“You may be surprised to learn that Papa keeps little Robby out of mischief more than I do and enjoys every minute of it.”
“’Tis no more tiring than gamboling with my eldest daughter’s little ones.” Papa grinned broadly, then sobered. “Too many years was I out to sea chasing whales while my daughters grew up without me. Should need arise, I’ll be a father to the boy and rear him, as I did Captain Templeton.” Papa’s eyes shone with feeling, and Rachel knew he missed Jamie. But she acknowledged sweet surprise at hearing of his regrets over missing much of her childhood.
“Then the boy will be well reared, sir.” Mr. Moberly gave Papa an approving nod. “I must tell you, however, I asked Major Brigham to send word to Sadie’s husband about the tragedy. With the insurrection in the northern colonies, it may be some time before he replies to advise us about any relatives in England. Until then, we must pray God’s mercy for this family, that they might not suffer another loss.”
“Amen,” Papa said.
Rachel pursed her lips and concentrated on eating the aromatic, spicy greens on her plate. Perhaps her prayers had been answered. Perhaps the fire had changed Papa’s thoughts about trusting the Lord. As for Mr. Moberly’s encouragement to pray, how could it mean anything other than that he was a Christian who sought to do God’s will?
After dinner, the party stepped outside for an afternoon stroll. Papa and Mrs. Winthrop lagged behind while Rachel took Mr. Moberly’s offered arm with gratitude, for many roots and rocks covered the unfamiliar ground.
The East Florida skies were filled with wispy, meandering clouds and not a hint of rain. The scent of oranges filled the air, and the oyster-shell pathways crunched beneath their feet. Beside the unpainted shacks in the slave quarters, men, women and children tended private gardens or hung laundry they had washed in the stream. Around many of the humble homes, youthful slaves swept the sandy brown earth into tidy patterns with pine bows. Here and there, pansies and marigolds flourished in broken crockery or little wooden boxes.
As Rachel and Mr. Moberly walked past the humble homes, the slaves stopped their work to offer a respectful greeting. To each one, Mr. Moberly responded kindly and by name, the latter of which Rachel regarded as a remarkable accomplishment. She clasped his arm more firmly, a gesture that must have pleased him, for he set his hand over hers as they continued their walk.
“Shall we visit the springhouse?” He pointed toward a pathway meandering through the pine forest. Overhead, tree branches met to shield them from the harsh summer heat.
“Yes. I would like that.” Rachel glanced behind to see Papa and Mrs. Winthrop walking arm in arm, their heads tilted toward one another as if they were old friends.
“They will follow.” Mr. Moberly squeezed her hand. “Mrs. Winthrop is exacting in matters of propriety. She’ll not permit us to go unchaperoned.” He glanced behind them. “And I’m sure your father is of the same mind.”
Rachel nodded her agreement. Papa had come close to calling Charles out—with a harpoon, no less—when he began courting her sister Susanna. But he had never mentioned Mr. Moberly’s attention toward her. Surely after today, Papa would perceive the depth of their mutual interest.
When they reached the springhouse, Mr. Moberly led Rachel to a little arbor woven of tender oak branches. She sat on a cushioned cast-iron bench while he fetched cups of water. After the first tasty sip, she inhaled a deep breath, knowing she could no longer put off the inevitable conversation. She considered several ways to begin but found none satisfactory.
“Is it all right?” Mr. Moberly lifted his own cup. “Seems good. The servants are instructed to keep leaves and other debris from the cistern.”
Rachel’s heart leapt. A perfect opening. “Why, yes, it’s every bit as delicious as before. But forgive me, sir. Do you not mean ‘slaves’ instead of ‘servants’?”
Seated beside her, he blinked in the most charming way, and she could not help but notice how his black eyelashes enhanced the appeal of his dark gray eyes.
“What an interesting question.” He placed one finger against his chin in a thoughtful pose.
The pleasant fragrance of his shaving balm threatened to undo her senses. She detected the scent of bergamot and perhaps a bit of petitgrain. “Had you never considered it?” she managed to ask.
