Книга - Love Thine Enemy

Love Thine Enemy
Louise M. Gouge


Indulge your fantasies of delicious Regency Rakes, fierce Viking warriors and rugged Highlanders. Be swept away into a world of intense passion, lavish settings and romance that burns brightly through the centuriesThe tropics of colonial Florida are far removed from America's Revolution.Still, Rachel Folger's loyalties remain with Boston's patriots. Handsome plantation owner Frederick Moberly's faithfulness to the Crown is as certain as his admiration for Rachel–but for the sake of harmony, he'll keep his sympathies hidden. After all, the war is too far distant to truly touch them. . . isn't it?A betrayal of Rachel's trust divides the pair, leaving Frederick to question the true meaning of faith in God and in country. Inspired by Rachel to see life, liberty and love through His eyes, Frederick must harness his faith and courage to claim the woman he loves before war tears them apart.









“This is madness, you know,” Rachel said.


Frederick chuckled. “But it is a merry madness, do you not agree?”

Rachel looked down, as if trying to hide her face. “I would not have you disappoint your parents.”

How had she uncovered the core of his dilemma? Could he surrender all his former dreams to marry Rachel? “But may a man not decide his own destiny? Must he always seek his parents’ approval?”

Her brow wrinkled, as if she were considering his question. “You must count the cost, Mr. Moberly. You have more to lose than I. No doubt your father will disown you.”

“Perhaps so. But what of you? I would not have you suffer on my account.”

“I risk only my heart, as women have done since time began.”

“If your heart suffered, I would grieve being the cause of it. As a younger son, I will inherit no part of my father’s fortune. Perhaps it is time for me to earn my own.”

“Why then, sir, I believe our friendship might prosper, after all.”




LOUISE M. GOUGE


has been married to her husband, David, for forty-four years. They have four children and six grandchildren. Louise always had an active imagination, thinking up stories for her friends, classmates and family, but seldom writing them down. At a friend’s insistence, in 1984 she finally began to type up her latest idea. Before trying to find a publisher, Louise returned to college, earning a BA in English/creative writing and a master’s degree in liberal studies. She reworked the novel based on what she had learned and sold it to a major Christian publisher. Louise then worked in television marketing for a short time before becoming a college English/humanities instructor. She has had seven novels published, five of which have earned multiple awards, including the 2006 Inspirational Reader’s Choice Award. Please visit her Web site at www.louisemgouge.com.




Louise M. Gouge

Love Thine Enemy















www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Behold, thou desirest truth in the inward parts: and in the hidden part thou shalt make me to know wisdom.

—Psalms 51:6


To Kristy Dykes (1951–2008), a godly, gifted

author who encouraged me to write about Florida,

her home state and mine. Kristy was a beautiful

Christian lady, a light in my life and in the lives of

countless others. She is greatly missed by all who

knew her.

Also, to my husband, David, who accompanied

me on my research trips and found some excellent

tidbits for this book. Thank you, my darling.




Contents


Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Questions For Discussion




Chapter One


St. Johns Settlement, East Florida Colony

May 1775

Through the window of her father’s store, Rachel watched the Englishmen ride their handsome steeds up the sandy street of St. Johns Settlement. Their well-cut coats and haughty bearing—as if they owned the world—made their identities unmistakable.

“Make them pass by, Lord,” she whispered, “for surely I’ll not be able to speak a Christian word to them if they come in here.” She glanced over her shoulder at Papa to see if he had heard her, but he was focusing his attention on a newly opened crate of goods.

Rachel turned back to the window. To her dismay, the two young men dismounted right in front of the store. One snapped his fingers at a small black boy and motioned for him to care for the horses.

Her dismay turned to anger. How did they know the boy could take time to do the task? Did they care that the child might be beaten by his owner if he lingered in town?

“What draws yer scrutiny, daughter?” Papa approached to look out the window. “Aha. Just as I hoped. From the cut of his clothes, that’s Mr. Moberly, no mistake. Make haste, child. Go behind the counter and set out those fine tins of snuff and the brass buckles. Oh, and the wig powder and whalebone combs. Mayhap these gentlemen have wives who long for such luxuries here in the wilderness.”

The delight in his voice brought back Rachel’s dismay, even as she hurried to obey. Until six months ago, Papa had been a man of great dignity, a respected whaler who commanded his own ship. Why should he make obeisance to these wretches? These popinjays?

When the two men entered, the jangling bells on the front door grated against her nerves, inciting anger once more. But for Papa’s sake, she would attempt to control it.

“What did I tell you, Oliver? Isn’t this superb?” The taller of the two men glanced about the room. “Look at all these wares.”

Rachel noticed the slight lift of his eyebrows when he saw her, but he turned his attention to Papa.

“Mr. Folger, I presume?”

“Aye, milord, I am he. How may I serve ye, sir?”

The young man chuckled. “First of all, I am not ‘milord.’”

“Not yet.” His companion held his nose high, as if something smelled bad. “But soon.”

The taller man shrugged. “Perhaps when the plantation proves as successful as Lord Egmount’s.” He reached out to Papa. “I’m Frederick Moberly, sir, His Majesty’s magistrate for St. Johns Settlement and manager of Bennington Plantation. This is my friend and business associate, Oliver Corwin.”

For the briefest moment, Papa seemed uncertain, but then he gripped the gentleman’s hand and shook it with enthusiasm. “How do ye, my good sirs? I’m pleased to meet ye both.”

“And I’m pleased to see your fine store ready for business.” Moberly surveyed the shelves and counters. And again his glance stopped at Rachel.

Papa cleared his throat. “My daughter, Miss Folger.”

Moberly swept off his brimmed hat and bent forward in a courtly bow, revealing black hair pulled back in a long queue. “How do you do, Miss Folger?”

She forced herself to curtsy but did not speak. The very idea, a gentleman giving a shopkeeper’s daughter such honors. No doubt the man was a flatterer. The one named Corwin made no such gesture, but his intense stare brought heat to her face. Rachel could not decide which man would require her to be more vigilant.

Moberly’s gaze lingered on her for another instant before he turned back to Papa. “Your store and the village’s other new ones are what I’ve been hoping for. If St. Johns Settlement is to succeed as a colonial outpost, we must have every convenience to offer our settlers. Tell me, Folger, do you have any concerns about your shipments? With all that nonsense going on in the northern colonies, do you expect any delay in delivery of your goods?”

“Well, sir, I had no difficulty sailing down here from Boston. I expect all those troubles to be behind us soon. The rebels simply haven’t the resources. I’ll wager wiser heads will prevail. I’m from Nantucket, ye see, and we’re loyal to the Crown.”

Corwin snorted, and Moberly glanced his way with a frown.

“Ah, yes, Nantucket.” The magistrate appeared interested. “From whence whalers set out to harvest the world’s finest lamp oil. Will you be receiving goods from there?”

“Perhaps some, sir. My own ship will sail to and from London until things are settled.”

“Good, good.” Moberly nodded. “And are you a Quaker, as I’ve heard most Nantucketers are?”

“I was reared in the Society of Friends,” Papa said. “But I don’t mind wearing a brass button or a buckle.”

“We don’t need any dissenters here.” Corwin’s eyes narrowed.

“Now, Oliver, the man said he wasn’t a zealot.” Moberly gave Papa a genial look. “Moderation in all things, would you not agree?”

“Precisely my sentiments, sir.”

Rachel inhaled deeply. She must not display her feelings. This was not Nantucket, where women spoke their minds. Nor was it Boston, where patriots—both men and women—clamored for separation from England. Until she got the lay of the land here in East Florida Colony, she must not risk harming Papa’s enterprise.

“Miss Folger.” Moberly approached the wide oak counter which she stood behind. “What do you think of our little settlement?”

She caught a glimpse of Papa’s warning look and stifled a curt reply. “I am certain it is everything King George could wish for.” She ventured a direct look and discovered his eyes to be dark gray. His tanned, clean-shaven cheeks had a youthful yet strong contour. Young, handsome, self-assured. Like the English officers who ordered the shooting of the patriots at Lexington and Concord just over a month ago.

Her reply seemed to please him, for his eyes twinkled, and Rachel’s traitorous pulse beat faster. Belay that, foolish heart. These are not your kind.

“Indeed, I do hope His Majesty approves of my work here.” A winsome expression crossed his face. “As you may know, in England, younger sons must earn their fortunes. But if we are clever and the Fates favor us, we too can gain society’s interest and perhaps even its approval.”

Rachel returned a tight smile. “In America, every man has the opportunity to earn his fortune and his place in society.” With the help of God, not fate.

He grinned. “Then I’ve come to the right place, have I not?”

The man had not comprehended her insult in the least. How she longed to tell him exactly what she thought of his King George and all greedy Englishmen.

Papa emitted a nervous cough. “Indeed ye have, my good sir. And so have we.” Again, his frown scolded her. “Now, sir, is there anything in particular we can help ye with?”

“Hmm.” The magistrate effected a thoughtful pose, with arms crossed and a finger resting on his chin. “My Mrs. Winthrop requested tea, if you have some.” He tapped his temple. “And something else. Oliver, can you recall the other items she mentioned?”

“Flour and coffee.” Corwin’s languid tone revealed boredom, perhaps even annoyance. “She wanted a list of his spices, and of course she’ll want to know about those fabrics.” He waved toward the crates Papa had opened.

At Papa’s instruction, Rachel wrote down the items they had imported from Boston, things an English housekeeper might want. She snipped small samples of the linen, muslin and other fabrics, and wrapped them in brown paper. All the while, she felt the stares of the two men. Despite the summer heat, a shiver ran down her back while a blush warmed her cheeks.

