“We should find a man for Colleen to marry,” Margaret mused.
“Is that all you ever think about?”
“Aunt Sally said it is important for a young woman to make a good match.”
“How can she believe the miller will be suitable for me?”
“He’s always jolly.”
“Yes, for his customers.” Agnes questioned the miller’s affable manner. What would have happened if she had dropped the hammer on his foot? “At any rate, women do not need to marry.”
The soldier suddenly stirred. His eyes opened. He frowned at Agnes.
“Are you a new maid?” he asked.
“No, I am a blacksmith.”
“You are a woman.”
“Indeed, that is obvious, but I am also a smithy. I found you here in my barn. For your safety, you must claim to be my mother’s cousin to all who ask.” Agnes’s pulse raced at the lie, but if he was still hallucinating, she might easily cajole him into agreeing with her.
“Cousin?” His dry voice cracked. His beautiful blue eyes stared into hers and a strange tingle tickled her chest. He did not look delirious anymore.
“Here, drink some of this decoction.” She lifted his head and brought the cup to his lips.
Obediently, he did as she asked for a few moments, then he shoved her hand away.
“I remember…a bad dream,” he muttered as he furrowed his brow.
“I imagine you had many of them.” Had the fever broken? Would he get well?
“You called Puddles, Countess. I think she likes her new name.” Margaret stopped fanning.
“Countess?”
“The cat.”
One side of his mouth tilted upwards in an attempt at a smile. “Yes…at home…there is Countess.”
Margaret giggled. “That sounds nicer than Puddles.”
Though the barn door was closed, both Agnes and Margaret heard Colleen’s strong contralto singing as she walked.
“She is bringing the poultice!” Margaret ran off to greet her.
“My musket?” The soldier clasped Agnes’s wrist.
“Safely hidden.” She sought to placate him, but he continued to hold onto her.
“I want it.” He struggled to sit up though his face contorted with the pain of his effort. “I must rejoin my company.”
She pressed him back into the hay. “You are far too weak and cannot walk on your leg yet.”
“I will not be a deserter.”
“Would you rather be dead?”
“They will hang me.” He closed his eyes and his voice softened with exhaustion. “You are a traitor and a rebel.”
“I am a Patriot, but you are safe here as long as you remember you are my mother’s cousin.”
“That is a lie,” he murmured.
Agnes held her hands together to stop them from shaking. If he did not agree to her deception, they were all doomed. “Yes, it is, but you are not the only one in danger. You must do this for the safety of my family as well.”
He crossed his arms over his chest and opened his eyes. For a moment he said nothing, drawing in his lips as if making a conscious effort to curb himself from a harsh retort. “What was your mother’s name?”
“Violet Ellery.”
“Ellery?”
“Have you heard of her?”
“The name sounds familiar…though, it is a common one.”
“Yes, quite common. I know very little about my mother. She…died…” Agnes paused. Death was one thing, but her mother’s passing left a stain on the family. “…when I was seven and Father never spoke of her afterwards.”
“And your name?”
His voice sounded lower and more composed, as if his mind had cleared. Or had she only imagined it?
“I am Agnes McGowan. My sister is Margaret.”
“Who is singing?” His blue eyes narrowed.
“Colleen. She came as an indentured servant after Mother died, but she decided to stay with us when her indenture ended.” Colleen had mothered Agnes and Margaret, treating them as if they had been her very own.
“The terrible battle…in the heat. Who won?”
“Some farmers who watched the fray from a distance claim the Patriots triumphed, though the winning and losing in a conflict is often determined by strategists and the counting of the dead and wounded.”
“Yes, that normally occurs. Though many fell not from musket or cannon, but from the oppressive sun beating down upon us.” A shudder racked his body and Agnes feared he would go into a convulsion. “Where is General Clinton now?”
“North of here on the King’s Highway. The rumors say his troops will be ferried to New York from Sandy Hook.”
“I should be able to walk in a few days.”
“Perhaps.” She did not wish to discourage him, but it took quite a while for the pig to mend. The pig had taken the lead shot in the fleshy part of his hindquarters. The soldier’s wound cut through his thigh, just above his knee. Though the ball had not embedded itself in his flesh, the skin had ripped open in a horrible manner. He might never bend his leg again.
“You said your surname is Lederer. What is your given name?”
One side of his mouth tilted upward, creating a lopsided smile. “Edwin.”
Was there a small interval before he answered? Or did his uneven grin stir her suspicions? “Are you telling me the truth?”
He gave a derisive snort. “You ask for honesty when you expect me to masquerade as your cousin?”
“There is grave danger all about from those who continue to support the king.”
“I am a soldier and used to the hazards of war. My duty is to uphold the king’s rights.”
“Some would shoot you on the spot for those words.”
“I will not be a traitor.” Hard steel hardened his voice.
“Then you will forfeit your life and ours.” She refused to mince words with him for she knew the cost. “Passions run hot on both sides and terrible acts of violence have dissolved relations between friends and even brothers.”
“Why have you allowed me to live?” Mistrust drew down the corners of his mouth.
