Her Vanquished Land

by Diane Scott Lewis

  Derec rested an elbow on the chimney piece, his gaze piercing. “Aye. I’m afraid we’ve had a falling out. He holds a grudge against me that we’ve kept in the background—for the most part—so as not to interrupt our activities for the king.”

  “My cousin warned me not to trust you, but then he warned me about everything.” She picked up a spoon and stirred the remaining stew, reviving the aroma of chicken, onions and herbs. “And you hinted at it once. What is this grudge?”

  “Oh, m’dear, I’d rather not say.” He stared off, mouth tightening, one hand curled into a fist. “His suspicions and anger are based on a terrible mistake.”

  She stirred some more. Her nape prickled as she sensed foreboding. “We should have no secrets. Please tell me.”

  Derec met her gaze again, his steady. Seconds passed as conflicted emotions crossed over his face. “He accuses me of killing the girl he loved.”

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Rowena blinked and stared into Derec’s dark eyes after his shocking words in her father’s kitchen. “What do you mean? Why would my cousin blame you for a girl’s death?”

  Derec propped his shoulders against the limestone mantel, his voice soft; he glanced away. “Her name was Alice. A sweet wisp of a girl.” Now he looked at Rowena. “I’m sure yer aware of the Sullivan Expedition last year, led by generals Sullivan and Clinton?”

  “Of course. A vicious military campaign against us Tories, and the Iroquois who sided with us.” She twisted the cloth. “The rebel army marched from Easton to begin their attack, so we heard about most of it.”

  “Aye, a brutal campaign. The rebels destroyed the Indians, their crops and villages, proving their treachery. The natives who escaped fled to Lower Canada.” Derec grimaced. “Alice was the daughter of a printer; a Mr. Haines, who—”

  “Alice Haines?” Rowena pressed on her chest. “James was courting her? I had no idea.” James had been secretive about so much since the war began.

  “’Twas more the beginning of a formal courtship. He hadn’t yet asked her father’s permission.” Derec shoved his hands in his pockets. “James professed a deep love for the girl, even so.”

  Rowena had met Alice in town but hadn’t known her well. She was a pretty and slender girl, a year older than Rowena. Then Alice and her parents—devout Tories—had left for parts unknown. “What happened exactly?”

  “James and I were on a mission. Carrying messages to our superiors about the Sullivan Expedition. We tried to help stop the destruction of the Iroquois. Mr. Haines got involved, his wife and daughter, too. The rebels discovered it and chased them from Easton. They were killed during their escape into New York.”

  “That’s horrible; the poor Haines family.” She shivered. “But why would James blame you?”

  “I’m the one who asked Mr. Haines to print the broadsheets against this atrocity, which we distributed to other communities. We hoped to turn the populace who’d remained neutral to the British side.”

  “It still seems wrong of him to accuse you.” Rowena touched his arm. “Many civilians assisted on both sides, and sadly lost their lives.”

  “I was supposed to arrange an escort for them to New York. I thought I had. I went on to another assignment, then learned the escorts never showed themselves. The Haines family was abandoned.” Derec struck a fist on the mantel. “I’m not proud of the incident. I should have been more thorough.”

  “How awful. It was…an understandable mistake.” She moved nearer to Derec, yearning to comfort him. Her fingers caressed his face.

  “You two are overly friendly this day,” Father called over. “Where is my dinner, dear? Such work aches my knee and thigh to no end. And a man requires sustenance.”

  Rowena and Derec split apart. She bent and stirred the chicken stew. Her mind sorted through this new information. Was her betrothed negligent, or innocent of James’ ire? She regretted she wasn’t close to her cousin anymore, to ask for further particulars from him.

  Derec returned to the cypress planks and snatched up his hammer.

  * * *

  For Christmas dinner, Daphne and Mary served bobwhite, a type of quail. Sam and Derec had shot and dressed the four birds. Carrots and turnips accompanied the simple meal, along with fresh bread, and a strawberry pie awaited them for dessert. Mary, their intrepid gardener, had made the pie from berries she’d grown.

