Moonlight Rebel

by Ferrarella, Marie

  She thought of Maruska and her children, of Marek and his ever-pregnant wife. So many children who lived on her estate. Who would care for them now that her father was gone and she was here?

  Jason looked over his shoulder. "God," he said simply.

  She looked up at him in surprise. "I did not think you actually believed."

  He finished hanging the garland and stepped down, repositioning the chair. "There's someone or something up there. There's a pattern in someone's book," he said with a shrug. "I don't talk about it, that's all. We get a start, and we make the best of it. In the end, we account for it."

  Jason drove another nail in, then hung the garland over it. "There, how's that?" He cocked his head, surveying the little work he had done.

  "Fine." She couldn't help the smile that rose to her lips. "Now, what about the rest of the room?"

  "You really do like to give orders, don't you?" He shook his head as he picked up the chair.

  The people gathered at Smoke Tree felt a need to celebrate harder, more furiously this year, as if to block out the events pressing in on them. Christmas of 1775 left precious little to be happy about. The country's people were in turmoil, at odds with one another as well as with Britain. It was no different in the McKinley household than it was anywhere else in the thirteen colonies.

  The Colonists didn't know whether they were part of England or whether they would soon be a separate nation. War had been declared with the battles at Lexington and Concord, but many of the people still didn't know which side to take or where their sympathies lay.

  By and large, most of the Colonists didn't want to be part of a new nation. They resented being led by a numbered few who were drunk on the elixir of freedom.

  But the writings of Burke and Paine had inflamed the leaders, who attracted more to their cause. What the rebels lacked in numbers they made up in zeal. Every home was the verbal battlefield of Tory and Rebel, even at Christmastime.

  Traditionally, Morgan laid aside his political differences in honor of the holiday and threw open his doors to everyone. Winthrop's uncle, the Reverend Blake, slipped in through the crack.

  Blake's opinions remained unchanged, whatever the season. Vain, he hadn't forgotten or forgiven Krystyna and Jason for walking out on his sermon.

  Upon entering the ballroom, he attached himself to the largest group of people, gathered about the punch bowl, determined to launch into a dissertation on the current situation.

  Liberally filling his glass, Blake turned to the man closest to him. In his booming voice, he proclaimed, "It cannot be allowed to happen."

  "What can't?"

  Blake turned to see that Jason was on the perimeter of the group, filling a glass of punch himself. The withering look he gave Jason was missed by no one. "We cannot allow ourselves to be led by a blood-thirsty few and to break with Britain. Those who live by the sword shall die by the sword, and a nation conceived in fire shall doubtlessly go up in flames.

  "What you gentlemen seem to be proposing," Blake continued as he turned his back on Jason, "is against all the laws of God. We should all pray that the good King forgives us and that peace will be restored once more. We are acting like wretched, ungrateful children. After all, this is the King's land to give us, not ours to seize."

  Out of respect, Jason allowed others to voice their opinions. But Blake's pompous arrogance made him forget himself. "And who gave it to the King?" he challenged.

  Blake smiled coldly. It was obvious he thought Jason an ignorant fool. "Our explorers laid claim to it."

  "And took it from the Indians," Jason concluded.

  Blake looked at him haughtily. "Godless savages do not count, Mr. McKinley. If you would attend church more regularly, instead of following the example of the heathenish idolater you have taken into your home, you would know that."

  Jason's expression hardly changed, but the muscles of his face tightened. "Reverend, I will remind you that irreligious people such as myself are given to fits of temper and think nothing of removing, forcibly, the cause of their irritation," he looked at the thin man pointedly. "Christmas season or no." To his satisfaction, he saw Blake grow pale. "You'll be good enough to keep that in mind and watch your comments from here on." He inclined his head respectfully to the man and left.

  Blake glared at Jason's back.

  "Drink up!" Morgan urged Krystyna and the young man next to her in another part of the room. "It might be the last of that kind of liquid refreshment that'll be available to us for a long, long while. The damned British are letting less and less come through our ports." He looked at the young man. "Boston isn't the only area under siege."

