by Kruger, Mary
“You haven’t done a good job so far,” he pointed out.
“That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it? I’m offering you myself, a home, everything I have, and still you choose him.”
“But not for long! I told you...” She dropped her head to her knees. “Must we quarrel?” she said, in a very small voice. “When you’ll be leaving me again?
“It’s your fault that I do.”
“Don’t put this on me, Marcus Brand!” she flared, his Rebecca again, glorious in her indignation as she faced him, hands on hips. “You were a wandering man before I met you.”
“Aye. And now I’ve the wish to settle down. Ah, lass.” He caught her hand and brought it to his lips, his anger fading. She’d been through a lot, his Rebecca, and he was the cause of much of it. If she needed time, why not let her have it? Even if the old instincts within him clamored. Danger, danger. “You’re right. I don’t want to quarrel with you.”
Her fingers feathered through his hair. “What do you want to do?” she asked, softly.
“Make love to you again,” he said, and pulled her close. And, for a little while, they forgot about all else.
“Good morning,” Ezra’s voice boomed from the doorway to the kitchen the following morning.
Startled, Rebecca dropped the pewter dish she was drying. “Father,” she gasped, bending to pick up the dish, still rolling on the floor with a metallic clang. “What on earth—”
“Can’t a man go where he will in his own house?” Grimacing, he sat at the table. “It is still my house.”
“Of course it is.” Automatically she wiped the dish, though it was dry. “But you usually stay in your study.”
“Who are you to tell me what to do, girl?”
Rebecca lifted another dish, holding it before her like a shield. “I’m sorry, Father.”
“You should be. Blast.” He lowered his head, rubbing at his forehead with thumb and forefinger. “This isn’t how I meant to go on.”
Carefully she laid the plate down, so it made no noise. The situation was fragile, fraught with possibilities of disaster, and she wished to do nothing to disturb him. Not when he was at last talking to her again. “How did you mean to go on?” she asked, finally.
He glanced away. “I made a mistake yesterday.”
Rebecca felt her eyes widen. “With Amelia? Yes.”
“Blast it.” He pounded the table with his fist. “I wanted her to marry well,” he said, glaring at her. “Is that a crime?”
“No, Father.” She kept her voice soothing. “But she’s happy, you know.”
“Married to a clerk.”
“Well, he does come from a good family, and there are those who say his career is on the rise.” She gathered her courage. For Amelia, she could fight. “He’s really a good man, Father. You’d know that if you gave him a chance.”
He muttered something, very low. “Excuse me?” she said.
“I said he took my daughter away.” He glared at her again. “Why should I give him a chance?”
“Oh, Father.” She sat across from him, laying her hand on his. To her surprise, he didn’t pull back. “You haven’t lost her. She very much wants to make amends with you. If you’ll let her.”
Ezra looked away. “If you ask her to come, will she?”
Hope soared within Rebecca. “Yes. But I think she’d like it better if the invitation came from you. And”—greatly daring—“to her and her husband, both.”
“Blast,” he grumbled. “You’re a hard woman, Rebecca.”
“With you, someone has to be,” she retorted.
“Mayhaps,” he said, pushing himself up with his hands, braced on the table. “All right. I’ll write to them.”
“Oh, Father! She’ll be so happy. And you won’t regret it, either.”
“I pray not.” He stopped in the doorway, fixing her with a look. “As for you.”
She stiffened, her fingers unconsciously twisting in the cloth. “Yes, Father.”
“Blast it,” he muttered, and turned away. “Tell your Mr. Brand I approve of your marriage.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Father!” Rebecca couldn’t help herself. She flew to him, though she stopped shy of touching him. “Oh, do you really mean it?”
“I rarely say things I don’t mean, girl.”
“But why? What changed your mind?”
“Don’t vex me with questions,” he grumbled. “I haven’t changed my mind. Always approved of Mr. Brand.”
“But not for me.”
“No. But seeing as your sister is married to someone else, why not you?”