None too soon, they made their purchases and left, but not before Mr. Moberly once again bowed to her. Why did he engage in such courtesy? Neither in England nor in Boston would he thus have honored her, nor even have acknowledged her existence.

“Well, daughter, what think ye?” Papa held up the gold guineas they had given him. “His lordship didn’t even ask for credit.”

“Papa, will you listen to yourself?” Rachel leaned her elbows on the counter and rested her chin on her fists. “You were raised a Quaker, yet hear how you go on about ‘milord’ and ‘his lordship.’”

Papa harrumphed. “I suppose ye’ll be after me to take up my ‘thees’ and ‘thous’ again. Ye, who abandoned the Friends yerself, going off to that other church with yer sister and her husband.” He lumbered on his wounded leg toward the back room. “I should never have sent ye to Boston to live with Susanna.”

He disappeared behind the burlap curtain, and soon Rachel heard crates being shoved roughly across the hard tabby floor. Sorrow cut into her. Had he not been injured on his last whaling voyage, Papa could still captain his own ship, and she would still be in Boston helping the patriots’ noble cause. Instead, here she was in East Florida helping him.

He must feel as cross as she did about their differences of opinion, both about the revolution and the Englishmen. But she had not chosen to flee Massachusetts Colony to avoid the war against the Crown. How could he expect her to treat the English oppressors with civility?



“Pleasant fellow, that Folger.” Frederick flipped a farthing to the Negro boy who held their horses. “Good job, lad. If you get into trouble, tell your master Mr. Moberly required your services.”

“Pleasant fellow, indeed.” Oliver grasped his horse’s reins and swung into the saddle. “’Tis the little chit you found pleasant.”

“And you did not?” Frederick mounted Essex and reined the stallion toward the plantation road. “I saw you watching her as if she were a plump partridge and you a starving man.”

Oliver drew up beside him. “Of course I was watching her. Your father sent me along to this forsaken place to make sure no provincial lass sets her cap for you. And if she does, I’m to nip the budding romance.”

Frederick swallowed the bitter retort. Oliver’s reminder ruined the agreeable feeling that had settled in his chest the moment he set eyes on the fair-haired maiden. Here he was at twenty-three, and the old earl still treated him as if he were a boy sitting in an Eton classroom. As for the girl, she was no chit, but fully a woman, possessing a diminutive but elegant figure. Spirited, too, from the liveliness he had noticed in her fine dark eyes. But he would not say so, for Oliver would only misunderstand his generous opinion of her.

“Have no care on that account. I’ve no plans to pursue American women.” He glanced at the rolling landscape with its sandy soil and countless varieties of vegetation. While the weather could inflict heat, lightning and hurricanes upon inhabitants, he found East Florida a pleasant paradise, as satisfying as any place for building his future.

“You cannot fool me,” Oliver said. “Need I remind you that if you fail here, Lord Bennington will ship you off to His Majesty’s Royal Navy? You’ll end up wearing the indigo instead of growing it.”

Frederick glared at him. “Fail? My father sent me to rescue the plantation from Bartleby’s mismanagement, and that’s exactly what I have accomplished. He will not be quick to snatch me home.”

“You know as well as I it’s moral failure he’s concerned about.”

Frederick gritted his teeth. How long would he have to pay for the sins of his older brothers? “Rest easy on that account. I’ll not risk my business association with Mr. Folger by dallying with his daughter. However, if you will recall, we’re supposed to be building a settlement here. Before we can bring English ladies to this wilderness, we must provide necessary services. This man Folger may have friends up north who want no part in the rebellion. We must court him, if you will, to lure other worthies to East Florida Colony, even if it means socializing with the merchant class.”

Oliver regarded him with a skeptical frown. “Just be certain you don’t socialize with the little Nantucket wench while you await those English ladies.”

“Enough of this.” Frederick slapped his riding crop against Essex’s flanks and urged him into a gallop.

The steed easily outdistanced Oliver’s mare, and Frederick arrived home far ahead of his companion. At the front porch, he jumped down and tossed the reins to the waiting groom.

“Give him a cooldown and brushing, Ben. He’s had a good run in this heat.”

“Yessuh, Mister Moberly.” The slender black man led the stallion away.

Three black-and-white spaniels bounded around the corner of the house to greet Frederick. He ruffled their necks and patted their heads. “Down, boy. Down, girls. I’m on a mission.”

He took the four front steps two at a time and crossed the wide porch with long strides. The door opened, and the little Negro girl who tended it curtsied.

“Welcome home, Mr. Frederick.”

“Thank you, Caddy.” He pulled a confection from his coat pocket, handed it to her and patted her scarf-covered head.

Inside, he strode across the entry toward the front staircase. “Cousin Lydie, I’m home.” He listened for his cousin’s response. Soon the soft rush of feet sounded above him.

“Dear me.” Cousin Lydie hastened downstairs, shadowed by Betty, the housemaid. “I expected you to be in the village much longer. Dinner is not yet prepared.”

“Don’t fret. I only announced my homecoming because I have this for you.” He pulled the fabric samples from his pocket and handed them to her. “Oliver has the other items, but I wanted to give you these myself. Be quick to order the dress lengths you desire, or the vicar’s wife will beat you to it.” He winked at her.

“Why, sir.” Cousin Lydie’s gray eyes exuded gratitude as she spoke. “You’re too kind.”

Frederick noticed the longing in Betty’s expression. The once cheerful maid had become a sad little shadow after an alligator caught her skirt and almost dragged her into the river. If Oliver hadn’t shot the beast, Frederick would have had a bitter letter to write home to Father’s groom to report the loss of his daughter.

“And be certain to choose something for Betty, too. Something to mark her status in the house.” He felt tempted to pat the girl on the head as he had the child at the front door, but thought better of it. Such innocent contact with serving girls had been the beginning of troubles for his older brothers.

“Thank you, sir.” Betty curtsied, and her pale face brightened.

“Think nothing of it.”

“Mr. Moberly.” Cousin Lydie insisted on addressing him formally in front of the servants. “A flatboat arrived bringing mail. Summerlin put several letters on your desk.”

“Ah, very good.” Frederick proceeded down the hallway to his study and sat at his large oak desk. Trepidation filled him as he lifted the top letter and broke Father’s red wax seal.

As expected, he could almost hear Father’s ponderous voice in the missive. The earl always seemed to find something wrong in Frederick’s correspondence and scolded him about nonexistent offenses. Yet the abundant shipments of produce and the financial reports sent by Corwin confirmed everything Frederick claimed about the plantation’s success.

Through the tall, open window beside him, he stared out on the distant indigo field where slaves bent over tender young plants. Last year’s crop had been modestly successful, and this year should produce an abundance, perhaps even rivaling the success of Lord Egmount’s nearby plantation. Why did Father doubt the veracity of Frederick’s reports?

He blew out a deep sigh. Pleasing his father had always proven impossible, so he cheered himself with Mother’s letter. She chatted about a party she had given in London and said how much she missed him. As always, she thanked him for giving her widowed cousin a home where she could feel useful. Frederick would make certain he responded that Cousin Lydia Winthrop did more for him than he did for her, managing the household with skill.

Marianne’s letter brought him laughter. His younger sister had rebuffed yet another foolish suitor who, despite an august title and ample wealth, possessed no wit or sense of adventure. “I shall remain forever a spinster,” she wrote. Frederick pictured her dramatic pose, delicate white hand to her pretty forehead in artificial pathos. How he treasured the memories of their carefree childhood days.

The letters had done their job. Father’s dire warnings had been mitigated by Mother’s and Marianne’s gentler words. Frederick rested his head against the back of his large mahogany chair and gazed out the window again.

In his most amiable dreams, he considered that his success in East Florida might move His Majesty to knight him, as Oliver had said. Then, in due time, he could complete the picture by returning to England to choose a woman to be his wife from one of the families who once had shunned him. But how could he win the king’s favor when his own father gave only disapproval?

He recalled the words of the pretty young miss he had met two short hours ago. In America, every man had the opportunity to earn his place in society. Not be born to it, as his eldest brother had been, but to earn his fortune by his own honest sweat. More and more, that peculiar idea appealed to him, for he found great satisfaction in his work. And the sort of woman Frederick required for a wife must be willing to leave her cushioned life to establish a new home, just as Miss Folger had done for her father.

Frederick would do well to foster a friendship with the merchant and his daughter to discover what kind of woman would make the perfect wife to bring to this savage land. Perhaps inviting the two to some sort of social gathering would be beneficial. A party such as Mother had given in London, where no expense was spared to please her guests.

Eager to enlist Cousin Lydie’s help in the project, he rose from his chair, but noticed another letter bearing Father’s seal lying facedown on the desk. Two reprimands? What had the old earl forgotten to scold him for?

Frederick snapped the wax and unfolded the vellum sheet, not caring if he tore it. The salutation made him blink twice.

My dear Oliver—

Frederick turned the missive over. Oliver’s name was clearly written in Father’s hand across the outside. A coil of dread tightened in Frederick’s stomach. Father had never addressed him as “My dear Frederick.”

He should not read this letter. Summerlin had left it here by mistake. Yet Frederick could not resist.

Received your letter of December 20. You have my gratitude for your faithful reporting of the matters we discussed. I shall make my decision accordingly. Please continue your endeavors to keep my son from further overspending. As to the chit from Oswald’s plantation, do all in your power to keep them apart.

Gratefully, Bennington

Frederick slumped back into his chair. What matters? What overspending? What chit? Frederick had visited the manager of Oswald’s plantation last year, but met no young woman.

