Her Vanquished Land

by Diane Scott Lewis

  “I thank you for your permission, Father.” She’d suffered hours of arguing with him and sagged with exhaustion. When out of his sight, she’d spent time in the stable lifting milk cans filled with water to strengthen her arms. No lout would grope her again. She and Sam had also gone into the field to practice with a pistol—the one he now carried as he shifted beside her.

  Mr. Chandler dipped his head to her father. “Good, sir. Though I am reluctant to take this young woman into rebel territory, we will see Miss Marsh safely to her aunt’s residence. I cannot vouch for the state of the city. ’Tis not the best time to travel there.”

  Rowena stiffened—her father could change his mind and demand she stay.

  She had discovered through their cook, who knew a servant at the Chandler’s farm, that they’d planned a visit to Philadelphia to attend to Mrs. Chandler’s very ill mother. After a week of begging, pretending to swoon, as she’d packed her man’s attire along with her own, gathering more from trunks in the attic, she finally convinced her parent to relent.

  Aunt Elizabeth swept up to stand beside Father. “I still believe you shouldn’t go, Rowena.” She put her hands to her mouth, eyes moist. “I won’t sleep a wink with both you and James abroad. The roads are dangerous.” James, whom Rowena hadn’t exchanged a word with, had ridden off the previous day.

  “We’ll be fine, Father, Auntie. You can count on my good sense.” That was no doubt the wrong thing to say for them to count on. She had no idea how she would proceed so wondered at her own impulsive actions.

  Father stared at Sam. “You, young man, are charged with my daughter’s safety as well.”

  “Aye, sir. Never fear.” Sam avoided his employer’s eyes. Rowena had discussed her plans in detail with him. At her urging, he’d gotten his younger brother, aged eleven, to temporarily take his place in the stable.

  Rowena leaned back on the squab. She wriggled in her skirts, anxious to be on her way. “All will be well, Father. I’ll give Aunt Joan your fond wishes.”

  “I will write Joan to check on how you fare.” He waved her away, brow furrowed. Aunt Elizabeth fluttered her handkerchief. The coach pulled off, down the lane.

  “You should be traveling with a female companion of your own, my dear.” Mrs. Chandler flicked her gaze at Sam, her smile probing. In fact, her smile seemed perpetual on her wide face. She and her husband were as round as Sam was lean. In their ginger-colored clothing, their portly forms looked like two pumpkins squished together on the opposite seat.

  “No maid could be spared to accompany me, Madam.” Rowena smiled in an effort to be polite, relieved she had no vulnerable girl to fret over. Anne was needed for other duties.

  Mr. Chandler shook his round head sadly. “Since the rebellion began, the niceties aren’t always observed.” This rotund man had been an acquaintance of her father for many years and had dealt with him as a barrister when Mr. Marsh practiced in town. “Our country has fallen into chaos, indeed. I fear the outcome. We will be cut loose from our king and left to an uncertain self-government.”

  As the coach moved away, Rowena watched their farm grow smaller, then vanish from view. Her heart grew heavy. She disliked deceiving her father. What if she couldn’t find James in Philadelphia? What if the rebels captured her if she did?

  The coach rattled onto the main road that headed south.

  She’d eavesdropped on her cousin’s conversation with Father and heard where he planned to stay in that great city. Father didn’t disclose Rowena’s plans to him, at her request—at least as far as she was aware. If Aunt Elizabeth knew James also went to Philadelphia, she might hope Rowena and her son connived to meet, for matrimonial discussions.

  She shoved a loose curl under her bonnet in disgust. And what if Aunt Joan kept her close? She hadn’t seen her since her mother’s funeral, and her aunt’s amiable countenance might have changed since the city had gone from British to Revolutionary rule. How did Aunt Joan manage in such a precarious position? Rowena fidgeted with all these questions.

  “You seem quite nervous, my dear. Do you have second thoughts about your visit?” Mrs. Chandler’s grin stretched even further—as if it might slide off the sides of her face.

  “Worry not, Madam. I’m only excited about this journey, and grateful you have allowed me to travel with you.” So much could go wrong, and she might drag her aunt into danger. How could she convince her cousin she’d be of help—if he championed the loyalists—perhaps as a spy? No success was guaranteed, hazards lurked everywhere.

