Mr. Jones did an impromptu jig as he laughed. “He will be pleased beyond measure. I am headed to the bank now to draft the cheque. Good day to you, Mrs. Lane. And Mrs. Lane.” He reeled his way past them. “And good day to you too, Mr. Mercer.”
Gwyneth froze, willing it to be some other, any other Mr. Mercer. Knowing, even before the expression that stole over Winter’s face when she glanced behind them, that it would not be. She started forward, hoping he was merely passing down the side street and would pay them no heed.
Yet she was not at all surprised when that too-familiar figure matched his pace to hers. “Mrs. Lane.”
Gwyneth gripped her basket tighter. “I believe you mean ‘cousin.’ ” The documents Papa had sent said as much, and so much else besides. All the details of the slave trade that Uncle Gates had set up with the help of this baseborn son of his, first in foreign waters, stealing Africans from their own shores, and later, when that trade was made illegal, within the borders of the United States.
Mercer gave a small smile. “An odd discovery, was it not? Here I had resigned myself to never meeting any of my father’s family. How very fortuitous that I would stumble across a first cousin in my own city.”
Her back went stiff as her step picked up still more. “I daresay my Aunt Gates would not find it so.”
Winter’s hand found her wrist and gave it an encouraging pat.
Mercer breathed a laugh. “I suppose you did not realize your uncle was a bit of a rake, hmm?”
A rake. That would imply that Mr. Mercer’s poor mother was not his only indiscretion. And why, knowing all she did about him, did that fact still make disappointment weep through her? “I did not. But I know he is a murderer.”
He didn’t stumble, didn’t so much as falter in his stride. He merely lifted a single brow at her in the very way Uncle Gates did. “Do you now?”
She raised her chin and turned the corner with Winter, who sent her a questioning gaze. But what did it matter if she told Mercer now that she knew? The worst he could do was tell Uncle Gates, and the worst he could do was come for her again, which they all knew he would do anyway. He would know very well, no matter what she had said, that if Papa had sent a mask with her, he would have sent more. And he would stop at nothing to get it back, to stop them from revealing his crimes to both the American and British governments.
So she tilted her head Mercer’s way, their gazes clashing. “I watched him kill my father.”
His expression softened, reflecting not shock or horror, but sympathy. “That must have been difficult for you.”
Her feet sprouted roots and brought her to a quick halt, forcing the others to stop with her or pass her by. “That is all you have to say?”
His face naught but a blank canvas now, he held his hands out. “What else would you like me to say? That I am surprised? I cannot. I watched him kill the man everyone thought was my father when I was but four, when Mercer had the misfortune to at last return from a prolonged expedition during one of Gates’s visits.”
She nearly reached out to touch his hand to give him comfort. She might have, had it been anyone but him. “I am so sorry.”
“Why?” He met her quiet statement with a shrug. “’Tisn’t as if I had ever even met my mother’s husband.”
“Even so. To see such violence at such a tender age—”
“I am my father’s son. There was never any doubt about that. It had no great effect.”
How she wanted to doubt that. Yet she didn’t know if she could, given the calm acceptance in his eyes. Were some people born without compassion? Without that basic respect for life? If so, perhaps they could pass it down to their children. “None at all?”
“Well.” Now he smiled again, actually smiled. “It did certainly convince me that I ought not cross my father.”
She drew in a long, contemplative breath. “Is that why you take part in his schemes? For fear of him? Is that why you trade human beings as if they are cattle?”
He sent an amused glance to Winter. “Is she always so quick to make excuses for people? I cannot decide if such naïveté is charming or pitiable.” The infuriating man chuckled as he looked back to Gwyneth. “I do it for the money, cousin. Gauche as that may sound to a London gentlewoman, sterling really does make the world go round.”
“And what of your country?” Winter shifted, her tone regal. “Do you care nothing for it? Will you not help defend your home?”
