versailles through the woods back to Switzerland. That’s about all Pierre and Philippe could catch in the forest. They did fish some, but . . .” She stopped in midsentence and starting cracking and separating the eggs.
“Go on, Madeleine. You know how we love to hear your stories.”
“That was a long time ago—another life.”
“Please, do continue, Maman.”
Madeleine smiled. “What do you want to hear?”
“I like to hear about Papa.”
Adriaen spoke up. “And how you met Pierre.”
“You two are romantics.” Madeleine pointed to the cornmeal barrel. “Adriaen, would you please mix up the dry ingredients while I separate the eggs?”
“Please, Maman, tell us about Papa. Tell us again about the first time you saw him.”
The crunching of the eggshells punctuated Madeleine’s words as she talked. “Very well. The first time I saw François was when he and Jean, and their father and their sister, escaped to our estate, fleeing from the dragoons . . . who had murdered their mother and other sister.” Madeleine hesitated and looked toward the corner of the room, as if she were seeing the scene in her mind. “He had a bloody gash across his forehead and carried the limp body of his sister. She died shortly after they stumbled onto our property.” Madeleine looked at Vangie. “Do you remember the scar across Papa’s forehead?”
Vangie nodded and turned to Adriaen. “His hair covered it most of the time, but I remember it.”
“And all because we Huguenots simply wanted to worship God the way we believed the Scriptures taught.” Madeleine shook her head. “I fell in love with him immediately, and we married shortly after they came to the estate. And then Philippe was born; then Charles; and finally you, Princess. We were very happy for many years during the time that the Edict of Nantes offered the Huguenots protection, but for some reason . . . for some reason Louis began to get pressure from his advisors to take Huguenots prisoner if they wouldn’t convert. They sent many to the galleys, where Papa ended up; and kidnapped children, such as Vangie, to monasteries and convents.”
Adriaen jumped in. “Vangie, I’ve never heard you talk about being in the convent. Do you remember it?”
Vangie looked up at her aunt. “Well, I was so little—”
Madeleine interrupted. “Why don’t we save that for another time, ma petit chérie? Adriaen and I need to be getting dinner started. Could you hand me the cornmeal, Adriaen?”
The two women cooked all morning, and Vangie returned to her spinning. Adriaen felt the need to sit down and rest frequently. She had not said anything to the family, but she had felt the baby dropping as well. It was too early, and she was frightened. Perhaps she was further along than they had calculated. Beads of sweat broke out on her forehead as the pain in her back tightened.
Heavenly Father, let this pain subside. It’s too early for the baby to arrive.
She got up and continued to help Madeleine as the pain passed.
Jean and Pierre had gone out in the fields after the noon meal with their hired hand, Karl, to start cultivating the soil to prepare for planting. Peas and potatoes were already in the ground, as were the onion sets, but they needed to plant the greens and beets. Weeds were popping up every day along with the asparagus and rhubarb. Adriaen hurried with the dishes, so she could get into the garden.
Footsteps suddenly pounded on the porch, and Jean burst into the room. A grin spread across his face from ear to ear.
“My goodness, husband, what are you beaming about?”
“Come and see! All of you! Come, come outside.”
Adriaen could hear shouting of men’s voices and laughter from the barnyard. She looked out the door and saw someone on . . . was it Tonnerre? No, but it was a horse just like Tonnerre. It was Philippe! “Madeleine! Come—it’s Philippe!”
Madeleine ran to the door, clutching her apron, and uttered a cry. “My son?” She stopped at the door and stared. An almost inhuman sob erupted from her throat as she gathered her skirt and began to trot toward him, breaking into a full run, chickens squawking and scattering in front of her. “Philippe, my son!”
Vangie rose and hurried to the door as well. She grabbed hold of the doorjamb.
“Steady there.” Adriaen held on to Vangie’s hand.
The men laughed and shouted, embracing the young man as he dismounted. Madeleine ran headlong into his arms, her hands clutching his shoulders over and over.
