Love Thine Enemy

by Louise M. Gouge

  The air smelled fresh and clean, and the fragrance of pine wafted on the breeze. But the sun returned from its two-day absence eager to make up for lost time. It beat down smartly on Frederick’s back as he rode toward town along the leaf-strewn road. Yet he would endure a fiery furnace to reach the mercantile and discover whether the Folgers had suffered any loss from the hurricane. With Mr. Folger there, Frederick had some assurance that the man who started the fires could not cause any further mischief. But until he saw Miss Folger himself, he would feel no peace.

  At the edge of town, he encountered Major Brigham on horseback overseeing the removal of a fallen oak tree lying across the road. The officer hailed him.

  “Moberly, how fares your plantation?” His military demeanor bore not a hint of his former arrogance.

  “Very well, sir. A few repairs are needed, but nothing to complain of. And the garrison?”

  “Likewise.” Brigham reined his horse closer. “You will want to know we have a suspect in the matter of the fires.”

  “Indeed?” Frederick felt an odd mix of disappointment and satisfaction. He would gladly have caught the man himself and seen to his punishment. “Did you apprehend him?”

  “No.” Brigham shook his head. “As we surmised, he fled into the wilderness. But we are confident of his identity. You recall of course the innkeeper’s dead goose.”

  “Buckner.” Frederick spat out the name and felt a mad desire to hunt the man down forthwith.

  “He is the only man unaccounted for in the regiment, and we assume he’s deserted.” Brigham snorted. “Sims reported that Buckner carried a great deal of resentment after the goose incident. He vowed to make everyone pay dearly for his demotion. Vile coward.”

  “And a murderer.”

  “Too bad the man cannot be hanged twice.”

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir.” A soldier carrying an ax approached Brigham.

  “Yes, sergeant.”

  “We’re goin’ta need a winch to haul this tree off the road, sir.” The man brushed sweat from his face. “It’s too big to chop apart so we can clear the road in a timely way.”

  “Very well. See to it.” Brigham turned back to Frederick. “If you’re in agreement, I’ll write letters to the commanders of other garrisons around East Florida to watch for Buckner.”

  Surprised, Frederick took a moment to consider the proposal and the manner in which it was delivered. Brigham had changed much in a short time.

  “Yes, of course. Your signature will carry as much weight as mine in this matter.” Frederick saluted Brigham with his riding crop. “If you need a winch, send someone to the plantation, and Corwin will make mine available.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Brigham nodded his appreciation. “I’ll do that.”

  Frederick took his leave, anxious to tell Miss Folger about Buckner. If the man dared to return to the settlement, she would need protection.

  He left Essex in the shade of an oak tree and walked through a maze of puddles to the store, giving the building a cursory inspection before he stepped up on the narrow wooden porch. Inside, he found the object of his concern and immediately cast aside all worries. Serenity floated on the air with the scent of lavender.

  As lovely as ever, Miss Folger stood behind the counter measuring a length of linen for the customer who stood on the other side. Frederick recognized the woman as a servant indentured to an upriver planter.

  Miss Folger glanced up, and her face brightened. “Good morning, Mr. Moberly. I shall be with you in a moment.”

  The slender servant gasped. “Oh, no, miss. You must help the magistrate. I can wait.”

  “Not at all,” Frederick said. “I’m in no hurry. Complete your transaction.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Miss Folger turned back to the customer.

  The other woman bent near her and muttered something in urgent tones.

  Miss Folger shook her head. “Be at ease, Esther. Unlike other British aristocrats, Mr. Moberly does not insist that the waters should part before him.”

  The woman cocked her head and then glanced at Frederick. “If you’re sure, miss.”

  Miss Folger folded and wrapped the linen. “There. Two dress lengths of brown, one dress length of white and thread to match. Will there be anything else for Mrs. Allen?”

  “No, miss.” The woman gathered her mistress’s purchases and hurried out, but not before casting a nervous glance Frederick’s way.

  Struggling not to laugh, he sauntered to the counter. “So you do not find me an ogre—like most aristocrats?”

