Love's Courage

by Elizabeth Meyette

“Come inside, dear.”

  Sarie met them at the door, taking their parasols and shawls, folding Jenny’s sea-blue shawl over her arm. What a day this had been, and it was just noon. She followed Mother into the parlor. Finally, alone, Mother took her hand.

  “We must act with utmost caution, Jennifer. We cannot afford to offend Lieutenant Ashby, nor can we allow him into our confidence. But he seems quite enamored with you, and that could work to our advantage. We can trust no one.”

  “Even Mr. Montclair?”

  Mother stared out the window, silent. She finally said, “Be very careful of Mr. Montclair.”

  Mother had not answered her question.

  Chapter 7

  Despite Father’s grave condition, Mother insisted on a morning carriage ride every day. Jenny enjoyed sitting beside her, taking in the scenery and the bustling activity of the city. Carts and carriages bumped along on the cobblestone roads, or carved deeper ruts into the earth on rainy days. As much as possible, pedestrians walked along the wooden plank walkways in front of the shops.

  No matter where their ride took them, they always slowed as they drove past the apothecary shop. Jenny was glad, for the window display of blue and white porcelain jars from China captured her imagination. Today, she craned her neck to observe the display—what was life like in the Far East?

  “Stop, Mathias,” Mother said, interrupting her daydreaming.

  Mathias pulled the reins. “Whoa, Aggie. Whoa, girl.”

  The carriage rolled to a stop. Mathias hopped down to assist Mother. She turned to Jenny. “I’ll just be a minute. We need more elixir for your father.”

  Jenny protested, but Mother swooped into the shop. Hadn’t there been more than half a bottle when she’d administered the tonic that morning? She studied the front of the white clapboard shop with its muntin-paned windows and neatly swept front step. Above the door, the British flag snapped in the breeze. Swinging next to it, a wooden sign read “Apothecary” above a picture of a mortar and pestle. She wanted to alight from the carriage and yank down that flag. How could Mother do business with a Tory? Although, with the British occupation of New York, she had little choice.

  Jenny remained seated, studying the window display. Something was different. The largest of the porcelain jars had been removed. That was her favorite, as it depicted a serpentine dragon breathing fire. Perhaps the owner needed to store herbs in it. She glanced at the other pieces displayed: two smaller jars, several plates of different sizes and three mortar and pestle sets.

  When Mother appeared, her cheeks were rosy, and she was a bit out of breath. Mathias helped her into the carriage and they continued home.

  Jenny took Mother’s hand, not commenting on the fact that she held no new bottle of elixir.

  Finally reaching New Jersey, Andrew halted Shadow in front of a roadside tavern marked on the map Randy had provided. Purple dusk cloaked the western sky, the east already embracing the ebony night. Road-weary and sweaty, he desperately wanted to sleep in a bed.

  A grizzled man with wispy white hair that flared out on either side of his head emerged from the inn, a rifle in his hands. “Kin I help ya’?”

  “I need a room.”

  “Got no rooms.”

  Andrew scanned the windows on the second floor, then the yard with no carriages or horses. His bones ached. His muscles screamed. He had no time for this.

  “I’ll pay a good price.”

  “Got no rooms.”

  “Sir …”

  “Git now. No place for ya here.”

  “I’ve ridden from Williamsburg. I’m riding for the Sons of Liberty.”

  If he had miscalculated and this was not the correct tavern, he could have just signed his death warrant. But he had checked and rechecked the map. This had to be the inn on the map.

  The man stared at him. He raised his rifle, aiming it at Andrew’s face.

  “Gimmee a name.”

  “What?”

  “A name. A name. Anybody can ride up here and spout, ‘I’m with the Sons of Liberty.’”

  “Randy O’Connor.”

  The rifle remained pointed at him.

  “Jonathon Brentwood.”

  The rifle slowly lowered. The man continued to squint with one eye as if still sighting the gun. He coughed up phlegm and spit it at the ground.

  “Ya’ named two of the finest.” He motioned for Andrew to alight. “Mighty nice horse.” He patted Shadow’s flank and got a neigh in return. “Howey Doone.” He held out his hand.