“Thank you, Father,” she said, choking back a laugh at this less-than-enthusiastic response to her marital prospects. “I know I’m not his ideal match, but I will strive to do better.”
“This is not a topic for levity.”
“No, Father.”
“There’s too much of that in you, levity. Best you curb it.”
“Yes, Father. Will you be wanting to see Mar- Mr. Brand?”
He turned. “Is he here?”
She thought of Marcus, in Alexandria, readying his ship for another voyage. A message would reach him that afternoon. It would mean that she and Marcus no longer would have to hide their love. She should send a note immediately—and yet, she hesitated. “Father, are you sure about this?”
“I told you, girl. I have decided, and I will not change my mind.” He, too, hesitated. “No, I do not want to see him yet. Isn’t it enough I have to deal with the man-milliner Amelia’s married?”
“Father! He’s nothing of the sort,” she said, relieved and disappointed at once. Why the relief, she didn’t know, except that this entire morning had been very strange. Father wasn’t the only one who would need time to adjust. “When next he’s home, then.”
Ezra turned in the doorway. “Is he still privateering?”
“No. Smuggling,” she said, with some pride.
“Smuggling. Dangerous business, that. The English would probably like to take him.”
“Do you think he’s in danger?”
“If the English invade and he’s here, then yes, he’d be in danger.”
She frowned. “Father, no one thinks there’ll be an invasion.”
“Open your eyes, girl! You told me yourself Wellington’s troops are said to be in Bermuda. Oh, yes, I hear everything you say to me. I hear more than you think.”
“Of course,” she murmured, frowning. “Everyone thinks they’ll head to Baltimore, but I suppose ‘tis possible they’ll come to Washington City.” If so, Marcus would be in danger. “He said he’d let me know when he returns.”
Ezra’s eyes gleamed. “Did he? Good. I’ll much anticipate seeing him again.”
“Then you really do approve of the match?”
“Must you continue to plague me with questions?” he roared. She held her ground, expecting a blow. “If you must know, it’s high time you married, and someone to steady you, too. Good gad, girl, you’ve always been—”
“Flighty,” she said, flatly.
“Yes, flighty. Like your mother. You’ve proven that enough in the past.”
“I’ve stayed with you, and believe me, it’s not been easy,” she retorted. “That’s not being flighty.”
“It was your duty. Now.” He turned towards the stairs. “I’ve work to do. See to it I’m not disturbed.”
“No, Father,” she murmured. Well, what had she expected? That he would suddenly say he had misjudged her all these years, that he loved her and wished her to be happy? Foolish of her. Father hadn’t changed. Yet, whatever his motives were, the results were the same. She was going to marry Marcus.
Hugging herself with happiness, she whirled around. At last it was all coming right for her. She would marry Marcus, be his wife, bear his children. And he should know. If she wrote to him right now, he would get the message before he left, she thought, running up the stairs.
And, in his study, Ezra s
et the seal on a letter, and smiled to himself.
Rebecca turned to the mirror in the fashionable dressmaker’s shop, and gasped. “Oh, Amelia! Are you sure?”
“Perfectly.” Amelia beamed at her from a gilt and white chair. “It suits you wonderfully, Becky. I knew it would.”
Rebecca spread her fingers over her exposed chest. “It doesn’t look like me at all.”
“Yes it does, silly. It’s just that you’ve hidden yourself in all those drab grays and browns all these years. I knew that shade of green would be perfect. It’s so rich and dark. See how it brings out your eyes? The highlights of your hair?”
Rebecca shifted her fingers and instantly put them in place again. “‘Tis not my hair I’m worried about,” she muttered. “Amelia, what will people think if I appear in a gown so low?”
“Silly! Who’s to see you but us and Mr. Brand? I do think it’s wonderful you’re marrying him. I knew you had an affection for him.”
“Please do lower your voice,” Rebecca murmured, casting a quick glance about the dressing room. She and Amelia were alone, but beyond the curtained doorway were the dressmaker, her assistants, and various customers, among them the most stylish ladies in the city. The shop was, in short, a hotbed of gossip. “I don’t care to have my affairs discussed in public.”
