Her Vanquished Land

by Diane Scott Lewis

  James slapped the reins. “We must find the guesthouse I was told about on a street named Cuna.”

  Sam did the same with his reins, water cascading from the folds of his cocked hat. Daphne stuck out her tongue to catch the water as her saturated gown clung to her slender body.

  Father pulled his hat low. “Let’s hurry, before we drown.”

  Rowena wrapped her kerchief over her head and bonnet, but both were soon drenched. Then the rain stopped, the sun came out, and the air heated, thick with moisture, baking them once more. Florida was indeed a foreign country.

  * * *

  Rowena strolled with Daphne on the wide ramparts of Castillo de San Marcos, the fort beside St. Augustine. The British called it Fort St. Mark. A month had passed, and the November air was cooler, but far from cold. A trace of humidity still hung on.

  She held onto her straw hat in the wind off Matanzas Bay. The briny smell filled her nostrils. “It’s so invigorating. If only the wind could cleanse my thoughts.” Her worries for their future. In two months they’d be in the year 1781; would the war continue, or an uneasy peace be made?

  Daphne followed behind, her pink skirts dancing around her legs. “Florida be a great difference from Pennsylvania. But I might like no snow, ever again.”

  “I won’t miss the snow.” Rowena stared out at the undulating ocean. Would the French fleet sail over the horizon to attack? The previous year, the French had assisted the rebels in the siege of Savannah in Georgia—but the British prevailed, as they had in Charles Town. Yet her family huddled in this colony like miscreants.

  And James had spoken the truth. Spain, from their nearby forts on the island of Cuba, was rumored to be assembling an army, and more ships, to retake Florida. The loyalists could be pushed out again. Her family might never find a home.

  James had left them after only three days, for the middle colonies, much to her aunt’s despair. And Rowena was left out of the struggle again. Would she ever be needed to decipher messages or rescue informants?

  Leaning on the top of a rough wall, redirecting her thoughts, she’d learned most of the buildings here were constructed of coquina, a stone made of shells, compressed over time. A grassy expanse in its lower center, the four-pointed fort had mounted cannon on the rampart that faced the bay, to fight off any invaders.

  Daphne twirled, her gown and petticoat ruffling like flower petals. “I do like this sea. The sound of the waves is peaceful-like. Better than the noisy guesthouse.”

  A few red-coated soldiers glanced over at the girl, gesturing in their direction.

  Rowena clutched Daphne’s shoulder. “Let’s keep walking. You’ve attracted the interest of soldiers, which is unadvisable.”

  “’Tis odd they let us be up here. But they might look at you, too, Miss,” Daphne said with a grin.

  Rowena linked arms with the girl—like the friends they’d become—and they continued their stroll. She felt the weight of the muff pistol in her inside pocket. “I’m sure my father would be happy if I had a beau, though nothing less than an officer would do for him.”

  The girl faced her, then almost stumbled on an uneven stone. “Do you not seek a husband?”

  Rowena tried to ignore the sting of regret that the one man she cared for was beyond her reach. “No, we’re too occupied in surviving. I wonder if my father will ever rent a home for us?”

  The guest house, packed with disgruntled loyalists who’d sought asylum for the last five years and now awaited the war’s outcome, was a place rumbling with turmoil. The friends James had promised had left the city. They were on their own. At least Rowena’s grandfather’s legacy kept them solvent, but money wouldn’t last indefinitely.

  Daphne nudged her. “A rich husband would help, Miss.”

  Rowena shrugged. “I’ll only marry for love. And to someone who will be proud of my actions, not ashamed.” She actually meant she’d never marry. A husband would want a compliant, silent wife, which was more than she could give.

  “Some of the men at the guest house has noticed you.”

  Rowena sighed. “Most look poor, and desperate.” She pitied the displaced Tories—such as they were—but not enough to have a destitute one court her.

  A soldier strode in their direction. Rowena linked arms with Daphne again and they pattered down the stairs to leave the fort.

  Back on Cuna Street, just off the main thoroughfare of Saint George Street, they entered the narrow, stone guest house with red-tiled roof.

