Time After Time

by Elizabeth Boyce

  Will was keeping Joanna and Emily entertained as he became more mobile. He was their delight, and Emily anticipated the birth of her own child as she watched him. She wondered if her baby was a boy or girl. Would the baby look like Jonathon? She hoped so, and she placed her hands on her abdomen as if willing it to be so. Oh, how she missed him; how glad she was to have a part of him with her now.

  The women were uneasy with David gone. The tense atmosphere of the cities and towns was seeping into the countryside, and hostility was building. Fear possessed the minds of each of the women. Fear for David, fear for themselves, fear for the future. What kind of world would their children grow up in? Would there be anything left for their offspring?

  Sorrow also occupied their minds. Emily was just beginning to be able to sit for a while without breaking into tears over her loss of Jonathon. The worst times were at night when she climbed into their large, lonely bed and ached for his arms around her. She hugged his pillow close, laying her face against his shirt, and released her anguished tears into it until her head and sides ached. She moaned her agony to God, feeling wretched and desolate. She begged for freedom from this pain that exploded in her head and in her heart.

  Mornings were unbearable, too, when she drifted on the edge of waking. For then she could feel Jonathon beside her, warm and strong. But as she snuggled closer, awareness grabbed her and roughly pulled her to consciousness. And emptiness. She cursed sleep for the wicked tricks it played on her, and she began her days as she ended them — weeping until she lay exhausted.

  In the evenings as she and Joanna sat together, she tried to push these things from her mind, unwilling to allow her sister-in-law to witness her tears. The tenderness others showed at her sorrow only made it worse. And in a strange way she hoarded those tears, for they were her intimacy with Jonathon now, an exchange as private as their lovemaking had been.

  So she filled her mind with thoughts of the child she carried. She sat embroidering clothing for him as she and Joanna watched Will’s antics. Suddenly, she felt a strange sensation, and she stopped. She sat very still; she felt it again. A fluttering, a tiny sensation that whispered of a presence known of but, until now, imperceptible. Emily sat and waited, eyes focused on nothing, all her senses focused within. Joanna noticed her stillness.

  “Emily, what is it?”

  Emily looked at her, her eyes shining.

  “Joanna, I felt my baby move! He is real. Our child is real.”

  Joanna knew the miracle of this moment. She rose and went to Emily and embraced her.

  “Of course he is real,” she laughed. “But I understand what you mean.”

  “Joanna — ” she began. Her sentence was interrupted by a distant, faint sound. They both looked toward the window, hoping to recognize the sound of David’s horse. But he was not due home until the end of the week at the earliest. Hope turned into dread as the sound grew into the pounding, terrifying rhythm of many horses.

  The women looked at each other in alarm as Joanna sprang to the bell rope, summoning Dulcie, while Emily crossed to Jonathon’s study. She found the key to the gun cabinet in the top desk drawer and quickly unlocked the cabinet. She loaded a pistol and rejoined Joanna in the main hall as the pounding roar halted outside the front door. They heard a clear voice call out commands, and then the heavy brass knocker echoed in the hallway. Dulcie hurried by with William and disappeared into the back of the house.

  Emily’s legs trembled so that she could barely walk to the door. She fumbled with the latch and handed Joanna her pistol. Smoothing her hair, she opened the door and gasped at the sight of a troop of British soldiers covering the drive. The officer in charge saluted smartly, catching Emily by surprise, causing her to blink and step back.

  “Good evening. Do I address Mrs. Jonathon Brentwood?” The words snapped out of his mouth briskly, mirroring his salute.

  “Yes, sir. May I be of some help?” Emily’s curiosity was piqued enough to somewhat diminish her fear.

  “I have a warrant for the arrest of your husband, Captain Jonathon Brentwood, on charges of treason, conspiracy and assault on an officer of the king.”

  Emily recoiled at his words as her mind struggled to make sense of them. Frowning at the officer, incomprehension clouded her face. The image of Jonathon’s body being hauled into the British skiff assaulted her with fresh anguish, and confusion battled anger at the cruelty of his words.

