Patriot's Heart

by Marzec, Penelope;

  Though a sense of safety encompassed her in his embrace, a wave of sadness followed. He would leave her as soon as he could.

  “Tell me…about your mother,” he muttered.

  She took in a deep breath. Over the years, she had built a solid wall of defense to protect herself from that wound. Did she want to open the door to a heartache that had never healed?

  “Do you look like her?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “Then she was quite beautiful.”

  Agnes bit her lip. Perhaps, the old grief still hurt because she had locked it inside the fortress of her heart. Maybe it was time to let it out. Besides, Edwin would leave. Whatever she told him would not matter.

  “When I was seven and Margaret was a year old, a heavy rainstorm of several days duration caused Father much worry. He feared the crops would be ruined. Mother suggested we all return to England in that case. Father swore and carried on about how he would never return.” Agnes had not heard the entire argument and had not understood all of it either. “The following morning the sun shone brightly in the sky. Father went out early to check the fields. My mother said we should pick berries by the river. She declared after all that rain, the berries should be plentiful. It was the season for blueberries. So we brought along our baskets, but as we neared the river we found it had become a raging torrent due to the deluge.

  “Whole chunks of earth along the bank fell into the muddy water. I remember being frightened by the sight. Still, my mother pointed out a bush for me and told me to hold tightly to Margaret. She said she saw another bush farther on that she would pick. She walked away a few steps and then returned. She handed me her cameo, told me not to lose it, and reminded me to take care of Margaret. Then, she walked away again. I had Margaret in one hand and the cameo in the other and I wondered how I was supposed to pick berries. I turned around and saw her fall into that horrible surging flood. Then she was gone.”

  “I am sorry.”

  She leaned back against him. She had relived that dreadful scene many times. The bleak sorrow of it brought a familiar pain, but his nearness eased some of her distress. “Her body was never found and my father never spoke of her afterward.”

  “Is this the cameo?” His fingers brushed against her skin as he touched the ornament and a shiver went through her.

  “Yes.” She unfastened the pin and handed it to him. “Do you know where this is? The name of the castle is engraved into the metal on the back.”

  He held it up to the candlelight and squinted. “Broadcraft Hall?”

  “My mother said it was rather old and drafty and needed refurbishing.” Agnes sighed. “I don’t remember her telling me about her parents, whether she had any brothers or sisters…but she did speak fondly of parties.”

  His manner became brusque as he pressed the cameo back into her hand. “About my horse.”

  “The Zimmer brothers brought the animal to the forge for a shoe. They must have found it wandering nearby and, if so, will believe it is now their possession. Hobart put Swindle in our barn. I am sure the Zimmers will return to claim him.”

  “That horse was assigned to me. I cannot allow someone else to take it.”

  “Obadiah and Zeb Zimmer are part of the local militia and are hunting down British deserters from the battle at Monmouth Courthouse. They intend to put them in prison and exchange them for the men the British have captured from us.”

  He pulled away from her and a chill settled into her bones.

  “How many deserters are there?”

  “I do not know, though Mr. Newton believes the majority of them were Hessians.” A new wave of unhappiness swept over her. She prayed constantly for peace and an end to the conflict. She longed to live without fear, but the struggle worsened as Loyalists who would not sign the oath of allegiance had their property confiscated. Joining other Loyalists, they sought vengeance, stealing livestock and goods.

  Did they murder Colleen, a defenseless woman with no weapon? Agnes’s throat tightened again.

  She dared another glance at Edwin, but he seemed caught up in his own thoughts, staring at one of the candles with his jaw so tightly clenched the muscle in it twitched.

  Though British, he braved great danger to pull Colleen out of the fire. From what Agnes had seen, a person’s behavior was not a matter of where they originated. Hobart, a German, proved at all times to be reliable, even-tempered, and trustworthy. Many of the Loyalists had been born in the new country, but quickly became political fanatics. Some of the Patriots were no better.

