Love's Courage

by Elizabeth Meyette

  “Violent occurrences? Jennifer, are you all right? You look pale, dear.”

  He had seen her. He was telling her that. The question was, did he murder Montclair or just witness her arrival?

  “Rest assured, Mrs. Sutton, the only violence Miss Sutton experienced was her illness. Bad eggs, apparently.”

  Mother sat rigid. She took Jenny’s hand.

  “I would be most honored if you would allow me to protect you. My feelings for Miss Sutton have run deep for a while now. Perhaps you have been aware of them, for I did not attempt to conceal them from you.” His gaze bore into Jenny.

  She lowered her lids and clutched her stomach. This could not be happening.

  “Of course, it would be inappropriate of me to linger at your house for the amount of time required to ensure your safety. So, I am asking for your daughter’s hand, Mrs. Sutton.”

  The room swayed. Jenny clasped Mother’s hand tighter.

  “I know it’s shocking for me to ask this so soon after Mr. Sutton’s death, but these are not normal times. The rebellion of the Patriots has forced us to adapt our customs to the urgent needs of the day. Custom, alas, must fly with the winds.”

  “Lieutenant, I hardly know what to say. This is so unsuitable. You must give us time to digest your words and contemplate their implications.”

  Jenny stared at the floor. She already knew the implications. If she said no to his proposal, he would expose them both as spies. They would hang.

  Chapter 17

  Andrew tried to swallow, but his parched throat felt like a rasp. He fought to open his eyelids, but they stuck. He was too tired. Too tired to even make the effort. He wanted to surrender to the darkness that engulfed him.

  “Come back to me, Andrew.” Jenny reached toward him.

  Jenny? Are you here? Was he imagining her voice? Her sweet smile?

  He needed to keep swimming, keep moving. For Jenny. He kicked, but his legs didn’t respond. Try. You’ve got to try. He kicked again, but there was no buoying water carrying him along. Sand billowed up, blowing over his aching body. He was on shore.

  He was alive.

  He forced one eye open. The indigo sky loomed above him, the sand against his back still hot from the day’s unrelenting sun. A wave teased his feet then fell away into the sea. He blinked and his other eye opened. He tried to move, even to raise his arms, but they were leaden, their shape embedded in the sand. How long had he been here?

  A wave crept up his calves to his knees. The tide was rising, and if strong enough, it would drag him back into the sound. Groaning, he mustered his strength and heaved onto his side. One arm was trapped below his body, the other flopped in front of him. Sand stuck to the blood that had been streaming from his wrists to his elbows. Placing his free hand on the sand, he tried to push up to sitting, but his strength had been sapped in the effort to survive the swim.

  Another wave swept up along his thighs, the tide pulling him toward the sea. He rolled to his stomach and clawed at the sand, trying to pull himself farther up on the shore. Ahead of him, trees lined the edge of the beach, the remnant glow of sunset shimmering through the leaves. He reached one arm up and pulled himself forward. A

  wave crashed over him, dragging him toward the water. He scrabbled at the sand, but his effort was useless. The next wave broke over his head.

  I cannot…

  Another swell pushed him back up on shore, the sand scraping his face and chest, but then pulled him back into the surf. His arms went limp, his hands numb. He couldn’t fight anymore. Forgive me, Jenny…

  Blackness.

  Rough hands grabbed him, digging into his armpits, fire against his skin, dragging him along the beach. He tried to fight, but his arms hung limp, impotent, unable to resist the attacker.

  “Settle, just settle.” The voice was far away, as if echoing down a mountain.

  Andrew tried to speak, but his cracked lips moved in silence. He surrendered. He could fight no more.

  Voices echoed in the blackness of the night. A cool breeze brushed his body, raising chill bumps. He shivered. He welcomed the roughness of a wool blanket as it covered him. Someone cupped his head, lifting it so he could drink from a leather flask. Water dribbled along his chin as he tried to purse his lips to drink. Catching the flow, he gulped until he choked, coughing and spitting out most of the liquid.

  “Take it slowly. You’re in a terrible state.” A deep voice spoke near his ear.

