Rebellious Heart

by Jody Hedlund

  “When we kissed?” He quirked a brow. “I suppose you don’t want anyone to know you kissed a poor nobody of a lawyer like me?”

  “Oh, stop feeling sorry for yourself.” She squirmed at the boldness of his words but tried to hide her discomfort. “You’re not a nobody. You know I don’t think that anymore now that I’ve grown up. Maybe it’s time you grow up as well.”

  His lips curved into the beginning of a smile. “You’re a sauce bucket.”

  “And you’re a wet handkerchief.”

  The wind blew with a fury, whining down the chimney into the fireplace. A flash of lightning lit up the room, which had grown increasingly dark with the approach of the storm.

  “So you’re not offended that I kissed you?” His voice was low and his smile widened.

  “I hardly think that’s an appropriate question to ask a lady.” She fought against her own smile.

  “I think you liked my kiss.”

  “It was fair enough—”

  “Fair?” He leaned a hand against the door next to her head. “Admit it, Susanna. My kiss was swoon-worthy.”

  He was right, and he was altogether too close. She glanced at the unhooked buttons of his waistcoat, unwilling to let him see the truth in her eyes. “As hard as it will be to contain your kisses around me, I must ask that you do your best.”

  He chuckled.

  The sudden crash of breaking glass split the air around them.

  She startled.

  But Ben pushed his body against hers, shielding her from the shattering of the front window. Glass and debris flew into the room, followed by a roaring wind and driving rain.

  “I think ye better take Miss Smith to the cellar,” Mr. Arnold shouted from the door of the kitchen. “Sounds like this storm wants to take me tavern apart board by board.”

  The wailing wind thrashed at them as Ben led her around the shards of glass. He hustled her into the kitchen to a trapdoor in the floor that led to the cellar. She climbed down a ladder, and when her feet were planted firmly on the dirt floor, he lowered a candle to her.

  “Stay underground until I come for you.”

  “Aren’t you coming down with me?”

  “I must help Mr. Arnold salvage his supplies before the wind blows them out into the sea.”

  “But it’s unsafe. You could get hurt.”

  “Why, Miss Smith, I think I detect concern. I’m touched.”

  She was glad for the darkness that concealed the flush spreading over her cheeks. “Of course I’m concerned. For both you and Mr. Arnold. The two of you shouldn’t be taking any chances.”

  “My dear girl, you can confess you had aspirations to get me alone in the dark and claim more of my kisses.”

  “I will confess to no such thing.” Although the thought of such an encounter sent strange flutters through her middle. “Since you’re the one mentioning it, I have to believe those are your aspirations.”

  He grinned and said nothing to deny her accusation.

  Her stomach flipped.

  Another crash echoed through the kitchen above. His brow furrowed and he backed away from the door. “Don’t come up, Susanna. Please.”

  With that, he disappeared.

  Chapter

  9

  The cold dampness of the cellar wrapped around Susanna. Crude wooden shelves full of jars and casks lined the walls. Barrelsful of the rum and cider Mr. Arnold sold to his customers crowded the floor. Crates overflowed with apples, onions, and potatoes. The earthy scent of them mingled with the mustiness of the damp boards and stones that littered the floor.

  She lifted the candle, sending its glow to the corners of the cramped space. To her surprise, one of the dusty shelves leaned away from the wall, exposing a large hole.

  Winding her way through the maze of supplies, she investigated behind the shelf. Indeed there was a hole. In fact, it was more of a tunnel, certainly big enough for a grown man or woman to crawl into.

  She held out the candle to peer into the chasm. As she leaned forward, she grabbed on to the shelf to keep her balance and was startled when the entire structure slid away from the wall farther, almost as if it were on wheels of some kind.

  When Mr. Arnold and Ben had referred to the “others” earlier, was this where they’d been? Down in the cellar? Perhaps having a secret meeting?

  She knelt and poked her head into the hole. She had the suspicion Ben wouldn’t tell her anything more about what was going on than he already had. Hadn’t he said the less she knew the better?

