Jane lapsed into silence, thinking of how easily hope could be raised, then cruelly dashed—not only for Aunt Harriet, but for herself as well. There was heartache enough for both.
One afternoon a week or two later, Jane returned from the city market to find Hugh and Lydia sitting glumly at the kitchen table.
“What’s happened?” she asked, suddenly uneasy. “Is it Peter?”
It was Lydia who answered. “No, not Peter. Marianne, his wife. And the baby they were expecting in October.”
Hugh added a few details. “Marianne has been living with her parents up near Georgetown, waiting for her baby to come. Last week, Loyalist thugs raided the farm, terrorizing the family. Everyone survived—or almost everyone. Marianne lost the baby.”
Jane went tight-lipped. “Where’s Peter?”
“Over at the Lion’s Head, trying to drown his sorrows,” Hugh told her.
Jane dropped her parcels on the table and headed for the door.
The Lion’s Head Tavern was only a few blocks away, on the waterfront. Peter Quincy sat at a small corner table, staring morosely into a pint of ale. His once-strapping frame was lean and muscular, his weather-beaten face deeply lined. He did not look up when Jane approached.
“Hello, Peter,” she said softly. “Remember me?”
He was slow to lift his eyes and, when he did, offered no hint of a smile. “Of course. Lady Jane Prentice. Sit down. Have a glass of flip.”
“No drink, thank you. But I’ll sit with you a spell, if I may.”
“I heard how you left Rosewall and came to live here,” he said after a moment. “Bully for you, Jane. It’s good to have you on our side. And I suppose you’ve heard my happy news?”
“I’m so very sorry, Peter. Would you tell me what happened?”
“I’m sure I’ll spend the rest of my life telling people.” Staring into his glass again, he seemed to have difficulty beginning. “They weren’t British, you know. They were blackhearted American Tories, in the pay of the damnable English king. Broke open a barrel of rum at the Wendells’ and went on a drunken spree. Cuffed Marianne’s father about, ransacked the house, threatened the family with swords. Marianne panicked and ran, but she stumbled and fell down a ravine. She wasn’t hurt, but the baby—” Peter drained his glass and lurched to his feet. “I need another drink.”
Jane stopped him gently. “Why don’t we go walk by the harbor, instead? The air will do you good.”
He grudgingly agreed, and they walked along the seawall, Peter staring at the ground. “It was a boy, you know. Seven months along—not far to go. But when he was born the next morning, he was—he was dead. We were going to name him Timothy, after my father. But they murdered him. Murdered him in the name of King George of England!”
“Don’t, Peter!” Jane pleaded. “King George didn’t kill your son, and neither did his troops. Those raiders were scoundrels, and there are plenty on both sides, as surely as there are victims on both sides.”
“Victims?” Peter was outraged. “My son was a victim! Those damned yellow-livered American Tories are the scum of the earth, and I hate ’em all!”
Jane winced at his ferocious rage but remained calm. “Let me tell you about the Loyalist refugee camp Hugh and I see every time we go up to Goose Creek to visit Mrs. Ainsley. It’s the most horrifying sight imaginable—hundreds of miserable people whose only sin was trying to remain loyal to their king. Whenever the British leave an area, good Patriots rise up thirsting for revenge. Those poor people had to run or be tom to pieces by their neighbors. Can you honestly say you hate them?”
“Yes, I hate ’em! They’ve gotten what they deserve. And one of these days, your high and mighty uncle Robert and his fancy wife will get what they deserve, too!”
After a strained silence, Jane began again, still calmly and patiently. “Please don’t give in to blind hatred, Peter. It will destroy you. It’s the madness of war you should hate. It doesn’t care what side anyone’s on. Soldiers, citizens, people of all ages—even the unborn—and every one a tragedy. But this hatred between Americans and other Americans is deadly. It could poison life in this country forever.”
Peter snorted loudly and trudged on, but Jane could sense his anger cooling a bit. At last he spoke more calmly. “I’m too far gone to think clearly anymore, but I guess what you say makes some sense. Anyway, you’re a tonic, Lady Jane. If Simon Cordwyn ever comes back here and makes you his wife, he’ll be one lucky man.”