And Oliver knew it. Oliver, the illegitimate son of a well-born lady, who had depended on Father’s generosity since childhood. Oliver, Frederick’s lifelong friend.

His hands curled into fists, crushing the heavy paper into a ball. He thrust it into the fireplace, then snatched a piece of char cloth from the box on the narrow mantelpiece. But before he could strike flint against steel to light it, other thoughts stayed his hand.

Working to subdue his anger, he pressed the page out on his desk, refolded it and then consigned it to the hidden compartment beneath his desktop. He must not let Oliver know that he had discovered his treachery.

Frederick paced back and forth across the room. All his hard work might come to nothing because Father believed Oliver’s lies. He reread the earl’s letter. At least Father had not called him home at once. But he must discover a way to prove himself.

The party. That was it. He would throw a grand affair and earn the friendship of the newly arrived residents of St. Johns Settlement. If they required help, he would give it. In his judgments as magistrate, he would continue to be firm but fair. He would solicit a letter of praise from his plantation physician, Dr. Wellsey, regarding the health and productivity of the slaves. He would foster friendships with the leading citizens of the growing settlement and petition for recommendations, as well.

And he would watch Oliver as a falcon watches its prey.




Chapter Two


“Captain James Templeton. How impressive your new title sounds.” Rachel sat across the table from her cousin in the parlor of the Wild Boar Inn. “Papa could have chosen no better man to succeed him as captain of the Fair Winds.”

“Thank you, Rachel.” Jamie grinned. “Of course, I’ve learned my trade from the best. When Uncle Lamech chose me as his cabin boy those fifteen years ago, he may have wondered how this orphaned boy would turn out.”

“We will miss you, but I shall pray for a good voyage.” Rachel took a sip of tea from her pewter cup. “But why must you go to London? Are there no other ports to supply Papa’s store?”

“In these turbulent times, English settlers might not favor French products. And after all, London has the best merchandise.” His brown eyes shone with brotherly affection. “I do wish you’d charge me with some special purchase to bring you.”

“You know what I want. News of the revolution.” She exhaled a sigh of annoyance. “I cannot even discuss it with Papa, for he will not listen to my opinions. With you gone, I will need to find another friend in whom I can confide…and complain to.” She glanced beyond him at the British soldiers in red uniforms seated across the entry hall in the taproom.

He followed her glance, then turned back with a frown. “Don’t get yourself in trouble. These soldiers are here for your good. They’ll protect you and your father and every other British subject in East Florida.”

“I am not a British subject.” She leaned toward him and whispered. “When will you join us, Jamie? When will you accept that we will be free from British rule…or die trying?”

Now he stared into her eyes with an almost scolding look. “My dear little rebel, why do you think your father brought you so far away from the troubles? Why, you’d have been fighting alongside the militia at Concord or Lexington if you’d had your way.”

She straightened as high as her short stature permitted. “When I sought to become a servant in General Gage’s home, I planned to gather information to help the patriot cause.”

He sat back, shaking his head. “Humph. Your feelings are always written across your face, and you never fail to speak your mind. You’d fail as a spy. You’d be discovered and hanged, but not before they wrested the name of your every accomplice from you.”

She clenched her jaw and stared down at her teacup. He was wrong. She could have learned how to withhold the truth, perhaps even to lie, as Rahab in the Bible had done to save the Hebrew spies. Sometimes the desperation to do her part in the revolution ate at her soul. At other times, she felt nothing but despair that Papa had made her participation impossible.

“Dear cousin.” Jamie reached over to nudge her chin. “What shall I do with you? After watching you grow into a beautiful woman, I see you slip back into the childish imp who bedeviled the crew in ’68.”

Rachel granted him the change of topic without protest. “Wasn’t that a grand voyage?” She smiled at the memory of dressing as a cabin boy and climbing riggings to watch for whales. Then she sobered. “But for Mama’s death, Papa never would have taken me.”

“Your father’s never ceased his grieving.” He patted her hand as if she were a child. “Please, Rachel, do not grieve him further. Forget the revolution.” A frown flickered across his youthful but weathered face. “Rebellion, I should say.”

She pulled back her hand. “‘Rebellion’ makes it sound as if the patriots are naughty children instead of sound-minded adults who have suffered enough of King George’s injustices.”

“Whatever you call it, just stay out of trouble.”

“What trouble could I find here in this remote wilderness?”

He gave her a playful wink. “Who knows? Maybe one of these handsomely uniformed soldiers will catch your eye and you’ll be married before I return.”

“You may wager all the Fair Winds’s profits that no Englishman will ever win my hand.” Again she cast a cross glance at the soldiers across the hall, who now harried Sadie, the innkeeper’s daughter, demanding rum despite the early hour.

Jamie shoved away his teacup. “It’d be a winning wager, no mistake. Now, may I escort you to the store? The captain will keelhaul me if I make you late.”

“He’d do no such thing to his nephew and new partner.” She scooted her wooden chair backward across the plank floor. “Wait while I fetch my bonnet.”

He sent her a playful smirk. “By all means, protect your face. The English value a fair complexion.”

She wrinkled her nose and laughed, but not too loudly for fear of drawing the soldiers’ attentions. In spite of Jamie’s assurances of their protection, she had no doubt that, given the chance, they would harass her as much as they did the innkeeper’s women.

As she hastened up the rickety steps to the inn’s second floor, she sent up a silent prayer of thanks that soon she and Papa would move into their own more stable home above their store. Under the supervision of Mr. Patch, the carpenter from Papa’s ship, the crew had labored for weeks to raise the roof and build the apartment. It was almost completed.

From her room at the end of the inn’s second-story corridor, she snatched her straw bonnet from a peg on the wall. Passing the room next to hers, she heard a soft whimper through the slightly open door. She glanced toward the stairway, then peered into the room.

There, in a rough-hewn pen no more than three foot by four, sat the innkeeper’s grandson, his dark, soulful eyes staring up with sudden hope when he spied her. Flies buzzed about the two-year-old’s face and crawled over a dry crust of bread beside him.

“Up. Up.” His winsome, tearful expression nearly undid her.

“Dear little Robby.” Unable to resist his entreaty, she lifted him. “My, my, you need a change. And look at all these mosquito bites.” She felt a twinge of anger that the innkeeper had not provided his grandson with mosquito netting, but perhaps he could not afford it.

Several clean diapers hung on a rope line near the window. Rachel started to call the baby’s mother, but compassion filled her. No doubt Sadie was kept busy serving those awful soldiers and could not care for her child as she ought to. Laying the child on the bed, Rachel quickly changed him, cooing to him all the while.

“There, little one. I’ve not forgot how to do this. Gracious knows I changed my nieces and nephew often enough these past few years.” And the three of them healthily plump, while this wee tyke’s ribs were all too visible.

The baby whimpered as she set him back down in the pen, a splintery structure made from an old shipping crate and far different from the sanded, polished beds her sister’s children slept in. And nothing more than an old tin cup, empty at that, for a toy.

“I must go, sweet boy.” Rachel thought her heart would break. “I’m certain Mama will come feed you soon.”

Only by force of will could she hasten down the stairs to join Jamie in the entry hall.

“What is it, Rachel?” With a frown, he stared into her eyes. “You look distraught.”

“Sadie’s little one.” She bent her head toward the staircase. “He spends his days alone in her room while she must fend off those dreadful soldiers.”

Jamie’s face softened. “You have a kind heart, cousin. Hmm, didn’t Sadie say her husband is a soldier, too?”

“Aye, but that doesn’t seem to protect her.” She lowered her voice. “And I’ve learned he’s serving under General Gage. Perhaps he even fought against our men at Concord.”

“Rachel—”

“Yes, yes, I know.” She moved past him out the inn’s front door.

The East Florida heat blazed down on their covered heads as they walked the sandy road toward the sturdy wooden structure Papa had purchased for his mercantile. But Rachel could be concerned with only one matter—a poor, hungry little baby left alone in a room all day.

“I’ve changed my mind,” she said as they reached the store. “There is something I want you to bring me when you return.”

He swept off his broad-brimmed hat and gave her an exaggerated bow. “Name it, milady, and I’ll sail the seven seas to obtain it.”

She dipped a playful curtsy. “Why, thank you, kind sir. But there’s no need for that. Just bring a toy for little Robby.” She sobered. “Do you mind?”

“Anything for you, milady.” He caught her hand and placed a noisy kiss on it.

“Ah, such gallantry.” Caring not a whit what onlookers might think, Rachel reached up and kissed his cheek.



After a week of planning with Mrs. Winthrop, Frederick rode into town to invite more guests to his party. His first visit had been to Major Brigham, the garrison’s new commander, who along with his stylish bride had responded eagerly to his invitation. Several others also promised to attend. With a similar response from the merchants, the party would be complete.

Frederick rode past the inn and saw the innkeeper’s wife and daughter hanging laundry on a line. Mrs. Winthrop had been aghast when he had suggested inviting them, and now her wisdom was confirmed as he observed their unkempt appearance and heard their uncouth language.

A half mile from the inn, he spied Miss Folger with a brawny fellow who was bent over her hand like an adoring swain. The young lady then reached up to kiss the man’s cheek, and an odd pang coursed through Frederick’s chest. Did she dole out kisses to every man, or was this one a particular friend? He shook his head. Why should it matter to him?

The fellow straightened and offered his arm, and the two entered Folger’s Mercantile. Frederick tethered his horse to a post under a nearby oak tree and followed them inside.

The door had no sooner shut behind him than the three inside turned to him in surprise. Was that a glare emanating from the young lady’s face, or were her eyes merely adjusting to the inside light, as were his?