  The Zimmers were best described as militant zealots. Most of the time they behaved like bad-tempered louts. Why did anyone have to take sides? Why did men have to be so unreasonable? Eking out a living was hard enough.

  Her thoughts went round and round until the sound of the front door of the inn banging open startled her. The walls shook as angry voices shouted for service though dawn remained a few hours away.

  Jumping up, she gripped Edwin’s arm. “You must hide.”

  “I am not armed.”

  “That will not matter. Hurry.” She tugged at him until he moved along with her to the fireplace. Mrs. Newton had showed her how to open the hidden cupboard many years ago. She swung the secret panel wide and motioned for him to step inside. “I will let you out when they’re gone.”

  “It is small.”

  “Get in.” Panic tightened in her chest as the heavy tread of booted feet sounded in the hallway outside the room.

  He hobbled inside. She shut the panel as the door to the room burst open.

  Turning slowly, she faced two men with bayonets ready.

  “What are you doing?” one of them asked.

  “I am mourning the woman who raised me.”

  The men narrowed their eyes.

  “You do not look like her.”

  “My mother died and this woman cared for me as if I were her own. Someone set our house afire today and she was inside.”

  One man prodded the corpse with his bayonet. Agnes gritted her teeth. She wanted to throw something at the brute despite his bayonet, but with Edwin hiding in the secret cupboard, she forced herself to be still.

  “What do you want?” she asked.

  “We are searching for traitors. Soldiers who fled after the battle and failed to do their duty for their king.”

  Blood pooled in Agnes’s feet and she clutched the mantel so she would not fall.

  “They will be court-martialed and hung.” The other man spoke with a measure of glee as if the spectacle of a hanging delighted him.

  She prayed Edwin would not make a sound. “You can see no one else is here.” Though her heart pounded against her ribs, she kept her voice even.

  “They are bound to stop by when their thirst becomes great,” the taller man asserted.

  “They would be fools to do so. They can drink freely from anyone’s well,” she stated with defiance.

  “Quiet woman!” the shorter one rumbled. “We have word of a band of men on the road.”

  “Agnes!” From across the hall, Margaret’s voice called out to her. “Agnes!”

  Though concerned about leaving Edwin in the hidden cupboard, she rushed to her sister. Margaret sat in the bed trying to cover herself with the bedclothes while two men poked around the room.

  “What is happening?” Margaret cried as one man got down on his knees and swept his bayonet beneath the bed.

  “Hush.” Agnes drew her sister into her arms. “They’ll soon be gone.”

  “We’ll set everything to rights when we hang every soldier who fled the king’s service.” The man who had found nothing under the bed stood.

  Margaret gasped and turned large fearful eyes upon Agnes.

  Agnes glared at the intruders. “She is only a child and you woke her from her sleep. Have you no consideration? Leave us in peace.”

  One man lowered his head in a sheepish manner at her reprimand, but the other did not appear to have any qualms about disturbing them.
Nevertheless, they stamped out of the room and went on to the next one to continue their search.

  “What about…? Margaret whispered.

  “Safe…” Agnes wondered how long the men would prod their bayonets into every corner at the inn. Edwin would be uncomfortable, but he needed to stay out of sight. The Loyalists would torture him until they obtained the answers they desired. Then he would be hung. Cold drops of perspiration formed on her brow, for the Loyalists were not the only threat. What if the Zimmer brothers returned and guessed his origin? Danger lurked everywhere. No one was truly free. They were all prisoners of fear.

  Most young men joined either the army or the militia, though tradesmen such as millers and blacksmiths were exempt. Her father did not need to sign up, but he and his brother had been promised one hundred acres each for doing so. Besides, the army needed blacksmiths and her father trained her to handle the forge without him.

  A new plan began to form in Agnes’s mind. For Edwin’s safety, she should claim him as her apprentice. Perhaps even blacksmiths’ apprentices were granted exemptions from serving in the army.

  Margaret would only lie down again when Agnes promised to stay with her until the Loyalists departed, but once they checked all the rooms along with the basement and outbuildings, they proceeded to demand food and drink from the Newtons.