“Well, thank you, Peter. And speaking of luck—I actually found a bit of meat in the market today, and I’ll bet Lydia already has it on the fire.”
He nodded. “Come to think of it, I could do with a bite.”
“I’m sure you could.” Jane tugged at his arm. “Tonight we’ll make you a feast. Oh, and by the way—” Now she gave him a playful smile. “You’re not supposed to call me Lady Jane. Just Jane, please, remember?”
At last he mustered a weak smile of his own. “Sorry, pretty lass, no offense intended. But to me you’ll always be Lady Jane—as fine a lady as I ever hope to meet.”
Jane hugged his arm as they walked on, pleased that she could help him enjoy at least a fleeting moment of cheer. But oh, the heartache! Dear Lord, she prayed silently, let this be the last of it.
Chapter 32
As summer dragged to a close, excitement filled the air in Charlestown. Hugh’s friends often gathered in his workshop in the evenings to discuss reports from the North. Combined American and French forces were moving toward Virginia, where Cornwallis was holed up in the coastal village of Yorktown. No longer the mighty conqueror, the harried British general was now just trying to survive. Jane, hearing all this, could sense Patriot optimism growing. Hugh had warned her against false hope, but he was no longer following his own advice. The smell of American victory was in the air.
One day the stable boy from Goose Creek, Luther, appeared at Hugh’s door, frantically looking for Jane. This time the sight of him made her go pale. “Oh no—what’s happened, Luther? Is it more bad news?”
“Sorry, ma’am. It’s Lieutenant Ainsley. He done got wounded.”
“Oh, dear God!” Jane gasped. “Is it very bad?”
“Pretty bad, I reckon, ma’am. Doc Jeffers want to know can you come, young mahster keep askin’ for you.”
“Me?” Jane was taken aback. Why wouldn’t he ask for Lucinda Dunning at a time like this? “Are you sure it’s me he’s asking for, Luther?”
“Oh, yes’m. Doc Jeffers say he keep callin’ your name, over an’ over. Doc got his hands full with young mahster’s mama, too, kind o’ goin’ out o’ her head, seem like.”
Though momentarily stunned, Jane quickly focused on what she saw as her own duty. “I must go at once,” she told Hugh, who had followed her to the door. A storm was brewing, but this time Hugh did not hesitate.
“I’ll get us a carriage,” he said quietly.
They arrived in late afternoon, in a driving rain that had turned the narrow dirt road into a river of mud. Harriet’s elderly maid, Molly, met them at the front door, but her expressionless face told them nothing.
“Mahster Brandon restin’ fairly easy this evenin’,” she said. “You all come on in. I tell Doc Jeffers you here.”
Dr. Jeffers soon joined the visitors in the parlor. A heavyset man in his early sixties, with gray hair and a quiet dignity, he lived nearby and had been the Dudley family doctor since Harriet was a girl.
“Thank God you’ve come, Jane,” he declared in fervent greeting, then shook hands with Hugh, whom he knew from Hugh’s previous visits with Jane.
“To be brief, Brandon took a musket ball in the midsection,” Dr. Jeffers told them. “It went clear through, which is good in a way—it means there’s nothing inside to be probed for. He’s in the morning room, heavily sedated. In every waking moment he asks for you, Jane. Gets very agitated, and that’s not a good thing. That’s why I’m so glad you came.”
“And I’m glad you sent for me, Do
ctor,” Jane replied, and forced herself to ask a dreaded question. “What are his chances, do you think?”
He shrugged. “I’ve seen men recover from worse. I’ve seen them die from less. We do what we can, and hope for the best.”
“Mrs. Ainsley and the other ladies—where are they?” “I’ve taken Mrs. Dudley and Mrs. Morley to my home, where they can be looked after. But Harriet—” The doctor shook his head. “She won’t go. She sits with Brandon for hours on end, waiting for him to wake up. This morning he did, but he didn’t recognize her. She was so angry she smashed a porcelain vase out in the foyer, cursing Robert Prentice all the while. In her mind, this is all his fault.”
Jane cringed at the thought of kind Aunt Harriet so sadly transformed. “I know how she feels about Uncle Robert,” she said. “But he must be informed, and immediately! He and Brandon are very close.”