  Rowena sat, inhaling the savory and sweet smells. “It’s wonderful to have strawberries in December.” She’d helped Daphne in the preparation of the main meal. She watched Derec to see if he was impressed. Their fingers touched under the table from his seat beside her.

  “Ordinarily we’d have cake, baked with one bean.” Father settled at the head of the small table and picked up his knife and fork. His smile seemed genuine. “Whoever receives the bean in their slice becomes the King of Misrule, a person who causes trouble in the days to come.”

  “We’ve had enough troubles already, Robert.” Aunt Elizabeth served herself a small portion, her nails ragged from her sanding and painting. Rowena had coaxed her into eating better these last two weeks. Already her aunt’s face looked less drawn.

  Derec took a bite of the bobwhite’s tender flesh. “Ah, delicious, ye women cook like angels.” He winked at Rowena.

  “Thank you, sir. I’m a woman of many talents.” She tasted the bird seasoned with thyme and had to agree. The paltry meal—as scanty as any they’d eaten since the war intensified—seemed a feast after all they’d been through. Her heart swelled at having Derec there. His hand stroked hers. They never did make it to the barn for a tryst; however, she often thought about it.

  “Mr. Pritchard. You are an associate of my son’s, are you not?” her aunt asked sharply.

  “I am, Mistress Atherton.” His tone polite, he still sounded cautious.

  Rowena stirred the food on her plate, her mood dipping. She thought of the sad story of Alice Haines and her parents.

  “Have you no idea where he might be?” Her aunt’s words chilly, she’d never disguised her distrust of the Welshman. To her, he was too much a shadowy figure who seemed to have shown up from nowhere.

  “I’m certain James is doing his duty,” Father said. “And Mr. Pritchard and I have gotten to know one another well. All is fine.” He and Derec had many long conversations in the evening hours over a glass of rum, and Rowena appreciated that her parent accepted him as a future son-in-law.

  “Mrs. Atherton, the last I heard, James was following General Arnold to Virginia, where Lord Cornwallis is gathering his troops.” Derec took a long drink from his tankard of ale as if to cut this discussion short.

  James was with Benedict Arnold, the turncoat to the rebels? Derec said the man had ordered the slaughter of a surrendered rebel garrison in New London, Connecticut in September. Rowena tightened her lips. She wanted the King’s men to win, but not by murdering soldiers who’d capitulated.

  Father’s plumper cheeks flushed. “It’s nearly 1781. Do you think Virginia will be the culmination of this blasted war?” He glanced at his sister. “Excuse my language, Liz.”

  Derec nodded to Father. “It could very well be, sir. Lord Cornwallis seems to think so. Though other generals believe Charles Town in South Carolina is the place to reinforce. Our army is spread very thin.”

  “What do you plan to do when the war ends?” Aunt Elizabeth stabbed a turnip with her fork. Her timid bearing and insistence on etiquette had faded since their move to Florida.

  “I’ve been thinking to continue in carpentry, as I have here; and as I did in Wales. There is much to build or repair in East Florida with all the loyalists.” He squeezed Rowena’s hand. “I must support my soon-to-be wife in a decent manner.”

  “But if we are successful, people will want to return to their homes.” Father grumbled as he buttered a slice of bread. “I practice law here among my fellow Tories, but I had clients who paid well in Easton. We need to live better.” He resembled an ordinary farmer without his wigs a
nd fancy frock coats, but he obviously yearned for the past.

  “We can only pray our farm remains intact, although…it’s probably lived in by a rebel family.” Rowena hated to revisit that image in her mind. So many loyalists had their homes torched or confiscated. Father’s clients had probably escaped to Canada, England, even the West Indies. Many loyalists were hanged. The Marshes’ past was altered forever, Pennsylvania a memory; yet her sadness over that had diminished. She must fashion a new life with her enigmatic fiancé. But would he be happy as a simple carpenter?

  After marriage, she and Derec should have their own home. This tiny cottage was too crowded; she had to endure sleeping with her aunt in the newly finished bedroom. Mary had a pallet in that room—and snored louder than a thunderstorm. Poor Daphne slept curled like a cat on a pallet in the kitchen corner, but never complained. Sam stayed in the barn loft as he tended his beloved horses. Derec had made a bed for himself in the refurbished tack room out there. He and Sam had worked hard to repair the small barn.

