by Rachel Hauck
“Easy, girl, whoaaaa.”
But she was frightened, jerking to the right, then left, her foot still trapped. With a brilliant flash, white lightning struck the ground and Tilly freed her foot, rearing with a shriek, pawing the air, tipping Hamilton’s little two-wheeled cart up, up, up.
“Tilly!” Hamilton leaned forward, holding on to the reins. “Yaw!”
The mare landed on the run, fleeing her fears, hitting every rut, every lump of grass with breakneck speed. Lightning whipped the devilish clouds into a melee of thunder.
“Easy, girl . . . easy.”
But she had a mind of her own, racing against the noise. Hamilton gave her the lead. She’d tire in a moment, and then he’d settle her down.
But the cracking and booming of heaven urged her on.
The road dipped and Hamilton nearly bounced from his seat, bracing his quivering right leg against the front of the cart. “Tilly!”
The road disappeared as it curved down a hill, and Tilly took the bend at full speed, sailing over a section of washed-out earth, catapulting Hamilton and the cart.
Unable to hold on, Hamilton hit the ground with a thump, his breath forced from his lungs. He gasped as he rolled down the hill, reaching for anything to stop his trajectory. A blade of grass, a low limb. His wounded leg smashed against a jagged tree stump and he cried out.
At the bottom of the hill, he landed in a watery ditch. Every inch of his body pulsed and ached.
“Tilly!” The skittish mare was his only hope.
With another smack of the clouds, the rain, cold and thick, descended. Hamilton surrendered to his fate. “Esther, I tried. I tried.”
In that moment, a warm glow fell across his face. Hamilton squinted to see a man leaning over him. A familiar stranger.
He stretched out his hand to Hamilton. “Come, follow me.”
27
ESTHER
Manhattan, New York June 1790
The pristine library bore the fragrant odor of new lumber and paint. The windows invited in the morning without a single hindering smudge. And as of last evening, her new furniture had arrived.
With a sigh, Esther moved to the open window by the quiet fireplace, a sweet breeze tangling with the draperies. She glanced over the lawn.
“Alice,” she called to the children’s nanny. “It’s a beautiful day. Take the children outside, let them run and play. Summer is no time to be cooped up inside.”
Within a few minutes, the young woman with narrow features, her reddish hair tucked under a cap, entered with the children.
“Mama!” Michael, four, the future Viscount of Berksham, and Lady Catherine, three, named for Wallace’s mother, ran across the room and threw themselves against her legs.
“My darlings.” Esther bent to kiss them, snuggling her nose against their sweet scent and soft skin. “I could eat you, you’re so sweet.”
They giggled and Catherine teased, “Go on, Mama. I taste like sugar.”
“I could eat you, Mama.” Michael pretended to bite her nose, and she squeezed him to herself. What joy! She never imagined two little angels would enter her life and make her new.
But why must she be surprised? She’d surrendered. She’d followed her Lord.
“All right, children, come along.” Alice took each child by the hand, leading them from the library. “Let’s see who can run the fastest to the barn.”
“I can.” Michael, without any hesitation.
“No, me.” Catherine, who insisted she keep up with her brother.
Upon the children’s exit, the butler entered the library. “Your newspapers, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Wiley.” Esther reached for her daily reading. From London. New York. Boston. And Charleston, the new name for Charles Town. “What do you think of the finished library?”
The man glanced around. A scar ran across his cheek, a product of the war. “Peaceful,” he said. “Exquisite. Master Wallace spared no expense.”
Esther grinned. “True. So now he must make our venture here a success.”
“Of that I have no doubt.”
Their venture was an American farm. On the western side of Manhattan. Along the Hudson. A boyhood dream her husband seemed determined to fulfill.
Settling into her chair by the hearth, Esther embraced contentment. She was home. Happy. Satisfied. Wanting for nothing.
Yet there was on occasion, a lingering . . . a wondering.