  She glanced to the opening that led to the kitchen.

  He was busy, likely closing shutters and attempting to protect any more of the costly windows from breaking.

  He wouldn’t need to know that she’d taken a peek.

  Yes, that’s all she would do. Just take a peek.

  She discarded her hat, sank to her knees and, holding the candle with one hand, began crawling forward.

  The tunnel sloped downward. The dirt was cold and damp, and the dim light of the candle revealed the misshapen but smooth path that didn’t appear to run farther than the length of the tavern.

  In only a moment she reached the end and found herself peering into what appeared to be another dug-out cellar.

  As the flickering light illuminated the cavern, she gasped.

  The room was much bigger than Mr. Arnold’s other cellar, and it was packed with more barrels than she’d ever seen in one place.

  Slowly she stood and smoothed her skirt. With trembling legs and a heavy, sick load pressing upon her, she held out the candle to the nearest barrel.

  The print painted across the stave was in French. She tried to read the words, but her grasp of the French language was still frustratingly minimal.

  Yet even as she stared at the barrels upon barrels, the sick ache inside deepened. If the containers had been purchased from the French islands in the West Indies, then that could only mean one thing.

  They were likely filled with molasses that had been smuggled into the colonies. Prohibited, French-made molasses.

  Susanna shook her head, hoping she was mistaken, that the barrels were empty, that they weren’t full of the illegal goods Lieutenant Wolfe was trying to locate.

  Of course she wasn’t naïve. Everyone knew there were those unsavory traders who blatantly disregarded the law and had done so for many years along the coast. There were too many greedy merchants who thought only of wealth and were unwilling to pay the tax the king had levied upon the British molasses.

  And yes, she understood that the colonies depended upon the molasses for many things.

  But the men of Weymouth were God-fearing, law-abiding, and loyal subjects of the king. Were they not?

  They wouldn’t stoop to illegal smuggling.

  But as she looked around the chamber, she located another steep tunnel sloping away from the chamber. She guessed it led to the rocky coastline somewhere below the tavern and that somehow under cover of darkness the barrels of molasses were brought ashore, unloaded, and stored in the bowels of the earth beneath Arnold Tavern.

  The smuggling was going on right here in her peaceful seaside town. In her father’s parish. Among men she’d known and respected her entire life.

  “How could they?” she whispered.

  “Susanna?” Ben’s voice came faintly from the root cellar on the other side of the tunnel.

  And apparently Ben was involved in the smuggling.

  From all he’d said, as well as what he’d left unspoken, she’d known he held seditious thoughts. But he was obviously much more involved in the illegal activities than she’d imagined.

  “Susanna?” he called again, this time louder, his voice echoing in the tunnel.

  What would she say to him? She couldn’t deny that she had wanted his advice—perhaps even his friendship.

  But now?

  He poked his head out of the tunnel. “What are you doing?” His voice was tight, and his eyes flashed with restrained frustration. “You shoul
dn’t have come in here.”

  “Why? Because you didn’t want me to see your criminal activities?”

  He crawled out of the tunnel and rose to his feet. In the darkness of the cavern lit only by the flickers of her candle, his shadow was tall and broad like that of a Greek Minotaur come to devour a helpless maiden.

  The dripping of groundwater somewhere in the damp hovel told her the storm was still raging above them. But the deeper, darker storm brewing down under the earth suddenly seemed far more dangerous.

  “I’m astounded by all of this.” She waved her hand at the barrels. “Here in Weymouth? It’s unthinkable.”

  “Perhaps to someone like you who’s always been sheltered and had everything you’ve ever needed or wanted handed to you at your whim.”

  “Perhaps to someone who thinks we should obey the law instead of bending it whenever we wish to fulfill selfish gain.”

  “This isn’t about selfish gain.”

  “Why else would you avoid the British taxes if not to fill your pockets with more money?”

  He gave an exasperated sigh. “You obviously don’t know the first thing about the whole conflict.”

