Love's Courage

by Elizabeth Meyette

  Could she continue his work? Was she capable, without Andrew beside her, of risking her life for the cause of freedom? She could say no and life could continue as it was, her only worry caring for Father. But did that mean Father was suffering for nothing? Had risked his life for nothing? Oh, God, what should she do? She clasped her hands, squeezing her fingers as though she could tease out an answer.

  Mr. Montclair rose, his chair scraping against the floor. Jenny noticed the sound of the pestle pummeling the contents of the mortar again. Opening the door to the front of the shop, he called out, “Mrs. Carter?” The young boy with tousled blonde hair and freckles sprinkled across his nose ran up, almost bumping into Montclair in his haste.

  “Mother is finishing with a customer, Mr. Montclair. She will be here in a moment, sir.”

  “Thank you, Zachary.” He returned to his seat.

  “Mr. Montclair, I—”

  He raised his hand, shaking it gently. “No need. All will be well.”

  Mrs. Carter entered with a vial and a letter.

  Mr. Montclair studied Jenny.

  She looked down at her hands.

  “Just the tincture, Mrs. Carter.”

  “Oh,” she said, clasping the letter to her ample bosom. “Of course.” She handed the vial to Jenny, arched an eyebrow at Montclair, and left, closing the door behind her.

  Jenny’s stomach flipped. Had she made the right choice? Was she betraying Father’s work by refusing to become a part of this? Could she muster the courage to agree to Montclair’s plan? Her gaze rose to his, seeing only compassion.

  “Do not doubt your choice. Even the bravest man out on that street,” he nodded toward the front of the shop, “would make the same. Please wish your father well for me, Miss Sutton.”

  Chapter 8

  Before Jenny could open the front door, Sarie threw it wide, beckoned her to enter, and snatched Jenny’s shawl.

  “Your mother is waiting in your father’s room.” Her voice broke.

  Jenny tingled with apprehension, and she forced her wobbly legs to navigate the stairs. She paused outside Father’s door. Whatever the news, she had to be strong for Mother. Taking a deep breath, she grasped the vial, pressed her hands against her skirt to hide their trembling, and blinked back threatening tears. As she opened the door, her nose was assailed by the pungent smell of the putrid wound. Even the lavender sachets could not mask it anymore.

  Mother rose from her seat beside Father’s bed and stood before her.

  “Jennifer.”

  The tone of her voice revealed the truth. She need say nothing more.

  Jenny handed her the vial.

  Together they walked to the bed, and Jenny took Father’s hand. It was cold, though beads of sweat dotted his forehead. She took the cotton towel from the basin and wiped away the sweat. He moaned, then turned to look at her.

  “My Jenny.” His voice rasped against a deeper rattle in his chest.

  She took his hand again and sat beside him.

  “The doctor said his only chance is to …” Mother stopped. She took a deep breath. “He must amputate your father’s leg.”

  Perhaps Father did have a chance to live! That was more than she’d believed when she entered. She studied his face, drawn with pain. How could he go on like this? How could they bear to watch him?

  She took Mother’s hand. “It is our only hope.”

  Mother nodded.

  With a feeble tug, Father pulled her close. “Jenny.”

  “Yes, Father?” She bent to hear his thready voice.

  “You must take your mother to safety. She can’t remain here. They know …” He swallowed, the effort too great.

  “Rest, Father. You are going to be well soon.”

  His rheumy eyes blinked at her. “Do not humor me, child. Promise me you will save her. Take her …” Agitated, he tried to sit up.

  Jenny gently pushed his shoulders against the pillow. She bent her head to his ear. “I promise. I love you, Father.”

  He nodded and lay back on the pillow. The creases on his ashen face smoothed out, and a peace settled over him.

  Jenny slumped back against the chair as the weight of her promise settled over her. In order to keep her promise to save Mother, they must return to the safety of Boston. But perhaps Father would recover. Perhaps he would regain his robust health and return to Boston with them. She studied his face. She mustn’t give in to despair. The three of them would return to Boston. Ever farther away from Andrew. But right now, she couldn’t afford to indulge herself in sweet memories. For with Andrew, that’s all she had.

