The Love Letter

by Rachel Hauck

  Leaning forward, she cupped her hand under his. “Hamilton, love, ’tis I, Esther.”

  His hair stood on end, peppered with dried mud, and his face had not seen a razor in many days.

  “What does he say?” Esther peered back at the doctor. “When he whispers my name?”

  “Mostly your name. And words I can’t understand.” The doctor removed his glasses. In the candlelight, Esther observed his weariness, and that perhaps he was not as old as his burden made him seem. “They found him facedown by the maple swamp, his leg all but shorn off and saber slashes on his arm. I patched his arm sure enough, but his leg was far gone. I amputated as fast as possible, but he suffered a great deal.” The doctor raised the candle and leaned over Hamilton’s pale and broken body. “God help him. I can’t contain the bleeding.” The doctor gently touched Esther’s shoulder. “Speak to him. Pray for him.” Then he quietly slipped from the room.

  “My love, what have they done to you?” Tears whispered down her cheeks. “You fought bravely, I hear. A soldier downstairs spoke well of you.” She rested her hand on his chest, taking in his heartbeat through her palm and listening to each soft inhale. “I love you. Please don’t leave me.”

  Upon her word, a chill swept through the room and the candle flame flickered. Esther shivered and tucked Hamilton’s blanket under his chin.

  “Your side won, dearest. Does that make you happy? To the victors the spoils!” She brushed her tears from her cheeks. “Perhaps now Washington and his men shall put an end to this revolution, and peace will come to America. To South Carolina.” She squeezed his hand. “To you and me.”

  Her eyes drifted the length of his body. Where his left leg should have been, the blanket lay collapsed.

  Esther stretched to raise the cover and gasped to see to a bloody stump where Hamilton’s fine, strong leg had been.

  She dropped the blanket, then whirled to the window, raising the sash, inhaling the crisp January air, quelling the bile in her throat.

  “My Lord, my Lord . . .”

  The hinges of the door squeaked open, and Mrs. Nelson entered with a clean water basin. “You should close the window, dear. He’s much too weak.”

  “Yes, of course.” Esther pressed down the pane. “W-will he live? His leg, it’s so . . .”

  “If my husband can contain the bleeding.” Mrs. Nelson exchanged the new basin for the old one. “He is an experienced physician and will do all he can, but Hamilton is at the mercy of the Almighty.”

  “Then I will pray.” She returned to the chair by the bed, cupping her hand into his once more. “I will pray. Lord, have mercy.”

  The doctor’s wife paused by her, hand on her shoulder. “There is a man here to see you.”

  Esther glanced into her sad, sober eyes. “A colored?” Had to be Isaac or Boy.

  “No, an older gentleman, fragrant with pipe smoke, graying at his temples.”

  Father!

  “Tell him I-I’ll be along.”

  He’d learned of her absence all too soon. Yet, no matter his argument, she’d refuse to return to Slathersby Hill. She was needed here. To tend to her beloved. To care for Mrs. Lightfoot. To offer aid to Mrs. Nelson.

  Steeling herself, Esther kissed Hamilton’s forehead, gently running her finger over the fresh scar on his cheek. “I’ll return quickly, my love.”

  At the top of the stairs, she paused, the fetid air in the narrow passage dampening her courage.

  Entering the parlor, she did not wait for Father to speak first. “Father, I can explain.”

  “Come. Outside.” He handed over her coat and escorted her through the door onto the cramped quarters of the porch. “You traveled alone? Without telling me?”

  “You would not have let me come,” Esther said, slipping on her coat, though her skin was warm under her soft, wool gown. “And I did not travel alone. Mrs. Lightfoot accompanied me.”

  “An old woman is no protection for one such as yourself. A beautiful girl of means and station. You tempted fate, Esther. The battle may be over, but the roads are peppered with wastrels, disenfranchised soldiers. Who knows what harm may have befallen you?”

  “I’m here, aren’t I? Safe? Mrs. Lightfoot needed to see him. As did I. I make no apology, Father. He’s lost his leg and will need all of our love and support. Can we not set aside our animosities to find common ground in charity and neighborly love?”