His spine snapped even straighter, his hands clasped behind his back. “Of course I do, madam. But America’s future rests in a strong economy built on agriculture and trade, which can only be achieved through cheap labor. I am supplying a need that will grow this nation, and must, in fact, lead another slave train south, out of harm’s way, in the morning.”
Gwyneth raised her chin. “Your father believes and plans for this trade of yours to do the opposite. To widen the chasm between North and South so that even if America wins this war, they will fracture and crumble internally.”
“Hmm.” He made no other reply to that, but she recognized the glint in his eyes, having seen it often enough in Uncle Gates’s. Calculation. Then he nodded and took a step back the way they had come. “I will not hold you up any longer, ladies. But, cousin?”
Why had she suggested he call her that? “What?”
His smile now shone with genuine warmth—the last thing she had expected to see from him. “Know that I wish you well. I wish you all happiness with your husband.”
“You do?”
“Of course.” He bowed and backed away another step. “You are, after all, a full third of my family. That carries a great deal of weight with me.”
Gwyneth shifted the basket of bandages again and shook her head. What an unsettling thought.
Thirty-Two
Thad tensed, held his breath, and listened. All of Baltimore must have held its breath with him, for the next signal came and seemed to echo through the streets, through the church without hindrance. His fingers tightened around Gwyneth’s where he held them on the pew between them.
The British were coming. They had been waiting for days for the word to spread from gun to gun, from cannon to cannon, from town to town. And there it was, echoing over them on a Sunday, of all times, when they were all at worship.
From the pulpit Reverend Gruber eased shut his Bible and waited for the final signal shot. After its report faded, silence held for a moment. Then the minister lifted a hand. “Let us pray.”
A shuffling as Bibles closed, as heads bowed. Gruber cleared his throat. “Father God, we ask every week that You will go with us as we leave these hallowed walls and head back into the world. We ask it especially today, when so many of our men must now leave this place and go to one of imminent danger.” He cleared his throat again. “The Lord bless King George, convert him…and take him to heaven, as we want no more of him!”
For the only time in Thad’s memory, laughter joined the chorus of “Amens,” and the congregation all but surged to their feet.
Thad rose more slowly, his gaze on Gwyneth’s precious face. She wore her features in a brave arrangement, lips turned in a fearless smile, eyes shining with pride. But he had felt the way her arms clung a little tighter to him each morning when he left to drill. The very same way his did to her. Because they both knew that each new day could be the one in which those signal shots rang out. They both knew each night might be their last.
She pressed to his side now, her eyes absent the tempest they so often showed but luminous. “We had better hurry home.”
He nodded and then nodded again at his parents, waiting behind Gwyneth for him to lead the way from the pew.
Already the streets outside were teeming. Families in their Sunday best spilled from every direction, all in a rush. The men Thad knew to be designated couriers tore by on horseback. And from somewhere in the distance, the drums took up their cadence, calling the men to arms.
His blood pulsed in time to each beat. By the time
they reached home, it seemed the world must pulse with it too. Each footfall, each galloping horse. The creak of each of his floorboards, the click of their bedroom door.
Until Gwyneth’s arms came around him. Then the noise faded, and there was only her. “Oh, sweet.” He held her close, closer still, until he could be sure that his nose would remember her scent even when gun smoke burned it. Until he could be sure his ears would remember the sound of her breathing even when deafened by cannon fire. Until he could be sure her vision would fill his eyes even when horror rose before him. “I love you.”
“I love you.” Her fingers trailed up his cheek, into his hair, urging down his head.
How many times had he kissed her now, in their three weeks of marriage? Too many to count, but not nearly enough. Never enough. Yet none of them had felt like this. Filled not so much with passion as with prayer. Not so much with desperation as with dedication. Their lips touched, held, caressed, and filled him with a strange sort of peace when she lowered back down from her toes. A kind that made him wonder how he would have had the strength to go to his rendezvous point for his rations and ammunition if she were not there, were not his wife, had not given him that very kiss.