“Good morning, sir.” Mr. Folger limped forward to welcome him. “How can I help ye?”

“Good morning, my good man. Miss Folger.” Frederick removed his hat, nodded to the father and daughter, and cast an inquisitive glance toward the big man behind Folger.

“Ah, ye’ve not met my partner.” Folger urged the man forward. “Mr. Moberly, this is my nephew, Captain Templeton, who now commands my old ship.”

The younger captain’s steady gaze was a clear and bold appraisal of Frederick.

In an instant, the air seemed sparked with invisible lightning. Instinctively, Frederick took on the unassuming pose he had perfected as the youngest of four sons to keep from being whipped into his proper place. Hating himself for it, he nonetheless feigned amiability and reached out to shake the other man’s hand rather than meet his challenge and put him in his place. Who was this man that he would boldly stare at a superior?

“Captain Templeton,” Frederick said.

“Moberly.” Templeton’s guarded frown softened as they shook hands. “You’ve done a right fine job in building St. Johns Settlement. Perhaps we can do business in the future.”

“Indeed?” Frederick glanced at Folger.

“Aye.” The older man’s broad smile suggested his eagerness to foster a friendship among the three of them. “A wise man’s always on the lookout for good business associates.”

“Well said.” Frederick wondered if he had been mistaken about the younger captain’s earlier demeanor.

The conversation turned to weather, the war up north, anticipated shipping problems, the feasibility of planting more citrus groves and prices of goods. All possible storms were dispelled as the three men enthusiastically expressed their concerns and opinions as if they had been in trade together for years. The amity in the air felt good after Oliver’s betrayal.

He noticed Miss Folger had busied herself with the bolts of lace and ribbons behind the counter. With her back to him, he could see the delicate lines of her ivory neck, with a few blond curls escaping from her mobcap to trail over the white collar of her brown dress.

Templeton must have caught the direction of his gaze, for he cleared his throat. “Did you wish to speak with my cousin?” His tone sounded like the growl of a protective bear.

Irritation swept through Frederick, but again, he was all amiability. “Indeed, I did.”

She turned around, puzzlement lifting her eyebrows into a charming arch. “To me?”

Frederick hesitated. “Perhaps I should say to you and your father.” He nodded to Templeton. “And now to you, as well.”

Folger appeared more than a little pleased. “Say on, sir.”

“I am planning a dinner party for those whom I consider the leading citizens of this community and surrounding areas. I should like to invite you and Miss Folger—” He included Templeton with a quick glance. “All three of you to join us one week from Saturday at my plantation.”

Their stunned expressions nearly sent Frederick into a schoolboy’s guffaw. Did these people know nothing of parties? Had they never received such an invitation?

“Why, that’s quite an honor, sir.” Folger straightened as if he had been knighted by the king himself. “Of course I accept.”

“And you, Miss Folger? Will you attend with your father?”

Her wide-eyed gaze darted from him to her father to Templeton and back to him again. “Why, I—I haven’t anything to wear to such a grand occasion.”

“Why, Rachel, what a thing to say in front of these gentlemen.” The color deepened in Folger’s ruddy cheeks. “As if yer papa couldn’t provide a proper gown for ye.”

The young lady’s corresponding blush bespoke her modesty, a pleasing sight.

Frederick looked at Templeton. “And you, captain?”

Templeton shook his head. “I thank you, sir, but I’m afraid I’ll be on my way to London by then. I’m setting sail from Mayport in a few days.”

“Ah, I’m sorry to hear it.” Frederick found himself meaning those words. After those first sparks had been extinguished, the fellow had inspired a certain confidence.

As for doing business with him, Frederick had much to consider. After Oliver’s betrayal, how could he ever trust another man? Especially an American.




Chapter Three


“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.




Chapter Four


“Oh, Señorita Rachel, this lace, it is very beautiful.” Inez carefully stitched the delicate white trim to the neckline of the blue gauze gown. “Your papa, he is generous to make such expense for you.” Her dark eyes shone with appreciation for the fabric. “He wants you to look nice for the party, sí?”

Rachel sat beside her newly hired servant in the corner of the store and hemmed the gown’s striped panniers. Inez had already moved into the kitchen house behind the store and awaited the day when Rachel and Papa would take up residence in their apartment over the store. When he announced he had hired someone to cook and launder for them, Rachel had been delighted and more than a little surprised at his willingness to bear such an expense.

Now Papa had once again set aside his frugal ways for the party and insisted she use an expensive fabric. Rachel didn’t know what to make of his interest in her clothing. Perhaps her claim to have no appropriate gown for the party wounded his pride, especially spoken in front of Mr. Moberly.

“So you think el patrón’s fiza…” Inez wrinkled her forehead, then shrugged. “Fiza-something.”

“His physician?” Rachel asked.

“Sí, the fiz-iz-cion.” Inez laughed, and the age lines around her eyes deepened. “The one who fix your hand. He will be at the party, no? This one, he is not married, is nice to look at, is not so old for—” She gave Rachel a sly look. “Hmm. Maybe Inez say too much?”

“Not at all. You may speak freely when you and I are alone.” Rachel studied her stitches to make certain they gathered the delicate fabric without puckering it. “But perhaps you don’t understand the English. Dr. Wellsey is a member of the gentry and no doubt regards himself as being above a shopkeeper’s daughter. For my part, I would not consider receiving the attentions of an Englishman.”

“No?” Inez stared at her. “You do not like the English?” She busied herself with the lace again, muttering to herself in Spanish.

“What is it, Inez?”

“Have we not agreed, señorita, Dios has love for every man? Jesu Christo, He die for every man?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then if we do not like the English, is the love of Dios in us?” Maternal warmth glowed in Inez’s eyes. “Does He not say to love others as He love us?”

Rachel concentrated on her work without answering. Inez had not abused her freedom to speak her thoughts, and her words conveyed great wisdom.

In truth, Rachel had hated the English for as long as she could remember. They stole from the colonists, both in taxes and in seizing men and property for their own use. Yet she had not considered that God might love them, as He did every soul. Her Quaker mother would be disappointed in her, for she had taught Rachel the Bible verse Inez quoted.

The jangle of the bell over the front door startled her from her thoughts.

“Hello, is anyone here?” Mr. Moberly stood inside the door, hat in hand, blinking his eyes as everyone did to adjust to the dimmer store light after being out in the sun.

“Yes, sir.” Rachel set aside her sewing and hurried to greet him. “How may I help you?”

“Miss Folger.” His smile seemed almost boyish. “Good afternoon.”

“Yes, sir. How may I help you?” You just asked him that. She gazed up into his dark gray eyes, transfixed by the intense look he returned. At the memory of his rescuing her from the soldier, she felt her cheeks grow warm. Now, as then, she thought perhaps some Englishmen might not be purely evil. His black hair was swept back in a queue, but one stray lock curled over his forehead like an unruly, and utterly charming, black sheep.

“I, well, um,” he said, “I wondered how your father’s business is faring. I have been telling everyone they should patronize your store. Even written the news of your establishment to other plantations along the St. Johns River. Settlers have done without many necessities and nearly all luxuries here in the wilderness and waited a long while for a proper mercantile close by…” He pursed his lips. “Now who’s being too loquacious?”

Rachel laughed. Her face grew hotter. To think he had recalled her silly comment. “Papa will be pleased to hear that you are, um, pleased.”

“Yes.” He glanced around the store and then back at her. “Ah, I should have asked straightaway. How is your hand?” His right hand moved toward her slightly, then retracted, as if he would take her injured one but thought better of it. “Did Dr. Wellsey serve you…well?” He grinned.

“Oh, indeed, he did.” Forbidding herself to laugh again, Rachel flexed her fingers to show the hand was on its way to complete recovery. “Although I must say he seemed to regard my little injury as a scientific experiment.” The pleasant young doctor had never once looked at her face and seemed disappointed at the ease with which the splinters came out. “But, gracious, the smell of that salve.” She waved her hand beneath her nose at the memory.

“Dreadful stuff, I agree.” Mr. Moberly gave her a comical frown. “Yes, the good doctor is a serious scientist. But a competent physician must be, do you not think?”

“Why, I’ve never considered—”

“What’s this?” Papa’s voice boomed from behind Rachel as he entered from the back room. “Ah, Mr. Moberly. What can I do for ye today?”

Jamie followed close behind Papa and raised an eyebrow to question Rachel. She shrugged one shoulder and hoped Mr. Moberly did not see their silent communication. For some strange reason, she felt an urge to remind the Englishman that Jamie was her cousin, not a suitor. But why should he care about such things?

“Good afternoon, Mr. Folger.” Mr. Moberly extended his hand. “Mrs. Winthrop has sent me for thread and, oh, several other items. I can’t recall them all.” He pulled a crumpled paper from his pocket and handed it to Rachel. “Do say you have everything she wrote down, Miss Folger, so I may continue to recommend this establishment for its many and varied wares.”

“Yes, sir.” Rachel walked to the counter and pressed the paper flat with her hand so she could read it. Mr. Moberly reminded her of a little boy who had not yet learned to be entirely neat, but she found it charming. Darning needles, twenty ells each of red and blue bunting, cinnamon, black pepper, several shades of thread, plus other needs. She gathered the items on the front counter but kept her ears open to the men’s lively conversation.

“I did not know if I would see you again, Captain Templeton.” Mr. Moberly’s tone was jovial, as if chatting with an old friend. “Were you not to sail to England this week?”

“I’ll sail day after tomorrow, weather permitting.” Jamie’s expression brightened to match Mr. Moberly’s. “But since you’ve been here for some time, I hoped to ask your advice about the merchandise I should bring from London.”

