by Louise Clark
“Yes, my dear.” Her mother gave her a brief nod, her eyes reflecting the pain that Mary Elizabeth was feeling. “There can be no other conclusion to this wayward friendship and Mr. Byrne must not continue to think that there is any possibility that he might marry you. I will allow you as much privacy as a few feet of separation can provide, but you are to remain within my sight and hearing while you speak with him.”
Mary Elizabeth choked back a sob. “He won’t understand, because I don’t understand.”
“Then you’d best figure it out before morning,” her father said, that whiplash tone in his voice again. “Because if you do not, I’ll have to deal with Byrne more firmly than I have already done. I can assure you that neither he, nor you, will like the consequences!”
Chapter 2
Mr. Ian Turner, the minister at St James the Redeemer church, was an intelligent man whose Sunday services were neither too long nor overly religious. Which was why Andrew usually made an effort to listen to him and pay attention to his sermon. Not today, though. Today his brain could think of nothing but Mary Elizabeth and the complicated problem of how he was going to marry her.
The concept of marriage had not come swiftly. In his late twenties, he was focused on managing the estate he had inherited from his father, whose death some four years earlier had left him in charge of a large and prosperous property that included rich acres for growing crops, a dairy herd, and several thriving side industries. Furthermore, he was much sought after by the young ladies—and had been since he first reached manhood. He did not need marriage to satisfy his needs, and he was quite sure that he didn’t have the time to woo a wife.
Then Mary Elizabeth Strand moved to Lexington and that was the end to all of his sensible bachelor ways. Dark, mischievous eyes set in set in a delicate, heart-shaped face, midnight hair she wore neatly pinned up, but which he knew was thick and luxurious. He could imagine it loose, falling to her waist, and the silky feel of it on his finger tips as he buried his hands in the thick mass while he kissed her. His imagination supplied other images too—a dreamy look in her eyes when she’d been thoroughly kissed, the pleasure of her lithe body pressed against his as they embraced. But that was his imagination, based on the proud way she carried her slender form, as if she were gliding over the ground, not walking upon it as other women did. Then there was the warmth of her smile to capture his attention, and the way she understood what mattered to him—his lands, his businesses, and the freedom he prized so highly. She caught every nuance, and even though his views were at odds with her father’s she accepted them, because, she had told him one evening, she believed in him.
At their first meeting, she had shown him she was attracted to him, with shy glances from beneath the thick fringe of her lashes, and as they got to know each other, she blossomed. Her reticence warmed into quiet confidence and her gaze reflected her complex nature, at times twinkling with humor, or thoughtful in reflection. But it was the innocent passion in her magnificent, dark eyes that took his breath away. As they got to know each other, they managed to find private places where they could whisper their shared longings and dreams and he could steal a kiss or two at the social events they both attended.
He wasn’t sure if it was her honest admiration that made him look at her differently from the other girls who had pursued him over the years, or if it was simply the connection they’d forged together, but he was certain of one thing—Mary Elizabeth had changed his thinking about marriage. He wanted her in his life forever.
At first their attraction went unnoticed, or at least unremarked. Inevitably it came to the attention of her mother, the Lady Elizabeth, and then to her father, George Strand, even though he visited his family at his summer home only occasionally. Unfortunately, Strand didn’t see Andrew’s union with his daughter in as positive a way as Andrew did. Or indeed, as Mary Elizabeth herself did.
When Strand realized that one of the American colonists he despised was courting his daughter—and that his daughter was not averse to the match, he chose to act. He paid two ruffians who masqueraded as servants to send Andrew a message. They had assaulted him as he was leaving a party where he and Mary Elizabeth had been trysting. There were two of them, great hulking lummoxes with fists like hams and the cauliflower ears of boxers. They issued their warning, then followed it up with their fists. Andrew fought back, landing a few good blows of his own, before the miscreants scuttled away, but he was quite sure they would try to waylay him again.