“Oh, but Becky, ‘tis such happy news.” Amelia began to pull the pins from Rebecca’s hair. “Don’t struggle, you’ll hurt yourself. If we dress your hair differently—yes, like that. ‘Tis high time you looked pretty. When you asked me to help you with your clothes, I had such ideas! I still do.”
“That is what worries me,” Rebecca said tartly, pulling away. “I meant that perhaps you could help me with choosing fabrics and with the sewing! Not this. I shall look like mutton dressed as lamb.”
Amelia let out a silvery peal of laughter. “Don’t be silly! You look lovely.”
“And the cost—”
“Gilbert and I are happy to do it for you, after what you’ve done for us. Now. Look in the mirror again.” She turned Rebecca around. “Put your hand down and look, and tell me what you really see.”
Rebecca bit her lips, but did as Amelia bade, lowering her hand and forcing herself to study her reflection. The gown of rich forest green silk was simply-made, high-waisted and with short, close sleeves edged with lace. The skirt was full, as her dresses usually were, but, unlike those, this one didn’t hide her shape. Instead, it dipped where her waist did, flared where her hips flared, and fell in graceful folds to the floor. And, oh, it was so low! Father would have an apoplexy when he saw it. As for Marcus—well, he’d seen her in less, hadn’t he? The thought sent color surging into her face, and made her study the gown more objectively. Low in the bodice, yes, but she’d seen worse than that in society, and she could always wear a shawl. And Amelia was right. The color did suit her. Altogether a most wonderful, beautiful gown, and she wanted it as she had never wanted anything in her life. “Perhaps if I tuck in a bit of lace, here,” she murmured, tugging at the bodice.
“You’ll do no such thing! It’s perfectly fine. Doesn’t Mr. Brand deserve to see you in something pretty for a change?”
Rebecca studied herself, and decided. “Yes. He does. Oh, thank you, Melia.” She turned to hug her sister. “He’ll be so surprised.”
“Good.” Amelia’s eyes twinkled. “That’s how to go on, Becky. Keep surprising him.”
“Mm.” Rebecca’s hand drifted down to her stomach, and then away. “I do so long to see him. It’s been nearly three weeks.”
“Have you heard from him?”
“No. Just that message last week, that he hoped to be here soon.” She viewed her reflection from the side, arching back to see the hem of the gown. “I do hope he’s not in any danger. If there’s an invasion—”
“Oh, pooh! There won’t be.”
“But if there is, the British will come up the Potomac.” She shivered, in spite of the heat of the day. “I fear for what will happen to Marcus.”
“There won’t be an invasion,” Amelia announced. “Gilbert says that Mr. Monroe doesn’t think it, and he doesn’t, either.”
Rebecca turned from the mirror. “Wellington’s troops are in Bermuda.”
“What if they are? Gilbert says they won’t come here. Baltimore or New York are more likely targets.”
“But Washington City is the capital.”
“And otherwise of little importance. What is here, Becky? A few buildings, nothing more, and everyone in Congress has gone home for the summer. You are worrying yourself needlessly,” Amelia said, sounding like the elder of the two. “Nothing will happen.”
Rebecca faced her reflection again, her eyes dark. But she did have to worry, with Marcus somewhere upon the high seas, and the might of the British fleet against him. He had escaped the British before, but the danger was always there. And there was one more thing to consider. Her hand slipped down to her stomach again, reassuringly, protectively. She thought she might be pregnant.
She didn’t know for certain, of course; it was much too early for that. Still, the signs were there. Her monthly cycle was never late, and yet here she was, nearly a week overdue. Hope bloomed within her, fragile, almost painful. To have a child again. To hold it in her arms, suckle it, keep it safe from harm—and this time she would, she told herself, staring at her reflection and seeing, not a fashionable gown, but a determined woman. For this was Marcus’s child. Nothing was going to take it away from her.
