Heart's Heritage

by Cecil, Ramona K. ; Richardson, Lisa Karon;

  Brock yanked back on the reins hard, stopping the wagon so abruptly that Annie had to grab the side of the seat so as not to topple over.

  The muscles in his jaw worked as he shoved the wagon brake in place and wrapped the reins around it. Then he turned such a fierce look toward her that she quaked. His knuckles whitened on the tops of his thighs, and his whole body seemed to quiver with a powerful emotion. Fury … or something else?

  “You think I want to stay in the army, don’t you?”

  “You never said different.” Hating the renegade tears sliding down her cheeks, Annie defiantly jutted out her quavering chin that would not behave.

  Brock heaved a deep sigh that seemed to deflate his whole body. “Annie.” Her name snagged as his voice cracked. He took her hands in his, and his eyes searched hers. “I told you in my letter how I feel about you. Why would you think I wouldn’t want to come back?”

  “You’ve been back here since this time yesterday, and you’ve never said one word about wanting to return after you serve your time in the army, or about wanting to be with … me. I know you have no interest in farming or in keeping the land—” Now the tears streamed, but Annie was past caring.

  “Annie.” Brock heaved another great sigh. His eyes held a pleading look. “I crave nothing more in this world than to stay right here with you, to make you my wife, and never leave this land Uncle Jonah left to us. But there is a war on, Annie. I might not make it back. I don’t want to make you a widow a second time.”

  “And you decided this all by yourself without giving me a chance to say how I feel, or what I want?”

  “What do you want, Annie?” He tenderly took her face in his hands and with his thumbs, gently brushed the wetness from her cheeks.

  “I want you, Brock. I want you, me, and”—she glanced down at her distended belly—”this baby to make a family … a life together on our land.”

  She pulled away from him and raised her chin higher. “You have used the excuse of not wanting to make me a widow again long enough.” Hugging herself to slow her trembling, she glared her challenge. “God has kept us safe thus far, and I have faith that He did not go to all the trouble to save you from the Shawnee and the hangman just to have you die in battle. So what say you to that, Brock Martin?”

  He shook his head and chuckled softly. “I say Gerard Blanchet and Jonah Martin were wise men to put their inheritance in the hands of a woman with faith and pluck many times greater than her stature.”

  He wrapped his arms around her and drew her close. His breath quickened, warming her frozen nose and cheeks and sending delicious tingles through her entire body. His voice grew husky, setting the blood pulsing in her temples.

  “I say,” he continued in a low, almost fierce tone, “any man who would allow a woman like you to slip through his fingers is a fool indeed. And I am no fool. So I say, Annie Martin, will you make me the happiest man on earth and agree to marry me this very day?”

  Happiness exploded inside her. Mustering both a stern look and tone, she fought to not giggle with glee. “Oui. It took you long enough to ask, mon amour! I feared when we got to the cabin, I would have to get Jonah’s old brown Bess and hold it on you to make you say the words.”

  He laughed—a deep, rich rumble that filled her with joy. “Like I told you once before, you’ll never need a musket to get a man’s attention, Annie Martin.”

  She opened her mouth to argue, but before she could utter a word he lowered his head, his mouth capturing hers.

  Epilogue

  Deux Fleuves settlement, April, 1814

  Père. Can you say Père, Jonah?”

  Annie hefted her fifteen-month-old son higher on her left hip and gazed at the wooden grave marker, weathered silver-gray.

  The air smelled of blossoms, newly turned soil, and spring sunshine.

  Jonah squirmed in her arms, seeming unimpressed with both the April morning and his mother’s attempt at teaching him the French word. With the fingers of one pudgy hand, he clutched a wad of calico material at the bodice of her dress and with the other pointed at a robin tugging a worm from the soft, moist earth.

  “Bur, bur …,” he mumbled, his bright brown eyes fixed on the rusty-breasted bird.