  “Fine, thank you.” It took Andrew a moment to realize the man had just introduced himself. “Oh. Andrew Wentworth. Jonathon’s brother-in-law.”

  Howey shook his hand, then beckoned Andrew to follow him inside.

  The faint aroma of what had been cooked for dinner welcomed him, causing his stomach to answer with a loud growl. The black stewpot was hooked on a cast iron rod that swung into the hearth. Sitting on a brick on the edge was a pan of fresh corn bread. Andrew’s mouth watered.

  Howey pulled out a chair and grunted.

  No sooner did Andrew sink into the chair than a tankard of ale sat before him. He took a hearty swig then held the cool tankard against his face. His whole body sank into the comfort of a chair, a welcoming fire, a cool drink, and what he hoped would be a bowl of stew. He was not disappointed.

  Howey plunked a pewter plate with hunks of venison swimming in herrico sauce before him. A piece of corn bread sat beside it, soaking up the excess gravy.

  While he ate, he told Howey about his journey thus far.

  “Bah. Ya’ need water.”

  He might be in need of a bath, but thought it rather rude that Howey would point it out so bluntly.

  “The sea, boy. The sea. Ya’ hain’t going ta get to New York from here in less than two weeks by horse. Ya’ shoulda been at sea all along.”

  Andrew’s spirits sank. Up until now, the food and drink had lifted him from exhaustion and he’d been feeling optimistic.

  “I’ll git ya’ where ya’ need ta be. Leave your fine mount with me. Ya’ can reclaim him on yer return. In the morning, we’ll see about a boat. It be the only way.”

  Andrew wiped up the rest of the gravy with a chunk of warm bread. Now energy seeped from his body like sand through fingers. He longed for a soft bed.

  Carrying a lantern, Howey led him to a room on the upper floor. He wrapped his arms around one side of an armoire and slid it out, allowing him to access a half-door hidden behind it. After pushing it open, he gestured to Andrew to enter. A straw mattress and chamber pot furnished the nook. Andrew bent down, practically crawling into the space. He frowned at Howey.

  “Ye’ll thank me later, my boy.” He hooked the lantern on a nail sticking out of a beam, grunted, and left. The sound of the armoire sliding back into place caused Andrew a moment of panic.

  With no window, the air was stagnant, the space stuffy and hot. His linen shirt clung to his skin, rivulets of sweat running down his sides. He brushed back the strands of hair that had crept out of his queue and now hung about his face. He wanted to strip out of his clothes, but the necessity of a quick escape was always on his mind. Ruefully, he extinguished the lantern flame since even the little heat it let off added to his misery.

  As the evening progressed, the public room below him added heat from the hearth and smoke from the patrons. Between the smoke and the dust in the nook, Andrew cleared his head with two hearty sneezes. The noise of the boisterous patrons below would cover any sound he made. The rough burlap he lay on covered straw that crunched and crackled each time he moved. As usual when laying down to rest, he thought of Jenny. How he longed to run his fingers along her silken skin.

  Achoo!

  He wiped his nose with his sleeve and tried to find a comfortable position.

  He imagined the sweet sound of her voice, the soft glow of her smoky, gray eyes. As exhausted as he was, his body stirred with thoughts of her, with memories of lying beside her, their bodies pressed together.
They had not consummated their love yet, both agreeing to wait until marriage. Now he cursed that decision, as one or both of them could be dead within the month. Perhaps she …

  “My friends,” a baritone boomed from below. “Raise your glasses and drink with me. Long live King George.”

  Voices resounded. “Long live King George.” Metal against metal clanged as pewter mugs met in the toast.

  Achoo! Blast—had the men below heard him?

  From the sound of their merrymaking, his sneeze hadn’t been heard over the din. The noise had been increasing as the evening wore on and ale flowed freely.

  Now he understood the innkeeper’s words.

  “Who owns the fine black steed in the stable?” the baritone voice demanded.

  Andrew went cold. Sweat broke out in prickles on his skin.

  “He was left in me care by a boarder, Cap’n.” The innkeeper’s voice rang clear.

  Cries of disbelief rose from the group.

  “What man in his right mind would leave such a mount? For you, old man, to care for?”