Having Mary Elizabeth’s father so violently opposed to the match would have been an impediment if she were a colonial girl and her father a prominent American. But she was the daughter of an English official, while he, Andrew Byrne, was an American colonist who fiercely believed that the American colonies deserved representation and the right to govern themselves. Mary Elizabeth delighted him. Her family did not. Should he continue on in the face of such vehement opposition from her father?
He needed to decide and he could not do it here in Lexington where there was a very good likelihood that they would meet, and then he knew he would fall under her spell all over again. He had decided to go away to somewhere he could brood and decide.
Rather than go to Boston, where George Strand held sway, or to Concord where his closest relatives lived, Andrew chose to go farther afield, or rather, to a place where distance didn’t matter, time did. He would stay in Lexington, but he would visit the one individual who just might be able to offer assistance in his decision-making, Faith Hamilton.
Faith was a special person blessed with the power of a Beacon. She was quite literally a portal of light who could bring certain ancestors from their era into her own time period. Andrew was one such ancestor, a Traveler who had the ability to see Faith’s light and propel himself into her present. As far as Andrew knew, this unique gift existed only within his own bloodline. It was hard to tell, though, for it was a closely guarded secret, shared only within the family.
He was certain that in the future he would be able to learn more about the outcome of his relationship with Mary Elizabeth. He would also be out of temptation's way, which would save him from another possible altercation with Strand’s henchmen.
Andrew had returned to his farm where his housekeeper fussed over his disheveled state and her husband, the farm manager, made dire comments about the infernal British. He told them he would be going away for a few days, allowing them to believe that he planned to raise awareness of Strand’s high-handed behavior through neighboring towns. Bidding them adieu, he told them he would walk to the general store to wait for the public stagecoach. In actual fact, he made his way to a particular stand of trees on his property. There he found a glowing ball of light that only he could see shining through the trees. Warmth and a sense of unreserved welcome flowed from the light. The frustration, anger, and impatience of the day flowed out of him as he stepped into its hospitable glow.
There was no impression of movement, no alteration of his senses to indicate he was moving through time, though not through space. One moment he was in his wood, the next he stood in a cozy house that was both familiar and strange. Familiar, because he’d been there so many times. Strange, because it did not yet exist in his own time. This was the home of his dear relative, Faith Hamilton, the woman whose light shone in that forest grove.
He’d met Faith when she first came into her powers, as an emotional young woman of some ten and four years. Only a couple of years older himself, he’d been in the woods, avoiding the chores his father had set him. Suddenly light blazed through the trees, setting the leaves aglow. It called to him, that light, and he’d rushed forward only to find himself in a strange house. In front of him stood a large, red-faced man and a harried golden-haired girl. They were arguing. He’d immediately jumped to the girl’s defense and somehow that had brought them together, allies against the dark force of the man who was, it turned out, her father.
Not long after that event, the father, whose name was Daniel, had abandoned
his family—something Andrew disapproved of, though he thought it best the fellow was no longer around to cause trouble. Andrew had taken to visiting Faith every week, and over the years they became friends. Now Faith was like a sister to him.
He had stayed with Faith almost a week. He could only remain in her time if he was close to her, so Faith had taken him into the city with her and to the place where she went to work each morning. The visit had been enlightening. Not only did he meet Cody, the excellent fellow Faith was in love with, but he’d also seen how dedicated Faith was to her position and how jealous certain persons in the organization were of her.
Despite the dangers his presence brought her, Faith had given him sanctuary and helped him sort out his tumultuous feelings. Try as he might, however, he could not persuade her to provide him with solid details about his future, and Mary Elizabeth’s. Nor would she allow him to consult the marvelous information-gathering device she called a computer. He knew as well as Faith did that for their powers to remain secret, Beacons and Travellers must strive to ensure that they did not change the past or the future through their actions. That meant remaining silent and keeping secrets. He learned little during the week he spent in the future, despite Faith’s technologically advanced world, Frustrated, he had found himself wishing for his own rural agrarian one. His time away did help though, for he missed Mary Elizabeth so much that he realized that she was the love of his life and the woman he would marry.
