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“Hmm.” The magistrate effected a thoughtful pose, with arms crossed and a finger resting on his chin. “My Mrs. Winthrop requested tea, if you have some.” He tapped his temple. “And something else. Oliver, can you recall the other items she mentioned?”
“Flour and coffee.” Corwin’s languid tone revealed boredom, perhaps even annoyance. “She wanted a list of his spices, and of course she’ll want to know about those fabrics.” He waved toward the crates Papa had opened.
At Papa’s instruction, Rachel wrote down the items they had imported from Boston, things an English housekeeper might want. She snipped small samples of the linen, muslin and other fabrics, and wrapped them in brown paper. All the while, she felt the stares of the two men. Despite the summer heat, a shiver ran down her back while a blush warmed her cheeks.
None too soon, they made their purchases and left, but not before Mr. Moberly once again bowed to her. Why did he engage in such courtesy? Neither in England nor in Boston would he thus have honored her, nor even have acknowledged her existence.
“Well, daughter, what think ye?” Papa held up the gold guineas they had given him. “His lordship didn’t even ask for credit.”
“Papa, will you listen to yourself?” Rachel leaned her elbows on the counter and rested her chin on her fists. “You were raised a Quaker, yet hear how you go on about ‘milord’ and ‘his lordship.’”
Papa harrumphed. “I suppose ye’ll be after me to take up my ‘thees’ and ‘thous’ again. Ye, who abandoned the Friends yerself, going off to that other church with yer sister and her husband.” He lumbered on his wounded leg toward the back room. “I should never have sent ye to Boston to live with Susanna.”
He disappeared behind the burlap curtain, and soon Rachel heard crates being shoved roughly across the hard tabby floor. Sorrow cut into her. Had he not been injured on his last whaling voyage, Papa could still captain his own ship, and she would still be in Boston helping the patriots’ noble cause. Instead, here she was in East Florida helping him.
He must feel as cross as she did about their differences of opinion, both about the revolution and the Englishmen. But she had not chosen to flee Massachusetts Colony to avoid the war against the Crown. How could he expect her to treat the English oppressors with civility?
“Pleasant fellow, that Folger.” Frederick flipped a farthing to the Negro boy who held their horses. “Good job, lad. If you get into trouble, tell your master Mr. Moberly required your services.”
“Pleasant fellow, indeed.” Oliver grasped his horse’s reins and swung into the saddle. “’Tis the little chit you found pleasant.”
“And you did not?” Frederick mounted Essex and reined the stallion toward the plantation road. “I saw you watching her as if she were a plump partridge and you a starving man.”
Oliver drew up beside him. “Of course I was watching her. Your father sent me along to this forsaken place to make sure no provincial lass sets her cap for you. And if she does, I’m to nip the budding romance.”
Frederick swallowed the bitter retort. Oliver’s reminder ruined the agreeable feeling that had settled in his chest the moment he set eyes on the fair-haired maiden. Here he was at twenty-three, and the old earl still treated him as if he were a boy sitting in an Eton classroom. As for the girl, she was no chit, but fully a woman, possessing a diminutive but elegant figure. Spirited, too, from the liveliness he had noticed in her fine dark eyes. But he would not say so, for Oliver would only misunderstand his generous opinion of her.
“Have no care on that account. I’ve no plans to pursue American women.” He glanced at the rolling landscape with its sandy soil and countless varieties of vegetation. While the weather could inflict heat, lightning and hurricanes upon inhabitants, he found East Florida a pleasant paradise, as satisfying as any place for building his future.
“You cannot fool me,” Oliver said. “Need I remind you that if you fail here, Lord Bennington will ship you off to His Majesty’s Royal Navy? You’ll end up wearing the indigo instead of growing it.”
Frederick glared at him. “Fail? My father sent me to rescue the plantation from Bartleby’s mismanagement, and that’s exactly what I have accomplished. He will not be quick to snatch me home.”
“You know as well as I it’s moral failure he’s concerned about.”
Frederick gritted his teeth. How long would he have to pay for the sins of his older brothers? “Rest easy on that account. I’ll not risk my business association with Mr. Folger by dallying with his daughter. However, if you will recall, we’re supposed to be building a settlement here. Before we can bring English ladies to this wilderness, we must provide necessary services. This man Folger may have friends up north who want no part in the rebellion. We must court him, if you will, to lure other worthies to East Florida Colony, even if it means socializing with the merchant class.”
Oliver regarded him with a skeptical frown. “Just be certain you don’t socialize with the little Nantucket wench while you await those English ladies.”
