Remnants of Philo’s anger, his grief and shame flared to life, turning to ash any worry or lingering fear. “She is living with the man to whom you sold the foundry. If that is what you deem safe, than you and I have different understandings of the word.”
Pressing out another weak breath, Ensign allowed his head to lie flat on the pillow, as if he could now die in peace. “Praise God. She lives.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Philo bypassed his brother’s response. “Why did you sell to him?”
Blinking, Ensign tried to speak, but his voice became ever more hoarse. “’Tis God’s doing more than mine. She loves Joseph, Philo. God will mend what has been broken.”
So his brother would play both matchmaker and guardian, hmm? “I refuse it. I have always refused it, and you have always defied me, despite the fact that I am her father.”
Ensign coughed again, this time violent, but the fit quickly calmed. Now when he spoke, he could hardly be heard. “Read me God’s word before I pass.”
“You will not die, Ensign.” Philo spoke the words the dying wished to hear, though he didn’t feel them. More, because he wished not to open the book in his hand.
Philo rubbed his head, scrunching his eyes against the vision before him. How could this have happened? Ensign’s death had meant his vindication. But this blinding discovery made all that impeded him crash upon his future yet again.
“Who brought you here?” The holes widened, clamoring to be filled. “There is much I must know.”
“What does it matter if I am to die?”
“I would know the full depth of the dangers my child is amongst.”
The sigh Ensign released was not simply a breath. ’Twas patience and reticence. More, ’twas the signal that his brother would speak nothing of what Philo wished him to say.
“Read to me, brother.” The words hardly passed Ensign’s lips, his eyes fully closed. “I must hear something of comfort before I go.”
Comfort? What comfort was there to give? Between them both in the years since Hannah’s betrayal, there had only been heartache and strain. Yet…beside all of that, Ensign still had called for him, still asked him to read from God’s holy book. He, the woebegone preacher who shunned his own child for a life of loneliness and misery. Despite it all, Ensign would still make such an entreaty?
The thought, as if coughed free from his mind, allowed for a moment, a brighter, clearer vision—an illumination of something never before shaped in his mind. Had he been wrong and Ensign right? Could it be that all this time…with a blink he closed that light into the dark where it belonged. Nay. Ensign always wished to prove his worthiness above Philo’s, even here. Even at his death. The benevolent elder brother taking pity on the younger in his last moments.
“Please.” Ensign’s pitiful sound lifted Philo’s head. “Anything, please…I go quickly.”
So benevolent to the last.
Philo took the chair Mrs. Smith had no doubt occupied in dutiful watch and put the candle on the table. He sat with a hard breath and opened the book. Brushing his finger down the page, he read the first passage he came to. “Hear me when I call, O God of my righteousness: thou hast enlarged me when I was in distress; have mercy upon me, and hear my prayer.”
Psalms. Philo held his tongue between his teeth to keep from balking aloud. Of course God would have him open to such a verse. Where was God’s love for him, hmm? Hadn’t he suffered as well? He deserved a child who honored him, a brother who respected him—a God that would deliver him and grant him what he was owed.
Again he rubbed his head, wishing for the sleep that was forever out of reach. Wiping his hand down his face, Philo looked again to the book, another verse striking him as he read in silence. Offer the sacrifices of righteousness, and put your trust in the Lord. The truth beat his chest like a club. Hardly a verse could match his brother better.
Philo glanced up, looking at Ensign—what remained of him—when another verse brushed over him, coating his entire frame with its piercing whisper. Greater love hath no man, than a man lay down his life for his friends.
Such a fine prick, but it went deep, striking like a needle of ice to the very center of his heart. He stared forward, looking but not seeing when again that thought filled his soul. Could it be? Had he been thus blinded? But as it struck, the sensation melted, the heat of the past dissolving it to steam. Ensign was not so saintly.
Again he looked to the Bible, the last verse a hard slap to his pride. He read the words aloud as if God were forcing the sound from his throat. “I will both lay me down in peace and sleep: for thou, Lord, only makest me dwell in safety.”
