Love Thine Enemy

by Louise M. Gouge

  “Did I speak amiss?” He touched her shoulder.

  Startled, she spun around. He was so close she could smell his shaving balm, a heady bergamot scent.

  He pulled back his hand as if burned. “Ah, forgive me.”

  “No, no, I am not offended.” Not at all. In fact, his touch had bestowed further reassurance on her. “I thought perhaps you were…that you thought—”

  “I would never think anything but the best of you, Miss Folger.” He seized her hand. “I can only hope to be worthy of the same consideration in return.” He bent forward and held her fingers to his lips for a half second beyond propriety. When he straightened, his gaze sent a wave of joy through her.

  He released her hand and put on his hat. “I must go now.” His voice was husky, but also a bit playful. Then he turned and strode toward the door, stopping there to glance over his shoulder. “Until Sunday, Miss Folger.” Then he was gone.

  “Until Sunday,” she whispered. But her heart shouted with happiness.

  A wild whoop burst from Frederick, unbidden and unbridled. He kicked his heels against Essex’s sides and bent forward in the saddle as the stallion leaped into a gallop. People on the street—workmen, soldiers, servants on errands—gawked, but he shook off concern. Let them think their magistrate was mad, for he was. Mad with love.

  Love? Was he ready to call this wild exhilaration love? Inner voices advised caution, the caution that had always saved his neck and kept him from getting into scrapes like his older brothers. But happiness clamored for preeminence, for mastery. And for once in his life, he would rip caution from his soul and cast it to the wind, as the roadway sand was dug out and tossed aside by Essex’s hooves.

  Another impulse seized him. He would find some rare gift to present to Miss Folger, something to delight her. But where could he find such a gift? Mrs. Winthrop would have to help him find something appropriate. Perhaps Captain Templeton would bring such a gift in his London cargo.

  Laughter seized him. What an adventure this would be, this courtship. He’d seen merriment in the young lady’s eyes and knew she was a cheerful soul. They would laugh together. Real laughter such as he had never known, except when he and Marianne had played about the manor house as children.

  Dear Marianne. She would love Rachel. Perhaps he should write his sister and beg her support in this matter. Marianne was a romantic soul and determined to marry for love. Perhaps she would understand his plight and sway Father, who always gave her whatever she asked for.

  Father. The thought of him sobered Frederick, and he tugged on Essex’s reins. As the stallion slowed his pace, Frederick’s pulse slowed, as well. For a brief half hour, if that long, he had managed to forget his father. Where he had savored the refreshing fragrance of magnolia blossoms, he now smelled his own sweat and that of his hard-run horse, pleasantness supplanted by reality. But he would not draw back. Some force perhaps even stronger than the fear of Father had gripped him, and he would not lightly dismiss it.

  Yesterday during church, as the congregants repeated the general confession, Frederick had asked God’s forgiveness for almost kissing Miss Folger. The assurance that filled him gave him confidence to ask the Lord’s favor in pursuing the young lady. Today’s events could be nothing less than proof of God’s approval of that pursuit.

  If only he did not have to confront Oliver this evening, he could have stayed for tea with Miss Folger. He had many questions to ask her. Did she like to read? If so, what sort of books? What did she think of the turmoil in the northern colonies? Would she be interested in traveling to Europe? He could imagine a wedding trip to his maternal grandfather’s villa in Tuscany. Could see her dipping her toes into the Mediterranean Sea. Could hear her melodious voice squeal with delight over every new adventure. Would that these fantasies might be fulfilled.

  But first he must contend with the reality of Oliver’s betrayals.

  Consumed with that objective, he could barely keep his peace during supper. He did not mind addressing the subject of the mismanagement of the books in front of Dr. Wellsey. In fact, he might need the good physician for support. But Cousin Lydie should not be subjected to such a conversation, especially if things turned out badly. Fortified by prayer, he plunged ahead with the distasteful task.

  “Oliver.” He used a sober tone. “I should like to see you in my study after supper.”

  A sneer curled Oliver’s upper lip. “You sound like your father. Have I been a bad boy?”

  Cousin Lydie gasped softly.

  Dr. Wellsey gaped. “Now, really, Corwin.”

