Love Finds You in Annapolis, Maryland

by Roseanna White

  Mouth set in a line of fury, she whipped a cloak off the coatrack and onto her shoulders. “Well, try, try, and try again.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The snow pelted her face and hissed against the bricks, but Lark didn’t slow. Couldn’t slow. The fire inside raged too hot, a bubbling cauldron of fear, anger, and determination. A confused mass of her past and her friends’ future, Emerson and the statesmen.

  Though ice crystals stung every bared inch of flesh, Lark sucked in a breath and ran across Tabernacle Street.

  “Lark! Where the devil are you going?”

  She ignored Emerson and picked up her pace, slipping and sliding her way up the hill. Bladen’s Folly hunkered down at its crest, a dark shadow of misty gray in the vortex of white.

  He caught up to her, tried to stop her with a hand on her arm. Thrown off balance, she slipped to her knees. Tears burned her eyes. Why did she always stumble when he was around, always make a fool of herself?

  “This is madness.” He pulled her up, but she fought free again and kept moving. She heard his growl swirl through the snow. “Return to the house, Lark, before this turns to a blizzard and we both are lost.”

  “You go.” Though she spun to face him, she kept moving toward the abandoned mansion. “Go back to your comfortable parlor, where war is but a memory. Go back to your comfortable thought that the men you admire can do no wrong, and that doing what one must, when one must is enough.”

  He surged forward and gripped her shoulders. His eyes gleamed like embers through the storm. “Stop it. This is not about me, nor is it about you.”

  “Is it not? If they trample the liberties of one man, who is to say where it will end?” She turned again toward the building and scurried forward until she saw the outline of its shallow moat.

  He muttered a curse and pulled her back. “What are you doing now, fool woman? You could slip and break your neck.”

  “I will not. Sena showed me—”

  “Life is not a pirate story, Lark!” He gave her a small shake, his grip on her arm tight, though she couldn’t tell if it were from fear or anger. “And you are not Miss Randel, praise be to heaven.”

  “Now you insult my friend?”

  He grunted and pulled her clear of the moat, his face hard as the stones that made it up. “I only mean you have sense to temper your spirit, and I am grateful for that. And I only wish you would employ it and see that this is not about treatment of the Tories, ’tis about my treatment of you. Yet you run every time the battle gets too heated. Sound a retreat instead of facing me.”

  “I wouldn’t have to if I had felt I had the freedom to be who I am with you. Just as I wouldn’t feel someone ought to fight with the politicians if they would let the Calverts live free.”

  He threw his arms up and spun away from her, into the mounting storm. “What must I do, Lark? What can I do to prove to you I am no longer the idiot I have been since the war? I can give you your dreams back, if you but let me. If you but want me to.”

  She shook her head and brushed the snow from her lashes, not even sure she knew what those dreams were. “How can I trust that? What happens when I disappoint you, Emerson? What happens when you disapprove of something I feel is right? Like this?”

  “Then I love you anyway.” Spinning back to her, he planted his hands on her waist and drew her close before she could dart away again. Through the shadows of evening and snow, his eyes smoldered dark and intent. “I want you to be free with me. I want you to know I love your spirit, I love your heart. I love this Lark I have seen since coming here, and I am sorry, truly sorry, I failed to discover her before. But ’tisn’t too late for us.”

  He held her so close even the snow couldn’t blow between them, dipped his head until his lips touched hers. She let him deepen the kiss, let her senses swim and swirl like the blustery crystals around her. Closed her eyes on the storm and nestled in the warm oasis of his arms.

  But none of the feeling that pulsed through her could change the truth. He might say he loved her, just like the men who ratified the treaty might say they held it in the highest esteem. But she was still the same girl he had ignored for two years, just as Calvert was still the Tory that had offended them. Promises, they all made promises. But making them didn’t mean they would keep them.

  She pulled away, backed up a step so the nearly blinding snow could veil her from his gaze. “I love you, Emerson. I always did. I love you for your honor and nobility, for your strength and dedication. I love you for the very things that have always,will always take you away from me.”