  “How dare you come here and mock my sorrow,” she seethed.

  The officer exchanged a meaningful look with his men. Turning back to Emily, he repeated his statement more insistently.

  “I have a warrant for the arrest of your husband, Captain Jonathon Brentwood, on charges of treason, conspiracy and assault on an officer of the king.”

  The ramification of his words began to dawn on her, and her mind began to race at their meaning. If what he said was true then … Jonathon was alive! How could that be? She saw him murdered and carried off. She stared at the officer, his words ringing in her ears. The shock was too much, and she saw only grayness surround him as she felt herself beginning to black out. “No! You must be strong,” she told herself. “You must hang on.”

  “Mrs. Brentwood? Mrs. Brentwood!” His voice echoed at her from far away, but she pulled up all her strength, invigorated by the cold night air and the one thought that exploded in her mind: Jonathon must be alive!

  “Forgive me, officer, could you explain your meaning?” Emily finally asked. She needed more information; she must divert them from wherever Jonathon was hiding. But where could he be?

  “Please do not try to stall us, Mrs. Brentwood. We have come to arrest Captain Brentwood, and any interference on your part is also punishable by law.”

  “Is this a pitiless joke, officer? I saw my husband shot and killed with my own eyes. I saw the British soldiers recover his body from the sea. You are too cruel!” Emily exclaimed.

  The officer gazed at Emily gauging her sincerity. Coming to a decision, he spoke harshly.

  “Mrs. Brentwood, I see through your attempt at deception. Captain Brentwood escaped the prison weeks ago. We believe, of course, that he took refuge here. We will not leave until we find him, arrest him, and return him to Norfolk for hanging.”

  She knew Joanna heard the news, for she felt the woman’s hand tighten on hers as it held the door open. She squeezed it in conspiratorial celebration while both women maintained a composed exterior. She silently motioned for the pistol and hid it in her skirts.

  “Mrs. Brentwood, please ask your husband to come out. It will be easier on everyone,” the officer said firmly.

  “My husband is not here,” Emily answered. Her voice seemed to come down to her through a long tunnel. She knew she spoke the words, but faintness overtook her, and she balanced on the edge of consciousness.

  “Mrs. Brentwood,” the officer’s voice rang out harshly, “I am afraid we shall have to search the house.”

  “You have no right — ” Emily protested.

  The officer motioned to his men, and the soldiers began to dismount. In one swift move Emily swung her pistol up and fired just above their heads, the blast piercing the wintry night. The horses shied at the noise, and the soldiers ducked and dismounted in disarray. Leaping off of his horse and rushing toward Emily, the officer grabbed the pistol. He swung her arm back, pivoting her and thrusting her to the floor. His pistol was out and aimed at her head.

  “Now, Mrs. Brentwood, we shall look for your husband,” he sneered.

  He slowly drew his gun back and replaced it in his belt. Joanna ran to Emily and helped her to her feet. Men brushed past them and began to search through the rooms, overturning furniture and roughly grabbing at drapes and doors. Others searched the outbuildings and the grounds. They rousted slaves from their quarters, shoving them with their rifle butts.

  In the ho
use, Joanna and Emily sat together on the settee under the watchful eye of the officer.

  “It will not take my men long to find your husband, Mrs. Brentwood. It would have been much easier on him had he simply surrendered. Now my men may have to get … forceful.” Standing, he made his way across the room and poured brandy from the crystal decanter. His icy stare took in the furnishings, then the women.

  “I believe we shall spend the night,” he murmured.

  Just then Dulcie entered with William. Her eyes were wide with fright and she hurried to Joanna who rose, composed, belying her pounding heart. She took William from the servant and held him close. The officer’s eyes had watched the transaction carefully, noting which woman took the child. He would get Brentwood whatever it took.

  Two men entered the room and saluted.

  “We do not see any sign of him, sir.” The taller of the two spoke. “We have searched the house, the grounds … everywhere.”