“Enough of this.” Frederick slapped his riding crop against Essex’s flanks and urged him into a gallop.
The steed easily outdistanced Oliver’s mare, and Frederick arrived home far ahead of his companion. At the front porch, he jumped down and tossed the reins to the waiting groom.
“Give him a cooldown and brushing, Ben. He’s had a good run in this heat.”
“Yessuh, Mister Moberly.” The slender black man led the stallion away.
Three black-and-white spaniels bounded around the corner of the house to greet Frederick. He ruffled their necks and patted their heads. “Down, boy. Down, girls. I’m on a mission.”
He took the four front steps two at a time and crossed the wide porch with long strides. The door opened, and the little Negro girl who tended it curtsied.
“Welcome home, Mr. Frederick.”
“Thank you, Caddy.” He pulled a confection from his coat pocket, handed it to her and patted her scarf-covered head.
Inside, he strode across the entry toward the front staircase. “Cousin Lydie, I’m home.” He listened for his cousin’s response. Soon the soft rush of feet sounded above him.
“Dear me.” Cousin Lydie hastened downstairs, shadowed by Betty, the housemaid. “I expected you to be in the village much longer. Dinner is not yet prepared.”
“Don’t fret. I only announced my homecoming because I have this for you.” He pulled the fabric samples from his pocket and handed them to her. “Oliver has the other items, but I wanted to give you these myself. Be quick to order the dress lengths you desire, or the vicar’s wife will beat you to it.” He winked at her.
“Why, sir.” Cousin Lydie’s gray eyes exuded gratitude as she spoke. “You’re too kind.”
Frederick noticed the longing in Betty’s expression. The once cheerful maid had become a sad little shadow after an alligator caught her skirt and almost dragged her into the river. If Oliver hadn’t shot the beast, Frederick would have had a bitter letter to write home to Father’s groom to report the loss of his daughter.
“And be certain to choose something for Betty, too. Something to mark her status in the house.” He felt tempted to pat the girl on the head as he had the child at the front door, but thought better of it. Such innocent contact with serving girls had been the beginning of troubles for his older brothers.
“Thank you, sir.” Betty curtsied, and her pale face brightened.
“Think nothing of it.”
“Mr. Moberly.” Cousin Lydie insisted on addressing him formally in front of the servants. “A flatboat arrived bringing mail. Summerlin put several letters on your desk.”
“Ah, very good.” Frederick proceeded down the hallway to his study and sat at his large oak desk. Trepidation filled him as he lifted the top letter and broke Father’s red wax seal.
As expected, he could almost hear Father’s ponderous voice in the missive. The earl always seemed to find something wrong in Frederick’s correspondence and scolded him about nonexistent offenses. Yet the abundant shipments of produce and the financial reports sent by Corwin confirmed everything Frederick claimed about the plantation’s success.
Through the tall, open window beside him, he stared out on the distant indigo field where slaves bent over tender young plants. Last year’s crop had been modestly successful, and this year should produce an abundance, perhaps even rivaling the success of Lord Egmount’s nearby plantation. Why did Father doubt the veracity of Frederick’s reports?
He blew out a deep sigh. Pleasing his father had always proven impossible, so he cheered himself with Mother’s letter. She chatted about a party she had given in London and said how much she missed him. As always, she thanked him for giving her widowed cousin a home where she could feel useful. Frederick would make certain he responded that Cousin Lydia Winthrop did more for him than he did for her, managing the household with skill.
Marianne’s letter brought him laughter. His younger sister had rebuffed yet another foolish suitor who, despite an august title and ample wealth, possessed no wit or sense of adventure. “I shall remain forever a spinster,” she wrote. Frederick pictured her dramatic pose, delicate white hand to her pretty forehead in artificial pathos. How he treasured the memories of their carefree childhood days.
The letters had done their job. Father’s dire warnings had been mitigated by Mother’s and Marianne’s gentler words. Frederick rested his head against the back of his large mahogany chair and gazed out the window again.
In his most amiable dreams, he considered that his success in East Florida might move His Majesty to knight him, as Oliver had said. Then, in due time, he could complete the picture by returning to England to choose a woman to be his wife from one of the families who once had shunned him. But how could he win the king’s favor when his own father gave only disapproval?
He recalled the words of the pretty young miss he had met two short hours ago. In America, every man had the opportunity to earn his place in society. Not be born to it, as his eldest brother had been, but to earn his fortune by his own honest sweat. More and more, that peculiar idea appealed to him, for he found great satisfaction in his work. And the sort of woman Frederick required for a wife must be willing to leave her cushioned life to establish a new home, just as Miss Folger had done for her father.