“Of course.” Mr. Moberly clapped Jamie on the shoulder. “This is truly fortuitous. We have had many newcomers whose needs we failed to anticipate. I shall make a list for you.”

“Very good.” Jamie grinned. “List as you will, and I’ll obtain it. And if you give me a letter of introduction, I shall be pleased to call upon any of your associates for you.”

“I shall prepare that letter this very day. Do you have time to ride to my plantation this afternoon?”

“Sir, that is most agreeable.” The last reservation fled from Jamie’s expression, replaced by a broad smile.

“Excellent.” Mr. Moberly perused several items on display: knives, flintlock pistols, a barrel of cast-iron nails. “While I am here, I should like to enlist your assistance.”

Rachel’s ears tingled, and she leaned closer to the men.

“Ask as ye will, sir,” Papa said.

“A dissident agitator has entered our settlement and tried to stir up sympathy for the rebellion in Massachusetts and the other colonies.” Mr. Moberly toyed with a length of rope coiled for sale. “The chap slips into the Wild Boar Inn or Brown’s Tavern and makes a few remarks while men are in their cups, then slips away before anyone can apprehend him.”

Rachel’s heart raced. Another patriot, right here in St. Johns! She must learn his identity and try to contact him.

“Of course, no man here is of that mind.” Mr. Moberly settled a placid smile on Papa and Jamie.

“Not that I’ve discerned,” Papa said.

“Certainly not.” Jamie sent Rachel a warning scowl. She wrinkled her nose in return.

“In any event, a reward awaits the man who can supply any information leading to his apprehension.”

The men continued their business discussion, and by the time Rachel had assembled and packaged all of Mr. Moberly’s purchases, they seemed to be lifelong friends. The gentleman paid Papa, bowed to her and afterward left the store.

“Don’t that beat all?” Papa crossed his arms and watched Mr. Moberly leave. “Looks like the path is smooth before us.”

“To be sure.” Jamie sent a glance Rachel’s way. “With Moberly’s letters, we’ll have access to the best products London can offer.”

“Indeed we will.” Papa moved behind the counter and pulled out a logbook. “Now let’s take a look at those figures.”

The two men hovered over the book and continued their discussion of Jamie’s imminent voyage. To Rachel’s annoyance, they never once mentioned the dissident agitator.

She wished they would include her in their consultations, but most often, they shooed her away. Her heart torn between wanting Mr. Moberly to come back and longing to go find the patriot right away, she returned to her corner. Inez was stitching the last inches of lace to the gown’s neckline, and Rachel resumed her own work. With their shoulders almost touching, Rachel felt Inez shake and looked over to see the older woman working to hide her mirth.

“Shh. What is it?” Rachel glanced toward Papa. As kindhearted as he was, he had no patience with chatty or giggling servants.

Inez leaned toward her and whispered, “Señorita, I think we both make mistake.”

“Oh?”

“Sí. My mistake is thinking the physician is for you. No, no. It is el patrón who admires my mistress, and more than a little.”

“What nonsense. Mr. Moberly is an English aristocrat. He would never consider…admiring me.” Rachel sniffed at the thought of it. “Furthermore, as I said before, I would never receive the attentions of an Englishman.”

“Mmm—mmm.” Inez hummed softly. “From the happiness I see in your eyes, mistress, you have receive them whether you wish it or not.”

Rachel forced herself to frown. “What nonsense.”

But if the notion were truly nonsense, why had her face felt hot the entire time the gentleman spoke to her? Why had she felt keen disappointment when Papa and Jamie entered the store? And why did her heart now pound as if trying to leap from her chest?

Nonsense. Utter nonsense.



While Mrs. Winthrop prepared a list of household needs, Frederick carefully penned the letter to Father recommending Captain James Templeton as a worthy business associate. While he had nothing to lose after Father’s last correspondence, he did not wish to further anger him. Despite a bit of rusticity, Templeton had an air about him that Father should admire, as one might esteem a capable horse handler or even a household steward. The captain possessed clear eyes that seemed to hold no hidden motives, unlike Oliver, who had always been a bit sly.

How ironic that Frederick had never noticed Oliver’s wiliness. Yet since he had read Father’s revealing letter, Frederick began to recall many instances where his innocent antics had brought unwarranted censure. But only when Oliver was involved.

Perhaps he was mad to entrust to Templeton the rebuilding of his own reputation with Father. But at this point, the captain’s good reference was all he had.

Templeton arrived midafternoon. Frederick met him in the drawing room and welcomed him like a brother.

“You’ve a fine house, sir.” The captain surveyed the room with interest, but no envy clouded his tone or expression. “I’ve often thought to build a house, but the sea’s been my home since boyhood. I don’t know if I could abide solid ground beneath me for too long.”

“You may have the sea, sir. I gladly welcomed the feel of that solid ground after my stormy voyage across the Atlantic to East Florida.”

They both chuckled, but before Templeton could offer a rejoinder, Oliver sauntered into the room. Frederick reluctantly made introductions.

“Well, captain,” Oliver said, “what brings you to our humble home?”

Templeton’s eyes narrowed for an instant, but he seemed to purposefully brighten his expression. “Just a bit of private business with Mr. Moberly.”

Frederick withheld a laugh. His new friend was no fool. How quickly he had seen through Oliver’s facade.

“Then let us adjourn to my study.” Frederick enjoyed the dark look on Oliver’s face. “You will excuse us, Oliver.”

“Of course.” Oliver’s terse tone came through clenched teeth.

Once in the study with the door closed, Templeton stared at Frederick, an earnest look in his eyes. “Moberly, you don’t know me well, but let me advise you not to trust Corwin.” He gave his head a quick shake. “Something about him—”

“Yes, I agree.” To think this man had seen it in less than five minutes. Perhaps as first mate to Captain Folger and now a captain himself, he had honed his skills in human understanding, whereas Frederick had taken a place of leadership only a few short years ago. He still had much to learn.

He sat at his desk, retrieved his letters and lists, and checked them once more to be sure all was in order before applying his seal. “Thank you for taking these to my family. I hope the introduction will serve us both well.”

“I’m honored that you trust me.” Seated opposite him, Templeton took them in hand, all the while appearing to search for words. “I sense you are a trustworthy man, too, Moberly, and therefore I must address a subject of some concern.”

Frederick swallowed hard. He wanted to be open with this man, but he was so used to posing to achieve advantage that he hardly knew how to be genuine. Perhaps in that manner he had been playing the same game as Oliver. But at least he had never betrayed anyone.

“Say on, friend.” He felt as if he had just unlocked his soul.

Templeton’s brown eyes bored into his. “My cousin Rachel, Miss Folger, is like a sister to me. Captain Folger raised us together, and I couldn’t love a sister by birth any more than I love her.” He studied the letters in his hand, yet seemed not to see them. Again, he stared at Frederick. “If harm of any sort should come to her, whether to her person or to her heart, I’d have to require it of the man responsible for her grief.”

Frederick’s lower jaw fell slack, and he closed it as casually as possible while overcoming his shock. “I find Miss Folger to be a remarkable young lady, one whom I admire far too much to grieve in any way.” He offered a half smile. “You may count on me in your absence to require it of anyone who might think to harm her.”

Templeton’s gaze softened. “I believe you.”

An unfamiliar sense of comradeship filled Frederick’s chest. Before he could speak his gratitude, Templeton added, “I hope Lord Bennington knows what an extraordinary job you’ve done in developing St. Johns Settlement. If he doesn’t know it now, he will after I’ve finished talking with him.”

Again warmth filled Frederick almost to bursting. “I am grateful, captain, more than you can know.”

They stood, shook hands, and then proceeded to the front of the house. After another handshake, Templeton set his hand on Frederick’s shoulder.

“Please know that the Almighty will be receiving my frequent petitions on your behalf.”

Frederick coughed away the emotion that threatened to overwhelm him. “And I shall pray for you, as well.” An onlooker might think them lifelong friends. “God speed you on your way.”

He stood on the porch and watched Templeton ride away on a lop-eared mule. The chap did not ride any better than Frederick kept his footing on a ship. But their new friendship soothed away some of the ache left by Oliver’s betrayal.

As if conjured by his thoughts, Oliver appeared beside him on the porch.

“Hmm. I wonder if his departure will put a stop to the seditious gossip in the taverns.”

Frederick would have struck him if the suggestion had not sent a sting of suspicion through his chest.




Chapter Five


“Papa, the heel of my shoe has loosened.” Rachel would not mention that she had helped it to that condition. “May I go to the cobbler?”

Seated behind the store counter, he took off his spectacles and peered over his logbook. “Aye, ’tis best not to delay such repairs, else it’ll cost more. We’ve no customers, so hurry along.” He glanced down the length of her skirt, which covered her shoes, and wrinkled his forehead.

For a moment, Rachel thought he might have comprehended her ruse. She shifted from one hidden foot to the other and gave him a bright smile. “Thank you. I shall return as quickly as possible.” She turned to go before he could change his mind.

“Avast.” He stood and crossed his arms.

“Yes, sir?” Her pulse quickened.

“Whilst ye’re there, see if the cobbler can make ye some slippers to match yer new gown.” From his tone, he could have been ordering her to swab the deck. He sat down, put on his spectacles and studied the logbook again.

Yet his words brought a blush of confusion and shame to Rachel’s cheeks. “Slippers?”

“Aye.” He did not look up. “I’ll not have ye tramp through a fancy plantation house in yer old shoes.”

