Time After Time

by Elizabeth Boyce

  She was preoccupied with something else, too. It was becoming difficult to keep her breakfast down, and she was exhausted by afternoon. She had also missed menstruation and was certain that at last she had conceived. The fear and confusion that possessed her were not enough to overshadow elation that, logically, she found strange, but could not deny.

  James and Martha had lost their effervescent sparkle. James looked drawn and thin. A constant look of concern touched his face, and he seemed to glance out the window as if to check the street many times. Martha tried to hide her worry behind false gaiety, but Emily saw through it, though it endeared the woman to her even more.

  The atmosphere was one of waiting. In the evening, as they sat in the drawing room reading and embroidering, it seemed as if all ears were stretched to listen. The clock ticked off the minutes in the ominous silence. Each time a rider passed the house, Emily’s fingers would pause as she stared, unseeing, at the work in her hand. James and Martha would exchange sympathetic looks when the horse passed and Emily’s shoulders sagged as she continued sewing.

  The war continued to rage in the northern colonies and Canada, and news spread quickly to the southern colonies. Fights broke out in the streets as insults flew and honor was upheld. Troops from British ships were pillaging the towns and villages up and down the coast causing many loyalists to change their sympathies. And through it all one question swirled in Emily’s head — Where was Jonathon?

  Early in November Lord Dunmore, now on a warship off Norfolk, ordered Virginia placed under martial law. Two weeks later his troops met a militia marching toward Norfolk to aid its defense. Armed conflict had come to Virginia.

  Another agonizing evening of waiting settled around Emily and the Cosgroves. The air seemed heavy and oppressive, and James in particular seemed on edge. Emily’s nausea was easing, but she still fought fatigue. Her back ached as she leaned over her work, and a yawn overtook her once more.

  “Emily, dear, why not get some rest?” Martha said gently. The strain of the past few months was evident in Emily’s thin face with its dark circles under her eyes.

  “I think I will — ” she stopped in mid-sentence and listened.

  James jumped up from his chair and ran to the window. The sound of raised voices grew louder, and he turned to the women in alarm. “I had heard this was happening elsewhere, but I never thought to see it here. They are coming to burn our house.”

  Filled with panic, Emily fought back a cry of fright.

  Martha rose and went to the window where she saw a crowd of men, some bearing torches, approaching the house.

  “No,” she wailed. “They cannot!” She grabbed the lapels of James’s longcoat. “James, we must do something. They will kill us all.”

  James dashed to the gun cabinet and removed two fine pistols. Then he rang for a servant.

  “You two must flee through the back of the house. I shall hold them off for as long as I am able.”

  The servant arrived, his eyes wide with fear.

  “Gather the others and go wherever you know you will be safe,” James instructed.

  Emily rose, her legs trembling with fear. “James,” she said, “do you have other arms? I can shoot fairly well.”

  He looked at Emily tenderly. “Thank you, dear, but you and Martha must leave immediately. I insist.”

  “I will not leave you, James!” Martha cried.

  “Nor I,” Emily agreed.

  The crowd had arrived in front of the house and was shouting at the gate. Firelight from their torches illuminated the blackness of the windows, and angry voices yelled insults and threats.

  James seized another set of pistols, handing one to each woman. He kissed Martha’s forehead and started for the front door.

  “You two stay here. I recognize some of these people; perhaps I can talk some sense to them.”

  He opened the door and the voices died down. “Friends, please. Violence between us will not further our cause — ”

  “Your cause is different from ours!” a voice rang out.

  James looked around the crowd as they jostled and vied for position. He saw several familiar faces, some he even had considered friends. He appealed to one of them.

  “Ben, we have been friends for years. Granted, we have divided loyalties right now, but — ”

  “Loyalist! Tory!” another voice shouted. Then from somewhere in the crowd a large egg was hurled toward James’s head. He ducked in time to avoid being hit, but he was shaken. He straightened and held up a hand.

  “Please, violence will not help — ”

  “Tell that to your redcoats,” someone yelled.

  Martha and Emily rushed to James urging him inside when a voice rang out, “Burn the Tory’s house down!”

  At this James drew a pistol and the crowd quieted.

  “Leave my house!” he roared.