“Like father and son, I’ve heard. That’s just the problem. Harriet positively forbids me to send for him. Says she won’t let him in the house.”
“I’ll talk to her. But first, may I see Brandon for a minute?”
“He’s not a pretty sight,” Jeffers warned her as he led the way.
Bare-chested, his midsection encased in a bloodstained bandage, Brandon lay on a narrow bed in what must once have been a pleasant room, opening onto a garden. His face was ashen, his eyes closed. The only sign of life was his labored breathing. Old Molly was in attendance.
“He ain’t hardly moved for hours now,” she said. “We jes’ try to keep him comfortable.”
Jane stared, for the first time grasping the full horror of what had happened. Leaning down, she spoke Brandon’s name. There was no response.
“Thank you, Molly,” she whispered, and went out.
Starting upstairs, she met Harriet, who was on her way down.
“Hello, Aunt Harriet.” She tried to muster a smile. “I was just coming to tell you Cousin Hugh and I are here to offer what aid and comfort we can.”
“Oh.” Harriet blinked rapidly, as if confused. “You mean about Brandon. What do you think, Jane? He won’t die, will he?”
“Goodness, no! He’s young and strong, and Dr. Jeffers says he’s seen people survive worse. I’m sure he’ll recover.”
“Well, thank you, dear. It was good of you and Hugh to come. I’m exceedingly grateful to you both.”
“Not at all.” Encouraged by Harriet’s serene mood, Jane moved on to the subject she wanted to discuss. “Aunt Harriet, I really think Uncle Robert ought to be—”
“Hush!” Harriet hissed with sudden fury. “That man’s name is not to be spoken in this house!”
“But he ought to be told! We mustn’t keep him ignorant of what’s hap—”
Without warning, Harriet struck, the blow glancing off Jane’s hastily upraised arm and grazing the side of her face. Jane gasped and stepped back, her cheek aflame not from injury but from disbelief.
“That loathsome man!” Harriet shrieked. “We have him to thank for this. He deliberately lured Brandon into—”
“That’s not fair, Aunt Harriet! Brandon’s an adult, he makes his own—”
“I will not listen to this!” Harriet’s face was flushed with rage. “Adult, indeed! He was just a boy when Robert began poisoning his mind! If I see that man again, I’ll—I’ll kill him with my bare hands!” Wheeling about, she ran back upstairs.
Hearing Harriet’s outburst, Dr. Jeffers and Hugh had emerged from the parlor. “You see what I mean,” Jeffers said grimly, and started up the stairs. “Excuse me, I’d better look after her.”
Hugh gave Jane an anxious look. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, perfectly,” she said, trying to sound calm.
They returned to the parlor, where Jane sank unsteadily into a chair.
“Dr. Jeffers told me what happened,” Hugh said. “It seems Brandon and another soldier were on patrol when they ran into a rebel ambush. They held their own and the rebels withdrew, but not before the other soldier was wounded and his horse killed. Brandon’s horse, Warrior, was also badly shot up, but was still on his feet. Brandon could’ve ridden away, but, instead, strapped his companion on Warrior and sent them back to camp. Later a search party went to look for Brandon and found him lying in a pool of his own blood. Evidently the rebels had doubled back, shot him, and left him for dead. He was barely conscious when they found him, but roused himself to ask about Warrior and the other man. They told him the other man survived, but Warrior collapsed and died when they got to camp. That’s about it. The fact is, Brandon saved the other soldier’s life—but at what a cost to himself.”
Jane sat unmoving, lost in a dark silence. “I thought I knew him,” she said at last. “But I never dreamed he had it in him to do something heroic. And just think, Cousin Hugh. It could’ve been—” She stopped and gripped her temples, horrified by a thought she couldn’t bear to put into words.
“I know,” Hugh said quietly. “It could’ve been Peter who did it.”
The doctor soon returned. “Mrs. Ainsley is quiet now,” he reported.
“Dr. Jeffers—” Jane addressed him with a firm resolve. “I realize it’s not my place to make decisions here. But I strongly believe that word should be sent to Rosewall at once. Today, if it’s not too late.”