Surprised again by his generosity, she nonetheless hurried from the store and up the street, glancing at the various structures as she passed. While much needed to be done to transform the settlement into a true town, the streets had been laid out and cleared, and tabby foundations now supported numerous wooden buildings in various stages of completion.

In the distance, Rachel noticed a group of people loitering in the village’s common. One tall figure in a wide-brimmed hat stood above the crowd. Mr. Moberly! Her feet—and her heart—tried to carry her toward the gathering, but she forced herself to turn aside at the cobbler’s building two blocks from Papa’s store.

As she stepped inside, the heavy smell of oiled leather almost pushed her back into the street. She inhaled shallow breaths and glanced around the small front room, where lasts, buckles, buttons, needles and countless other shoemaking supplies covered three tables.

The middle-aged cobbler looked up from his work and acknowledged her with a nod. “Miss Folger, what can we do for you today?” He rose to greet her.

“Good morning, Mr. Shoemaker. Would you be so kind as to fix my heel?” She slipped it off and held it out.

He turned it in his hands. “Tsk. Looks like someone tried to pry the heel off with a nail.” Carrying it back to his workbench, he began his repairs.

Rachel moved across the bench from him. “Is Mrs. Shoemaker well?”

“Yes, thank you. She and the children are working in the kitchen house. Shall I call her?”

“No. No doubt she is too busy to chat.” Rachel glanced around and saw no fabric for slippers, but another matter held priority. “Tell me, sir, what prompted your removal from Savannah to this wilderness? Surely the city had sufficient work for a cobbler.”

“Humph. Let those rebels look to their own feet.” He hammered her shoe with considerable force. “After they tarred and feathered Judge Morgan for speaking against their wicked rebellion, any sensible man would take his family elsewhere.” He held up the repaired shoe and rubbed it with an oil-stained cloth. “Just let those rebels dare come to East Florida. We’re raising a militia here, and there’ll be no mercy for any who rise up against the Crown.”

Rachel gulped back a tart reply. Clearly this man was not the unknown patriot seeking to stir up sympathy for the cause. She would have taken her shoe and left, but Papa would only send her back. Ordering the slippers helped her collect her emotions. Mr. Shoemaker agreed to send his oldest daughter to Papa’s store for the needed fabric, and the two men would negotiate the payments.

Glad to leave the stuffy shop, she breathed in the warm, fresh breeze drifting down the street. To her right, loud voices drew her attention to the common. She glanced at Papa’s store and back toward the crowd. Once again her feet seemed determined to carry her there. This time she did not deny the impulse.

To her relief, several women from the settlement and nearby plantations stood among the men on the newly planted grass poking through the dark, sandy soil. She stayed at the edge of the crowd, surprised to see Mr. Moberly seated at a rough table beneath a spreading oak tree. He was writing in a leather-bound ledger. So this was how he dispensed his duties as magistrate. Rachel’s feet once again seemed to move of their own will, drawing her closer to him.

In front of Mr. Moberly’s table stood a barefoot young man in rags with his hands tied behind his back and fear in his eyes. Nearby stood a man whom Rachel recognized as the owner of a small plantation close to the village. He held in his arms a plump pink piglet that wiggled and squealed until he covered it with a burlap bag.

Laughter and rude comments from the crowd nearly sent Rachel on her way, but she could not bring herself to leave. Surely the Lord had directed her steps to this place so she might learn more about Mr. Moberly through his judgments.

She noticed two red-coated soldiers beside a hangman’s noose that dangled from a branch of the vast tree, and an icy shiver ran through her from head to toe. Several yards away, out in the sun, newly made wooden stocks suggested a less severe sentence. But in this East Florida heat, who could endure even that?

A storm of emotions swirled through Rachel. The young man must have stolen the piglet. Such a crime must not go unpunished. Praying for justice and mercy, she found herself barely able to breathe.



Frederick felt the urge to squirm like the hapless young man who stood bound and trembling before him. He hated holding court, hated making judgments, hated having the eyes of everyone in the settlement look to him for wisdom. Why Father had arranged for him to be the magistrate, he could not guess. And with Oliver leaning against the trunk of the oak tree, arms crossed and chin lifted, Frederick felt certain whatever he did would be reported to the earl…and would be wrong.

Heretofore, the disputes had been easy to solve: uncertain boundary lines, drunken brawling, that sort of nonsense. But the theft of a pig must be dealt with severely. In England this thief most likely would be hanged. Surely in this remote part of East Florida, where men sometimes were forced to do desperate things in order to survive, English law need not be enforced to its fullest extent. And after reading of former Governor Grant’s harsh decision in a similar case where he sentenced the hapless servant to death by hanging, Frederick shrank from inflicting such an unforgiving sentence. Should a Christian not offer mercy and redemption to the miscreant?

Frederick surveyed the crowd, glad that the broad brim of his hat shielded his eyes from their view. He kept his mouth in a grim line and assumed a stiff, formal posture. In the corner of his eye, he saw Miss Folger approach, and his heart sank. He must not look at her, must not care what she thought of his coming decision. He must forget her, forget Father, forget Oliver, forget everything but the men in conflict before him.

Lord, grant me wisdom as You have promised in the Holy Scriptures.

“Mr. Baker, come forward.” Frederick beckoned the pig’s owner.

Shifting the sack holding the pig, the man snatched off his hat and then stepped up to the table beside the accused. “Yes, sir.”

“This is your indentured servant, John Gilbert? And that is your pig?” Frederick pointed to the sack.

“Yes, sir.”

Frederick noticed that Baker’s expression held more worry than anger. Interesting. Did he hope for leniency or vengeance?

“Now, John, you have been accused of stealing this pig. Did you do it?”

Misery clouded the lad’s blue eyes. “Aye, sir. ’Twas not just fer meself. Mr. Baker don’t feed us aught but gruel. A man’s gotta have meat now and then or he can’t work the land.”

Frederick saw color rush to Baker’s cheeks. He did not deny the charge.

Lord, grant me the wisdom of Solomon. Frederick recalled that Governor Grant had required one man under judgment to hang his more blameworthy friends.

“Well, Mr. Baker, this man belongs to you to do with as you will. If you want him hanged, you will do it yourself.” Frederick pointed his quill pen toward the noose hanging from the oak tree.

A great gasp and much murmuring rose from the crowd, some approving, some grumbling. Frederick would not permit himself to look at Miss Folger to see what her reaction might be.

“Now, Mr. Moberly, sir,” Mr. Baker said, “if I hang him, I’m out a servant to work my land. I paid his fare to these shores, and he owes me six more years.”

Frederick shrugged. “Then what do you consider a just punishment?”

Baker scratched his head. He glanced toward the stocks. “Forty lashes and a week in the stocks should teach ’im a lesson.”

And kill him in the process. Frederick set down his quill and crossed his arms over his chest. “Three days in the stocks and ten lashes afterward. And you will scourge him yourself.”

Baker’s posture slumped, and he hung his head. After several moments, he gave John Gilbert a sidelong glance, then raised his eyes to Frederick. “That’ll do justice. Thank you, sir.”

The crowd burst into cheers and applause. John Gilbert slumped to the ground on his knees. “God bless ya, Mr. Moberly, sir. God bless ya.”

Emotion flooded Frederick’s chest, but he managed a gruff dismissal. “Are there other quarrels?”

With none coming forward, Frederick made notes in his ledger, blotted the ink, and closed the book. As the crowd dispersed, he cast a hasty glance at Miss Folger and barely contained a smile. Her head was tilted prettily, and a look of wonder filled her lovely face. Once again he swallowed a rush of emotion. Whether or not his judgment had been correct, her obvious approval was all he required.



Rachel knew she must turn and walk away like the others, but her feet refused to move. To her relief, Mr. Moberly approached her. She struggled to think of a Scripture verse to relate to him in praise of his decision. But she could think only of some words from Shakespeare that nonetheless imparted an eternal truth: The quality of mercy is not strained. It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath. It is twice blest: It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.

“Miss Folger.” Mr. Moberly gave her that boyish smile of his that belied his august position. “What brings you to the common on this lovely day?”

Unable to meet his gaze, she stared down at his well-polished black boots, now covered with sand. “Just a trip to the cobbler.”

“Ah. And did Mr. Shoemaker serve you well?”

She looked up to see a twinkle in his gray eyes. “Indeed he did.” At least with her shoe.

“Very good.” He nodded his approval. “If I am not being too bold, may I escort you to your father’s mercantile?”

Happiness swept through her. On the way, she could recite her Shakespeare to compliment his judgment. “That would be—”

“Moberly.” Mr. Corwin approached them with a determined stride. He barely glanced at Rachel. “The tavern keeper had a visit from that rabble-rouser last evening. He can give us a description.”

Mr. Moberly drew in his lips and shot a cross look at his friend. “I am certain he can wait for an hour.”

Rachel’s heart thumped wildly. The patriot was still at work.

“No, he cannot wait.” Mr. Corwin’s frown matched Mr. Moberly’s. “He must meet his suppliers on the coast before nightfall.”

Mr. Moberly blew out a cross sigh. “Miss Folger, will you forgive me?”

“Of course.” A riot of confusion filled her mind. How could she long to become better acquainted with this gentleman when he represented everything she opposed?

For the briefest moment, she thought to delay him so he would miss learning more about the patriot. Or she could follow him and try to discern the man’s identity herself. But both actions would be shocking improprieties. She would wait until next Saturday’s party at Mr. Moberly’s plantation. Surely there she would learn something useful to the revolution.




Chapter Six


“Are you certain I should wear this one?” Frederick studied his reflection in the bedroom mirror while his manservant fussed with the turned back tails of the gray linen coat. “Why not the red brocade?”