“Gwyn—”
“Hush.” Her eyes were still closed, her arm still resting against his chest. “I am giving you over to the hands of our Father.”
“Ah, well. I certainly do not want to interrupt that.”
She moved her lips in silent words. Then she fixed her gaze on him and rubbed a hand over his heart. “He will bring you home, safe and well. I know it.”
He had no desire to argue, especially now, with the peace eclipsing the dread that had filled him for days. Reaching for her hand, he nodded. “I had better change into my uniform.”
“I know.” She moved aside to let him, watched him draw out the dark blue jacket he so carefully brushed clean every night, the brilliant white straps that would crisscross his chest, the matching breeches and tall black boots she herself had polished twelve hours before. He heard the whoosh of the down-filled mattress as she sat upon it. “Darling?”
“Hmm?” He shrugged out of his best jacket, the one he had worn for their wedding.
“I think I am with child.”
He paused with one foot raised to remove his shoe and then hopped around so he might look at her. He told the bubble of joy threatening to burst through him to be reasonable. “You cannot possibly know that so soon.”
Her grin said otherwise. “I know I cannot be certain, but there is logical hope for it, and more besides. I had a dream last night that I was.”
The bubble nearly choked him. It made him want to laugh and shout. He lowered his foot before he fell. “We both know dreams are most often only—”
“I choose to believe, Thaddeus.” Her smile was sure, bright, and her eyes sparkling with mischief. Daring him to argue.
As if he wanted to. He strode unevenly to the bed and scooped her up, spinning her around. “Then I choose to believe with you.”
Laughing, she slapped him on the shoulder—after, that is, a longer, more exuberant kiss. “Put me down before you trip and finish getting dressed.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.” He planted her back onto the bed with another kiss and made quick work of changing. “Promise me you and my parents will do exactly as we planned. You will stay here and keep the house locked tight. If by chance you must evacuate, we will meet up at the inn in Randallstown.”
“I know. We will. And you…” She hesitated and then sighed. “You have sent the information to the congressman about my uncle?”
He nodded, flexing the hand that had cramped after so much writing. “He will see it reaches the authorities it needs to. No matter the outcome of this battle, sweet, justice will find him. Thanks to your father.”
“And to you.”
He shrugged and put his hat atop his head. Part of him had wanted to keep the evidence against Gates to himself, to see firsthand that justice would be done. But that whisper in his spirit had chastised him for his pride, and he had handed it over to Arnaud to deliver to Tallmadge yesterday.
From the street below he heard a familiar shout. “Jack and Alain are here. I believe we have a few apples left yet, which ought to help you keep the little rapscallion in good spirits.”
“We will be fine, and Emmy and Philly will likely come tomorrow.”
“Good.” They joined hands and moved together back down the stairs. They stopped in front of the open doors, where Jack had brought his usual chaos of squeals and laughter.
What was left but goodbye? But he couldn’t say that. Simply couldn’t. So when she came into his arms again, he tipped up her chin and borrowed the little one’s tactic of lightness. “Do try and get some sleep while I am gone, will you?”
Her smile would surely carry him through the battle and home again. “I will—so that I might dream of you.”
Minutes later the other farewells had been said, final kisses bestowed, and he and Arnaud walked together toward their rendezvous point. Steadily but not exactly quickly.
“Not running ahead of me today?” Despite the light words, Arnaud’s tone was flat and heavy.
“No. I intend to stay by your side until we are making this return trip together in a day or two.” Thad tried for a smile, tried to cling to that cloud of peace that had existed with Gwyneth. But it went dark and stormy again.
He looked to his dearest friend, hoping to find light in his gaze. But Arnaud wore a glower even more pronounced than usual. “You feel it too?”
Blast. “Something is going wrong.”
“The battle?”
