by Becky Lower
“Hello, Eleanor.” He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and canted his head toward her. “You don’t have to keep watch over me anymore.”
Since her last thought had been of them kissing, her mind had become a puddle of mush. She shook her head to clear her thoughts.
“I had a spare moment, so I snuck in to check on you.” She didn’t wish him to know she’d been sitting there for the last half-hour. “You’ve been sleeping for quite a while.”
He sat upright and threw his legs over the side of the bed, wincing as the blood raced to his wound. “I should be able to report to work tomorrow. Then, I’ll be out of your hair during the day.”
She leveled a gaze at him. “And I think not. You have a long way to go before you are healed.” She stood and helped him get to his feet. “I haven’t even asked about the battle you were in. Was the Continental Army victorious, or did the battle belong to the British?”
“We were victorious, but the war is not yet over.” He grabbed for his crutch. “Which is why I need to return to my post.”
“Take the rest of the week off at least, please, and spend some time with your children. They have missed you terribly.”
“Thank you, Eleanor, for taking such good care of them. I was most concerned about Adam, but he stepped up to take charge of the family when he needed to. The two of you are now very close.” Patterson took a few steps forward.
She placed her arm around his waist. “I’ve become close with all your children. Adam and I became a team while you were gone. But the child I’m most concerned about isn’t Adam, but Caleb. His memories of his mother are fading, and he feels terrible that he can’t recall what she looks like. He’d appreciate hearing some stories about your life when Margaret was a part of it.”
“I had no idea Caleb has been having trouble. Of course, I’ll share some of my memories with him. With all of them.” He glanced at her. “Thank you for reminding me they suffered a great loss, too.”
Together, they shuffled to the table where Patterson took a seat. Eleanor loaded up a trencher from the stove where it had been warming. The children all gathered around the table, each hoping to sit next to their father.
“Tell us about the battle, Papa.” Adam spoke first. “Did the Rifle Corps plow down the Brits again?”
“General Morgan had a good strategy. The British troops fell apart as the battle raged. We captured a lot of them, but hundreds abandoned their posts and fled.” Patterson took a bite of his meal. “I guess when faced with the prospect of being placed in prison, shot to death, or becoming an American, staying in this country isn’t so bad.” His eyes sparkled as he talked to his children. He lifted his gaze to her, and she bit her lip. He wasn’t only talking about the troops. She’d considered coming to America a prison sentence, since she’d had no choice in the matter. She’d faced rape or possibly death, when Billy attacked her. She had become an accomplice to murder. Now, she had to decide whether to stay in this country or return home to England. She had a choice in the matter this time. If she returned to England, she’d be a different person from the timid soul who had left the country only months ago.
Maybe, as some of the British soldiers who had fled the battlefield had determined, staying in this country wouldn’t be so bad.
Chapter Seventeen
P atterson spent several days clumping about the house with his crutch, pleased some of his stamina was returning. He ended every night by drawing his children close around him and talking to them. Tonight, Elizabeth was on his lap, her little hand holding his tightly, as it had done while he was still asleep a few days earlier. His heart constricted as he studied her tiny face, and he clutched her to him, inhaling the scent of her clean hair.
“Let me tell you some stories about your mother, children.” His gaze shifted to Caleb, recalling what Eleanor had said about his vision of his mother fading. “I first met your mother when she and I were little children, and she looked exactly as Elizabeth does now.” He took Elizabeth’s chin in his hand and pivoted her face to a profile, then full on to the boys on the floor. “So, if you begin to forget your mother’s face, you only have to gaze at Elizabeth to get a reminder.”
“Did you and Mama play together?” Ben ceased tossing his ball from one hand to the other, eager to hear the answer.
“Yes, we did,” Patterson wrapped his arms around the toddler on his lap. “I used to play tricks on her, just as you do with Abigail next door.”
Ben scrunched his face. “I don’t want to marry Abigail.”
Patterson laughed. “There’s plenty of time before you need to consider marriage, Ben. And I will guarantee you’ll have a different opinion about her in ten years or so.”
Caleb glanced up at his father. “Tell us the story about when Mama set the tree on fire.”
The boys’ voices all chimed in. “Yes, that’s a good story! Tell us, Papa.”
As Patterson started the obviously well-worn story about how Margaret set their Christmas tree on fire with a candle, he noticed Eleanor sitting to the side of the group with a smile on her face. Her gaze was on his children, her smile indicating her obvious pleasure with their reactions to the old story. She was right. He needed to spend more time with his children, to keep the memory of their mother alive. He needed to take more time to regain his strength, to be able to once again take over the reins of his family. She could ask to be placed on the next ship to leave bound for England, but he hoped she would stay a bit longer, for the sake of his children. And for his sake.
Patterson shifted Elizabeth to his shoulder. She’d already fallen asleep. He glanced at his boys, who were curled up on the floor at his feet. “Do you recall the song Mama used to sing to you each evening?”
Adam and Ben both nodded, and Caleb’s eyes filled with tears. “Yankee Doodle,” he whispered.