“Sir, if you will permit me, the red most assuredly is your finest coat.” Summerlin brushed lint from the gray garment’s padded shoulders. “However, I despair that you would waste it on these rustics.” His lip curled. “Should you not save it for the day when you are called once again to the capital of this wilderness?”

Frederick shot him a disapproving glance in the mirror, but Summerlin had shifted his attention to the lace at Frederick’s cuffs. Never mind. He hated to scold the old fellow, who had been ordered by Frederick’s father to leave the comforts of London and come to East Florida, a crushing change for a man in his fifties. Perhaps he was another spy like Oliver, sent to make certain Frederick brought no scandal upon the family, as his brothers had. But, white hair and stooped shoulders notwithstanding, Summerlin’s talents as a valet could not be matched.

“Very well. I shall accept your choice of attire but not your attitude toward my guests.” Frederick kept his tone soft. “Some of these ‘rustics’ can be quite charming, not to mention intelligent and clever at business.”

Summerlin straightened in his odd way and stared at Frederick. “Charming, sir? Oh, dear. Has some young lady caught my master’s eye?” The clarity in his pale blue eyes and the half smile at the corner of his thin lips removed any doubts about where his loyalty lay. “Well, then, perhaps the red—”

“No, this will do.” Frederick breathed in the orange and bergamot cologne Summerlin had concocted for him. “Now that I think of it, if I were to dress as for an audience with the governor, my clothing might intimidate my guests. Since my purpose is to ensure their loyalty to the Crown and foster a feeling of community, I should avoid strutting before them like a peacock.”

“Ah, well said, young sir.” Approval emanated from Summerlin’s eyes such as Frederick had longed for in vain from his father. “Lady Bennington would be proud.”

Summerlin’s words further encouraged him. Indeed, Mother would understand his choice of clothes, despite her own exquisite wardrobe, for she always sought to make even the lowliest of her guests comfortable.

“Forgive me, sir, for disparaging your new friends.” Summerlin glanced over his shoulder toward the closed bedroom door and bent toward Frederick with a confidential air. “I am your servant in all things.”

Frederick mirrored his move. “Thank you. But there will be no trysts. The young lady will be courted properly.” He caught Summerlin’s gaze. “Only time will tell, of course, but I believe Miss Folger is all I could wish for in a wife.”

Serene comprehension washed over Summerlin’s face, softening his pale wrinkles. “As I said, sir, I am your servant in all things.”

A sharp rap sounded on the door. “Moberly, your guests are arriving.” Oliver’s tone sounded almost jovial.

Summerlin’s expression flickered with distaste for the briefest instant before giving way to his customary formal air. In that half second, Frederick knew without doubt that his devoted servant had purposely left Oliver’s letter on his desk, and warmth filled his chest, as it had over Templeton’s friendship.

Father would sneer at his idea of calling these lower-class men “friends,” but Frederick could consider them nothing less. And how relieved he had been to discover that Templeton was not the agitator, as Corwin had suggested.

“Coming, Corwin.” Frederick strode toward the door.

Summerlin hobbled close behind, brushing lint from Frederick’s coat all the way. “Have a good evening, sir.”

Visions of the lovely Miss Folger danced before Frederick’s eyes as he grasped the door latch. “That I shall, my good man. That I shall.”



The wagon rattled along the well-packed sand and seashell road beneath a canopy of oak, pine and cypress trees. Seated beside Papa on the driver’s bench, Rachel held her poorly mended parasol overhead while the late afternoon sun blasted its heat through the tree branches. Perspiration had begun to wilt her freshly pressed gown, and her curls threatened to unwind. Nevertheless, excitement filled her as she anticipated the party. She would try to discover if the patriot was among the guests. And she hoped to find the opportunity to tell Mr. Moberly how much she admired his wisdom in the case of the stolen pig.

Savoring the fragrances of the tropical forests, she studied the undergrowth for evidence of panthers, bears or poisonous snakes. Papa had assured her that this road lay too far from water for them to chance upon an alligator, yet she watched for them, as well. Several times she thought to have seen one of those fearsome dragons only to realize the object was a fallen tree.

As they rounded a stand of palm trees and a large white building came into view, Papa pointed with his wagon whip and whistled. “Thar she blows. Now that’s a house, if ever I saw one.”

Rachel laughed at his understatement even as her own feelings swelled. The two-storied mansion sat elevated several feet off the ground on a coquina foundation. A broad wooden porch extended across the wide front, and four white Doric columns supported the porch roof. Eight tall front windows, four on each floor, suggested airy rooms inside.

The blue and red bunting Mr. Moberly had purchased from the store now hung around the columns in a festive display. Their crisscross pattern against the white background vaguely suggested the British flag, a nettling reminder to Rachel of who ruled this land. With some effort, she dismissed the unpleasant thought. Even if their host had deliberately hung them that way, he was after all an Englishman who no doubt loved his homeland.

On the left side of the main house, smoke curled from the kitchen house’s chimney, and a warm breeze carried the aroma of roasting pork.

“That’ll set a man’s mouth to watering.” Papa steered his two mules into the semicircular drive before the front entrance, where several liveried black grooms awaited.

As Papa pulled the reins, one groom grasped the harness, and another stood ready to take control of the equipage. Rachel saw Mr. Moberly hastening from the house, followed by a slave carrying a small white boxstep. At the sight of him, finely dressed but by no means haughty, her heart missed a beat.

Papa jumped to the ground and hobbled to her side of the wagon. But Mr. Moberly reached her first.

“Good evening. Welcome.” Mr. Moberly shook Papa’s hand. “Will you permit me to assist your daughter, Mr. Folger?”

“As ye will.” Papa bowed.

“Put it here.” Mr. Moberly motioned to the slave and indicated a spot on the ground. “Miss Folger, may I?” He held out both white-gloved hands.

“Yes, thank you.” She grasped them with pleasure, and her face warmed as she climbed from the wagon. Never in her life had she received such attention.

“Welcome to Bennington Plantation.” Mr. Moberly offered Rachel his arm. “Won’t you please come inside?”

The entrance to the house was a welcoming red door with an oval etched-glass window. Inside they were introduced to Mr. Moberly’s cousin, a tall, older woman.

“Do come in. We’re pleased to have you.” Mrs. Winthrop wore a black linen gown, and her hair was pinned back in a roll. A kind look lit her finely lined face, and her voice resonated with sincerity.

Dr. Wellsey greeted the newcomers, and even Mr. Corwin spoke pleasantly to them. They met a Reverend Johnson and his wife, and the minister invited them to his church services. To Rachel’s surprise and delight, Papa accepted. Mrs. Johnson, however, showed no interest in further conversation.

Several other couples were in attendance, and Rachel studied each face upon introduction trying to discern if any of them might be the patriot. Although everyone seemed friendly, not one person lifted an eyebrow upon meeting the Folgers from Boston. Had they not heard of the British invasion and the battles of Lexington and Concord?

While servants passed trays of hors d’oeuvres and cups of citrus punch, the men stood in a group and chatted about crops and weather. Rachel passed by as one man mentioned the “agitator” who frequented the taverns, and she glanced about the group to see if anyone appeared nervous. Not one expression informed her.

“The problem is,” Mr. Moberly said, “his description does not match anyone we know along the St. Johns River or in the settlement. So, if you see a stout fellow with a long red beard, do mention it to the nearest soldier.”

While the other men accepted the charge without much concern, Rachel felt a tremor of delight. Now she had one description, but perhaps there were other patriots.

She joined the other ladies, who stood on the opposite side of the drawing room making polite conversation about the challenges of living in the wilderness. The youngest woman in the group, Rachel listened more than she spoke, as propriety demanded. But she prayed for an opportunity to mention the matter close to her heart. In Boston, all the talk had been of the revolution. Here, none of the women seemed aware that their counterparts up north were sewing uniforms for their soldier husbands and weeping for those who had died for freedom’s sake a short two months ago.

“Miss Folger,” Mrs. Winthrop said, “I understand your father’s store has many wares we are generally deprived of here in East Florida.”

“Yes, ma’am.” An unexpected wave of pleasure swept through Rachel at being addressed so particularly by this kind, elegant lady. “We have been fortunate to import many useful items for sale, and my cousin will bring more from London.”

The other women cooed their approval.

“Then I must come and see for myself,” Mrs. Winthrop said, “for I am certain Mr. Moberly has not told me everything that would be of interest to ladies.” A proper hostess, Mrs. Winthrop now turned her attention to another guest. Yet her comments put an approving stamp on both Rachel and Papa’s business and their presence at this party.

Rachel cast a casual glance across the room and found Mr. Moberly staring at her. Her breath caught, and she hastily turned away. Her glance had also taken in the pleasant look Mr. Corwin sent her. Heat filled her cheeks. Why would these high-born gentlemen thus regard her? She recalled her mother’s cautions regarding men.

Outside the drawing room, a large commotion captured everyone’s attention. Servants hurried past the doorway, and soon the stout black butler entered to announce “Lady Augusta and Major Brigham.”

“Moberly.” Lady Augusta marched into the room with both hands extended toward him. “How good of you to invite us.”

While the vicar’s wife, Mrs. Johnson, released a sigh suggesting envy, Rachel almost gasped at the newcomer’s appearance. Perhaps ten years older than Rachel, Lady Augusta wore a tall, white-powdered wig and a green silk gown with broad panniers and a low-cut bodice. Her face, which seemed well-formed, bore a masklike covering of white. A single black dot, clearly not a blemish, had been placed to the right of her rouged lips, perhaps to suggest a dimple.