  “Anyone ready for pie? Sir or Mistress?” Mary asked, flashing her beaver teeth, her reddened hands pressed together.

  “Not yet, Mary. We’ve barely begun our meal,” Aunt Elizabeth reprimanded as she cut up a carrot. “Have you dipped into the dandelion wine?”

  “I’m eager to taste it. Your expertise in the garden is much appreciated, Mary.” Rowena smiled at the woman who had to be close to fifty. A servant with few prospects beyond her station.

  “My soon to be wife is also a skilled gardener.” Derec helped himself to more fowl.

  Rowena beamed. “I hope in the spring I’ll have my own plot and kitchen.” With Derec cozy in her bed. She warmed with anticipation and took another bite of food; the vegetables cooked in chicken fat were rich in flavor. “That run-down cottage we inspected, a quarter mile away, looks promising. And the lease decent.”

  Daphne poured more ale into Father’s and Derec’s tankards. “I pray your farm remains untouched, too, Miss. An’ my father’s. I do worry for my family.” She paused with the pitcher. “Did you hear a horse ride up just now?”

  They all stiffened. The creak of leather, footsteps, then the cottage door opened. Derec had reached for his pistol. Rowena turned and flinched.

  James stood there, clothes ragged and filthy, his face crimped in a scowl.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Father and Derec stood, both looking surprised at James’ sudden appearance. Derec’s expression switched to guarded.

  James strode further in, a scarecrow of a man, stinking of hard-ridden horse and sweat.

  Aunt Elizabeth hopped to her feet, hands on her cheeks. “James, my darling. My heavens. Are you all right?”

  Rowena remained seated. However, she watched Derec’s careful scrutiny of her disheveled cousin.

  “James, welcome,” Father said with a concerned smile. “You appear in dire straits. Has something happened in the war?”

  James, gray eyes sharp in his gaunt, unshaven face, raised his chin. “Mother, Uncle Robert, family…” His gaze landed on Derec. “Pritchard.”

  “Atherton,” Derec replied, his visage a smooth mask.

  “Tell us how you are, James?” Father gestured toward the food, his words distracted now. “Please join us.”

  Her aunt stepped around the table toward her son. She reached out, then hesitated, as if reluctant to sully herself. “You aren’t injured, are you?”

  “No, Mother, I’m not.” James gave her a slight smile. He removed his battered hat.

  “I’ll fetch water to heat, an’ a cloth.” Daphne snatched up the water pitcher and hurried out the rear door. Mary threw a napkin over her pie as if this filthy newcomer might contaminate it.

  Rowena finally rose and poured a cup of ale. She approached and handed it to her cousin. “Good tidings, James.”

  He took the pewter cup and gulped thirstily. He nodded to her. The deep lines etched on his forehead made him look far older than his one-and-twenty years.

  Daphne returned, slopped water into a pot, and hung it on a hook over the fire. “’Twill be warm soon, sir.” She opened a sideboard drawer and pulled out a cloth.

  “Mary, bring a clean shirt from my brother’s room.” Aunt Elizabeth waved a hand in that direction. Her maid hustled into the chamber.

  Derec came beside Rowena. He hugged his arm around her. “’Tis good to see ye, Atherton. I thought ye were heading to Virginia.”

  “So you are staying here.” Her cousin glared at Derec’s affectionate action. “In the midst of my family.”

  Rowena bristled. “Don’t be rude, please. He will soon be—” She stopped. Telling James of their upcoming marriage might agitate him more in his present mood.

  “Tell us what has happened.” Father walked near. “Have you been with the King’s men?”

  Daphne poured water into a basin, dampened the cloth, and brought it to James. “Here, sir.”

  James slowly wiped the grime from his face, revealing sunburned skin. “I have, Uncle. I was following Cornwallis. He’s on his way to Virginia, burning his wagons to travel lighter. I’ll return to him, soon. I wanted to check on you.”

  Aunt Elizabeth touched his shoulder. “I hope you can stay awhile. I miss you so.”