After a beat of silence, Ensign wheezed. “Thank you.” He moved his hand across the bed. “You must tell Hannah I loved her, that I hope she will soon have the joy she seeks.”
Philo’s chest clenched. Such pretty words from a dying man. The sentiments sat uncomfortable in his belly, but he couldn’t locate the source.
He shook his head. There were greater needs to focus upon, and he took the chance. Perhaps his brother would, in his last moments, in his weakness, give him what he desired if perhaps he showed even a shadow of penitence.
“Leave Eaton Hill to me, brother.” He scooted closer to the bed. “I give you my word that I will work to mend what has been broken with Hannah. I shall try to be a better father. Let me, I beg of you, have care of the land, the foundry. She and I can care for it together.”
Ensign swallowed, grimacing in pain. “She yearns for your love. But…there is much you do not know of her.”
Patience, man. Philo took a breath to ease the rising tension with a painful humility. “True. It has been many years but—”
“She has lost a great deal.”
Philo nodded, while inwardly he huffed. Lost? Her fine reputation, aye. Any favorable future she might have had, aye. But what else?
“Patience and love, Philo. Those virtues are the healers.” Ensign’s mouth hardly moved now. “You deserve peace as well, and I believe you may at last regain all that you have lost.”
Pins dotted over Philo’s skin. Where those words an indication that perhaps…he would finally say it? Would Ensign bequeath Eaton Hill to him after all this time? ’Twas so close Philo could feel it.
“Hannah needs you.” Ensign wheezed. “We loved her as our own, Philo. ’Tis your turn now, to love her as well.”
How dare he.
Philo shot to his feet, the rage he’d almost shunned in place of penitence securing his loathing. “You think yourself so far above me because she loves you in a way she doesn’t love me.”
Ensign coughed, grimacing in pain. “Your prison is a wretched one. Such pride and anger…”
Philo lifted the Bible in his hands. “He who casts the first stone, brother.” He stepped back, rage fuming through his sleep-weary frame. “You must know, whether you live or die, my errand will not change. I will fight until my last breath for what should be mine.”
Spinning on his heel, he turned to the door but stopped when Ensign’s waning voice stalled him like threads of iron.
“Then pray I live. For if I die, I will be sure to haunt you.”
Philo glanced over his shoulder, unsure whether to be amused. His brother’s humor again? He hoped. Not that he believed in such things, but the mention of it made his skin writhe. He rubbed his head. Tomorrow eve was the ball, and that would make two nights without sleep. Though ’twas worth it. For the more he could be with Stockton, the more he could convince the man of his worthiness and that Eaton Hill must be his. He peered at his brother one last time.
If Ensign did die, and if he did choose to haunt him, at least he would haunt in a place worthy of it. Ensign would witness him living in happiness with the daughter who was truly his own. A thing the dead could never boast.
At that he grinned, welcoming the ball. It seemed, of a sudden, it couldn’t come soon enough.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Morning had come far too soon
. Hannah pinned her hair back, shunning her obligatory cap. She leaned toward the mirror and smiled. Was it her imagination, or did her skin look brighter, younger? A trick of the sunrise, most like.
She glanced out the window at the blush of morning, the shimmer of the sun promising to crest the horizon in minutes. Smiling, Hannah placed the last pin in her hair. She should have been down long before now. But sleep had lulled her so temptingly, and her dreams had been so real she’d been loathe to open her eyes.
A noise from downstairs flicked her pulse.
Joseph.
Her chest fluttered as she rehearsed the beautiful words over again, pulling them as close as he had held her when they’d kissed. Marry me.
Hope was not a fragile candle’s flame, easily snuffed out with the smallest breath. It burned sometimes forever. Mayhap this time she had little to worry over. He appeared so sincere, as if he truly wished it. Then again, he had before…
Hair in place, she slid open the drawer and brushed her fingers over the booties, but they cried for cradling, so she picked them up, stroking the soft yarn. And suddenly that hope dimmed as the memories fleshed to life. Though she would never repeat her actions, never again be with him till they married—if they married—that wouldn’t stop her spirit from dying should Joseph repeat what he’d done before.