  Derisive laughter floated up to Andrew. He had wondered the same himself, but had little choice. And Randy had vouched for this man. This man who had put him out of harm’s way.

  “I will search for the owner.” The noise of a chair sliding over the roughhewn floor. “And you will remain here while I do so, old man.”

  The soldier’s boots clomped across the wooden planks as he inspected each room on the main level. Then the footfalls moved up the stairs and into each room in the second story. Finally, the boots were on the other side of the wall. The doors of the armoire were flung open. The soldier stood just a few feet away.

  Andrew held perfectly still, for the crackle of the straw surely could be heard. Another sneeze tickled his nose. Oh, God no. He pressed his finger beneath his nose.

  The doors of the armoire banged as the soldier slammed them shut … just as Andrew was overcome with the sneeze.

  Chooie.

  It was soft, more like a swish than a sneeze. No sound came from the other side of the wall. He imagined the man standing there, head cocked, listening. He held his breath. The armoire door creaked open again, and a soft tapping—hands exploring the interior of the piece—sounded through the wall. Finally, the door was closed and the sound of footsteps headed toward the stairs.

  Bawdy laughs greeted him.

  “What were you doing up there all alone?” someone called out.

  “Next he’ll head out to the stable to be with the horse he finds so fine,” said another.

  The joviality continued into the night until the troops stumbled out the door to return to their camp.

  Andrew stared into the darkness. He shifted from one side to the other, trying to get comfortable enough to sleep. But now it was the memory of the man swinging by his neck that would not leave his mind.

  From her seat within the carriage, Jenny saw people moving along the city street. Some ambled, chatting amiably, some hurried, obviously intent on an errand. She bolted upright at the sight of a man striding along the road. Her heart thudded as she studied his gait—could it be Andrew? Beneath his three-cornered hat, tawny hair was tied back in a queue that lay against his tan coat. Her heart beat a tattoo as the carriage closed the space between them. But her hopes were dashed when he turned to greet a companion, revealing his profile. Every time a man resembling Andrew came into view, she’d had the same reaction.

  She collapsed back in her seat. Of course it wasn’t Andrew. She had left him in Virginia. Now that she had reunited with her parents, she would never return to Brentwood Manor. She would never see Andrew again. Stinging tears blurred her vision as she recalled the warmth of his embrace. She must banish all memories of him; she couldn’t bear to think of him and be strong for Father. Her shoulders sank with the burden of her grief. And with the burden of what Father and Uncle Jonathon had asked of her.

  British troops made quick work of suspected spies. Though she had not witnessed any, death sentences were being carried out throughout the city. Even her own actions—accepting the letter from Jonathon and delivering it to Laurence Montclair—were enough to arrest her for treason.

  She shivered. Well, she had kept her promise to Jonathon, so she was finished with suspicious activity. Tories would call it seditious activity. She snuggled deep into the velvet seat in the enclosed carriage. As if that would hide her. As if that would protect her.

  Now she could concentrate on helping Father to recover. Was it her imagination that he seemed improved since her arrival? She prayed it was so. Watching him lie in such pain and distress, however, was unbearable. Her errand today was to get more of the elixir that alleviated his suffering. This would be her first visit inside the apothecary.

  Jenny looked across Broadway Street, where the charred remains of burned houses were black against the summer sky. Jonathon had told her about the fire that had destroyed houses and buildings along the western edge of Manhattan almost a year earlier. Many said Patriot rebels had set the blaze and fanned it to deny the British shelter should they take the city, but even British General Howe had said the night had been windy, sweeping the fire from building to building. In any event, almost a third of the city had been razed, leaving thousands of families homeless.

  Among the charred ruins, ragtag urchins dressed in tatters ran, playing among the burnt-out buildings. Standing among the blackened facades, women in bold makeup stared at her as she passed. One beckoned with an obscene gesture to Mathias as he drove the carriage by.

  Jenny dragged her scrutiny from the destruction and despair.

  When they arrived at the apothecary, she studied the window display, looking for the tall blue and white porcelain jar depicting a dragon. Yesterday morning as they’d driven by, the jar had been missing again. She’d looked for it carefully while Mother had stopped into the shop, again returning with no new bottle of remedy for Father.