He’d returned to his own time two days ago, and immediately sought her out. He found her at a ball put on by Franny and Maurice Hodder. Maurice Hodder was a sedate and conventional man with a high standing in the community and conservative views. Lady Elizabeth Strand enjoyed the Hodders’ company and never objected to Mary Elizabeth participating in a social event that Franny organized. However, Franny was the sister of Andrew’s closest friend, Ronald Aiken, and she had been quietly helping Andrew court Mary Elizabeth, providing secluded places for them to meet.
Friday night had been no different. Franny loved to organize social events and the more people she could convince to attend one of her grand evenings, the happier she was. It was a formal affair, so Andrew dressed in a coat of dark-blue velvet, with a waistcoat of white brocade. He’d paired it with black silk breeches and white stockings. The deep cuffs of the coat sleeves showed off the lace at his wrists and at his neck, lace also frothed. He didn’t powder his hair, but he tied it neatly at his nape with a black ribband. He had a mission that evening. He planned to dance with Mary Elizabeth, then steal her away to a quiet place to propose. He wanted to look his best.
Franny, apprised of his desire to single out Mary Elizabeth, advised caution. Not only was her mother, the Lady Elizabeth, attending the ball, but so was George Strand. Moreover, while Andrew had been away, Strand had made it clear that he did not approve of his daughter consorting with a colonist and he’d let it be known that he would not be pleased if members of the local community aided and abetted the romance. He implied there would be repercussions. Franny was worried.
So, Andrew didn’t dance with Mary Elizabeth that night. But he did manage to meet with her in the garden. There, near a little clump of rose bushes, he told her of his love for her and asked her to marry him. To his great delight she said, yes.
Being a man of honor, Andrew did the proper thing and called upon George Strand the next morning to ask for Mary Elizabeth’s hand in marriage. He knew Strand would not easily accept his suit, for the man had already expressed his disdain through his ham-fisted henchmen. However, with Mary Elizabeth’s sweet declaration of her love for him humming through his brain, he’d assumed that Strand would be willing to unbend to ensure his daughter’s happiness once he knew how she felt.
He was incorrect. If anything, Mary Elizabeth’s declaration of her feelings for Andrew, and his request for her hand in marriage, inflamed Strand’s ire to the point that he became so red in the face that Andrew had wondered if the man would suffer an apoplectic seizure. Sadly, he did not. Instead, he set his pair of brutal ruffians on Andrew once more. The second scuffle resulted in the considerable discomfort Andrew was suffering from even now as he sat in the church listening to the words of the service, but not hearing them.
George Strand, Andrew thought as he sat in the church pew, would regret the order he had given—twice!—to have an upstanding citizen beaten, simply because Strand thought he was somehow better than Andrew was. This was the kind of injustice that infuriated Andrew and other men of like mind. America was no longer a simple colony of farmers, traders, and explorers, living on the edge of the wilderness. It was a wealthy society, growing wealthier every day, and men of substance, such as himself, were as educated and cultured as any Briton from the old country.
The Reverend Turner began his sermon, a homily on the benefits of repentance and forgiveness. The topic grated and Andrew shifted uneasily on the hard maple seat. He couldn’t see Mary Elizabeth from where he sat. George Strand had claimed one of the private boxes at the front of the church when he’d first arrived in the area and it was too far Andrew’s own place for him to see how she was responding to the sermon. It didn’t matter in any case, for when it came to his courtship of Mary Elizabeth, he refused to ask forgiveness for anything he’d done these past weeks.
Mr. Turner’s strong tenor voice thundered from the pulpit and he gestured emphatically toward his rapt audience, indicating he was coming to the climax of his sermon.
