Читать книгу Love Thine Enemy - Louise M. Gouge - Страница 11

“Can ye beat that?” Papa stared after Mr. Moberly as he rode away. “Inviting us to a dinner party. Calling us ‘leading citizens.’”

Jamie raised one eyebrow and traded a glance with Papa. “A good opportunity.”

“What do you mean?” Rachel looked from one to the other. Was this another of those secrets they kept from her, things they called “men’s matters”?

“Why, business, daughter.” Papa took up his shipping log and quill and made notes. “’Tis a great honor for Mr. Moberly to stamp his approval on us. It’ll bring more customers.”

“Indeed it shall.” Jamie leaned back against the counter and crossed his arms. “Now what do you suppose I could bring from London to further foster his good opinion?”

Papa tapped his quill against his chin. “Hmm. He hires ships to deliver the plantation’s products to England and bring back what’s needed here.” He stared out of the window for a moment. “I’ve got the notion they’d like to increase the population with decent folk, more tradesmen and such, not the lowlife camp followers that plague the regiment, nor the Spanish who stayed on after England seized these lands.”

“Humph,” Rachel said. “Please do not tell me you want Jamie to import more Englishmen, tradesmen or no. It is beyond enough that English sympathizers from the Carolinas are arriving here every week.”

“And welcome to them.” Papa bent toward her in his paternal fashion. “The more that come from South Carolina and Georgia, the better it will be for everyone, for they’ll understand the land more than an Englishman. And consider this. King George gave the good citizens of New England plenty of opportunities to populate both East and West Florida. Ye can see how few have accepted his invitation.”

“And, if not American colonials,” Jamie said, “why not more English?” He sent Rachel a brotherly smile. “The ordinary Englishman’s no threat to your patriot cause, especially way down here in East Florida. They’re like Uncle Lamech here, people who want a chance to build a life in a new place.”

“Yes, so you both have said. Never mind that they will all be willing to join a militia in support of the Crown.” Rachel would not add that she had never wanted a life in a new place. Papa had announced she would accompany him to East Florida, and that was that. With a sigh, she ambled across the room toward the material display and ran a finger over a bolt of fabric. “Papa, will you let me take a length of this mosquito netting to protect Sadie’s baby? He’s a mass of bites this morning, poor boy.”

“And how’s Sadie to pay for it, might I ask?” Papa had returned to his accounting and now peered at her over his reading spectacles, eyes narrowed.

Rachel lifted her chin and stared back, mirroring his look. She had backed down in the discussion about the English, but she would not back down in this matter. For countless seconds, she faced his “captain” glare that had always made his whalers tremble.

Jamie coughed and hummed a flat tune, then drummed his fingers on the counter. The hammers of the men working on the living quarters echoed above them. A bird of some sort sent out a plaintive cry in the marshes behind the store.

Papa did not flinch, nor did Rachel.

“If you do it for the least of these—” she began.

Papa slammed his logbook shut. “What shall I do with ye, my girl? Given yer head, ye’d give away the entire store.”

Pulling the bolt from the display, Rachel hurried to his side and placed a kiss on his gray-stubbled cheek. “Perhaps Mr. Moberly will make more purchases with his gold guineas. That should balance everything out.”

She glanced at Jamie, whose face had reddened in an obvious attempt to stifle his amusement. She never would have put up such a fight in front of any other of Papa’s crew. Measuring out an appropriate length of the sheer material, she cut, folded and wrapped it. “May I take it over right away?”

“There’s a limit to my surrender, daughter. Look.” Scowling, he pointed out the window. “Customers are headed this way. Ye can take it when ye go for yer noon meal.” His expression softened. “Have ye noticed the mosquitoes come out in the evening? The tyke will be fine until then.”

“Thank you, Papa.”

Jamie left, and customers entered to shop. Several soldiers came to purchase tobacco, and one bought a new pipe. An Indian family, speaking in their Timucuan language, studied the various wares and selected a large cast-iron pot. The tanner’s wife bought a box of tea. One of the slatterns who followed the soldiers eyed the finer fabrics with a longing eye. Repulsed by her sweaty smell but also filled with pity, Rachel watched the woman move lazily among the displays. Papa greeted one and all as if they were old friends, even taking time to learn a few native words from the Indians.

The morning passed quickly, and soon Papa gave Rachel a nod. She placed her bonnet over her mobcap, fetched the wrapped mosquito netting, and then hastened out the door.

