by Rachel Hauck
Esther, I must confess, my Affection for you seems to have reclaimed my heart after these many years. I wonder, my Love, if you may feel the same? Would you, at last, consider marrying me?
There the letter ended. Unsigned. Unsent. And Jesse’s screenplay began.
Did I tell your story, Hamilton?
Jesse didn’t have much to go on. Only the letter and Aunt Pat’s history of the family—which did not include Esther.
But his soul rattled with a deeper question. Had he told his own story?
Jesse flipped the original letter over, harboring a slight hope that words had magically appeared on the back, revealing more. But the page was empty. It was that emptiness, along with the echoing hollow in Jesse’s chest, that had inspired him to write the script.
The deck lights flipped on automatically, catching Jesse’s eye. Staring toward the deck, he tried once again to see his great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather penning this letter to a woman he never married. Did he not love Lydia? Or did her death, and Esther’s husband’s, merely unlock a buried love?
What of his own love story? His mistakes? What would Hamilton have done differently? Would he have not fought at Cowpens?
What would Jesse change if given the chance? Never made his confession to Loxley? Walked with her out of the house? Down to the beach?
Beyond the deck, the sun set along the edge of the Pacific, washing the windows with a romantic glow.
Jesse tucked the letter away, grabbed his phone, and made his way down to the road, crossing over to the warm sand, aiming for the shoreline.
He’d not touched his feet to sand in eight years. But if the past was in the past, anything he held against himself could be dropped at the water’s edge. He would let the waves baptize him and wash his guilt away.
But instead of going the distance, he dug his feet into the shifting sand, a dark sensation in his gut. And he knew. He’d never be free from the past.
No Hollywood success, no California gold, no posh place by the ocean could erase the truth. Just like Grandpa Hamilton, Jesse had to live with what he’d lost.
3
ESTHER
Ninety Six, South Carolina
June 1780
She’d crossed her last ocean. Surely Father would not ask her to sail the Atlantic again. If he did, she’d refuse him. She was of age now, having turned twenty-two this past birthday.
She’d done his bidding as well as Mother’s, and now she would choose for herself.
Upon Father’s request, she had traveled to London for her grand society debut and to be presented at court. Taking her place in society aided Father’s position with his employer, Lord Whatham, the Duke of Brogman.
Mother, of course, lived for society, so to have her daughter presented at court raised her esteem before the royals and aristocrats alike. Though heaven forbid anyone should inquire of Lady Olivia Longfellow why she lived four thousand miles from her husband and daughter.
Now back home on the safe and beautiful high ground of South Carolina and Slathersby Hill, Esther had no plans to ever leave again.
This was her domain. Her place. She’d grown up here. Acted as Father’s hostess for parties, visiting dignitaries, high-ranking British officers, and even Lord Whatham, on the rare occasion of his visit.
Esther peered out her bedroom window toward the road cutting through the green hills and wondered if he’d come to see her today. She’d written three months ago of her return.
He’d not bothered to write her back. He wasn’t much for penning a line, her Hamilton Lightfoot.
But she must see him soon, or her heart would most assuredly burst.
“Miss Esther? Might I come in?”
She turned to the door. “Please.”
Sassy crept in, a smile on her beautiful, caramel face. “Your father is waiting breakfast for you.” She crossed the room. “Shall I open your window? This room is hotter than all blazes.” The free woman, who was more a member of the family than a servant, shoved the draperies wide open and raised the pane. The sweet scent of summer breezed into the room.
“Did Isaac bring in my boxes? I’ve correspondence from Lord Whatham for Father.”
“He did. Kitch has unpacked the tea already. I feels all is well in the world with the tea cupboards brimming again. Sir Michael is sipping a cup now.”
“I’m not sure he’d have let me in the house if I’d not brought a crate of Bohea. I paid a fine tax in Charles Town.”
“Well worth the sterling pounds.” Sassy moved around to her truck, raising the lid. “I see you brought home some pretty new dresses.”
