Love Thine Enemy

by Louise M. Gouge

  Frederick paced the wooden floor, trying to make sense of all that had happened while he was away. Mrs. Winthrop had related the horrifying news of Mr. Folger’s snakebite, but she made no mention of Rachel’s leaving. This news would break his cousin’s gentle heart.

  He stopped beside the bed, his mind torn between wanting to shake more information from Mr. Folger and sending for Dr. Wellsey to be certain the old man was indeed improving.

  Feeling as if someone had sliced open his chest and ripped out his heart, Frederick dropped into a bedside chair and lifted his hands in supplication. “Sir, I implore you to tell me the reason she left. Did she fear I would not forgive her for harboring the deserter?” He stood and paced, then reclaimed the chair. “We agreed we must talk about our differences regarding the revolution. Why would she leave before we could do that?”

  Mr. Folger shrugged. “Ye knew of her devotion to that cause. Did ye think she would lightly abandon it?”

  Frederick ran a hand through his hair, loosening several strands from the queue. “I know you have no interest in the conflict, sir, but I do. Rachel’s passion for it has forced me to examine the issues more deeply.” He paused, wondering how much to trust Mr. Folger. “This second trip to St. Augustine was…enlightening.”

  Mr. Folger’s eyes flickered. He yawned and stretched. “Yer pardon. These past few days, I’m not myself.”

  Shame filled Frederick. “Forgive me. I will take my leave and let you rest.” He stood and walked toward the door.

  “Sit down, boy.” Mr. Folger’s hoarse tone resounded with authority.

  Frederick did as he ordered. “Yes, sir.”

  “As ye said, Rachel’s passion for the revolution makes a man think, that and my comin’ near to death’s door. Mayhap I’ve been a coward not to choose sides. What think ye?”

  Frederick stared into the old whaler’s dark brown eyes, searching for some indication of his opinion. Now who was the coward? Perhaps the time had come for him to state his own opinion regardless of what others thought, regardless of the outcome.

  “My visit with Governor Tonyn was informative, but not the way he intended. All of England’s colonies in this hemisphere are feeling the same pressures, may I say, injustices from the Crown. Only thirteen of them are willing to do something about it. It takes courage to break off from one’s parent, especially when that unjust parent tries to control his child by any possible means.” As he said the words, Frederick’s heart swelled with affirmation. His course of action had not yet become clear, but he knew where he would stand.

  Mr. Folger grunted. “Speak ye of the colonies or yer own father?” A grin lifted one corner of his lips.

  Frederick returned a rueful grimace. “I should go to her.”

  Mr. Folger’s gaze grew intense. “Aye. Ye could do that…if ye’ve no doubt about yer sentiments bein’ equal.”

  The sly old fox. He had said nothing to incriminate himself, yet everything to bestow his blessing on Frederick.

  Yes, he would go. For he could not think of staying in this wilderness without Rachel by his side.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “Mind your stitches.” Susanna studied eight-year-old Eliza’s handiwork. “Loose stitches lose his britches.”

  Rachel and the four other ladies in the sewing circle hummed their agreement to the instructive rhyme and continued with their harmless gossip.

  Susanna mentioned a stray sow in someone’s garden and warned everyone to keep their gates closed. Mrs. Arthur told of her concern for a peacock whose hen had vanished. Mrs. Brown expressed the wish that someone would shoot a mad dog causing distress in the city. With the British controlling Boston, those who favored the revolution needed to avoid drawing attention to themselves. Thus, gossip about minor things became the only fodder for wagging tongues, other than an occasional outburst by a passionate patriot.

  With the map safely in Charles’s hands, Rachel felt adrift, no longer important to the cause. Her brother-in-law had forced a promise from her not to attempt anything on her own.

  “But I might be able to gain a position in General Gage’s house,” she said. “Mrs. Gage hired me before. Think of what I could learn as her servant.”

  “All of the necessary people are in place,” Charles said. “We’re relaying information to General Washington daily. You’ve done your part. In due time when we’ve built our strength, we’ll pass this map to the patriots in Georgia and South Carolina. Taking the revolution to East Florida will be their responsibility.” He patted her shoulder. “I am proud of you, sister. You have done well.”