“My son, my son.” She pulled back and caressed his face, kissing his cheeks, first one side, then the other. Then, still cradling his face in her hands, she asked, “Wh-what are you doing here? Charles? Is he well?”
“All is well, Maman. In fact, everything is wonderful. Mister Barrington . . . he . . . well, he released me early.”
“Early? Praise God! Thank you, Lord! But why? Why would he do that?”
“Plenty of time to explain it all to you. It’s a long story. But look!” Philippe pulled out his leather pouch. “He paid me, and best of all . . .” He pointed to Legacy. “He gave me the horse of my choice.” Philippe rubbed the horse on his face, and the big Percheron nickered.
“This looks familiar.” Pierre laughed. “He might be a threat to my Tonnerre.”
“Not a threat but a good complement to carry on.”
“We have a new colt out of Tonnerre. Looks just like him.”
“Maybe we’ll start a herd of Percherons.”
“That’s my intention,” Pierre replied, and everyone laughed.
Philippe spied Vangie standing on the porch and went to her, picked her up, and swung her around. “You’re almost too big for me to do that anymore. What’s this?” He pointed to the bandage.
“Oh, it’s nothing, really. I just fell down. It’s fine.”
The whole group chattered at once. They went to the barn to show Philippe the newest additions to their stock. Like a gaggle of geese, the family entourage went from one part of the farm to another showing off the improvements, new plantings, and fences since Philippe had last visited in the fall. Finally, and reluctantly, they all went to their chores, with Philippe helping Pierre in the stable.
Adriaen watched Madeleine peer outside every few minutes. “He’s not going anywhere, Madeleine. He’s home to stay.”
Madeleine dabbed at her eyes. “I cannot get my eyes full enough of him. He’s turned into a handsome young man, has he not?”
“Very handsome. You should be proud. Jean says he looks much like François?”
“He does . . . it’s like I have a piece of François left. Tall and slender and strong. And his hair is exactly like François’, dark and straight.” She looked out once more. “I think I’ll sit with Vangie on the porch and help her churn the butter. It is really quite pleasant outside this afternoon.”
“Good idea. I’m going to work on those weeds in the garden. If we don’t get them out now, they are going to overtake the new crops. Asparagus is going to be ready to pick within the next few days, the rhubarb as well.”
“Adriaen, I know you—that hardworking Dutch heritage. Don’t overdo it.”
“I won’t, but I also want to gather nettle to make tea for Vangie. It seems to strengthen her a bit when she is faithful to drink it.” She smiled and waved at mother and daughter on the porch as she picked up the hoe from the side of the house and went to work on the pesky weeds, praying the tightening in her back would not return.
LATER THAT NIGHT, PHILIPPE TOSSED AND TURNED ON HIS pallet, too excited to sleep. Pierre and Jean had been working on a room on the back of the house, which they’d intended to have finished by the time Philippe returned home, but late winter snows had delayed them. They could finish it within a few weeks now that the weather had turned mild.
Bridget’s face flashed before him. How angry she must have been when she found out that her father had released him. But he had given his word, and he would keep it. He would never see her again.
Then he thought of Charles, and the pain of leaving his younger brother wrenched his heart. The anguish in his younger brother’s warm brown eyes as Philippe left him brought tears to his eyes. There had to be some way that they could gather enough money to pay out his release. He would speak to Pierre about that tomorrow. There must be a way.
THE SPRING MORNING HAD USHERED INTO THE PARLOR unusual warmth for the season. Bridget held the yarn between her hands as Sarah wound it round and round into a ball. Her mother droned on about their neighbor’s daughter, who had become engaged to the mayor’s son.
“It is a perfect match. The wedding will be a lovely affair, probably the biggest event of the year. Can you imagine what beautiful children they will have?”
“Stop it, Mother.”
“Wh . . . what? Stop what?”
“Stop hinting at the fact that I’m not married and am getting almost beyond the point that anybody is going to be interested in marrying me.”
“Why, I was doing nothing of the sort. I was simply relaying the news of our neighbors.”
“I’m going outside for a bit of fresh air.” Bridget set the yarn down on a footstool. “It’s stuffy in here.” She walked onto the front porch. Large potted plants graced the portico. She went to the steps and sat down.