  “Ah, my señoritas.” Mrs. Abrille Torres-Navarro, the owner of the guest house, swept over to them in her skirt-of-many-colors. She smelled of spices. Her large chocolate-colored eyes and full lips brightened her brown, slightly wrinkled face. “How are my beauties today?”

  Rowena smiled. She liked this independent woman. A widow, she’d managed to keep her business when the British took possession of Florida from Spain two decades before. “I’m hardly a beauty; but we are well, thank you.”

  “You are a lovely girl. Your hair, a bit too many curls, and you should hide your freckles with the powder. I will apply oil to your frizzy locks, and the powder for your face.” Mrs. Torres-Navarro patted Rowena’s cheek. “Your father, such a handsome man, he looks for you, so beware.”

  Father entered the hallway and limped over. His wound was healing, but still bothered him, as did his right knee. “Dear, I’d rather you not wander about without a male escort. There are too many soldiers in the town. I trust you stayed away from the fort?”

  Rowena turned to Daphne and winked. Then back to her parent. “I carry my muff pistol, Father. And only Sam is available. I hate to keep him guarding women when he’d rather be exercising the horse and mules.” The boy was anxious for better occupation, as was she.

  “Señor Marsh, you must protect your princess, so she may find a good husband, if that is her wish.” Mrs. Torres-Navarro tilted her head of black hair peppered with gray, swathed in a red scarf. She smiled slowly at Father. “I have my special cream for your leg, si?”

  Rowena began to suspect that the woman had a fancy for her parent. She stifled a laugh.

  His face flushed. “Perhaps…I will try it, later. Thank you.” Father glanced at Rowena. “And I haven’t given up on seeking my daughter’s matrimonial success, though she’s still young.”

  Rowena laughed in irony. She sent Daphne upstairs to gather clothes to iron in the guest house kitchen then walked with her father to the dining room. “Father, will we rent a house and settle somewhere? We should continue looking for a place.”

  Other men were there at tables, some smoking pipes. The sweet scent of tobacco mixed with the harsher smell of coffee. Smoke curled up to the rough beams of the ceiling. As usual, their conversation was agitated.

  “I’d hoped for good news from our troops, but what I hear is troubling.” Her father pulled out a chair for her at a small table. “A dam—darn shame the rebels beat us at the Battle of King’s Mountain in North Carolina.”

  That defeat the previous month had been a blow to the British. Rowena sat. A long-legged insect crawled up the wall, past the Spanish tiles painted in blues, yellows and greens.

  “Do you think we’ll ever see Pennsylvania again?” She respected that he’d held them together since her mother’s death. While she had plunged into danger to keep her sorrow at bay. Restlessness to find their own home—somewhere— buzzed through her.

  “I always have a slight hope, my dear, to return to Easton.” Father gestured to the waiter and ordered two coffees, tea being unavailable at the moment.

  She arranged her skirts, heart heavy. “I hear the rebels are revitalized by this new victory.” And now they fought harder against the British. “I wonder if our home still stands.”

  “Ha, your home is probably in ashes by now, missy.” A fat man at a nearby table turned his chair around, cheeks wobbling. “A tragic fact. What choices do we have if we lose the war? The West Indies, England, or Nova Scotia. I like none of them.”

&nb
sp; Rowena saddened at the idea of her childhood home on fire. However, she had no illusions about returning to Easton, no matter her father’s hopes.

  “Neither do I like those choices, sir.” Father grimaced, the deeper lines around his eyes crinkling. “I pray we don’t lose the war, but...”

  A man with a hooked nose chimed in, “Loyalists were promised tracts of land here in Florida, ordered by the king; but there’s so many of us.” His clothes appeared once fine but were now shabby and threadbare. “Supplies are scarce to build homes. The population here has exploded.”

  “I fear the king will abandon us,” a man with pock-marked cheeks, who slurped from a tankard, announced.

  “How will these fools survive without a monarch, or men experienced in government?” The fat man waved his coffee cup in the air. “Is their so-called congress worth its salt?”

  Rowena itched to help Daphne with the ironing, instead of listening to the same arguments. What did these men do to improve their lot?