She drew herself from those distant thoughts and turned to her reading. There was no need for such musings. Her days in South Carolina were a lifetime ago.
She glanced up when the children’s laughter drifted through the open window. They were happy, thus she was happy.
Back to her newspapers, a printed flyer slipped from the stack to the floor. Esther bent to retrieve it. An advertisement. For a religious meeting in midtown.
Wallace entered, a large frame in hand, along with one of the farm workers, Bristol. “Good morning, my dear. I see you have the children out exercising. I dare say they’ll run Alice ragged.” He bent to kiss her lips. Still with passion after all these years.
“She’s young, she can keep up. What have you there?”
“The family crest. Father insisted on sending it over. Especially now that the library is finished. He’s terrified the children will become too American and forget their English heritage.” He turned the frame around for her to see, his expression seeking her approval.
“Perfect.” She nodded, the white-and-black crest with the golden star, a warrior’s helmet, and a shield of crosses no longer just Wallace’s family crest, but hers also.
The House of Hobart. Warriors. Lovers. Followers of Christ.
“And how could the children forget their heritage? Your father will not let them. Not as long as he breathes,” she said, laughing, squeezing Wallace’s hand. “Nor I. The Hobarts are a distinguished family one cannot easily dismiss. Our children will know from where we hail.”
“Have I told you today how I adore you?” Wallace kissed her cheek, then turned to the room. “Where shall we hang this? Bristol, do as my wife bids.” He handed the crest to the devoted worker. “I built this place, she runs it. Darling, I wonder if you only married me for my money.”
“As you only married me for my beauty.”
Bristol stifled a laugh.
“Blast, you’ve found me out.” Wallace retreated to his desk, sitting with a flip of his coat tail and gazing about the grand room with no fewer than four thousand books. He looked every bit the king admiring his castle.
“Where shall I hang this, ma’am?”
“Over the fireplace.” Esther pointed to the vacant spot over the mantel.
Wallace’s buoyant laugh burst out. “Michael is trying to be Catherine’s pony.”
Esther joined him at the window. “Now will you concede to my wish? Buy the children a pony, Wallace. Look at all the land.” She pressed her cheek to his arm. She loved him. More than she ever imagined possible.
He encircled her in his arms. “I’ve already sent word to a breeder.”
She raised her gaze to his. “I’ve at last won you to my side.”
He kissed her the same way he did the day they married. Full-lipped and passionate, his love free and evident. “Don’t you know?” He brushed his finger along her jaw. “I cannot resist you.”
“Nor I you.” She returned his kiss, her desire for him awakening. Their love was pure, sincere, kind and reciprocal, generous and open.
Marriage. Such a sacred union. She understood now the reveries of the poets. Of the Song of Solomon. She no longer blushed at the passionate verses but found inspiration to love her husband with her whole heart. Not just Wallace, but her Lord.
With him, she was at peace, happy, living in a cocoon made only for each other. With each kiss, each passionate night abed, with each “I love you,” each “My apologies,” and every incidental touch and absentminded caress, her love grew.
“So you see,” Wal
lace said, returning to his desk, his fingers running down her hand and lingering. “You have bewitching powers to which I must surrender. Treat me with kindness.”
Something in his tone aroused the echo of a past argument.
“Wallace,” Esther said low, for him only. Across the room Bristol hammered a nail into the smooth panel over the fireplace. “You know I would never hurt you. I am most devoted to you.”
His focus was fixed on his almanac and farming books. “I know, love, and I do not doubt you.” He peered up at her. “But there are times when I remember you loved another.”
She crouched next to him.
“It was a long time ago. I’ve not seen or heard from Hamilton Lightfoot in years.”
He gently touched her bowed head. “But my human weakness reminds me I am not your first love.”
“But you are my last love. My one and only love.”
Tall and fit, Wallace was as handsome as the day she married him in 1784. The third son of an earl, he was set to inherit wealth but not land or title. Trained as a barrister, employed by Lord Whatham, he had visions of America, the land of hope, a place to leave land and legacy to his children.