Abigail stood up from the flower beds, her face red from exertion.
“Oh, hello, Abigail. I didn’t see you down there.” Bridget smoothed her skirt.
“I came out to pick some flowers for the parlor and started pulling weeds. Once thee starts, it’s hard to know where to stop. Is there anything that I can do for thee?”
“No, nothing. I just needed some fresh air.” Bridget looked at the young mother; the evidence of the new life inside of her was beginning to bulge beneath her dress.
The servant returned to her knees digging in the soil, and Bridget cleared her throat. “Abigail?”
“Yes?”
“Are you—are you in love with your husband?”
Abigail’s head jerked up, and she stared at her mistress. “Am I in love with my husband?” She leaned on the trowel in her hand to push herself up. “Why would thee ask that?”
Bridget shrugged her shoulder. “Mmm . . . just curious.”
The servant looked down at her hands covered with dirt. “My husband is a good man and a good father.”
“That’s not what I asked you.”
“He treats me well and isn’t given to much wine like some of the other men on the plantation.”
“That’s not what I asked you either.” Bridget held her breath. “I want to know if you are in love with your husband.”
“I have grown to love him.”
“So you were not in love with him when you married him?”
Abigail looked down and over at her toddler who played with a shovel in the dirt beside her. “Well, no, not exactly. I had only seen him at church.”
“You are Quakers.”
“Yes. Our parents approved our courtship and arranged the marriage. It was agreeable to me. I liked him.”
“I see.” Bridget looked out over the gardens at the lilacs and yellow jonquils bursting with color. “Was there anyone else, any other young man whom you would have rather married, but it wasn’t possible?”
Abigail shook her head. “No, ma’am. Zachary was the only one who asked to court me.”
“Are you happy with . . . with the arrangement? Has it been a satisfactory one?”
“Oh yes, Mistress Bridget.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “Certainly there are adjustments in any marriage, but we have done well . . . I think.”
“You have a lovely family.”
Abigail smiled and touched her swelling belly with her hand. She wiped her brow with the other, smearing dirt on her forehead.
Bridget looked at the young girl’s plain but beautifully made dress, with the white crisscross kerchief tucked into the apron. The girl’s dresses were always of lovely color and impeccable. Bridget stared at her servant’s open, innocent face that glowed with the anticipation of birth that mothers-to-be seemed to possess. Abigail wasn’t what you would call pretty, but her countenance exuded a natural, healthy beauty.
Bridget leaned down toward her. “Come here, please.” She wiped the dirt away from the girl’s face with her handkerchief, then returned to the porch and sat in a rocking chair. The young servant caught her toddler by the hand and went around the corner of the house. Bridget picked up a fan and began to stir the breeze with it. A girl about the same age as she, content in an arranged marriage, about to have her second child. She sighed again.
She thought of Philippe. She thought of him every day, and the pain of his departure tortured her. She was trapped, with nowhere to turn. Even if she could travel to the Schuylkill Valley to see Philippe, she would meet with opposition not only from his family but from Philippe himself. And she couldn’t stand the thought of being rejected by him. Philippe had given his word. He would not deny his honor. Her father had secured a tidy knot on the arrangement.
The door opened, and Sarah stepped out onto the porch. “May I join you for a moment?”
“Of course, Mother.”
“I instructed Abigail to bring some buttermilk for us.”
Bridget continued to rock and fan. “You know I don’t care for buttermilk.”
“It’s something cool to drink. Today is warm for May.”
“Yes. But did you come out here to talk to me about the weather?” Bridget’s comment sounded harsher than she intended.
Sarah flustered and began to beat the air with furious flaps back and forth with her fan. “I do have something I need to tell you.”
Abigail arrived with a pitcher of buttermilk and two goblets on a tray. She had washed and re-gathered her hair underneath her plain white head covering.
As soon as the servant left, Sarah poured the white, creamy liquid and sat back in her chair. She picked up a goblet and took a sip. Bridget left hers on the tray.