“I think,” Amelia was saying to the dressmaker, who had just come in, “that it needs to be taken in a bit at the waist. And perhaps the neckline lowered just a bit—”
“No.” Rebecca fixed her with a stern look. “It is fine as it is.”
Amelia dimpled. “I thought I’d try.”
Rebecca gave her another look, and then turned to the dressmaker. “It is a lovely gown, but it won’t be necessary to take it in. If it can be ready by—mercy, what is that?”
“I don’t know.” The dressmaker’s brow wrinkled at the sound of shouting, coming from the front of the shop. “But I will not have such a disturbance in my shop,” she said, and bustled out of the room.
Amelia’s fingers worked quickly at the buttons that fastened down the back of the gown. “It is a bit loose, Becky. Why not let her adjust it?”
“I like it now.” Rebecca took one last look at herself, before Amelia helped her pull the gown over her head, and her heart beat a little faster. Oh, she hoped Marcus liked it. She hoped he would be as happy about her news as she was.
The shouting outside increased, accompanied by the heavy rumble of carriage wheels and the staccato rhythm of horses’ hooves. “Mercy, whatever can be going on? Rebecca said, slipping into her ordinary, and very dull, day dress of gray broadcloth.
“I’ll just go see.” Amelia went out, leaving Rebecca to contemplate her reflection again as she put her hair up into its usual tight knot. Marcus was right. There was another Rebecca inside her, the real Rebecca. She was tired of wearing prim clothing, tired of pretending to be something she wasn’t. Thank God for Marcus. Because of him, the deception was nearly over.
She was just putting the last hairpin in place when the curtain opened and Amelia came back in. “Did you find out what it was—Amelia! You’re so pale.”
Amelia dropped onto the chair as Rebecca, concerned, hovered over her. “Oh, Becky!” she wailed. “‘Tis the most terrible thing.”
“It can’t be that bad,” Rebecca said, speaking soothingly, out of long habit.
“Oh, but it is. The British army has landed at Benedict.”
Rebecca gasped, groping for a chair herself, her knees suddenly weak. “They can’t have. It’s so close.”
“But that’s what everyone’s saying. Oh, Becky!” She raised wide, frightened eyes. “They’re going to invade us.”
Marcus whistled as he jumped nimbly from his ship’s rail to the wharf in Alexandria. Another run made right under the noses of the British Navy
. Good cargo this time, too, and it should bring him a decent profit. Tyner would supervise the unloading. For too long now he had given over his life to his country, and while it was the right thing to do, it meant he’d had to neglect other things. He’d had to neglect Rebecca. No more, though. He didn’t like the looks of things, with the British Army having sailed from Bermuda, and the fleet that patrolled the Chesapeake. He had to get Rebecca to safety. This time when he went to her he would take her with him, and there’d be no arguing about it.
Alexandria’s streets seemed unusually busy. Marcus frowned as he pushed his way past a group of people, on his way to the wharf where he would get the Georgetown boat. There were a great many wagons, fully loaded with what appeared to be household goods, trundling down to the waterfront, to have their contents loaded into vessels of various sizes. Even odder was that the wagons were accompanied by families, silent children and pale, frightened-looking women. In the distance a church bell pealed, and as he watched, a company of militia, ragtag in uniform but with muskets held against their shoulders, marched by. For some reason, Alexandria was in retreat.
His frown deepening, he took off his hat and wiped at the sweat that had accumulated on his brow. “What’s about?” he called to a man, walking alongside a wagon. “Is there an outbreak of fever?”
“Fever? No, man.” The other man stared at him. “Where have you been, that you’ve not heard?”
“At sea. Not heard what?”
“About the British. Word came yesterday they landed in Maryland—”
“The devil they did!”
“—and it looks as if they’ll march on Washington City.”
“Are you certain of this?”
“No, but if you’ve family, get them to safety. I am,” the man said, and turned away, shouting at the wagon’s driver.
Marcus swore again and turned, running towards the Georgetown boat. There was only one person he cared about, one precious woman. No matter the danger to himself, should the British discover who he was. He had to get to Rebecca.