  Jeremiah stood at his master's elbow, pouring sherry into his glass. The young guest Morgan was addressing smiled.

  He raised his glass. "This is fine, Uncle. You have far more luxuries here than we do in New York. I'm used to much less."

  "Well, Nathan, you could come here and settle." Morgan gestured about expansively. In his own way, when he felt a man deserved it, he was generous. "There's plenty of room for you, and we've got more than our share of children in the area for you to instruct."

  Nathan Hale smiled at his uncle. He didn't allow his eyes to say more than his lips. "I am needed where I am, Uncle, but I thank you for the generous invitation. Perhaps another time."

  Morgan shrugged. "Perhaps." Someone called to him, and Morgan turned his attention elsewhere, excusing himself from the pair.

  Then Jason walked up behind them. He placed a hand on his younger cousin's shoulder. "I don't see how someone with your education could be satisfied teaching little children. What would your professors at Yale say?"

  "They'd probably encourage me far more than you," Nathan responded in a soft-spoken tone. "The children of this country are our hope and our future. We're living an experiment now. Soon, there'll be no turning back. What we propose to do has never been done before."

  "You mean this 'new nation' nonsense?" Aaron asked as he approached them. His glass, Krystyna noticed, was overflowing. She had not seen him all evening without a filled glass in his hand. Not the same one, for she had seen him drain the contents on several occasions.

  "It's not nonsense, Aaron," Nathan answered. There was no perceptible change in his voice, but Jason thought he detected a different look in the younger man's eyes, as if the subject was dear to his heart. "The second Continental Congress is on the verge of drafting a declaration of independence."

  "Declaration, ha! Even if they do draft it, it'll only be a paper written by a bunch of men who have given themselves airs. They don't represent the people."

  "Oh, but they do," Nathan said quietly.

  "They don't represent anyone but hotheaded young rabble out for entertainment." Aaron tilted his head back and downed his drink. "Youth always rebels. It is a fact of life."

  "I'd hardly call Ben Franklin young," Jason said. "Except, perhaps in his ideas. Besides, Aaron . . ." He slung a playful arm around his brother's squat shoulders. Aaron shrugged him off, frowning. "What would you know about being young? You were born old."

  "Someone had to manage Father's affairs," Aaron snapped, weaving as he looked around for another tray of filled glasses.

  Aaron placed his hand on Nathan's shoulder, bracing himself as he leaned over to reach for a glass of liquor. The dark man in black livery paused, holding the tray steady as he waited while Aaron's unsteady hand selected a glass.

  "I thought Father was doing just fine," Jason remarked. He helped himself from the tray and looked toward Krystyna to see if she wanted something to drink.

  She nodded, surrendering her empty glass. She had taken an instant liking to Nathan when he'd arrived the day before. Something about this gentle, kind man brought out her maternal instincts, even though he was older than she was.

  She was curious to hear Nathan's opinions of the growing war effort. More than that, she wanted to hear how Jason would respond to this cousin of whom he seemed so fond. That would provide her with
insight into the real man. Jeremiah, when she'd prodded him, had told her stories about these cousins when they were both just boys. Nathan had spent summers with his mother's brother's family. Jason had taken his cousin under his wing when Aaron, four years Nathan's senior, had tried to bully him. He'd stood up for them both. She would have expected nothing less of him. But at the same time, it made her wonder why Jason refused to involve himself in the struggle for freedom.

  Aaron ignored his brother's remark and turned his attention to Nathan, taking advantage of the fact that his father was out of earshot.

  "Patrick Henry is in his twenties, as are most of the men who are playing soldier out there. In my opinion, they would rather play at war and fight like cowards from behind trees —like Indian savages —than do an honest day's work." He took a step closer to Nathan. "That's what they should be doing, working!"