Was it? He could not tell. And no matter how much prayer he gave it, the only impressions to come from the Lord were that he was to continue on the set course. “I do not know.”
“Well.” Arnaud dragged in a deep breath and squared his shoulders. “I suppose we do not need to know. We need only to act as we ought. And pray without ceasing.”
The drums beat out their amen.
Gwyneth flinched again at the sound of an exploding shell and the rumble beneath her feet, fumbled, again, the bread dough she was shaping into rolls, and then huffed in exasperation with herself. Shoving an annoying curl from her face with the back of her hand, she looked over to Rosie. Small consolation as it was, the woman jumped just as high as she did with each blast. “It has been six hours.”
“With a shot every five minutes.” Rosie shook her head and stirred the pot of stew simmering on the stove. “As long as I live I will never forget the thirteenth of September in eighteen fourteen. And the memories will not be fond.”
From the table filled with drying noodles, Winter sighed her agreement. “I keep telling myself that as long as they continue shelling the fort, that means it has not fallen. And yet still I wish it would stop.” She squeezed her eyes shut and balled her fists against the table. “Why could they not be stationed somewhere else? Anywhere else?”
Gwyneth shuddered. She had wondered the same from the moment Bennet had returned from his scouting trip into town with the news that it was Fort McHenry being bombarded by the British fleet. But she had felt such surety that her Thad would come home, he and Arnaud both. She must cling to that. She must trust. Must choose, as she had said to Thad about her beautiful dream of a pink-cheeked baby, to believe.
And must pray the Lord didn’t take her shaking hands as doubt.
She managed to form the final roll and tuck it into its pan, drape a damp cloth over it and set it aside to rise a second time. No sooner had she turned back toward the table than the door burst open, Emmy leaping through the opening with wild eyes.
The kitchen went silent long enough for a score of terrible possibilities to run through Gwyneth’s mind. Then Emmy turned to Winter. “It’s Philly.”
Winter straightened her spine, yet her shoulders sagged. “The baby?”
Emmy nodded as she palmed away the tears clinging to her cheeks. “She’s frightened something awf
ul. Wants her daddy and you to come, Miss Winter.”
“Of course.” Winter spun toward the hall but then stopped, her gaze tracking upward to where Jack was, inexplicably, napping in his bed.
Gwyneth shooed her onward. “Rosie and I will stay here with Jack. You two go with Emmy.”
Wasting no time on arguments, Winter nodded and ran down the hall, calling for her husband as she went. Gwyneth moved to Emmy and grasped her hand. “Assure her we will be praying. Is it—is she sure?”
Emmy shrugged and sniffled. “’Tisn’t quite like the other times, I don’t think. But I daresay that has made it even worse for her, not knowing what is going on. You know how those Lanes like to know.”
The laugh that spilled forth felt at once misplaced and an immense relief. “They do at that.”
A moment later Winter and Bennet charged in together, and then the trio hurried out the door with a flurry of farewells and bids for prayer.
Rosie’s hands landed on her shoulders and propelled her toward the hallway. “Nothing more to do in here, child. But if you’ve a mind, you could read to us.”
“A fine idea. Let me fetch the prayer book and my Bible.” She checked on Jack while she was upstairs and smiled at the way his arm dangled off the bed, at the parting of his lips and the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest.
Another boom shuddered over them, causing Gwyneth to jump again, but the boy slept on. She shook her head and left him to his peaceful dreams, praying her own of the other night had indeed been a promise from the Lord. That come spring, she and Thad would welcome a babe into the world. Certainly it was too soon to know, to do anything more than wonder, but she would hope and believe. And if she were proven wrong, well then. She would take it instead as a promise of the future, which would require her husband returning to her.
Rosie awaited her in the drawing room, some mending already out on her lap, and Gwyneth settled in with all the calm she could muster. For the next two hours she read, pausing only a few seconds at each blast upon the fort.
Whispers from the Shadows Page 33
