Love's Courage

by Elizabeth Meyette

  “Good day, Miss Sutton,” she said, concentrating on her mixture.

  “Good day, Mrs. Carter.” Was Lucy the person in charge of placing and removing the porcelain jar? She glanced toward the office. No, Laurence would manage that himself. Though Lucy was very precise as evidenced by the great care with which she measured the tincture.

  “Good day, Miss Sutton.” Ephraim Carter stood at the door. He rotated his hat in his hands, his gaze pleading with her.

  This was the moment she could reveal his cruelty the night she and Andrew had passed Fraunces Tavern. True, he had stopped and had apologized profusely when her identity was revealed, but what if it had been another woman without such protection? Would he and his group of cronies have attacked her? No, he would never have considered any such action if he hadn’t been emboldened by drink. She hoped he’d learned his lesson. Besides, what purpose would it serve to expose him now?

  “Good day, Mr. Carter.” She couldn’t help but give him a warning glare while Lucy was busy with her recipe.

  He gave a half-bow, his shoulders relaxing. He bowed again and returned to the back of the shop.

  “Is Mr. Montclair in?” Jenny asked.

  Lucy glanced at the jar in the window and frowned. “No, he had to meet with Pastor Farr this morning.” She corked the bottle and wiped her hands on her apron. “Is there something I can help you with?”

  “No. It is imperative I talk with him immediately.”

  Lucy nodded. “You may still find him at St. Paul’s.”

  “Thank you,” Jenny called over her shoulder as she left the shop.

  As the carriage rumbled through the streets, she fidgeted with the hem of her waistcoat, fighting the dread that rose within her like mist over a morning lake. She and Mother must flee as soon as possible, but not until some accommodation was made for the couriers. Plus, she would need to leave word for Andrew to follow them as soon as he was able.

  Why did Montclair have to be away today? She wanted to hand this letter over to him and be finished so she could move Mother to safety. And how would she deliver the message in front of Pastor Farr? Something was amiss.

  The lace along the hem of her waistcoat unraveled in her fingers. She stared at it, her trepidation seeping throughout her bones. She wanted to sit beside Mathias and whip the horses into a gallop. Her heart raced with a premonition of death. Andrew’s face came to her mind.

  “Oh my God,” she whispered.

  Jenny welcomed the dim coolness of the church, shrouded in silence. Pausing in the nave, she allowed her vision to adjust to the shadowy interior. She made her way along the aisle, her footsteps echoing on the smooth flagstones, her body tensed with a disconcerting chill. Up ahead, in a pew halfway to the altar, sat Laurence Montclair, apparently in prayer. She did not want to disturb him, but she fixed her attention on the back of his head until she neared. Then she averted her gaze and walked past him, taking a seat in the front pew.

  Though the church was empty, save for Montclair, the hair on the back of her neck pricked with the sense of being observed. Perhaps Montclair had just noticed her and would join her in this pew. She waited for him.

  Mother’s warning about not trusting anyone rang in her ears. But surely she could trust him—Mother did. What if someone else lurked in the shadows of the church? What if it wasn’t Montclair she sensed but someone else? A Tory? Or worse, a British soldier? To pass this message to Montclair here might be too risky.

  Taking out a prayer book, she tucked the message in the back cover as she bent her head over the text. The words blurred. She could drop the prayer book in the aisle beside him as she departed. He could retrieve it for her and take the letter. Anyone watching would find nothing unusual in the exchange.

  The bodice of her dress pulsed with the hammering of her heart. If she was being observed, enough time had passed to signify a heartfelt petition for the repose of Father’s soul. She rose and turned to leave. Unable to stop herself, she looked directly at Montclair. His gaze held hers. No. His gaze was unblinking. He stared above her toward the cross over the altar. He did not glance her way. He did not move. A scarlet ribbon oozed down his white linen shirt from the gash along his throat.

  Chapter 16

  Andrew struggled against the ropes that cut into his wrists. After being bound the night before, he had been shoved into a corner of the deck onto a pile of coiled rope. They’d stripped him of all but his breeches, and the captain had confiscated his leather pouch with the secret message for Laurence.