  The officer slammed his glass down causing the women to jump. Will began to cry and Joanna tried to hush him. The men talked over the commotion until, enraged, the officer shouted.

  “Shut that child up!”

  Will cried all the louder. The officer strode across the room toward them. Emily stepped between the man and Joanna.

  “Sir, the child is hungry. Let us retire to the next room. Then you and your men can discuss your plans, and the child can be fed.” Her blue eyes were steel, boring into his.

  The officer looked at her ready to refuse her request, but as if on cue, William burst into a louder cry than before. The officer looked over at the child, then back at Emily.

  “Of course,” he said coldly. “But do not leave the next room until I send for you.”

  The women quickly moved into the next room and closed the door. They embraced and began to laugh and cry in the same breath.

  “He is alive! Joanna, he is alive!” Emily whispered excitedly.

  “Emily, it is a miracle. How can it be so?” Joanna exclaimed softly.

  “I do not know, Joanna. I saw him get shot and fall into the sea. I saw British soldiers take him away. Even Mr. Gates gave up hope.” Tears glistened in Emily’s eyes as she spoke. “Where could he be, I wonder? I hope he is safe.”

  The women continued to speculate as Joanna nursed William. He settled down and eventually fell fast asleep. Emily could hardly contain herself. She paced the room and poked at the fire constantly. She wanted to flee from here, ride out and search the countryside for her beloved Jonathon.

  In a while the officer came into the room. He looked agitated and impatient.

  “Mrs. Brentwood, I insist you tell me where your husband is immediately,” he said harshly.

  “I do not know where he is,” she answered honestly.

  “We know he is not on his ship. He must have returned here. It will be much easier on all concerned if you simply tell us where to find him,” the man said threateningly.

  “Sir,” Emily said firmly. “I do not know where he is. I saw him last in Norfolk. He has not returned to Brentwood Manor.”

  “Then we will wait here for him,” he answered.

  The women exchanged glances, both appalled at the thought of having these men trample all over Brentwood Manor. If Jonathon did return, it would mean certain death for him.

  “Surely you have more important things to attend than this,” Emily said.

  “More important than capturing a traitor to the king?” he replied haughtily.

  The words rang in Emily’s head. Was it not she who had flung that accusation at Jonathon just a few months ago? Now his life hinged on that accusation. And somehow those words did not make sense to her anymore.

  “Sir, we do not have enough food and provisions to house you and your men,” Joanna spoke up. “We barely have enough to feed ourselves these days.”

  Emily almost blurted out that it was thanks to parliament’s stranglehold. My God, she thought, I am becoming a damn patriot. She smiled inwardly.

  “Your slaves look well-tended. I am sure they will last a while if they are not given as many table scraps,” he shot back at her.

  Emily’s heart pounded with rage. The impertinent fool! Who did he think he was?

  “After all,” he continued, “you are doing this for the king’s troops, and Mrs. Brentwood’s sympathies toward us are well known in the area.”

  Emily felt flushed with shame. He walked over to her and ran his finger along her jaw.

  “In fact, Mrs. Brentwood, I was expecting a much warmer welcome than this.” His voice was soft and menacing.

  Emily drew back, fighting off the urge to slap his face.

  “It is late, sir. We would like to retire,” she said as she walked toward Joanna and William. “You may stay the night; tomorrow you must leave. I assume you are prepared to sleep out of doors.” She stared at him coldly.

  “You are delightful. No wonder Brentwood was captivated by you,” the officer laughed. “You give me orders while my troop of armed men waits outside for my orders.” His faced changed instantly, a frown replacing the sly smile. “But you forget who is in charge here. We will leave when I give the order to do so and not before. It would be in your best interest, Mrs. Brentwood, to remember who it is that gives the orders.”

  Emily was furious, but she was also aware of the reality of the situation. To give in to her temper could endanger her life as well as that of her child, Joanna, and Will. And Jonathon. She hated this helpless feeling; she hated being ordered around by this officer who demanded his way without regard to the needs or wants of others.