  Frederick sent the doctor a look, and tilted his head in the direction of the hallway, hoping the usually preoccupied man would understand. He was rewarded with a narrowing of the doctor’s eyes and a slight nod.

  Few words were spoken for the rest of the meal, and in short time, the men had gathered in Frederick’s study. He sat behind his desk and indicated two chairs for the others.

  “Oliver, I won’t waste your time or mine. We have been friends since boyhood. My father thought well enough of you to send you to Florida as my companion.” At Oliver’s continued sneer, Frederick emitted an ironic laugh. “In truth, Lord Bennington felt that I needed your assistance in managing the plantation finances.”

  A flicker of some sort crossed Oliver’s face. Apprehension? Guilt? But he sat back, arms crossed. “What of it? You’ve always been a spendthrift. Someone has to tighten the purse strings.”

  “Tighten them, perhaps. Not dip into that purse and help yourself.” Without proof of theft, Frederick could only imply wrongdoing to see Oliver’s reaction.

  Eyes wide and mouth hanging open, Oliver appeared to be rendered mute. Yet the darting of his eyes told Frederick that the other man’s mind was working. “Are you calling me a thief?”

  Frederick shrugged. “If you are blameless, you won’t mind my examining the discrepancies in my bookkeeping and yours.” He casually repositioned his ink bottle and quill. “Further, we should discuss a certain letter to you from Lord Bennington that accidentally found its way to my desk. Oh, and I shall need to have your keys until this matter is fully examined.”

  Shaking with rage, Oliver stood and leaned over the desk. “My, my, aren’t we getting bold. Little Freddy takes charge of the plantation.”

  Long accustomed to deflecting his brothers’ taunts, Frederick nonetheless barely managed to keep his hands relaxed. He ached to stand and smash his fist into Oliver’s scorn-filled face. Instead, he leaned forward with his forearms resting on the desk and stared up at his lifelong friend. “Yes, in fact, I am taking charge. Will you take these matters to heart? Or shall I simply send you home straightaway with a letter of dismissal?”

  With a distasteful curse, Oliver retrieved his set of household keys from his jacket and slammed them down on the desk. “You will not take this position away from me. I will appeal to Lord Bennington, and then we shall see who prevails, especially when I tell him of your dalliance with a certain shopkeeper’s daughter.” He spun around and strode from the room. In a moment, the back door banged shut, jarring the paintings on the walls.

  Dr. Wellsey stood and stared at Frederick. “I thought for a moment I might have to step into the middle of a fight.” He released an unsteady breath. “Thank the Lord for your cool head.”

  Frederick shook his not-so-cool head. “I don’t know what’s become of him. Perhaps he has always been this way but managed to hide it.” He waved Dr. Wellsey back to his chair. “Can you think of any reason for his changes?”

  Seated again, the physician pulled his lips into a thin line and gazed toward the night-darkened window. “Of course you know he suspects Lord Bennington of being his father.”

  Nausea leaped into Frederick’s throat, and he rested his forehead on his hands. In all their years together, how had he failed to comprehend the source of Oliver’s torment? Such a vile, wicked lie. Wasn’t it? Mad doubts stretched across his mind, followed apace by the urgent need to defend Father’s
honor. “Preposterous. And I am certain we will have no difficulty proving it.”

  “Even if it were true, what has he to gain by discrediting you? Our English law prevents his inheriting anything.”

  “True.” Frederick drummed his fingers on the desk. “But, should I be removed from my positions here, he could convince Father that he is the perfect replacement for me.”

  The back door slammed again, and soon Oliver raced into the room. “Fire! Fire in the settlement.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “Rachel!” Papa dashed up the stairs with energy that belied his age. “The inn’s going up in a blaze.”

  Her heart racing, Rachel set aside her mending and sprung up from the settee.

  Papa paused to gasp a few hurried breaths. “Shut the windows. The wind might shift our way, and the smoke’ll ruin everything it touches.”

  “Yes, Papa.” Rachel hastened to the front windows, catching the scent of smoke as she shoved the lower panes into place.

  “I’m going now,” he called from the top of the stairs.

  “I’ll come, too.” Rachel started toward her room to change into an old dress.

  “No. Stay here.”

  “But perhaps I can help.”