  “I will not—”

  “You will.” Though hardly able to see anything before her through the raging snow, she stumbled away, following the downward slope of the land and trusting it to take her in the general direction of home. “I showed you a glimpse of who I am on my birthday, of this spirit you say you love now. And it scared you into Penelope’s arms. You may admire it when it only leads to jests and stories, but when it comes to making a decision, you will never choose me. Certainly not over your heroes.”

  “At least face me when you accuse me of being bound to abandon you.” He halted, forced her to as well. She heaved a breath when he moved in front of her but refused to look past his chin. “You have gotten a taste for fighting, I see. Just like Wiley—when the heat of battle is upon you, you forget everything but raising your musket and charging ahead, even when that means running straight into enemy fire and risking your very life. And for what, Lark?”

  He shook his head.

  She folded her arms over her middle and raised her snow-blurred gaze to his nose. “Say all you like that they have lost the luxury of being idealistic, but it was ideals that made them fight to begin with. And ideals they mustn’t forget if they want this country to be anything but another tyranny.”

  He turned half away, hands fisted on his hips. “This is madness.”

  She lifted her shoulders. Finally, she raised her gaze, though now it was he refusing to meet it.

  At length he faced her again, the snow blanketing his shoulders making them seem all the wider. But the flakes slowed now, the wind died down. Calmer, quieter, but somehow more threatening for its lack of bluster. Emerson drew in a long breath. “Your brother saved my life a time or two in battle because of his heroics. But I saved his just as much, pulling him out of the scrapes his recklessness led him into.”

  “I cannot think it reckless or mad to do the right thing. But regardless, I need to know you will love me, even when you deem me such. ’Tis all I ever wanted. If you cannot, do not…then there can be no future for us.”

  Instead of pulling her close again, he backed away. Instead of softening, his face went cold as the wind that blustered around them. Without another word, he pivoted on his heel and stomped off through the new-fallen snow.

  She watched him cross Tabernacle Street, hoping against hope he would turn back. But he didn’t. He walked away, never even glancing over his shoulder.

  She lowered her arms but couldn’t convince her fists to relax. This was it, then. The first disagreement, and he forgot his claim of minutes before, that he loved her for her spirit. He didn’t, evidently.

  Of course he didn’t. Why should he? Spirit might be a battle cry, but it wasn’t what one wanted to found a family, a nation on. It led one into war, but it was the steady that brought them back out. He might like spirit in his friends, but when it came down to it, it wasn’t what he wanted in a wife.

  She wasn’t what he wanted. Would never be what he wanted.

  Her knees buckled, and the ground rushed up to greet her. Snow burned her bare hands like fire when she caught herself.

  Pushing herself to her knees, she looked up through the last few flurries of snow, straight at the towering trunk of the Liberty Tree. Its branches reached so high, all the way to heaven. Spread so wide, beyond her periphery. A symbol to all. A rallying cry.

  Freedom. Liberty.

  Her eyes slid shut. It was just
a tree. One of many, nothing but a meeting point. Easily chopped down, easily burned up.

  But it hadn’t been, not this one. It had survived. The frozen ground under her knees beckoned, and she opened her eyes again, focused on a bump in front of her. Half-dazed, she brushed at the snowy lump until she caught sight of the root that had broken free of the soil at some point.

  That was how it stood. It had its roots deep and wide. Otherwise, these winter winds would have toppled it. This bitter cold would have frozen out its life.

  So what of her? Where were her roots?

  She looked across the street, but Emerson had disappeared into the encroaching night. He couldn’t be her foundation. Nor could her family or these new friends who had quickly become dear.

  Drawing in a deep breath of the frigid air, Lark rested her hand on the root and focused her gaze on the tree. “My liberty is in You, Lord. Only in You. If I am to be rooted, it must be in Christ. If I am to seek purpose, it must be Yours. So tell me, please, what You want me to do. Will I ever be enough for him? Or is my love the sacrifice I must make for the freedom to hold to my beliefs?”

