Love Thine Enemy

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“Put it here.” Mr. Moberly motioned to the slave and indicated a spot on the ground. “Miss Folger, may I?” He held out both white-gloved hands.

“Yes, thank you.” She grasped them with pleasure, and her face warmed as she climbed from the wagon. Never in her life had she received such attention.

“Welcome to Bennington Plantation.” Mr. Moberly offered Rachel his arm. “Won’t you please come inside?”

The entrance to the house was a welcoming red door with an oval etched-glass window. Inside they were introduced to Mr. Moberly’s cousin, a tall, older woman.

“Do come in. We’re pleased to have you.” Mrs. Winthrop wore a black linen gown, and her hair was pinned back in a roll. A kind look lit her finely lined face, and her voice resonated with sincerity.

Dr. Wellsey greeted the newcomers, and even Mr. Corwin spoke pleasantly to them. They met a Reverend Johnson and his wife, and the minister invited them to his church services. To Rachel’s surprise and delight, Papa accepted. Mrs. Johnson, however, showed no interest in further conversation.

Several other couples were in attendance, and Rachel studied each face upon introduction trying to discern if any of them might be the patriot. Although everyone seemed friendly, not one person lifted an eyebrow upon meeting the Folgers from Boston. Had they not heard of the British invasion and the battles of Lexington and Concord?

While servants passed trays of hors d’oeuvres and cups of citrus punch, the men stood in a group and chatted about crops and weather. Rachel passed by as one man mentioned the “agitator” who frequented the taverns, and she glanced about the group to see if anyone appeared nervous. Not one expression informed her.

“The problem is,” Mr. Moberly said, “his description does not match anyone we know along the St. Johns River or in the settlement. So, if you see a stout fellow with a long red beard, do mention it to the nearest soldier.”

While the other men accepted the charge without much concern, Rachel felt a tremor of delight. Now she had one description, but perhaps there were other patriots.

She joined the other ladies, who stood on the opposite side of the drawing room making polite conversation about the challenges of living in the wilderness. The youngest woman in the group, Rachel listened more than she spoke, as propriety demanded. But she prayed for an opportunity to mention the matter close to her heart. In Boston, all the talk had been of the revolution. Here, none of the women seemed aware that their counterparts up north were sewing uniforms for their soldier husbands and weeping for those who had died for freedom’s sake a short two months ago.

“Miss Folger,” Mrs. Winthrop said, “I understand your father’s store has many wares we are generally deprived of here in East Florida.”

“Yes, ma’am.” An unexpected wave of pleasure swept through Rachel at being addressed so particularly by this kind, elegant lady. “We have been fortunate to import many useful items for sale, and my cousin will bring more from London.”

The other women cooed their approval.

“Then I must come and see for myself,” Mrs. Winthrop said, “for I am certain Mr. Moberly has not told me everything that would be of interest to ladies.” A proper hostess, Mrs. Winthrop now turned her attention to another guest. Yet her comments put an approving stamp on both Rachel and Papa’s business and their presence at this party.

Rachel cast a casual glance across the room and found Mr. Moberly staring at her. Her breath caught, and she hastily turned away. Her glance had also taken in the pleasant look Mr. Corwin sent her. Heat filled her cheeks. Why would these high-born gentlemen thus regard her? She recalled her mother’s cautions regarding men.

Outside the drawing room, a large commotion captured everyone’s attention. Servants hurried past the doorway, and soon the stout black butler entered to announce “Lady Augusta and Major Brigham.”

“Moberly.” Lady Augusta marched into the room with both hands extended toward him. “How good of you to invite us.”

While the vicar’s wife, Mrs. Johnson, released a sigh suggesting envy, Rachel almost gasped at the newcomer’s appearance. Perhaps ten years older than Rachel, Lady Augusta wore a tall, white-powdered wig and a green silk gown with broad panniers and a low-cut bodice. Her face, which seemed well-formed, bore a masklike covering of white. A single black dot, clearly not a blemish, had been placed to the right of her rouged lips, perhaps to suggest a dimple.

Rachel had seen a few ladies wear such a facade in Boston, but surely here in East Florida, the heat would melt that mask off of her face—if indeed the substance melted—before they sat down to dinner. And there stood her husband, dressed in his full regimental uniform, a glaring red banner of British pride emphasized by the haughty lift of his equine nose. Rachel shook away her distaste. She must do nothing to damage Papa’s favor among these people.

Mr. Moberly did all the proper honors to welcome the two latecomers. Their rank demanded that other guests be presented to the couple, so the company filed past them. Major Brigham languidly studied every person up and down through his quizzing glass, as though trying to decide if each were some sort of miscreant. Not one guest elicited a smile or even a polite nod from the officer or his wife.

