Love's Courage

by Elizabeth Meyette

  Love’s Courage

  The Brentwood Saga, Book 3

  Elizabeth Meyette

  Contents

  Books by Elizabeth Meyette

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Excerpt

  Dear Reader

  About the Author

  PUBLISHED BY: Boris Publishing

  LOVE’S COURAGE

  Copyright 2018 by Elizabeth Meyette

  ISBN 10: 0-9960965-4-6

  ISBN 13: 978-0-9960965-4-6

  eISBN 10: 0-9960965-3-9

  eISBN 13: 978-0-9960965-3-9

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereinafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Historical characters and events are fictionalized and may not correspond to actual facts and dates. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design by Steven Novak

  Interior format by Killion Group

  Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage.

  *

  ― Lao Tzu

  To all who love deeply

  Books by Elizabeth Meyette

  The Brentwood Series

  Love’s Destiny

  Love’s Spirit

  Love’s Courage

  The Brentwood Saga

  *

  The Finger Lakes Mysteries

  The Cavanaugh House

  Buried Secrets

  Chapter 1

  July 1777, Yorktown, Virginia

  When had lying become so easy?

  “Did you hear me, Jenny?”

  “Yes, Uncle Jonathon.” Jenny Sutton pulled her white linen scarf snug, crossing her arms over her stomach against the visceral guilt that pulsed there. She stared into the slate-blue waters of the York River, avoiding his gaze. Captain Jonathon Brentwood’s integrity was known far and wide. He was respected by Patriots and hated—perhaps feared—by the British.

  An honest man.

  “You’re certain of your mother’s wishes? That she wants you to join her? New York City is thick with British troops since they occupied Manhattan last December. I can’t understand Constance demanding your return.” He braced his forearms on the brass railing of his ship, the Destiny.

  “Yes.” That was all she could say. She could not repeat the lie. She didn’t want Jonathon to sense her dishonesty. She wanted him to continue to think of her as courageous … and honorable. Her hand moved to her bodice where Mother’s letter lay heavy against her skin, heavy with the lie Jenny had told him. Mother’s letter detailed Father’s wounds but assured her that he was receiving excellent care and would recover soon. Mother had insisted she not sail to New York, saying the city was too dangerous with the British occupation.

  When she had first read the message, Jenny had sensed a graver injury to Father than the letter revealed. Whatever it took, she had to help Father. Even if it meant lying to Jonathon. Even if it meant never seeing Andrew again. How was she to make this choice—her father or the man she loved? Well, she had decided, thus Andrew was lost to her forever. Her gaze flicked to Water Street, running along the shoreline, then up to the ridge above.

  Jonathon’s gaze followed hers. “We can wait no longer to set sail. I’m sorry that Andrew didn’t arrive in time to see you off.”

  She nodded, knowing that Andrew would not arrive in time, but unable to resist searching for him. Finally, she turned to Jonathon. He was the epitome of a ship’s captain, with broad shoulders and tanned skin. A gust of wind blew down from the ridge, blowing about his dark brown hair, gathered in a queue with a leather strap at the nape of his neck. His eyes, the rich color of coffee served at Charlton’s, reflected his concern.

  “How badly was Edward injured?”

  “Mother said that he was involved in a skirmish with a Tory. Father was nearly killed—he’s bedridden and the wound isn’t healing. Mother is anxious about his recovery and needs me there. She must be devastated.”

  “So, of course, she wanted you to join her …”

  “Of course.”

  Her knuckles turned white as she clutched the brass railing tighter. The metal scorched her hands, like the lies that burned her heart. Lies that were necessary if she were to accomplish this journey.

  Lies that were growing too heavy to carry.

  Lifting her chin, he forced her to face him. His brows drew together as his eyes bored into hers, his mouth pulled taut in a thin line. “You must understand the danger inherent in this voyage. The sea will always challenge those who sail her waters, and she is temperamental, changing from fair to foul in the blink of an eye. For your safety, you are bound to my orders, just like the crew. Also, there’s a good chance we’ll encounter British ships.” He glanced down the river toward its mouth, then back at her. “I cannot guarantee we won’t be captured … or sunk. My responsibility for your life weighs heavy. I wish you would reconsider this voyage.”

  The temptation was great. Simply walk down the plank to the wharf and wait for Andrew. Run into his arms and never leave him. Return to the safety and comfort of Brentwood Manor. But the image of Father, lying wounded, perhaps dying, loomed in her mind. “Mother and Father need me.” She looked toward the shore as she spoke. Perhaps lying had become easier, but looking into a person’s eyes as you deceived them never would.

  Following her gaze, he softened.

  “It’s not easy leaving the one you love,” he said.

  “No.” Jenny shook her head.

  “Fighting for the cause of liberty is never easy. It requires sacrifice. Your father understands that, and so did you and Andrew when you risked your lives to rescue me from the British. If not for you, I surely would have been hanged. As I recall, you were quite audacious in facing down a British contingent to rescue me.”