  It wasn't Nathan who answered. "But England takes all the fruits of their labor. England regulates your trade, tells you how much you can sell and to whom and at what time." Jason regarded Krystyna in silence as she spoke, amazed at the spirit in her voice. "England will not let you go to foreign markets, will not let you compete with her at home, and she forces you to buy only her goods. She will not even let you coin your own money. So what is the sense of laboring if you cannot reap what you have sown?" Krystyna seemed unaware that she had drawn several other people to their circle, or that the men were amazed to hear these opinions coming from a woman.

  Nathan looked at her in surprise, obviously pleased by her words. But the color rose in Aaron's face. He wasn't used to being spoken to in this way by anyone but his father. Certainly he wasn't expecting this from a mere woman.

  "Women should not interfere in the conversations of men," he snorted.

  His blustering attitude didn't fool Krystyna. "You have no answer for me, do you?" She nodded knowingly. "Because there is none."

  Jason thoroughly enjoyed this display of wit and knowledge. He had never thought of women as having minds. Krystyna made him see them differently. And appreciate them.

  "She has you there, Aaron." Jason chuckled.

  Krystyna turned her large blue eyes on Jason, and he found himself thinking he could easily get lost in them. His body ached for her. It had been all too long since he had really held her.

  "Then you agree with me?" she asked him.

  "Yes." He thought it over as he sampled the sherry without really tasting it. "I suppose I do."

  He was surprised to hear himself saying that. What Krystyna said made sense, of course, but he couldn't take this war personally. He had had no soldiers offend him, he had suffered no sting from British law as of yet.

  In truth, his life was spent on his horse, overseeing the land, making certain that the slaves were cared for and that crops were assured for next spring. His father had made provisions for planting vegetables on the south side to feed the rebel soldiery. Jason expected that by next fall there would be many hungry soldiers to feed. If his friends were hungry, he would certainly want to feed them. But he had no enemies now. The Crown was across the sea and not a part of his life. Until it was, he saw no reason to fight against it.

  "Jason doesn't take sides," Nathan told Krystyna. "Unless it's a very personal matter."

  Jason tousled the shorter man's hair, just as he had done when they were growing up. "When old King George kicks me in the pants, I'll get mad and react."

  "By then," Nathan pointed out seriously, echoing something Krystyna had said on her first night at Smoke Tree, "it might be too late."

  "That's mighty strange talk coming from such a peace-lover." When they were younger, Nathan had always been the one who had shunned any physical violence.

  "It's not peace we have now, Jason," Nathan said quietly. "The soldiers, here to watch us and to keep us on good behavior, are not here to keep the peace. They are here as our jailers."

  Jason studied Nathan for a long moment. "You've changed."

  “I’ve been to see General Washington—and Sam Adams."

  "Ah, Adams." Jason nodded his head, understanding. "They tell me he could inflame the King's mother against the King if he set his mind to it. That palsied failure of a man can easily lead you astray, Cousin."

  "Have you heard him?" Nathan asked with interest.

  "No," Jason admitted honestly. "Only of him. Seems he's finally come into his element."

  "He was a failure at everything, except stirring up the war effort," Aaron chimed in. His expression grew nasty. "I also heard that he 'arranged' certain events in the battle of Lexington so that some of the rebels would be killed, bringing the damnable war to a head."

  Nathan shook his head. "There'll always be rumors, Aaron, and usually they're false. I'd hate to think that Sam sacrificed men just to move things along. In any case, the war would have broken out sooner or later." Several men around them nodded in agreement.

  The conversation was abruptly cut short as Charity pushed Krystyna aside without a glance and entwined her arms about Jason. "Jason, you naughty man, you've been standing here talking about politics while I've been wasting away, longing for you to come ask me to dance. Now dance with me right this minute or I shall have a fit. I swear I will."

  She pouted, striking a pose, and Jason found himself wondering how he could ever have thought of her as appealing. He looked at Krystyna. He would have much rather taken her in his arms, with or without music, but he had no choice if he didn't want Charity to cause a scene, humiliating Krystyna. He saw the way Charity was looking at her and knew that she was more than up to one.