  “Why? Because I’m an ignorant woman? Because I’m not as educated as you?”

  “Now who’s feeling sorry for herself and in need of the handkerchief?”

  “Well, if I’m not stupid, then I suppose you’ll tell me the truth about what’s going on here. Are you involved with the smuggling or not?”

  He pursed his lips together and didn’t say anything.

  “Your silence implicates you.”

  He studied her for a long moment. “I’m not involved in the way you think.”

  “I don’t know what to think.” She’d wanted to like Ben—had started to like him. And she’d wanted to respect him.

  But how could she respect a criminal?

  A rat scurried between two barrels, and she drew in a startled breath.

  He nodded toward the tunnel. “Come on. We need to get out of here.”

  She didn’t budge. “Why? So that Lieutenant Wolfe doesn’t discover what you’re doing?”

  “We’re careful. He won’t discover anything.”

  “He might now.”

  Ben stiffened.

  “I told him that I would report illegal activities to him.”

  Ben started across the cavern toward her. In the flickering shadows, the hardness of his face and the blazing in his eyes had indeed turned him into a towering Minotaur.

  She backed up a step and bumped into a barrel. “In fact, I distinctly remember telling Lieutenant Wolfe I would be the first to alert him should I become privy to criminal activity.”

  He didn’t stop until he was mere inches from her. His presence threatened to overpower her.

  She forced herself to stand her ground. “Would you have me lie to him?”

  “I would have you stay silent, Susanna.”

  “What you’re doing is wrong and I won’t stay silent about it.” She took a side step to maneuver around him, but he shifted and grabbed her arm, pinning her in place.

  “You may not know or understand the oppression of the British,” he said hoarsely, “but there’s a heavy weight already upon our shoulders, and they would only increase the burden if they could to keep us as their inferior subjects.”

  His breath was hot and his body tense, and she tried not to think about how close he was.

  “You can try to justify your crime all you want,” she said, “but any knowledgeable statesman knows he cannot pick and choose which laws he’ll obey. If every person obeyed the law based upon his whims, we’d give birth to anarchy.”

  “Sometimes in the course of history, man must look at whose laws he is obeying and determine whether they are just and right and merciful. If the laws are based on tyranny, for the good of only a few instead of for all, then it becomes the duty of man to institute fairer laws.”

  He was indeed eloquent with his words, just as he’d been that day at the trial of Hermit Crab Joe. But that didn’t change the fact that smuggling was wrong. “You can speak all you want, Mr. Ross, yet you won’t convince me that breaking the law is justifiable.”

  “Not under any circumstances?”

  “Of course not—”

  “Then you’ll have to reevaluate whether you really want to help that runaway indentured servant, won’t you? After all, aiding her is also an illegal act.”

  His words stopped her rebuttal and unleashed the inner turmoil that had been growing since the day she’d discovered Dotty. She did want to help Dotty. Everything within her told her she needed to comfort and shelter the young woman, that Dotty hadn’t deserved her cruel treatment.

  On the other hand, the longer she hid Dotty and the more she assisted her, the more she was slipping down the slope of disobedience. And once started, where would it lead?

  As if sensing the conflict raging through her, Ben’s tight grip on her arm relaxed. “I know everything I’m saying is difficult to digest, but all I ask is that you reflect on the issue before you take any action.”

  She could only stare at him. She didn’t know what was right anymore. If she could find justification for breaking the law to help the poor girl, then why shouldn’t Ben do the same for something he felt was important?

  He leaned closer. “Think about all the lives and families you’ll put at risk if you go to Lieutenant Wolfe and disclose our activities.”

  Mr. Arnold’s voice echoed faintly from the root cellar.

  Ben cocked his head. “Do you want to see Mr. Arnold and numerous other men hanging from the end of a noose?”

  Of course she didn’t. She couldn’t imagine losing any more of the men of their community, not after the war, not after they’d already lost so many, not after seeing the way the poor widows had to struggle to clothe and feed their families.

