by Rachel Hauck
ESTHER: What of your word? How you promised me you would not go? “Upon my word,” you said, in this very room. Shall I call Millie as my witness? I’m sure she listened outside.
MILLIE: No, I didn’t. (She runs down the hall)
HAMILTON: A foolish promise. One I couldn’t keep. I must go with my brethren. Do what my heart dictates.
ESTHER: And what of my heart? Do I not get a say in the matter? Hamilton, I’d rather spend the rest of my life assuring you that you did not choose a coward’s course than mourning the life and love we never shared because you met your end with a British bullet.
HAMILTON (Bends to one knee): My darling, we will share every one of our heart’s desires when this conflict is over. I will not die. I will not let you go.
ESTHER (Pulls her hands free): Do not make another promise you cannot keep. Whether we are free or under the king, my life is just a short breath in the vastness of time. No one will remember our names. You will spill your blood on the battlefield only to be forgotten when it’s plowed under for corn or barely. I want to marry you, Hamilton. Are you shocked at my boldness? I want to bear your children and leave your name, our names, on human hearts. Not battlefields.
HAMILTON: Your words embolden me, Esther. I promise I’ll return. You will have your dream.
ESTHER: You say what you wish to be true. But when you go to war, there are no guarantees. If you must go, go. But I cannot lend my heart, nor my support.
HAMILTON: You cannot mean it. Tell me you’ll support me.
ESTHER: You must follow your heart, Hamilton, and I must follow mine. (Turns to leave the library)
HAMILTON: What of our love? Our pledge?
ESTHER: You tell me? What of our love and our pledge? (Fade)
A calm reverb hovered over the table as Chloe read the last word, feeling in her being more than what was written on the paper. She peeked at Jesse, who sat back, hiding—if possible—behind the script, his finger over his lips in deep contemplation.
Her instincts were right. This script was about more than his great-times-six-grandfather.
It was about him.
Sir Craig shot to his feet, banging his hands together. “Bravo.” One by one, the cast joined the applause.
“Jesse, you’re making me wonder if I should’ve cast you as Hamilton,” Jeremiah said, glancing between them. “Well done. Chloe, you’re really bringing Esther to life. All right, next scene—”
The French doors swung open, and Chris Painter entered with a crooked grin on his face and Ginger Winters on his arm.
“Hellooo. The gang’s all here.” He made his way around the table, greeting the cast, his words slurred, his balance tipsy as he tried to mimic Sir Craig’s accent.
Jeremiah gripped him by the arm. “Excuse us,” he said, dragging Chris off to a dark corner by the pool. Their conversation was clipped and muffled but buoyant with tension.
Two hired servers hustled around the table with dripping cold bottles of water and diet sodas.
“—show up here, drunk . . .”
“Tipsy, man. Drunk is . . . negative . . . vibe.”
“—I’ll have you thrown off . . .”
Chloe angled toward Jesse. “You know Hamilton so well. Such a great first read.”
“Thanks, but . . . what’s going on over there?” He shot a dark gaze to the corner. “We need Chris. He is Hamilton. The star power. Without him . . .”
“Jer and Chris have a love-hate relationship. They’ll argue like a couple in a bad marriage, then have a makeup golf game the next day. Don’t worry.”
He sat back, his expression still pinched. “I hope you’re right. Hey, you were amazing. Jeremiah cast the right woman for Esther.”
“Jesse, you think you need Chris but I’ve been reading with him, and you . . . you are Hamilton.” She accepted a cold water from the server. “Still, I wonder. What’s the story between the lines, Jesse Gates? You’re trying to tell the world, tell someone, something. What is it?”
“You’re like a dog with a bone.”
“Will she know? Whatever it is you want her to know?” Yes, she was persistent, a dog with a bone.
“Depends,” Jesse said. “But in all reality, no. She will never know.”
16
ESTHER
Christmas 1780
The library was cheerful with men in redcoats wassailing one another, raising their crystal cups in cheer.