  Mary rushed back, holding a shirt out like a flag. Rowena shook her head at the woman—James could hardly disrobe out here—though they all seemed in disorder at James’ barging in. She wanted to diffuse the anger that radiated off her cousin but wasn’t sure how without making the situation worse.

  “No, James, go into my chamber to change, and wash. Daphne, bring him soap.” Father took the shirt from Mary and pressed it into James’ hands. “Then join our Christmas repast.”

  “Excellent idea, Father. We’ll all relax and celebrate the day in kindness and respect,” Rowena said, her words firm behind a forced smile.

  James accepted a ball of soap from Daphne, then gave Rowena a pointed glance. “I wish I could stay for a time, to keep a keen eye on developments and fidelity here.”

  “Aye, as any good cousin would and should.” Derec stood tall and solid. “Ye must learn to trust as well.”

  “Must I?” James thrust his face close to Derec’s, like a dog ready to bite.

  Derec leaned in. “Indeed, ye must.” A tinge of threat coated his tone. Rowena nearly threw herself between them.

  James huffed and entered Father’s bedchamber. The door closed with a snap.

  Derec whispered to her, “We’ll find out how far he’ll go against me. Mayhap I will pretend to be a gentleman and let him take the lead.”

  * * *

  Over a fortnight later, Daphne tossed flower petals into the air as Rowena left the church on Derec’s arm. She laughed and caught one, soft like silk in her palm. Mrs. Torres-Navarro, bright in a crimson gown with a flounced hem, cheered in Spanish. Being mid-January, the air was cooler, the wind brisk, bouncing the white, sweet alyssum flowers in Rowena’s hair. Mary and her aunt had sewn a simple muslin, peach-colored, closed robe dress for her.

  Rowena carried a fragrant bouquet of herbs, meant to keep away evil spirits.

  Father exited the church and embraced her. He shook Derec’s hand. “Mr. and Mrs. Pritchard.” He eyed Derec closely and raised a finger. “Son, I shall hold you to your promise to take good care of my girl.”

  Derec removed his cocked hat and bowed. He wore a second-hand maroon frock coat and white breeches. “Ye have my word, Sir. ’Tis an honor to marry yer fine sprite of a daughter.”

  “That’s what my husband thinks so far. But he’s wed a seasoned wildcat, not a sprite.” Rowena laughed, leaned into Derec, unable to quite believe they were now married. She glanced down at the gold band on her finger, then at the few people present. James had stayed at the cottage. She wasn’t surprised. He’d made his feelings known more than once. He’d spoken to her father in disgruntled whispers about cancelling this event, but she managed to prevail.

  Derec kissed his new bride on the f
orehead. “So happens I do like wildcats. Especially seasoned ones.”

  “I hope you’ll be happy.” Aunt Elizabeth tugged Rowena aside and kissed her cheek, her words threaded with doubt. She resembled a slender black crow in her widow’s weeds, though she’d gained a few pounds. “I worry for you, dear. And James is deeply concerned as you are well aware.”

  “I am mindful of it. And I’ll try my best to find happiness, that’s all anyone can do.” Rowena embraced her aunt but suppressed her own reservations. Could she keep this man satisfied and cure his urge to roam? Was her own urge stifled for good?

  Sam waited at the cart. He bowed low. “Madam and Sir, your chariot.” He swept out his arm.

  Derec helped her onto the bench. He joined her, squeezing her hand. “Are ye ready for our next step, my love? Or sorry to have married a rogue?”

  “I’m excited for our future. That rogue might only be your cover; nevertheless, now we can misbehave together.” She shrugged off her nerves at the night to come, since they’d never found a chance to be alone near a bed or mound of hay.

  They had spent hours working on the cottage that would be theirs. She must locate cheap, used furniture for her aunt to sand and paint.

  Their wedding breakfast was held at Mrs. Torres-Navarro’s guest house. Despite the scarcity of sugar, the Spanish women managed to bake the traditional dense, spiced wedding cake. After eating, the company departed, leaving the newly married couple to spend the night in more commodious quarters.

  Mrs. Torres-Navarro approached Rowena. “I’m so glad you found yourself a fine, handsome husband.” Their hostess fingered the white lace scarf swathed around her head. “Is your father all right? He was quiet at the church and here.”