  Andrew glimpsed a fire crackling on the edge of the woods. His head lolled back, and the man set him down on the sand.

  “Someone treated you badly.”

  Andrew barely nodded.

  “Are you in service to the King?”

  Andrew stared at him.

  “Hmmph.” The man considered him. “I suspect you’re not. This looks like the work of Tories to me.”

  Andrew’s mind was too muddled to consider whether to trust this man. He was too close to death. At this point, he would welcome its relief. He nodded.

  “Good. Then you can live.” He lifted Andrew’s head again and held the flask. “Now, take it slowly.”

  “Be assured, I pledge my protection to you both. No matter what happens …” Lieutenant Ashby stressed those last words, “I will see that you are safe.” He stood. “I ask you to take this evening to consider my marriage proposal. I shall call tomorrow evening to hear your answer.” He bowed and took his leave.

  Mother flew to the door and locked it. She returned to her place beside Jenny.

  “What happened today?”

  “Oh, Mother, Laurence Montclair is dead.” Jenny collapsed against her and burst into tears. She dug her nails into her palms to stem the spikes of fear and sorrow that shot through her body.

  “My God,” Mother breathed, wrapping Jenny in her arms. “No.”

  Between gasps, Jenny explained what had occurred at the church. She ended with her glimpse of a scarlet coat as she left.

  “So, Ashby knows.”

  Jenny nodded.

  “He is forcing you to marry him …”

  “Or he will arrest us as spies.”

  “We must leave at once.”

  A knock sounded at the back door.

  They froze.

  “He’s come back to demand an answer tonight,” Jenny whispered.

  “Go upstairs. I will tell him you were still ill and have retired for the evening.” She gave her a gentle shove. “Hurry, darling.”

  Jenny sped up the stairs, pausing to listen when she reached the top. Mother unlocked the door and swung it open.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Sutton. I’m sorry to call so late, but I must see Miss Sutton.”

  Ephraim Carter.

  “Come in, Mr. Carter. I’ll see if …”

  Jenny hurried down the stairs. Ephraim’s ashen face foretold what his next words would be.

  “Mr. Montclair is … I can’t believe it … he’s dead. Murdered.”

  Mother ushered him into the parlor.

  “They found him in the church. His throat was slashed, it was.” He shook his head, slumping into the chair. “Rumors are flying that he was working for the Sons.” He shot a look at them. “British soldiers came to the apothecary. Tore it all apart searching for proof. I’m scared for Lucy and Zachariah.”

  Mother patted his hand.

  He looked at her. “I’m worried for you two as well.”

  She and Mother exchanged looks.

  Jenny studied that man who swaggered with bravado the night he intended to rape her. Gone was that swagger now. This was a man who feared for his life, and even more, the life of his family. He took an incredible chance to come here tonight and warn them. And if he had been followed …

  Another knock on the back door.

  Jenny’s blood coursed through her veins. If Ashby had returned after all and found Ephraim here, they would all be implicated in treason. But it was the back door. Where the couriers came. Could it be Andrew? She leapt up and rushed toward the do
or.

  “Jennifer. Stop.” Mother blocked her. “We must not be impetuous. Especially now. Let me take care of this.” She headed to the back door. “Oh, my God.” Her voice was shrill. “In here, quickly.”

  Two men sidestepped their way into the room. Between them, they were propping up a third man.

  Jenny gasped.

  Andrew.

  She rushed to his side, replacing the shorter of the two men who propped him up. His body slumped against her, his head swinging from side to side as they moved across the room. They eased him onto the settee. Ephraim lifted his legs to rest on the sofa, and Jenny propped a pillow beneath his head.

  She swiped away the tears that streamed down her face—he had returned, but bruises covered his face and his cracked lips gaped. He moaned as she stroked the crease between his brows and brushed strands of hair away from his face. Her heart danced when he awoke and a flash of recognition lit his face.

  “Jenny.” His voice was thready, weak with the effort of speaking her name.

  “Andrew, I’m here.” Oh, that the depth of love within those words could pour over him with healing. She looked up at the men who had brought him here.

  “Thank you.”

