My Dearest Enemy

by Jennifer Moore

  Corporal Willard’s face broke into a grin, and he laughed. A sound she’d heard precious little of in the hospital wards. “I’ll take all the help I can get,” he said.

  She left his face unwrapped, thinking the wound had sealed enough that it would probably do well to let it have some air, and took her leave of the corporal. She had a few more patients to see before meeting her father for luncheon. As she stepped into the passageway between the wards, a soldier approached.

  “Miss Tidwell?”

  She turned, studying the young man, but he didn’t look familiar. “Yes?”

  “Private Matthews,” he said, giving a succinct bow. “I bring an invitation from Lieutenant Fox, miss. He hopes you would be amenable to a visit this afternoon at two.”

  Abigail’s chest twinged nervously at hearing the lieutenant’s name. Something about the man made her extremely uncomfortable, and she could not quite figure out what it was. She hadn’t appreciated his overly curious questions and rudeness when they’d first met after the battle or his arrogant manner when they’d chanced to meet during her week at the fort. And he’d so rudely dropped Emmett’s rocks onto the ground.

  She opened her mouth to give an apology but then remembered she’d overheard that Lieutenant Fox was one of the officers responsible for the prisoners. Abigail knew better than to ask directly, of course, but if she could compose some very innocent-sounding questions that would lead him to volunteer information about her friends . . .

  “That would be very nice, Private.”

  “The lieutenant thought you might enjoy a walk outside.”

  Abigail wondered if the weather had changed in the past hours. Her quick walk to the hospital building this morning had been very cold indeed. But she figured a promenade was much more tolerable than a formal visit. “I would like that. Thank you.”

  Private Matthews gave another tight bow. “Very good, miss,” he said and departed.

  Lieutenant Fox arrived at the hospital building at exactly two o’clock. Abigail’s father’s eyes narrowed the smallest amount when he was announced. His reaction gave her another twinge of discomfort. Her father rarely disliked anyone, and never without reason.

  “Do not worry. I will be back soon, Father,” she said, patting his hand. She retrieved her cloak and bonnet from a closet near the hospital entrance.

  At her approach, Lieutenant Fox bowed gracefully. “Miss Tidwell. A pleasure.”

  “Lieutenant.” She dipped in a curtsy.

  “You look very lovely indeed.” He held her cloak courteously, settling it onto her shoulders. “I do appreciate your willingness to accompany me today.”

  She took his offered arm, and they stepped outside. The sun was hidden behind low clouds, and the day was gray and cold. Abigail shivered.

  “If you’re chilled, we can return inside,” he said.

  “I will warm up once I get moving,” Abigail said, remembering having a similar conversation with Captain Prescott and what had followed. An ache rose inside her. She wished it were his arm she was holding.

  “I’ve hardly seen you since you arrived at the fort, Miss Tidwell, and I decided such an oversight must be rectified at once.”

  His words were polite—overly so, but they didn’t set Abigail at ease. Rather the opposite, as they led her to believe he was trying to gain her favor. Again she felt as if the visit contained a hidden motive. “I have been busy in the hospital,” she said.

  “Ah yes, you are a healer.” His voice carried a hint of sarcasm that made Abigail clamp her teeth together. “Is that not what you told me at our first meeting?”

  “Yes.”

  “A curious thing,” he said, his words light, though she could hear an intonation in his words that indicated more than he was saying. “I still do not understand how you came to be in the company of two American soldiers so far from Detroit.”

  A cool wind blew along the street, lifting frozen flakes from the hard ground and sending them in flurries that stung her cheeks and hands. It was certainly not a pleasant day for a walk.

  “I suppose I was just fortunate to find someone to accompany me,” Abigail said. She clamped her teeth again, but this time to keep them from chattering. The lovely dress her father had bought was not designed to be worn out of doors on a cold day for an extended period of time, even with a cloak covering it.

