by Betty Bolte
After he met with the ill-tempered Colonel Balfour, it proved short work to discover the facts behind the fate of his family home. He learned that only days after Jedediah departed town to join the militia for his year of promised service, the British swarmed the property, confiscating everything. Frank had not spent more than a day at a time in Charles Town since he signed up to fight for the country's freedom from English rule. Major Bradley specifically selected the place for his commander, he'd been told, but no one he spoke with understood why. In the event, his reasons remained superfluous.
The facts endured as facts. The bastard had stolen his property, and Frank planned to steal it right back. The question remained how.
"We have an extra room you can stay in until you find your feet," Sullivan said, bobbing his head in emphasis. One thick eyebrow rose as Sullivan glanced at him. "One that will suit you perfectly."
"Thank you, sir. If it's not inconvenient, I'd appreciate that." He could think of worse places to stay. Indeed, the offer fit his plans nicely. This turn of events allowed him to abide under the same roof as Emily and Tommy, very convenient on many counts. He tapped his bottle against Sullivan's, returning the grin.
"Not so fast. There's a catch," Captain Sullivan replied, smirking. "I'd ask you to continue to help me keep an eye on my daughter."
He could live with such a condition. He longed to keep both eyes on that woman, with or without her father's request. Emily glowed with life and joy, and he became a better person when he drew near her. He'd allowed himself the thrill of kissing her hand and experiencing the electric awareness flowing between them. A pang of regret surged through him when he considered the time lost with Emily as a result of his duty to claim his brother's child as a son. He swallowed the emotion filling his throat. Keeping his voice even, he asked, "Any particular reason you wish me to watch over Emily?"
"I've some business deals I need to work through over the next few weeks, which may take me out of town for a day or two, possibly longer." The captain glanced around before continuing. "Emily can be headstrong and temperamental as well as impetuous. I need someone with a firm hand on the reins. Understand?"
Indeed he did. He understood how to balance between the knowledge needed to accomplish a difficult task and the ability to manage others' actions. Working as a spy for the patriot cause while posing as a loyalist broadside printer and officer meant walking a thread that could break at any moment. Although he had never contemplated taking over his brother's business, it did provide a means for encoding troop movements and other military status for the forces waiting outside the town limits. Although the foraging-related clashes across the countryside were sporadic, innocent folks still ended up hurt and killed. He would do anything in his power to stop unnecessary abuses. Even stay in an office all day when he longed to see the wonders of far-off lands.
His earlier studies at Oxford taught him about the wealth of knowledge waiting for one who traveled the world. He channeled his thirst for adventure into supporting the creation and now rebuilding of the Charles Town Natural Museum. The specimens that arrived recently on one of Sullivan's ships gave him encouragement as they rebuilt the fire-gutted museum collection. He and the others working with him had stored the precious items in a rented warehouse until after the war ended, hoping the bombs and fires, as well as prying British eyes, steered clear of the new items.
"Yes, sir, I do." He tapped his bottle against the captain's again. "You have my word."
"There's an empty stall for your horse, as well."
"Much appreciated. I'd prefer to trust the care of Mr. Abernathy's fine thorough bred horse to your groom instead of the boys at the livery."
"Indeed, as you should. Abernathy would have my hide if I let anything happen to his horse," Sullivan said on a chuckle. "After all the time he's put into developing the line, he may never speak to me again."
"I'll do my best to not let you down, sir." Frank raised his bottle.
Returning the salute, Captain Sullivan drained his ale. "I must go. I'll leave her in your hands while I handle a shipment arriving today. I'll see you for dinner this evening."
After Sullivan left, Frank ordered another drink while he thought through his next steps. Living in the same house as Emily changed things in ways he needed to contemplate. Working through her resistance to him would take time, but he could do it. No issues there.
"Are they off tonight?" a deep voice muttered behind him, pulling him from his thoughts.
"Keep your voice down," came the gruff response.
"Ain't nobody here who knows about the ships."