  The empty street seemed to be her answer.

  * * * * *

  Emerson stomped up the stairs and rang the bell for number 19 with more force than was necessary. Soon enough, he would have to bury his feelings once more under the trained facade of a gentleman. Soon enough, he would have to smile and laugh.

  And wait—wait for the chance to speak a lot of rot and foolishness, to offend those he most respected, just to earn the affection of a woman who ought not give it with such strings.

  A woman for whom he would make a fool of himself a thousand times over, if that was what it took to win her.

  As he stood on the snowy stoop, he shoved a hand into his pocket and fingered the emerald he’d gone back to his room to fetch. She would see. When he made her points for her and was laughed out of polite society, she would see he loved her above all. More than duty to them, to his state, to his country. She would see that he sought her more than respect itself.

  He would draw her aside, draw out the ring, and tell her she could make whatever stands she wanted. He’d be there. Right beside her, ready to charge in on her behalf, as he had always been beside Wiley in the war. She demanded proof? He would give it.

  Blast it all. He did love her, loved every flash of fire in her eyes, even as he knew it would light a powder keg. That didn’t mean he was looking forward to the explosion. It didn’t mean he was to be blamed for wanting to return to Virginia and the quiet of his plantation. To enjoy their freedom without thinking they still had to fight for it every minute of the day.

  He had fought for six endless years, had killed enemies who had once been friends. Why did she now insist he fight for friends who had once been enemies?

  The door swung open, and Mrs. Green stood aside to let him in. He expected a berating from her, but she only gave him a sympathetic smile and took his cloak and hat. Exhaling the pent-up frustration left him deflated. “Has Lark returned yet?”

  “More or less.” She motioned toward the rear of the house. “She has been pacing around out back, ignoring me if I tell her she shall turn to an icicle if she does not come in. Mr. Fielding.” She pressed her lips together for a moment. “Do you know why I am forever quoting Mr. Franklin? Because he lives his life by one principle: go straight forward in doing what is right, leaving the consequences to Providence.”

  Something settled within him. Unable to voice what, or the proper thanks for it, he nodded.

  Mr. Randel stepped into the hall. He motioned Emerson in, then leaned closer as he drew near. “Calvert is already here, waiting in the kitchen for my signal to join everyone else.”

  The front door opened again, admitting no fewer than half a dozen men.

  “Glad you could make it, gentlemen,” Randel said. “Go on in and warm yourselves by the fire. I think this is the whole gathering tonight.”

  Emerson went into the library and took the same seat he had last time. Largely, yes, so he could watch for certain sneaking females. The other men followed, already laughing and jesting. Monroe nodded at him. “Have you heard from home lately, Fielding?”

  He forced a pleasant expression. “I had a letter from Wiley Benton this morning.”

  Monroe smiled. “I have seen his sister at several of the balls recently. A lovely young woman. Are the two of you still…?”

  Oh, for all that was holy. He slipped a hand into his pocket and fisted the ring. “Yes. We most certainly are.”

  Jefferson looked up from the harpsichord. “Given this weather, you had better return to Virginia as soon as you are able, Mr. Fielding, if you intend to be present for your own wedding. One would not expect it to take six weeks to travel so short a distance, but who knows but a blizzard might strike and keep you immobile for a fortnight.”

  “A point we shall most certainly consider as we plan our return.” Assuming she would believe even this show he planned, would ever believe his love enough to wed him.

  Governor Paca chuckled. “Look at the wistfulness on his face. You know, Fielding…” His voice trailed off, his smile melted into a frown. “Randel. What is the meaning of this?”

  Emerson looked to the door along with everyone else, though he knew exactly what he would see. Randel had ushered Calvert in.

  To his credit, Calvert achieved the perfect stance. His spine was straight, shoulders back, but his chin at a respectful angle. He neither gripped his cane too tightly nor leaned on it overmuch. He looked exactly as he must to have a chance at winning the regard of these men—humble but not weak.