The sun stood at its zenith like an angry potentate pouring fiery wrath upon all who dared to venture beneath him. Perspiration slid down Rachel’s face and body, stinging her eyes and dampening everything she wore. Perhaps she should ask Jamie to bring her a new parasol from London, for her old one was bent and tattered.

As she passed the large yard beside the inn, she heard a commotion—Sadie’s shrill voice screeched for help above the chaotic squawking of chickens and geese. Rachel hurried around the corner of the clapboard building, where she saw the young woman tussling with a soldier amidst the innkeeper’s fowls, a plump goose the object of their struggle.

“Let ’er go, ya blunderhead.” Sadie tried to kick the red-uniformed man, without success. “Ya’ve no right to take ’er.”

The man cursed and continued to grasp the goose’s neck. “Gi’ way, girl. I’ve a right as the king’s soldier to take what I need.”

“Ya’ve got yer own provisions in the regiment,” cried Sadie.

Her sob cut into Rachel’s heart, stirring memories of the time a brutish soldier invaded her sister’s house and took food from the children’s plates. Then he had threatened Rachel and Susanna with something far worse. Enraged by the recollection, she dashed toward the altercation.

“Brazen wench, let go.” The soldier cuffed Sadie on the face, but though she cried out, she held on to the goose.

“Stop it, you horrid monster.” Rachel dropped her package and, with hardly a thought of what she was doing, grabbed a length of wood from the nearby woodpile and slammed it into the man’s ear. Her hands stung from the blow, and she dropped the weapon as his tall, black leather cap flew to the ground.

“Ow!” He grabbed his ear and released the now-dead beast. Turning to Rachel, he glared at her with blazing eyes and took a menacing step toward her.

Lord, what have I done? Terror gripped her, and she searched for an escape.

But he glanced beyond her and stopped.

“What’s all this?” A familiar English voice resounded with authority behind her.

Rachel turned to see Mr. Moberly astride his horse, staring down his aristocratic nose at the scene. His gray eyes flashed like a shining rapier in the shadow of his broad-brimmed hat. Despite the day’s heat, a strange shiver swept through her body.

“Good thing ya come along, gov’ner.” The soldier tugged at a lock of his hair in an obeisant gesture. “This wench refuses me a soldier’s right to provision, and this ’un…” He waved at Rachel. “She done assaulted a king’s soldier, is what she done.” He stepped toward her as if about to return the blow. “’Tis a hangin’ offense.”

“Take another step—” Moberly bent forward and pointed his riding crop at the soldier “—and you’ll be the one to hang.”

The man stopped, his eyes wide. Rachel could see his fear in his slack-jaw expression. Did Moberly really have that kind of power?

“Chiveys, gov’ner,” Sadie cried, “he just killed one o’Ma’s brood geese.”

“I’ve a right to take provision as needed.” The soldier retrieved his tall cap and shook off the sand clinging to it. He winced as he placed it above his bloody ear.

“I shall speak to Major Brigham about the matter.” Moberly dismounted. “I shall also see he requires you to repay the innkeeper for the loss of his goose.”

“Repay—?”

“Are you contradicting me?” Moberly’s stately posture forestalled any appeal.

“No, sir, yer lordship.” The man stood straight and lifted his hand into a salute.

“What is your name, private?”

“Buckner, sir.”

“Well, now, Buckner, get back to your duty.” Moberly pointed the riding crop toward the street.

“Yes, sir.” The soldier hastened around the corner of the inn and disappeared from sight.

Moberly stepped near Sadie, and his stern expression softened. “Hurry to pluck and dress it, girl, so it won’t be a complete loss.”

Her face still flushed, Sadie cast a confused look at Rachel and then at Moberly. “Aye, sir. I’ll do that.” She curtsied to each of them. “Thank you, miss.” And away she dashed.

Moberly now gave Rachel a gentle smile, and she thought the heat might flatten her on the spot. Gratitude for his rescue warred within her heart against her scorn for all things English.

“I must say, Miss Folger, I have never seen a lady quite so, um, bold in defense of a less fortunate soul.” His gray eyes twinkled. “But I must also say I quite admire you for it.”

“Indeed? I did no more nor less than the citizens of Lexington and Concord this past month when your British soldiers attacked them.” Rachel could not believe her own words. The man had just saved her from assault.