  “I’ve not yet made up my mind.” Miss Folger returned a box of snuff to the display case. “It is difficult to change an opinion one has held for a lifetime.”

  He leaned his arms on a small cask on the counter and tilted his head. “And such a terribly long lifetime, too.” Emotion flooded him such as he had never felt for any young lady, but what to name it, he did not know. Surely his face must proclaim his feelings for her, for she blushed and her hands shook as she rewrapped the bolt of linen. He gently gripped them, enjoying the silken feel of her skin. “It is good to see you well and unharmed by the storm.”

  She pulled one hand loose and placed it on top of his. “And you, as well, dear friend.” Her soft rush of words revealed feeling that seemed to match the depth of his own.

  The jingle of the doorbells shattered the sweet moment. Miss Folger quickly freed her hands, but Frederick leaned against the counter and crossed his arms in a tranquil pose. He would not be ashamed of their friendship, even if Father himself should walk through the door.

  Still, he did not wish for anyone to misunderstand his lingering presence. He straightened and sauntered toward the gun display to peruse the small selection. But his gaze frequently turned toward Miss Folger.

  “Good morning, John,” she said to her customer, the settlement’s new wheelwright. “May I help you?”

  Like the woman before him, the young man glanced at Frederick and asked whether he should not be served first.

  “The magistrate is still considering his purchases.” Miss Folger gave the man a reassuring smile. “John, am I correct in assuming congratulations are in order?”

  “Yes, miss.” John grinned broadly. “’Tis our first, a fine, healthy boy.”

  “Do you have a name for him?” Her lovely dark eyes exuded genuine kindness, a rare quality that Frederick found endearing.

  “’Twill be William, if I have my way,” John said. “George, if she has hers.”

  Miss Folger’s merry laugh echoed in Frederick’s heart. “Knowing Mary, I think you will be calling him George.”

  John’s laugh held somewhat less mirth. “’Tis true, miss. But I love ’er all the same, and I’d like to buy her some small gift. Can you suggest anything?”

  “Indeed, I can.” She pulled a tray from beneath the counter. “We have several whalebone items carved by our Mr. Patch. Thimbles, combs, a candlestick and the like.”

  While John hunched over the tray and consulted with Miss Folger, Frederick found himself captured by the scene. This lovely young lady had a grace about her that entirely enchanted him. Like Mother, she did not hold herself above the common man, but treated the wheelwright with the same courtesy she had shown the more prominent guests at Frederick’s party. No arrogance, no hauteur, nothing artificial. Except for his own sister, he had never known a young lady with such a generous demeanor—and good humor, as well.

  While John argued for the practicality of a thimble, Miss Folger insisted his wife deserved nothing less than a pretty comb. In the end, Miss Folger won, but John seemed as pleased as she when he left the store with his purchase.

  Frederick set his elbows on a tall display, rested his chin on his fists and gazed across the room at her. He recalled the tender emotion that had filled him as this delightful creature leaned into his embrace after the fire, thus revealing her trust in him. Now, deep sentiments for her stirred within him, feelings so strong he wondered if he could speak to he
r again without declaring his love. But no, he must wait. Must not play her false. Must examine his emotions to be certain of their depth and nature…and ensure that they would last forever.

  Rachel’s hands shook as she arranged the whalebone carvings in their tray. In the corner of her eye, she saw Mr. Moberly staring at her with twinkling eyes and a half smile, his admiration clear. With her own emotions in such a muddle, she feared even to speak to him again.

  While waiting on John, she had wanted to ask the wheelwright’s opinion of the revolution, but Mr. Moberly’s presence prevented that. Yet she did not want the gentleman to leave. Indeed, recalling how much she had enjoyed his comforting embrace after the fire, she would not have him leave at all. Ever.

  But with all their differences, could they ever truly be friends…or more? Lord, let me not mistake Your leading in this.

  She sent a tentative glance in his direction. “Did you find something of interest, Mr. Moberly?”

  “Indeed, I have found something of interest, Miss Folger. But the price is very dear—far beyond that of rubies.”