  The drizzle inching down the windowpane matched Jenny’s mood. For her, the light had gone out in her life. Too many people she loved were lost to her forever. Numb, she stared ahead as another drop of water hit, then zigzagged down the glass. What determined which direction it would slide? What forces made a drop go left or right? What determined which direction a life would take? Forces beyond her control.

  The doctor had been speaking with Mother in low tones, murmuring in the gloom of the day. A hand touched her shoulder.

  “Jennifer, Dr. Ramsey is leaving.”

  Jenny looked up through her tears. She rose, extending her hand.

  “Thank you, Dr. Ramsey.”

  He shook his head.

  “You did everything you could.” Jenny stifled a sob.

  “I am so sorry for your loss, Miss Sutton.” He turned to Mother. “Mrs. Sutton. It was the only hope to save him …”

  “We know that. You did what was necessary.”

  “He fought to live longer than I thought was possible. He was a strong and intrepid man.” Dr. Ramsey bowed then left the house.

  The women sat on the parlor settee in silence, holding hands. Her tears spent, Jenny was exhausted; her ribs ached from weeping. After a while, Sarie came in to light the candles, and soon the room was wrapped in a warm glow—a protest against the steely rain outside and the sorrow within the house.

  Mother rose, picked up a candle, and took Jenny by the hand.

  “Come with me, Jennifer.”

  She followed her into Father’s office.

  Mother checked the rooms at the back of the house then closed the door. Raising the candle high, she stood before the tall escritoire.

  “This is what your father wanted me to show you.”

  She handed the candle to Jenny, motioning for her to bring it close to the upper part of the desk. Gingerly running her hands along the molding at the top, she stopped. Suddenly, the front piece of the molding fell forward, revealing a recess. Jenny gasped and stepped back.

  Mother pulled a letter from the dark opening, handed it to Jenny, and replaced the molding. Grasping the front desktop, she swung it down, revealing six drawers, three on either side of a locked cabinet. She selected a key from her key ring and unlocked the cabinet. Pulling out the two small drawers, she pressed her hand against the back and slid the false panel to the side, revealing yet another nook. From this she pulled out a piece of leather with small, rectangular holes cut into it.

  The room spun. What was this about?

  Mother held the items in each hand. She took the ivory parchment folded in thirds, a red wax seal with a “B” once having secured it. The same seal that had protected the letter Jenny had given to Mr. Montclair. Gently unfolding it, she laid the letter flat on the desk. Then she placed the piece of leather over it, allowing only certain words to be visible.

  Jenny looked at the letter, then at Mother. She rubbed the crease between her brows. Could this day get any worse? Was Mother losing her mind?

  “Jennifer, this is what your father wanted me to show you.” Mother repeated her earlier words. “He is … was … working with the Sons of Liberty against the British. This was another reason he sent you to Brentwood Manor, to keep you safe. The British suspected him …” She glanced toward the window. She removed the leather cover. “Read it.”

  Jenny scanned the letter. It appeared to be a love l
etter written to someone named Felicity. It was simply signed, “The One Whose Heart You Captured.” Puzzled, she shook her head. “Why do you have this?”

  Mother placed the leather fabric over the letter. The holes allowed only certain words to be visible. A cryptic message including a number, which had been the number of kisses he would bestow upon their next meeting, a direction, and someone being captured.

  What she held in her hand was a message. Treason. She stepped back, dropping the letter on the table. “Mother, you are in danger. We must leave this place. Tonight. I promised Father.”

  Mother returned each item to its place, locked the cabinet, and shut the escritoire. “Not yet, Jennifer. We must see your father properly buried.” She frowned. “Did you speak with Mr. Montclair when you stopped at the apothecary shop?”

  Jenny nodded. Was Mother so stricken with grief that her mind suffered? This was such a sudden change of topic.

  “Did Mr. Montclair ask you to do anything … unusual?”

  “Actually, Uncle Jonathon did. He asked me to deliver a letter to Mr. Montclair while we were at church my first Sunday here.”