Rachel had seen a few ladies wear such a facade in Boston, but surely here in East Florida, the heat would melt that mask off of her face—if indeed the substance melted—before they sat down to dinner. And there stood her husband, dressed in his full regimental uniform, a glaring red banner of British pride emphasized by the haughty lift of his equine nose. Rachel shook away her distaste. She must do nothing to damage Papa’s favor among these people.

Mr. Moberly did all the proper honors to welcome the two latecomers. Their rank demanded that other guests be presented to the couple, so the company filed past them. Major Brigham languidly studied every person up and down through his quizzing glass, as though trying to decide if each were some sort of miscreant. Not one guest elicited a smile or even a polite nod from the officer or his wife.

Instead, Lady Augusta looped an arm around Mr. Moberly’s. “Dear Moberly,” she simpered, “you must show me your house. How clever of you to bring a bit of English country charm to this horrid jungle.”

“Of course, my lady. Come along. All of us shall go.” Mr. Moberly waved his free hand to take in the whole room.

Lady Augusta’s arrogant expression soured into a frown. Rachel could not help but wonder whether the woman had wanted to be alone with Mr. Moberly.

He guided his guests through the house’s ten rooms, each of which inspired Rachel’s admiration. While elegant in all appointments, the rooms were not ostentatious or gaudy. She particularly liked the library and would have been happy to spend the rest of the evening perusing the many books there. Lingering by the gentleman’s desk, she thought she spied a familiar pamphlet partially covered by a book. She longed to know what Mr. Moberly had been reading, but the party moved on, and propriety required her to follow them into the hallway.

“Shall we see the grounds?” Mr. Moberly addressed Lady Augusta, for everyone understood her approval alone would permit the expedition.

“Of course. I should not wish to miss anything.”

Mr. Moberly offered his arm to Lady Augusta, and Rachel noticed with surprise that Papa also offered his arm to Mrs. Winthrop.

The party moved outside, where a cool breeze from the east gave some relief as they walked along the narrow pathways among the plantation’s many trees. Mr. Moberly gave commentary as he showed them the sugar mill, the fields of sugar cane, cotton and indigo, and the fragrant, flourishing orange grove. He took them to the springhouse, a covered coquina cistern that caught water flowing from the earth’s depths, where a house servant dipped in a pitcher and filled goblets for the guests. From there, they moved to Bennington Creek, across which lay vast rice paddies.

As the party wended its way back to the house, Rachel noticed countless slaves, both men and women, at work in the fields, and her heart sank. How she despised slavery, an evil that had been abolished in Nantucket in 1773. Did Mr. Moberly approve of it or merely tolerate it by necessity?

Ahead Mr. Moberly was assisting Lady Augusta up the front steps. How courteously he behaved toward her, and even toward Rachel and his other guests of lower rank. But how did he treat his slaves? The men and women in the fields did not wear chains, but iron bands on some slaves’ ankles suggested they were chained at night. On the other hand, the black servants in the house seemed truly devoted to Mr. Moberly. In particular, Rachel had noticed the little slave girl who sat in the corner of the drawing room to wave the palm fans. The child had gazed at Mr. Moberly with clear adoration.

But despite Mr. Moberly’s frequent friendly glances in Rachel’s direction during the tour of his plantation, she came to know one thing. As proven by the ease with which he socialized with Lady Augusta, any kind attentions he gave Rachel were merely the actions of a gentleman displaying good manners. If she received them with any sort of expectation, she was nothing short of a fool.

In the dining room, they sat down to supper at a long, damask-covered oak table laden with exquisite bone china, delicate etched crystal and heavy silverware with an ornate floral pattern. A vast array of delicacies graced the board.

Rachel found herself seated between Señor Garcia and Reverend Johnson, neither of whom she could imagine to be the patriot. The Spaniard seemed to prefer eating to conversation, but the vicar made pleasant conversation.

“What do you think of the alligator, Miss Folger?”

“I find it surprisingly tasty, especially seasoned with these exotic herbs. And I should far rather eat alligator than for one to eat me. As we came by skiff from the coast, a large one bumped our vessel so hard I thought we would be swamped and devoured.” The memory made her shudder.

“How dreadful. Thank the Lord you were spared.”

Major Brigham and Lady Augusta, on either side of Mr. Moberly, spoke to no one but their host, although the officer seemed to take an inordinate number of opportunities to peruse the company through his quizzing glass. From his perpetual frown, Rachel guessed the haughty man might be having difficulty controlling his temper, but she heard and saw nothing to suggest why. When his stare fell on her, she stared back, and his frown deepened. But what did she care about the opinions of a rude British officer and his equally rude wife?

At the end of the meal, Mr. Moberly directed his guests to the drawing room, where rows of chairs faced the magnificent pianoforte in the corner. “Mrs. Winthrop, will you entertain us with your delightful playing?”

“Now, Mr. Moberly.” The lady shook her head. “Surely someone else can play better than I.” She gazed around the room. “Mrs. Johnson? Señora Garcia?”

All the ladies declined, denying any musical skill.

Standing beside Rachel, Papa looked down at her with a clear question in his eyes, but she warned him off with a frown. As much as she longed to play the beautiful instrument, she refused to put herself forward in this company, where Lady Augusta might ridicule her and who knew what Major Brigham might say.

“Very well, then.” Mrs. Winthrop sat down to play, and the other guests took their places.

Rachel chose an armless brocade chair in the back row where her panniers would not poof out in front. When Mr. Moberly took the chair next to her, her pulse quickened. This was the first personal attention he had given her since helping her down from the wagon. Foolish hope assaulted her, and she had no weapon with which to defend herself.

“I do hope you’re enjoying yourself, Miss Folger.” His eyes beamed with kind intensity. “Did you find the meal satisfactory?”

Against her best efforts, Rachel’s cheeks warmed. “Oh, yes, it was—”

“Moberly.” Lady Augusta appeared beside him. “I must speak with you, and I fear the noise of your aunt’s playing will drown me out. May we find a quiet corner?” She waved her silk fan languidly, and her eyes sent an invitation Rachel could not discern.

“Of course, my lady.” Mr. Moberly glanced at Rachel and offered an apologetic smile. “Forgive me, Miss Folger. I shall return in a moment.”

“Of course.” Rachel echoed his words, working hard to keep the sarcasm from her tone.

Once again, certainty shouted within her. She was nothing more than a trifle in Mr. Moberly’s eyes. He would always defer to those considered well-born. Why had she ever permitted herself to think otherwise?

But just as Papa claimed the empty seat beside her, another thought quickly replaced her disappointment. She stood and moved past him, determined to discover Mr. Moberly’s true character. When Papa raised his bushy eyebrows to question her, she whispered “the necessary.” Instead of searching for that room, she tiptoed down the hallway just as Mr. Moberly disappeared into his study. Rachel stopped outside the door, still ajar, leaned against the wall and, heart pounding, prayed no servant would discover her eavesdropping.




Chapter Seven


“Dear Moberly, I congratulate you on a delightful supper.” Lady Augusta gazed into Frederick’s eyes with a doelike expression, her own dark orbs encircled by dreadful black lines and her face covered with white lead ceruse. A despicable fashion, if ever he saw one, especially when the lady seemed not to have suffered the ravages of smallpox that required such a covering.

He shifted from one foot to the other and glanced beyond her toward the open door. Brigham could come down the hallway, see them poised close to one another, and misunderstand. Worse still, Miss Folger might do the same. Where was his watchdog Corwin when he needed him? Frederick stepped back from Lady Augusta to sit on the edge of his desk, glad to distance himself from her heavy rose perfume.

“Thank you, my lady.” He crossed his arms. “I hope you did not find the wild boar too gamy.”

“Not at all, silly boy.” She tapped his arm with her closed fan and gave him a coquettish smile. “It was delicious.”

“Excellent.” He tugged at his cravat. “Well, then, was there something in particular you wished to say…to ask…to offer complaint about?” He grinned.

The brightness in Lady Augusta’s eyes dimmed, and the coquette vanished. “I want…no, I require a favor from you.” Her voice wavered, and she swayed lightly.

“My lady, you have but to name it.” He uncrossed his arms, ready to catch her if she fainted.

She clutched her fan. “You must know my husband is the bravest man in His Majesty’s service, so you must not think ill of him or tell him of my request.”

Frederick leaned against the desk. “Madam, you may depend on me.”

“Thank you.” She exhaled a soft sob. “Will you write to Lord Bennington on my behalf? Ask your father to use his influence with His Majesty to keep Major Brigham in East Florida, say that you cannot do without him, that only he can manage the Indians, that—”

“Shh.” Frederick lifted a finger to his lips. “My lady, your voice grows louder. Surely you do not wish Major Brigham to hear this unusual request.” Nor did Frederick wish to hear it.

She sent a furtive glance toward the open door. “No, no. He must not know.” She pulled a lace handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed the corners of her eyes, smudging the black kohl. “I would never ask such a thing except for the rebellion in Boston. I cannot bear it if Brigham is sent there to fight.”

Even as understanding welled up in Frederick’s chest, another thought intruded. His brother Thomas, who served in His Majesty’s navy, would be deeply shamed before the admiralty if his wife were to beg this favor.

“Oh, Moberly.” She lifted her hands in supplication. “Say you will write the letter.” She straightened, seeming to gain a measure of self-control. “In turn, I will write a letter to my father asking him to look with favor upon you.”

“Me? I did not know Lord Chittenden knew of my existence, much less that I am out of favor with him.”

“Oh, he doesn’t, and you aren’t. But I have four sisters, each of whom has her own small inheritance.” Her voice lilted slightly. “I know how difficult it is for a younger son to find a bride among his peers.”





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