Frederick would do well to foster a friendship with the merchant and his daughter to discover what kind of woman would make the perfect wife to bring to this savage land. Perhaps inviting the two to some sort of social gathering would be beneficial. A party such as Mother had given in London, where no expense was spared to please her guests.
Eager to enlist Cousin Lydie’s help in the project, he rose from his chair, but noticed another letter bearing Father’s seal lying facedown on the desk. Two reprimands? What had the old earl forgotten to scold him for?
Frederick snapped the wax and unfolded the vellum sheet, not caring if he tore it. The salutation made him blink twice.
My dear Oliver—
Frederick turned the missive over. Oliver’s name was clearly written in Father’s hand across the outside. A coil of dread tightened in Frederick’s stomach. Father had never addressed him as “My dear Frederick.”
He should not read this letter. Summerlin had left it here by mistake. Yet Frederick could not resist.
Received your letter of December 20. You have my gratitude for your faithful reporting of the matters we discussed. I shall make my decision accordingly. Please continue your endeavors to keep my son from further overspending. As to the chit from Oswald’s plantation, do all in your power to keep them apart.
Gratefully, Bennington
Frederick slumped back into his chair. What matters? What overspending? What chit? Frederick had visited the manager of Oswald’s plantation last year, but met no young woman.
And Oliver knew it. Oliver, the illegitimate son of a well-born lady, who had depended on Father’s generosity since childhood. Oliver, Frederick’s lifelong friend.
His hands curled into fists, crushing the heavy paper into a ball. He thrust it into the fireplace, then snatched a piece of char cloth from the box on the narrow mantelpiece. But before he could strike flint against steel to light it, other thoughts stayed his hand.
Working to subdue his anger, he pressed the page out on his desk, refolded it and then consigned it to the hidden compartment beneath his desktop. He must not let Oliver know that he had discovered his treachery.
Frederick paced back and forth across the room. All his hard work might come to nothing because Father believed Oliver’s lies. He reread the earl’s letter. At least Father had not called him home at once. But he must discover a way to prove himself.
The party. That was it. He would throw a grand affair and earn the friendship of the newly arrived residents of St. Johns Settlement. If they required help, he would give it. In his judgments as magistrate, he would continue to be firm but fair. He would solicit a letter of praise from his plantation physician, Dr. Wellsey, regarding the health and productivity of the slaves. He would foster friendships with the leading citizens of the growing settlement and petition for recommendations, as well.
And he would watch Oliver as a falcon watches its prey.
Chapter Two
“Captain James Templeton. How impressive your new title sounds.” Rachel sat across the table from her cousin in the parlor of the Wild Boar Inn. “Papa could have chosen no better man to succeed him as captain of the Fair Winds.”
“Thank you, Rachel.” Jamie grinned. “Of course, I’ve learned my trade from the best. When Uncle Lamech chose me as his cabin boy those fifteen years ago, he may have wondered how this orphaned boy would turn out.”
“We will miss you, but I shall pray for a good voyage.” Rachel took a sip of tea from her pewter cup. “But why must you go to London? Are there no other ports to supply Papa’s store?”
“In these turbulent times, English settlers might not favor French products. And after all, London has the best merchandise.” His brown eyes shone with brotherly affection. “I do wish you’d charge me with some special purchase to bring you.”
“You know what I want. News of the revolution.” She exhaled a sigh of annoyance. “I cannot even discuss it with Papa, for he will not listen to my opinions. With you gone, I will need to find another friend in whom I can confide…and complain to.” She glanced beyond him at the British soldiers in red uniforms seated across the entry hall in the taproom.
He followed her glance, then turned back with a frown. “Don’t get yourself in trouble. These soldiers are here for your good. They’ll protect you and your father and every other British subject in East Florida.”
“I am not a British subject.” She leaned toward him and whispered. “When will you join us, Jamie? When will you accept that we will be free from British rule…or die trying?”
Now he stared into her eyes with an almost scolding look. “My dear little rebel, why do you think your father brought you so far away from the troubles? Why, you’d have been fighting alongside the militia at Concord or Lexington if you’d had your way.”
She straightened as high as her short stature permitted. “When I sought to become a servant in General Gage’s home, I planned to gather information to help the patriot cause.”
He sat back, shaking his head. “Humph. Your feelings are always written across your face, and you never fail to speak your mind. You’d fail as a spy. You’d be discovered and hanged, but not before they wrested the name of your every accomplice from you.”