  Father paced through the thin light of the windows. “Lost his leg, has he? Now my resolve is all the greater. You cannot marry him. That is what you’re thinking, Esther, is it not? Come on, confess.”

  “’Tis what I want.”

  “As does he?”

  “Yes,” she declared in complete faith. He must love her. He spoke her name in his sleep.

  “I will not allow it, Esther. This is not like you to completely disregard my wishes.”

  Father’s opposition shook her confidence. Nevertheless, she raised her chin and straightened her tired shoulders.

  “Father, why have you come?”

  “To bring you home.” He pointed to the carriage, where Isaac and Kitch waited.

  “I am sorry to disappoint you, but—”

  “You listen to me, Esther Longfellow.” The growl in his voice alarmed her. He rarely, if ever, spoke to her in such a manner. “It was one matter when you loved a Lightfoot with two healthy legs, willing to subject yourself to the rigors of a farmer’s wife in this wild country. But it’s another matter when the man is lame, a cripple. What sort of future will he drag you toward? What chains must you wear, wedded to such a man? Do you not see, my dear? The harshness of his consequence shall be yours. You will be the one tending him, the house, and the fields, ordering about servants and laborers, minding your children, if he could even—”

  “Father!”

  “Nay, Esther, I did not raise you for such a position. Your mother is right. I was selfish and foolish to keep you in the upcountry for so long. For allowing you to return after debuting in London.”

  A long, jagged bolt of lightning slashed the inky night. Then thunder. Muted. Some distance away. An icy cold saturated the wind.

  “I would’ve come home to South Carolina with or without your permission. You know Hamilton, Father. It is not in his character to lie about. He will work. We’ll manage together.”

  Father’s warm exhale billowed in the January chill. “If he is the man you claim him to be, then he will realize you are bound for greater things than he could ever offer. He will not hold you to any informal pledge or romantic assumptions.”

  Hadn’t he done so already? After King’s Mountain. That day at the well. But she refused to let the trials of war taint their love. If he wanted to be rid of her, let him do it in peacetime.

  “You surprise me, Father. I considered you a keener judge of character. The loss of a limb does not ensure the loss of the man, nor the loss of love. He may be without his leg, but he is not without his heart and soul. And most assuredly, he is not without me.”

  Father roared. “You are your mother’s daughter. Stubborn. Determined.”

  “Mother’s? Those words describe you, Father.”

  “Do you imagine he will formally propose, seek your hand and my blessing, when he has no means to support you?”

  “Give him back Quill Farm.”

  “You ask the impossible.”

  “Why impossible? Come now, Father, confess. Have you mishandled Lord Whatham’s accounts? I see you despairing over your ledgers.” Esther leaned into her father’s expansive shadow. “So to protect your name, you steal from a widow and now a cripple?”

  “Your impertinence does you no credit, Esther. You are not winning my favor.”

  “Your favor? What of mine, Father? Do you care to win mine?”

  A light cracked through the darkness, falling across the porch boards. Mrs. Lightfoot stepped onto the porch.

  “Are you discussing my nephew?”

  “Mary, talk sense into her. Advise her to return
home where she belongs. Hamilton will not propose to her now. Not with his future so unsure.”

  “Since we now rent the farm instead of owning it?” Mrs. Lightfoot placed her hand on Esther’s shoulder. “But your father is right. Though it pains me to agree with him. Now that I am apprised of Hamilton’s wounds, I can say with sincerity he would not like you to see him in his present situation. He prefers his dignity over humiliation. You know it to be true. In fact, did he not put you off after King’s Mountain?”

  “What’s this?” Father said. Esther closed her eyes. Mrs. Lightfoot just handed him the ammunition he lacked.

  “Yes, he put me off, but he was battle weary. Wounded. Ashamed of something he considered but did not do against the American Loyalists.”

  “The murdering?”

  “He didn’t murder, Father. He lowered his blade.”

  “Well, if he was ashamed then, what must he be now?”

  Mrs. Lightfoot moved to stand with Father. “Take your disappointment and go, my dear. I know Hamilton. He will not marry you now.”