“They’re too hot for South Carolina, but Mother insisted.” In the mirror she brushed her hair and tied it up with a ribbon. “H-has anyone come calling for me?”
Sassy turned from the armoire. “If’n you mean Mr. Hamilton, no. He came around weekly when you was first gone. Didn’t even knock on the door, just sat on the front steps staring toward the road. Poor boy was lovesick. But two years is a long time to keep up such pining.”
“Mr. Hamilton? Why would he have come calling? I was referring to Jessica Warren or Isobel Knight.” Esther picked up the books she’d acquired for the library. A new edition of the English dictionary and volume one of The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire. “Hamilton Lightfoot.” She feigned a laugh. “Mercy, I’d forgotten all about him.”
“I’m sure you did.” Sassy’s wide, brown eyes reflected her hidden smile. “Which I say is just fine since he’s more than likely forgotten about you.”
Esther refused to display any emotion over Sassy’s pointed comment.
“He must be married by now.” She tucked the heavy books under her arm, her heart thumping. He’d last written seven, no eight months ago. Plenty of time to fall for a local girl. Perhaps that’s why he ended what little correspondence existed between them.
A man like Hamilton Lightfoot needed a wife. And what up-country girl did not set her cap for him? More than handsome with his dark hair and crystal-blue eyes, he was kind and well spoken, a defender of the downtrodden and weak. Strong and strapping, a bit of a brooder, he concealed some darkness in his own soul.
“Married? Mr. Hamilton? Not to my recollection.” Sassy lifted a red, silk gown from the trunk. “Well now, ain’t this a pretty thing?”
Esther watched as Sassy held the party frock against her lean frame. Catching Esther’s gaze, Sassy quickly moved toward the armoire, her head lowered.
“Bet you were the belle of every ball in this here dress.”
“The red is beautiful against your skin, Sassy. You can have it.”
Sassy paused, the gown gathered in her hands. “Come again, miss?” She slowly turned.
“Please, take it for yourself. I insist.” Esther smiled with a nod. “It’s too tight for me. Mother claims I dined on too many chocolates while in London. We had to let out my stays, and the dresses from my first season no longer fit. ’Tis yours, Sassy. The dress will be beautiful on you.”
“And where am I to wear such a fine gown? To church? The floors are dirt and the hardwood benches full of splinters. This fine silk would be pricked and pulled.”
“Sit on a blanket then.” Esther shifted the books from one arm to the other. “Better yet, wear it Sunday afternoon as you sit on the front porch.”
Father gave the servants a whole Sabbath to rest and reflect. He’d purchased Sassy, her husband, Isaac, and their fourteen-year-old son, also named Isaac but affectionately called Kitch, from a man down Charles Town way who aimed to separate them.
Lord Whatham, a strict abolitionist, discouraged Father from owning another human being. An admonition with which Father agreed. Besides, the upcountry had little need for slaves, but Father could not bear to see Isaac, Sassy, and Kitch torn apart.
Isaac, acting as a foreman, was Father’s right hand these days, helping him tend to Lord Whatham’s interests—the farm, the trading post, and hunting and trapping ventures.
Besi
des hoping for a glimpse of Hamilton, Esther sensed a tension in the air tainting her homecoming. The war had moved to the South since she’d been away. The London papers touted tales of the wicked Whigs and the American rebels. But surely the might and power of the British army would crush the rebellion any day.
Father had written that Ninety Six remained loyal to the Crown. But on her way home she’d seen a band of buckskin-clad American militia training with the Continentals.
Once again Sassy inquired about the dress. “Are you sure you won’t be wanting this, Miss Esther?” But she’d already set the dress aside.
“Quite sure.” Esther lowered her voice. “My bosoms float over the top of the lace, and Father would never stand for it.”
“Perhaps, but I bet Mr. Hamilton would.” Sassy’s bold laugh filled the room.
“Sassy!”
“Come now, I’ve seen you gaze out that window for him. But never you mind, he’ll be along. Go on down to breakfast. Your father is waiting. And I do thank you kindly for the gown. I’ve never had anything so fancy.”