  Father brushed his fingers under his chin. “The colonies are in grave disorder, fighting to keep their separate distinctions, and resisting a central government.”

  The men introduced themselves, but Rowena no longer listened. Defeat seemed to press in on them. She stared out the window and lamented that Father’s stubbornness might prevent them from having a place of their own, no matter how temporary. She bit back her frustration and must convince him; she needed a purpose.

  * * *

  Sam reined in the mule that pulled the small cart purchased by Aunt Elizabeth, though she rarely used it. Rowena and Daphne climbed down from the bench. Daphne carried the picnic basket.

  Father had allowed them this respite from their pending move into a cottage just outside the city. The coquina stone house needed work before they could take up residence. Aunt Elizabeth had moaned along with Mary when they visited, but Rowena was determined to make it habitable. Sam had already started work on a fence for the animals.

  After Mrs. Torres-Navarro showed her where to purchase cheap muslin, she’d suggested to her aunt and her maid Mary to fashion curtains for the windows.

  “Imagine, it’s December and we’re having a picnic by the ocean.” Rowena breathed in the drier but still temperate air. Gulls screeched overhead. In a tidal pond, a flock of Roseate Spoonbills poked their strange beaks into the water and flapped their gorgeous pink wings.

  Sam hopped down and picked up the rolled blanket. “Aye, ’tis a strange land. I heard an alligator ate a soldier at the fort. Climbed over the rampart an’ chomped him right up.” He grinned then winked.

  “Oh, stop! You devil. ’Tisn’t true.” Daphne waved him away. The three followed a dirt path through scrubby grass, down a slope to a sandy beach.

  The ocean appeared darker, deeper, today; the waves pulsated against the shore. Sam spread out the blanket. Daphne set down the basket of cheese, bread, the delicious local oranges, and the little eel pies Rowena prepared in the guesthouse kitchen.

  The girl stepped to where the receding waves left a line of foam. She laughed as the ocean lapped near her feet.

  “Turn your back, Sam.” Rowena sat, removed her buckled shoes, untied her garters, and rolled down her stockings. “I’ve been wanting to do this since we arrived in Florida.”

  She stood, wriggled her toes in the gritty sand, lifted her skirt, and moved toward the waves, leaving footprints where the sand was wet. She stuck in a toe and shivered at the cold water. “It’s chillier than I thought.”

  Laughing, she stepped in until the water tickled and licked around her ankles. She lifted her skirts higher and squished her feet into the sand beneath, which shifted. The breeze ruffled her longer, unpinned, loosened curls. She swayed back and forth with the push of the waves.

  “Mayhap, someday, I can find horses to breed, but need the coin to buy them first,” Sam said. “The Spanish left some good breeds here. The Spanish Jennet an’ Iberian.”

  “An’ money for a stable, paddocks, feed, aye?” Daphne replied with a laugh. “You has lofty dreams.”

  Sam tugged on his sister’s hair. “A man always needs dreams, no matter what.”

  “Don’t forget the women.” A thought struck Rowena. Maybe now her purpose would be to repair rundown houses for displaced loyalists. Why couldn’t she learn the skills of a carpenter? She’d gather the tools needed and find someone to teach her. Or were her dreams too lofty as well?

  A needle and cooking would never satisfy her, but she’d perform those tasks, too. She must keep busy, and not merely wilt like poor Aunt Elizabeth.

  Skirt lifted higher, she allowed the breeze to caress her and…

  “That’s far too much leg to be showin’ to the world, geneth,” a man’s accented voice called from the bank. “Ye best be careful.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Rowena froze in place; the waves grew colder on her feet. Was he really behind her? The once-called Black Devil? She quivered then turned, skirts still clutched above the water.

  The Welshman stood tall, framed by the blue sky, attired in his usual black breeches, frock coat, and high black boots.

  “What say you, staring at a girl’s legs?” She forced a teasing tone into her question.

  Derec started down the slope and she felt an unusual twinge low in her abdomen.

  She stepped out of the surf and lowered her gown. Nerves prickled through her.