  “I see.”

  “When I stopped in at the apothecary, Mr. Montclair asked me to deliver another letter.” Jenny felt sick. “I refused. I’m sorry, Mother.”

  Mother embraced her. “Hush, Jennifer. How could you know?”

  “I could have been helping all along.” She glanced at the ceiling, picturing Father’s body lying in the room above them. She pressed her fingers against her eyes to stem the burning anger searing within. Perhaps she could not have saved Father’s life, but she could have continued his work—his mission. He died for the cause of liberty, a man of courage and dedication, and she had cowered. Her cheeks burned with shame. She lowered her head.

  Mother placed a finger under her chin and lifted her face. “There is no shame in good sense, daughter.” She smiled, her gray eyes soft with kindness.

  Jenny hugged herself trying to still her trembling. She could not deny the fear that ran through her body, an itchy, tingling prickle that set her skin afire. Father was dead because of his beliefs. Was she willing to follow his path?

  Tears slid down Jenny’s face onto the pillow, dampening the crisp linen. She pressed her face into her handkerchief to catch her tears. Her misery at failing to save her twin, Kathryn, was as sharp as it had been when she was a child. Now, her heart ached from losing Father, too—and from missing Andrew. How she wished he were here now to hold her and comfort her in her sorrow. Her body felt like a wet rag, wrung out and limp.

  Pressing down the sorrow, she fought the waves of fear that flooded her. Fear for Mother, fear for herself. Were the British watching this house even now? Mother had said they suspected Father—would she and Mother be safe here in New York?

  She sat up. Perhaps they could flee back to Williamsburg … to Brentwood Manor. Surely, Uncle Jonathon would welcome them. And she would be with Andrew. But how could she arrange such a journey? All the ships in the harbor were British, and the trip was impossible for their household by land. Father’s last wish was for her to keep Mother safe, not find a way to reunite with Andrew. They must return to Boston. Her promise was sacred.

  She slipped out of bed and went to the window, open to the suffocating August evening. Leaning against the side of the deeply inset window, she pulled aside the curtain and studied the street. A candle burned in a glass lantern in front of their house. With the soft breeze, trees whispered through their leaves, and in the distance, a dog barked. But no people were about. More important, no one was standing across the street watching the house.

  Climbing back into bed, she blew out the candle on her bedside table and stretched her body its full length. She pulled a light sheet over herself and turned on her side. Running her hand along the mattress, she longed for Andrew to comfort her. Her skin tingled deliciously as she imagined him lying beside her. He would pull her into his arms, cradling her against his warmth, pressing her to him. Soft kisses along her neck, across her breasts. Loving him would be the source of her strength. Then she would have the courage to do as Father had hoped she would.

  Courage to save Mother. Courage to take on the cause for liberty.

  “You are a fine horse.” Andrew patted Shadow’s neck.

  Shadow neighed and tossed his head in agreement.

  Andrew laughed. “Sometimes I believe you understand exactly what I’m saying.”

  Another toss of the head. One alert brown eye studied him.

  “I will be back for you.”

  “C’mon, lad. Got to make haste.” Howey’s voice echoed down to the stable.

  Andrew brushed his hand down Shadow’s nose, turned, and walked out into the soft dawn light.

  “Git a move on now.” The innkeeper beckoned with his arm. “That horse’ll be here when ye return.”

  Andrew glanced back at the stable then climbed into the rickety cart beside Howey.

  “We’d best make good time or we’ll miss the ferry.” He gee’d and slapped the reins against the slump-backed mare.

  They rumbled along a two-track path into the woods beyond the inn. Once in the shelter of the trees, Howey relaxed. Pulling out a pipe, he handed the reins to Andrew. He dug into his coat pocket for a leather tobacco pouch, untied the strings, and scooped the pipe in, then brought it out brimming with dark shreds. He tamped the tobacco down with his thumb before he snapped together the ends of a flint striker to light the pipe.