  As the carriage came to a halt, she gathered her gloves and parasol. Alighting quickly, she checked the window. The dragon jar was in its usual place. She hurried to the entrance. The sooner she obtained the tincture, the sooner Father would find some relief. When she opened the door, tangy, spiced aromas greeted her.

  “Good day, miss,” said a plump woman from behind the counter. The smile on her face looked permanent, as if she had been born with it and never had to exert herself to make it appear. Beneath her cap, light brown hair curled alongside her face. She stood before shelves filled with more blue and white porcelain jars from the Far East labeled with exotic names like “flora stigma crocus” and “caryophylla.” Lower shelves held brown glass bottles, and beneath them were drawers labeled with more familiar names like “flora sulphur” and “lavender.” She worked a pestle crushing fennel seed in the mortar. The rich scent of anise filled the air. “May I help you?”

  “Yes, you have been mixing a tincture for my father, Edward Sutton. He is in need of more, please.”

  The woman’s hand stopped moving. She shot a puzzled glance toward the window display and then toward a door to the back room. “You will need to speak with the apothecary, Miss Sutton.” She placed the mortar and pestle on the counter, wiped her hands on her apron, and adjusted her cap … which was perfectly placed already. She nodded at the door. “Please follow me,”

  Jenny smoothed her hair, trying to dispel her creeping unease. Her hand paused mid-air then she looked back at the window. During their daily carriage rides, Mother only stopped for unneeded elixir when the dragon jar was missing from the window. Goosebumps rose on her arms, and the floor seemed to tilt a bit. Perhaps it was the potpourri of aromas that made her a bit lightheaded. As they walked toward the back of the shop, Jenny noticed a young towheaded boy working on his books in a small room off to the side. The woman swung a door into a neat office where a man sat, working on a ledger. He looked up as they entered.

  “Mr. Montclair!” Jenny gasped.

  The steady grate of the pestle from the front
of the shop ground into the silence as Jenny sat opposite the apothecary. Her lightheadedness had increased. What Mr. Montclair told her echoed Mother’s revelation about Father’s covert activities gathering intelligence for General George Washington. As she listened, she rubbed her temples, trying to ease the pulsing blood rushing through her veins. How had she not known this all the time she had lived in Boston?

  “We have sorely missed his expertise,” Montclair was saying. “We have an urgent need to pass along information, and your father had set up a seamless process in the home in which you are currently residing.”

  She nodded slightly, trying to absorb his words. The pestle scraped along the stone mortar. Jenny pictured the spice reduced to powder. Then, silence.

  “Ideally, we would continue to … relay intelligence in the same way.”

  The words hung in the air, the implication clear. Uncle Jonathon’s voice echoed in her mind: It’s the only thing I’ll ask you to do. I promise.

  “Of course, I understand if you are unable to continue your father’s mission. His wounds are proof of the gravity involved.”

  “I … I don’t know …” The ramifications of what he asked whirled in her mind. This would be considered treason by many.

  Montclair steepled his fingers and pressed them to his lips. “I understand, Miss Sutton. I would never pressure you into doing something distasteful.”

  She sat up. “It is not that it’s distasteful, Mr. Montclair …” She swallowed. “It’s …”

  “Dangerous. Yes, it is. I will not deny that.”

  “But Father has suffered so for his commitment to the Patriot cause, so I cannot simply dismiss your request.”

  “His valor is renowned. But to ask you, a young woman—”

  “Do you think I am incapable?” She tilted her chin up.

  “Not at all. In fact, I see your father’s fire in your eyes.” He smiled at her. “But if you were my daughter—or my son—I would be hesitant to request this of you. Menace increases daily. Shall we allow this conversation to rest for a while? I think you are wise to be cautious.”

  Her head spun with confusion. Was she betraying Father’s commitment to the cause of liberty? He’d sent her to Brentwood Manor to shield her from the violence taking place in Boston during its British occupation. Yet he insisted Mother tell her about his involvement in these perilous ventures. Did he demand that so she could continue in his stead until he was able to resume the work?