  “Yes, but—”

  “How do you enjoy Fort Detroit, Lieutenant?” Abigail interrupted him, not caring that it was rude. She was not willing to submit to his interrogation and knew men like Lieutenant Fox could usually be distracted with a chance to talk about themselves. “I imagine it is quite different than your home in England.”

  He made a snorting sound. “That is an understatement indeed. Do you know my father is Lord Westing of Devereaux Park?”

  “I did not know.”

  “Well, needless to say, a frontier fort in a freezing wilderness is the complete reverse of where I grew up.” He brushed at something on his sleeve and gave her a haughty look. “There are few things that appeal to me less than tending to uncivilized prisoners in the back of beyond.”

  “Oh, come, Lieutenant.” Abigail felt a bit insulted that he would so quickly dismiss the beautiful forested countryside. “It cannot be as bad as all that. Surely you’d not rather be fighting or marching.”

  He shook his head and raised a brow. “I’d prefer either one. At least I’d be doing something to bring His Majesty’s army closer to finishing this pathetic war and returning home.” Beneath her hand, his arm was tight, as were his words. He was quiet for an uncomfortably long moment.

  Abigail looked around, just now realizing they were walking toward the fort’s entrance. Ahead she could see the stables and beyond, the tents of the prisoner’s camp. Did the lieutenant intend to take her from the fort? She was just about to question their route when he turned, leading her along the side of the stables, past a pen with a large hog.

  “But we’ve strayed from the topic,” Lieutenant Fox said, sounding much calmer. “I still would like an explanation of what brought you to Frenchtown. It is quite out of the way for a person traveling from Amherstburg to Detroit. I’d estimate nearly twenty miles out of the way.”

  Abigail didn’t feel as if she owed him an explanation, but she didn’t want the lieutenant to think she had something to hide. “I told you before, sir. I heard the cannons and thought my skills as a healer might be of use.”

  They were walking along the edge of the prison camp, and Abigail had to keep herself from looking too interested in the men they passed, even though she desperately wanted to study each face and find her friends. Especially . . .

  The flap of one of the tents pulled aside, and a man stepped through carrying a sheaf of papers.

  Emmett.

  Her step faltered as Emmett’s gaze met hers. Or more precisely as it rolled over hers and moved away without any change in his expression. He strode away without appearing as if he were aware of her at all.

  Abigail’s heartbeat refused to return to normal. Of course, her mind understood Emmett would not show any sign of recognition in front of Lieutenant Fox, but she couldn’t completely convince her heart of it. The shock of seeing him and then seeing his apparent indifference put her off-balance, and it wasn’t until she noticed the lieutenant looking at her that she realized he was waiting for her to elaborate.

  What were we talking about? Had he asked another question? Or more concerning, had he noticed her reaction?

  She attempted to speak as if nothing had happened. “I did not hear news of the patients who remained behind in Frenchtown. None of them have come to Detroit, and it has been more than a week. Do you know how they fared, Lieutenant? Were they taken care of?”

  “I imagine so,” he said, turning their course back toward the hospital building. “I imagine they have been taken care of.” The edge of his mouth was twisted in a smirk, and the tone of his voice sent a chill over her skin. He looked at her with an expression
of satisfaction, and she felt cold bands of foreboding closing around her lungs.

  ***

  Two weeks later, Abigail held the baby to her chest, breathing in the smell of him. His soft hair brushed her cheek, and she smiled at the tickle. At Captain Lovell’s request, she’d come every day for a week after the birth to make certain the child and his anxious mother were healthy and getting on well in their new roles. She’d spent most of the time reassuring the new parents that the infant was quite normal and his behavior typical of a seven-day-old baby.

  “And his head shape, are you certain—”

  “He’s perfect, Mrs. Lovell,” Abigail said, finding it harder to maintain the comforting tone after so many hours of listening to the same worries. “He squeezed his entire body through a small space only a few days ago. Soon, he’ll plump up and be the beautiful baby you imagined.” She laid the baby back into his mother’s arms and touched the small head. “Truly, he’s perfect.” She smiled as the child yawned then lifted her gaze to the mother. Abigail wagged a finger. “Don’t forget to rest yourself as well.”