  “I do not believe you. Has he told you so?” Esther backed away from the consortium of Father and Mrs. Lightfoot. “I will go only if he speaks for himself.”

  “He’s barely aware of his surroundings. He cannot speak for himself.” Mrs. Lightfoot seemed well versed in her arguments. “Go, he’d not want to see what he’s become in your eyes.”

  “But I’ve already seen him.”

  “He doesn’t have to know.”

  “But what has he become in my eyes? A hero! Nothing has changed for me. Nothing at all.”

  “My dear, stubborn daughter, you are full of zeal and zero wisdom. Listen to Mrs. Lightfoot—she is right. Say your good-byes and return with me to Slathersby Hill. We’ve a long journey ahead.”

  “I cannot. I will not.”

  “Esther, you are not wanted or needed here.” Mrs. Lightfoot’s tone, low and driving, echoed over a distant memory. Mother. Complaining to Grandmama.

  “She’s so flighty. I cannot manage her. I’m sending her to Michael. Let him bear the burden for a while.”

  Burden. Underfoot. Not wanted or needed. Esther spun between Father and Mrs. Lightfoot.

  “Surely I can be of some use. To Mrs. Nelson. To Hamilton—”

  “He does not need you, dear.” Mrs. Lightfoot wielded her words like a sword. Sharp and cutting. “I can tend to him. You’ll only be in the way, another mouth to feed.”

  But she’d been the one to bring food and blankets, supplies. Wasn’t she a good girl? A generous girl?

  “Mary’s right. This is no place for you, Esther. Come home with me.”

  She’d lost her breath. Her strength and will. When Father touched her elbow, steering her toward the carriage, she moved without resistance. Once again, she was ten years old with no control or say over her life.

  But as she arrived at the carriage and Kitch jumped to open her door, she pulled away, her senses coming around.

  “Wait.” Esther stepped back, freeing herself from Father. “At least let me say good-bye.” Her thoughts tumbled, imagining a plan.

  “What is it?” Mrs. Lightfoot hurried from the porch. “You must make haste if you are going to travel through the night.”

  “I want to say good-bye.”

  “He’s asleep, Esther.” Mrs. Lightfoot trailed after her, almost pleading. “He’s lost a great deal of blood.”

  “Speaking to him will not cost him any more.” Esther burst into the house and up the stairs.

  In Hamilton’s room, she dropped to the chair by the bed and lowered her head to his chest. “They are making me go. They say I am not wanted. Your aunt believes you will be ashamed of your condition. You’d not want me to see you, but I am not ashamed of you. I love you. This changes nothing.”

  Her words conformed to tears, which turned into prayers.

  Save him, O Lord. Heal him. Bring him home to me. I love him, I love him.

  Her tears abated when a large, warm hand pressed upon her head, flooding her with peace. Hamilton! But when she raised up, he slept, his arms by his sides, his expression peaceful.

  A man dressed in brown broadcloth, his hair hanging around his shoulders, stood next to her. Esther jumped up, tripping over the chair, startled but not . . . not afraid.

  “He will live.” The man’s eyes radiated light as he spoke, as if each one contained a thousand stars. “But you must follow me.”

  “Follow you? Sir, I do not know you.”

  “Go home with your father.” He motioned to the door. His instruction, his movements contained no doubt. “I will stay with Hamilton.”

  “You mock me? If I go with Father, how can I follow you? Are you one of the militiamen? Gone and lost your mind?”

  “I do not mock you. Go, do your father’s bidding. There you will learn how to follow me.”

  “I do not understand.”

  He smiled. “You will, Esther, you will.”

  His words pressed into her, and for a moment she could not move. Backing into the wall, she slid to the floor, tears twisting down her cheeks.

  “Help me understand.”

  She woke as from a deep sleep and sat up, still in her chair and not the floor, pressing her hand to her forehead. A dream. Surely it was all a dream. She must have drifted off while praying for Hamilton.

  She glanced around to the writing desk, examining it for pen and paper. Father would be livid, waiting upon her. How long had she dozed? Far too long by her energy and refreshment.