Andrew grimaced to himself. George Strand had made a great fuss over Mary Elizabeth’s lineage when he turned down Andrew’s suit. True, her mother was the daughter of an earl, but Strand’s family was merely landed gentry, no better than Andrew’s ancestors had been. And now, here in the new world, Andrew’s standing in the community made him at least the equal of George Strand.
The sermon ended and the chastened congregation rose to sing a hymn. That was much more to his taste and he joined in with hearty enthusiasm. No, there would be no repentance on his part, no matter how good for his soul the excellent Reverend Turner thought it would be.
The hymn singing over, they sat again. Andrew stole another look in the direction of the Strands’ pew. He wished he could see Mary Elizabeth’s face. Had her father told her Andrew had asked for her hand? He had reacted angrily to Andrew. Had he taken his ire out on his daughter?
Andrew believed completely in Mary Elizabeth’s assertion that she loved him, but did she have the resolve to stand up to her domineering father? She hadn’t been in the churchyard prior to the service, so he’d had no chance to speak with her. In fact, the Strand family, George strutting proudly at the head, had marched into the church moments before the service began. The small parade consisted of the odious George with his wife on his arm, followed by a fellow in scarlet regimentals liberally covered with gold braid who walked beside Mary Elizabeth. Her hand was on his arm in much the same way her mother’s was on George Strand’s. That worried Andrew. Who was the man and why was Mary Elizabeth paired with him?
As the Strand cortege had walked down the long aisle to their pew near the front of the church, she looked neither left nor right. That was not like his Mary Elizabeth, who was friendly, social, and curious. Normally she would have been nodding and smiling at those she knew, but not this morning. Her stiff reserve, paired with presence of the unknown English officer beside her, made Andrew fearful that George Strand had decided to punish his daughter. But how?
When the service ended Andrew rose with the rest of the congregation, then waited his turn to leave the church. The Strand family had lingered near their pew, so he emerged out into the sunshine earlier than Mary Elizabeth. He hovered near the door, determined to speak to her before Strand hustled her into his carriage and back to his home.
“If you don’t want to call attention to the fact that you’re mooning over the lovely Miss Strand, you’d best mingle with your neighbors awhile until the lady leaves the church.”
Andrew turned to see his friend Ron Aiken standing
to one side of him. Ron was a landowner close to him in age and deeply involved in the politics of the day. They had been friends for years and held similar views on many subjects, particularly those relating to Britain’s arrogant mismanagement of its American colonies. On one subject they differed radically, however, and that was Andrew’s courtship of Mary Elizabeth. Though Ron’s sister Franny was delighted by the romance—not surprising since she was the wife of the deeply conservative Maurice Hodder—Ron disapproved. He thought Andrew should dally with Mary Elizabeth and nothing more. He disapproved of Andrew’s desire to wed her and ally himself to a family so deeply committed to the British point of view.
Despite this disagreement, Ron was a good friend, and his advice came from a place of affection, even if aimed to ensure that Andrew didn’t lose his standing with the more radical members of the community.
“I fear you are right, my friend,” Andrew said. “Mr. Turner is feeling chatty today. He seems determined to spend at least five minutes conversing with each member of his congregation.”
Aiken laughed. “It’s not that the good reverend is chattier than usual, Byrne, but that you are impatient. Come, let us have a word with Mr. Turnbull, while his lady wife is busy comparing recipes with her sister.”
Andrew nodded agreement and the two men moved across the churchyard, pausing to greet friends and neighbors on their way.
“Well met,” Fletcher Turnbull said as they joined him. He studied Andrew’s still bruised face with raised brows. “Took a tumble off your horse, Byrne?”
Ron Aiken snorted. “More like took a beating from two lackeys. That English popinjay, Strand, ordered his ruffians upon him yesterday.”
“I gave as good as I got,” Andrew said as he touched the bruise high on his cheek along with a black eye that couldn’t be missed. He’d noticed curious looks aimed his way all morning. Fletcher was the first to make mention of it though. “There were two of them, however, so they were able to land a few blows.” The ache in his ribs testified to that.
