by Barbara Dan
"I think it's romantic," said Constance Jones, glad that someone was having a streak of good luck for a change. She had just learned of her husband's capture in Chesapeake Bay.
Pamela giggled. "We should be seeing more changes at the MacGregor's house soon."
Millie Orkin pounced on that one. "It's about time she got in a family way."
"But she's only been married since December," protested mousy Mrs. Jones.
"Yes, but she was married eight years to that lovely Captain Masters, don't forget," said Mary Anne with a knowing nod.
"Cold as a codfish, that one," confirmed Millie.
"Could be Captain MacGregor is a horse of a different color." said Mrs. Slater, helping herself to more crumb cake.
The ladies sat in silence for precisely sixty ticks of the standing clock.
Then Mrs. Abernathy brought up a subject that weighed heavily on her heart: "I notice Mrs. Rafferty hasn't been attending our get-togethers of late."
"Oh, haven't you heard?" asked Miss Everhard, who was in a position to know.
The ladies put their heads together.
"She and Doctor Trowbridge are keeping company." Miss Everhard clucked disapprovingly. "And wouldn't you know? They met at Lydia MacGregor's house."
Instantly the ladies were off on this hot new topic.
* * *
While the war continued to rage beyond the borders of their land, Bruce spent July and August drilling the citizens' militia and strengthening New London's fortifications along the river. Meanwhile Lydia sewed and knitted garments for the son who was due in September.
Only five patients remained on the place now. Even after Bruce and Judge Perkins married off fourteen couples in a single afternoon, Lydia hadn't the heart to turn away the last five homeless men before they were back on their feet. Fortunately Bruce was a reasonable man, so it didn't take too much arm-twisting.
The men were moved to the carriage house, whereupon Isaac York, the gardener, kicked up a row. Lydia immediately smoothed things over by slipping him a few extra greenbacks.
Once Lydia agreed to leave the men's care entirely to Patience and Prudence Harms, Bruce caved in completely. He even decorated two rooms on the third floor for the Harms girls and offered them top wages.
The two women were, of course, delighted to stay, having recently lost their father and any steady source of income.
"Don't worry about a thing," Patience told Lydia.
"After the baby's born, you'll really need help," Prudence stressed, "what with cooking and cleaning and laundry."
And so Lydia relinquished both the running of her household and their semi-invalid guests into the Harms sisters' care. Finally, she had time to set up a proper nursery.
And then, at last, there was peace in the MacGregor household.
* * *
Still the war hung like a dark cloud over the horizon, marring their happiness. The local newspapers were full of the latest military skirmishes. Following a series of raids, the Capitol fell into British hands, delivering a devastating blow to the country's morale.
By the evening of August 26th, 1814, every patriotic soul in New London had begun to rally, as the nation faced its worst crisis yet. That night Lydia tried to absorb the latest shock without betraying her panic to their dinner guests. "Of course, you must go, Bruce. I wouldn't want it otherwise," she lied as bravely as she could.
"Murderin' fiends! Cockburn and General Ross let their men plunder at will," Colonel Rathbun reported, in a rage. "The Capitol lies in smoldering ruins. It's been two days, and still no word if President Madison and his lady are safe."
"Did you read in the Gazette where Cockburn got roaring drunk to celebrate his victory and visited a Washington brothel?" said Lemuel Anderson, a local sea captain. "I wonder what else may befall us at the hands of such barbarians."
All the ladies around the MacGregors' dining table shivered.
Unlike happier gatherings, this dinner party had convened to discuss what action to take, in the event of an attack on home ground. With wild rumors flying, it wasn't surprising that most New Londoners feared similar invasions would soon follow.
The British had strengthened their vigilance at the mouth of the Thames, compounding Bruce's problems. Twice he had tried to escape across the Sound at night. Both times he was forced to turn back when blue flares lit along the shore by a disloyal citizen had alerted the British.
Now, unless he could slip out on a moonless night, or under cover of a major storm, Bruce had two choices: Depart over land, or remain in port. Either way, his ship would remain at anchor, useless in the war effort.