  “Yes, but Andrew was beside me. We rescued you together—as a team. Somehow I don’t feel as brave without him by my side.” What was it about Andrew that made her feel she could accomplish anything? In her eighteen years, she had never met a man who so seemed to be a part of her, whom she had somehow known before they’d met, and recognized instantly.

  The burden of also deceiving Andrew weighed her down like a ship’s anchor.

  “How have you endured these past years, Uncle Jonathon? How have you left Emily behind, and now your daughters? Not knowing if you will ever return? Not knowing if they are safe or if you will be killed?” Her voice rose as she spoke. “How do you bear it?”

  “When I was held captive by the British, I thought I would never see Emily and my children again.” He pulled her to him and kissed her forehead. “Every day was a struggle to survive. Every day they tho
ught of new ways to torture me, trying to discover information about our fight for freedom.” He pulled back to look at her. “But you and Andrew faced possible capture to save my life.”

  She placed her hand on his forearm. “A possibility well worth facing if it meant bringing you home to Emily. Andrew couldn’t bear to see his sister’s sorrow, nor could he bear the thought of you imprisoned and tortured by the British.”

  “When I first sailed for the Committees of Correspondence and the Patriot cause, it was because of what Parliament’s laws are doing to the colonies.” He watched the seagulls swooping to the water’s surface. One rose triumphantly, a fish thrashing in its beak. The other birds chased and scolded as the first flew off with its prize. “Mine was an economic fight then. Brentwood Manor, the Destiny, my profits were at stake.” He faced her. “Now I am fighting for freedom for the ones I love. For Emily and the children. Before, my antagonism stemmed from my wealth, my account books—now I feel it here.” He patted his hand against his chest. “Love gives me the courage to fight this war. And you, too, will find your courage in love. Remember, ‘love casts out fear.’”

  She looked toward the shore. At this moment, for her, life cast out love.

  “But I entreat you one last time to reconsider this voyage. I only agree to it because of your mother’s frantic plea for your presence. If she understood the potential danger, not only in the voyage, but in Manhattan, she would never ask you to return.”

  His words were a knife through her heart. Did he suspect her subterfuge? She stood taller and shook her head.

  He scowled. “I see. Now I must ready the ship to set sail.” He bowed slightly.

  As he strode away, the breeze picked up again, blowing strands of hair across her eyes, a veil of curling, black lace. She brushed them away and tucked them back in her cap. One persisted, caressing her cheek softly like a kiss. Andrew’s kiss. Soft upon her cheek, nuzzling against her neck. Oh, God, how could she leave him?

  Behind her, the crew hurried about setting the sails and weighing anchor. Men called to each other as they worked, and the ship slipped out of port. She stared out at the wash, waves rolling out from the ship to the shore in an eternal motion. Entranced, she surrendered to the gliding ship’s cadence.

  She glanced at the shore again as the ship passed the end of the wharf on its journey up the York River to Chesapeake Bay and out into the Atlantic Ocean. A flash of color along the ridge caught her eye. Her heart thumped as a rider careened along the road that ran down the Great Valley leading from the ridge to the port. Even from this distance, she recognized Andrew. How could he possibly have made that journey so quickly?

  The letter she had sent him should not have arrived in time for him to see her off. She had never intended it to. His presence would make her departure impossible, and she could not bear that. So, she had delayed sending her letter.

  That had been first of her lies.

  Snatching his hat off his head, he waved it and whistled, piercing the heavy air as he reached the base of the hill and thundered along the riverbank. He pulled the horse up causing it to plant its hooves, its rigid front legs angled straight out. As he slid from the saddle, he again whistled shrilly, waving his cocked hat.

  “Jenny!” The sleeves of his white linen shirt billowed as he signaled to the ship.

  How could it be? He must have ridden at break-neck speed.

  “Jenny! Jonathon, turn back!” Andrew ran along the wharf until he reached its end.

  Would his brother-in-law hear Andrew’s plea? But neither Jonathon nor anyone in his crew looked up. They would not hear him over the sails slapping the wind, arcing and spreading high above the deck, or over the bosun’s piping Jonathon’s orders. The crew were all occupied with raising the sails and navigating the departure from Yorktown.

  She did nothing to call their attention to Andrew.

  She could see errant strands of his light brown hair blowing about his head. The disheveled look of his shirt, untucked, flapping in the breeze was quite a contrast to how he had looked the last time they’d been together at a formal dinner at Brentwood Manor. Then, he’d worn a cream-colored long coat and russet breeches, his cravat billowing at his neck. His tawny hair had been tied back in a neat queue, as usual. He’d swept off his wool cocked hat in a regal bow, his blue eyes smoky with passion as they shared a secret smile. He’d pulled her to the empty parlor and wrapped her in his arms.