He caressed her, bending to kiss her. “I love you, Esther.”
“And I you. Forever, my love.”
“How’s that, Mr. Hobart?” Bristol stood aside for his handiwork to be inspected.
Taking Esther by the hand, Wallace faced the fireplace and nodded his approval. “Very good. Thank you.”
When Bristol had gone, Wallace returned to his work and Esther her newspapers.
“Did I tell you I met a man in town?” he said after a moment. “A rather enterprising young man. Astor’s the name. He’s invited me to dine with him, talk business.”
“Astor? From where do they hail?” Esther returned to the flyer. A church meeting. Her spirit stirred with the urge to attend.
“Germans by way of England and Baltimore. They seem rather settled in Manhattan now. Very industrious and Americanized.”
And so the afternoon went. Moments of silence peppered with nuanced conversation.
“Do the Astors have children?”
“I’ll inquire.”
“No change in fashion this year. Last year’s gowns will do.”
“The almanac predicts a good year for farming.”
“Did I tell you what Catherine said over breakfast?”
“The land agent wants to plant more apple trees. The yield from this year was hearty.”
“Mother wrote. She’s planning on a visit next spring.”
“Really? Tell her to write to my parents. Perhaps they could sail together.”
Esther rose up from her newspapers. Speaking of Mother put her in mind of Father. He never returned to London, having breathed his last at Slathersby Hill six months after Esther’s departure. Another heart episode. But instead of being among his friends and family, he was alone, asleep in bed.
She knew, by intuition or the Spirit, she’d not see him again after she departed Charles Town on the Glorious. After his death, Esther saw a different side of her mother. The one with regrets and remorse. Who wept for the loss of her husband and confessed she never should have left him alone so long. But she believed she had time. Plenty of time.
In that moment, seeing her frailty, Esther forgave her everything. Mother became her rock and champion, comforting as Esther’s affection toward Wallace grew and she mourned her dream of ever marrying Hamilton Lightfoot.
“Live in the moment, Esther,” she’d said as Wallace began his pursuit. “Choose what is in front of you. Choose to love.”
“We’ve selected a cow and pig to butcher in the fall,” Wallace said. “What do you think of mutton? Shall we bring a lamb to slaughter as well?”
Esther turned to him. “What? A lamb?” Her eyes landed on the flyer once more. She turned it over to read the details.
WAR HERO HAMILTON LIGHTFOOT PRESENTING
“COME, FOLLOW ME.”
August 7th, 7:00 p.m.
First Presbyterian Church
10 Wall Street
COME ONE, COME ALL
She fired to her feet, her newspapers toppling to the floor, her blood cold, her limbs aquiver. “Pardon me, darling.”
Out of the library, she ran up the stairs to the bedroom suite she shared with Wallace.
Shutting the door, she leaned against it, her thoughts racing. In days past, she had dreamed of spying him across a crowded room, her heart pounding at the sight of him, their reunion like something from a Henry Fielding novel.
But she was mature now. A grown woman of thirty-one. A mother. A wife.
“I love my husband,” she whispered, stooping to pull back the carpet, knocking a floorboard loose with her knuckle. Reaching into the hidden space, she felt around for Hamilton’s letter, questioning once again why she had carried the thing from London.
She was in love with Wallace.
When her fingers closed about the letter, she returned the board to its place and sat in her chair by the window, where the light flooded the room.
Hamilton. Was she to see him again? As the wife of another man? Memories eased across her mind. The first time they met as children. The summer afternoons of fishing and running wild in the upcountry. Playing a game by the winter fire. The depth of his gaze when he leaned in for his first kiss. Her longing to hear him say, “I love you.”
With a glance at the door, she opened the letter.
Hannah’s Cowpens
January 16, 1781
My dearest Esther,
My recent actions have not Demonstrated my sincerest affections. I seek to Remedy any confusion now, on this Eve of Battle. Remember me as Before. When my Deeds, if not my Words, proved my Heart.
