by Betty Bolte
Frank shrugged, water dripping from the points of his tricorne hat. "Your father invited me to stay at his house until I get settled."
She caught at her rebellious locks, glaring at him as panic rose to choke her. "You can't stay with us. I won't allow it."
"Mercifully, that is not your choice. It is your father's invitation I've accepted, not yours. Can we go inside now? You're soaked to the skin."
He was right, blast the man. She could feel the tiny bumps on her skin as she started to shiver. She grew cold to her core from the deluge and the horrific truth that she must share her home with this man. How could she possibly avoid him under her very roof? At least the spacious house meant less chance of contact. And surely he'd be about town, not in the house all day. She exhaled. All would be fine. She nodded mutely.
"Finally." Frank looked pointedly at his proffered arm once again.
Emily sighed, raising a hand to shield her face from pelting rain as she regarded him. Anger coiled in her stomach and pressed for release. How dare he be so patronizing? "Honestly, Frank, anyone would think you believe me incapable of walking on my own."
A sudden blaze of lightning rent the sky nearby, immediately followed by an explosion of thunder that rattled windows in the buildings around them. Despite herself, Emily jumped. "Oh!"
Frank nodded grimly toward the smoke rising in the distance from behind the buildings. "Seems if the British won't bomb the patriots out, Mother Nature will have her try. We must get inside. Now!" He tugged her along by the hand as they ran the last half block to the street door of her father's house. Without pause, he pushed open the door and pulled her onto the piazza. Bumping into one of the two imported rattan chairs, they hurried across the porch and through the door into the house.
"Next time, don't dally so." Frank closed the door harder than necessary.
"There won't be a next time if I can help it." She wrung the water from her waist-length hair. Shaking out her skirts, Emily focused on her sodden clothes as she started toward the parlor fire that awaited, and nearly collided with her father.
The burly man stood as though braced on board ship during a fierce storm, hands resting on his hips. Stunned by the worry in her father's expression, Emily gazed at him.
"Father?" She preferred to think her knees shook from the cold, wet clothes she wore and not as a result of his dark expression.
"Where have you been?" One of his massive hands cut a swath in the air before returning to his hip. "You should have been home before this storm hit. Have you no sense?"
Out of breath, Emily removed her wet outer garments and handed them to Jasmine. She took time to collect her wits before speaking. She knew better than to challenge her father when his mood matched the weather roaring about the house. She handed Jasmine the cloak. "Please dry these out for me."
"Yes, miss." Jasmine curtsied and cast a worried look at Emily's father, but stayed nearby.
Emily turned hesitantly to face his wrath. She drew a deep, steadying breath, preparing to defend herself. He watched her movements, brows pulled together in a frown as he studied her expression. While physical measures were out of the question, unlike earlier with the soldiers, her verbal persuasion tactics waited, ready to talk him around to her way of thinking. Though it wouldn't be easy. Emily opened her mouth to explain, when Frank cleared his throat.
"All is well, Captain." Frank took three steps forward. "I escorted Emily and Miss Samantha to their homes, safe and sound, as promised." He handed his wet cloak to Jasmine, who promptly fled the room, staggering under the weight of the wet garments. He ran a hand through his hair, drops of water falling to his shoulders and lingering before leaving a dark spot. "Though a bit wet, I'm afraid."
"Yes, I can see that." Her father indicated for them to follow, then strode down the hall and into the parlor. Once inside, he closed the door and faced Emily. "Young lady, it's a good thing I asked him to keep an eye on you after you went against my express wishes, traipsing around town like that last evening. What have you to say?"
Emily cringed at the umbrage in her father's voice. The patter of the slaves filled the silence as they moved about the house doing their various chores, low voices and distant singing weaving a sense of well-being that had permeated her home all her life. Tommy's coos and giggles from the upstairs room filtered through the wood slats of the ceiling and interwove with Mary's melodious tones as the young slave cared for him. Emily plucked at her wet skirts, trying to put into words why she felt compelled to rebel against his expectations. How could she explain something she didn't understand? She looked up at him with what she hoped was a serene face.
"I'm sorry, Father, but I had to. The only other person in town who did the weaving died in that awful bombing last year. With only two of us left, the ladies need me to weave the cloth they require."
"You are not a lowly seamstress, miss. You are my daughter, and you will do as I say. Not what the matrons of this town might ask of you."
"You would have me turn my back on my brothers and other men in need?" Her voice trembled, and she swallowed, refusing to allow her worry to show. He could not stop her from helping her own family. She pictured her brothers, in tattered shirts and trousers, shivering in the crisp fall mornings. She stiffened her cold back, warmth from her growing determination thawing her bones.
Her father's hands grasped his hips as he leaned toward her for emphasis. "No, but you must be more—" He paused, his gaze flicking to the ceiling, then returning to her face. "More circumspect about where you go and when you leave this house. The bloody British are desperate. I'll not have you suffer in their hands."