  Agnes could do nothing. If Edwin left his hiding place, he ran the risk of getting hung. She lay down next to Margaret, but she continued to be consumed with worry. They had lost everything in the fire—pots, dishes, bowls, blankets—although she still had the precious cameo. She covered it with her hand and warmth seemed to emanate from it.

  She and Margaret must now live with Aunt Sally. With the tension between her and her aunt, it would not be easy.

  What about Edwin? Would he leave tomorrow? In addition to the terrible wound on his leg, his burns needed salve. She must convince him to stay a little longer.

  Though danger lay near, thinking of his strong arms encircling her calmed her. Remembering the way his mouth curved into a smile melted away some of her anxiety. She sighed as she recalled the manner in which his wild blue eyes sparkled like the ripples in the river.

  She drifted into a dream and soon fell into a deep slumber.

  CHAPTER SIX

  In the dark cupboard, Edwin pondered how Agnes had come to possess a cameo from Broadcraft Hall. Had her mother been a servant at the great manor and stolen the piece? The Duchess had often sighed as they passed the imposing estate in the coach and explained that one of her best friends from childhood had lived there.

  Broadcraft Hall, built about two hundred years ago, could be deemed very old, though Dalfour Castle was far more ancient. Edwin never visited Broadcraft Hall. He never met the Earl who owned it. He assumed the Earl knew of the Duke’s irascible temper and stayed away. As anyone with a lick of sense did. He often thought his father should have been dubbed the Duke of Curmudgeon. It would have been a more fitting title.

  As a child, Edwin gave the Duke a wide berth and took to hiding in all sorts of small places in Dalfour Castle to avoid him. All the turrets, stairways, and cupboards made for a fascinating game of hide and seek. On more than one occasion, the entire staff was ordered to search for him. However, when his antics were brought to the attention of his father, he spent a week locked in his room and was forbidden to ride his pony for a month.

  Afterwards, his parents sent him to a very stuffy old school. When he came home for Christmas, he learned his pony had died. His father told him he had grown too big for a pony anyway.

  His heart broken, he went back to the horrid school after the holiday. He hated every one of the beastly teachers. A gang of abominable bullies populated the halls of the institution. He eventually learned how to deal with them.

  He clenched his bandaged hands into fists. The Loyalists searching for deserters were nothing more than a band of ruffians. If they were unarmed, he would gladly teach them a lesson. He had learned several excellent fighting tactics in boarding school.

  While the brutes at the inn professed to support the rights of the king, he did not think hanging men who had left the battle, or who had been attacked as he had been, was quite the way to win a war.

  He sat on the dusty floor in the dark and listened to the demands the men made as they ordered the Newtons about. The cupboard evidently shared a wall with the room where Margaret lay, for he heard her shout, and the sharp reprimand Agnes directed at the intruders.

  When the sisters grew quiet, he assumed they were safe and hopefully slumbering. He considered whether he should try to nod off for a while, too, but blood surged through his veins and made rest impossible. His anger mounted. He had given up hiding in closets long ago. He must do something.

  Doomed to hang if the Loyalists caught him, he stood the chance of going to prison if found by the local militia. He did not think he deserved such treatment, and not just because he was the Duke of Dalfour’s son.

  Though he had no recollection of how he had gotten into the McGowans’ barn, he had been shot and most likely fallen off his horse while carrying out his assignment, making him neither a traitor nor a deserter. He was an enemy casualty, which still meant prison. Prison often was a death sentence due to the conditions.

  When the men in the tavern started singing, he smiled. They had consumed a goodly amount of spirits and with any luck were quite drunk, which gave him the upper hand. He turned the knob on the secret panel, opened the door, and peered out. The candle flame had died, but dawn was not far off. He had to hurry, a difficult task due to his bum leg.