Instead, Lady Augusta looped an arm around Mr. Moberly’s. “Dear Moberly,” she simpered, “you must show me your house. How clever of you to bring a bit of English country charm to this horrid jungle.”

“Of course, my lady. Come along. All of us shall go.” Mr. Moberly waved his free hand to take in the whole room.

Lady Augusta’s arrogant expression soured into a frown. Rachel could not help but wonder whether the woman had wanted to be alone with Mr. Moberly.

He guided his guests through the house’s ten rooms, each of which inspired Rachel’s admiration. While elegant in all appointments, the rooms were not ostentatious or gaudy. She particularly liked the library and would have been happy to spend the rest of the evening perusing the many books there. Lingering by the gentleman’s desk, she thought she spied a familiar pamphlet partially covered by a book. She longed to know what Mr. Moberly had been reading, but the party moved on, and propriety required her to follow them into the hallway.

“Shall we see the grounds?” Mr. Moberly addressed Lady Augusta, for everyone understood her approval alone would permit the expedition.

“Of course. I should not wish to miss anything.”

Mr. Moberly offered his arm to Lady Augusta, and Rachel noticed with surprise that Papa also offered his arm to Mrs. Winthrop.

The party moved outside, where a cool breeze from the east gave some relief as they walked along the narrow pathways among the plantation’s many trees. Mr. Moberly gave commentary as he showed them the sugar mill, the fields of sugar cane, cotton and indigo, and the fragrant, flourishing orange grove. He took them to the springhouse, a covered coquina cistern that caught water flowing from the earth’s depths, where a house servant dipped in a pitcher and filled goblets for the guests. From there, they moved to Bennington Creek, across which lay vast rice paddies.

As the party wended its way back to the house, Rachel noticed countless slaves, both men and women, at work in the fields, and her heart sank. How she despised slavery, an evil that had been abolished in Nantucket in 1773. Did Mr. Moberly approve of it or merely tolerate it by necessity?

Ahead Mr. Moberly was assisting Lady Augusta up the front steps. How courteously he behaved toward her, and even toward Rachel and his other guests of lower rank. But how did he treat his slaves? The men and women in the fields did not wear chains, but iron bands on some slaves’ ankles suggested they were chained at night. On the other hand, the black servants in the house seemed truly devoted to Mr. Moberly. In particular, Rachel had noticed the little slave girl who sat in the corner of the drawing room to wave the palm fans. The child had gazed at Mr. Moberly with clear adoration.

But despite Mr. Moberly’s frequent friendly glances in Rachel’s direction during the tour of his plantation, she came to know one thing. As proven by the ease with which he socialized with Lady Augusta, any kind attentions he gave Rachel were merely the actions of a gentleman displaying good manners. If she received them with any sort of expectation, she was nothing short of a fool.

In the dining room, they sat down to supper at a long, damask-covered oak table laden with exquisite bone china, delicate etched crystal and heavy silverware with an ornate floral pattern. A vast array of delicacies graced the board.

Rachel found herself seated between Señor Garcia and Reverend Johnson, neither of whom she could imagine to be the patriot. The Spaniard seemed to prefer eating to conversation, but the vicar made pleasant conversation.

“What do you think of the alligator, Miss Folger?”

“I find it surprisingly tasty, especially seasoned with these exotic herbs. And I should far rather eat alligator than for one to eat me. As we came by skiff from the coast, a large one bumped our vessel so hard I thought we would be swamped and devoured.” The memory made her shudder.

“How dreadful. Thank the Lord you were spared.”

Major Brigham and Lady Augusta, on either side of Mr. Moberly, spoke to no one but their host, although the officer seemed to take an inordinate number of opportunities to peruse the company through his quizzing glass. From his perpetual frown, Rachel guessed the haughty man might be having difficulty controlling his temper, but she heard and saw nothing to suggest why. When his stare fell on her, she stared back, and his frown deepened. But what did she care about the opinions of a rude British officer and his equally rude wife?

At the end of the meal, Mr. Moberly directed his guests to the drawing room, where rows of chairs faced the magnificent pianoforte in the corner. “Mrs. Winthrop, will you entertain us with your delightful playing?”

“Now, Mr. Moberly.” The lady shook her head. “Surely someone else can play better than I.” She gazed around the room. “Mrs. Johnson? Señora Garcia?”

All the ladies declined, denying any musical skill.

Standing beside Rachel, Papa looked down at her with a clear question in his eyes, but she warned him off with a frown. As much as she longed to play the beautiful instrument, she refused to put herself forward in this company, where Lady Augusta might ridicule her and who knew what Major Brigham might say.

