Fortune's Bride

by French, Judith E.

  In late August when the British admiral, Lord Richard Howe, had landed at Head of Elk with over twenty thousand men, there had been widespread rape, murder, and looting by the English troops. Even peaceful Quakers and farmers loyal to the throne had suffered. Benjamin Turner’s Irish indentured girl, Tess, had been violated and murdered in Chestertown, and the oldest Dempsey girl on Long Neck had vanished the night a company of Tory soldiers had moved out. And closer to home, a tavern wench in Oxford had been attacked by three British soldiers.

  As long as Caroline’s class and status protected her, she could use that position to help her servants and friends. As long as she could play the part of a loyal Englishwoman, she could keep her home from falling into the hands of her cousin or being burned to the ground, as the British had burned Thompson’s Chance on the Choptank River.

  Will Thompson had been declared a traitor because he’d killed a British officer who was trying to abduct his niece. Will had been hanged, his old father beaten senseless, his livestock confiscated, and his surviving children parceled out to loyal Tory families. Will’s wife had died in the fire. Some said she ran back into the burning house to rescue her deaf and blind son Edgar; others claimed she had lost her mind. Her younger sister, Abbie, was hidden here in the attic of Fortune’s Gift, along with Will’s fourteen-year-old niece, Mary.

  Amanda, Abbie, Mary, and countless other women, some white, some brown, all depended on Caroline’s wit for survival. If she made a mistake, she would take them all down with her.

  “Sweet God in heaven,” she murmured under her breath as she slid the heavy piece of furniture away from her door. “Garrett Faulkner could not have chosen a worse time to come to my door.”

  Cautiously, she peered out into the shadowy hallway. Her chamber door was closed. She must order the lock repaired first thing this morning. She’d not sleep a wink, knowing Bruce had access to her room. In stockinged feet, carrying her shoes, she tiptoed down the hall to the servants’ staircase.

  In the kitchen, Hannah was stirring up the coals to begin the morning’s work. “I tole Toby to get Randy to fix yore door right after breakfast, mistress,” the black woman said. “It ain’t right, Cap’n Bruce comin’ into yore house and breakin’ up stuff. He ain’t got no business here.” A single dark eye narrowed in righteous anger. Hannah had fallen into an open fire when she was a toddler, and half her face and one arm were horribly scarred.

  What have we come to in Maryland, Caroline thought, when only a woman so afflicted is safe to come and go without fear of molestation? “He’s a bastard, Hannah,” she agreed. “But then, Bruce always was.”

  A kitchen boy entered with an armload of wood. “Mornin’, ma’am,” he said shyly, ducking his head.

  “Good morning, Owen,” Caroline answered, pleased to see that the Welsh lad was putting some meat on his bones. He’d been little more than a scarecrow when Wesley had purchased his indenture in Chestertown.

  Caroline waited until the boy left the kitchen, then gathered bread, a jug of cider, cheese, and some cold chicken in a split oak basket and covered the food with a clean cloth. “I’d like a pitcher of hot water,” she said. “And my medicine box, if you please.”

  Hannah nodded. “Yes’m.”

  “Amanda—” Caroline began.

  Hannah raised a twisted finger to her lips. “She’s fine. Baby cuttin’ a tooth, but other than that, both fine. Don’t worry, Miss Caroline. We keep them safe.”

  Caroline nodded her thanks. The free blacks on Fortune’s Gift were strong, proud people. Many of them still practiced the old religions their ancestors had brought from Africa, and they spoke a mixture of English and their native tongues. They worked for her, but they didn’t belong to her. Most, she considered her friends, but she knew she could never really understand them. The chasm yawning between her and a woman like Hannah was too great to be crossed except in times of mutual danger.

  Even Amanda’s dark skin didn’t make her one of them. Amanda was a black Englishwoman, Hannah said. “Too far from the kettle and the gourd.” But they loved Amanda just the same—loved her for her caring hands and gentle ways—and they would risk their lives to keep her safe.