“You are…handsome.” She smiled in spite of herself, but he did not appear convinced with her simple reply, for he continued to gaze at her with his intense blue eyes.
“Do you intend to trade me for another prisoner?”
“I have no authority to conduct such an exchange and I will not hand you over to those who do. You are my mother’s cousin, and when fully healed, you may go back to England with the rest of your compatriots, for we will win this war.”
“England is far mightier.”
“Your king sits on a throne on the other side of a very wide ocean and he is fighting another war at the same time. We cannot lose, but it pains me to witness the cruelty men inflict upon their own neighbors and kin. I refuse to share in any man’s malice toward another.”
A fierce thundercloud marred his handsome brow. “Have you a husband fighting in this war?”
“No. I have a father and an uncle in the Continental army.”
“Why has no one asked for your hand?” he asked.
She laughed. “Do you not see the soot? As I told you, I am a blacksmith by trade.”
A slow grin brightened his face and her heart leaped in response.
“I thought you were a chimney sweep.” He reached out and smoothed his fingers along her cheek.
She barely breathed, for his touch sent a quiver through her veins.
However, he withdrew his hand quickly to scratch his neck and chest as several ants scurried across his skin. “Blasted vermin.”
She wrung her hands. He should have a cleaner place to lie. Above the forge was a small loft, but he could not climb up the ladder in his current state. Hobart, Aunt Sally’s hired man, had a cramped hut near the cornfield, which barely accommodated him. Agnes dared not oust Colleen from her room behind the kitchen.
Margaret and Agnes shared the big bed in the house d
uring their father’s absence. Otherwise, they slept in the attic. In the winter, some of the heat from the fireplace kept the second story warm. In the summertime, anyone upstairs roasted.
“You may sleep in Father’s bed until he comes home.” Agnes prayed for her father’s safe return, though she hoped Edwin would be gone by then.
“Ah…a bed. That sounds…quite civilized.”
His smile turned her heart into molten liquid.
* * *
The throbbing pain in Edwin’s leg made the move from the barn to the house agonizing. Too weak to stand, he had to be carried. Hobart, the German hired man, understood little English and treated Edwin like a large sack of flour. As he was bent and twisted and finally dropped into the feather bed, he fought to prevent himself from screaming.
Exhausted, clenching his teeth, and gasping for breath, he begged for whiskey or rum—anything to take the edge off his misery.
“We have some porter,” Agnes offered.
He grimaced, but nodded his assent, and she hurried to get it for him.
Colleen, the formidable Irish woman, glared at him as if he were no better than the vermin in the hay.
“I’ll not be hovering over you like Miss Agnes. She’s got a heart of gold, she does, but I have more than enough to do and now you’ve given us another mouth to feed and after that rowdy lot of king’s men have gone and taken our pig and three of our chickens.”
“I am sorry about the theft of your livestock.” He winced as the fire above his knee threatened to undo his grip on reality.
“Nothing but a thieving bunch of blackguards they are and here you are claiming to be a cousin of the young ladies’ mother? You are playing on their sympathies, no doubt, and I’ll not be believing your tale until you show me some proof, for nothing good comes out of England for all I can see, and you don’t look a bit like Miss Agnes.”
“I resemble my father’s side of the family.” That much was unfortunately true. He was indistinguishable from the Duke at the same age, or so he had been told.
“What does your father do?” Colleen demanded.
“Uh…he is…” He gulped. “A…he has land.”
“A farmer?” Colleen stared pointedly at him.
He nodded. His father did have farmers working for him. Did that make him a manager? Or just a man who loved to count money?
Agnes rushed back into the room with the porter and handed him a small glass of the liquor. “This should help you rest easier.”
“Aye, he may take his ease now, but the minute he’s up and about, he’ll have to start earning his keep.” The red-haired woman shot him a withering glance and returned to the kitchen.
“I will leave as soon as I am able.” He had to rejoin his company. By now, they must believe him dead.
“You need time to heal.” Her hands twined around each other. How did someone who claimed to be a smithy own such fair and delicate hands?
“I’ll not lie about.” He drank as much as possible in one long draught, but it would take a lot of porter for him to clip the King’s English. He feared what he might say if he lapsed into phantasms again. If, in his ravings, he let out the truth that he was the Duke of Dalfour’s son, the rebels would place a high ransom upon him.
They would not get a shilling from the Duke for his third son. British troops would be sent to kill everyone, and drag Edwin back to his father. Since the Duke believed Edwin to be at Oxford studying law, there would be the devil to pay and no pitch hot. He shuddered at the thought of facing his furious father.
“You need some broth and a bit of bread to strengthen you,” Agnes said.
Colleen called from the kitchen, “I’m thinking he’ll be taking the whole loaf.”
“Pay no mind to her.” Like a healing balm, Agnes’s cool hand caressed his forehead. “She is upset with the loss of our chickens and the pig. She’s a good-hearted soul, but hard times plagued her country before she left and she blames her troubles on all the English—not just the king.”
With her touch, the pain receded slightly. He gazed into eyes glowing with tenderness and his tension lessened.