“Very well, then.” Mrs. Winthrop sat down to play, and the other guests took their places.

Rachel chose an armless brocade chair in the back row where her panniers would not poof out in front. When Mr. Moberly took the chair next to her, her pulse quickened. This was the first personal attention he had given her since helping her down from the wagon. Foolish hope assaulted her, and she had no weapon with which to defend herself.

“I do hope you’re enjoying yourself, Miss Folger.” His eyes beamed with kind intensity. “Did you find the meal satisfactory?”

Against her best efforts, Rachel’s cheeks warmed. “Oh, yes, it was—”

“Moberly.” Lady Augusta appeared beside him. “I must speak with you, and I fear the noise of your aunt’s playing will drown me out. May we find a quiet corner?” She waved her silk fan languidly, and her eyes sent an invitation Rachel could not discern.

“Of course, my lady.” Mr. Moberly glanced at Rachel and offered an apologetic smile. “Forgive me, Miss Folger. I shall return in a moment.”

“Of course.” Rachel echoed his words, working hard to keep the sarcasm from her tone.

Once again, certainty shouted within her. She was nothing more than a trifle in Mr. Moberly’s eyes. He would always defer to those considered well-born. Why had she ever permitted herself to think otherwise?

But just as Papa claimed the empty seat beside her, another thought quickly replaced her disappointment. She stood and moved past him, determined to discover Mr. Moberly’s true character. When Papa raised his bushy eyebrows to question her, she whispered “the necessary.” Instead of searching for that room, she tiptoed down the hallway just as Mr. Moberly disappeared into his study. Rachel stopped outside the door, still ajar, leaned against the wall and, heart pounding, prayed no servant would discover her eavesdropping.

Chapter Seven

“Dear Moberly, I congratulate you on a delightful supper.” Lady Augusta gazed into Frederick’s eyes with a doelike expression, her own dark orbs encircled by dreadful black lines and her face covered with white lead ceruse. A despicable fashion, if ever he saw one, especially when the lady seemed not to have suffered the ravages of smallpox that required such a covering.

He shifted from one foot to the other and glanced beyond her toward the open door. Brigham could come down the hallway, see them poised close to one another, and misunderstand. Worse still, Miss Folger might do the same. Where was his watchdog Corwin when he needed him? Frederick stepped back from Lady Augusta to sit on the edge of his desk, glad to distance himself from her heavy rose perfume.

“Thank you, my lady.” He crossed his arms. “I hope you did not find the wild boar too gamy.”

“Not at all, silly boy.” She tapped his arm with her closed fan and gave him a coquettish smile. “It was delicious.”

“Excellent.” He tugged at his cravat. “Well, then, was there something in particular you wished to say…to ask…to offer complaint about?” He grinned.

The brightness in Lady Augusta’s eyes dimmed, and the coquette vanished. “I want…no, I require a favor from you.” Her voice wavered, and she swayed lightly.

“My lady, you have but to name it.” He uncrossed his arms, ready to catch her if she fainted.

She clutched her fan. “You must know my husband is the bravest man in His Majesty’s service, so you must not think ill of him or tell him of my request.”

Frederick leaned against the desk. “Madam, you may depend on me.”

“Thank you.” She exhaled a soft sob. “Will you write to Lord Bennington on my behalf? Ask your father to use his influence with His Majesty to keep Major Brigham in East Florida, say that you cannot do without him, that only he can manage the Indians, that—”

“Shh.” Frederick lifted a finger to his lips. “My lady, your voice grows louder. Surely you do not wish Major Brigham to hear this unusual request.” Nor did Frederick wish to hear it.

She sent a furtive glance toward the open door. “No, no. He must not know.” She pulled a lace handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed the corners of her eyes, smudging the black kohl. “I would never ask such a thing except for the rebellion in Boston. I cannot bear it if Brigham is sent there to fight.”

Even as understanding welled up in Frederick’s chest, another thought intruded. His brother Thomas, who served in His Majesty’s navy, would be deeply shamed before the admiralty if his wife were to beg this favor.

“Oh, Moberly.” She lifted her hands in supplication. “Say you will write the letter.” She straightened, seeming to gain a measure of self-control. “In turn, I will write a letter to my father asking him to look with favor upon you.”

“Me? I did not know Lord Chittenden knew of my existence, much less that I am out of favor with him.”

“Oh, he doesn’t, and you aren’t. But I have four sisters, each of whom has her own small inheritance.” Her voice lilted slightly. “I know how difficult it is for a younger son to find a bride among his peers.”