“Your father ran into Edward Moorehead in town earlier in the week.” She avoided Bridget’s eyes and swirled the milk around in her goblet. “He asked if he could . . . if it would be possible . . . he asked permission to come see you this week to discuss the possibility of courting you.”
Bridget’s stomach turned over, and her heart thudded against her chest. “And what did Father tell him?”
“He agreed.”
Tears sprang to Bridget’s eyes, and she shook her head. “No, Mother. Please don’t make me do this.”
Sarah’s demeanor softened, and she reached for Bridget’s hand. “Child, give him a chance. At least, allow him to call on you. You may grow to like him.”
Bridget pulled her hand away and hung her head as the tears dripped onto her skirt, spotting the fabric. “There is no comparison between Edward Moorehead and Philippe.”
Sarah stood. “It has already been arranged. He is a perfect match for you—a man of means, handsome, and well thought of. He is enchanted by you, and he is Catholic. He will be here in time for dinner and will remain for the afternoon. Go to your room now and change. I’ll send Abigail to help you.” She picked up the tray and turned to Bridget. “You’d best banish Philippe Clavell from your head and heart. To hang on to the idea of marrying him will only cause you heartache. Be content with what your father and I feel is the best for you.” She pushed the door open with her hip and went into the house.
How could her parents do this to her? She would run away, that’s what she would do. The sun began its ascent toward the midday sky. A few clouds floated lazily by, and a bird hopped along, pecking at the ground. A slight breeze ruffled the tops of the trees enclosing the circular drive to the house. Soon Edward Moorehead would be riding up that path. There was no place for her to run. Where could a woman go by herself? If she went to Philippe, he would send her back. She could go to David and Ella’s, or Bradley and Penelope’s, but that could only last for a season. They were in favor of the courtship, and besides, that would only put her in closer proximity to Edward Moorehead in Philadelphia. She was hedged in as surely as Whisper Wood was hedged by the trees surrounding the plantation.
She went into the house and climbed the stairs to her room, the room that had been hers from the time she was a little girl. Her dolls sat in a row in the wooden cradle that her mother had rocked her in. Her mother . . . which mother?
Bridget shook her head and went to the wardrobe, removing her diary from its hiding place. She sat down on the bed and unlocked it. One by one she began to rip out the pages. The only sound in the room was the tearing of the brittle pages and intermittent sobs. Page by page, she tore the epistle of her journey from childhood to young womanhood into pieces.
A few embers from last night’s fire flickered beneath the ashes. She blew on the embers and coaxed the flame back into life, then slid the first page into the fire. My life as I have known it is over. Again and again, each page followed the next into the consuming blaze. I will . . . I will do what my parents ask of me, but I will never be truly alive again, as I was with Philippe. I will appear alive on the outside, but my heart and my spirit will be dead and brittle. Like these pages.
Bridget sat beside the fireplace and watched them curl and crinkle and disappear into smoke. I will bury who I really am, because my desires seem not to matter. I will walk as a shell of a woman. Perhaps when I have children, I will revive somewhat, but . . . it will be a bitter reminder of who I wanted their father to be.
Sighing, Bridget rose and resigned herself to the destiny that her parents had fashioned for her. The days of recording her dreams in a diary were over. It was time to grow up.
She looked at her writing paper and quill. She would write a letter to Philippe and tell him that she had decided to acquiesce to her parent’s wishes and agree to a courtship. She would marry and proceed with her life. That’s what he wanted, wasn’t it? She penned the letter quickly.
Philippe,
I am writing you this letter to say that I have decided that you were right. Although I will always care for you, there seems to be no way to obtain our parents’ blessings. And being the man of character and integrity that you are, it appears that we will not try to hurdle that obstacle.
Bridget stifled a sob and wiped a tear away from the page, smearing the ink.
My parents have arranged a courtship with a man I hardly know, but Mother says perhaps if I get to know him, I will learn to like him. His name is Edward Moorehead, an entrepreneur from Philadelphia. I have met him once before, at my cousin’s house, and consider him a prideful snob. You may remember the dandy who came out on the porch as we were leaving the last time you drove us to town.
