Meanwhile, the preparations for the grand ball were in full swing. More servants of all kinds were hired. Every morning, a line of prospective servants waited outside the castle. Margaret wondered about all those poor people. How many miles had they walked in the hope of getting the job? Were they hungry?
Some people were turned away—often the ones who wore ragged clothes—those who undoubtedly needed the job most of all. Watching from the window, Margaret could do little else but offer up petitions for them as they shuffled back down the hill with slumped shoulders.
“No one is allowed in unless they have the best of references,” Mrs. Ulery explained. “The Duchess is most particular about recommendations. Those who apply need spotless reputations and must be thoroughly schooled in protocol.”
“Some come in ragged clothes,” Margaret pointed out.
“Those don’t get in the door. Poor things. I’m sure they are offered a crust of bread, though.”
“Are you going to help with the preparation?” Margaret asked.
“In a way,” Mrs. Ulery laughed. “I’ll be watching the children while my niece shines the silverware.”
Margaret had more mending to do. The kitchens were crowded she could not get close to the ovens. Meanwhile, maids prepared rooms for guests. An army of servants had invaded the castle, and while the Duchess acted like a general, the dowager was right beside her offering suggestions as an invaluable aide-de-camp.
On the day before the ball, the Duchess handed Margaret a dress.
“I wore it last year,” the Duchess claimed. “This year the fabrics are far more muted, which suits me better.”
Margaret went to hand it back. “Thank you, but it’s much too elaborate for me.”
The Duchess refused to take it back. “It will go far better with your coloring. His Grace said it made me look like a popinjay.”
Margaret raised her eyebrows. “So now I will look like a popinjay.” She really could not understand these people.
“I daresay you’ll stand out,” the Duchess asserted.
Margaret didn’t know whether to be insulted or to laugh.
“No matter what you wear, you’ll look better than anyone else,” Derrick vowed.
Her heart turned over at his words. “What do you intend to wear?”
“The same old thing.” He shrugged. “It’s comfortable. Besides, I don’t own anything else.”
She got down on her knees and dragged a large box out from under the bed. “The last time Mr. Tinton stopped by I asked him to find something for you.”
Derrick opened the box. One side of his mouth tilted up in a wry expression. “Was this in case you needed to bury me?”
Her lip quivered as she thought of how ill he had been. “Of course not.”
“I shall be thoroughly uncomfortable in it.”
“I shall be quite uncomfortable in my popinjay gown.”
“May we leave the ball early?” he asked.
“I’d be delighted.” She smiled and he kissed her. No matter what they argued about, it always ended the same way.
She didn’t mind at all. Though she still wanted to live in Leedsville.
* * *
Derrick hated the outfit. The jacket reminded him of the color of someone with jaundice. He said nothing and donned it, telling himself he would only be required to wear it once and not for long.
When Margaret saw him in it, she laughed. “You remind me of one of those yellow wagtail birds I’ve seen in the garden.”
“Then we are quite a pair,” he commented. “A popinjay and a yellow wagtail. Everyone shall be jealous.”
Coaches lined up for at least a mile or more as guests were delivered to the ball. In Philadelphia, Derrick had been to a few fancy parties, but nothing equaled the Duke of Dalfour’s ball.
“I’m rather nervous about this,” Margaret admitted. “I have no idea how to address anyone, or if I should curtsy or not.”
“I’m unsettled by all this, too.” In truth, cold prickles ran along his shoulders and he seemed to hear his brother’s teasing words.
…a certain narrowness of thinking.
These people of extreme wealth truly lorded it over those of lesser means. Yes, his parents were wealthy, but they had worked hard to earn it. English royalty had everything handed to them, which did not seem fair. The satire in Gulliver’s Travels now had more meaning for him than it ever had.
Yes, the Duke had taken him in, but would he have done that if Margaret’s sister had not married his brother? He and Margaret might have found themselves settled in one of the small cottages far below the castle.