  Randel’s smile looked more than a little forced though. “Gentlemen, I trust you all remember my former student, Edwinn Calvert.”

  Paca narrowed his eyes. “Hard to forget the most notorious Tory in Annapolis. After all your family contributed to this nation, young man, the fact that they all sided with the Crown was a terrible blow to our cause.”

  Calvert inclined his head. “My family made their decisions based on many factors, sir, which led most of them back to England. But my reasons were my own, and my love for my home not affected by it.”

  “Love for your home?” Paca’s jaw ticked. “If you loved this land that had birthed you, you would have taken her side. Yet now you think to stay here and cause trouble?”

  “I think I have proven these past two years I intend to follow the justly appointed leadership of my state and country. I intend to remain in Annapolis and raise a family here, but in order to assure their comfort, I must beg—”

  “Raise a family here?” Another man of middling age scoffed. Emerson couldn’t recall the fellow’s name, but he was the same one who had made the rude jest about Calvert’s leg at their last gathering. “And what father in his right mind would wed a daughter to you?”

  Randel cleared his throat. “That would be me.”

  A moment of silence ticked by, followed by several exclamations of surprise, the loudest coming from the governor. Randel shrugged. “They are in love, and Calvert is a good, godly man. Why should I oppose it?”

  “Because he is a traitor, a Tory!”

  Randel directed his sigh toward the bilious man. “It is time we forget all that, Mason. The war is over, and if we intend peace to succeed, we must forgive and move forward.”

  At that, Emerson had to nod. They must indeed. And he had no personal issues with Calvert. He understood his reasons, even if he didn’t agree with them. But they could not simply force the leaders to see things their way by insisting they were right.

  “Move forward we shall, but forgiveness…” Paca shook his head and folded his arms over his chest. “When the treaty is signed into law by King George, then we will have no choice but to give you restitution within a year. Until then, I advise against asking anything of a people who would still be quite happy to see you expelled from our country, Mr. Calvert. And my condolences to you, Randel, for gaining such a son through the foolish c
hoice of your daughter.”

  “Now, see here!” Randel lunged forward, but Calvert stopped him with a hand on the arm.

  “Randel, relent,” he said softly. “It is a foolish choice, and we all know it.”

  “We do not.” Randel shrugged off Calvert’s hand and tugged his waistcoat back into place. “As you yourself pointed out, Paca, I was the first to decry the Calverts. And now I shall be the first to say for all to hear that I respect Edwinn Calvert for holding true to his beliefs. Freedom, gentlemen, must be given freely.”

  Emerson shifted and toyed with the emerald in his pocket. The man raised a valid point. He himself intended to prove his love for Lark was not conditional…and shouldn’t justice claim the same?

  Paca grunted and turned fully toward the exit. “I have heard quite enough for one evening. We shall do our duty when we must, Mr. Calvert. Until then, I bid you farewell.”

  Emerson frowned. He knew well what one gained by doing only duty when one did not truly believe it, and not doing that until one must—nothing. But Lark was right. Their country could not stand on that. It was not what these very men had founded it on. And now was the time to prove what these United States stood for, not to provide a precedent for forgetting it.

  He pushed to his feet. He would make Lark’s point. Not for her, not to prove anything. But because it was right, and now was the time to say so. “Governor Paca, if I might speak?”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Lark sat on the icy back step of Randel House, lost in shadows that felt far deeper than the night. The garden of the court shared by a few other houses lay enshrouded with snow. Lovely, yet merciless.

  The door squeaked open behind her, but Lark didn’t turn to see who came out. Not until the newcomer sat beside her.

  She sighed as she glanced at Alice’s profile. “I have made a mess of things. With Emerson. Am I wrong, Alice, to demand he choose me over his duty to men who are barely more than strangers?”

  Alice offered a small, lopsided smile and leaned in until their shoulders touched. “He ought to choose you. Yet you ought not demand it.”