But his clouded eyes suggested he withheld his true reasons. She searched her father's expression, his worry and concern enveloping her. Thoughts of the loss of her long-dead mother and more recently deceased sister played in her mind, his losses as well. She glanced at Frank, who moved to the blazing fireplace to encourage his clothes to dry. The dancing firelight accompanied by pops and hisses from the burning logs created a cheerful atmosphere in the formal parlor at odds with the tension inside her. Her cold skirts clung to her legs, chilling her entire body, and she longed for the fire's warmth. But Frank lingered by the hearth, oblivious to her plight. Going to the fire with him standing there was as appealing as when she had a baby tooth yanked from her mouth when but a child. The memory of the resulting ache caused her jaw to tense. She wished he would move away.
As if he read her mind, Frank crossed from the hearth to sit on the stuffed divan in front of the shuttered window. Shivering, Emily started for the fireplace. Her father noticed her trembling.
"You're soaked through," he said gruffly. "How dare Lucille permit you to venture out into this storm? What was she thinking?"
"It was not her fault." Emily couldn't stop the glance at Frank. "The good captain was concerned about getting wet, because I slowed him down. That was not my intention, of course."
"What do you mean?"
"I was surprised to learn that Frank will stay with us." Emily searched her father's expression. Only curiosity and traces of annoyance lingered in his eyes. "He said you invited him?"
"Yes, once I learned he had nowhere else to stay." He tugged on his waistcoat to smooth it in place. "He will ensure your welfare when I cannot."
"Father." Emily placed her clasped hands before her. "Please, you must allow me to do what I can for the cause. Let me contribute something meaningful to show my support." And receive support in turn from Amy and Samantha.
Her father shook his head slowly. "You do not realize. With events such as they are, I cannot allow you to leave the house alone. I will not risk losing my only daughter. Your safety is my primary concern."
His scowl warned her not to argue. He tugged on the pointed edge of his vest, straining the bone buttons neatly aligned down the front. His dark blue coat with gold piping on the cuffs and lapel edges indicated his intention to leave the house. He had arranged his hair into a simple queue, so his agend
a did not include town business.
Frustration churned inside. How unfair he might venture out and about, but she could not. Anger burned her throat. Thunder rumbled in the distance, signifying that the storm now hurtled past Ft. Moultrie which was situated in the middle of the harbor, and on out to sea.
"But Father—" Emily couldn't bear it. She simply could not stay cooped up in the house every day. She must make him understand. She grasped for anything plausible to convince him not to restrict her in her own home unless escorted. "Who will go to the market?"
"I can." Frank inclined his head as he winked at her. "I pass by the market on my way to and from the printing office."
His lopsided grin ignited a fire inside her. Why did he not comprehend how trapped she felt? The household and its accompanying responsibilities surrounded her, memories of fun and laughter suffocating her.
"You wish me to not attend church then?" Frantic, Emily glanced from her father's stony face to Frank.
"Of course you shall attend church, but I or Frank will be with you. Otherwise you're to find something to do here until an escort is available. Enough. This conversation is over. Jasmine!" He strode to the writing desk. Removing a small bundle of papers, he studied the pages in his hand, ignoring her.
She could not let him. This was not over. Not yet. She hurried to him, her damp skirts still clinging to her legs. She brushed a wet clump of hair back from her face, grimacing at the sight she imagined she presented.
"Father, please. You must hear me. I feel so trapped by being forced to stay at home unless some man can walk with me. I've walked alone through town all my adult life until the blasted British invaded. But you must know that I'll not live in fear."
Her father slammed his massive hand onto the richly embellished mahogany desk before him, its echo a gunshot in the room. Emily jumped and stepped backward, one hand flying to her mouth to stifle the cry threatening to escape. She was startled but not afraid. He would never harm her.
"Emily, you're trying my patience with this foolhardy notion of yours. The times have become much more dangerous and you do not comprehend all that you should. You must obey me." Captain Sullivan shoved the bundle none too gently into an inside pocket of his coat. His eyes flicked to the door as Jasmine appeared there. "It's about time."
Jasmine entered the room and stopped beside him, her eyes wide and frightened, and cleared her throat. "Yes, sir?"
"My cloak and hat," he barked.
Her father must be very upset to speak to any slave in such a manner. Emily gripped her hands together and waited. She sympathized with Jasmine but dared not intervene.
The slight woman bobbed once and slipped from the room. After the many years that she had worked for Emily, Jasmine knew how to handle his ire. Jasmine had served as Emily's personal attendant and housekeeper for the past ten years, ever since her father brought the twins to town to live after their aunt declared them fit to run a household. At fifteen years, Emily and Elizabeth had assumed full responsibility for managing the small house garden, food preservation, candle making, sewing and mending, and overseeing the cleaning of the house. As time permitted, Emily also read from a Bible to Jasmine until she learned to read for herself. That was an accomplishment Emily was particularly happy about, for Jasmine's benefit and edification. If the day ever came when Jasmine won her freedom, she possessed the ability to read.
A flash of annoyance swept through Emily. It simply wasn't fair. Jasmine free to leave the house and she confined to quarters. She needed a compromise and fast, before her father left and the matter closed without the possibility of revisiting it. She scanned the room, searching for inspiration. No new ideas surfaced and she turned her gaze back to Frank, his hands tucked into his jacket pockets. He stood, tall and handsome with twinkling gray eyes, as her only answer, whether she liked it or not.