  She pressed against the squab and stared out the coach window again but saw little as the vehicle juddered along past farmland and forest.

  Sam blew out his breath as if he’d read her thoughts.

  * * *

  Seen from a distance, the tower of the Pennsylvania State House cut into a blue sky. They entered Philadelphia’s cobbled streets crowded with buildings, people and conveyances. The air rang with the clatter and shouts of industry. Rowena stretched her sore back and sighed with relief.

  “They call that grand building Independence Hall, now,” Mrs. Chandler said, her smile wavering as they drove past the structure.

  “A bad business all around,” her husband groused. “How will the British bring these hellions back under control? French ships patrol the waters, danger abounds. After the recent massacre at Waxhaws, the rebels will be even more vindictive toward us Loyalists.”

  “Husband, please. There’s an innocent girl with us.” Mrs. Chandler pressed his arm.

  “I think everyone should be aware of the war’s progression.” Rowena tried to sound demure but was sure she failed. At the last inn where they’d spent the night, she’d read the newspaper. In South Carolina on May 29th, the British had taken no prisoners, slaughtering many of the Continental soldiers who had called for a truce. The British commander Tarleton had been trapped under his dead horse—before he was dragged out, and the killing continued on both sides.

  Rowena tensed. Such brutality but that was the reality of war. Why couldn’t a compromise be reached?

  “Young ladies should not fill their heads with too much of men’s affairs. I apologize, I have misspoken,” Mr. Chandler said in his monotone. Was that why his wife smiled constantly—she was bored silly?

  Rowena bit back a retort; she’d save her arguments about the value of women for James. She was frustrated with men insisting she remain ignorant. Though she might be insane to attempt this venture.

  She concentrated on the view, the church steeples, warehouses, and soon brick and stone stately homes. She hadn’t been to Philadelphia since a small child. Near the Delaware River, she smelled the watery breeze that mixed with the smoke from many chimneys.

  Rebel soldiers in blue uniforms swarmed the streets; they were surrounded by the enemy. Mrs. Chandler shrank into the shadows inside the coach. Rowena resisted sticking her head out the window. Sam fingered the pistol. They’d already been stopped and questioned just outside the city about their purpose in Philadelphia. The Chandlers had a pass to enter.

  Their carriage clattered into the straight grid of the city, where brick houses stood in elegant rows, many with fan-shaped transoms above brightly painted doors. On Walnut Street, near the city’s center, the driver halted the team of horses.

  “This area is known as Society Hill.” Mrs. Chandler pressed her small, gloved hands together.

  The driver jumped from the box, opened the coach door, and let down the steps.

  “Thank you for escorting me, Mr. and Mrs. Chandler.” Rowena gathered her skirts and quickly alighted, hoping her chaperones would not follow. She was grateful, but over two days in their stodgy company was enough. “No need to see me in. I do pray your mother recovers, Madam.”

  Sam hopped down beside her and shut the door, caging the Chandlers in their vehicle. The driver unloaded Rowena’s trunk and Sam’s case. He carried both to the front portico at Mr. Chandler’s request.

  “Stay near your aunt, Miss Marsh; the city is tr
eacherous with soldiers and other abhorrent patriots,” Mr. Chandler said. “It was against my better judgement that we brought you here.”

  “And I had reservations as well.” Mrs. Chandler’s grin dimmed as she waved through the open window. “Please deport yourself like a good girl, as your father urged.”

  “Of course. I’ll try my best. Good day to you both, Sir and Madam.” Rowena gave a quick curtsy. She’d heard this same dictate throughout the journey. She grabbed Sam’s arm, and they traversed a short walkway and mounted the stone steps.

  “Aye, be a good girl, Miss.” Sam’s teasing whisper almost made her laugh.

  “I have no plans to behave as men or stuffy women wish me to, whelp. But I am glad you’re with me.” She stiffened before the carved door of Aunt Joan’s home and raised her hand to rap the brass knocker. Nerves rumbled through her. More deception was to come. She must find a way to manage her inclusion in the fight for the loyalists and not make matters worse for her family.