  Annie chuckled indulgently. “Yes, mon amour, it is a bird.” She leaned back to gaze at her child and her heart swelled to near bursting. From the moment last January tenth when Bess first laid Jonah Gerard in Annie’s arms, an immeasurable love she’d never imagined could exist filled her and grew daily.

  She brushed away a whirligig maple tree seed that had landed on her baby’s soft dark curls—curls that matched hers almost exactly. Though he’d inherited his mother’s hair and eye color, she could tell already that her son’s broad forehead and big build would, in time, mimic his father’s.

  “How proud your father would be of you … and your grandpapa, too.”

  Jonah puffed his rosy cheeks up and began blowing bubbles, a trick he’d recently learned.

  Annie stepped away from the graves and turned toward the newly plowed fields. True to his word, Johann Arnholt had saved enough seed corn to plant five acres again this year.

  “Lord willing, one day you will plow and plant this land, Jonah. It will be yours, then your son’s and your grandson’s, just as your father and grandfather wanted.”

  Jonah squealed and bounced in excitement, pumping his chubby legs, which dangled from beneath the hem of his brown linsey-woolsey dress. “Cap, Cap, Cap!”

  The big dog bounded up and lifted his muzzle to lick the bottom of Jonah’s bare foot, making the boy giggle and bounce harder.

  Annie laughed and widened her stance to steady herself against the buffeting by the exuberant dog and her wiggling son. “I am trying to teach Jonah his grandfather’s language, Cap’n Brody, and you are not helping.”

  As she focused her attention on the dog, Jonah’s weight was lifted from Annie’s arms.

  “Pa … Pa …,” Jonah babbled as he wrapped his stubby arms around Brock’s neck.

  “Easy there, big fellow. You and Cap’n Brody are not fair odds against your mother.” Brock lifted the boy up and down against the bright blue sky until Jonah laughed so hard he gasped for breath.

  When her husband had nestled their son in the crook of one arm, Annie stepped into the embrace of his other. Resting her head against Brock’s strong chest, she gazed out over the rolling acres of dark rich land and marveled at all the blessings God had wrought in their lives. Once again her heart uttered its silent prayer of thanks that the week after her son’s first birthday, her darling husband returned home safely from the war.

  As if reading her mind, Brock drew her closer. “It is a fine heritage, Annie. One our little Jonah can treasure.”

  “It is. And I hope that he will one day appreciate it.”

  She angled a smile up at him. “But I also hope to teach him what we both learned. That the inheritance truly worth keeping is the one we have in heaven through Christ.”

  His mouth warm against her hair, Brock breathed a soft “Amen.”

  Ramona K. Cecil is a wife, mother, grandmother, freelance poet, and award-winning inspirational romance writer. Now empty nesters, she and her husband make their home in Indiana. A member of American Christian Fiction Writers and American Christian Fiction Writers Indiana Chapter, her work has won awards in a number of inspirational writing contests. Over eighty of her inspirational verses have been published on a wide array of items for the Christian gift market. She enjoys a speaking ministry, sharing her journey to publication while encouraging aspiring writers. When not writing, her hobbies include reading, gardening, and visiting places of historical interest.

  Prologue

  February 6, 1773

  London, England

  From his perch above the fray, Graham Sinclair eyed his courtroom. The shabbiness of his domain mocked his dreams of justice. The cracksman he had just bound over for trial was two-thirds drunk and staggering. It wasn’t justice.
It was farce.

  “Next case.” He kneaded the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes. The usual shuffles and thumps were accompanied by the usual muted uproar from the waiting mob. These few moments between cases always reminded him of a scene change at the theater. Would comedy or tragedy play out next?

  He sighed. He had his role to perform just as the other players in the drama.

  He opened his eyes and sought Connor. His old friend and assistant nodded, and Graham cleared his throat. Connor slid a document before him.