Whatever has kept us apart matters little when our hearts still beat as one.
She must hold on to his words—to his sincerity that she knew could not be feigned—despite the way the past hurts threatened to strangle. The booties grew heavy with their accompanying memories, and she replaced them, but not before the ring next called out to her like the bells of a chapel. When had she last slipped it on her finger? Years, at least. She glanced to the window, the light growing. The men must eat, and she must prepare the vittles. Morning would not wait for her daydreams to find a happy end.
But she could not resist. Gripping the primitive trinket between her finger and thumb, she slipped it on, wondering if Joseph even remembered making it for her. What would he think if he knew she still had it?
Another sound clanked from below, and she hurriedly removed the ring and rested it beside the booties. Pressing the drawer closed, she did the same with her eyes, praying God would grant her strength to move forward with her future. Strength to endure whatever He would give her.
A third time a sound echoed through the floorboards. Oh dear…perhaps ’twas not Joseph. Had Stockton refused to wait for her and cooked his own food? He hadn’t done that before.
Rushing downstairs to the kitchen, Hannah’s skirts swished around her as she stopped hard in the doorway. The grin she felt over her face spread like sunshine. “Are you making turnovers?”
Joseph twisted toward her from his crouched position by the fire, the half smile on his face leaping to her across the room. “You are always cooking for others. I thought I should return the favor.”
Hannah bit her lip at the endearing sight, reining back the need that made her want to rush forward and hug him from behind, kiss his cheek and ear. But that would have to wait until they were…
She started forward, leaving the thought behind, focusing instead on what sizzled over the fire. “Not turnovers, but eggs, I see.”
He moved the pan to the cool stone and pushed up, brushing his hands against his thighs. “The chickens were good enough to lay a few. Surprising, but perhaps ’tis a good omen.”
“Perhaps.”
When he was slow to act at all familiar, her stomach churned. ’Tis your fault. She’d set herself up for disappointment. Did she expect he would grab her and kiss her again? Stupid, childish wish. Of course he would not. Stockton was about and could enter any moment.
“Is Stockton here?”
Joseph glanced behind through the kitchen window. “He’s in the foundry speaking to the men. ’Twould seem he and Higley have some business to discuss.”
In a flash he spun around and grabbed her at the waist, tugging her firm against him, pressing his mouth brusque and then tender against hers.
Delight sprayed over her, and she returned his hunger before dread forced her to push away.
“Joseph, we cannot. We shall be seen.” She tried to wriggle free, but his stone-hard muscles held her close.
Dusting light, warm kisses over her jaw, he nudged his nose into the curls at her ear, his voice a deep, tempting pool. “You never answered me.”
“Answered you?”
He rested his forehead against hers and brushed his knuckles over her cheek. “Be my wife, that I may be your husband.”
Hannah closed her eyes, savoring the moment, attaching to it all the little things—the scent of the breakfast he’d cooked, the quiet sound of his breath. The way the pink sunrise filtered through the window, the crack of the morning fire.
“Say it,” he spoke, his lips above hers.
She whispered in kind. “I will.”
He moved back, disbelief painting his face. His masculine smile burst wide, and he picked her up until her feet were fully off the ground. Suddenly, he stilled. “Why not today?” He set her down, solemn earnestness in the lines around his mouth. “Why must we wait? We’ve time.”
“Today?” His eagerness nourished her own, but one of them must use sense. She placed a hand to his chest and pushed him away, failing to keep a grin from her mouth or her voice. “We haven’t time. Tomorrow is soon enough, and even then we will not have waited for banns to be read.”
Determined, hungry, playful, he kept his eyes on her. “There is plenty of time.”
“Nay, there is not.”
He reached for her. “There is.”