Father puffed on his pipe, wishing the men a happy Christmas.
“And in the new year, a victory for the Crown.”
Esther moved among their Loyalist guests, seeing to their comforts as hostess of Slathersby Hill, yet going out of her way to avoid Twimball and his band of men.
Since the battle at King’s Mountain and the death of Major Ferguson, soldiers visited Father’s table night after night, talking of nothing but victory and revenge. Of defeating the rebels.
Presently, four officers billeted in their home, taking up the spare rooms and, by Esther’s estimation, the spare air.
“Esther, my good daughter, can you regale us with a song on the pianoforte?” Father said, “She’s a keen pianist, gentlemen.”
“Can you play ‘Joy to the World’?” This from Captain Lark, a new soldier to the upcountry. “I heard it last Christmas in London, and it seemed most fitting.”
“Yes, ‘Joy to the World.’” Father joined Esther at the piano. He was quite proud of her skill, having sent for a man from Charles Town to give her lessons when she was a child.
Esther sat at the piano, shuffling through her collection.
In the last month she’d seen a change in Father. He spent less time at his desk bent over ledgers and letters, and the blue brilliance had returned to his eyes. He talked of a British victory. Of life returning to normal.
Whatever ailed him concerning Lord Whatham over the summer and fall had healed.
As she began to play, the Englishmen gathered around the piano, raising their voices in song, joyous over the coming of the Lord.
If ever there was a time for Jesus to come, not as a babe but as a king, now would be a fitting hour. War raged across open fields, through the small South Carolina towns. The rage pitted nation against nation and brother against brother.
“Let earth receive her king . . .”
When the song ended they begged for another, slapping one another on the back, goodwill spilling from their weary souls.
“Do you know that new song ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’?” a young, rosy-cheeked lieutenant asked.
“Certainly.” Esther found the sheet and began the jaunty melody.
The men looped their arms about one another and swayed from side to side. The women gathered on the other side of the piano, lifting their soft voices in harmony. “God rest ye merry gentlemen . . .”
They held their voices loud and long on the final word and final note. Then Isaac appeared at the door, resplendent in his livery. “The buffet is laid, Sir Michael.”
“Ah, ladies and gentlemen, shall we adjourn to the dining room? Esther, my love, you have such a gift. Come and lead us.”
As the party crossed from the parlor to the dining hall, footsteps thudded on the veranda and the door crashed open.
“Sir Michael!” Hamilton, in his buckskins, his dark hair flowing about his face, filled the entryway. A fire lit his eyes.
“Hamilton,” Esther whispered, starting toward him. Father held her back.
“You are trespassing, Lightfoot. Get out of my home. I’ll give you the benefit of the season and not ask one of these loyal Englishmen to thrash you.”
Hamilton raised a crumpled scroll. “What have you done? Robbed a widow? Stolen what was rightfully hers?”
Father turned to his guests. “Please, go on into the dining room. I’ll be along. This young lad apparently has misinformation.”
The guests hesitated, especially the British officers, then gradually moved on.
“You too, Esther,” Father said wi
th a gentle push against her back.
“I’d rather stay, if you don’t mind.” Hamilton. Were she not mindful of their guests, she’d run into his arms. At last, he was here. Angry or not.
Since rebuffing her the day he returned from King’s Mountain, the day she washed his hair, he’d become all but invisible to her.
He refused her invitation to meet at the willow. Then when she rode Gulliver over to Quill Farm to call him out, he’d already marched off with the Upper Ninety Six.
“Give us back our farm, Sir Michael. Or I’ll—”
“What? Burn me down? I’ve a room full of British officers with a battalion of men at the ready. Your threats mean nothing.”
“You lied to Aunt Mary. Asking her to sign a document that would protect her and the farm. But it was all a lie. You took advantage of her grief and sorrow.”