  Voices rose and as one the crowd began to move forward. Emily raised her pistol and fired once above their heads, knocking off the hat of one of the torchbearers. Again, as one, the crowd stopped.

  “They cannot hold us all back!” a voice shouted, and again they advanced.

  This time James fired at the ground between them but they surged forward, coming up the walk and flowing across the neat front yard. One torchbearer lowered his fire to the yew hedge while others swarmed to the other side of the house. Just then horses’ hooves thundered up the road, and a powerful rifle discharged into the night air.

  “Stop!” Jonathon’s baritone rang out, and the crowd turned to stare. Riding along with Jonathon was Mr. Gates, and behind them were three other crewmen.

  “It is Brentwood!” Emily heard a man nearby say. Suddenly people scattered in all directions as Jonathon jumped from his horse, his face glowering. He grabbed one man and brought him face to face.

  “Get water; all of you get water now!” he roared at him.

  Pushing the man away, he ran to the well. Mr. Gates and the three crewmen followed, and a bucket brigade, including the man Jonathon had caught, was formed. They doused the yew hedge and that wall of the house that had caught fire. Emily and Martha dashed back in the front door to see one of the curtains ablaze. Martha ran forward, grasped the material, and ripped it from the windows. Throwing the drapes on the floor, she began stomping out the blaze. Jonathon saw her through the window and, breaking the glass, handed a bucket of water inside to Emily, who grasped the heavy, sloshing bucket and drenched Martha and the draperies. Then she tore upstairs to check the rooms on that wall of the house. Everything appearing all right, she rushed back to Martha.

  The woman sat on the floor surveying the damaged room, and her eyes filled with tears. Emily brought a quilt from the corner chest and wrapped it around Martha’s shivering shoulders. The voices of the men floated clearly through the broken pane. The fire had been contained, and the damage was limited to the yew hedge and the east wall of the house.

  Drawing Martha to her feet, Emily led her upstairs and eased the shaking woman onto her bed. She took out a warm nightgown and assisted Martha into it. The woman seemed in shock, staring straight ahead as she shivered in her gown. Emily folded back the bedclothes and urged Martha to lie down.

  “I shall make us some tea, Martha dear,” she said gently. Then she hesitated, not sure if she should leave her alone. She rang for a servant remembering as she did so that no one would respond. She looked down at Martha and concern welled up within her. Martha stared at the ceiling, still shivering, her eyes dry. Emily sat beside her and took her hand. It was icy cold.

  “Martha, will you be all right if I leave for a short time?”

  Martha nodded, but still Emily hesitated. At that moment James entered the room, rushed to his wife, and drew her into his arms. Emily rose and slipped from the room.

  She hurried down the stairs and went out t
o the kitchen house. The fire on the hearth was still warm, so she put the kettle on to boil and started to prepare a tray of food for the men. Her knees began to shake again as she had time to think of what had happened — and what might have happened. She tried to still her trembling and concentrate on preparing food for the others, but finally, exhausted and frightened, she collapsed into a chair and sobbed into her hands.

  • • •

  The water boiling over and hissing on the hearth brought her back, and she rose to finish her preparations. She readied a tray for the men and a small tray for Martha. That one she carried up first.

  She found Martha much as she had left her, James beside her, a look of concern creasing his brow. He looked up gratefully as Emily entered with the tray and as she left, he was coaxing Martha to sip some tea.

  Emily returned to the kitchen house and brought the tray of cold meats, cheese, and bread in for the men. She found them in the drawing room nailing boards across the broken window. Jonathon saw her enter as he turned to get another nail. Handing the hammer to Mr. Gates, he approached her.

  “Is this how your fellow patriots treat their neighbors?” she cried. All the anger and fear that had welled up within her burst forth.

  “Emily — ”

  “Where have you been, Jonathon?” The fear for his safety that had gnawed at her for months flooded over her again, even as he stood before her.

  “Emily, I had to sail — ”

  “For the blasted colonies!” she cried.

  The other men in the room shifted uncomfortably. Emily looked over at them as if seeing them for the first time. She tried to settle her anger; she took a deep breath and fought for control. After a moment, she spoke.