  “Ho, there. What’s your business at this premises?” a voice called from behind them.

  She looked over her shoulder; her body tensed further.

  A blue-coated soldier stood there, glaring, a musket slung over one shoulder.

  Chapter Eight

  The rebel soldier stalked toward them on stumpy legs clad in leather gaiters. Rowena sucked in her breath and clacked her aunt’s door knocker. Sam turned to face the man like a body-guard.

  “We’ve come to visit my relative, sir.” Rowena glanced at the soldier who had stopped at the bottom of the steps. She smiled politely. Her spine as stiff as a ramrod, she’d practice her courage in the presence of the enemy. “It’s a fine day to call, is it not?”

  “What are your names?” Under his brown cocked hat, the rebel’s face was severely scarred—as if burned in a fire. He thrust his chest forward in his long blue coat with red cuffs and facing. “Are you Tories as well?”

  The door creaked open and a bulky, older woman in an apron and a large mobcap looked them over. “Can I help ye?”

  Rowena quivered, feeling caught between two entities. Did her aunt still live here? Dare she ask for a loyalist woman who may be gone, while a rebel soldier hovered four steps below? “Is Mrs. Quinton at home?” she whispered to the maid out of the corner of her mouth.

  “Aye, Miss. Who shall I say is callin’?” The woman glared down at the soldier, then held Rowena’s gaze. “I’m Mrs. Bailey, the housekeeper.”

  “I asked your names,” the soldier said, his tone more abrasive. “What say you?”

  “I’m Sam Owen.” Sam turned, bowed to Mrs. Bailey, and then back to the soldier. “Your servant, sir.”

  “I’m Miss Marsh. I am here to visit my aunt, as I said.” Rowena gave the man a slight nod, her mouth dry. She turned her back on him, voice low, “Kindly tell my Aunt Joan her niece is here. We sent a letter. It must not have arrived as yet.”

  The housekeeper vanished inside.

  “What is the exact reason for your visit?” the man persisted. He planted a boot on the first step, his creped face in a scowl. “No mischief allowed.”

  “Only family, friendship and good manners, sir.” Rowena flashed him a sweet smile through her clenched jaw. “We women like to talk of knitting and gardening and partake of cakes with…coffee.” She’d almost said tea, but since the exorbitant tea tax, the destruction of the tea in Boston, the rebels scorned that beverage. Her words tumbled out with excuses. “We need simple social discourse to keep our fragile constitutions at ease, nothing more.”

  Why was the soldier here? Was her aunt under arrest? She swallowed hard. She might have erred in coming.

  “Isn’t this the city of brotherly love?” Sam asked, one hand clasped to his chest, his eyes full of innocence. He leaned toward the man. “You know how women like to gabble on silly matters, but I must bear it, sir.”

  Another woman appeared at the door. Her resemblance to Rowena’s mother squeezed her heart and throat. Brown curly hair slicked with pomade half-hidden under a small cap, her aunt had the same blue eyes and delicate mouth. Rowena wanted to cry her name but didn’t.

  “It’s all very well, private. This is my niece. Rest assured we hatch no dastardly plot. I apologize for not informing you of her arrival.” Aunt Joan swept Rowena into her hallway.

  The soldier grumbled and stepped back. Sam dragged in the baggage and closed the door.

  “Aunt Joan, I’m so relieved to see you.” Rowena hugged her vanilla-perfumed aunt, the scent heavenly, then stared about, in case more rebels skulked in corners. “Obviously, you’re being watched, and I shouldn’t be surprised. Have I caused difficulties?”

  “I’m just surprised you’re here. And with no notice at all, my dear?” Aunt Joan’s serene voice a balm, she hustled Rowena to the right, into a parlor with a carved marble mantel above the fireplace and a decorated plaster ceiling. The furniture was covered in blue-striped satin. “I’m shocked that Robert approved your visit.”

  Sam remained in the foyer, peering around a curtain out the front window.

  “Father wasn’t happy about it. He wrote a letter, but not until the last minute. He hoped I’d change my mind.” Rowena surveyed the immaculate room that smelled of beeswax and linseed oil. A china cabinet sat undisturbed—no smashed dishes. She had nice memories of the space. “The rebels watch you, but allow you to stay, and keep your home in good order? Are you free to move about the city?” A soldier on guard could ruin her plans.