“It was merely business. While I used less-than-normal tactics on your aunt, I satisfied the expectations of my employer, Lord Whatham. To whom the land belonged in the first place.”
“Then you must pay her for it. Three hundred pounds, not a cent less.”
“I will not waste good capital acquiring land I now own.”
“What did you do?” Hamilton headed toward Father with a snarl. “Squander Lord Whatham’s money on your own pleasures? Perhaps a mistress in Charles Town?”
Esther gasped as Father flared, his face beaming. “How dare you! Get out of my house at once. Leave. Now.”
“Father, please, I’m sure Hamilton didn’t mean—”
“What do you know of this? Have you been consorting with him behind my back?” His eyes bulged with white ire. “Are you loyal to this heathen over me?”
“Father, no.” Esther lowered her voice. By the lack of conversation in the dining room, she knew they must all be listening. “Please, I’m merely concerned for your health. But did you take Mrs. Lightfoot’s land?” Father was a demanding man, to be sure, but he was also a fair man.
“I did what I had to do.” Father coughed, pressing his hand to his heart, then doubled over, gasping, at last dropping to one knee.
“Sir Michael!” Hamilton knelt beside him as several men rushed from the dining room into the foyer. “Esther, call for Dr. Rocourt. Didn’t I see him among your guests?”
“Take him to his library,” Esther said. “Dr. Rocourt, Father is in need of you.”
When Father was settled with Dr. Rocourt tending him, Esther exited with Hamilton.
“He’s going to be all right, Esther.”
“He has to be. He must be.” She pressed her hand over her heart. “I cannot imagine a world without him.”
“My apologies for interrupting your evening. But I could not contain myself once I heard.”
“Is it true? Father swindled the land from your aunt?”
“Yes.”
Lieutenant Twimball and several of the king’s men waited in the foyer. “Well, well, well, we meet again, Lightfoot.”
“Indeed. I’m only sorry I did not see you at King’s Mountain.”
“Nor I you.”
Tension mounted under the outwardly cordial exchange. Hamilton looked toward Esther.
“Lieutenant Twimball, Captain Blyth, why don’t you return to our dinner. I’ll be along. Please, the food is hot, and we cannot let Sassy’s hard work go to waste.”
“I’m sorry to have disturbed your evening, Esther.” He retrieved a scroll from the sack over his shoulder. “This is the legal deed of Quill. I don’t care what Aunt Mary signed—”
“Are you still here, Hamilton?” Father appeared around the stairwell, Dr. Rocourt giving chase.
“I advise you to rest, Sir Michael.”
“I have guests to attend. Good evening, Hamilton.” Father held open the door.
“I have the deed.” He waved the scroll at Father. “You cannot possibly have a legal right to Quill. I will find out what you’ve done.”
“That matter is signed, sealed, and delivered by none other than Cornelius Jones, a Loyalist and a friend of Lord Whatham’s.” Father’s chest rattled with each breath, causing Dr. Rocourt to stand by his side, admonishing him again to lie down.
Hamilton narrowed his gaze. “You’re a thief, Sir Michael. Nothing but a common thief, low down and—”
“Hamilton.” Esther stepped in for her father. “Why don’t you say good night? ’Tis not the hour to air grievances.”
He started to speak, then strode for the door, his angry footsteps driving into the hardwood.
“Happy Christmas, Hamilton.”
He peered back at her with a nod, sadness in his eyes. “Happy Christmas, Esther.”
17
JESSE
December
In his guesthouse by the Daschles’ pool, Jesse washed and stored away the dishes that had been in the sink for far too long, his stomach rumbling for lack of lunch with no dinner plans on the horizon.
Rehearsals for Bound by Love, and last-minute changes in the script inspired by the actors, had consumed him since mid-October.
He’d spent his mornings writing and his afternoons training to be a Revolutionary War soldier, going through the choreographed fight scenes. Just one fight took nearly three weeks to master, so he and the other soldiers didn’t appear to be playacting.