  Andrew enjoyed the sweet, charred aroma that encircled his head. He inhaled, remembering Jonathon smoking a pipe on quiet evenings spent at Brentwood Manor. Laughter filled the room at a lively game of whist. Jenny would seek his hand beneath the table, stroking it until he could barely sit still.

  Jenny. Where are you now? Are you well? Andrew sighed deeply.

  “I’m figuring it’s not just business that keeps ye moving, son.”

  Andrew said nothing.

  “Ah, a lass.” Howey sent a sideways glance. “Could be yer undoin’. Keep yer senses about ye at all times.”

  They rode in silence for half an hour until the lush forest gave way to flat, marshy land. Andrew batted his hands at the onslaught of flies.

  “Ouch!” He smacked one that bit his thigh. But there were too many for him to keep up with.

  “Yer ripe.” Howey laughed, a wheezing, hoarse sound. “They like ya.”

  Andrew wanted to jump off the slowing cart and run into the river ahead to fend off the flies. When his feet touched the ground, it was springy and moist. As he neared the river, his boots sucked loudly as he pulled them out of the mire. He finally shed them, opting to carry them instead.

  “Not far now,” Howey said.

  Andrew was too busy swatting flies to respond. Though the river wasn’t cold, compared to the heat of the August day, the contrast of its coolness shocked him. He tossed his boots on the shore and waded in, enjoying the chill that covered his skin. He splashed water on his arms and head, then dipped in to his shoulders to escape the flies. Flexing out his muscles, cramped from the night spent in the crawl space, he swam to where Howey stood puffing on his pipe.

  At the river’s edge, Howey pulled out a small rowboat that had been hidden in the marsh grasses along the shore. Andrew helped him slide it into the water, and both men hopped in. Despite his age and small stature, Howey’s muscular arms worked the oars quickly, gliding the boat down the river.

  Eventually, they came upon a small wooden dock that leaned precariously toward the water. Two men stood on a raft, one balancing a long pole, the other holding onto a post on the dock. They squinted against the sun glinting off the river. Howey whistled, sharp and shrill, and the two men whistled back. As the rowboat neared them, the men prepared to help pull it to the dock.

  The boat rocked as Andrew stood to step onto the raft.

  “Whoa, son. Take it slow. That lass of yers can wait a few minutes more.”

  The two men laughed, one offering a hand
to Andrew.

  “A randy boy, eh?” said the one who held the pole.

  “Aye. But he’s about the Sons’ business, so take good care a’ him.” Howey shoved off, waving as the rowboat headed back up the river.

  “We can get ya’ to the mouth of the bay, but yer on yer own from there. The coast is crawlin’ with British ships.” His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “You’d best take care, son.”

  The sun dipped behind a cloud, turning the river a stygian green. Andrew looked toward the east and swallowed. Had he been a fool to think he could outwit trained British troops? Was it just luck that had kept him safe so far?

  Jenny. His objective had been to save Jenny. He thought of Cyrus and Timothy. Of the burdens and punishments visited upon colonists by the British and the suffering about to ensue as General Howe’s armada reached its destination. He shook his head. He had to risk all and continue.

  For Jenny. For all of them.

  Chapter 9

  Jenny stared at the gaping hole at her feet. Pastor Farr’s voice droned on, the indistinguishable words flowing over her like a cold stream. Soon they would lower Father’s body into the earth. Never again would he tease her. Never again would his strong arms embrace her, chasing away her fears. No tears moistened her face, for she was beyond shedding them. She stood tall, determination a sturdy rod running through her body, solid and resilient.

  Mother’s soft weeping brought her back to the present. Two men lowered the coffin into the ground as Pastor Farr recited the final blessing. Mother picked up a handful of dirt and tossed it in. The clump broke up into recoiling bits that scattered along the top, sounding like the skittering paws of mice.

  Jenny shuddered then pulled herself more erect.

  The people who had attended the service murmured their condolences as they stood with them in the heat of August. Now their friends began to shuffle off. She followed as Pastor Farr took Mother’s arm and escorted her to their carriage. Jenny stopped. Standing beneath a tree, Laurence Montclair stood, watching.