  Caroline went back up the servants’ winding staircase to the third floor, entered a tiny storage room, and opened a hidden door to climb a ladder to the hidden room in the attic. Mary and Abbie were waiting, frantic for a few minutes’ conversation. But today, Caroline had no time. She reassured them that she would get them away from Fortune’s Gift as soon as she could, left the food, and returned to the kitchen to get the hot water and medical kit with which to tend Garrett.

  He came awake as she tiptoed into his room. “Shhh,” Caroline warned him. She closed the door behind her, but she couldn’t lock it against Bruce’s soldiers.

  Two of the chamber windows caught the first rays of morning sun. There was no need for a candle to light the way. “How is it?” she asked.

  Garrett gritted his teeth and sat up.

  She saw the effort he made and compassion flooded over her. No matter how much trouble he’d caused, she reminded herself, she was almost certain that Garrett had been injured in the American cause. She owed him whatever support she could give him for Reed and Wesley’s sake. “I’ve brought you some clothes of my husband’s,” she said. “I’ll tend your wound again, but you’ll have to come down to breakfast in the west parlor. If you don’t, it will look suspicious.”

  “You expect me to come down and share breakfast with that barbarian cousin of yours?” he asked.

  “No, with me. I don’t eat with Bruce.” She scowled at him. “They aren’t stupid. Whoever ran you through with a sword reported that the suspect is wounded. You can’t appear hurt. And if you aren’t ill, it’s only natural that you’d dine with me.”

  “Mother of God,” he grumbled. “‘You expect me to walk on this leg and make small talk at the breakfast table?”

  “I didn’t invite you here,” she reminded him. “This mess is all your doing.” She went to the bedside and drew aside a lower corner of the blanket, taking care not to bare more of him than was necessary. “Oh,” she gasped. The bandage she had applied the night before was stiff with blood. “I’ll have to soak this off.”

  “I was afraid you’d say that.”

  She made her voice stern to cover her nervousness. It had been a long time since she’d been so intimate with a man. It was impossible not to notice Garrett’s sleek muscular shoulders, his well-formed biceps—impossible to forget what it felt like lying naked pressed against him. “I’ve not forgiven you for what you did last night,” she said, trying to tear her eyes from the vee of golden hair that ran down the center of his chest. “I’m doing this because you are my brother’s friend, and he would expect no less of me.”

  Her mouth felt dry, her hands shaky. Butterflies fluttered in the pit of her stomach. I’m scared, she told herself. Afraid of being caught by Bruce’s dragoons. But it wasn’t just that. It was Garrett.

  She had never been shy in the company of men. Her father and grandfather had included her on fishing trips and fox hunts. She had sat up late at night and listened to old war veterans relate stories of wilderness battles with the French and chilling tales of pirates off the Carolina coast. When she was a child, most of her friends had been boys. She had wrestled with them, run races with them, and won her share of rough-and-tumble fistfights. Later, when she had blossomed as a woman, she had delighted in dances, parties, and weddings. Aside from a few girlish crushes, she had never known awkwardness with a man.

  Now she was twenty-five, a grown woman, wed and widowed. She had no cause to act like a lovesick goose girl with this rascal Garrett Faulkner.

  But she had never been so aware of a man’s masculinity before. And she had no defense against him.

  Drops of water spilled over the sides of the bowl as she placed it on the floor beside the bed. “I’ll try not to hurt you,” she said, “but . . .”

  He touched her shoul
der, and she jerked away as though she had been stung by a wasp. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  Heat washed through her. She could not meet his eyes. Instead, she concentrated on cutting away the bloody bandage. She heard him suck in his breath, but he made no other sound as she uncovered the gaping wound and began to wash it with warm, soapy water. “It’s not closing as it should,” she said. “I’ll have to sew it shut.”

  “Wonderful.”

  She opened her medical kit and took out a needle and fine silk thread, then went to the window to thread it. He’s only a man, she told herself. Just because half the women on the Tidewater are all throwing themselves at his feet is no reason for me to play the fool. He probably expected her to fall into his arms. She was a widow, after all, and widows were supposed to be starved for a man’s attentions.

  It had never been like that for her. Wesley’s death had stunned her. And when she’d begun to recover from the shock, she’d had Bruce and half the British army to contend with. No, she’d not thought of bedding with a man. Until this moment . . .