  “Mrs. Paget.” Graham glanced from the brief in his hands to the accuser, a woman in middle years who wore a pinched expression as if her stays were too tight. As he regarded her, she sniffed and raised a handkerchief to her nose with excessive delicateness. The venomous glance she cast at the noisy throng of victims and vagabonds, constables and criminals milling on the other side of the railing might have wilted the lot—had they noticed.

  Graham lifted his gaze to the raised dock directly before him. He blinked and looked again. A slight figure stood there, head held high. Surely he knew that auburn hair and those fiercely determined brown eyes.

  His finger ran down the document as he sought the name of the accused. “Merry Lattimore.” He whispered the name aloud as he read it. He dropped the paper, making no move to catch it as it fluttered to the ground.

  He sought her face once more, searching for something, anything, that would put the lie to her claim of identity. She seemed not to recognize him. But then it had been years since they had last seen each other.

  Connor placed the retrieved document before him and gave him an odd look.

  Graham cleared his throat. “Are the accusers present?”

  “We are, Your Honor.” The plaintiffs’ singsong chant sounded like a chorus of smug Eton lads.

  “Of what does the prisoner stand accused?”

  “Theft from her mistress,” Connor said in his official voice.

  Graham looked again at the prosecution bench. “You are Mrs. Paget?”

  “Yes, Excellency.”

  “Your Honor will do.”

  The woman came perilously close to shrugging.

  “You stand as accuser of this young woman?” His severest frown, which had quailed hardened cutthroats, had no marked effect on her.

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “State your case.”

  The woman’s chin jutted out farther. “This morning I discharged Merry Lattimore from my employ. I gave her time to pack her belongings. I then retired to the drawing room to recover my nerves from the unpleasant scene she made.” She paused a moment as if to gauge his reaction.

  “A few moments later, my son came to me and stated that he had seen her sneaking from my room. I assure you she had no cause to be in my chambers. I went in search of her and apprehended the little baggage as she was about to leave the house. She claimed her valise contained only her things. Indeed, she acted as if I were in the wrong.” Outrage turned her voice brittle.

  She sniffed and raised a handkerchief to her nose. “As soon as my son opened it, I found several pieces of my jewelry right there on top.”

  “Is that all you have to say?”

  She looked confused, as if wondering what other proof he could possibly desire. “Yes.”

  “Have you any other witnesses to call?”

  “My son, Lucas.”

  Lucas Paget took his mother’s place.

  Graham could not quite name why the man should be so off-putting. He looked like any of a thousand other louts with more money than sense. His pea-green jacket was embroidered with wildflowers; his pale satin breeches shone. His lace cuffs dripped over his hands, as languid as their wearer.

  He recounted his tale of seeing Merry sneaking from his mother’s room.

  “Why was Miss Lattimore discharged from employment?”

  Scarlet suffused the young man’s face. “Immoral conduct.”

  Graham narrowed his eyes. Not the Merry he’d known. She had her faults. He knew that more than most, but she would not easily thrust aside her virtue. “And those scratches on your cheek? Where did they come from?”

  “I don’t see that it has any bearing on the theft.” Paget took a pinch of snuff from an enameled box and sniffed.

  “I can see why you might think so.” Graham fought to keep the contempt from his tone. He’d have laid money that Merry had discouraged an unwanted advance. That was the real cause of her dismissal. But then why the accusation of theft? It made no sense. Unless she had taken the items in misguided retribution for getting the boot.

  Paget’s lips compressed into an ugly sneer.

  “Have you anything else to add?” Graham said.

  “No.”

  The constable who had taken Merry in charge was called, and he attested to being summoned to the house and seeing the jewelry in Miss Lattimore’s bag.

  Graham groaned inwardly. The Pagets’ case was strong. What possible explanation could Merry produce to excuse herself? He had to find some way to help her. He owed her father that much.

  In the curve of her lips and arch of her brow he again saw the carefree girl he had known. How had she been reduced to such circumstances?

  Two spots of crimson burned brightly in her otherwise pale cheeks, and he could see the white of her knuckles as they clutched the railing. She stood unmoving in the dock. Was it possible that she had not moved since the proceedings started?