Jeremiah insisted that the story ring true. Real.
To that end, Jesse didn’t see Chloe much. They had only a few scenes together, and because Jeremiah wanted to hit the ground running once they landed in South Carolina, the director put more emphasis on the physical aspects of Jesse’s role than on the emotional.
Putting away the last dish, Jesse peered across the massive lawn toward the back of the Daschles’ mansion—okay, toward Chloe’s front door—hoping for a glimpse.
He never made it home to Boston for Octoberfest, so he had agreed to fly home for the holidays. He left in three days.
On the table, his phone rang. Jeremiah’s number flashed across the screen.
“I’ve got good news and bad news.”
“Do I need to sit down?”
“You know there have been rumblings over at Premier Studios that Prescott White’s job was on the chopping block.”
Jesse’s heart skipped. “Uh-oh. Does that affect us?”
“I got a call today from a friend on the inside. It’s going to happen.”
“Please tell me that’s the bad news.”
“It is. The good news is we’ll be on site filming before the blade comes down, and we’ll be well into the shoot by the time the new head figures out what’s going on. Besides, we’re under budget, so he won’t be looking at us right away. It’s all about the money now.”
“I trust your clout, Jeremiah, but we both know the new head can pull the plug on any predecessor’s project.” Jesse had been on the receiving end of canceled projects many times.
“I’m not worried. Nevertheless, this shoot has to go well. On time. Anyway, I just wanted you to know.”
“And the rest of the cast?”
“Not a word to them. Painter gives me enough heartache as it is.” The aggravation in Jeremiah’s voice was palpable. “If he even thinks the project could be shut down, he’ll jump ship. I can’t afford for him to do that on this film. We need his star power. If I have to reshoot, it’ll cost millions.”
Jesse also heard what Jeremiah did not vocalize. With a new screenwriter, we need all the help we can get. He started to speak but had to clear the hitch in his voice. “W-we have you, Jer. You’re plenty of star power.”
“Chris is a huge draw. We already have press demanding an audience. He’s never played this type of character before, one with this much heart and depth. People will want to see if he has the chops.”
Jesse circled the boxy living room and paused at the window when he saw Chloe tugging a Christmas tree through a wrought iron gate toward the guesthouse, a box under her arm.
“But don’t worry,” Jer said.
“Worry? No, of course not.”
>
“I’ll have this film in the can before the new studio head has warmed his chair.”
Jeremiah’s confidence boosted Jesse’s. “Okay. And, Jer, thanks for calling.”
“No problem. I’m really proud of you, of this project, and I want it to go well. Hey, Laura wanted me to ask if you had Christmas plans. If not, you’re welcome to join our crazy brood.”
“Thanks, really. But I’m going home.” Jesse watched as Chloe trekked his way, his smile blooming all the way from his shadowy soul.
“Have a good time. See you in South Carolina. Did you send your travel plans to Becky? We’ll arrange to get you from the airport.”
“All submitted.”
“Good. Merry Christmas, Jesse.”
“Merry Christmas, Jeremiah.”
A light knock rattled his door. When he opened it, Chloe flowed inside, bringing with her the joy of the season and the intoxicating scent of flowers and pine.
“Ho, ho, ho and Merry Christmas.” She hoisted the tree onto the table by the front window. The one facing the driveway. “I rescued this from the side of the road.” She stood back, admiring her work. “What do you think? Perfect? I agree.”
“Where’d you get the tree stand?” Jesse knelt down to inspect the stand’s viability. It was a tradition in the Gateses’ household for the tree to topple at least once during the season.
“Our gardener found it in the shed.”
Jesse stood, the tree stand having passed inspection. “So, do I need a Christmas tree?”
“Unless you’re the Grinch, yes.” She set the box on the floor and knocked off the lid. “Come on, help me string lights.”
“I’m leaving for Boston in three days.”