"Any ideas, Bruce?" Andrew Graham asked, noticing his host's thoughtful scowl.
"We must break their stranglehold on the midAtlantic coast, using all the sea power we can muster." Bruce moved his spoon, as if pondering his strategy. "We'd be givin' 'em a damn good fight right now, if only we could get past Hardy's watchdogs."
"We must strengthen our defenses at home," Rathbun added. "Cockburn should have been turned back weeks ago." The entire assembly stared in disbelief, as he hastened to explain: "The local militia in Maryland and Virginia just weren't adequately prepared to make a stand."
Mrs. Abernathy, whose husband headed up the volunteer fire department, turned to her host. "I don't mean to be indelicate, Captain, but your wife will soon be delivered of her first child. Would it not be wise to remain at home? In case the British attack by land, I mean?"
Anger mottled Lydia's cheeks. The woman's remark, so uncalled for, settled any reticence she felt about sending Bruce off to defend the nation. Babies had a way of being born, whether their fathers were present or not. No, God helping her, she would not add to her husband's worries.
Catching Bruce's eye, she lifted her glass, then turned to Mrs. Abernathy. "Fie, madam," she laughed. "How would our son explain it in years to come, if his father stayed home to play midwife? 'Tis a most unseemly role for a manly rogue like my husband."
The men all chuckled, accepting her quip as good-natured ribbing. But Mrs. Abernathy and Mrs. Slater looked as if they’d fallen face-first into their beet soup!
Grinning, Bruce rose and made a handsome bow. "May I propose a toast?" He raised his glass. "To my beautiful wife. May all our children have her courage and loving heart."
"Here, here!"
At his unexpected praise, Lydia blinked back sudden tears and raised her chin, ready to back whatever decision her husband made. "Captain, you are too gallant! In truth, I am most desirous to remove you from under foot, so that I can begin my fall cleaning."
Mrs. Abernathy looked shocked, and Lydia could practically hear the wheels churning in some of the other ladies' heads as well.
"If I had my way, I'd throw away all your mops and brooms, wife," Bruce bantered. "I'd put my feet to a good roarin' fire on a cold night, and I'd tell tales of the sea to our children till they nodded off." He chuckled. "And after we tucked 'em in, Mrs. MacGregor, I'd tell you a bedtime story to scorch your woolies off."
His provocative words produced an excited flush all over. "Enough, Captain," she pleaded squirming in her seat. "Remember our guests."
Colonel Rathbun applauded politely. "A charming idea, Bruce. Simply delightful."
"Yes, heartwarming," said Mrs. Rathbun.
Andrew Graham laughed. "You will make a grand family man, Bruce."
MacGregor lifted his glass. "Comin' from you, Andrew, that's high praise. But until this war is over, everything else must wait. I am bound and determined to get out of the harbor."
"Should be a dark night, not many days hence," said Captain John Howard of the packet sloop Juno. Howard had eluded the blockade more often than any other New London sea captain.
"You're heading out again soon, John?" Bruce asked, making Lydia wonder if two ships could outfox the British in a single night.
"I have cargo due in New York by the end of August. Perhaps we should both make a run for it."
"On your advice
, I think I shall," Bruce agreed.
Ready for the next course, Lydia signaled Isaac York, all spiffed up for the occasion, to serve her guests. Adroitly she steered the conversation to general topics. The men could continue discussing the war over cognac and Cuban cigars, after the ladies absented themselves.
* * *
A few days later, soon after the standing clock chimed the third hour of the morning, Lydia sat up in bed, knowing full well what had awakened her. Clutching her abdomen, stretched taut as a melon, she fumbled around in the dark for a match.
The crash of a chair, followed by a burst of salty profanity, confirmed the return of her beloved.
"Don't keep moving the furniture, Lydia!" he roared, stumbling toward the bed to pull off his boots.
"Back so soon, darling?" was her sweet reply. Lighting the bedside candle, Lydia studied the tension in her husband's broad shoulders. Muttering disgustedly, Bruce rubbed his shin and cast himself onto his back fully clothed. "What happened?" she asked.