She clenched her jaw and stared down at her teacup. He was wrong. She could have learned how to withhold the truth, perhaps even to lie, as Rahab in the Bible had done to save the Hebrew spies. Sometimes the desperation to do her part in the revolution ate at her soul. At other times, she felt nothing but despair that Papa had made her participation impossible.
“Dear cousin.” Jamie reached over to nudge her chin. “What shall I do with you? After watching you grow into a beautiful woman, I see you slip back into the childish imp who bedeviled the crew in ’68.”
Rachel granted him the change of topic without protest. “Wasn’t that a grand voyage?” She smiled at the memory of dressing as a cabin boy and climbing riggings to watch for whales. Then she sobered. “But for Mama’s death, Papa never would have taken me.”
“Your father’s never ceased his grieving.” He patted her hand as if she were a child. “Please, Rachel, do not grieve him further. Forget the revolution.” A frown flickered across his youthful but weathered face. “Rebellion, I should say.”
She pulled back her hand. “‘Rebellion’ makes it sound as if the patriots are naughty children instead of sound-minded adults who have suffered enough of King George’s injustices.”
“Whatever you call it, just stay out of trouble.”
“What trouble could I find here in this remote wilderness?”
He gave her a playful wink. “Who knows? Maybe one of these handsomely uniformed soldiers will catch your eye and you’ll be married before I return.”
“You may wager all the Fair Winds’s profits that no Englishman will ever win my hand.” Again she cast a cross glance at the soldiers across the hall, who now harried Sadie, the innkeeper’s daughter, demanding rum despite the early hour.
Jamie shoved away his teacup. “It’d be a winning wager, no mistake. Now, may I escort you to the store? The captain will keelhaul me if I make you late.”
“He’d do no such thing to his nephew and new partner.” She scooted her wooden chair backward across the plank floor. “Wait while I fetch my bonnet.”
He sent her a playful smirk. “By all means, protect your face. The English value a fair complexion.”
She wrinkled her nose and laughed, but not too loudly for fear of drawing the soldiers’ attentions. In spite of Jamie’s assurances of their protection, she had no doubt that, given the chance, they would harass her as much as they did the innkeeper’s women.
As she hastened up the rickety steps to the inn’s second floor, she sent up a silent prayer of thanks that soon she and Papa would move into their own more stable home above their store. Under the supervision of Mr. Patch, the carpenter from Papa’s ship, the crew had labored for weeks to raise the roof and build the apartment. It was almost completed.
From her room at the end of the inn’s second-story corridor, she snatched her straw bonnet from a peg on the wall. Passing the room next to hers, she heard a soft whimper through the slightly open door. She glanced toward the stairway, then peered into the room.
There, in a rough-hewn pen no more than three foot by four, sat the innkeeper’s grandson, his dark, soulful eyes staring up with sudden hope when he spied her. Flies buzzed about the two-year-old’s face and crawled over a dry crust of bread beside him.
“Up. Up.” His winsome, tearful expression nearly undid her.
“Dear little Robby.” Unable to resist his entreaty, she lifted him. “My, my, you need a change. And look at all these mosquito bites.” She felt a twinge of anger that the innkeeper had not provided his grandson with mosquito netting, but perhaps he could not afford it.
Several clean diapers hung on a rope line near the window. Rachel started to call the baby’s mother, but compassion filled her. No doubt Sadie was kept busy serving those awful soldiers and could not care for her child as she ought to. Laying the child on the bed, Rachel quickly changed him, cooing to him all the while.
“There, little one. I’ve not forgot how to do this. Gracious knows I changed my nieces and nephew often enough these past few years.” And the three of them healthily plump, while this wee tyke’s ribs were all too visible.
The baby whimpered as she set him back down in the pen, a splintery structure made from an old shipping crate and far different from the sanded, polished beds her sister’s children slept in. And nothing more than an old tin cup, empty at that, for a toy.
“I must go, sweet boy.” Rachel thought her heart would break. “I’m certain Mama will come feed you soon.”
Only by force of will could she hasten down the stairs to join Jamie in the entry hall.
“What is it, Rachel?” With a frown, he stared into her eyes. “You look distraught.”
“Sadie’s little one.” She bent her head toward the staircase. “He spends his days alone in her room while she must fend off those dreadful soldiers.”
Jamie’s face softened. “You have a kind heart, cousin. Hmm, didn’t Sadie say her husband is a soldier, too?”
“Aye, but that doesn’t seem to protect her.” She lowered her voice. “And I’ve learned he’s serving under General Gage. Perhaps he even fought against our men at Concord.”
“Rachel—”
“Yes, yes, I know.” She moved past him out the inn’s front door.
