by Betty Bolte
Captain Sullivan set his tea cup on the saucer and plunked it on the table. "You have no choice. Maidens cannot own property."
Agitation forced her to rise and pace, her long, dark blue skirts battering the furniture with each sharp turn. She was not a maiden, but nobody knew that. Nor would she reveal the truth of her situation. Her thoughts whirled. She must concentrate. Sort out her options. Would her parents leave, dragging her with them or would they go without her? Should she go with them? The only options for loyalists remained to flee the country or to melt back into the general populace in another state where nobody would know their former political position. No, she had no desire to travel to another country nor to flee the state. Her life was in South Carolina. Halting, she faced Captain Sullivan. "I shall fight this action. From whom should I beg assistance?"
"You have no recourse." He fluttered a hand and then gulped his tea. "It's futile to argue the matter."
Frank rose and crossed the room, looming over her slender frame. "I agree with the captain. You have no hope of retaining your father's property as your own."
She snorted with annoyance and spun to face Frank. "I must try. Surely the good people of Charles Town will not punish me for my father's position."
"They are punishing your father, not you. It's his property at risk." Frank gripped her upper arms to ensure she listened to him. "Keep in mind the coverture laws do not permit unmarried women to own property."
"Damn stupid law..." Samantha dragged in a breath, attempting to calm the hurt and anger swirling in her stomach like a cyclone. Her attempt failed. Summoning as much self-control as she could muster, she composed herself. "Please, Frank. Tell me who I can speak with about the matter."
He regarded her for the span of two agitated breaths before shrugging. "George Manning has been tasked with overseeing the confiscation and subsequent auction."
"Thank you." Having a plan helped settle her chaotic emotions. "I'll seek him out when the appropriate time arrives."
Emily cleared her throat, drawing all eyes in the room to her. "Father, perhaps Mr. Manning could assist with acquiring a piece of vacant property as well, namely the old widow Murray's bake shop. Would you ask him, please?"
Emily's forced innocent expression, the wide eyes blinking slowly beneath arched brows, brought a grin to Samantha's mouth. Added to the effect was the small smile that made a bow out of Emily's lips. Perhaps not the best time to raise her shocking idea, but the horse had escaped the barn.
Captain Sullivan smirked at his daughter with questioning eyes. "Why, pray tell, would I want a bake shop?"
Emily gave her father a slow, secretive smile. "So I may convert it into a lovely accessories boutique to showcase my sewing."
Samantha gaped at her friend, waited for the explosion from her father. While Samantha understood the original reason for Emily's desire to provide for herself, that reason no longer existed. After she and Frank wed, her energies would be consumed with running their household, not running a shop.
"A what? Did I hear you correctly?" Captain Sullivan shot from his chair, fists clenched at his side, his anger and surprise stiffening his entire frame. "My daughter wishes to be a common seamstress?"
Emily flowed to her feet, calm and serene in the face of her father's outrage. "No, sir. I wish to become a merchant, like you. I wish to support myself with my own talents."
"I cannot allow you to do this." The captain's fists moved to his hips as he slowly shook his head. "You're to be married in the New Year. You have no need to support yourself, to impugn your future husband's standing in town by suggesting he cannot provide adequately for your needs."
Emily's calm ruffled as she lifted her chin. "Surely my actions would not be misconstrued in such a fashion. I shall make my reasons clear to any one who asks."
Samantha observed the exchange with a mix of horror and pride. Emily had determined to be in control of her destiny. Her writing and desire to operate a business both pointed to a need to live on her own terms. Her own form of independence, as it were. Yet she flouted the propriety expected of young women in proper society.
"Do you suppose our neighbors condone your aim?" Samantha sank back onto the settee, the fight in her dissipating as reason flowed into her mind. She'd have to wait until the government actually claimed her father's property. Until then, there was nothing to fight for. In the interim, she'd plan her approach, work out her arguments, so she'd be prepared when the time arrived.
Emily pivoted and crossed her arms. "In time, they will adjust to the reality."