They stood in line with other guests who were dressed in the most elegant styles.
“If only Anthony were here,” he whispered to Margaret.
She laughed.
The people in front of them turned around and glared at them.
“I am sorry,” Derrick apologized, but he wasn’t.
After an interminable amount of time, the butler announced them. They fumbled through the introductions, and were at last free to roam the ballroom. An orchestra played intricate music and people danced with astonishing precision.
“Do you know how to dance like that?” Margaret asked.
“No. I suppose you don’t either?” he asked.
“That’s not the same as the dances at the harvest festival.”
“Would you care to try it?”
“I think I’ve already embarrassed myself enough for one night.”
He caressed her long, lovely neck. “I’m the one who bumped heads with the Duke when I bowed.”
Her light, sweet laugh sounded like tinkling bells. “You are much taller than he.”
“I shall have to stand further away next time.” He slid his hand around her waist and she leaned against him. He longed to take all the pins out of her hair and watch it cascade down her back. “Would you care for a sip of punch?”
“I think a breath of air would be preferable,” she admitted. “Between us, I’m sure we have offended everyone.”
He lifted up her hand and brought it to his lips. “Then let us taste the freshness of the evening.”
She giggled.
He adored her. Sometimes, he believed it was her sweetness that had had healed him. “Let’s start with a stroll around the balcony.”
Derrick tucked her arm in his and they walked out onto the terrace. Edged with a stone balustrade, the large veranda hung over a straight drop to the river below. The moon bathed the scene in a soft light and the evening’s gentle breeze cooled them.
Margaret leaned against the balustrade. “The water looks like a silver ribbon in the moonlight.”
He tilted her chin up and gazed into her hypnotic eyes. “Your eyes are far more beautiful than the river.”
“You’ve become so poetic,” she whispered.
“You’ve changed me.” He kissed her and, as always, the nectar on her lips filled him with such joy, his heart sang with wonder.
“Do you think we’ll be missed?” she asked.
“There’s quite a crowd in the ballroom,” he remarked.
Together they walked back through the ballroom. The crush of the crowd made it difficult to go a few steps without bumping into someone.
When they reached the entrance to the ballroom, he overheard the dowager duchess speaking in an angry tone to the Duchess.
“Look what he’s done to my gown.” The dowager pointed a finger in the direction of a man holding up a tray of glasses. “Fire that waiter now!”
Derrick glanced at the attendant and his blood turned cold. He would recognize that face anywhere as the British sailor who had attacked Margaret on the Prosperity.
He wasn’t dead at the bottom of the ocean. He was here. Derrick stood frozen as his mind raced.
“What’s the matter?” Margaret tugged at him. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Everything happened at once. The man threw the tray at him with enough force to send h
im sprawling on the floor. The sailor grabbed Margaret, lifting her off her feet, and ran out the door.
Margaret’s screams chilled Derrick’s heart. With no regard for the sharp shards of glass all around him, he got off the floor, and limped after the wicked sailor. “Put her down!”
The man gave an evil laugh. “No one slaps Will Fister and gets away with it. She’ll pay this time.” He dashed toward the river.
The ache in Derrick’s side prevented him from catching the man on foot, but horses stood right outside on the drive. He mounted one and took off. Shouts of other men came from behind him. He paid no heed to them. Panic like he’d never known before gripped him.
Margaret yelled, but the man kept running. On the horse, galloping across the broad lawn, Derrick easily pulled up beside them. When he dismounted, he saw the gleaming blade of a knife in the moonlight. Will Fister held the edge at Margaret’s throat.
“I’m going to kill her and you’re going to watch.” He growled with wild madness.
Derrick’s heart ripped into two. He could not live without her. He had nothing to stop the man except his bare hands, but the blade resting on Margaret’s neck was a mere fraction of an inch from severing her jugular vein.
Derrick lowered his head and closed his eyes, offering up a desperate plea to the Lord.