  Abigail bid Captain and Mrs. Lovell farewell and stepped out into the cold air. She walked with quick steps through the now-familiar streets of Detroit, glancing up at the towering battleships as she passed the dockyard. Three weeks had passed since the Battle of Frenchtown, and the influx of new patients in the fort’s hospital wards had diminished. Now that the Lovell’s baby had finally come, Abigail didn’t really have a reason to remain.

  She felt sad at the thought of leaving her father, but of course they both knew she would need to return home eventually. Drawing near to the gates of the fort, she walked past a large boulder. In the space beneath it, shaded from the snow, was a patch of red dirt, indicating a rich oxide deposit. She thought back to her first days in Detroit, how her father had patiently waited while she investigated the patch of dirt, hoping the ground wasn’t too frozen for her to discover a band of ore or an iron deposit. She’d not been disappointed, and when she unearthed the bit of hematite, she’d just known Emmett should have it.

  Although Dr. Tidwell assured her that he’d delivered the hunk of metal, she hadn’t had any indication that Emmett actually received it. Not that she expected a letter or a messenger. Of course he wouldn’t attempt to contact her; it was dangerous for both of them. But she wished they’d had some interaction before the prisoners had been transferred from the fort. Now she supposed she’d never know what he’d thought of the gift. Or, if she were being completely truthful, she’d never know what he thought of her.

  She sighed. Her thoughts had been down this path so many times that she was becoming impatient with herself.

  Her mind was filled with doubts tainting the various scenarios of their interactions as if she were studying them through different lenses. The embrace on the ice while she wept contrasted with the quick way Emmett had left her behind at the camp in the forest. And how could she not think of the kiss? Just the memory, weeks later, made her sigh and her heart melt a bit. But maybe his earth hadn’t utterly shifted on its axis as had hers. She felt naïve and silly, thinking that for him a kiss may not have been any more than just . . . a kiss. Why had she believed she was different than the thousands of women left behind with a kiss when a man departed for war? Now that she was thinking clearly, the exchanges took on different meanings.

  The longer she considered, the more foolish she felt. Emmett hadn’t brought her to the camp because he wished to spend more time with her; he’d needed her to heal his friend. She’d been, if anything, an inconvenience for the company. Thinking of her juvenile conversation and the fears she’d confided in him sent a flush over her skin. She’d convinced herself that there’d been more to his attentions than simply politeness. Her embarrassment deepened into humiliation as she remembered Emmett’s disinterested expression when he’d seen her walking with Lieutenant Fox.

  Abigail felt childish. What had she been thinking? She’d given the man a rock, for heaven’s sake.

  When they took luncheon that afternoon, she told her father it was time for her to return home.

  He set down his fork and studied her. “Are you certain, Abigail?”

  “There are so few patients, and I . . . I suppose my adventure has to come to an end sometime.” She spread the napkin flat on her lap and gave a small smile. “Besides, Maggie will be tired of Mr. Kirby’s grumbling.”

  Her father smiled in return, but she thought his gaze was a bit too scrutinizing. Finally he nodded. “I will miss you, my daughter.”

  “You will come home soon, won’t you?”

  He shrugged. “I hadn’t planned to remain so long. But I will stay as long as I’m needed.”

  Once the decision was made, it was only a matter of making travel arrangements, packing her few clothes, and bidding her father farewell. The next afternoon, Abigail found herself accompanied by two soldiers, riding in a sleigh toward home.

  Her knee bumped into the old musket. Goodness knows how her father had found it among the confiscated weapons, but they both felt safer knowing she’d have it at home with her.

  As they rode, she was surprised by a pang of sadness, thinking that she’d not be treating patients or giving Mrs. Lovell advice. In Detroit she’d felt needed, and she realized she’d felt that way ever since discovering a bleeding captain in her barn. Now she’d return to the life she’d always known. Abigail tried to convince herself that there were worse things than loneliness and boredom.