  “Have you anything to say in your defense, Miss Lattimore?” He smiled. Nodded. Come along, girl. Exonerate yourself.

  She met his gaze without flinching. Still he saw no hint of recognition in her eyes. Had he changed so much? Mayhap it was his stiff, white judicial wig. It tended to obscure the man beneath his office.

  “I took nothing from the Pagets. Indeed, I was leaving without even the wages I had earned.”

  “And would you happen to know how Mr. Paget received the injuries to his face?”

  The carmine blotches in her cheeks bled into the rest of her face. “Yes.” The answer was little more than a whisper.

  He had expected as much. “Please explain.”

  Merry closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, as if she needed the fortification of extra breath in her lungs. When she opened her eyes again, the color in her cheeks had drained, leaving her skin ivory pale.

  “I caused the injuries in the course of discouraging his advances.”

  An outraged murmur issued from the plaintiff’s bench, and Graham held up his hand for silence.

  “How do you explain the presence of the jewelry in your case?”

  “I cannot explain it. I don’t know how it came to be there.”

  “Did you pack the bag yourself?” Silently he willed her to give him something to work with.

  “I did.”

  A muscle in his jaw ticked. “And was it in your possession until you attempted to leave the house?”

  “No.”

  Ah, finally the first ray of hope. “Please explain.”

  “I placed my bag on the table in the foyer as I went to say farewell to some fri—” Merry’s gaze flickered toward Mrs. Paget. “Fellow servants in the kitchen before I departed.”

  “How long was your bag unattended?”

  “A few moments.”

  “Were there other people about?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Is it possible that someone else placed the jewelry in your bag?”

  “It’s possible. Indeed, it is the only explanation, but I don’t know who would do such a thing. At least …” Her voice sank, and she seemed to be talking half to herself. “Surely it was enough to see me out the door?”

  Graham quieted the impulse to rub his temples. Was she intent on a visit to Tyburn’s gallows?

  “Did you see anyone near your valise when you came to retrieve it?”

  “No sir.”

  Graham sighed deeply. There was no help for it now. He had tried to aid her, but he had no choice. There wasn’t a scrap
of evidence to support her.

  His throat seemed suddenly as parched and dusty as a volume on legal ethics. “Merry Lattimore, I hereby bind you over for trial before the Sessions Court. You are to be committed to Newgate gaol until such time as your case is heard.” The single crack of his gavel sounded as final as a blow from the executioner’s ax.

  With a grimly satisfied smile, Mrs. Paget flounced from his courtroom, followed closely by her son.

  Merry remained motionless. The horror on her face cut Graham to the quick. “Your imprisonment won’t last long. The Sessions are to be held in but three days.”

  Her eyes narrowed and she leaned forward, brow furrowed. A constable took her arm and escorted her from the dock. She accompanied him without protest, but shot one more look over her shoulder as she was pulled away. Their gazes met for an instant, and Graham knew she had finally recognized him.

  Chapter 1

  May 12, 1773

  Yorktown, Virginia Colony

  Had Merry arrived in Virginia under different circumstances she might have been charmed. The bustling port told of prosperity. Sailors and porters jostled one another with cargoes of Caribbean sugar, British silver, and East Indian teas. The sun graced the town with a loving favor it never seemed to shower on London.

  Despite the predawn hour, the breeze held only a hint of coolness and coaxed her cloak from her shoulders for the first time in months. Flowers blossomed in all directions, declaring spring and new hope.

  The irony wasn’t lost upon her.

  She took a half-dozen steps toward a tree with enormous, glossy, dark leaves and large, sweetly scented white flowers. Her physician father had instilled in her a love of all things botanical, along with an understanding of their medicinal properties. What healing powers might these new species contain?

  A sailor’s calloused hand snatched her up short. “Where do you think you’re going? You’ve an appointment in Williamsburg.” He laughed.