Patriot's Pride

by Penelope Marzec

  She closed her eyes for a moment and begged the Lord to guide her.

  When she opened her eyes, Derrick was standing before her. Her heart leaped at the sight of him.

  “Let me carry your bags,” he said as he picked up Mrs. Ulery’s bag and hers.

  Margaret nodded, but she didn’t trust herself to say anything, for her throat ached with emotion. With his handsome features and confident air, he made a fine sight. She steeled herself against any reaction. Life was filled with partings. She must become used to that fact.

  Mrs. Ulery thanked him profusely. Following him down the gangplank, they made their way through the crush of people to a row of carriages.

  Margaret struggled to remain composed despite the chaos surrounding them. “I must find this particular coachman,” she explained as she held up the solicitor’s letter.

  Derrick noted the name and they began their search. After several inquiries, they found Finney Fry, a sturdy man whose piercing blue eyes appeared to take in every detail about them.

  “Aye, I knew your grandfather, the old earl, quite well,” Finney nodded. “He traveled with me often. It is a pity you did not get to meet him.”

  “Where’s your assistant?” Derrick questioned.

  “I’ve a loaded musket,” the coachman answered. “If you help me load the ladies’ trunks onto the coach, I’ve no need of any further help. My sister has a teahouse a block away if the ladies would like to refresh themselves in the meantime.”

  “I’d love a cup of tea.” Margaret had barely slept.

  “I’ve been told people in London put a bit of whiskey in their brew.” Mrs. Ulery brightened at the thought.

  Margaret frowned at her, but the widow ignored her glare.

  “I don’t know, but you can ask once you get there.” Derrick pulled out a small note. “I wrote down my address in London. Please call upon me when you are on your way back home.”

  Margaret took the paper and glanced at it. Her heart fluttered as she stared at the neat, small script. Did he harbor some remorse for accusing her of stealing his bandages? Or was his opinion swayed because she revealed she was not simply a lowly farmer’s daughter but also the granddaughter of an earl.

  She pursed her lips. Maybe she had misjudged him all along. Perhaps he was an opportunist.

  “Why, thank you, Dr. Fortune. We are indebted to you for your help.” She gave him the faintest of smiles.

  His face fell. Nevertheless, he tipped his hat.

  Margaret shoved the note into the bottom of her reticule, whirled about, and hastened off with Mrs. Ulery behind her.

  “I am surprised you weren’t a bit more grateful,” the widow scolded.

  “He thought I was far beneath him until I made the mistake of telling him my grandfather was an earl.” Why had she done it? She should have left well enough alone. Did it matter so much? “He marked me as an ignorant farmer’s daughter from the first and nothing else. If he assesses people by the clothing they wear, he is an arrogant fool—no better than Anthony.” He also had no faith, but she decided it was best not to tell that to Mrs. Ulery.

  “The doctor put such fine stitches on your head,” the older woman protested. “How can you judge him so cruelly? Besides, even Anthony’s not all bad. I gave him a few of my baubles in exchange for some of his lace.”

  “Anthony liked your jewelry?”

  “The stick pins. He eyed them with such envy, I knew he wouldn’t mind parting with some of his copious quantities of lace,” Mrs. Ulery explained as they walked to the teahouse.

  “I hope the pins hold his hat firmly upon his head.”

  “Oh, they will. I showed him how to use them properly.” The widow sighed. “I shall miss the good doctor’s whiskey. It was the best I ever drank—and I’ve tasted more of it than would fill up a well.”

  Margaret suppressed a groan. Prim and proper Aunt Sally would be stunned if she realized her best friend drank like a fish.

  Rubbing her forehead, for it ached, Margaret thanked the Lord for their arrival in London, but they had a long way to go before they reached Broadcraft Hall.

  The teahouse lay a short block away. Margaret inhaled the wondrous scent of baking scones as they entered the cozy establishment. Inside, ruffled pink chintz adorned the windows and tablecloths. Margaret ran her hand along the shiny fabric and dreamed of bringing a bolt of it home to make a dress for little Harriet.