"I said shut it." The sound of a blow, probably to the head, followed.
Frank heard the tenor of the men's voices but could no longer discern their words. He scanned the tavern's scarred bar, where he sat on an equally abused stool. He alone occupied a stool now, but as he surveyed the tables crowded into the small space, he saw two burly men sitting at a back table, heads together. From their soiled, loose-fitting shirts and red kerchiefs about their necks, they likely hailed from one of the ships making ready to sail. Whether legally or as privateers, he knew not and would not inquire. No good could come from poking his nose in where it did not belong. He returned to his ale, contemplating the bar surface.
Despite the evidence of previous fights and scuffles, the mahogany surface gleamed darkly from the daily scrubbing the barkeeper insisted on. The floor did not receive the same attention, so he was thankful for the sturdy leather overshoes he'd purchased from the cobbler to protect his deerskin boots. Between the mud and sand and horse manure, the floor was little better than the dirt-packed road called Bay Street. Perhaps when the war ended and America was free—God willing—Governor John Mathews would see to using the pile of ballast stones from the British ships to pave the streets. For now they were a sore reminder of the lingering parliamentary tax on even the blasted stones, a tax the colonists refused to pay. He longed for cobblestones to replace the sand, dust and mud that served as streets almost as much as he dreamed of the day this charade ended.
He quaffed the remainder of his ale. Time to go. Laying a few coins on the bar, he bade the rotund and sweaty barkeeper good day and strode out into the windy afternoon. The scent of rain filled the air. Whether the ladies wanted his escort or no, they would have one. He glanced at the building thunderclouds and quickened his stride.
* * *
Once more at the loom after their private tea, Emily relished the sense of purpose and freedom her decision yielded. Fortunately, her friends stood with her. Now to take the steps necessary to fulfill her dream.
"Emily? Dear, are you well?" Aunt Lucille waved a hand before Emily's eyes, drawing her focus back to the present.
"What? Oh, I'm sorry, Aunt." Heat crept up her chest and neck, finally warming her cheeks. The whir of the spinning wheels and the chatter of the other women in the upper parlor reminded her of the task at hand. "What were you saying?"
"I asked, what of Tommy? How does he fare?" A light frown etched miniature crevices between hazel eyes. Aunt Lucille's threadbare day gown stood silent witness to the sacrifices she and most of the ladies had endured throughout the course of the war.
"Tommy is well, at home with the wet nurse overseeing his needs. He's been a bit off with colic but Samantha offered to bring a tonic for him. He'll be a fine, strapping man if he keeps eating as he does."
Aunt Lucille shrugged. "'Tis good for him to eat so. That proves he is healthy and thriving. His mother would be happy." A shadow passed over her eyes and vanished. She looked away briefly, then beamed at Emily. "Tell me about Captain Frank. It surprised me to hear he returned yesterday."
"Father warned me his return was imminent." Emily shook her head as a reflex to her confusion. "I do not understand why he came back now. It's been almost eight months since Elizabeth died. He couldn't be bothered with coming to the funeral even though we sent word."
Aunt Lucille patted her hand where it rested on the loom frame.
"The war changes everyone's priorities, my dear. He put duty to his country ahead of family during this crisis. It is to be lauded, not vilified."
"Yet now he hovers like a father goose, honking and snapping his mouth. Stalking around all self-important and righteous, preaching his demands. I won't tolerate it." Irritation simmered in the pit of her stomach.
Aunt Lucille laughed, wiping away tears. "Such an imagination you have. Just like Amy with her fiction."
"I make a point to stick to the facts as much as possible; that's the difference." Emily slid the shuttle along the loom threads, expertly tamping the new thread in place before sliding the shuttle back and repeating the motion. The rhythmic whoosh and thump of the loom reflected her feelings. "I enjoy her tales, but I don't encourage the telling of lies."
"Naturally. Will Frank escort you home this afternoon?" Aunt Lucille asked after a moment.