  Opening the inkwell, she dipped the quill and began her message.

  My dearest Hamilton,

  I’ve little time to pen this Letter. Father has come for me and demanded I return to Slathersby Hill, and I feel bound to Honor his Wish. Your Aunt, as well, bids me leave.

  So I write this to declare my unfailing and undying Love for you. Father, and your aunt Mary, argue that you will not want to Marry me now that you are lame but I cannot, will not Believe it.

  Your current predicament does not Dissuade me. I am yours more now than ever. Do not doubt my Love. Send Word of your condition as you can. You are forever in my Prayers. Forever in my Heart

  Es

  22

  JESSE

  God.

  Since leaving the vegetable stand turned restaurant on their way to meet Jeremiah, Chloe’s testimony pestered him, took up residence in his thoughts.

  He’d never considered the Big Guy an option before. As a scientist, he observed unexplained elements of the universe and conceded to the idea of a grand design. A Creator.

  But a personal Savior—did he need a Savior?—seemed preposterous. In college, his roommate turned Christianese into a drinking game. Just tune into any Christian radio or TV station and take a drink every time some slick preacher said, “Praise God.”

  If a man wanted to get drunk fast—

  Yet Chloe spoke with a passion, a truth he’d not seen or heard. In her time of need, Chloe’s desperation led her to God. Jesse’s brought him to Hollywood.

  “You okay?” she said, taking the turn toward Chris’s place.

  “Fine. Just thinking.”

  “About Chris?” she said.

  “Yeah, about Chris.” Why not? The truth felt too weird.

  “He’s quit. I know it.”

  “How do you know it?” Jesse looked over at her.

  “Because this is my life. My first big break. Something is bound to go wrong.”

  “Where’s the woman of faith I heard back at the Styrofoam-plate place?”

  She tried not to smile. “She’s scared.”

  “Doesn’t God assure you everything will work out?”

  “You know what’s really annoying?” Chloe said. “When people who don’t know God tell people who do what He’s like. What He should do and say. How we should believe and behave.”

  Jesse surrendered, hands up. “Fine, then be scared.”

  “Sorry.” She sighed. “I’m just nervous.” Chloe slow
ed at the security gate, entering the code Jer had texted.

  “Look, maybe it’s nothing. You really think Chris would walk out? Why? Things are going well despite the rain delays. He’s great as Hamilton, and you two . . . the chemistry is perfect.”

  “Do you ever wonder if life will just never go your way? If you don’t have the ‘it factor’?” Chloe drove slowly, examining the house numbers, heading toward the lake houses.

  “There’s no such thing as an ‘it factor.’”

  “How long have you been in Hollywood? There is most certainly an ‘it factor.’” She turned down the long driveway of a two-story brick home with giant windows, curving down and around, the lake cutting into the grounds.

  She parked next to a dark-tinted limo and cut the engine.

  A limo? Was Chris on his way to the airport? Jesse’s pre-Christmas call with Jeremiah surfaced. Maybe the new studio head had flown out to check on the project. Wouldn’t be unheard of.

  “Don’t like the looks of that.” Chloe pointed to the limo, popping open her door.

  “Probably nothing.” Sure. It was just the new studio head giving the project another green light. Jesse took hold of Chloe’s arm. “Hey, wait a sec. You’re right, I can’t tell you about your faith or God. But the girl at the restaurant who told me how He saved her was onto something. I felt it. You almost had me believing. Chloe, be confident in what you know, what you believe. If you gave your life to God, then trust Him. What a gift to know you’re not in this world alone.”

  “You . . . always surprise me.” She angled toward him, kissing his cheek. Her eyes met his, and the kiss became more real, lips to lips and heart to heart.

  Jesse slipped his hand down her back. He wanted more. He wanted her in his arms—

  Chloe broke away, fingers pressed to her lips. “Jesse . . . I’m sorry.”

  “Please don’t apologize on my account.” He eased his arm around her waist.

  “We can’t keep saying we’re friends, then go back to kissing.”

  She was right. But what was this weird allure between them?