Grinding his teeth, he stared up at the ceiling, one hand draped across his forehead, as if nursing the headache. "Don't ask, Lydia," he urged. "Somebody in this town is trying to keep me holed up like some craven landlubber."
"Nonsense," Lydia soothed, wishing he wouldn't take himself so seriously. He looked so virile, sprawled beside her like an overgrown boy intent upon playing war games. "Tell me what happened."
"Same thing as before. Some dirty rotten traitor flashed a message to the British. Probably the same person who sabotaged Decatur last year."
"Oh, Bruce, I'm so sorry." Secretly delighted to have him back, she knew better than to let him know it! "What about Captain Howard?"
"He made it out of the harbor just before the blue lights flared." Bruce rolled onto his side, facing her. "Lydia, I'm almost certain nobody knew I was sailing, except those who were here for dinner two nights ago."
"Surely none of them would."
"Then who? Maybe somebody at the wharf saw us take on provisions. Someone who hates me," he added glumly.
Lydia stroked his cheek and smiled. "Then you know I didn't do it, because I love you."
He glowered like a sulky boy. "'Tis no joking matter, Lydia. I used to sneak in and out of the harbor without a bit of trouble. Now, every time I make a dash for the open sea, there are those damn blue lights."
Bruce ejected himself from the counterpane and started to pace. His big hands raked his hair, ruffling it until he looked like a dark-maned lion. His eyes gleaming dangerously, he crossed to the lace-curtained window. Except for a dim light in the carriage house, the house and grounds were dark. "I'll set a trap for the blighter," he declared.
"Good. Now come to bed." Settling comfortably against her pillows, Lydia snuffed the light and closed her eyes, listening to his stocking feet stalk around in the dark. He stubbed his toe on a chair leg near the fireplace and cursed again.
"Oh, for pity sake, Bruce!" she cried out in exasperation. "You're not going to catch him tonight."
"Go to sleep, Lydia," he ordered. "I'm going up to the stone turret and take a look around."
"Fine! That's what we need: Two watch dogs."
"A fat lot of good Brun does," he growled, pulling his boots back on. "He snores at the foot of our bed, while God only knows how many British spies are skulking about."
"You make it sound as if somebody has a personal grudge."
"Maybe not, but ever since we returned from Halifax, I've had this feeling." The mattress dipped, as he lowered his weight to sit beside her.
"Nonsense, Bruce." She propped herself up on her elbows. "The whole town brags about you. You're a hero."
"That's what troubles me. Too many eyes are focused on us right now." His fingers abstractly stroked her bare arm in the dark. "'Twas easier to move about undetected before all this hero business."
"You may have a point." Raising his hand to her lips, she planted several light breathy kisses in his muscled palm.
He pulled his hand away. "Don't try to distract me, Lydia," he growled. "'Tis highly possible somebody resents all the attention we've received of late."
"Be reasonable, darling. Nobody becomes a turncoat out of jealousy or spite."
"It wouldn't be the first time petty feelings sent a man down the wrong path." He rose and gave her a preoccupied buss on the lips. "Sleep, Lydia. I'm too restless to turn in just yet."
"I have a cure, if you're interested." Lydia eagerly flipped back the covers, intending to engage him in a friendly romp.
But Bruce wasn't buying such diversionary tactics tonight.
"Woman, behave yourself! I'm going topside." These days he referred to his lookout on the roof in nautical terms. "One way or another, I'm going to catch that traitor, and when I do—"
In the dark she heard his fist connect with a resounding smack against his open palm.
Flopping back against her pillows, Lydia uttered a groan. "Try not to trip over your own big feet in the dark," she said. "I'd hate to find you splattered all over the lawn in the morning."
"I'm as graceful as a cat," he assured her, colliding with the door jamb.
"Too bad you don't see like a cat in the dark."
Bruce chose to ignore her sarcasm. "Dark as pitch it was tonight," he lamented. "I should have gotten all the way to Baltimore without being spotted."
"Light a candle," she called, hearing him thump around in the hallway.