  “Very well, Mr. Ross,” she said. “I shall think very carefully before I take any action.”

  Mr. Arnold’s voice called louder from the other side of the tunnel.

  Ben took a step away from her.

  And her heart pinched with an unexpected ache.

  He’d been right. All that he was involved in, at this time, in this place—it was all too dangerous for her.

  She had to stay away from him.

  Chapter

  10

  “Then it’s settled,” Ben said. “I’m going to propose to Hannah Quincy tonight.”

  Parson Wibird squinted. “If you really think this is what the heavenly Father is leading you to do.”

  Ben sat back in the desk chair of his law office—a small office at the back of his parents’ home. His eyes returned to the paper on his desk, to the drying ink of the letter he’d penned earlier to Susanna and the scrawling script at the top: Dear Diana . . .

  Diana. Yes, she was indeed a dark, spirited goddess of the moon. But why had he written dear? She wasn’t dear to him.

  And yet, even as he tried to deny his right to claim any affection for her, his heart stirred like it did every time he thought about the crushing pressure of their lips together.

  She hadn’t been afraid to kiss him back. She’d been every bit as ardent as he’d expected.

  Ben tore his attention away from the letter he’d written in response to the one she’d given him yesterday at Arnold Tavern, after the storm, after they’d crawled out of the cellar. She’d given it to him reluctantly, her eyes overflowing with accusation and doubt. All the trust that had glimmered there earlier was gone.

  If there had ever been a flicker of hope that Susanna Smith might care for him, the revelation of his clandestine activities had snuffed it out.

  “The truth is, Parson,” Ben said, “I don’t know what God wants.” Even after talking with the parson most of the morning, his thoughts were tossing like a vessel upon the waves of a stormy sea.

  Parson Wibird scratched the back of his neck and closed the pages of Benjamin Franklin’s Reflections on Courtship and Marriag
e. They’d spent the past hour reading through selections together.

  “You know I’m striving to improve my situation and my reputation,” Ben continued, “and Hannah Quincy is the perfect match for a man like me.”

  “Sometimes what God wants is clearer than we realize. It’s merely obscured by our own selfish desires.”

  “So you’re saying my desire to marry Hannah is selfish?”

  Parson Wibird grinned, revealing his crooked and discolored teeth. “Maybe you first need to evaluate why you’re chasing so hard after improving your situation and reputation.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with trying to better oneself.”

  “But at what cost?”

  Ben crossed his arms behind his head and watched the raindrops splatter against his office window. The waft of freshly baked bread had crept under the door from the big kitchen where his mother worked hard day after day, a place he could never imagine Hannah Quincy working.

  As much as he loved his parents and being with them again, the little saltbox house wasn’t the type of dwelling Hannah would ever want to live in. She’d have a large enough dowry to afford something bigger and newer that would suit her tastes.

  The steady tap of his father’s hammer came from the kitchen, where he’d set up his shoemaker bench, having sacrificed his workspace so that Ben could have an office in which to meet with clients.

  Ben sighed. His father was always sacrificing for him.

  Surely now it was his turn to do whatever he could to repay his father for his kindness over the years. And if he hoped to do so, he needed to propose to Hannah Quincy—tonight. Her attention was starting to fade, and she’d already begun to show interest in several other admirers. He needed to make the most of her ardor while he had it.

  Parson Wibird stood and returned Benjamin Franklin’s book to the shelf lining the wall across from Ben’s desk. “Is it fair to Miss Quincy that you marry her for what she can do for you with no thought of what you can do for her?”

  “You know I’d do my best to give her my utmost devotion.” But even as he tried to justify his aspirations, a sliver of guilt pricked him. He hadn’t been faithful to Hannah yesterday when he’d pulled Susanna Smith onto his lap and kissed her. Even if the kiss had been for the benefit of Lieutenant Wolfe, Ben couldn’t deny how much he’d enjoyed the brief passionate encounter.