Jeffers gave a ready nod. “I’m happy for you to make decisions, Jane. Somebody needs to. But unfortunately it’ll be dark soon, and it must be a hard ride of several hours, even on a fast horse.”
“Nevertheless, I have the feeling that time is of the essence here. Please be frank with me, Doctor. Don’t you agree?”
After a moment of solemn hesitation, the doctor got to his feet. “I’ll send a rider off immediately—with a lantern—and tell him not to stop till he gets there, daylight or no.”
That night Jane sat at Brandon’s bedside, gazing at his seemingly lifeless form and marveling that this was the same young man whose brash self-confidence had so annoyed her in the past. She had still not yet seen him conscious. No change, Dr. Jeffers repeated. No change, no change . . .
She had dozed off when Brandon’s eyes finally opened. He peered fuzzily at her. “Jane? Is that you?” His tremulous voice was barely audible.
Instantly awake, she leaned forward and took his hand. “Yes, it’s me, Brandon. Cousin Hugh and I came as soon as we heard. And Dr. Jeffers has sent word to Rosewall, so Uncle Robert should be here soon.”
Brandon’s feverish mind was drawn back to a dreadful scene he couldn’t forget. “They killed Warrior, Jane. Finest horse that ever lived—they shot him as if he were a worthless old nag.”
“I’m so sorry, Brandon. But you’ll have other horses. Someday you’ll have a whole stable of them, all as fine as Warrior.”
He clung to her hand. “Stay with me, won’t you? Please say you will.”
“Of course. I’m all settled upstairs, and I’ll stay here till—”
“No, I don’t mean that. I mean stay with me—forever.”
Jane’s heart sank. Was it starting all over again? “I was wondering, Brandon,” she ventured, “shouldn’t we send for Lucinda Dunning? After all, with things so serious between you two, perhaps she ought to be—”
“Oh, no, please! That was all just a silly trick.”
“Trick? What do you mean?”
“I just wanted to make you jealous. Lucinda never meant anything to me. It’s always been you, only you, ever since the day we first met.” He rambled on, not noticing that Jane had sagged in dismay. “What a fool I was to take you for granted, when I couldn’t begin to be worthy of you. But I’ve changed now, I’m—” He sucked in his breath at a sudden stab of pain.
Jane dabbed at his perspiring brow with a damp cloth. “That’s enough,” she said firmly. “Get some rest now, we can talk about all this tomor—”
“No, no, this can’t wait!” He strained to raise his head. “You must believe me, Jane, I’ve changed! I’m a man now, wiser and humbler. Finally worthy enough to ask you—wi
ll you be my wife? Promise me, and I swear I’ll devote the rest of my life to your happiness.”
“Brandon, I . . .” Jane’s mind searched frantically for a way out. “This is hardly the right time for a proposal.”
“On the contrary, it’s the time more than ever . . .” His speech was labored. “Now more than ever, I need the promise of your love. Say yes, Jane, please. It will mean everything to me.
Jane hesitated for another long moment. Search as she might, there seemed to be only one escape. She took a deep breath. “Yes, Brandon. I give you my promise.”
“Thank you, my dearest girl. It’s a miracle—you’ve turned the worst time of my life into the best. I feel better already.” A slow smile spread over his face as his eyes fell closed and his grip on Jane’s hand relaxed.
Hugh had been listening from the doorway. “It’s very late, Jane. Get some sleep, I’ll take over here. Dr. Jeffers will be back before morning.”
For a moment longer, Jane gazed at Brandon’s haggard face. How peaceful he looks now, she thought. “Yes, all right,” she said. “Thank you.”
Hugh followed her into the foyer. “Jane, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but—did you really say you’d marry him?”
Jane gave him a calm look. “Don’t worry, Cousin Hugh. I never will.”
“So you told a lie. It could come back to haunt you, you know.”
“I hope and pray that it does. Then I’ll have to say, ‘I’m sorry, Brandon, but I’ve changed my mind. I cannot marry you after all.’ And he’ll be very angry and call me all sorts of rude names. But that would be when he’s strong and healthy again. And maybe I’ll have helped to save his life.”
Hugh gave her an understanding nod along with a smile of fond admiration. “You’re a wonder, Jane Prentice. Sleep well.”
Just Jane Page 18