“See that!” The cruel man cawed. “With a pistol in his hand, he’s a brave man, but without a pistol, he’s a coward. I bet he can’t stand the sight of blood.”
Rage filled Derrick, but he dared not risk allowing his anger to endanger Margaret. He fisted his hands, kept his eyes lowered and stated low, “Kill me. Put the knife against my neck.”
“No….” Margaret whispered.
Behind him, the voices of many men drew closer.
“I’ll kill you both!” The maniac screamed.
Derrick lifted his head ready to jump at the maniac, but his eyes widened at what he saw in the moonlight.
Mrs. Ulery stood behind the fiend, raised a bottle, and slammed it down upon his head. He dropped the knife. Margaret slipped out of his grasp as he collapsed.
“I wanted to give this last bottle of whiskey to the dowager as I’m giving up strong spirits. Don’t want my niece’s precious babies smelling it on my breath,” Mrs. Ulery commented as she helped Margaret to her feet. “I thought the dowager could add it to the punch at the ball, but I suppose she has more than enough hard liquor already.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Hold still,” Margaret scolded. “I can’t get this piece of glass out if you wiggle.”
“That hurts,” he fussed.
“What a big baby you are.” She clicked her tongue and pulled out the sharp shard with the tweezers. “I hope that’s the last of them.” She poured vinegar on the wound, and wrapped the cut with clean linen.
“You said the same thing yesterday.”
“You are very fortunate the broken slivers of glass are in your hands and legs and not your eyes.”
“I know.” He pouted.
“Now pull up your stockings,” she ordered. “Mr. Tinton and Mr. Willis should be here at any moment.”
“You’ve gotten rather bossy in the last few days.”
“Because you’ve been moping about. When was the last time you gave me a kiss?” The beautiful days in the garden had ended. Derrick’s pensive mood worried her. “It’s been four days since the ball and all you do is brood.”
“I didn’t know what to do,” he confessed. “If I’d tackled him, he would have cut your throat. If Mrs. Ulery hadn’t come up with that bottle…”
“It’s over,” she soothed and traced the furrowed lines on his forehead. She had been terrified when the madman had held a knife to her throat, but Derrick’s silent and withdrawn behavior had pain squeezing her heart. “Don’t you love me anymore?” Her lip quivered as tears misted in her eyes.
“I love you more than words can say.” He pulled her into his arms. She almost forgot about Mr. Tinton and Mr. Willis until a knock came at the door.
“Oh, dear.” With reluctance, she drew away from him.
He smiled. “You are an excellent doctor, Lady Sunshine. You always know the perfect cure.”
They hurried downstairs to the small sitting room where Mr. Tinton and Mr. Willis waited. Mr. Willis had brought his writing desk, as usual. The men stood as they walked in.
“The constable said the man confessed to the death of both our fellow solicitor and the murder of Lord Whittington and his servants before he was hung.”
Margaret choked back her horror at the news. “Why…?”
Mr. Tinton shrugged. “As soon as he was back on dry land, he went looking for you. The devil had him in his grasp. His soul was as black as coal.”
Margaret shuddered and touched the scar on her head. Derrick took her hand away and kissed it.
“It’s over,” he said.
Mr. Willis cleared his throat. “Here are several documents for you to sign.” He laid them out on the table along with the ink and the quills.
“We wanted you to be aware we are doing our best to make all the arrangements in good order,” Mr. Tinton concluded.
“Is this for the apartment in London?” she asked.
“That’s this document,” Mr. Willis pointed to it.
“I thought you might be interested in hearing that no progress has been made in the search for relatives of the earl.” Mr. Tinton seemed more relaxed than usual. “Broadcraft Hall may eventually be put up for sale.”
“It’s really quite an ugly monstrosity.” Margaret sighed. As a child, she often visualized the castle as a bright, magical place full of beauty. All her childhood dreams had crumbled the moment she saw it.
“I agree with you,” Mr. Tinton admitted.