  As the intruders went into the rousing chorus of their song, he moved along the hall toward the backdoor, which led outside to the necessary. He took care not to jar his leg, although it did not bother him as much because now he hurt everywhere. Trying not to make any noise with the crutches, he swung along to the kitchen entrance and stepped inside. The exhausted Newtons slept with their heads on the table. The candle that lay between them had gone out. He snatched the heavy candlestick.

  The men in the taproom changed their tunes. They switched from singing stirring battle songs to slurring out the bawdy and coarse lyrics most often heard onboard ships. Each of them had a cup too much.

  Mounting the servants’ staircase took all his strength and concentration. He clamped his lips together to prevent himself from groaning in pain. Once he reached the second floor, he found exactly what he needed in the first empty room. Leaning over the banister on the front stairway, he carefully placed the pewter candlestick on the top step. He gave it a slight shove and it went bouncing downward, landing at the bottom with a resounding thud.

  The men stopped singing. “Wha…wha…ish dat?”

  “A candle…smick,” one of them declared.

  “Who…who threw…the candlesmick.”

  “It fell.”

  “Candle…smicks do not…fall.”

  Edwin put his mouth to a large paper poster he had rolled into a conical shape. “Ooooooooo oooooo.” His voice still had a raspy note in it, which gave his moans a more authentic sound.

  “Ish an owl.”

  “Yesh…an owl,” two of the men agreed.

  “Oooooo…my candle…” Edwin used a high-pitched whisper in the cone.

  “Ish…not an owl.”

  “Ish…a ghosh!”

  The scrape of chairs ensued as the drunks got up and stumbled about.

  “No…shush thing as ghoshs.” The bravest of them picked up the candlestick. “Shee. A candlesmick. No ghosh.”

  “You killed me.” Edwin draped a sheet over the banister and shook it while calling through the cone in a high voice. “Ooooo…oooooo.”

  “Ish the…corpsh…”

  More awkward footsteps sounded as the men bumped into tables and chairs.

  “Nobody leavesh…we got to find…deshertersh.”

  “I ain’t staying with a corpsh…”

  “You shay if I shay sho…”

  The noise of
louder shuffling and a drunken brawl echoed upward. Edwin added more ghostly sounds. Finally, a thunderous crash resounded in the taproom.

  “Ish he dead?”

  “Lesh get out of here.” Panic echoed in their voices, despite their inebriated state.

  Edwin listened to them depart. He put the sheet back where he found it and unrolled the paper. Dawn came up over the horizon.

  He made his way down the back steps to the kitchen. The Newtons remained dreaming with their heads cradled in their arms on the table.

  He stood at the doorway for a while and watched the glorious light of dawn spread over the land. Would his own company welcome him if he managed to find them? Or would they consider him a deserter, too?

  He wished he could fill in the hours from the time the musket ball sliced into his leg to when he woke up in the McGowans’ barn, but no matter how hard he thought about it the memory of whatever had transpired had vanished. He did not recall a single thing, which disturbed him.

  Since he had used a fictitious surname his family would never know of his fate. His sister had dubbed him with the name as a child. She had laughed at him when he had mastered drawing the letters of the alphabet and called himself a letterer. Although he did not pronounce it properly and it sounded more like lederer. His sister teased him with that appellation until the day she married.

  She and her husband lived in New York. If he made his way to New York, perhaps she would offer him a safe haven.

  What would happen if he returned home? What sort of occupation would be suitable for him and still please his father? Becoming a barrister would be the death of him and he hated keeping accounts, so banking would be sheer torture.

  He closed his eyes and remembered the dried plants he kept in a cupboard back home in Dalfour Castle. All were clearly labeled and pressed. The ones that had belonged to the vicar had scripture verses written beside the plants mentioned in the Bible. Many had been the vicar’s prized specimens, for several of them did not grow in England.

  For cinnamon he had written, “I have sprinkled my bed with myrrh, with aloes, and with cinnamon.” When Edwin had first heard the verse, he laughed to think of someone placing such things upon their bed, but then the vicar explained the rest of the story to him.