  The taller man nodded. “We found him on the shore of Hart Island. He was in bad shape. Keelhauled.” His face darkened as he shook his head.

  She had to crane her neck to look at him as he spoke. She had noticed when they entered that they filled the doorway with their bulk. The man who spoke was well over six-foot-four. The shorter man was nearly that.

  He jerked a bow. “I’m Martin Wirth, and this is my brother, Abel.”

  Abel snatched off his hat as he bowed.

  “Thank you both.” She could barely see Andrew through blurry tears. “You saved his life.”

  Both men shifted from foot to foot.

  Mother appeared beside her with a basin and pitcher of water, a towel draped over her arm. “Please, gentlemen, have a seat.”

  Ephraim slid two sturdy walnut side chairs toward them and the brothers eased down on them. Martin grimaced as his chair groaned in protest.

  Balancing a heaping tray, Sarie stopped before each man, offering a mug of ale and a plate of fruit, cheese, and bread. Both broke out in grins of appreciation. Martin gingerly balanced the edge of a plate, the china dish disappearing into his enormous hand.

  Jenny dampened the towel and pressed it against Andrew’s forehead. He moaned, twisting his head away.

  “Shhh, Andrew. All is well. You are with me now.” She caressed his cheek, and he turned toward her, his eyelids quivering with the effort to stay open.

  “We checked him over, Miss … Jenny. He kept repeatin’ your name from the moment we hauled him outta the swell. He was near ta death, but he could say your name. After we fed him and got him warm, he could tell us where you lived. Once he did that, he … well, you can see for yourself.”

  Mother offered her hand. “I am Constance Sutton. Jenny is my daughter.”

  Martin nodded and looked about.

  “My husband, Edward, passed away recently.” She set her jaw.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Sutton.”

  “It was a Ranger.”

  He jerked back as if she’d thrown cold water on him. “Bastards.” He slapped his hand over his mouth. “Excuse me, ladies.”

  Mother tried to hide her smile. “My sentiments exactly, Mr. Wirth. Thank you for giving them voice.”

  His laugh was as large as he, and Andrew stirred.

  A whisper. “Jenny. It’s really you.”

  “Yes, Andrew. It’s really me.” Her voice caught between a laugh and a sob.

  He moaned, trying to lift one arm. In the candlelight, the fierce gashes in his arms from where he had been bound stood out scarlet against his pale skin.

  “If not treated soon, infection will set in. I’ll need calendula and plantain and …” Mother counted on her fingers.

  Ephraim Carter stood. “I’ll get Lucy. She’ll know what he needs.” He slipped out the back door.

  “We need to get him to bed,” Jenny said.

  Without a word, Martin and Abel slid their muscular arms beneath Andrew and lifted him as if he weighed only a few pounds. “Show us the way.”

  When Andrew was settled in the guest bedroom, Jenny sat beside him. She winced as he grimaced in pain. “Sarie, please bring the elixir we used for Father.”

  “We’ll be leaving then,” Martin said.

  Jenny stood, taking his hand. “I am indebted to you,” she looked at Abel, “to both of you for saving Andrew’s life. And for bringing him here.”

  Martin studied her. “We suspect he was keelhauled by Tories, which marks him a rebel. If so, all due respect, ma’am, you are as well. You’re in a mountain of danger here in a city full of lobsterbacks.”

  Mother drew in her lips then nodded slightly. “We were making plans to leave New York tonight, but there are complications now.”

  He looked at Andrew, whose pale face matched the cotton pillow cover. “Ah, yes. Andrew can’t be moved.”

  Jenny nodded. “Not only that, a British officer has asked for my hand. He wants an answer tomorrow or he will accuse us of being spies.”

  The brothers looked at each other.

  “It would be best if you left the way you came. Get away from this house as quickly as you can, for we are being watched,” Mother said.

  “But we can help,” Abel said.

  Jenny smiled at them. “You are most kind, but you have already done so much. To add to the danger, our friend, Laurence Montclair, was murdered today. We were … helping him.”

  Martin stared at Andrew for a moment. “We’ll take our leave then, Miss Sutton. Mrs. Sutton.” He bowed to each woman and the brothers left.