Captain Sullivan dropped his hands to his sides. "Frank, talk to your betrothed. Mayhap she'll listen to your counsel. Lord knows she doesn't listen to mine."
Frank strode over to Emily, took both her hands in his, and kissed each in turn. "Em, if you love me, if you love your father, trust me to look into if and when your request might be granted at a later time." He pressed his lips briefly to hers. "You have my word."
Emily nodded but her expression turned mutinous. "Only if later means within the next year, not ten years from now. Do you promise?"
"I promise." He kissed her again, shaking with suppressed laughter. "One thing is for certain. Life with you will most definitely be an adventure."
"Of that you may be assured." Samantha pressed a hand to her aching thigh before standing. "I believe I'll excuse myself as I have much work ahead of me this evening."
After saying her farewells to the group, Samantha let herself out of the house. As she strolled home along the busy afternoon thoroughfare, her thoughts turned to Benjamin and his perplexing wound which refused to heal. To the fever which refused to relent. So many times an injury or ailment returned without any explanation she could fathom. She'd even heard that the seemingly indomitable George Washington suffered from repeated fevers and illness. But did any one question his doctor's ministrations? No, of course not. Likewise, had any one denigrated Mrs. Elizabeth Jackson's efforts to treat the poor patriots imprisoned on the British ships last year? Even though she'd eventually contracted the dreaded cholera herself and left her young fourteen-year-old son Andrew an orphan, nobody had spoken ill of her. Trent's attitude and insistence on his method being superior rankled in her chest almost as much as her physical reaction to him confused and intrigued her. But gramercy, he couldn't claim she'd not done her part to assist Benjamin. She'd give the ointment another few days to do its job before she'd even consider the possibility that Trent may be right. Her ways had worked countless times before. A niggle of doubt crept into her mind. What would she do if she were wrong and he turned out to be correct?
Chapter 5
Samantha strolled through the garden, inspecting its condition, stopping to pick out a weed here and there. Sunshine touched the tops of the trees, leaving the shrubs and bushes in shadow. A light morning breeze tugged at her ebony hair, indulgently left hanging long and loose about her shoulders. Before long, she'd have to go back inside to break the fast with her parents and Evelyn. Afterward, she'd help Evelyn move to her parents' house. Truth be told, it would be easy to accomplish the move, given the poor woman had no worldly goods. Only her son and her slave and the clothes on their backs.
She stared at the house for several minutes, fascinated by the way the panes of glass in the windows reflected the growing sunlight, and reluctant to enter its confines again. The cool breeze stirred her long hair and made her shiver. Or was it the house itself? Do not be silly. The house was her home. At least for the moment. Yet the atmosphere inside sizzled with tension and the portent of change. Her mother and father withheld a momentous decision from her. She could feel it lingering in the air, waiting to spring upon her like a mountain lion attacking a fawn. The suspicion that they contemplated leaving, whether they spoke on the subject or not, unsettled her. After they revealed their intent, she'd be faced with her own decision. In the event, her duty warred with her desires.
If she had a choice, she'd stay with her parents, supporting them in the
ir decisions and with their activities. However, her duty called her to stay and care for her patients, her friends. Her obligations to the town, and more to the country, outweighed those to her parents, especially when she considered her father's political position. She blinked and turned away from her perusal of the back of the house. It had never occurred to her she might find herself at such a crossroad.
Looping around the back of the garden, she made her way slowly toward the house. Mentally, she noted a long list of tasks the garden demanded. Pruning the rose bushes. Thinning the abundance of honeysuckle to increase the number of flowers in the spring. Nipping the dead blossoms from the chrysanthemums. Cleaning up the snakeroot and chamomile beds. Cutting the low new branches from the dogwood tree trunks. So much to do, but every moment in the garden helped to calm her anxieties over her future.
The back door creaked open, drawing her attention. Belinda, in a light blue dress with a navy apron, appeared on the step and raised a hand to shade her dark eyes. Her ebony curls glinted in the sunlight, topped with a white cap. Anticipating the reason for the maid's presence, Samantha quickened her pace.