  Rachel could think of no response, for doubtless he would indeed pay dearly if they proceeded. Yet neither of them seemed to possess the power to stop. As he approached, she saw the ruddy color in his face was heightened, as hers must be.

  He set one hand on the tray of wares, preventing her from moving it below the counter. “May I look at these? Ah, what fine craftsmanship. You must commend your Mr. Patch for me.”

  “I shall do that.” Inhaling a deep breath, Rachel forced her racing pulse to slow. “Perhaps you would like to purchase something for dear Mrs. Winthrop.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “What an excellent idea. What do you suggest?”

  “This candlestick is quite exquisite, do you not think?” Holding up the round article with a two-masted ship carved on its side, Rachel risked a glance into his dark gray eyes. Her pulse raced again.

  “Perfect.” He took it in hand, brushing her fingers with his, and a pleasant shiver shot up her arm and tickled her neck. “I will take it.”

  While Rachel wrapped the gift, Mr. Moberly stared at her again, while a teasing grin played across his lips.

  She tried to tie twine around the package, but it slipped. “If you expect me to accomplish this, you must stop staring at me.”

  “Never.” He stuck his finger against the string while she completed the task.

  “Thank you.” Rachel continued to stare at the package and prayed for some objective matter to discuss. A memory sparked in her mind, and her prayer became thanks. “For some time, I have wanted to tell you how much I admired your decision about the indentured man who stole the pig.”

  He straightened, and a frown swept over his fine features. “Truly? I still wonder about it.”

  Rachel’s heart reached out to him. He seemed so young to hold the fate of hapless souls in his hands. “You must set your mind at ease. You displayed the wisdom of Solomon, and shame forced the owner to relinquish his demands for punishment, since he could not bear to administer it himself. You were guided by mercy, as our heavenly Father is merciful.”

  His countenance lightened, and he breathed out a long sigh. “Miss Folger, your words have dispelled my anguish. I am grateful.”

  Now she could gaze at him without shyness. In fact, she felt infused with courage. “’Tis nearly noon. Will you join us for our midday meal?”

  “I should like to very much, but duty calls. I must ensure that the rest of the settlement has survived the storm.” He claimed his hat from a nearby display. “And I must examine the ruins of the inn.”

  “Yes, of course.” At the memory of the tragedy, Rachel’s heart hitched. “Dr. Wellsey came to see Sadie early this morning. He suggests that she is not yet well enough to be told of her parents’ deaths.”

  “I am grieved for her.” He glanced away with a grimace. “After our pleasant chat, I despair of telling you this, but I must. Major Brigham has informed me that the culprit is none other than Private Buckner, who sought to steal the Crumps’ goose.”

  “Oh, my.” Rachel shuddered at the memory of the brutal soldier.

  “He fled into the wilderness, and with the weather improved, the entire garrison will search for him. You may rest assured that he will be apprehended. But we all must keep watch for him and prevent him from doing more harm.” Mr. Moberly touched her hand. “I do not think you need to fear.”

  “I promise to be vigilant.”

  But as he walked out the door, Rachel sorted through another muddle of emotions, as her delightful memories of Mr. Moberly’s visit vied with her fear of the murderer who had yet to be apprehended.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Reverend Johnson’s homily certainly suited our town’s recent trials,” Mrs. Winthrop said. “Do you not agree, Mr. Folger?” Seated across from Rachel and Papa in Mr. Moberly’s fine carriage, the lady appeared the picture of serenity.

  “Aye, madam.” Papa’s voice rang with enthusiasm. “The vicar’s passage from the Book of James expresses the thinking that’s guided my life for fifty-two years.”

  Rachel glanced sideways at him, working to keep shock from her expression. In vain she had tried these many years to extract a claim to faith from Papa. Yet Mrs. Winthrop had drawn out his deepest thoughts with a simple question.

  “How so, sir?” Mrs. Winthrop’s lined face seemed smoother as she gazed at him.