"Unfortunately yes, but I'd prefer he did not. I'm not a child in need of a nanny."
Aunt Lucille's mirth sobered. "My dear, we live in dangerous times in town, nay in this country. The British soldiers as well as the loyalists all fear they have lost this war. They rightly fear the retaliation patriots will exact when that officially happens. Indeed, the list of known loyalists who will be forced to leave South Carolina when the British embark for London grows daily. Do not discount the tension surrounding us now."
"But must it be Frank to escort me?" Emily tried to quell the whine from her voice. "Frank has claimed to be loyal to the king. Even if that's untrue, I cannot tolerate the thought he would attempt to deceive us so."
"He cares about his family in this town—his son, his father-in-law, and you—and thus he made that claim so he can continue to do his duty and protect all of you. He is not like some who turned on their families when they switched sides. He understands every person has the right to choose. He is very special as a result."
"Family duty fiddlesticks. How can you be so sure this time is like any other time? We are at war."
"I've known Frank since he was a lad, dear. I know his sense of duty led to him returning from battle to marry your dear sister after her betrothed died. If the banns had been read the third time, her engagement to Jedediah would have been established. At that point the law would have prevented Frank from marrying her after Jedediah died in that bloody battle, and Tommy would officially be an orphan now."
"Hmm, right noble of Frank to step in for Jedediah," Emily said.
"Yes, it was, though nobody required him to be so thoughtful of Elizabeth's reputation if she were to have a child out of wedlock," Aunt Lucile replied. "What a sacrifice for him."
Sacrifice indeed. Emily recalled the hurried private ceremony held in the front parlor. No flowers or other decorations adorned the room due to the haste of the marriage. Emily had contributed an embroidered pale yellow gown with seed pearls along the scooped neckline and in rays down the full skirts. The same dress she had held aside for her own hoped-for wedding. She worked for weeks on the tiny pearls, the tiny stitches invisible against the fine linen. The rector, apprised of the urgency of the situation, read an abbreviated set of vows and pronounced them man and wife. Then, within days Frank departed to return to his unit.
Emily had watched Elizabeth's pregnancy progress, knowing Frank now officially acted as the father of the child and husband of her sister. How did one forget the sensation of a searing kiss on your hand? The longing in his eyes as he stood beside her father, watching Emily walk into the room ahead of Elizabeth in the gown Emily had created. A gown Elizabeth had worn to marry the man of Emily's childhood dreams.
As the couple said their wedding vows, Emily had tried to forget she loved Frank. The only way she could imagine living with her sister as her little family began was to forget her feelings for him and guard her heart from further pain. She'd succeeded in large part. Yet a tiny piece of her heart waited to be his. A desire representing a futile longing.
No tears, she swore silently, swallowing hard. Marriage and motherhood once seemed her destiny. Her sister's marriage and then demise had killed any possibility of ever achieving her dream.
Times certainly changed with the onset of the war and the necessary shift in women's roles. She inspected the weave before her, then bit off a flax thread. Hopefully Father would understand even if he did not agree with the new goals for her life. She wound the shuttle with more thread and replaced it on the loom with a satisfying thump.
Hadn't the tavern keeper's widow taken over the tavern when he died at Cowpens early last year? And the grocer's widow had run the store even while he was away fighting. In addition to doing her own domestic chores, of course. Even without the benefit of a formal education, the widows learned to manage the funds and accounts. Time and again women proved equal to the challenges brought on by this interminable fighting and fear. Surely she could declare her own independence as well.
"Lucille, darling!"
Emily looked up from her work as a boisterous woman hurried over to hug her aunt.
Catherine Manning was the town's most visible new matron. Her cornflower-blue gown with white eyelet apron and matching kerchief distinguished her amid the more somber colors of the other women's dresses. Emily scowled at her brown gown and sighed. Several patriot women in town wore mourning for their beloved Charles Town's occupation. Emily's array of gem-colored gowns had dwindled as the war progressed, leaving her with only the most durable ones decent enough to wear outside of the house. Those she had resisted wearing due to their dismal tones. Catherine represented the future of the new aristocracy of the town, and she dressed the part.