  “Sleep well. Ya’ will need all your strength fer yer morning swim,” the captain had said last night as he’d slipped the pouch over his shoulder. He’d thrown his head back and cackled. “Then ya’ can sleep with the fishes.” He snorted sending thick, yellow slime out his nose. He wiped it on his sleeve, cleared his throat, and spat right beside Andrew’s bare foot.

  Andrew hadn’t slept all night. He had planned how to escape. And he had thought about Jenny. None of his escape plans had come to fruition, and thinking of Jenny had filled him with a weariness that depleted his strength.

  “Andrew, you need to keep trying,” her sweet voice encouraged him. “You can never give up. I am with you, my love. Come back to me.”

  Just imagining the lilt of her voice lifted him from his despair. Yes, he had to fight. He had to find a way to return to her. She was in danger, too. He could not abandon her now.

  His thoughts were interrupted when two crew members approached, casting a shadow over him. One held a long rope that weighed him down and dragged along the deck. Another length snaked along the deck, disappearing over the rail.

  “Time fer yer swim.”

  They laughed as they secured the rope next to the one that bound Andrew’s wrists. Each taking an elbow, they lifted him to his feet.

  He swayed as much from lack of sleep as from hunger. The little food Benjamin had provided him was long gone. Waves swelling on the sound did not help as he tried to steady himself. The sun beat down on him as they led him to the bow of the boat.

  “Any last words, lad?” The captain’s raspy guffaw frightened the gulls sitting along the bowsprit behind them. They squawked their objection to being disturbed as they flew toward shore.

  Shore.

  Andrew scanned the coastline. They had sailed closer to land during the night. He had no idea of their location, but the distance to land from the ship was swimmable—if he survived the keelhaul, and if they cut him loose, and if the rope didn’t drag him to the bottom of the sound. His heart sank.

  Jenny.

  He had to survive for Jenny.

  The crewmen jerked him from his thoughts as they finished fastening the long rope around each wrist. One of them reached to untie the smaller rope that had bound him through the night.

  “What’re doin’?” The captain asked, hurrying to stop him.

  “No use wasting a perfectly good piece of line, Cap’n.” The man smiled, his breath reeking from his brown, rotted teeth.

  The captain’s face broke into a broad grin. “Aye. A good plan.”

  The crewman untied the short rope, but Andrew’s wrists were held fast by the long one. The other crewman took one end and walked along the breadth of the deck. Andrew was hoisted up on the ratline, the ropes of the rung ladder digging into his feet. He teetered and grabbed a rung to keep from toppling into the sound. He was directly opposite from the rope that dropped over the rail and into the sea.

  All eyes were on the captain, who held his pistol in the air. He grinned at Andrew, cruelty displayed on his face. He would make him wait.

  Andrew’s heart raced though he fought to breathe evenly. I must remain calm. The pistol flashed before the sound registered, jolting him. A hand pushed him roughly and the glistening water rushed toward him as he plunged into it. He gulped as much air as his lungs would take before he broke the waves.

  Icy water shocked him, dazing him at first. His arms were jerked out in front of him as the sailors on board pulled
the rope, skimming him along the bottom of the hull. Barnacles slashed at his skin, tearing the flesh. Saltwater burned in the freshly opened cuts. The urgency to survive took over, and he kicked his legs, increasing his speed along the hull. The shadow of the ship and depth of the water shrouded him in darkness, disorienting him. Only the pull of the rope guided him to the other side of the vessel.

  His lungs ached, and the urge to inhale overwhelmed him. But he couldn’t abandon Jenny. The base of the keel cut into his back, shoving more barnacles into his skin. A gasp would fill his lungs with water. He had to stay calm. The water brightened as he traveled up the other side of the ship. He was almost through, but the elation was short-lived as blackness covered his vision. He was losing consciousness.

  Hold on. Hold on.

  Just as he was sinking into darkness, his head broke the water.

  The crew yelled out “Huzzah!”