  On the third try, the silk thread slid through the eye of the needle. Taking a deep breath, she came back and knelt beside him. “I’ll be as quick as I can,” she said.

  “Just make it neat,” he quipped. “I’ve an image to uphold.”

  She clamped her lips together and pierced his flesh with the steel needle. Garrett didn’t flinch. Carefully, she drew the thread through, mopped away the beads of blood, and took another stitch. Tears clouded her vision and she blinked them away. What had to be done, had to be done. And there was no one else she could trust to do it.

  Garrett let out his breath with a low oath as she tied the last knot and cut the thread with her sewing scissors. Then she washed the surface of the stitches with a measure of raw rum and covered it with a dressing of willow bark. She laid a pad of clean linen over the wound and bound it tightly with fresh bandages. After pulling the blanket back over him, she went to wash her hands with lye soap and water from the pitcher.

  “Thank you,” he said. “I couldn’t have done better myself.”

  She dried her hands on her apron. “I shouldn’t think you could do as well,” she replied. “I am known for my fine needlework.”

  “Ah, a lady with practical talent.”

  “Little use there is for fancy stitching since this rebellion began.”

  “I suppose not.”

  She looked at him. The morning sunlight dusted his wheat-colored hair with flecks of gold. She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue and tried not to think of how hard and muscular his thigh had been under her hands. Like coiled steel . . .

  “Don’t think that because I’ve tended your injury you can take further liberties,” she chided. “I only did it so you can get well and leave my house.”

  “I thought you helped me for your brother’s sake.”

  She felt her cheeks grow warm. “Both.” She straightened her spine. “Reed will be furious when he hears how you’ve ruined my reputation.”

  “Where is Reed?” Garrett’s voice was no longer teasing.

  “He is . . . away,” she lied. She would not tell Garrett that her brother was in prison . . . not yet, anyway.

  “But . . .” He hesitated. “There was some rumor that he—”

  “Reed is alive and well,” she hastened to say.

  “I’m glad to hear it.” There was no doubt of his sincerity. “And I am sorry about last night. It seemed the only way at the time.”

  “Easily said, but I must live with the consequences. My cousin will make things very difficult for me now.” She removed her apron and bundled up all the soiled bandages and slid them under the bed.

  “How long before someone looks under there?” he asked.

  “I’ll have Toby change your sheets and carry everything to the washhouse this morning. No one will question him.”

  “You seem to have thought this out very well, Mistress Steele.”

  “I always do.”

  “Whenever you’re caught with a gentleman in your room?” he dared.

  “Every time,” she countered, and then laughed. “You’re impossible,” she said. “No gentleman would ever—”

  He flashed a boyish grin. “I rarely call myself a gentleman.”

  “I can understand why.”

  “You’re not going to leave without helping me get dressed,” he said. “I don’t think I can manage alone.”

  A quick retort rose to her lips, but she bit it back. What he said was true. How could he bend over to dress himself? “Very well, this one time,” she agreed, “but I am no gentleman’s maid.”

  Smiling, he lay back against the pillows, raising first one arm and then the other as she pulled a white lawn shirt over his head. She had often helped Wesley with his shirt and waistcoat, and usually she had ended up wrapping and tying the stock around his neck. She had done it for him the last morning she saw him alive . . .

  It felt odd to be performing this familiar task for a stranger. “You are bigger than Wesley,” she said. But it wasn’t quite true. Wesley had been heavier and somewhat taller than Garrett, but his shoulders had never stretched the fabric of his shirts so tightly. Again, the queer feeling within her surfaced, and she found herself struggling to keep her breathing even. “Can you manage the breeches alone?”

  “No.”

  It was impossible to miss the amused glint in his gray eyes. “I don’t find this funny,” she snapped.

  “Nor I,” he said. “Usually beautiful women are undressing me, not the other way around.”

  She ignored the remark. “You’ll have to sit on the edge of the bed.”

  “I’ll need your assistance.”

  She wrapped an arm under his shoulder and helped him slide over. He groaned and turned pale when she eased his legs over the side. “Careful,” she warned.