  After that, no one in the family mentioned the war, and the red-coated soldiers who patrolled the city received their every courtesy.

  Rachel sometimes saw Major Brigham at a distance but avoided him. He had been kind to her in East Florida and on the voyage to Boston, but now he was the enemy, just like Frederick. At least the officer had never deceived her, but Frederick’s lies still pained her. Many nights she fell asleep with tears drenching her pillow.

  With October approaching, Rachel consoled herself by sewing winter clothes for her nieces and nephew and helping to harvest her sister’s kitchen garden. As a supposed Tory, Charles did not suffer as many others in the city. The family sat in church side by side with known loyalists. Unlike years past, no soldiers quartered in their home, and a rare shipment of goods reached Charles despite privateers lurking at the mouth of Boston Harbor.

  The leaves turned bright red and orange, then faded to brown and fell to the ground. November arrived, and hearth fires were lit, filling the air with the smell of burning wood. One afternoon, Rachel donned the long woolen shawl she had left behind when she and Papa sailed to East Florida.

  “I’m going to Granny Jones’s house with her dinner.” Rachel lifted the covered basket, enjoying the aroma of chicken, spiced apples and pumpkin pie. “She’ll want me to eat with her.”

  “Come home before dark.” Susanna frowned. “The soldiers…”

  “Yes, I know.” Rachel shuddered. Once darkness struck, not all British soldiers behaved as gentlemen toward the ladies of Boston.

  She hurried through the narrow cobblestone streets toward a poorer section of town. Granny Jones lived alone and always enjoyed company. Rachel could not be certain, but she guessed that the widow’s sons had joined the Continental Army encamped around the city. If they invaded, Rachel wondered who would keep the feeble woman safe.

  They sat at a rough-hewn old table, and Mrs. Jones devoured her meal while Rachel munched some chicken.

  “Shall we have pie?” Rachel lifted the pie tin from the basket.

  “No, dear. I’ll save it for later.” Mrs. Jones blinked behind her spectacles, her eyes not focusing.

  “Since I must go before dark, I’ll eat some now.” Rachel plunged a knife into the creamy orange pumpkin.

  “Don’t—”

  “What on earth?” Rachel pulled a small square of oilcloth from beneath the piecrust. Wrapped inside was a piece of parchment containing dates and names of familiar places. “Why, Mrs. Jones, what is this?”

  The widow’s eyes focused sharply on Rachel. “Tell Charles it’ll be delivered.”

  Rachel stared at her for a moment, her heart racing. That rascal. He was using her for the cause. How many other messages had she unwittingly delivered to this bright old woman?

  “Now get on home.”

  Rachel wrapped a blanket around the woman’s feet. “Yes, ma’am.” She took her basket and hastened from the cottage, shoving away the hurt feelings that tried to take hold. With every person under suspicion by the British, Charles was wise to keep secrets from her.

  Two blocks from home, she cut through an alley to save time, almost bumping into Mrs. Arthur from the sewing circle.

  “Oh, good evening, Mrs.—”

  The words froze in her throat as Major Brigham stepped from the shadows. “Good evening, Miss Folger. What a surprise to see you out so late.”

  “Oh.
Yes. It is.” Rachel stared at Mrs. Arthur, the plump, pretty wife of a church deacon. Had she interrupted an assignation?

  The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Miss Folger, you should be at home at this hour.” Her lips formed a thin line, and she stared up at the officer. “Major Brigham, perhaps you should escort this young woman to Charles Weldon’s house. He is her sister’s husband.”

  The sly look of understanding that passed between them could not be regarded as lovers’ gazes. No, this woman, who just yesterday had sat in Susanna’s house and whispered with passion about the revolution, was conspiring with the enemy. Why, she had been baiting Susanna.

  “Tell me, Miss Folger, why do you look so alarmed?” Major Brigham cocked one eyebrow and gave her a smile that sent a shiver of fear down her spine. “And where have you been just now?” He took her basket and lifted the embroidered linen napkin. “Empty.” He glanced at Mrs. Arthur.