“We had our agent check the schedule, and a ship sails next week for New York. Will that be acceptable?” Mr. Willis asked.
“New York?” Margaret blinked. “Am I going so soon? I thought we would be here for six months.” Her eyes welled with tears.
“You’ve wanted to go home all this time,” Derrick soothed.
“Not without you,” she sobbed.
His arms came round her. “Oh my dear, little wife. Do you think I’d go anywhere without you? We’re going back together.”
She swiped away her tears. “What about John Hunter? You came to study with him.”
“I shall correspond with him, and continue to attend lectures at home,” he said.
“In Philadelphia,” she sniffed.
“Yes, but we’ll live in Leedsville most of the time because I heard they need a good doctor.”
She threw her arms around him, kissed him, and cried, though her tears were those of joy.
“Ahem,” Mr. Willis cleared his throat most prodigiously. “There are several more documents to sign.”
“I’m sorry,” Margaret dabbed at her tears again. “I think I’m the happiest woman in the world.”
* * *
Mrs. Ulery hugged them before they walked up the gangplank. “I can’t leave those little ones. They are such a joy.” Her face beamed. “Please offer my regards to my cousin when you see her, as well as your Aunt Sally. Tell them I shall write long letters, but let them know how happy I am. I am most grateful to you for choosing me to journey with you and indeed, I thank the Lord every day. A piece of my heart was missing, but it seems I’ve found it here.”
Margaret nodded, because if she said anything, her eyes would fill with tears.
“I have a gift for you from Her Grace,” Mrs. Ulery handed her a small wooden box. “I’ve been longing to see what she gave you. I hope you’ll open it now so I can satisfy my curiosity.”
Margaret was equally intrigued. What would the dowager give to her? The woman had never asked her anything at all about herself. “Maybe it’s really something for my brother-in-law, since he’s her son.”
She unfastened the small brass catch and lifted the lid. Nestled inside on thick, black velvet was a delica
te miniature portrait. Margaret gasped.
“Who is it?” asked Derrick.
“It’s my mother,” Margaret said in awe. “Agnes had seen this portrait once. The dowager’s daughter showed it to her. My mother looked like Agnes.”
“Remarkable!” Mrs. Ulery declared. “She is the very picture of your sister.”
“Her Grace was once my mother’s best friend.” Margaret had not failed to notice the wistful expression on the old dowager’s face when she spoke of her friend.
Derrick gave the older woman a hug. “You’ve saved Margaret twice. What are we going to do without you?”
“You’ll do fine.” She smiled. “You love each other, which is more than enough to get you through any trouble.”
“I’ll miss you terribly,” Margaret confessed.
“You’ll be too busy to miss me, but send me a letter every now and then,” she asked.
“I will.” Margaret promised. “I’ll pray for you, too.”
“So will I,” Derrick added.
“I will return the favor.”
The bell on the ship rang.
“Now get going,” Mrs. Ulery scolded. “You don’t want to miss the boat.”
Margaret and Derrick walked up the gangplank to begin their journey home.
Please enjoy this sample from Patriot’s Heart by Penelope Marzec available from Prism Book Group!
Leedsville, New Jersey
Monday, June 29, 1778
Agnes’s heart pounded as she stood in the midst of the battle. With the thick smoke clouding the air, she could barely see anything except for the soldiers grappling on the ground at her feet. The men twisted and thrashed about in their fight to the death, but none of them were Father or Uncle Fitz and she wanted to find them. She needed them at home.
Stepping over the combatants groveling in the dirt appeared impossible and dangerous. Instead, she turned. Behind her a man stood with a bayonet in his hands. He lunged toward her. She tried to scream, but no sound came from her lips.
Then, above the sounds of struggle, the sweet lilt of Colleen’s voice singing Róisín Dubh floated on the air. Agnes woke with a start and drew in a ragged breath. A cold sweat covered her and tears moistened her cheeks.
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