  He gulped a breath, but a wave hit and he swallowed water as well. Coughing, he tried to clear his throat and harness more life-giving fresh air. The crew’s jeers echoed. He couldn’t swim with his arms tied together, and the only thing keeping his head above water was that the crewmen were hoisting him back up to the ship.

  “Ungh, ungh …” The jerking motion of the rope cut into his wrists and pulled his shoulders from their sockets. Blood streamed down his upstretched arms. Blackness engulfed him as they hauled him into the ship and dumped him on the deck. He rolled to his stomach, gagging and coughing up seawater.

  “Cut ’im loose, lads.” The captain’s voice sounded like it came from far away.

  Andrew fought to stay alert. They were not finished with him yet. He was supposed to have drowned. Rough hands clawed his arms, cutting away the rope. His arms fell slack against his body and shook uncontrollably.

  “Yer a tough one, I’ll gi’ ya’ that.” The captain kicked Andrew’s side, setting off another coughing spell. Andrew vomited at his feet. The captain bellowed.

  “Maybe not so tough, eh? Throw ’im over, boys.”

  A roar of approval went up from the crew.

  Brutal hands grabbed his arms and legs, lifting him over the side. Swinging him above the rail, they shouted, “One, two, three,” letting him fly on the end of the count.

  Plunging into the depths again, he pawed weakly at the sea. Blood leached into the water around him.

  Water where sharks swam.

  Jenny collapsed back into the pew, her trembling legs unable to support her. She could not pull her gaze away from Laurence Montclair’s staring eyes and gaping mouth. What was she to do? She cast about into the dark corners of the church. No one was here. But someone had been—someone who knew that Montclair was working for the Patriot cause. Whoever killed him would come back for his body. Why, indeed, had they left him here?

  To capture, perhaps to kill, whomever he was meeting.

  Summoning her nerve, she slipped her hand into the back of the prayer book and retrieved the letter. As she rose, she slipped it into the folds of her skirt. If someone were observing her, she could not chance tucking it into her bodice. She scanned the church once more, stood, and hurried down the aisle. She dared not look at Montclair again, for she would break down.

  Before she pushed open the door, she caught a flash of crimson in the recess of the nave. She ran out into the churchyard. Dizzy, she tried to stem her shaking. She slowed her pace, trying to appear natural. Few people were about on the street ahead, and no one was in the churchyard. Nauseated, she hurried to shrubs near the walkway to the parsonage and vomited into the juniper. Her stomach spasmed, and she clutched it, fighting the bile that rose in her throat.

  “Miss Sutton?”

  She jumped at the voice behind her. Turning, she faced Lieutenant Ashby, the scarlet of his coat brilliant in the late afternoon sun.

  “Are you unwell? May I assist you?” He held out a hand to steady her.

  She pulled back. Was it he she’d glimpsed as she left the church? Was it a coincidence that he suddenly appeared? Could he have killed Montclair? Coldness swept over her, overriding any sense of nausea.

  “I am fine, Lieutenant.” She brushed her hands along her skirt.

  He glanced at the pool of vomit she’d just deposited. “I suspect you are not fine.” Instead of their usual soft interest, his eyes were flinty and probing. “What brought on this unfortunate illness?” He took her elbow, leading her to a nearby stone bench.

  She wanted to resist, but in the event that it was not he in the church, she did not want to draw attention to the scene within—or her knowledge of it. But surely, he would have seen her leave the church, for she was sick almost immediately.

  “Perhaps the eggs I had at breakfast did not agree with me.” She forced a smile at him, ignoring the repulsion running through her.

  “So, you came to church looking for release from that affliction?” He frowned.

  “I came to church to pray for the repose of the soul of my father,” she shot back.

  He started. “Of course. Forgive me. Did you find peace in your time at prayer?”

  How should she respond? What would excuse her from witnessing what happened to Mr. Montclair?

  “Alas, I felt ill even before I entered. I paused in the nave, but it seemed wiser to return to the fresh air. As you can see, it was the wiser course since the juniper is a much better receptacle than the stone floor of the church.” She smiled as if he were the dearest man alive. More lies. When had deception become so easy for her?