Her husband, George Manning, was a well-respected young lawyer who had made a name for himself in the local government. He had been responsible for the safety of the shipping lanes from pirates prior to the enemy occupation. Now the British ships were continually pestered and robbed by privateer ships. Once-honest merchants pillaged the enemy ships at the bidding of the fledgling American government.
Fortunately Emily's father eschewed becoming involved with the dangerous and, according to the British, treasonous activity. He assured her his ships imported only those goods allowed by the strict regulations imposed by the sovereign king. His shop, located a few buildings south of their home and closer to the wharfs, boasted a wide variety of objects, furniture, and other household furnishings he'd imported from distant countries. He did so although the restrictions chafed, but he maintained his lucrative business despite the British taxes. Routinely he asked her to update the books, assuring the sums balanced, and then overseeing the cleaning and arranging of the items. She enjoyed working alongside him and contributing to his business efforts, as well as gaining the education she needed to run a successful enterprise of her own. Once the war ended, maybe he would even import the silks and satins and furnishings she would need for her shop, at a discount, of course.
"Mrs. Manning, how delightful to see you again." Samantha rose to receive the woman's affectionate embrace. "Please join us. Tell us, what is the latest?"
"I cannot wait to share what I have learned." The plump woman seated herself on a ladder-backed chair and arranged her skirts. Her blue satin shoes were delicately embroidered with gold and silver flowers. How long would it take to embroider such dainty designs on the shoes, Emily wondered. Could she do them fast enough to sell them profitably?
Aunt Lucille poured a cup of mint tea and presented it to Mrs. Manning. "I'm sure you could use a bit of refreshment."
Sipping gratefully, the young woman nodded her thanks. "Wonderful to have tea again, of any kind. I have drunk coffee along with the rest of our town since the Tea Parties, but it isn't quite the same, is it? Though it shan't be long before, I dare say, with good fortune we should have our town to ourselves again." She took another sip, her eyes twinkling as she watched her audience.
Emily stopped weaving to listen. The whir of the spinning wheels ceased as the other women stilled and activity quieted around her. Hope swelled her chest as s
he held her breath, waiting for Mrs. Manning's next words.
"What has happened?" Samantha laid her hands in her lap and leaned forward, waiting for a response. Her long, tapered fingers intertwined into one fist.
A grin teased the corners of Mrs. Manning's mouth. "Peace talks are occurring in France as we speak. The treaty is expected to be signed and all the fighting to end." She glanced around the room, a pleased smile emerging. "I see I bring welcome news."
Emily clasped the wide beam of the batten tightly in her hands, joy and fear washing through her. Her brothers would come home. Her own plans could truly begin. "Peace? But who will claim our noble city in the end?"
She dare not voice her hope that the Americans would win the war. To do so might jinx everything. The fighting had tapered off, so her father said, yet the frequent foraging parties by the desperate British and even the American army continued to strip the food and supplies from the neighboring plantations and terrified everyone in their wake. As a result he discouraged her from accompanying Amy to the plantation, saying the danger loomed greater beyond the town limits. She could not fathom why she couldn't but Amy could. Why was it more dangerous for Emily to escape the confines of the occupied town?
Efforts to curtail the plundering had failed. He eased her worry by reminding her imports continued via his returning ships so all was not lost. How much longer could they survive this way, though? Food supplies had dwindled alarmingly over the two years of the besiegement of the town. Shortages of beef in town had even forced many loyalists to defect to the American army in hopes of finding more to eat. She and Jasmine had harvested all the victuals her little kitchen garden could supply. The berries and vegetables nestled in pickling jars in the cellar awaiting the coming winter months. Meat, however, was scarce due to limited availability, unless of course one had access to a plantation that had not been raided. No luck for them on that front, unfortunately.