  “I’m fortunate that I’m great friends with my close neighbor, Thomas Fitzsimons. He’s a prominent merchant, and a well-known ‘Patriot.’ We’ve known each other since before the tragic split of loyalties. He’s given me his protection, to a point. Though the rebels insist that my home is observed.” Aunt Joan studied her, smile questioning—her mother’s smile; would she have approved? “You look road-weary, and I’m sure you haven’t come to this rebel city just to keep me company. As soon as you settle in, you must tell me your true intentions.”

  * * *

  After a quick wash in the pristine upstairs guest room, the water refreshing on her face, Rowena checked on Sam in the attic bedroom, glad it, too, was orderly and clean. She descended the stairs, pondering how she could explain her reasons for her visit. And would Aunt Joan understand?

  She joined her aunt in a small rear parlor wallpapered in yellow. “I hope I’m not inconveniencing you.” She peeked out a window to the garden where red geranium and purple iris bloomed—were soldiers hunched among the flowers?—then approached Aunt Joan. “Do you feel safe here, with rebels all around?”

  “You remind me so much of Becky; oh, don’t look sad.” Aunt Joan tugged her down to sit on the yellow-striped sofa, both their full skirts rustling.

  Rowena pictured her mother, fighting dark thoughts of moments they’d never share. “I think I favor my father.”

  “In some ways, both your parents molded you. Safe, you ask? I try my best not to agonize over the situation nor behave suspiciously—or not blatantly so. I wear homespun and no ribbons, since English goods are forbidden.” Aunt Joan squeezed her niece’s hand. “With Charles off serving Lord Cornwallis, I’m forever on pins and needles.”

  “Are you in touch with Uncle Charles?” Rowena asked softly. “Or is your correspondence confiscated?”

  “I’ve received…smuggled letters, but not many.” Her eyes clouded then sharpened again. “Charles is well aware of the circumstances I face. When General Cornwallis marched through Philadelphia, three years past in ’77, I met him. A solemn-faced man with an elegant manner. I pray he will bring us to victory.”

  “Did the Philadelphians welcome the British troops?”

  “Many fled along with the rebel Congress, but others cheered them as liberators.”

  A young maid brought in a tea tray set with a plate of macaroons and served tea. How her aunt still managed to obtain this notorious beverage in Philadelphia she didn’t inquire.

  “You asked my true mot
ives for barging in.” Rowena took a sip of the weak tea—her aunt’s cook must be re-steeping the leaves—after the girl left. Her aunt’s practical manner heartened her. “Firstly, can you trust your servants?”

  “Yes, they’ve been with me for years. But then, who can really trust anyone in these turbulent times?” Aunt Joan picked up her china cup with a furtive glance over her shoulder. “How is your father managing since you lost your mother, our dear Becky?”

  “I’m certain that’s why he allows me much freedoms; he’s still stunned by mother’s death.” Rowena said it quickly. She must let go of that loss, or at least fill in the gouge it left. Was that why she persisted in her, what many would call, scandalous behavior? “As far as politics, he is anxious for the British to win, and exasperated he cannot serve in the military. Or ply his expertise as a barrister in Easton. He does see a few clients at our home.”

  “I do hope we come to a truce and put a stop to the hostilities, before more soldiers and sailors die. Not to mention we civilians.” Aunt Joan sighed, but it sounded more frustration than despair. “Of course, the capture of Charles Town is a good omen. If only the king and Parliament would agree to fair terms, which would, I pray, satisfy the rebellion.” She faced her niece. “What about you, dear? I know it sounds frivolous, but will you have a debut? Any prospects for beaux in the middle of this storm?”

  Rowena explained about Aunt Elizabeth’s suggestion she marry cousin James. She twisted at the muslin kerchief tucked in her bodice. “I have no matrimonial thoughts. Women need higher aspirations.”

  “I don’t disagree about aspirations. However, as an older, experienced lady, I must say you might change your mind on marriage later.” Aunt Joan laughed. “That lecture was my duty as your aunt. Now, speak of your real wishes.”