“I met the king once,” he confided. “He had a pleasant countenance and a most agreeable manner.” While George III wielded far more power than Edwin’s father, no one was capable of suffering the Duke’s presence for any length of time. Edwin had spent eighteen years under the man’s thumb. Happy to make his escape, he now realized he had not been prepared for the hard life of a soldier.
Before he left home, he read a letter his sister, who lived in New York, wrote to their mother. According to Tabitha, the rebels were a nuisance and nothing more. From that single missive, he believed his time in the army would be a pleasant diversion. He assumed the colonists would quail and run at the sight of the mighty British troops.
His foolish assumption was far from the mark. He discovered the rebels fought with dogged tenacity.
Remembering the horrid dream he had about his father, he squeezed his eyes shut to block it out of his mind.
“Are you feverish again?” She plunked a cold cloth on his forehead and startled him.
She hovered over him, so close he saw bits of gold glinting in her rare eyes. Temporarily mesmerized, he forgot her question.
“I thought the fever broke.” A tear rolled down her cheek.
No one ever cried for me! The realization shook him from his hypnotic spell. He gently edged her hand away. “It is almost gone. However, I am hungry for the broth and bread, though I promise I shall not eat the whole loaf.” He gave her a tentative smile.
“That would be wonderful.” Her entire face beamed. For a moment, he thought she had the look of an angel. She rushed off into the other room to fetch the food.
A warm feeling spread through him, until doubt edged in and he quickly came to his senses. She was the daughter of a rebel, an enemy of the king. He had set out to prove himself as a man on his own terms. Yet, he did not intend to cut himself off from his king and his countrymen. He did not plan to be a traitor. He must rejoin his fellow soldiers. He had no time to dally with a pretty face.
His brow clouded. When he joined the army, he used a fictitious name to prevent his father from finding him. If anyone declared him a deserter, his family’s reputation would remain unsullied. Unless someone recognized him, though that was unlikely here.
He glanced around at the simple, spare furnishings. Everything appeared clean and tidy, though unremarkable. Despite the pain he endured as Hobart lugged him into the bed, he had taken in the fact that the house possessed rooms downstairs with a lower second story above. He equated it to the size of a simple hunter’s cottage.
He closed his eyes and thought of Dalfour Castle sitting high on the cliff. Below it the small cottages of the farmers sat beside the river. It made a nice scene. The sort of thing an artist might paint.
His spirits sank. None of it would ever be his. With two healthy, older brothers, he might claim a few rooms for himself in the castle, but as the youngest son he had nothing to call his own. No title. No land.
His father refused to purchase a commission in the army for him. The Duke insisted Edwin become a barrister. He allowed no other options. For a while, Edwin cherished the idea of becoming a botanist after he had met Sir Joseph Banks. That choice had been denied as well, despite Sir Banks’ admiration of Edwin’s botanical specimen collection and even though the esteemed man had purchased one of those specimens.
Edwin had assumed he would have plenty of time to collect an assortment of plants growing in the colonies. Months of sleeping in a tent on the hard ground and marching all day had shown him the error of his ways. Nevertheless, because he rode well, he had been fortunate to be singled out as a messenger. During the intense battle at Monmouth Courthouse, the general had given him a message to be delivered to an ardent Loyalist. Somewhere along the road, he had been fired upon, though he held on and spurred the horse onward. He remembered fearing the weakness that overcame him as the bloo
d poured from his wound, but he did not recall falling. He had no idea how he had come to be in the McGowan’s barn and the many missing hours disturbed him.
“Where is my jacket?” he called out. Inside a special hidden pocket lay the general’s message.
Agnes came into the room carrying a plate. She whispered, “We had to get rid of it. I burned it.”
“Burned…” He lay back against the pillows while his heart beat dully in his chest.
“My father left a jacket here which I am sure will suit you.” She set the plate down on a small table by the bed. “There’s a bit of butter for your bread, too. That should fortify you.”
He nodded, closed his eyes, and envisioned himself riding his horse under the shadow of Dalfour Castle and stopping at the small chapel beside the brook where he had spent so many pleasant hours. The vicar had become his friend over the years and indeed had been responsible for introducing Edwin to the delights of collecting botanical specimens.
When the vicar died, his wife gave his entire collection to Edwin.
Edwin shoved his melancholy thoughts to the back of his mind. He had joined the army and he must continue in the king’s service. He would not become a barrister.
As he lay there, another thought came to him. Instead of grousing about his misfortune, he might use it to his advantage. If the people trusted him, he might be able provide valuable information to General Clinton about the rebels’ troop movements. The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea. He did not know how long it would be until he could charge into battle again, but if he became acquainted with the inhabitants of the area, he might learn where the local militia kept their ammunition and where they met. Since he had taken on a new role as cousin to the McGowans, he should pretend to embrace their cause.
He would not be a traitor, he would be a hero. Those loyal to the crown would regain the responsibility of governing the colonies. Peace would ensue as the defeated Patriots picked up their plows and put away their muskets.
With his son a man of renown, his father might be more inclined to allow him to study anything he wanted.
Patriot's Heart Page 4