“That’s right. We haven’t sung it in a long time. Let’s do so tonight as you make your way to bed.” He glanced to Eleanor, sitting with her hands folded together. “Are you familiar with the song?”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“Well, if you can take Elizabeth so I can get out of this chair, I’ll sing it for you as we march the children to the bedroom.” She took the sleeping child from him so he could cantilever himself erect. He positioned the crutch under his arm, and marched down the hall, singing at the top of his lungs, “Yankee Doodle came to town, riding on a pony. Sing it with me, boys.” Their sweet, off-key voices rang out down the hall, and they laughed together as they got into their night clothes and fell into bed.
“Good night, children, and sweet dreams.” Eleanor left the room and Patterson took one last glance at his brood before he closed the door and hobbled back out to the dining table.
“Tell me about the song.” Eleanor’s curiosity finally got the better of her.
Patterson leaned back in his chair. “It’s a marching song, sung by the Continental Army as they proceed from one battle to another. I sang it upon my return from an early battlefield and Margaret latched onto it, declaring it was a perfect song when she marched our brood to bed.”
“This was a nice way to pass the time, Patterson, and the children needed an evening filled with memories.” She glanced at him quickly. “I’ll wager you did, too.”
“I won’t ever forget the time Margaret and I had together. As I told the children, I’d known her nearly all my life. Going on without her these last few years has been like losing half of myself.” He shifted in his chair. “But we’ve managed as a family. Adam hasn’t yet run off to fight, and Elizabeth reminds me of Margaret more every day. So, I’d say we’re doing all right.” He gazed at Eleanor. “Thanks in large part to you.”
He could see a bit of color wash over her cheeks. “All I’ve managed is to feel totally out of my element since I’ve arrived. I certainly have had nothing to do with keeping your family together.”
“On the contrary, Eleanor. You’ve cared for my children while I was gone. You helped dispose of
a British soldier so my son wouldn’t be carted off to prison. Had you ever thought you’d be capable of doing such a thing in England?” Patterson raised an eyebrow.
She lowered her gaze. “No. I wonder what the good people of Sussex would say.” A tentative smile lit her face. “Eleanor Chastain, who can’t even make a passable apple pie, was an accomplice to a murder.” She laughed. “They’d never believe it.”
“They’d probably think you’re verging on becoming one of those wild Americans.”
She stared at him for a long moment. “You may be right, Patterson. Well, I’m off to bed as well. Good night.”
She rose from the table and Patterson got a grin on his face when she hummed the melody to “Yankee Doodle” as she marched down the hall.
Eleanor Chastain could be a great addition to America.
• ♥ •
Despite Eleanor’s admonishments, Patterson returned to his post at the Army supply house a few days later.
He played with his quill pen. His thoughts wandered as he struggled to make sense of all the invoices that had arrived during his absence.
His commanding officer, Major Harris, strode into the room, and Patterson struggled to his feet, holding onto the desk for support. He saluted his superior officer. “Major. Good to see you again.”
“At ease, Private, and sit back down before you fall over.”
Patterson sank into the chair, grateful he didn’t need to stand at attention. His leg wound bothered him more than he would admit.
The major took a seat opposite him. “Even though you must retire now from the military, due to your condition, I’d like to keep you on as a private citizen.”
Patterson swallowed his retort. He’d been expecting to be relieved of duty, but it pained him, nonetheless. “I don’t wish to retire from the military, sir. In a few weeks, I’ll be good as new.”
“Whether you wish it or not, your wound will prevent you from active duty. But you can still be of use to the cause, behind the scenes.”
At least, this way, he could still play a part in the Revolution. “What do you have in mind, sir?”
“Even though we tallied a victory at Cowpens, we can’t let up. We now have help from the French and the Spaniards, and the Russian officer who schooled Washington’s troops in how to march and fight, we still have a long time before we can declare victory. We’ll need even more supplies now.”
Patterson nodded. “Aye to that. But I have a sense the British are tiring of this war as much as we are.”
Major Harris stared off into space for a moment, then brushed his hand over his eyes. “Much as I’d like to agree, I just received word there are more troops bound for America. Unfortunately, the British have an endless supply of men ready to do battle.”
And with the ships soon arriving from England, there would be ample opportunity for Patterson to book passage for Eleanor’s return. She hadn’t yet mentioned anything about it, but he had given her his word. As if he could read Patterson’s dark thoughts, the major asked, “Is your female helper heading back to England still?”
“I did promise to book her passage in the spring but coming back home wounded has kind of delayed all mention of it so far.” Patterson stroked his chin.
“So, keep delaying it. She’s a comely lass, and if she can make your life easier, hang onto her as long as you can. The war is not over.” The major rose and headed to the door.
Major Harris was right. Eleanor was a comely lass. And she did make his life easier. His children already had come to love her. How would they feel if she suddenly disappeared from their lives? Would it trigger the same kind of feelings they’d experienced when their mother suddenly disappeared from their daily lives? Could he do that to them again? Could he do that to himself?