  Mrs. Ulery let out a sigh as she sat. “I do feel as if I’m still swaying on the deck of the Prosperity.”

  “I suppose we need to adapt to our land legs again.” Her lightheadedness had returned. She did not know if the trouble in her head stemmed from her previous injury, the excitement of the morning, or the fact that they were now on solid ground.

  “When I traveled to the colonies with my husband, it took me two days before I was used to having earth under my feet.”

  “That long?”

  “A little whiskey makes it go away faster,” Mrs. Ulery asserted.

  Margaret took a deep breath and some of her annoyance dissipated.

  “We mustn’t spend much time here,” she warned. “The solicitor suggested we stay at the Nine Bells Inn on our first night. It’s quite a distance from London, but it is safe for ladies traveling alone.”

  “Oh, bother,” Mrs. Ulery fussed. “Staying in London would be a great deal more entertaining. Shops such as you’ve never seen, selling a variety of goods from all over the world, the most beautiful landscaped parks, and delightful shows.”

  “Perhaps we can make time on our way home to go to a show.” She hoped to investigate a few of the bakeries, sample their wares, and write down their receipts—if they were willing to reveal their ingredients. “Did you ever made a pilgrimage to Canterbury when you lived in England?”

  “No, my family was much too poor to go tramping off to Canterbury,” Mrs. Ulery reminisced. “At any rate, you’re supposed to walk all the way, which is fine for those in the upper class who lack chores to occupy their time, but for us to drop everything and go off on a trip to pray would be absurd. Why, we could pray as easily while we were scrubbing the laundry in the washtub as we could in a fine cathedral.”

  “My brother-in-law suggested it might be a nice side trip. He didn’t say anything about walking,” Margaret mused. “He evidently visited it at some point—before he left England and joined the army.”

  “He probably did not walk, since his father was a duke,” Mrs. Ulery said. “There’s nothing wrong in traveling by coach to the cathedral as far as I know. Why, since I’m older, I think making a pilgrimage to the cathedral in a coach is right and proper. Especially with this arm in a sling.”

  “I am already spending a great deal hiring Mr. Finney to take us to Broadcraft Hall.” She worried her lip. She had many bank notes, which the solicitor had sent to her for the trip, but she did not know how much anything cost in England.

  “Riding is much faster than walking,” Mrs. Ulery noted.

  “Perhaps people who go on the pilgrimage pray as they walk,” Margaret pondered the idea.

  “You’d need a sturdy pair of shoes to cover the distance, and you’d probably wear them out before you reached Canterbury.”

  “You don’t want to go on a pilgrimage.” She should have discussed the issue with the older woman before they left Leedsville.

  Mrs. Ulery wound the fringes on the end of her shawl around one of her fingers. “London offer boundless amusements. However, if we go to Canterbury in a coach, it might be tolerable.”

  Margaret sighed. After the long journey on the Prosperity, she wondered if she remembered how to have fun.

  * * *

  Though the weather was warm and pleasant, the chill of Margaret’s farewell left an empty hole in Derrick’s heart. He struggled to make sense of it. Was it because he’d accused her of stealing the bandages? He had apologized. He’d helped her with her luggage and assisted her in finding a coach. Shouldn’t she be more grateful?

&nbs
p; Torn by conflicting emotions, he bordered on being both vexed and baffled.

  He walked toward the building where he would be staying, hoping the exercise would clear his head. His trunks had been sent ahead to the boarding house, but after the long trip on the Prosperity, he needed to feel solid ground under his feet. He was starting a new life—one of intense work and meticulous study where he would devote himself to ending the scourge of infection.

  Women diverted his attention. Margaret distracted him more than any other woman. He didn’t need any disturbances in his life—not if he expected to accomplish his goal.

  The crowded docks hampered his progress. He dodged carts, carriages, coaches, and throngs of people. His height proved an advantage, enabling him to view the clearest path.