  He studied her.

  If he had witnessed her discovery of Montclair, he would know her lie. She would be more suspect than before, for why would she not run to him for help? If he had not been inside, he might just accept what she was saying as truth. It was a delicate balance.

  “Allow me to escort you home.” Warmth returned to his expression, and he smiled.

  She held back the breath she wanted to expel. Had he believed her?

  “Thank you.” She slipped her hand through his arm, and they walked toward the street.

  Mother ran to her as Jenny entered the house. She held out her hands in warning before Lieutenant Ashby followed her in, but was too late.

  “Jennifer, were you able to deliver …” Mother stopped at the sight of him. “Oh. Good evening, Lieutenant Ashby.”

  “Good evening, Mrs. Sutton.”

  Jenny shook her head as he bowed over Mother’s hand.

  “Won’t you come in?” Mother gestured toward the parlor.

  Jenny frowned at her. Her stomach still roiled at the memory of Mr. Montclair. Would she be able to keep up this pretense of calm during a social call? Possibly with the murderer? God, I just want to scream.

  They took their usual seats, and Mother rang for Sarie. When the servant appeared, Mother asked, “May I interest you in a fruit shrub, Lieutenant? Mathias was able to buy some ripe berries at the docks today, and my husband—” Her smile disappeared, and she brought her handkerchief to her eyes. “Forgive me. His death is so new that I sometimes think he is still with us.” She cleared her throat. “He acquired a fine brandy while in Boston.”

  “I would be honored. But are you feeling well enough for such a libation, Miss Sutton?”

  “What is it, Jennifer?”

  She frowned at Ashby, but he smiled and nodded as if to say, “Go ahead. Tell your story.”

  “I was ill at church. I’m feeling better now. How providential that Lieutenant Ashby was immediately present to see me home. I’m feeling better, and a shrub will be refreshing.”

  Mother nodded to Sarie, who curtsied and hurried to the back of the house to prepare the drinks.

  Candlelight glowed in the room against long evening shadows. Despite the peaceful atmosphere, Jenny itched with apprehension. Something nagged at the back of her mind. As he and Mother exchanged pleasantries about the weather, she went over the scene in the churchyard. Wouldn’t she have seen him approaching as she ran out of the church? Surely, he must have been inside to have appea
red so quickly. Blood rushed through her veins.

  “… how much I enjoy your daughter’s company.” Ashby was beaming at her.

  Mother grasped Jenny’s hand. What had just happened?

  “In this treacherous time, it isn’t safe for two women to live alone, especially in a city so full of miscreants … and traitors.” He let the word linger in the air.

  Jenny shivered.

  “I see you are alarmed, and rightfully so, Miss Sutton.”

  Sarie entered with a tray of tall glasses filled with a soft orange liquid. As Jenny took the last glass from the tray, Sarie barely shook her head. A warning.

  Ashby sipped his drink. “Delicious. How fortunate that you were able to purchase fresh fruit. Of course, under the rule of King George, we are able to enjoy many delectable foods.” He stood, raising his glass. “God save the King.”

  Jenny froze, but Mother took her hand and pulled her to standing. As one, they raised their glasses. “God save the King.”

  They all drank.

  Jenny choked and began coughing violently. Would she vomit again, right here on the Oriental rug? She gasped for breath.

  “Are you all right, dear?” Mother patted her back.

  Jenny nodded. Finally, she squeaked out, “Yes, I am all right, Mother.” Catching her breath, she settled back on the settee. “Excuse me.” She fanned her face.

  “You have had a most strenuous day, Miss Sutton.”

  “Oh?” Mother arched a brow at her.

  The memory of Laurence Montclair, blood soaking his shirt, flashed in Jenny’s mind. She took a deep breath to stem the nausea. When she opened her eyes, Ashby was staring at her.

  “Which brings me back to my previous point. Many violent occurrences take place throughout the city, some not far from this home.” Ashby continued to stare at her.