  “There’ll be nothing for women to do.” He spoke in his sharp captain’s voice. “You’ll get in the way.” He ran down the steps, losing for a moment his limping gait.

  Rachel clamped her lips together to keep from answering crossly. Of course she could help—somehow. After she closed the windows upstairs and down, she locked the shop door and hastened out into the night. After a quick glance into the empty kitchen house, she guessed Inez had already gone to help.

  Her pulse pounding, she lifted her skirts and ran toward the inn. Even from a hundred yards away, she could see the bright orange glow that lit every front window and the tongues of fire that reached out from under the eaves to lick the shingled roof. Without doubt, the inn would soon be burned to the ground.

  Rachel permitted herself a moment of relief that she and Papa had removed all their belongings. But poor Mr. Crump and his family would no doubt lose everything.

  A throng of settlers—both men and women—hastened toward the conflagration. Most watched in horror, but Rachel saw a few brave men cautiously venture near enough to retrieve items of value: an oxen yoke, a harness, a wooden tray, a pewter pitcher. Screams and cries rose up in discord against the roaring crackle of the flames. Terrified animals shrieked as men released them from the livestock pens and herded them away.

  Soldiers had cast off their red coats and formed a bucket line from the creek to the building. Papa joined them and, with powerful arms that had harpooned many a whale, flung the contents of the pails to quench the raging blaze.

  Her own arms aching to help, Rachel searched for a useful task. The acrid smoke filled her lungs, and she moved upwind to the back of the building. There, she looked up in horror to see Sadie standing immobile inside an open window holding her baby.

  “Sadie,” Rachel cried, “come down. Oh, do come down.” But even as she screamed out the words, she knew it would be impossible, for the stairs were surely on fire. “Jump, Sadie, jump!” Her heart twisted as she saw the flames behind the mother and infant.

  “Sadie, girl!” A soldier appeared beside Rachel. “You’ve got to jump. Come on, now, be a brave lass. We’re here to catch you.”

  “She’s scared to move,” another soldier said.

  “Sadie, Sadie,” the first man shouted. “Toss me the boy. Don’t let him burn.”

  “She can’t even hear you,” the other soldier said.

  “Bring a wagon, Henry,” shouted the first soldier. “Bring something. I’ve gotta climb up.”

  “It can’t be done, Bertie,” Henry said. “There’s no time. The whole place’ll soon collapse.”

  With a dark scowl, Bertie grabbed his friend’s shirt. “Will you look Rob in the eye and say you didn’t try to save his wife and son?”

  “All right, then. I’ll get something.” He dashed away.

  “Sadie!” Rachel screamed out her name again. “Drop Robby down to us. Please, Sadie.” A sob caught in her throat. Dear God, please make her hear us. She found a rock and threw it as hard as she could, but it fell far short of the window.

  “Yes, that’s the idea.” Bertie also grabbed a rock and flung it, striking a glass pane with a loud whack.

  Sadie jerked, then glanced back at the flames and screamed. “Mercy. Dear God, have mercy.” She knelt by the open window’s lower half. “Miss Folger, my baby!”

  “Let him go, Sadie,” Bertie called. “I’ll catch him. I swear I will.”

  Weeping hysterically, Sadie pushed the terrified child out the window. He clawed for her as she held him at arm’s length. With an agonizing cry, she shoved him away from the building but clutched at the air an instant after he left her fingers. “Robby!”

  The screaming infant landed in Bertie’s able arms. The soldier handed him to Rachel, then gripped her shoulders. “Take the boy to safety.” He gave her a little shove toward the road.

  “Yes, of course.” With one last look at Sadie, one more prayer for her to be saved, too, Rachel clutched the wailing child and retreated from the roaring fire. Her heart screamed at the unfolding horror, but she forced herself to coo reassurances to Robby.

  As she rounded the building, five soldiers bustled past, rolling a large shipping barrel, with Major Brigham in their wake. As they passed her, Rachel turned back to watch.

  “Put the barrel against the wall,” Brigham ordered in terse tones. “Banks, Carter, Smith, steady it.” He stared up at Sadie, who now lay draped halfway out of the window. “Sims, Martin, climb up and bring her down.” His stern expression bore not a hint of his former arrogance.

