Patriot's Heart

by Marzec, Penelope;

  “Frances and I have always been friends, and I miss him.” Margaret’s mouth formed a sad moue.

  Agnes gazed at the little forge surrounding her and memories tore at her heart. She had worked beside her father here from the time she managed to pick up a hammer. Still, Aunt Sally was right. He expected her to marry. The truth was that no man in Leedsville interested her. She wanted nothing to do with any of them. If they refused to see past the smudges, she did not need to waste her time on them.

  “Don’t you like men?” Margaret questioned.

  Agnes thought of her handsome patient. He fascinated her and she found herself strangely drawn to him. She longed to hear him speak. How unusual for her to be so interested in a man!

  “I am far too frank for most men. Besides, there are few suitors willing to take on a woman who wields a hammer better than they do.”

  “Aunt Sally says all women must marry. Our new nation needs strong young people to build this great country.” Margaret had a firmness in her tone so much like Aunt Sally that Agnes winced. Though their aunt had done a fine job teaching Margaret to bake, in the process her sister had been indoctrinated with some of her aunt’s strong opinions.

  “Our country needs tools and skilled blacksmiths as well. Aunt Sally can give birth to all the strong young people the country requires. She seems to have the constitution for it.”

  “That is an uncharitable remark,” Margaret commented.

  Agnes clamped her lips together. Her sister was right. Usually, Agnes strove to set a good example, but her aunt’s overbearing attitude, which had worsened with her father and uncle away, proved difficult to endure. “I am sorry. I should not have said that. I’ve no doubt Aunt Sally is capable of far more than giving birth to many children. She does a fine job of herding the twins. The Continental Army is in need of leaders like her. Give her a white horse and watch her whip a bunch of soldiers into shape. With her in charge, the British would run all the way back to England in fear.”

  “Aunt Sally would never do anything unseemly,” Margaret objected. “She says ladies must learn to be pliable and obedient. Men appreciate women who are quiet, yet efficient.”

  Agnes let out a burst of laughter. “Aunt Sally is not pliable, obedient, or quiet. I am sure she ensnared Uncle Fitz with her apple pie—not with her genteel manners—but she is efficient, which is why she would make a formidable army officer.”

  “War is only for men,” Margaret declared with a frown half-hidden by her flowery crown.

  “Woman are as brave as men and help to aid the cause,” Agnes noted.

  “I wanted to go with Francis to prepare his supper and launder his clothing.” Margaret’s lip trembled. “Father would not allow it.”

  Agnes sighed. “There is nobody better than Francis at shooting rabbits and he can turn a spit as well as you do.”

  “Aye, but he needs to be reminded to clean up.” A wistful smile played on Margaret’s face.

  Agnes hammered the red iron into shape. She had no doubt that if Aunt Sally was a general, the feverish Lederer would be thoroughly interrogated and hauled off to prison.

  The hot metal cooled and Agnes pumped the bellows again until the charcoal glowed. She loved her work. She belonged in the little forge. Being a blacksmith gave her both purpose and solace. “I will never pretend to be something I am not. Besides, no one would be fooled if I waved my fan, flirted, and swooned when a mouse ran by.”

  Margaret stood and twirled around. “When I marry, Francis and I shall dance. Oh, I would love to listen to music and whirl about in Francis’s arms until I am dizzy.” She stopped spinning and giggled as she stumbled and swayed like a drunken man.

  Agnes’s eyes misted. The war had taken a toll on them. “When the fighting is over, I am sure there will be a great celebration and we shall all dance.”

  “Let’s not talk of the fighting anymore.” Margaret stood straight once more. “Let’s go to the river and pick berries for our supper. Surely, your Redcoat will not refuse berries with cream.”

  Fear gripped Agnes. “We cannot let anyone know his true origin. Remember, he is mother’s cousin, Mr. Lederer.”

  Margaret whined. “This is a hot day. I want to put my feet in the river.”

  The old horror sent a sick swirl of fear washing through Agnes. “I am finishing these hooks for the miller. He should be here shortly. Please check on our cousin for me.”

  “I must not be alone with him. Aunt Sally said so.”