Puzzlement swept across his face, as if he had no idea of the matter. “I beg your pardon?” Then his eyebrows raised in clear comprehension. “Ah. I see. May I surmise you favor the cause of the thirteen dissenting colonies?” His thoughtful expression held no condemnation or disdain.

Before she could respond, the injury to her left hand began to sting, and she looked down to see several splinters embedded in her bloody palm.

“Why, Miss Folger, you’ve been wounded in battle.” He stepped forward and seized her hand to inspect it. A frown creased his forehead. “I shall send my personal physician immediately to make certain no infection sets in. If left untended, this sort of wound can become quite serious, especially here in the tropics.” He drew a white silk handkerchief from his waistcoat and wrapped it around the injury. “This should protect it until he arrives.”

Shame dug into her. Had she misjudged this man? She pulled her hand away.

“Thank you, sir, but please don’t trouble yourself.” She tried to brush past him, but his large horse stood in the way. Confusion filled her. She spied the forgotten package of material.

Anticipating her direction, he hastened to retrieve it and held it out.

“Yours?”

“Yes.” She took it in her uninjured hand. “Thank you.”

“May I escort you to your destination?”

Rachel’s pulse raced. A hundred arguments warred within her, yet she felt a strange, strong impulse to accept. Was this nudging from the Lord? “Yes. Thank you. To the inn.”

He offered his arm, and she set her bandaged hand on it, wincing slightly at the pain.

“You must accept my apology for that soldier’s conduct.” Mr. Moberly’s tone rang sincere, reinforced by his troubled frown. “I shall speak to his commander. You may trust me when I promise we shall have no conflict between citizenry and soldiers here in St. Johns Settlement.”

Once again, the day’s heat almost proved her undoing. Lord, I’ve judged this man without knowing anything about him. That’s nothing less than a sin. Please forgive me.

They walked to the front of the inn, and Mr. Moberly tethered his horse to a post. “Are you always this quiet?” His tone betrayed amusement.

She again took his offered arm. “Papa would say I am all too loquacious.”

“Ah, I see. Then I shall have to spend more time in your company to ascertain who the true Miss Folger is.”

As they passed through the open door, his posture transformed from relaxed to imperious. He surveyed the taproom, where a half-dozen soldiers sat drinking. Then, in a voice raised so they could hear, he said, “Miss Folger, you and your father may count me as your friend. If you need anything at all, send one of these fellows to my plantation.” He waved his riding crop toward the soldiers. “And you shall have it posthaste.” He took her injured hand and placed a gentlemanly kiss on it. “Good day, dear lady.”

Filled with wonder, Rachel watched him depart. A good Englishman. An aristocrat who treated her with dignity. Who, through one simple sentence or two, had made clear to these brigands that she and Papa must be respected. Surely the word would pass through the entire regiment, and her fears of mistreatment could be set aside.

“Chiveys, Miss Folger, what do you think o’ that?” Sadie stood at her elbow. “The gov’ner’s a right decent fellow, ain’t ’e?”

Rachel shook off her stupor. “Why, yes, Sadie. I do believe you are right.”

Frederick barely noticed the landscape as he rode slowly back to his plantation. How could one brief encounter with a dark-eyed beauty answer all his questions about the sort of woman he must marry?

He had caught a glimpse of the brawl behind the inn, not realizing who was involved, and had ridden around the building in time to see Miss Folger strike the soldier. In that instant, he knew two things. First, her courage could not be matched in any titled young lady he had known in his life. Second, his position as magistrate demanded that he protect this young woman from the irate soldier. Because of the troubles up north, Major Brigham might be offended by Frederick’s actions, but he would stand by them.

And then there was a third thing he knew…and felt as deeply as any truth he had ever encountered. He did not need to ask Miss Folger for advice on the type of young lady to marry, for she herself embodied everything he could ever desire: beauty, spirit, wit, pluck and more. The list seemed endless.

Was he mad? Possibly. Impetuous? No doubt. Yet, at this moment, Frederick’s heart felt so light, he longed to turn Essex back to the settlement, where he might spend more time in Miss Folger’s delightful company.

But that whimsical impulse was cut short by the specter of Oliver and his lies to Father. He had invented an imaginary female at the Oswald Plantation. Well, now Frederick’s attention had been captured by a real, living young lady, and he must do all within his power to keep Oliver from destroying his chances with her…and from telling Father about her.