  "Forgive me. It's just so seldom that I get to see and talk to Nathan," he told her.

  "The fault lies with me, Charity. I'm afraid I'm guilty of monopolizing him." Nathan apologized, placing himself between the two women.

  "Well," Charity icily regarded Krystyna, "you may talk to him all you want later. Right now, I want him." She tossed her head, knowing that her curls would bounce against her deep green velvet gown. "After all, a lady should have access to her fiance, don't you agree?" She looked at Krystyna as she laughed, then ushered Jason onto the floor.

  Nathan offered Krystyna his arm. "Would you like to dance?"

  Krystyna turned away from the couple on the floor. Her pride had been stung. Once again, she was reminded that her affections had been won by a man who had no place in her life and never would. She began to decline Nathan's offer, but he wouldn't let her.

  "You would do me great honor, Countess." He inclined his head so that no one else could hear him. "And don't mind about Charity."

  Krystyna permitted herself to be led to the floor. "What do you mean, do not mind about Charity?" Were her thoughts that obvious? "She is his intended." She shrugged, as if indifferent. The gentle smile on Nathan's face told her that he saw through her. "Why should she not dance with him?"

  "Because he really doesn't want to." Nathan spoke with such conviction, Krystyna believed him despite herself. Or perhaps it was just that she wanted to. "He doesn't care for her, Krystyna."

  So Jason had told her on many occasions. But actions spoke more than words. And he was still engaged. "I find it strange that anyone as headstrong as your cousin would be involved in anything or with anyone against his will."

  Nathan laughed, delighted by her. "Jason was right about you. You really are outspoken."

  She looked at him in surprise. "You have talked about me?"

  "Yes." He guided her in a circle, moving easily to the soft music. "Quite a bit, actually." He paused, and Krystyna thought that time stood still as she waited for him to answer the question in her eyes. She couldn't bring herself to ask it out loud. "Jason is very taken with you."

  She tried to tell herself that it was only the wine that made her suddenly feel so warm and contented. "Oh?" The indifferent tone she summoned failed her.

  "Jason and I are very close, though we rarely see one another anymore. I think I know him better than anyone." The sound of her lavender gown brushing the pol
ished wooden flooring was all Krystyna heard as she waited for Nathan to go on. The music and the sound of the crowd had faded away.

  "What has he said, exactly?" She bit her tongue, knowing that she sounded too eager.

  But Nathan didn't laugh or tease. "Exactly?"

  She drew a breath. Perhaps it was the wine, but there was a rush in her blood and she couldn't stop now. "Yes."

  "Nothing that would be repeated correctly, I fear." He saw her face fall slightly. "It's what he doesn't say that tells me everything."

  "I don't understand."

  "He doesn't talk about other women anymore. And when he talks of you, there's a certain look in his eyes, a look of tenderness that is only there when he speaks of things that are very, very special to him."

  The music stopped. Nathan bowed and kissed her hand. "Be kind to my cousin, Countess," he said. "Jason deserves it."

  Seemingly from out of nowhere, Savannah appeared and took hold of Nathan's arm. "You don't mind, do you?" she asked Krystyna, then hurried her cousin away before there was time for a reply. "There are some people I'd like you to meet, Nathan."

  Nathan turned his head toward Krystyna as Savannah drew him through the crowd. He smiled and shrugged helplessly.

  Krystyna was left standing alone on the floor, just as Savannah had intended. But, suddenly, she wanted to be alone, to think about what Nathan had said to her. She needed to examine this frail flower he had handed her, to look the petals over carefully.

  Taking her skirts in hand, she turned and walked off the floor just as three men were about to approach her from different sides of the room, all wanting to ask her to dance. She didn't even notice them. The strains of Lady's Hope Reel followed her down the hall.

  The study was dark and cold. Krystyna went to the fireplace and poked at the logs, making the dying embers that remained from the late afternoon fire glow. Within moments, she succeeded in getting a small fire burning. Dropping the poker, she stood watching the small flames wink at her and lap at the logs with their long thin tongues.