  “He cannot hurt you. The fever has left him feeble. Please, bring him fresh, cool water from the well or coax him to drink a little of Colleen’s boneset tea.”

  Margaret ignored her. “There are ducks in the river. Father showed me how to shoot. I’ll use the Redcoat’s musket—”

  “Our cousin, Mr. Lederer,” Agnes reminded.

  “Yes, our cousin’s musket,” Margaret corrected herself. “I’ll kill a duck and prepare duck stew for supper. We won’t miss the chickens the Tories took.”

  “I must finish what I am doing. Please put the porter into the cellar for safekeeping on your way to the well.”

  “You are so peevish.” Margaret’s petulance escalated. “All you care about is your patient!”

  “Your patient, Miss McGowan?” The booming voice of the miller shook the weathered siding of the forge. “How’s the animal doing?”

  Margaret gasped.

  Agnes’s hammer hit the anvil instead of the rod. Why hadn’t she heard the miller’s approach? Her mouth grew dry as dust.

  “Doing poorly then?” The miller frowned as he stood in the doorway.

  The perspiration dripping from Agnes’s forehead turned icy. “No, better. Thank you for asking.” Though her heart beat harder than the hammer on the anvil, she spoke in her calmest voice to Margaret. “Please do as I asked.”

  Margaret nodded, whirled, and ran off.

  “I heard about your pig being taken.” The miller shook his head. “That is such a shame. The Newtons’ sow is due to give birth any day now.”

  “Yes, one in the litter is promised to me. The Newtons rely on Margaret’s sweet buns.”

  “She’s a good baker, that child. Learned it all from her Aunt Sally, I hear.”

  Agnes ground her teeth together. The gossips in the neighborhood missed nothing. How could she hope to get away with claiming a stranger as a cousin? “Aunt Sally’s pies win prizes in every contest.”

  The miller laughed genially. He always did.

  “Two of the hooks are finished. You may take them now. I’ll have the others ready by tomorrow.”

  “Why don’t you bring them to me in the afternoon? My daughter enjoys fussing over visitors at tea.”

  She faltered. Her patient required care. Leaving him for any length of time might worsen his condition. She glanced around at the forge. “I promised to fix the hoe for Mr. Jack, the latches for the Newtons, and a fancy gate for the—”

  “You shouldn’t be doing all this toil. This is a man’s job.”

  “Aside from the fact that my father is in the Continental Army at the moment, I enjoy my work as a blacksmith,” Agnes bristled.

  “A woman should be home, caring for her children, cooking—”

  Agnes narrowed her eyes and glared at him. “Washing, mending, spinning, and hauling water. Tedious chores with no end. But this…” She held up the glowing hook. “This will last for a long time.”

  He cleared his throat. “I understand the necessity of continuing your father’s business until he returns, but afterwards—”

  “I will stay here when my father returns.” She set her jaw. Nothing in the typical realm of women satisfied her. Bending iron to do her will reached into her soul.

  “Have you word of your father?”

  She shook her head as pain stabbed at her heart. She had prayed for her father’s safety and that of her Uncle Fitz, but their return might be a very sad day for the poor Mr. Lederer.

  “I understand yesterday’s heat killed
more soldiers than the cannons or musket shot,” he commented.

  Why didn’t the man go away and leave her to her task? “What a blessing those in our army wore lighter clothing.” Agnes pitied the unfortunate men who had stood in the blazing sun wearing thick woolen cloth.

  “The Continental Army should be marching after the British. The chance to finish off the whole lot of them along with their blasted mercenaries is now,” he grumbled.

  Agnes heard him move closer, but did not look up. “I am not a military strategist. However, it is common knowledge that the British were on their way to New York in the first place after vacating Philadelphia. Let them stay in New York. It’s a considerable distance from here.”

  “You are quite lovely despite the soot on your face.”

  Agnes started. The miller had drawn too near. She stepped away. “Sir, take the finished hooks and leave me to work on the others.”

  “I have time to wait.” His voice softened while his face took on a florid hue.

  “I cannot work with you so close to me. Besides, it is…unseemly.” She had heard that one word so often from her aunt’s lips, but it tasted foreign in her own mouth.