  Once they reached the log house, she bid the soldiers farewell and entered through her front door. The house was just as she’d left it, comfortable and familiar. She hung her cloak in its spot and returned the musket to the pegs above the fireplace, making a list of the chores she must do in the coming days. Maggie would need to be retrieved from the Kirbys’, and the house hadn’t been swept or dusted in nearly a month. The woodbox was empty, bread must be baked, butter churned—well, once Maggie was back. There would always be plenty to do.

  “I suppose my adventure is indeed over,” she said to the empty house, and the sadness changed to resignation.

  A thumping sound made her spin, and she let out a yelp.

  “It’s only us, Abigail.” Barney emerged from the kitchen, his wide smile easing the jolt of fear.

  “Barney, what are you—?” she began, but stopped when Jasper entered through the front door.

  “Soldiers are gone,” he said.

  Murphy followed Barney from the kitchen, and Luke came down the stairs.

  Abigail stood, one hand pressed to her breastbone, staring at the men with her mouth agape. She had no idea what to say. “You, all of you, you’re here . . . Why are you here?” She fumbled with the words, her surprise making her sound completely witless.

  “The English paroled the militia—sent us all home,” Luke said.

  “We’ve come because we need your help,” Murphy said.

  Abigail looked at each of the men in turn. They all appeared healthy. What could they possibly need from her? “My help?”

  “Captain Prescott is in danger,” Luke said.

  “In danger? From what? Or whom?” Each of the men’s declarations flabbergasted her more than the one before.

  “A British officer,” Murphy said. “Lieutenant Fox is the commander directing the prisoner transfer. In Fort Detroit, Captain Prescott confronted him about—” He stopped speaking abruptly, and his eyes darted to Jasper.

  “Mistreatment of prisoners,” Jasper finished for him.

  Abigail looked between the men, trying to understand the strange exchange.

  “The lieutenant’s evil, Abigail,” Barney said, motioning with his hands. “And he’s set his sights on the captain.”

  “He’ll kill him.” Luke’s brows were pulled together in worry.

  Abigail had no doubt Lieutenant Fox was more than capable of making Emmett’s life miserable. He was unpleasant, and she believed he could probably be quite spiteful. But killing anyone seemed rather a stretch
for the foppish gentleman.

  “Surely he’ll not kill him,” she said. “I know Lieutenant Fox. He’s rude, certainly, and patronizing, but he’s not a murderer.”

  “He purchased the scalps of the prisoners left behind at Frenchtown,” Jasper said.

  The others darted their gazes toward him as if he’d revealed something they’d agreed to keep secret.

  Abigail squinted, trying to understand his words. “I don’t . . . what do you mean?”

  Murphy stepped across the room and took her arm. His expression was gentle, as if he was telling a young child something upsetting. “Abigail, the lieutenant had them killed, all of them. And he paid the Indians for the proof.”

  She shook her head, a bitter taste filling her mouth. Hardly noticing that Murphy led her to a chair, her mind tried to process what she’d heard. “I don’t understand,” she finally said. “The men were sick and wounded. They’d surrendered . . .”

  She looked from face to face, but each of the men looked grim.

  “You can see what kind of man he is,” Jasper said. His face was even stonier than usual. “And what he’s capable of.”

  The horrible truth sank in, and her nerves tingled in panic. Emmett. Abigail stood, knowing they should act but not sure exactly what course to take. “What can we do?”

  Murphy gave her arm a soft squeeze. “The American officers and regular soldiers are being held in an outpost near the town of Byron.”

  “Byron is over a hundred miles away,” she said. The desperate feeling of wanting to act was joined by a heavy dismay. They were all looking to her expectantly, but in this she was helpless. “And there is nothing I can do. I have no influence on His Majesty’s army.”

  “The commander of the outpost is Major Isaac Tidwell,” Jasper said.

  “He’s your brother, isn’t he, Abigail?” Barney took a few steps closer.

  Abigail clenched her hands into fists and gave a nod. Perhaps she was not utterly helpless after all. With her brother as the commander, nobody would question her being there. “Then we shall go to Byron.”