She backed away, hand outstretched as she laughed. “Nay.” Joseph lunged for her, and she batted his hand away. “Joseph!”
“Miss Young?”
All the air evaporated, and she whirled at the sound of her name to see Stockton standing inside the parlor. His set jaw and hard eyes made her stomach turn. How much had he seen?
She could feel the blood retreating from her head. Her hands went clammy, and she wiped them against her skirt. “Aye, sir?”
His expression morphed to a scowl as only his eyes went past her to Joseph, who stood behind. “Is everything all right?”
Clearing her throat, she moved toward Stockton, hoping he would take her approach as a boon to his ego. “I am glad to see you, sir. May I get you some breakfast?”
Stare unmoving like an aimed weapon, he answered her. “Nay, I thank you.” Finally his eyes went to her. “But I’m in need of your help. I’ve a letter to dictate.”
“Of course.” Not looking back, she went straight to the desk, her side vision taking in the lancing glare that Stockton threw to Joseph.
Joseph spoke from the kitchen. “I shall see to the work in the foundry.”
Silent, Stockton didn’t move until Joseph exited and the kitchen door closed. “Miss Young, you look flushed. Are you sure you are well?”
She placed a hand at her cheek. Aye, she was flushed. More from panic than from anything else, though perhaps she could use this to her advantage. “Oh…” Sighing with a quick look over her shoulder, she shrugged. “I’m only overtired, I suppose.”
The writing desk beckoned her to take refuge at its station, and she obliged, sitting quickly.
“The ball is this evening.” Stockton stood directly behind her. “I should hate for you to be unable to attend.”
There was too much truth in his words. Hannah twisted in her seat, feigning weariness. “My faculties will rally, I am sure.”
He shook his head. “After this, I insist upon you resting.”
“But, sir, the day has only just begun—”
“No arguments.” His words edged with demand, his eyes with dominance. Had she missed that before? Nay, ’twas now only more clear because of what Joseph had told her last eve. Her spine cinched when he commanded the rest. “You will retire to your room the remainder of the day.” He tried to ease the rising tension with a
light sigh. “Besides, I know women take their toilette for fancy affairs as quite a ritual. I would not wish you to think I expect my clothes laundered on such a day.”
She looked away, pulling a slip of paper from the drawer. “You are generous, Major.”
“I am selfish.” He chuckled to make light of words that she knew to be true. “I wish the woman on my arm to be at her best, for I daresay there shall be none in the room to match you.”
Selfish indeed.
Leaping over the comment with naught but a civil glance across her shoulder, she dipped her quill in the inkwell. “Shall we begin?”
“Aye.” He turned his back to her, his typical haughty stance pulling him rigid, his arms behind his back. “General Howe, I have received your report and concur with your assessment of the men, but must advise against your suggested advance on Dorchester Heights. Unless it can be done swiftly and before Washington is able to secure it, I believe such would likely be an inevitable and futile repeat of the disaster at Bunker Hill.”
He stopped there, and she knew he peered at her from the way his shoes shifted over the floor. She scrambled to finish the rest, her heart thrashing behind her ribs. Dorchester Heights?
“Have you got it?”
She quickly scrolled the rest and dipped her quill again with a nod. “Aye, sir.”
“Excellent.” He shifted again and began to stroll around the room. “As requested, I will speak of this with Pitman and the others tonight, gain their approval, and prepare for engagement as soon as you require it, unless you find my recommendation agreeable and wish for us to further discuss such an action. Signed, etcetera.”
Hannah’s fingers trembled so much she could hardly finish the last without the quill quivering against the paper. At long last. This was the information they had been waiting for.
She dropped the quill in the well and lifted the paper, blowing the ink dry before handing it to him, praying he wouldn’t notice the shaking of her hand.
In silence, he turned, his stare looking far too deep as it brushed down her frame. He took the paper from her hand. “Now, upstairs with you.”
So Pure a Heart (Daughters of His Kingdom Book 4) Page 26