  He frowned when he noticed a more concentrated commotion not far off toward the end of one pier. Sailors carried three men on stretchers off a British merchant ship. Since he had made little headway, he decided to investigate what the ruckus was about. He stepped up onto a shorter piling wedged against a much taller one and held on. From his vantage point, he easily recognized the uniforms of the men on the stretchers. They were in the British navy.

  “Make way! Make way!” the men who carried the stretchers cried as they pushed through the crowd with the insensate men. “Have a care! Make way!”

  Derrick listened to the chatter in the crowd. The ailing sailors had been the victims of a ship which sunk. The crew of the merchant ship had plucked them out of the water.

  The rescuers with the stretchers passed directly beneath him. Derrick stared at the faces of the ill, but did not recognize them. Due to their uniforms, they reminded him of the man who had harmed Margaret. Anger slammed into Derrick at the thought of the contemptible beast.

  With his heart still pounding, he climbed down from his perch and sat on the short piling. He’d wanted to kill the man who had injured Margaret. He had wanted to pull the trigger, and he would have done it without a single qualm if the sailor had not obeyed him.

  He considered whether he should offer his help as a doctor, but he was an American and the men on the stretchers were from the British navy. Let the British take care of their own, he decided.

  The British navy would not concern themselves with Margaret’s injury, but if Derrick had killed that sailor, he could have ignited another war. Somehow, he had maintained a hold on his temper, and Margaret had recovered with little damage. Perhaps fate was kind to her in saving her from remembering the assault.

  “Derrick, my lad, you’re looking as if you’ve seen a ghost,” Captain Long called out.

  “Nearly, sir. Unconscious sailors passed by on stretchers. Do you know which ship went down?”

  The captain’s clear, observant eyes searched his face. “Are you thinking it might be the one that stole our men?”

  “Aye,” Derrick confessed.

  “Ah, my boy, let’s stop in at the pub and discover what news we can.” The captain added, “Besides, you’ll be needing some restoration before you go off to study with John Hunter.”

  They made their way along the crowded dock. Derrick thought of all the misery and horror he had witnessed. Why did good men die tragically and wicked men flourish? He failed to understand why some men survived the sea, while others sank beneath the waves.

  The captain walked a few blocks from the wharf to a pub which had a sign outside indicating they only admitted officers.

  “I’m not an officer,” Derrick protested.

  “You’re a doctor.” The captain ushered him inside. “The riff-raff is kept away by the slightly elevated prices.”

  The pub proved to be a comfortable haven. Despite the previous war, Captain Long was evidently well-known and respected among the other officers. The captain of the merchant ship came in an hour later and related his tale about the men he had picked up. It wasn’t much different than the tale of the men the Prosperity had plucked out of the sea. The merchant ship lifted out six men in a boat, and three had died. The remaining three appeared close to death.

  From what they gathered, the rescued men came from the same ship which had taken the Prosperity’s men. The merchant captain claimed one of them was an American.

  Derrick drummed the table. What if another ship had rescued a third boat? That one vile sailor might still be alive.

  “Did the men say who attacked them?” Captain Long asked.

  The merchant captain shrugged. “I suspect pirates are at fault.”

  After another hour, Derrick decided to leave. He decided the odds put the nefarious sailor at the bottom of the sea or in some shark’s belly.

  He bid good-bye to the captain and asked him to relay his greetings to his mother and father when he returned to America.

  He walked along the streets of London, but his mind swirled with images of Margaret. A small ache filled him with sorrow. The thought of never seeing her again pained him far more than he had expected. For a little while, simply the sight of her brightened his days. Now she was gone and evening was coming on.

  When he got to the boarding house, he found his trunks pushed against one wall. On top of one trunk lay his volume of Gulliver’s Travels.

  He opened it and discovered a note.

  Listening to you read this every night was a pleasure I will always remember.

  With grateful thanks,

  Margaret

  He closed his eyes and shook his head. He had chosen his path. He must study with John Hunter.

  But he would miss her.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Margaret and Mrs. Ulery did not reach the Nine Bells Inn until an extremely late hour.