“Cannot say I ever have. But that is not to say I should not.” He sat back against the arbor wall, extended his legs and crossed his arms. With a winsome grin, he added, “I shall consider anything you wish, dear lady.”
Heat rushed to her face, as much from annoyance as from the pleasantness of his being close to her.
“Thank you. For I have many questions to ask you.”
“Many?” His eyebrows arched. “Then let us begin.”
She bit her lip to keep from smiling. “I am in earnest, Mr. Moberly.”
Amusement disappeared from his face. “Forgive me. Please proceed.”
She gazed beyond the bower opening to see Papa and Mrs. Winthrop seated on the cistern’s wide coquina wall. From his broad gestures, she could tell Papa was relating one of his whaling adventures. The two of them spoke together easily. Perhaps that came with age, for they certainly had not known one another long enough for familiarity to have engendered such harmony. Or perhaps it was because neither of them demonstrated a passion as strong as Rachel’s for matters that ate at her soul.
With a quick breath, she stared up at Mr. Moberly, noting against her will how his softened expression enhanced his handsome features. “Sir, I despise slavery of any sort. When my Quaker ancestors settled on Nantucket Island, they vowed before God that they would never enslave a person of any race or gender or age. While some of us have left the Society of Friends, we have not lost our hatred of slavery.”
“Ah.” He uncrossed his arms and placed his hands on his knees, while understanding filled his eyes. “I see. And so, of course, you are concerned about the slaves who work my plantation.”
“Yes.” Her answer came out in a breathless rush.
He seemed not to notice but, rather, studied the ground at his feet as if thinking over her words. “It may surprise you to know my mother shares your sentiments.” He looked away and broke off a green twig from the arbor’s latticed wall. “Father, of course, remains detached from all his New World enterprises so long as they are prosperous.”
Hope surged through Rachel. “But how do you regard the matter?”
“I am my father’s agent, Miss Folger. I must do his will just as my servants…slaves must do mine. That is, if we are to make this plantation a success.” His firm tone conveyed no displeasure, only that to him his statements were simple facts.
Rachel’s pulse pounded. Could he hear it? “Success means much to you, then?”
He sat up, and his eyes widened. “Why, of course. What man worth his daily bread does not seek to succeed?” His lips twitched with merriment, and her pulse increased. “Perhaps you are aware that in England younger sons do not inherit any portion of entailed estates, as my father’s is. Therefore, we must make our own way in the world.”
“Yes, you mentioned something to that effect the day we met.”
“I am honored you recall my words.”
Rachel gave him a sly look. “’Twas merely good business. You were a new customer and an important one. I took care to remember.” Someday she would confess she had disliked him that day simply for being English.
“Ah.” He chuckled. “A commendable habit if one wishes to—dare I say it?—succeed.”
“Humph.” She could not quite pucker away her smile. “I was merely tending to my father’s interests.”
“Of course,” he murmured. “That is something I fully understand.”
Somehow she must turn the conversation back to the slaves. But before she could begin, he inhaled as if about to speak, and so she waited.
“Lately, I have felt an even stronger desire than before to prove myself.” He seized another twig and twirled it between his thum
b and forefinger. “May I tell you why?”
“Certainly. I shall keep your secret.”
“Can you not guess, Miss Folger? If I continue to do well for my father, he can have fewer objections to our…oh, bother, I’m weary of calling this a ‘friendship’ when to me it is nothing short of a courtship.” He sat back as if disconcerted, and his face was flushed, as if he were embarrassed. “There.” He tossed the twig to the ground. “I’ve laid my heart bare before you. Do with it as you will.”
Compassion filled her, along with the desire to reveal her own heart. But caution swept unbidden into her mind. “Sir, I shall always regard your heart as worthy of the tenderest care.”
He stared at the ground and frowned, his disappointment evident. “I have spoken too hastily. Forgive me.”
“Not at all.” Rachel set her hand on his forearm. “I would but remind you there are differences in our opinions on certain essential matters. Such disparities do not make tranquil marriages. Did we not agree to discuss these things?”