  “I, uhm, that is, I took supper to an old widow.” Rachel forced a smile but could feel her lips trembling.

  “Ah, yes. Granny Jones.” Mrs. Arthur snickered.

  “Yes. Poor dear.” Rachel swallowed. “Well, if you will excuse me—” She turned to go.

  Major Brigham caught her arm. “I think you should come with me.”

  “Ouch.” Rachel leaned away from him, longing to run. But he would easily catch her.

  “Come along, my dear.” From his tone, he might be asking her to tea. He handed the basket to Mrs. Arthur. “Take this to Weldon and tell him you found it on the street.”

  “Poor Susanna.” Mrs. Arthur muffled her laughter with her hand. “She will be in such despair over her sister’s disappearance.”

  “But why—?” Rachel’s eyes stung, and she struggled not to give way to tears.

  “Really, Miss Folger, do not be tedious. We’re merely going to visit General Gage.” Major Brigham gently shoved her along the street, glancing back at Mrs. Arthur. “I’ll see that someone calls on Granny Jones.”

  “Thank you for bringing these letters, Captain Templeton.” Frederick held a stack of correspondence from his family. “I trust Mr. Folger has apprised you of the situation here.” He moved closer to the fire blazing in his drawing room hearth, thankful for the warmth this chilly November morning. After three years, he preferred East Florida’s warmer days.

  “I surmise you’re referring to Rachel removing to Boston.” Templeton lounged in a wingback chair, a frown of concern darkening his eyes. “You have my sympathy, sir.”

  Frederick took a seat opposite his guest. “Thank you. I trust you found my family well.”

  “I did. You come from hospitable people. They were eager to hear of your endeavors.” Templeton puckered his lips as if smothering a smile, and his eyes now radiated high spirits. “Your sister sends a particular greeting.”

  “Marianne.” Frederick glanced at her unopened letter, eager to read what the little darling had written. She’d been almost seventeen when he left home and would soon turn twenty. “Did she say something that is not in her letter?”

  Templeton shifted in his chair. “It would be better if you read the letter first, but may I say that I found…that is, she is, I, uhm—”

  Comprehension filled Frederick, and he burst out laughing. “Good show, Templeton. You know a true gem when you see one.”

  Templeton’s eyebrows rose. “That sounds very much like approval.”

  Frederick shrugged. “My approval is not required.” Yet this man could become a closer brother to him than the three with whom he shared Lord Bennington’s blood. “But I will gladly grant it if you like.”

  Templeton’s high humor returned. “That’s all we need. God willing, we’ll find our way to happiness.”

  “You understand my father will never approve.”

  Templeton flung out his hands, palms up, and shrugged. “Nor will he approve your marriage to Rachel.”

  Frederick noticed the calluses on Templeton’s broad, work-roughened hands, unlike those of the dandies who graced London’s balls, but much like Frederick’s own since he had been in East Florida. “I suppose Mr. Folger told you she broke our engagement. I hope to change her mind.”

  “Yes, he told me.” A sympathetic frown furrowed Templeton’s brow. “He also said you hadn’t yet found a ship willing to brave the privateers outside Boston Harbor.”

  “No.” The old wound broke open, flooding Frederick with pain. “Furthermore, I could not in good conscience leave the plantation before the last harvest. Then a fever struck the settlement, requiring me to stay. But now, if winter were not upon us, especially in the north, I would ride the length of the continent to pursue her.”

  Templeton stood and strode to his side, thumping him hard on the shoulder. “What’s the matter with you, man? Settle your affairs here, and we’ll sail for Boston.”

  Objections flew through Frederick’s mind, but hope quickly dismissed them and lifted him from his chair. “If you’re willing to run the gauntlet, so am I.”

  “Ha. That’s the spirit.” Templeton clapped him on the same shoulder, almost knocking him over. “That’s the man who’s worthy of my cousin Rachel.”

  Recovering from the friendly battering, Frederick felt less eager to read his parents’ letters. Had Templeton persuaded Father that Frederick was no failure? Had Mother been aware of the romance blooming in her own drawing room? Of only one thing was he certain: Marianne’s words would feed his soul in unexpected ways.