"Son of an Englishman!" he thundered, banging against the chiffonier Lydia had moved for the third time that week. In high dudgeon, he circumvented the offending piece of furniture and limped upstairs to lick his wounds. Aye, and to plot a suitable revenge for the blackguard who had kept him grounded for two months. Two months! All this leisure was driving him crazy.
Meanwhile Lydia tossed and pitched in their big fourposter bed. She could understand her husband's patriotic urges, but there were times when she wondered about this wife business. So much of it was a waiting game; it was lonely and downright aggravating at times.
The baby growing restless within her, she shifted and plumped a pillow against her belly. "There, there, little darling," she crooned. "You mustn't take after your father so."
Chapter Twenty-Eight
September 7, 1814
"Bruce MacGregor, where do you think you're going with that?"
Bruce straightened and watched his petite wife waddle toward him with all the grace of a penguin trying to carry a cannonball between its legs.
"Carry that baby any lower, and you'll drop him on his head!" he warned with a grin.
"Even if I did, he'd have more sense than you," Lydia sassed him back, planting her fists on her hips.
"Should you be outside in this heat, dear heart?" he asked, trying to distract the beautiful harpy from launching into a tirade.
Ignoring his solicitous remark, she walked over to his latest "home improvement" and placed her dainty foot right on top of the four pounder cannon barrel. "What are you trying to do, bring out the British marines in full force?"
Bruce chuckled. Lydia was cranky this morning. Even an hour before noon, the air was sultry and hot. Her dress stuck to her, and rivulets of perspiration tracked down her face, flattening wisps of hair against her temples. She looked paler than usual, yet as fiery and determined to keep him from putting his two small cannon on the lawn beyond the smoke house.
"We already have that nice big sixteen pounder decorating the front lawn," she reminded him crossly.
"I'm savin' that for a special purpose," he chuckled, eying her protruding belly, "in case you decide to hatch me a son."
"What do you think I've been working on these past nine months?" Awaiting his answer, Lydia tapped her dainty foot on the cannon's muzzle.
Bruce reached down and scratched Brun behind the ears. The collie, waving his plume, grinned up at his two favorite people. All morning he'd been following his master around, while Bruce hauled wood shavings from the chopping block to use around shrubs and bedding plants
. The morning had been peaceful until Robbie Harris and Wayne dropped by to deliver the two small cannon and lingered over coffee to discuss the war.
"What have you been doing these past few months?" mused Bruce, seeking to give his wife a proper response. "Let's see: You rescued the house from bein' a total shambles—made it quite the envy of our friends, in fact. You made your husband a new wardrobe, turnin' him into a regular cock o' the walk. You raised enough crops to feed a small army. And you cared for some eighty wounded American lads—"
"Seventy-six," she corrected, rubbing her lower back with a frown.
"Aye, and you stormed Halifax Prison, drugged the guards, and—"
Lydia shrugged. "I had help, so it doesn't count," she said. "So let’s not get off the subject. I was referring to our baby."
He grinned impudently. "If you want to get technical, Lydia, you had a wee bit of help there, too."
Meeting his mischievous gaze, Lydia laughed, forgetting momentarily what a hot sticky day it was. "That was the easy part."
"How about taking your foot off the cannon, love? I'd like to finish my work."
"I have no intention of provoking an attack!"
Bruce pulled a large kerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow. "The whole idea is to fire off a warning," he said patiently. "It's not for defense. But if the British do land, or some other need arises, it will alert the men at the fort."
Lydia gave up, seeing how determined he was. She removed her foot and trailed along behind him and Brun. "As long as I don't have to fight off the British all by myself."
"Trust me," he grunted, pushing the cannon up the grassy knoll. "We're in a strategic location out here on the Point. We can see what's goin' on long before an invasion. And—" he heaved mightily against the iron casing, "—I've been home long enough to know that the good people of New London will need all the advance warning they can get in the event of an attack."
""The local militia have stood off attacks before," Lydia insisted, rubbing her belly and watching the way Bruce's back muscles flexed and rippled. She hadn't seen anything so magnificent since she watched a racehorse working out in Danbury years before.