  Henry and Bertie climbed on the barrel and braced their feet against their comrades’ shoulders, forming a pyramid. Stretching their bodies upward beyond natural reach, they none too gently pulled Sadie through the window. As they lowered her to the ground, smoke billowed from her skirt and petticoats, and her leather shoes and long auburn hair smoldered.

  Major Brigham pulled off his jacket and smothered the flames in her skirts, while another soldier found a bucket of water to douse her hair. The soldier named Bertie pulled off her ruined shoes and cast them aside.

  “Move her away from the building.” Brigham pointed toward the road.

  The entire troop ran thirty yards to a place of relative safety, with Sadie bobbing limply in the arms of two soldiers.

  Rachel followed and watched, praying all the while. With a whimpering babe in her arms, she could do no more. Unconscious, Sadie moaned and cried out.

  A thunderous roar sounded behind them, followed by a blast of heat. A hundred terrified cries filled the air. Rachel fell to her knees, managing not to drop Robby, then turned back to see the crowds running from the collapsed building. Fed by splintered wood, the fire once again roared out its fury. All the people moved a safe distance away. There they inspected themselves and their neighbors for injury. Cries of pain pierced the night.

  Blackened and breathing heavily, Papa stood among the other helpers watching the disaster play itself out. Inez emerged from the throng and hastened to Rachel and helped her up.

  “Señorita Folger! Are you well?”

  Rachel nodded. “Yes, but Sadie isn’t.” She glanced toward the girl. “We must take care of her, Inez.”

  “Sí. God would have us do this.” Inez moved to where Bertie, Henry and Brigham still knelt beside Sadie. “Señors, you have done your job.” Her grandmotherly tone held a hint of authority. “Now you take this pobre madrecita, the poor little mother, to my kitchen house where I can care for her.”

  “Indeed?” Brigham glared at Inez. He glanced at Rachel, and his sneer relaxed. “Miss Folger?”

  “Yes, of course. We’ll take responsibility for her.” She glanced over her shoulder.

  The bucket line reformed and made progress in dousing the outer
edges of the blaze. Three soldiers who had helped with Sadie hurried to join them.

  “Major Brigham.” Rachel’s eyes stung with tears and soot, and her lungs felt as if they might burst. “Do you know…where the Crumps are?”

  A sad, almost kindly expression filled his eyes, and he shook his head.

  Comprehending his meaning, Rachel groaned. But she shuddered away her feelings. Robby had fallen asleep in her arms, and she would not waken him by weeping for the deaths of his grandparents.

  “Mr. Sims, Mr. Martin,” she said to the soldiers. “You saved Sadie’s and Robby’s lives. You were very brave.”

  Bertie Martin shook his head. “No, miss, ’twas yourself. If we hadn’t heard you cryin’ out, we’d’ve never known she was still in there. We never saw her in the window when we checked around back.”

  “Well done, men,” Major Brigham said. “Well done, Miss Folger. I shall write of your courageous actions in my reports to the magistrate and the governor.” He started back to the fire. “You men carry the girl to Miss Folger’s store and make haste to return.”

  The soldiers lifted Sadie and followed Rachel and Inez home. The smoke set all of them to coughing. But the wind had not shifted, and the small party soon moved beyond the worst of the choking air.

  “Señorita Folger, will you let me carry the child?” Inez’s slumped posture revealed her exhaustion.

  “No, Inez, I can manage.” In truth, Rachel could not bear to surrender her precious burden, though he seemed to grow heavier with each step she took.

  “Ah!” Inez cried out, her eyes round and white in her soot-covered face. “Another fire.”

  “Miss Folger,” one soldier shouted, “it’s your store.”

  Frederick’s stomach knotted as he rode hard toward the settlement, with Corwin and Dr. Wellsey close behind him. During the three-mile journey, he mentally checked off the list of orders he had given at the outset of Corwin’s alarm. Mrs. Winthrop was to wake Cook and have her prepare food for those who would fight the fire. His overseer would assemble the male slaves least likely to run away to come help in the settlement. Frederick ordered Dr. Wellsey to bring his bag and tend the injured. But amidst it all, he had only one prayer: Dear God, please don’t let it be the Folgers’ mercantile.