  “You need not worry. In the absence of your father, I asked for permission to court you from your aunt. She was delighted with my interest.”

  Her anger sparked and within a second glowed as hot as the heated metal she held with the tongs. “I do not wish to be courted, for I do not want to marry.”

  “I am a wealthy man. As my wife you would wear fine gowns, hats, and gloves.” He lifted a strand of her hair that had fallen from beneath the cap. “You would bathe with scented soap.”

  “A sturdy leather apron suits me better.” Agnes took a deep breath and held very still while she debated the wisdom of dropping the hot iron on his foot. “Remove your hand and leave.”

  He dropped the strand of her hair, but he stayed rooted to the spot. “You may call me Thomas.”

  “Formality is important, Mr. Withersby. We have a responsibility to behave with the utmost civility in our new young country.” She hammered at the red iron.

  “You and I need to become more familiar with each other.” He leaned toward her.

  “No, we do not. You must find another woman to court.”

  “You are the one I believe to be suitable.”

  “No. I am staying here at the forge.”

  “Once you are my wife, you will be busy with more domestic chores.” His hand slid across her back. She clamped her lips together tightly. Maybe just dropping the hammer on his foot would be enough for him to understand the message.

  “Agnes!” Margaret called from the door. “Come quickly. Hurry! It’s—” Her sister halted when she noticed the close proximity of the miller. “Your…patient needs you.”

  Despite the heat from the glowing charcoal, Agnes’s blood chilled.

  “Good day, Mr. Withersby.” She dropped the fiery iron into the bucket, splashing the man. She ran after Margaret without taking off her apron.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The temperature inside the barn sucked away Agnes’s breath. The day’s heat trapped within the wooden structure made it unbearable, but she dared not leave it open to prying eyes. The moment she rushed in, Margaret shut and barred the door.

  “He’s still as death. I brought him a cup of fresh water, but he would not wake up.” Margaret twisted the crown of daisies in her hand.

  Agnes knelt beside the soldier and touched his forehead. His skin burned as hot as charcoal in the forge. “The fever is worse. We must cool him, though it will be difficult for it is stifling in here.” The water in the bucket had grown warm. Nevertheless, she dampened a cloth and wiped the face and arms of her patient.

  Margaret sat on the milking stool. “What was the miller doing?”

  “Annoying me. He wants to court me and has asked permission from Aunt Sally. She gave it.” She bit her lip to hold back the resentment threatening to spill out of her mouth.

  “The miller is an old man.” Margaret wrinkled her lips in distaste. “Though he is wealthy.”

  “Yes, he made sure to mention that.” Agnes pulled up the young man’s shirt. Seeing the perfection of his strong chest, ridged with firm muscles had tears welling in her eyes. “You must not die.” Her throat grew tight with emotion.

  “Hobart can pick him up and take him to the river,” Margaret suggested.

  “We should not move him yet.” Agnes wiped his chest with the damp cloth. “Please bring another bucket fresh from the well.”

  “What if I see the miller?”

  “Do not say anything. Nod and run.”

  “The ice house is not empty yet.”

  “Ice would be too cold for him.” Agnes bit her lip. “A fan might help and please ask Colleen for her aid.”

  “Yes, she will know what to do.” Margaret scurried off.

  Agnes took off her heavy leather apron. Perspiration dribbled into her eyes as she wiped the soldier’s arms, chest, neck, and face with the warm water. “You are a fine, handsome man. ’Tis such a shame.” Her throat ached and she said no more.

  She peered at the ugly wound. The red, swollen gash had cut deep into the flesh. She had poured vinegar into it and packed it with yarrow, which is what she had done with the pig. While the grisly lesion would fester, she prayed for the pus to drain away and allow the skin to knit together as soon as possible.

  She hated to think of him losing his leg. Even if the wound did not become gangrenous, it might take months to heal. Since the sinews had undoubtedly been severed, he would limp for the rest of his life. His days as a soldier were over, which she counted as a blessing. He should learn to work at a trade.