  Papa scratched his chin, which lately he had kept clean-shaven, no doubt on Mrs. Winthrop’s account. “As we saw last week and, I’m sure ye’d agree, ofttimes in our years on this earth, our lives truly are vapors that appear for a short time and then vanish away. A man’d be a fool to presume his own plan to buy and sell and get gain was equal to divine will.”

  While he and Mrs. Winthrop turned their conversation from the sermon to other matters, Rachel eased back into her seat and looked ahead, where Mr. Moberly and Mr. Corwin rode horseback side by side, leading the way to the plantation. Papa’s response had not been what she had hoped for, but it did reveal something new. At least he believed God existed. She offered up a silent prayer that Mrs. Winthrop would draw him closer to the Almighty.

  Traces of delightful aromas—baked chicken and peach pie—met them as they came around the familiar stand of palm trees, and Rachel’s stomach rumbled softly. Smoke from the kitchen house sent a gauzy curtain over their view, but a breeze from the east soon unveiled the elegant white mansion. Today, the front columns wore no festive bunting, and no slaves worked the distant fields. Rachel did, however, see uniformed black servants out front awaiting the arrival of their master and his party.

  Did Mr. Moberly provide church services for those who worked his fields and cooked his meals? Did he grant them at least part of each Sunday as a Sabbath rest, according to Scripture as Papa did for Inez? Now her heart rumbled in rhythm with her stomach, and her mind churned with more questions, especially regarding overseers and chains. If Mr. Moberly could not answer them to her satisfaction, she must find a way to silence forever the siren call of…friendship that sang both night and day in her heart.

  Oh, why was she using that word? What she felt for dear Mr. Moberly was far more than friendship. It was nothing less than the painful pangs of love.

  Yet as she stepped from the carriage, climbed the front steps, and walked through the mansion’s red front door on Mr. Moberly’s arm, she felt as if she were coming home—a bewildering sensation.

  Inside, familiar servants stood ready to attend to every need of their master’s guests. The same sweet little slave girl sat in the dining room corner waving a large palm branch to direct the indifferent breeze drifting in through two tall windows.

  Seated with the others at the dining room table, Rachel surrendered to her appetite and enjoyed the many courses the servants set before her. She noticed with interest that no trace of fear or unhappiness could be found on any of their faces, a credit to their master. Did they yearn for freedom beneath their placid s
miles? Uncovering their true opinions would be difficult.

  After many light pleasantries, Papa eyed Mr. Moberly. “Tell me, sir, have ye discovered the identity of the man who’s trying to stir up trouble in the tavern?”

  Rachel choked on her rice. Should Papa discover the patriot, surely he would not betray the man, despite his indifference to the cause.

  “Unfortunately, no.” Mr. Moberly buttered a piece of bread. “But we continue to get reports of his appearances at the oddest times and places.”

  “Well,” Papa said, “I’ve been keeping an eye out for him amongst my customers, but no stout, red-bearded man’s come in the store.”

  “We are grateful for your vigilance,” Mr. Moberly said. “But in truth, I do not believe he has found any sympathizers for the rebels’ cause.”

  “True, true.” Papa savored a bite of chicken. “We shouldn’t have to contend with the likes of him when we’ve got renegade soldiers starting fires.”

  “Mr. Folger,” Mrs. Winthrop said, “you and your daughter have been so kind to take in Sadie and her son.” Her eyes soft with sympathy, she turned to Rachel. “Who is caring for them today?”

  “Our servant, Inez.” Rachel served herself a second helping of greens from the bowl held by a liveried slave. “She’s very good with both mother and child and willingly gave up her Sunday morning off to attend to their needs.”

  “What a comfort.” Mrs. Winthrop looked at Mr. Moberly. “What is to be done with the little boy if Sadie does not recover?”

  “Can you not guess, madam?” Papa set down his food-laden fork. “Rachel and I will care for the lad.”

  Mrs. Winthrop’s face seemed to glow with beatific beauty. “Why, sir, that is more than generous.”

  “Indeed, it is.” Mr. Moberly gave Rachel a merry grin. “He’s an active little scamp. Do you not tire of chasing him?” His well-formed lips gave way to a teasing grin.