"There you are, Miss." Belinda held the door open as Samantha drew closer. "Miss Cynthia asked me to fetch you for breakfast."
"Thank you. Sorry to make you come search for me." Samantha climbed the steps to follow Belinda inside.
Samantha hurried through the cozy kitchen, past the happy fire warming the kettle and heating the oven to bake the sweet breads, and into the hall. Her mother's high-pitched voice carried to her from the dining room. She should have returned much sooner, but she'd been distracted and upset by the looming changes. Guilt washed over her as she strode along the hardwood floor. Everyone else must already be seated, waiting on her. Fiddlesticks. She paused in the open door, barely noticing the fine damask cloth draped over the table, platters of sliced meats and yellow cheeses interspersed with bowls of boiled eggs, red apples, and golden pears. A tureen of porridge stood in the center, steam escaping from under its lid. She knew not where the bounty of food came from, how many favors, or threats, her father had employed to provide such an abundant repast. Aaron sat at the head of the table, with her mother to his right. Her parents acknowledged her arrival with silence. Evelyn occupied the seat on the far side, gazing at her with a bemused smile. Samantha quickly took her place on the closest side of the long table.
"Please forgive me for being tardy." Samantha tucked her napkin into the bodice of her gown, spreading the cloth to protect her yellow day dress. "I'm relieved you did not wait for me."
"We waited until the hour arrived. What detained you?" Aaron peered at her over his coffee. "A patient, perhaps?"
"No. I needed to inspect the state of the garden." Selecting a slice of cold duck and a rasher of bacon, she replaced the platter on the table. "I warrant it will take quite some time to put it to rights for the winter."
Cynthia regarded her for several moments, until Samantha met her troubled gaze. Then she glanced at Aaron before resuming picking at her bowl of porridge liberally sprinkled with currants. A frown pulled at Samantha's brows as she watched her mother's slow movements with her spoon. Cynthia raised her gaze to meet Samantha's. There it was again, the worry on her mother's visage. Samantha observed the same anxiety on Aaron's face.
Eventually, they'd be forced to share whatever concerned them both so. In the meantime, Samantha had worries of her own. She caught Evelyn's attention. "Will you be ready to go to your parents' house after breakfast?"
"Indeed." Evelyn placed her cup on its saucer and considered each person at the table. "I wish to thank you all again for sheltering me in my immediate distress. You've been very kind. But I've been a burden long enough and am anxious to return to my family."
"Family is so important to cling to in these uncertain and dynamic times." Cynthia dipped into the hot cereal and then held the spoonful poised over her bowl to allow it to cool. "We are pleased to help you return to the comfort and safety of yours."
Samantha blinked at her mother's words. What prompted another discussion about family? Another tremor inched down her spine as the possible meanings flitted through her mind.
Samantha snared her mother's attention with the tilt of her head. "It is a good thing we have one another to rely upon. I cannot imagine forging ahead after the war without my parents to guide me."
Cynthia laid her spoon down, dabbed at her lips with her linen napkin. "We would never do anything that might endanger your welfare, my dear. But you must consider what you'd do should something happen to us."
Ah, here it comes. Samantha fiddled with her fork as she stared at her mother. "What do you think might happen?"
Aaron cleared his throat, drawing Samantha's gaze from her mother to rest upon his serious visage. "We may not have a choice but to consider leaving. If we are forced out, you are welcome to go with us. If you do not wish to leave, then I'll make appropriate arrangements for your shelter until a suitable husband can be identified. I've been remiss in not attending to the matter sooner."
"Leave?" Samantha dropped her fork with a clatter onto her plate. "Or marry? Surely you jest. You know I will not marry a—" She glanced at Evelyn, reluctant even now to reveal her secret in front of her parents.
Evelyn cocked her head, curiosity plain on her features. Samantha shook her head, letting Evelyn know she had misspoken.
"Like us, you may not have any choice in the matter." Cynthia stirred her porridge, lowering her eyes to focus on the movement of the spoon. "Some events are beyond our control."