I wish you prosperity, love, and happiness, my dear Philippe.
She hesitated. How should she close? Simply . . .
Forever,
Bridget
She sealed the envelope and placed it on the table outside her door for a servant to pick up and post. Abigail appeared at the top of the stairs.
“Come in, Abigail, and help me get dressed.” She walked to the wardrobe, removed her best dress, and began to ready herself for Edward Moorehead.
BRIDGET PEERED ACROSS THE TABLE AT EDWARD AS THEY finished the blueberry buckle. The early afternoon sun glinted on the silver pieces adorning the table. Edward’s grooming was perfect, as it had been when they first met.
He is a prissy thing, Bridget thought, and sighed. Today he wore varying shades of blue—a dark blue jacket with gold trim, a light blue vest and white cravat. His breeches were even blue, navy. His hair was tied back with a navy ribbon.
Sarah had hardly drawn a breath through the entire meal between bites and trying to keep the sagging conversation propped up. Bridget toyed with her food and sent most of it back to the kitchen. Her stomach cramped underneath the stays that drew her waist in as tiny as possible. She caught hold of the large ruffled flounce of ecru lace on her sleeve and held it in her hand so it wouldn’t drag through the butter as she reached for her glass of claret.
Cook bustled in and out of the dining room as they progressed through the meal, frowning at the small amount of dinner Bridget ate.
Amos pushed back from the table and pulled his pipe out of his pocket. “Edward, shall we adjourn to the parlor?”
“Certainly.” Edward stood and set his chair back in place. He bowed slightly at the waist. “Ladies, I hate to leave such lovely company, but I believe Mister Barrington and I have a most important issue to discuss.” He smiled at Bridget. “May I speak to you after your father and I finish our conversation?”
“Yes, of course.” It was Sarah, not Bridget, who answered.
“Bridget?” His eyes found hers.
“Yes, Edward. I shall be outside on the porch.”
Bridget stood and picked up her fan as Amos and Edward moved into the parlor. Sarah remained at the table, sipping her wine and watching the servants clear the dishes.
Bridget went out the door and sat in the porch swing. She moved the swing back and forth gently, fanning herself and listening to the low punctuations of the men’s voices, interspersed with chuckles, through the open windows. The perfume of the lilac blossoms filtered through the air. Her toes barely touched the floor as she swung her legs to keep the swing moving. Maybe if she kept the swing moving, the men would keep talking and . . . she closed her eyes and listened to the hum of bees in the lilac bushes.
Abigail stuck her head out the front door. “Mistress, thy father would like thee to come to the parlor.”
Bridget snapped her fan closed and rose from the swing, sending it careening from side to side. She stopped the swing with her hand and walked into the house. Taking a deep breath, she started down the hallway and turned into the parlor. The two men stood by the fireplace looking at Amos’ guns hanging above the mantel. Edward had taken a musket down and was examining the stock. He swung around with the musket in his hands as Bridget came into the room.
Bridget gasped and stepped back as the musket swung in her direction. “Oh!” She stared at Edward. Her hands began to tremble.
“Oh, my dear!” Edward’s voice of velvet immediately soothed the atmosphere. “I frightened you. I humbly beg your pardon.” He replaced the musket above the fireplace and hastened to her side. He took her hand and helped her to sit down, then knelt beside the chair. “You are trembling.”
“You . . . you startled me.”
He took her hand and kissed it. He looked at her and smiled. “Please don’t be frightened. We were merely looking at the stocks on your father’s muskets. And I was telling him of a master craftsman employed at my foundry. It will soon be our foundry, as . . . well, perhaps it would be more proper for your father to make the official announcement.”
Bridget searched his eyes. His concern appeared to be genuine.
Amos approached the couple as Edward rose, still holding Bridget’s hand. His hands were soft. Amos slapped Edward on the back. “My dear, Mister Moorehead has asked permission to court you, and I—we—have given our enthusiastic approval.”
Sarah had appeared in the doorway. She began fluttering her fan. “Oh yes. Our very enthusiastic approval.”