  “I am sore. Surely, my skin is covered with bruises,” Margaret commented as Finney reined in the horses.

  “I don’t remember the roads being this bumpy when I was young.” Mrs. Ulery held her arm protectively against her body. “If this is the state of travel in England, I don’t want to go to Canterbury, not even in a coach.” Petulance lay heavy in the older woman’s voice.

  Margaret did not blame her. The rapid trip through the countryside proved a test of their endurance. Finney stopped a few times along the way, but each break had been brief. Resting in the coach proved impossible.

  “I thought nothing could be worse than traveling in a ship,” Margaret stated.

  “Do you suppose I might be able to obtain a small glass of whiskey here?” Mrs. Ulery looked hopeful. “My arm is aching badly.”

  “I suppose we shall see what is available.” Margaret feared she would not have enough to pay for everything.

  Once they alighted, their prospects for the evening appeared disappointing at first glance.

  “A bit down at the heels, I’d say,” Mrs. Ulery commented as she stepped onto the porch.

  “The solicitor recommended it as a safe place for ladies,” Margaret reminded her.

  “Maybe because nobody else would set foot inside,” the older woman stated with a hint of disgust as she opened the door and walked into the main room of the inn.

  The ramshackle air of the place sent a chill up Margaret’s spine, but she held her head high and marched inside. A musty smell clung to the atmosphere. Her appetite vanished.

  “Anyone here?” Mrs. Ulery called out at the top of her lungs.

  The only answer came as the scurrying of tiny feet.

  “Perhaps we should spend the night in the coach.” Margaret turned around. She would sleep in the barn if necessary, but the old inn set her nerves on end.

  “I want a bed!” Mrs. Ulery stood next to the rickety stairway and yelled. “I want a soft, fluffy featherbed!”

  “What’s all this ’ollering about?” An aged man shuffled down the steps with a cane in one hand. “Don’t ye know it’s the middle of the night? Who be ye?”

  Margaret whirled around and stared at a veritable relic. Bald, stooped, and toothless, he looked near ninety years of age.

  “I’m Margaret McGowan, granddaughter of the Earl of Broadcraft, and thi
s is my companion Mrs. Hannah Ulery.”

  “What d’ye say?” the wizened man asked as he cupped his hand behind his ear.

  Margaret repeated the same information in a much louder voice.

  “The Earl of Broadcraft, d’ye say?” The old man chuckled. “Oh, I’ve played some good games of draughts with ’im. ’E always thinks ’e can beat me, but he never ’as. ’Aven’t seen ’im in a while. And you be ’is granddaughter. ’E mentioned two of ’em last time ’e was ’ere.”

  “Yes, I have a sister, Agnes, but she’s at home and due to deliver a baby soon.” Margaret didn’t want to tell the old man her grandfather had died. The old fellow looked as if the slightest wind would blow him over.

  “Are ye going to visit ’im then?” The man hobbled over to the hearth and placed a few more logs on the dying embers.

  Mrs. Ulery cleared her throat. “The earl died.”

  “Ah,” the man nodded. “I wondered if ’e did. ’E always stayed ’ere on ’is way to London, real regular about going to Parliament and ’obnobbing with the ’igh and mighty, but ’e wasn’t ’igh and mighty with me. Now ’oo am I to play draughts with, I ask meself. Nobody takes the time to play with old Bert.” He sniffed and wiped his nose with his sleeve.

  “If you got whiskey, I’ll play draughts with you.” Mrs. Ulery gave him a huge smile.

  “Only gin in the cupboard.” Old Bert shook his head.

  “I’ve a fondness for gin, too.” The older woman brightened.

  “Is there any food for our supper?” Margaret asked.

  “Got an ’ole kidney pie.” He appeared to be insulted.

  “Well. That should do.” Margaret didn’t know if she would actually eat it. Her stomach gave a slight twist.

  “First the gin,” Mrs. Ulery cheerfully reminded him.

  Old Bert laughed. “If ye come and ’elp me carry the plates and such we can get started on the draughts right away.”