  Much as parliament had been doing to the colonies.

  Chapter 12

  The icy wind whipped around the buildings and through the trees, moaning beneath a pale, white moon. A lone figure crouched beside the south wing of the Wren Building. Inside, the last hymn faded into the night as students and faculty of the College of William and Mary began to depart the evening service. Men buttoned their coats and secured their hats as they left the chapel; voices called farewells and groups parted, heading home to warm hearths and hearty suppers.

  The figure crouched animal-like, ready to spring on its prey, while at the same time, remaining concealed. His ears strained to hear the voice or name of one student in particular.

  “Andrew, you bear! I thought you were going to miss service tonight,” a youthful voice bellowed.

  “Shhh. Do you want to get me in trouble?” Andrew responded good-naturedly. The two companions hurried merrily toward the boarding house where they roomed.

  The silent figure moved forward and peered into the dark; seeing no one else about, he moved ahead, then stopped, hunched noiselessly against a tree, and listened. Satisfied that all had departed, he followed the two young men, moving silently in the shadows.

  “Andrew, it is good to hear you laugh again. I know what a terrible ordeal your family has been through. I am sorry about your brother-in-law,” the youth said earnestly.

  Andrew swallowed hard several times to rid his throat of the too familiar, painful tightness. His only respite had been moments of forgetting, conscious battles to think of other things, to go on.

  “Thanks, Peter,” he croaked.

  They had arrived at their boarding house, the glow of warmth and firelight hastening their steps to the door. On opening it, the welcome aroma of beef pie and fresh biscuits spurred them on even more quickly. The door closed behind them shutting out the noise and warmth inside, leaving the cold quiet of the night to the stranger in the shadows. He waited until the brick house was blanketed in silence, its windows dark. Then the figure stamped his feet to circulate the blood and shock them from the cold. The icy wind had died down to a constant whisper of cold breath from the north that bit through the woolen layers that protected the silent watcher. From his post h
e was fairly certain which room belonged to Andrew Wentworth, and he was confident of getting to it without any difficulty.

  • • •

  He crept stealthily across the deserted road and slipped into the shadows of the house. Finding the back door, he examined the latch and easily dismantled it. Then, with a furtive glance about, he quietly swung the door inward and crept into the back hall of the boarding house. To his right embers burned on the kitchen hearth; to his left a door was closed on the plump woman who ran the establishment. Her gentle snoring floated through the door and urged him forward.

  Gradually his eyes adjusted to the dark enabling him to make out the forms of the furnishings. He skulked to the front hall and the stairs that led up to the boarders’ rooms.

  One shape had not been evident, since it was so close to the ground. The intruder took a step and instinctively pulled away as the high-pitched screech of an affronted cat broke the stillness. Caught off balance, the stranger reeled to his right and tipped a slender stand, sending a plant crashing to the floor.

  The snoring ceased and was replaced by the sound of rustling and scuffling. Noting a half-sized closet door beneath the stairs, the figure dashed to it, concealing himself just as the landlady emerged. Nightcap askew, she held a candle in one hand, a pistol in the other.

  She crept forward cautiously and, seeing the plant, exclaimed, “Elmer, you have attacked my fern again! What shall I do with you, you naughty tiger?”

  Scolding the cat, she picked it up, nestled it in her pistol-toting arm and took it to her room.

  “We shall clean this mess up first thing in the morning,” she yawned as she closed the door behind her.

  Slowly, the half-door opened and the silent figure emerged. Closing the door, he sidestepped the broken pottery, tested the first step, and then with catlike precision mounted cautiously, noiselessly. He looked at the position of the doors and calculated their placement from his view outside. Nodding in silent assent, he crossed the hall to the door on his far right. His gloved hand turned the brass doorknob, and he inched the door in. Stepping inside, he closed the door behind himself. Across the room, lying curled on the bed, lay Andrew, sound asleep.