“For that, Sassy, I am most sorry.”
“Ah, the good Lord looks after me. For tonight’s dinner, I’ll bake you a pie. You can count on it. I’ve got dried apples and cherries.”
Esther descended the broad, grand staircase and entered the dining room, finding Father breakfasting with Lieutenant Twimball, a member of His Majesty’s army.
Isaac greeted her with a nod, holding out her chair. “Tea and biscuits, miss?”
“Yes, thank you, Isaac.” Esther set the books on the edge of the long, polished table. “I thought you’d enjoy these, Father. The latest English dictionary and The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire. They say a second volume is due for publication soon.”
“My darling daughter, you know how to please your pa.” Father beamed, reaching for the books, his linen napkin tucked into his waistcoat. “Lieutenant Twimball tells me you had a rough journey from England.”
Twimball, a rather puckish-looking man who regarded himself with the utmost personal esteem, had met her packet in the Charles Town harbor. He was to collect and organize fresh troops from London yet insisted she wait for him to escort her home, despite the fact Isaac and Kitch attended her.
He seemed rather keen on courting her. A notion she found repugnant.
“’Twas rough. Let me inform you now, Father. That was my last voyage for a very long while, if ever. I detest the high seas.” The very thought made her shudder.
Father laughed with a glance at Twimball. “Now you see why I sent her home. She was in need of refinement. I see her mother had no more success than I.”
“Why? Because I speak my mind?”
Twimball glanced between them, a glint in his dark eyes and a smirk on his thin lips. “She seems refined enough for me.”
Father ignored the remark, sipping his tea. “I trust you slept well, my dear.”
“Very well, thank you. I cannot tell you how I longed for my bed while away.”
“You do not like London, Miss Longfellow?” Lieutenant Twimball asked. “Don’t tell me you’re a Whig.”
“I am a devout Loyalist. As for London, the streets were crowded with filth of every kind. I am beyond grateful to be home on South Carolina’s green hills.”
Father reached for her hand. “My good daughter. I know you to be a loyal Tory, especially after being presented in court.” He wagged his finger at Twimball. “We will not abide treason at Slathersby Hill.”
“If you ask me, politics are the root of all evil,” Esther said, her stomach rumbling as Isaac set a cup of steaming hot tea and a warm biscuit in front of her. The sugary sweetness of the golden-brown liquid and the heady scent of Sassy’s biscuit and butter brought all her memories to the fore. “King George claims to be a man of prayer. Then pray to God he listens to the Almighty and ends this war.”
Father leaned toward Twimball. “This is why women do not have the vote. They care not for debate and the hard lines a man must draw for his principles.”
“If we had the vote, there would be no war.” Esther motioned to the bundle of letters stacked in the center of the table. “I see you’ve opened your package from Lord Whatham. Is he pleased with your accounts?”
“H-he’s pleased, yes.” Father reached for a letter, a gray hue on his countenance. “Your mother writes you were the hit of both London seasons.” Father narrowed his gaze at Esther. Were she a child, she’d fear what may come next. “She tells me you booked passage home without her permission. She’d rather hoped you’d remain with her and entertain the affections of Lord Berksham.”
“Lord Berksham is a fine man. But not for me. Nor is London. Besides, Slathersby is my home. Not Grosvenor Square. I’ve done my duty, haven’t I?”
“Tell me,” Twimball said. “Where does your mother reside? Not here with you?”
“My wife prefers London, her family, and friends. Her father, the Earl of Trent, has quite a good position with the king, and such honors please her more than I do.” Father took up another letter, his confession void of any emotion or care. “Twimball, you were speaking of recruiting men of Ninety Six for His Majesty’s army.”
Esther had long since determined her parents no longer loved each other. Which fed her desire for true love all the more. She would not be like them, marrying for money and position only to drift apart, maintaining a relationship through correspondence.
“It begins today. Every able-bodied South Carolinian should do his duty and enlist for the Crown.”