"Enough of the serious talk for now. Much is to be thrashed out before we can make a knowledgeable choice." Aaron speared a bite of roast duck and placed it in his mouth, chewing the meat with the same concentration as he'd use mulling over a serious decision. "We can speak more on the subject later, after certain discussions take place."
Samantha gaped at her father, full understanding dawning. Ultimately, she'd have to choose to either leave with them or be left behind to fend for herself. Or foisted upon another man as a wife or left with family as a supposed spinster fit only to supervise the children. She couldn't reveal her secret to any one without courting their reprobation of her past. None of the possibilities appealed, each weighed and found wanting before being discarded. Whatever would become of her? Her appetite fled, so she arranged her fork on her plate, removed her napkin, and laid it on the table.
"When you're ready, Evelyn, I'll escort you home." Samantha scooted her chair away from the table and stood. "If you'll excuse me?"
"You've barely touched your food. Are you feeling well?" Evelyn's shocked frown mirrored the surprise on Cynthia and Aaron's faces.
Samantha was sick with dread, but she couldn't say as much. "I'm fine. I merely wish to tend to a few things before we go." Samantha looked to her father, silently asking for his permission to leave the room. Upon his nod, she dipped a quick curtsy to her mother and then strode away from the simmering tension surrounding her parents.
Her father's library, a place of restorative calm, beckoned her. The many volumes of literature and references helped to soothe her agitation. They did not care about the upsets of her life. They provided a constant in an ever-changing world. Her father had collected many famous works, several from William Shakespeare, a translation of Ovid's Metamorphosis, and her favorite, Meditations, Divine and Moral, by Anne Dudley Bradstreet. His library held both interesting and amusing books, from Oliver Goldsmith's eight volume treatise An History of the Earth, and Animated Nature, to the often read Jonathan Swift's The Beauties of Swift: or, the Favorite Offspring of Wit and Genius. She trailed a finger along the leather bindings, lingering when she reached the most used books on medical practices. Buchan's Domestic Medicine and Bell's System of Operative Surgery displayed worn covers from the many hours she and her mother had pored over the details of their contents, certain pages dog-eared to make the information quickly attainable. Those books in conjunction with her own commonplace book filled wi
th numerous recipes for simples and cures from many sources comprised the basis of her knowledge.
Several of the recipes she'd carefully recorded in her commonplace came directly from a Cherokee shaman she'd spent weeks with as he helped her heal the wound in her thigh. If Little Running Bear had not stumbled upon her, lying wounded and bleeding profusely behind an immense oak tree after the battle at Cowpens, she would have died like her sweet Edward. The terrible event played in her mind, a horrible tragedy performed on stage in her memory.
They were prepared for the fight, ready to confront and eliminate the British threat on the rolling hills of the area normally used to contain the cattle prior to slaughter. The Cowpens area, during the course of the war, had become a gathering place for the militia, and thus was familiar ground for the Americans. That chilly winter morning when they met the infamous Lieutenant Colonel Banastre Tarleton and his men, Brigadier General Daniel Morgan had prepared and readied his troops to defeat the bloody British officer. The morning fog had burned off in time to reveal the enemy had move closer than anticipated, apparently marching overnight while leaving untended campfires as decoys. The fighting started abruptly with shots and shouts as the two sides clashed.
Intense fighting claimed lives on both sides, men falling to the ground all around where Samantha, known as Sam Mason to her compatriots, fought beside her husband Edward Mason. But the depth of defense General Morgan had put into place worked as he had intended. He'd instructed his infantrymen to fire three well aimed shots, then fall back for the next line of Americans to take up the battle. After they'd deployed their shots, they too fell back in orderly fashion to expose the Continentals, the core of the defense resting upon the veteran light infantrymen of the Maryland Line. Those men were led by Colonel John Eager Howard and knew their roles well. Tarleton suffered the loss of more than one hundred men killed and two hundred more wounded. Morgan's forces ruled the day with only a dozen men killed and fifty wounded. But the battle, though ultimately won by the Americans, proved to be a different kind of slaughter for Samantha.