  Not until Templeton left did Frederick realize he had no idea where the man stood regarding the revolution.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Standing tiptoe on a crate, Rachel peeked out the small round window at the gray sky. If she were a little taller, she could see down to the street or perhaps as far as the harbor. As it was, she saw only an occasional airborne seagull or wren. She heard only horses’ hooves clopping past General Gage’s house and the muffled voices from the rooms below. Try though she might with an ear to the floor, she could not distinguish one word from another.

  Since her imprisonment almost a month before, Rachel had dredged up memories of sewing circle conversations and prayed none of the other ladies had revealed important information to the traitor. Only one clue surfaced. The peacock had lost his hen, and Major Brigham’s dreadful wife had sailed home to England. Perhaps the stray sow in the garden referred to none other than Mrs. Arthur. Had Susanna suspected her?

  To furnish Rachel’s tiny attic prison, Mrs. Gage had provided a narrow cot with a feather mattress and two blankets. Three times a day, either a British lieutenant or Major Brigham himself brought her meals and hot water, no doubt to keep her from talking to servants or kind Mrs. Gage to beg that a message be sent to Susanna. Rachel’s poor sister must be worried sick. Charles might make a few inquiries about her, but his position must not be compromised.

  With only a borrowed Bible for comfort, she spent her days and weeks reading and praying for a way to escape. Once she had tried stacking the crate on a trunk to reach the window and climb out. But the scraping sound had alerted the soldiers, and they took away the trunk. After many tears and prayers, Rachel decided her post in the revolution was to be a prisoner. By delivering the map to Charles, she had done all that she was supposed to do. One thing was certain: her face would always betray her heart, as proven by her confrontation with Major Brigham.

  Snow brushed over the round window, dimming the attic. Huddled against the chimney’s warm bricks, Rachel pulled her woolen shawl closer. Soon winter would arrive in full force. Never had she expected to miss the heat of East Florida, but oh how she would welcome it now.

  The key turned, the door opened, and Major Brigham stepped into the attic. “Miss Folger, gather your things.” His placid expression gave her no indication of whether or not she was in imminent danger.

  She glanced about the attic. “I have nothing to gather.” Hugging her shawl, she toddled across the room on legs aching from want of exercise and stopped in front of her captor. “Am I
to be p-punished?” Would they hang a woman? “If so, would you please explain why?”

  Amusement rippled across his aristocratic face. “No, my dear, you will not be punished. You have been our guest these weeks past to prevent your divulging, ah, how shall I say it? A certain friendship of mine. Now you will be delivered into the hands of a loyalist sea captain who in turn will deliver you back to your father, from whom I never should have separated you.”

  “Sea captain?” Irrational hope sprung up within her.

  “Yes,” Major Brigham drawled. “I believe you know the chap. This way, Miss Folger.”

  Her legs shook as she descended two flights of stairs to the drawing room. Near the door stood Frederick, and he took a step in her direction.

  “Rachel!”

  Her heart seemed to rip in two. She pushed past him and flung herself into Jamie’s arms.

  “Oh, Jamie, take me home.”

  To her shock, Jamie gripped her upper arms and stared sternly into her eyes. “Cousin, do you not wish to greet your betrothed?”

  The imperative message in his gaze penetrated her cloudy mind.

  “Oh.” She turned around. “Frederick. Darling.” Surely no one would be fooled by her cold tone. She walked across the room on wooden legs, seeing beyond him that Major Brigham stared at her through narrowed eyes.

  Frederick pulled her into his arms and kissed her forehead. “Dearest,” he whispered, “trust us.”

  She nodded her assent, but only because Jamie had come, too.

  “Enough.” Major Brigham moved closer. “Our bargain is that you will return her to East Florida forthwith and keep her out of trouble once she’s there.” He leaned so near that Rachel could smell cherry tobacco on his uniform. “Understand, Miss Folger, I am releasing you only because—” Abruptly, he stepped back. “Really, I am not a brute. But we are at war, and—” He exhaled impatiently. “I owe you much for saving Lady Augusta from the alligator. This should balance our accounts.”