  As the ship continued its slow passage along the York River, she leaned against the rail, Andrew’s form ever more distant. She stretched out her arm toward the shore as if, somehow, she could reach him. But it was no use. She dropped her arm to her side. This was what she had hoped for.

  This was what she had dreaded.

  “Andrew.” His name escaped her throat in a moan. How she had wanted to hold him and kiss him goodbye. She would never hold him again.

  “Jenny. I love you, Jenny.”

  Although he bellowed the words, they floated over the water to her in a shimmering, faint declaration. Tears ran down her cheeks, and she hugged herself to stop the sobs that shuddered against her ribs.

  “I love you, too, my dearest Andrew,” she whispered against the catch in her throat.

  “Shite!”

  Blurting out “Sorry,” and “Pardon me,” Andrew Wentworth pushed and shoved at the porters, sailors, and merchants who blocked his way as he sprinted along the wharf. Two riggers stretched lines across the pier, forcing him to leap over the ropes and race ahead. Blood pumped in his ears, muffling the curses that followed him. His heart pounded with the rhythm of his hurtling feet. He skidded to a stop, sliding to the edge of the pier.

  “Damn!”

  The Destiny had already set sail.

  “Jenny! Jonathon, turn back!”

  He whistled and bellowed to the captain of the Destiny, waving his arms to get his brother-in-law’s attention, but Jonathon must not have heard him. Jenny did, for she waved from the ship’s rail. And did he hear her call his name?

  He had been so close to embracing her, to pleading that she remain at Brentwood Plantation.

  He had not run fast enough. Jenny was gone … perhaps forever. He fell to his knees, ignoring the pain of the jagged splinters digging into his skin. With his heart still hammering from the exertion of his swift horseback ride and sprint, he doubled over. Burying his face in his hands, he moaned. Why didn’t I ride faster? Why didn’t I read Jenny’s note sooner? I would have arrived in time to take her into my arms and convince her to stay.

  He looked up, watching the Destiny sail away.

  He closed his eyes. Her face floated in his mind: Jenny laughing, revealing the single dimple in her right cheek that tempted him so sorely, her gray eyes, soft as a summer’s dawn, alight with mischief. How he loved twining his fingers in her hair, as wayward ebony tendrils caressed her heart-shaped face. The determination in her face when, together, they faced certain death in rescuing Jonathon from the British. So brave. So beautiful.

  He stared out at the ship as she sailed out of his life.

  As he watched, the Destiny slipped down the York River toward Chesapeake Bay on her voyage to New York City. His shoulders drooped. He’d heard so many reports of increasing unrest there. Last September, a fire had destroyed a third of the Island of New York shortly after the British had arrived. Loyalists blamed Patriots, but nothing had been proven. Reports from New York had been grim, the British presence there ominous.

  And now Jenny would be surrounded by that violence.

  Damn. The opportunity to attend George Wythe’s lecture and hear him describe the pride with which he had signed the Declaration of Independence was a highlight of Andrew’s experience at the College of William and Mary. In his excitement, he’d tucked Jenny’s letter in his pocket. Why had he not read her letter first? Instead, he had wanted to enjoy it later, as he always did, sitting at the coffee house near the college, drinking in her every word. He might have made the ride from Williamsburg to Yor
ktown in time if he’d skipped the class. Through his blurred vision, the ship grew smaller as it slipped down the river. He stood.

  “I love you, Jenny.” I love you.

  Above him, the screeches of seagulls echoed his desolation. Sweat streamed from his brow and merged with the tears sliding down his face, catching in salty rivulets at the corners of his lips. He wiped his sleeve across his face, dampening the white linen. He threw his cocked hat on the wooden pier.

  “Damn, damn, damn!”

  A strong hand gripped his shoulder.

  “Come, Andrew. I will buy you dinner and a tankard of ale.”

  He turned, startled by the brogue of Randolph O’Connor.

  He reached out as if to comfort Andrew, but Andrew pulled away. His blood was lava flowing through his veins, his mind unable to make sense of what was around him. A primal rage surged through him impelling him to strike out, to satisfy his anger.

  Andrew punched the Irishman in the gut.

  The burly man staggered back, more surprised than injured.

  “What the devil are ya’ doing?” He stumbled toward Andrew again.

  Andrew yielded to the fury that whirled within him like a hurricane. He wanted to hit something, throw something, break something. He swung again and landed an upper cut on Randy’s jaw.

  Randy stood his ground, fists clenched at his sides. “Andrew …”

  Andrew jabbed a fist at the Irishman again. Randy caught it midair, swung it forward, pivoting Andrew around, and locked his arm behind his back. Randy pulled up on it.

  “Ow,” Andrew cried.

  “You need to settle. Just settle.”

  Randy held Andrew’s arm against his back, sending a sharp throbbing to his shoulder. Andrew almost welcomed it, merging the pain with the misery running through him. He finally relaxed and Randy let go.