His brow furrowed. “Yes, we did. Again, forgive me.” He ran his hand through his hair, loosening several black strands from his queue. He brushed them back behind his ear. The ever-present stray curl graced his noble brow and enhanced his charm. “Tell me what concerns you. The slavery issue, of course. What else?”
“The revolution.”
“The—? Ah, yes. The revolution.” He stared out of the arbor with a dark frown. But he sent her a playful glance. “Now, really, Miss Folger. Do not tell me you are the red-bearded agitator trying to incite rebellion in our midst.”
She smirked. “If only I could be.” She dismissed her levity. “We…that is, the thirteen northern colonies mean to have their independence from England.” She swallowed. “And had I not been forced to come here with Papa, I would be in Boston doing everything in my power to help their grand cause.”
Dismay filled his eyes for a moment, and he gave her a sad smile. “I would expect nothing less from you, brave lady that you are. And so we have much to consider, do we not?”
Rachel bent her head in agreement, but a knot filled her chest at the thought of losing his regard because of their differences. Would it truly come to that?
Chapter Sixteen
He had not meant to declare himself to her. What had incited him to such an extreme? Her eyes, of course. Those dark questioning eyes that made him turn to soft butter inside. Those inviting lips, which had tempted him nearly to distraction as he sat close to her in the arbor. That pert little nose, which wiggled in the most charming way when she spoke with passion about her interests. The scent of her lavender perfume, the modest cut of her gown that nonetheless enhanced her feminine form.
Frederick exhaled a happy sigh at the memory of her seated later at the pianoforte, enchanting the entire household with her exquisite playing. Despite months away from an instrument, she had quickly regained her skills. What an accomplished young lady.
He sat in his library with both feet propped on the desk, a pose that had earned him more than one scolding from Father. But somehow the earl’s specter seemed less ominous than before. Now Miss Folger’s image pervaded his every thought, his every feeling. His desire for her approval had begun to weigh more heavily upon him. While not quite supplanting Father, she had nearly attained preeminence. But pleasing her might turn out to be every whit as difficult.
Managing the plantation without slaves was a preposterous notion, of course, but somehow he must convince her of his kindly intentions toward his workers. Perhaps he could convince her of the good she herself could do for the slaves as the plantation’s mistress, much like Mother’s ministrations to the villagers near Bennington Manor.
As for the foolish rebellion up north, he had no doubt that would soon be quashed. A farmers’ militia had no chance against trained British forces, and the colonists had no navy to fight His Majesty’s unparalleled fleet. Frederick had not meant to deceive Miss Folger in regard to his opinions about the conflict, merely to diffuse her concerns about his feelings. Of course, he could never say so, but soon enough their differences would be settled by the course of history. He only hoped her friends up north wouldn’t suffer for their participation in that rebellious cause.
With her departure, he felt the ache of missing her presence mingled with hope that they could soon resolve everything. If only he could comprehend her thinking and satisfy her concerns.
“Ah! Of course,” he exclaimed.
Frederick rose from his desk and strode to the bookshelf. From behind John Milton’s Paradise Lost, he retrieved A Declaration of Rights and Grievances. His fingers touched the pamphlet, and he had to force himself back to the desk rather than to the fireplace to burn the seditious paper. He read it over in a few minutes and wondered about its implications.
Everyone had known for some time of the difficulties in the dissenting colonies. Father would rant about it from time to time, especially after a session of Parliament. Undoubtedly, the earl had been one of those who had voted in favor of the choking restrictions placed on Massachusetts Bay. But now that Frederick had settled in the New World, he found the punishments leveled against the colonists to be harsh in the extreme, despite their throwing a shipload of tea into the Boston Harbor in ’73. Many times he himself had longed to lodge a protest against the taxes on the plantation’s produce, but Father would permit no complaints against His Majesty.
“Interesting reading?” Oliver appeared in the doorway, and his gaze shot to the pamphlet. He sauntered across the eight feet from door to desk as Frederick struggled to fold it with nonchalance.