I love you. ’Tis no other Truth.
Affectionately Yours,
Hamilton Lightfoot
Raising her watery gaze, she saw Wallace at the door.
“My dear,” she said, standing, folding the letter as discretely as possible and tucking it against her palm. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Is that his letter? Hamilton Lightfoot’s?” He moved toward her, holding up the flyer.
Esther sank back down to her chair. “How did you know?”
“I tripped over a loose floorboard one afternoon.” He set the flyer on the lamp table and slipped his hands into his pockets. “I was set to nail it down until I discovered a secret beneath.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I considered it. Lost a few nights of sleep over it. But determined if you wanted to tell me, you would.”
“Yet deep down you wondered—”
“If you still loved him? Yes.” Wallace perched on the edge of the chair opposite Esther.
“Did you read it?”
He nodded. “Have I offended you?”
She shook her head. “You’re my husband. I have no secrets from you. But I would have preferred knowing you found the letter.”
“I’d have preferred knowing you kept it.”
“And what would you have said? As a young bridegroom?”
“I’m not certain. Perhaps I would have advised you to toss it away.”
“I’m not sure I would have done so even if I told you I would.” Esther set the letter on the table. Everything was in the open now. “I know I should discard it, but, Wallace, he was a dear friend and I could not bear to part with his final words to me. Though I should. Heaven knows Wiley is probably aware of my hiding place. I saw him once near that corner of the rug. When I entered the room, startling him, he nearly crashed into the candle stand.”
“He’s loyal to me,” Wallace said. “But tell me. Do Hamilton’s words, after all these years, stir something in you?”
Esther’s tears spilled over. “I do not know.”
“Do you love him?”
“I love you.”
“Yet this man of your distant past, a war hero, stands beside me, and I do not know to whom I am be
ing compared.”
“Wallace.” Esther reached for his hand. “He’s a memory. A promise not kept. You are the man I married. I share your bed, your children, your home. You have my heart.”
“Then why the abrupt departure from the library? I know it was because you read his name. Why have you kept his letter?”
Esther returned to her chair. “When I debuted in London—”
“Where we first met.”
“During those two years I was desperately in love with Hamilton. I wanted him to write me love letters worthy of Lord Byron, yet he wrote about a half dozen letters consisting of farm details and the latest number of kittens produced by the barn cat.”
Wallace smiled. “He sounds like my kind of man.”
“I chided him. If he loved me, then he must express himself. In the meantime, his uncle and my father fell out, an argument over the acquisition of their farm. Turns out Father mishandled money and told Lord Whatham he’d purchased the land the Lightfoots owned when he had not. This feud, along with the Lightfoots being ardent Whigs, caused Father to ban them from Slathersby. Hamilton and I met in secret at a willow tree by the creek. Then a troop of dragoons killed his uncle and burned the church.”
“And you were shot.”
Esther pressed her hand over her scar, the one Wallace often caressed and kissed. “War changed him. After the Battle of King’s Mountain, where he almost killed surrendering Loyalists, he pushed me away. Said he didn’t love me. But I did not believe him. I determined to remain true.”
She detailed the Christmas of 1780 and Hamilton’s devastating wound at Cowpens, her journey to see him, and Father’s demand she return home.
“Nothing was ever the same after. Father sent me to London to be with Mother and well, you know the rest.”
“How did you come by his battlefield letter then?”
“His aunt Mary gave it to me. I’d stopped at Quill Farm to bid Hamilton good-bye. I had bothered him about writing me a love letter. When at last he did, I was on my way to England. I was in such misery, I stored it in my valise without reading it. I was home three months before it came to my attention again. He wrote me a love letter when our love had no hope. Besides, I was tired of fighting for a love it seemed only I wanted. Tired of being in contention with Father, with Hamilton, trying to persuade them both of my love’s worthiness. Isn’t love supposed to be generous and giving, overcoming?”