  “A man has his vices, aye?” His wry smile reached deep inside her, stealing her breath. His face even sharper as if he hadn’t eaten well in months, faint lines crinkled near his black eyes. “When pretty women are about.”

  Sam and Daphne quickly crouched and removed food from the basket, including a flask of lemonade. “That’s Mr. Pritchard,” he whispered to his sister.

  “What are you doing here, sir?” Rowena shook out her skirt and released it, eyes averted as she strained to compose her thoughts. “And enough with your flummery.”

  Derec laughed. “Flummery, ye say? I tell the truth.” He stepped close and bowed. “Rowena, maid of the mist. Yer no longer a girl, a geneth, but a woman.”

  Her knees nearly melted. She stiffened her body before she might collapse. “You didn’t answer me. What are you doing in Florida?”

  “Yer not overjoyed to see me?” Hands on his hips, Derec cocked his head. “Should I say I’m here to spy, or I just wanted to check on the welfare of a former hoyden?”

  Rowena disliked silly flirtation, especially with this man she cared too much about. “The hoyden is a woman, as you stated. Have you come to see me?”

  “Aye. That, of course; and I might need yer help.”

  She should have known. He required something other than what she’d hoped. Anger flared at her foolishness. She fisted her hands in her skirt. “You taunt me, sir. Your words false.”

  Derec gestured toward the others. “Indeed, I do not taunt, Rowena. I would speak with ye alone.”

  Sam hopped to his feet, dragging his sister with him. “We will walk the shore. Sit, Mr. Pritchard, and enjoy this repast.” The two hurried off, Daphne darting a look over her shoulder.

  Filled with confusion, Rowena sat on the blanket and lifted the flask; she pulled out the birch stopper and splashed lemonade into a pewter cup. She raised the cup to him.

  He folded his long legs and sat as well, taking the drink. He sipped. “Tart an’ tasty.” His dark eyes appraised her.

  She poured a cup for herself though didn’t partake. “What help…do you require?”

  He stretched out his legs, his boots badly scuffed. “’Tis a good spot here; the sea, the air, a maiden fair.”

  She almost tossed her lemonade in his face. “I won’t be made a jest of. Are you on a mission?”

  “Two missions, geneth.” He sipped again, slowly. “I’m not a man who is easy with the finer ways or words of life. I’m blunt. I came a long way to accomplish an important assignment, but I’ve finally realized I need the Mist Lady by my side.”

  Her
heart twitched. She swirled the liquid in her cup. The breeze off the ocean tossed her hair about her cheeks. “You’re blunt, you say; then explain exactly what you mean.”

  “I’m rough, no frippery, but so are ye when needed. Impressed, I am—and have been.” He dug around in the basket and pulled out an orange. “We might have to leave America if the war keeps turning like it is. Where will we go?”

  He still danced around the question she wished wasn’t so important to her. Is there a future for us?

  The surf went in and out like a breathing lung.

  She sipped the tart beverage, which barely slid down her constricted throat. “I’ve wondered the same, if the rebels or Spanish chase us from here. My father rented a small house on the outskirts of St. Augustine, finally, after over two months here. We’re repairing it to make the cottage livable. But we’re always on guard with the changes of fortune, battles won or lost.”

  “Our enemies close in.” He raised a knee and put his elbow on it. “I’ve been up in New York, at West Point. Talked some with Arnold before he fled. Don’t think he did us much good. Then I helped a major spy escape his shackling in a dungeon, to back behind the British lines.”

  “Significant work.” She sifted sand, like ground sugar, through her fingers.

  “Nevertheless, New York is full of corruption, British officers wasting time an’ money. We might have won by now, but…”

  “Terrible to hear.” Her father would be disturbed by such news. She had to sort through her reaction, her waning commitment to the loyalist cause.

  He tossed the orange in one hand. “Also, I’ve been in touch with my mother, thanks to British ships still bringing mail.”

  She remembered him speak of his mother back in Wales, and his concern for her. “Is she well?”

  “She is, I’m happy to say.” Derec set down his cup and peeled a strip of thick skin from the orange, the smell of citrus pleasant.