"I do not fathom the reasons for the depth of your concern, Father." Emily met her father's eyes, pressing a hand on her stomach. "But if you're so worried about my safety, I shall renew my promise to only leave the house with a proper escort." Her heart thudded in her ears as she waited for his response. She hoped he'd agree with her renewed vow to adhere to his demand. Once he did, then she needed to investigate the nuances of the definition of the word proper. Spots formed before her eyes, and she forced herself to take a breath, unaware she'd been holding it.
A light flickered in her father's eyes as he returned her look. She couldn't imagine what worried him so. She had never seen her father afraid of anything. Not when she was a child and slaves threatened to revolt. Not when his three sons—her equal parts loving and annoying older brothers—somberly left to fight for the fledgling country's independence. Not even when the British bombs exploded all around town, barely missing the house as they aimed for St. Michael's steeple a mere three blocks away.
The presence of fear in her father worried her more than the threat of confinement to the house and garden.
"What is it?" Her voice emerged strained, and she cleared her throat before continuing. "What happened?"
"I take it you've not heard about the four women outside of town who were beaten and raped by the British soldiers?" His eyes glistened, his voice gentling, though still hot with outrage. "On their way to church, men attacked them. One poor soul even lost an eye in her fight to escape, though she did not evade the ravishment that followed. I took pleasure in attending those bastards' whipping. Indeed I did."
Emily gasped at the thought of the poor women and of her father relishing the sight of men being horsewhipped. Or had he actually participated in laying the lashes to the British? "That's terrible. Did you—were you at the whipping?"
Her father glanced at Frank behind her and pressed his lips together before inclining his head slowly. "Yes, that's where I met up with Frank, on his way back into town."
"Frank was there? Watching?" She dreaded hearing the rest of the story. She always pictured Frank as gentle, but first she'd seen him calmly threaten to kill a soldier, and now this. He'd grown harder than he used to be. Tougher in ways he had never been before.
"He assisted with the whipping, as I did," her father said. "As we have been pretending to be 'sworn' loyalists, we were afforded the opportunity to punish the brutes."
"The bastards deserved it," Frank said softly behind her.
"I never believed that you were a loyalist." Emily blinked at Frank then lowered her head, pondering the mix of relief and comfort surging through her at the revelation of this side of her father and Frank.
Men could be cruel to each other, but the idea simply did not relate to the men in her own life. However, the incident explained Frank's concern much more clearly than anything else revealed today. His participation in the punishment of villains such as those men reassured her of his position on ravishment. Still, despite the newly revealed risk, she must be permitted out of her own house in order to keep her sanity. Even if it meant walking with Frank at her side.
Swallowing hard at the horrific images in her mind, she took her father's hands. "But surely you don't believe that would happen on the streets of Charles Town? The women here are not poor country folk without any sense, after all."
"Perhaps not," her father acknowledged. "Yet I already lost my wife and one daughter, and my three sons are out there somewhere." He waved one hand in the direction of the still-shuttered windows. Tears threatened as he looked at her. "I won't lose you, too."
Emily hugged him fiercely, awed at the telltale glistening of his eyes. She rested her head against his heart, as she had all her life. The reassuring rhythm of its steady beat calmed her.
Frank coughed, and she stiffened, pulling away from her father. She looked into her father's eyes, saw his concern and love. Standing on her tiptoes, she quickly kissed his cheek. Turning to Frank, she raised her eyebrows in a silent question.
"You have no control over whether the British or loyalists harm you, my dear." Frank rose from his seat and joined them. Crossing his arms over hi
s chest, he cocked his head as he regarded her silently. "They are stronger than you and grow more desperate each day."
"They've never bothered me. Not really," she added quickly and forced a smile to her face, intertwining her fingers together in front of her.
Frank arched an eyebrow at her allusion to the previous evening's events but kept silent. Jasmine hurried into the room, bobbing a curtsy to Emily's father as she handed him his cloak then slipped from the room once more. Emily longed to follow Jasmine, but she must face the situation before her. She must stand on her own now and for her future.
"They wouldn't dare hurt me." She squared her shoulders to present a confident appearance. She turned to her father and smiled. "I am a lady, after all."
"If you honor me, you shall do as I say. You must know that officers do not always behave as gentlemen. You must be circumspect with your behavior. But..." Her father hesitated, his eyes on Frank for a long moment before letting out a heavy sigh as Frank inclined his head in apparent agreement to a silent question. Her father shook his head slowly. He held up one admonishing finger at Emily. "Very well. I prefer you stay inside, away from any chance of harm, but because I love you I shall relent this time. But do not leave the house without my knowledge and Frank as your escort, understood?"
"Yes, sir." Emily held her tongue with an effort.
Worry lurked in Frank's steady appraisal of her. No, 'twas not possible. He surely didn't care about her. He only came back because of his sense of duty. She simply reminded him of his dutiful promise to Elizabeth. Emily resented the need for Frank to escort her anywhere. Not only was he a man, but he was, well, Frank. And she didn't want to feel his heat and experience yet again their shared awareness. She merely wanted to adhere to her vow, move on, and be in control of her own future.