  Sweat broke out on his forehead. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  “Don’t you dare.” She averted her eyes and covered his loins with a corner of the sheet. “Your stockings are ruined. You’ll have to wear these gray ones.” His feet were high arched and clean. Even his toenails were cut straight across. Businesslike, she rolled the stockings over his bare feet and up over his rock-hard calves. “For a seaman you’ve spent a lot of time on horseback,” she commented. The words spilled out before she realized what she’d said. He chuckled, and she blushed scarlet. There was no hiding the fact that she’d noticed and was commenting favorably on his shapely legs.

  Getting the breeches on him was worse. She was certain he was deliberately making the task more difficult than it should have been. “Devil take you,” she murmured as she leaned behind him to tuck in the tails of the shirt and tie the waistline.

  “I have no doubt he’ll try,” Garrett said.

  Seething, she helped him into his own waistcoat and boots. “Next time, I’ll send Toby to help you,” she said. “You are enjoying this far too much.”

  “Ouch,” he said as she gave a tug on the bottom of his waistcoat. “You forget I’m a dangerously ill man.”

  “Believe me, sir, I haven’t forgotten. It’s all that’s keeping you from the king’s justice.” She picked up his coat and tossed it to him. “There’s a clean stock on the table. Surely you can put that on yourself. There’s nothing wrong with your arms.” She turned toward the door, then glanced back at him. “When you come downstairs, don’t anger Bruce unnecessarily. He’s a such a fool, it’s a temptation, but he is a dangerous man.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Caroline took her green hooded cloak from a peg on the wall and draped it around her shoulders as she left the room. It was growing late, and before breakfast she had to give instructions to her foreman for the day’s work. With luck, she would hear word of her sister, but she would not seek Amanda out. It was better that she and little Jeremy remain hidden and out of Bruce’s reach.

  This time, she took the front stairs, ignoring the armed guard who stood a
t the bottom of the steps. Instead of leaving by the main entranceway, she turned right and followed the hall to the kitchen wing of the house. She saw Toby had paused long enough to whisper instructions about disposing of the bloody sheets and bandages in her chamber, then hurried on through the winter kitchen and out into the service courtyard of the manor house.

  A black and tan hound raised its head as she strode past down the worn brick walk. And from the corner of her eye, Caroline saw a scarred black cat sunning himself on the rim of the well. “Good day to you, Harry,” she murmured. The cat yawned and stretched.

  “Morning, mistress,” Cook called. He balanced a basket of side meat and smoked duck on his shoulder. Behind him, a chubby blond boy carried a bucket of milk, so warm and fresh that steam rose in the crisp morning air.

  She smiled at the lad. Jacob might be a deaf-mute, but he was quick to learn and Cook liked him. She’d not be surprised if Cook and his Nanticoke Indian wife, Sara, took the boy into their household. Cook wasn’t getting any younger, and Jacob seemed a better prospect to apprentice under the kitchen master than any of his own surly brats.

  Caroline followed the path past the smoke and wash houses, through the fallow kitchen garden crusted with crystals of ice, and around the poultry yard where a flock of speckled hens were vigorously scratching the damp earth for worms. Two roosters, feathers ruffled, necks arched, danced around each other in mock battle, while a third clung to a fence rail and crowed mightily.

  Caroline stopped at the yellow poplar tree as she and her Grandmother Bess had always done and looked back at the rambling brick house with smoke trailing from the chimneys. Instantly, she felt the warmth of her grandmother’s arms around her, and a lump of emotion rose in her throat.

  “Fortune’s Gift, child.” If Caroline listened hard, she could hear her grandmother’s familiar voice. “It’s yours to love and cherish. Good men died for this land. I passed the treasure to your mother, and from her hands, it goes to you and yours. Hold the land close, child. Hold it until hell grows potatoes, and it will never fail you.”

  “Until hell grows potatoes,” Caroline murmured. With a sigh, she continued on toward the stables and her meeting with her foreman. Fortune’s Gift had no overseer and it had no slaves. It was a family tradition. Always, the heiress to the plantation decided when to plant and when to harvest, when to cut new fields from forest, and when to sell the bounty of Fortune’s Gift.