  “What are we to do, Mother?” She returned to sit on the bed beside Andrew.

  “We are to nurse Andrew to good health. Until he is able to travel, we must stay here.”

  Sarie brought in the amber bottle containing a tincture of laudanum and poppy seed oil, and a pewter spoon. She handed the bottle to Jenny and stepped back. “Mathias, Isaac and me’ll help when you’re fixin’ to leave. We be goin’ with you, cause you ladies can’t be travelin’ alone.”

  “Thank you, Sarie. We could never leave you behind.” Mother said, taking her hand.

  “For now, though we must stay,” Jenny said. “And tomorrow, Lieutenant Ashby will return for my answer to his proposal.” What would she say? Ashby held their safety in his hands and was truly trying to offer protection, but surely the protection of a British officer was not what Father had in mind with the promise she’d made him.

  What would Ashby’s reaction be if she said no? She glanced at Andrew. How could she marry someone else when she loved this man so completely? But without Ashby’s protection, she and Mother were closer to arrest every day. Marry Ashby and leave Andrew forever, or don’t marry him and …

  She held too many lives in her hands. Did she have the courage to save them all?

  Chapter 18

  Jenny opened the jar containing the balm Lucy Carter had delivered the night before. Lifting the covers off Andrew’s arms, she gently massaged the herbal remedy into his wounds. In his sleep, he protested at first, but as the mixture took effect, he quieted. He had awakened this morning long enough to eat a bit of porridge and drink some cider, but he had slept throughout the afternoon.

  Every sound on the street below brought her to the window to see if Lieutenant Ashby had arrived for her answer. She rubbed her temples. How could she refuse him and keep Mother and herself safe? There was no way. She could not tease out a solution to this dilemma.

  As Andrew settled into a deeper sleep, she paced the room.

  “Jennifer, it will do no good to walk a rut into the floorboards.” Mother sat at her embroidery, still stitching the same red poppy she had been on an hour ago.

  “I am finding it difficult to sit still. Mother, what am I to do?”

  They had s
tayed up into the early morning hours, keeping vigil over Andrew and discussing all possible options for dealing with Ashby. Jenny knew it was imperative to flee New York as soon as possible. Mother had refused to leave without her, though it was the perfect solution. Trying to escape with just Andrew would be far less conspicuous than with Mother and the entire household. Besides, Father’s original plan had been to return to Boston in September, which was only a few days hence. Surely, their acquaintances would be aware of this, so it would appear they were simply following the original plan.

  Mother bent her head over her sampler, though her fingers were idle. She, too, was teasing out solutions.

  The knock on the door startled them both. Jenny clutched her waist. Listening to Mother’s footsteps descend the staircase was like listening to a death knell. Andrew stirred at the noise. Sitting beside him, she took his hand. She caressed his forehead with her fingers.

  “I love you, Andrew Wentworth.”

  Did one corner of his mouth lift? Just a bit? It was enough. It gave her strength to face this moment. She rose and headed toward the stairs.

  Lieutenant Ashby was staring out onto the street when she entered the parlor. He stood, as always, as if at attention. Did he never relax? Hearing her enter, he turned. A crease etched between his brows melted away, and he smiled. “Good evening, Miss Sutton.”

  “Good evening, Lieutenant.”

  “Please, I’ve asked you to call me Nigel.” His gaze held hers, his eyes warm, but did she detect uncertainty?

  Was he unsure about her involvement with Montclair? Did he believe that she was at the church simply to pray for Father? The suspicion that colored his behavior when he escorted her home was lacking today. Perhaps she and Mother were safer than she’d thought. Her heart beat faster.

  She sat in a chair. She wanted no opportunity for him to sit beside her.

  He took the settee. “You appear weary. I hope the excitement of my proposal did not hinder your sleep last night.”

  “I appreciate your concern. I did have trouble sleeping last night.” But not due to excitement over your proposal.

  “I will not linger, for I would hate to disturb another evening’s rest for you. I know ladies get engrossed in planning details of weddings.” He smiled.