Esther spread a thick layer of jam on her biscuit. “What of those who side with the Declaration? With the Continental Congress?”
“Then they are traitors and will die a traitor’s death.” The lieutenant hammered the table. “We must end this rebellion.” The words rang hollow, with much bravado, in Esther’s ears.
“If the king wants to maintain his authority,” she said, more to be obstinate than right, “he should allow the colonies their own representation. Hear their complaints.”
Father leaned toward her, large and brooding. “Guard your careless words, daughter, lest the lieutenant here misunderstand your mischievous tongue and report that Slathersby Hill sides with the rebels. We’ll find our barns and home burned, and you will find yourself on a voyage to London whether you like it or not.” He sat back with a conciliatory smile. “I’ve just promised the captain my support in enlisting men for the king’s cause.”
Twimball cut a large bite of fried ham. “You raised a spunky lass, Sir Michael. Tell me, how old were you when you arrived in South Carolina?”
“Ten. My mother did not want me underfoot.”
“She seems to enjoy your company now,” Father said.
“Perhaps.” But she was too late. Esther preferred South Carolina, her father, and Hamilton. “Lieutenant, how do you plan to recruit for His Majesty?”
“By speaking the truth. We are the grandest army in the world. So, did your mama send you across the Atlantic alone?”
My but wasn’t he nosey? “Yes. My governess was to accompany me, but she ran off with her young man the night before. So I walked onto the ship alone, bold as you please.” She’d been too young and too stubborn to realize the hazards of such a voyage.
“Your first trip? Alone? Surely someone in command took charge of you.”
“I told them my mother was ill from the sea and hovering in her bed.” The trip had been plagued with storm after storm. The high-pitched shrill of the wind and the crash of the waves against the bow visited her dreams still. “Father, shall we host a party now that I’m home? Invite the town?”
“What a splendid idea.” He reached for another letter. “Lieutenant, you can recruit from right here. Set up Slathersby as your headquarters. We’ll invite the town for a feast. Every able-bodied man will be in attendance.”
“Father, we are celebrating my return, not the duties of Lieutenant Twimball. Sorry, sir, but you will have to do your enlisting elsewhere.”
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br /> The conversation fell silent as Father read his letter. The clock in the hall ticktocked the hour. Nine o’clock. The china cups and saucers tinged together as Isaac freshened their tea.
Father scooted away from the table. “Pardon me.”
“What is it?”
“Nothing to concern you. Oh—” Father paused in the high, arched doorway leading to the parlor. “The Lightfoots. We are no longer on cordial terms. You are to stay away from Quill Farm.”
“Stay away?” Esther shot to her feet, toppling her chair. “No longer on cordial terms? Whatever do you mean? They are our friends and neighbors.”
“The reverend is a traitor. Not only to the Crown but to us.”
“Surely not, Father. He’s a godly man, a minister. Why, I’ve heard you amen his sermons—”
“Esther, there is no debate here.” Father’s boring gaze caused her to flinch. “Perhaps I’ve given you too much freedom in your speech, let you state your mind and opinion without reserve, but on this matter you cannot reason me from my opinion. The Lightfoots, for all intents and purposes, are our enemy. Am I clear?”
Behind her, Isaac righted her chair and Esther slowly sat. “Yes, Father.” She had no recourse but agreement.
When Father was out of hearing, Lieutenant Twimball cleared his throat and set down his tea. “Major Ferguson has tried to recruit the younger Lightfoot—”
“Hamilton.”
“—to our cause, but he resists. He, too, is a rebel.”
Esther held her teacup close. Twimball prattled on, but she tuned out his words.
She’d never seen Father so adamant and ardent. It frightened her. How could he turn on the Lightfoots? Their sweat and toil were part of Slathersby Hill.
But Father was her world, and she would not allow any discord with him. Especially after such a long absence. This season was to be her happy homecoming.
Upon her arrival in Charles Town twelve years ago, she was frightened and alone, more than any child deserved to be, and she clung to him with adoration and desperation. He, in turn, wrapped her in his love. She admired no one more.