  Puddles, their barn cat, sauntered up and snuggled against the man’s side. Agnes had a mind to shoo the animal away, but the cat’s loud purring made a comforting sound.

  “Countess…” His lips barely moved in the heavy stillness. Yet, his word sent a thrill to her heart.

  She sat back on her heels and watched his fingers burrow into the pet’s silky fur. A spark of hope shimmered through her while Puddles’ rumbles echoed in the empty barn.

  The door opened and closed again as Margaret returned carrying a fresh bucket of water and a fan. “I did not see the miller. Colleen will be along soon. She is making a special poultice for him.”

  Agnes’s fears lessened. The efficacy of Colleen’s poultices were well-known.

  “’Tis hard to understand why Mr. Withersby would want to court you,” Margaret commented.

  “I shall have to grow some warts to discourage him further.” Agnes plunged a cloth into the fresh water.

  “Is it true Father never wrote to Mother’s family to tell them she had died?”

  “Yes, I believe Father did not like them, but I do not know the reason.” Agnes swiped the cool cloth along the soldier’s skin. Bronzed by the sun and hardened with the strength of firm muscles, he rested upon the hay, reminding her of the copy of a classic statue in Shrewsbury Towne. The stone image would stand forever, but her soldier was made of fragile flesh. She said another silent prayer.

  “He likes Puddles.” Margaret smiled. She scratched the cat under its chin and it purred with even more fervor.

  “He called her Countess, but she did not seem to mind.” Agnes soaked the cloth in the cool water and twisted out the excess. “Is that Aunt Sally’s rose fan?”

  “’Tis the only one about,” Margaret explained. “She never uses it, but she says it was a wedding gift from a childhood friend. She told me she treasures it.”

  “If she finds a speck of dust on it she will rail about it until doomsday,” Agnes warned. “Please take care. I wish we had a less cherished fan.”

  “A woman’s fan…” The soldier spoke again.

  Agnes’s fingers trembled as she touched his forehead. “What do you know about a woman’s fan?”

  “So shall each passion be seen,” he whispered.

  Agnes assumed he was gripped by d
elirium, but his voice, though raspy, seemed as sweet as the song of a bird to her. “Are you a poet?”

  “I think he has learned the way a lady signals with her fan. Aunt Sally taught me.” Margaret folded the fan halfway and held it to her lips. “This means, you may kiss me.”

  “How does Aunt Sally know that?” She did not want her sister learning such coquetry. A woman should speak truthfully about her feelings.

  But I have taught Margaret it is convenient to lie. Yet, if I don’t lie, this young soldier will surely die. Her troubled conscience afflicted her at every turn.

  “Her cousin, who married a baron, showed her.”

  Margaret’s emphasis on the title angered Agnes, for she believed in the principles set forth in the constitution.

  “Our new country will not be ruled by any royal family. All shall be equal.”

  “Equal,” echoed the young man.

  “Yes.” Agnes sighed. “The laws shall be fair for everyone.”

  “Laws…for barristers.”

  He muttered more, but Agnes did not understand his faint words. Still, the fact that he spoke at all seemed an improvement.

  Margaret sat on the milking stool, opened the fan, and languidly swung it back and forth. “What is a barrister?”

  “Such a man speaks in court before a judge on matters of law.” Agnes assumed there must be barristers near Monmouth Courthouse, but none lived in Leedsville.

  “Laws are full of don’ts.”

  “Laws are rules which allow us to live in a civilized society. Your recipes are like rules. You have to follow them if you expect your bread to rise.”

  “Rules are not like recipes. Recipes allow for substitutions. That’s why baking is fun.” Margaret frowned with a sudden intensity. “Mr. Withersby will undoubtedly want a wife who is a fine baker.”

  Agnes rolled her eyes with disgust. “Then you marry him.”

  “I am promised to Francis.” She put a hand to her heart.

  Agnes shook her head. “Well, I will not marry the miller and at any rate, I baked our bread yesterday. Why don’t you teach Colleen the right way to make bread? Last week, her loaf was so hard I had to dunk it in my tea for I feared I would break my teeth. She is gifted with the use of herbs, but her lack of skill in baking is most unfortunate.”