He wrapped up his work and limped home for the night. He could either keep delaying the inevitable, or he could discuss the situation with Eleanor and accept her decision to return home to England. Or to stay.
And if she decided to stay, what would happen between them? Could he have relations with another woman, put another woman through the tribulations of having a child, even with the knowledge she might die in the process?
No. By all that was holy, he could not. Eleanor deserved a family of her own, with a man her own age. She might be considered to be on the shelf in England, but here she was only beginning her life’s journey and he was well into the middle of his. Or beyond, if his slow recovery from his leg wound was any indication. When he was in his twenties, he would have bounced back quickly, considering a bayonet wound a mere trifle. Now, he was limping like an old man.
He’d have the postponed conversation with her tonight. And once she departed, he’d search for a woman who wished for nothing more than a comfortable home. Someone who would steer his children to adulthood and not expect any romantic involvement from him. It would be a lonely existence, but it was the best one he could contemplate.
• ♥ •
Patterson took charge of getting his children settled for the night. Eleanor washed the dishes and got the kitchen sparkling again by the time he returned to the dining room table. She had taken a seat and inhaled the scent of her nightly cup of tea.
He left the crutch propped up against the wall and crossed the room, taking a seat next to her.
“Your leg is improving daily,” Eleanor nodded toward the abandoned crutch.
“I’ve been a burden to you long enough.” Patterson covered her hand with his. He noticed how rough and red her hands had become. “Just a second.” He rose and hobbled into the kitchen, returning to the table with a jar. He sat again, popped the lid off, and took a whiff. “Still good. I’d nearly forgotten about this.” He loaded up a finger with the mixture and took hold of Eleanor’s hand again. He worked the lotion into her skin, starting at the palm and radiating out towards the tips of her fingers.
“What is it?” Eleanor tried to reclaim her hand, but he held it firmly.
“It’s a lotion Margaret always made to care for her hands. The formula for it is written down somewhere. If it works on you, we’ll need to make more, since this is the last little bit.” He massaged her hand gently, working extra lotion into the knuckles, tugging gently on each finger as he worked from the front of her hand to the palm and back again.
Eleanor finally leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes as Patterson took hold of her other hand and continued his work. It pleased him that she trusted him enough to relax. A slight moan escaped her lips and Patterson’s grip tightened.
“Ooh, that feels so good.” Her words floated across the table to him.
When her skin had absorbed all the lotion it could, he lifted her hands to his nose and sniffed. The familiar scent would have taken him to his knees if he’d been standing. Tears smarted at his eyes and he dropped her hands.
For a long minute, neither spoke. Patterson swallowed, hard, as he tried to gain control of his emotions.
She finally broke the silence. “Thank you, Patterson, for finding the lotion. My hands feel ever so much better now.”
Eleanor started to rise, but Patterson placed a hand on her arm.
“Don’t go yet. I need to discuss something with you.”
She hesitated but settled back into her seat.
“What is it?”
Patterson raked his hand through his hair. “I promised that upon my return, you could go back to England. If it’s still your wish, there are ships leaving in the next few weeks.” He took hold of her hand again. “But I worry about the children. They’ve come to depend on you. To love you. And to leave now would be like losing their mother all over again.”
She bit her bottom lip. Long seconds dragged by as he waited for her response.
Finally, she raised her eyes from the table. The gold flecks in them sparkled in the glow of the candle. “What would you have me do?” Her voice as low as a whisper.
“You’ve been here when I most needed you.” He laced their fingers together. “And
I greatly appreciate all you’ve done for me while I lay ill. It would have been a sad irony to die at home in my bed instead of in battle. It has not been an easy time for you so far. So, my wish is for you to stay and let me repay you for your kindness.” He could feel her tremble. “But if you still wish to return to England, I’ll do as I promised, write a letter of recommendation and pay for your passage home.”
She slowly released her fingers from his grip and her soft gaze swept over him. “Having borne witness to the actions the British soldiers have taken here in the colonies, and continue to take, I have a different viewpoint about my homeland than I did last fall. You’re still not completely healed, and the children need proper guidance from both a man and a woman. I can postpone my return until you’re able to resume taking the reins of your family completely.”
He let out the breath he’d been holding. He may have to fake his limp for a long time if he wished for her to remain past the spring.
Chapter Eighteen
E leanor stood on shaky limbs and nearly ran to her bedroom. Once she closed the door, she collapsed onto the bed, holding her fluttering stomach. Dear Lord, what had just happened? Patterson had done the sweetest thing ever, massaging the lotion into her hands, which had become so rough over the winter.
When Billy Buford had forced his tongue down her throat, she’d experienced true panic. He’d always been capable of instilling fear in her, but never to such a degree. The last time he’d pinned her down back in Sussex, he’d still been a boy. As a man, he had brute strength on his side, and Eleanor had been no match for him. Fear had mingled with shock when he assaulted her, and she shrank from his touch. But when Patterson’s fingers encircled her wrists, instead of the panic she’d felt with Billy, she’d experienced another emotion altogether. Delight. She had not wanted that moment to end.