“Merely passing the time.” Frederick opened the desk drawer, put the document inside and then casually closed the drawer. Later he would place it where Oliver would never find it.
Oliver sat down and lounged in a wingback chair in front of the desk. He leveled a smug look at Frederick. “So you’ve fallen for the little Nantucket wench.”
Rage shot through Frederick. Leaning forward, he clenched his fists on the desk and glared at Oliver. “If you use that word to describe her again, I shall call you out.”
Oliver blinked and frowned. “Now, now, Freddy, no need for anger. I’ll call her whatever you wish.” He studied his fingernails, then stared at the ceiling. “Except Mrs. Moberly.”
Frederick sat back, grasping for the appearance of calm while his emotions stormed within. “Suit yourself. There will be no need for any form of addressing her when you’ve returned to London.” The quaver in his voice betrayed him.
Oliver’s face flamed red clear up to his ears. “When my letter reaches Lord Bennington, you will be the one who returns to London.”
Frederick went cold for the briefest moment. But the warmth returning to his chest was not anger, rather, an odd reassurance. So Oliver had indeed written the letter, and Father would soon know about Miss Folger. So be it. Let the dice fall as they would. He had not yet crossed the Rubicon, but the bridge was in sight.
“Why did you come in here, Ollie?” Frederick used the name he had called this former friend in childhood. Alas, when had they ceased to be friends?
Oliver smirked. “I thought you should know that I have written to Lord Bennington about your courtship.” Sarcasm laced his tone.
Frederick drummed his fingers on the desk. “Oh, my friend, what makes you think I have not sent a letter to Father, as well? Did you think I would let him continue to regard me as a wastrel when in truth I have discovered proof of your dipping into plantation funds?” Despising the tremor of anger in his voice, he focused on his quill pen and raised his gaze only when he could speak in a tranquil tone. “My father is no fool. He will quickly discern your purpose in accusing me of impropriety.”
“Do you think he will believe you, since you have showed such poor judgment in regard to other matters?” With a snort, Oliver stood and walked to the window, from whence he sent a sneering grin over his shoulder. “Besides, it is not as if I have absconded with the money. I have merely h
eld it in trust for you against the day when you overspend and have need of it.”
“Ha!” The tension in Frederick’s chest burst free. “If that is true, then return it to me with a full accounting of your expenditures.”
Oliver stared out the window. “And if I do not?”
Once again, Frederick drummed his fingers on the desk. “I do not wish to discredit you to my father. However, you have already betrayed me, and I think it only fair—”
“I have not ‘betrayed’ you…yet.”
“But your letter?” Hope sprang up once more.
“Awaiting the next shipment to Lord Bennington.” Oliver coughed out a mirthless laugh. “Surely you don’t think I would be fool enough to entrust it to just any merchant vessel, do you?”
“Ah. I see. So no harm has truly been done.” Frederick permitted a wave of jubilation to flow through him. “Oliver, let us put aside all this foolish rancor between us. There is no reason we cannot help each other achieve our desired goals.” He offered him a genial grin. “Give me the money and the letter, and I shall help you devise a satisfactory future for yourself.”
Oliver crossed his arms and clenched his teeth. “I suppose you mean away from St. Johns Settlement.”
“Do you not agree that would be best?”
Oliver puffed out a mild snort. “I shall give it some thought.” But as he left the room, the sly narrowing of his eyes did nothing to reassure Frederick.
Rachel stood inside the kitchen house door. “How is Sadie?”
“Shh. We must speak softly.” Inez tilted her head toward the cot where Robby lay asleep. “She slept well through the night. I think the lemonade made this possible.”
“I’m glad. Mr. Moberly sent a generous portion, for Dr. Wellsey is convinced that lemon can heal fever.” Rachel lifted Sadie’s sheet to inspect her injuries, but shuddered at the blackened, peeling skin visible at the edges of the fresh bandages.
“Ah. Mr. Moberly.” Inez gave Rachel a sidelong look. “A very kind man, sí?”
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