  “Forgive me, gentlemen. This has been a most distressing evening. Thank you for your most welcome assistance. Here, I have brought some food. I am afraid it is cold — the servants were told to leave when the disturbance began. I hope everything is suitable …” Her voice trailed off. She felt as if she were in a dream, as if it were not even herself speaking.

  “Everything looks delicious, Mrs. Brentwood,” Mr. Gates spoke as he approached her and took her arm. “Here, please sit down and join us.”

  He looked meaningfully at Jonathon as he led Emily to the settee. Jonathon looked puzzled and still angry. Mr. Gates poured out brandy for everyone, including Emily, and they began to eat. Mr. Gates went upstairs to check on Martha and came down to report that she was resting comfortably. He kept a close watch on Emily as the men continued to eat. She stared at the food before her but did not touch it. Finally, he crossed the room and sat beside her.

  “Here, missy, drink this,” he said in the gentle voice he had used aboard the Destiny when Andrew had been injured. Emily looked at him, about to decline, but he pushed it into her hand and smiled. Relenting, she took a sip. The warmth seeped through her, and after a time she began to relax. The murmur of the men’s voices lulled her, and she leaned back and closed her eyes, but did not sleep. She listened as they spoke. James joined them when Martha had finally fallen asleep.

  “These people have had enough. Ben Coates lost his entire plantation to British creditors. His family has owned that land since the late 1600s, and now he cannot afford even the family home,” Jonathon said quietly.

  “Matthew Brookside lost everything when his mill was burned. His youngest was killed in the fire,” James responded.

  Emily’s heart ached as she listened to the stories of the destruction of people’s lives being whispered in the half-light of the room. But the blame fell on both sides, for both loyalists and patriots were destroying and being destroyed.

  Her strength had drained completely, and she could not stop shivering though the evening was warm.

  Her eyelids felt too heavy to open and her limbs too heavy to move.

  “Come, Missy, I shall help you to your room,” Mr. Gates said softly. Slowly Emily’s eyes opened and focused on his kind face. Why was it not Jonathon who stood there looking so concerned? His voice still rose and fell across the room, deep in conversation with James. He seemed unaware of Emily’s state of exhaustion.

  With Mr. Gates’s assistance, she rose and started toward the stairs. She stumbled, and he supported her with a strong arm. What Emily did not see was worried brown eyes following her every move and how Jonathon began to rise when she stumbled.

  When Gates returned to the drawing room, Jonathon was bidding good-night to James who was retiring to his room, and to the other men who were returning to the Destiny. When they had gone, he turned to Gates.

  “Is she all right?” he asked anxiously.

  “You should have gone to her,” Gates replied. He spoke as a friend now, his deference for his captain set aside out of view of others.

  “She wanted me nowhere near her,” Jonathon said bitterly. “It will never change. She will come to resent me more and more. But I cannot give up the cause. I will not.”

  “Life does not offer easy paths. But love can make them smoother.”

  “I do not believe she even loves me anymore,” Jonathon said quietly.

  “You do not give your wife enough credit. She is a brave, loving, dedicated woman.”

  Jonathon looked at the man for a moment, and then patted him on the shoulder.

  “You are a true friend, Gates,” he said warmly.

  “Aye, Captain,” Gates smiled.

  • • •

  Muffled sounds coaxed Emily to consciousness, but exhaustion kept pulling her back into a deep, heavy sleep. When she finally, slowly came awake, the morning sun was high in the cold, clear, late–November sky. The events of the previous night seemed like a bad dream, but the acrid smell of burned wood still lingered to attest to the reality of it all.

  Emily wanted to close her eyes and make it all go away, but she remembered how Martha had looked as she lay on the bed. And she remembered that Jonathon had safely returned. She rose and readied herself for the day.

  The house was quiet as she crossed the hall to Martha’s door and gently knocked. Opening the door slightly, she saw Martha sleeping soundly. Reassured, she hurried downstairs and stopped in the doorway to the dining room. Jonathon sat alone at the table. He looked haggard as he rose to greet her. Neither of them spoke for a moment. Relief for his safety and excitement at his presence washed over Emily. She took in his deep-set eyes, dark circles beneath them. His face looked thinner, proof of the strain and hardship he had been under. Although a rush of concern swept over her, Emily stood her ground. Finally, she spoke.

  “Jonathon.”

  His name sounded like a prayer to her. How many times had she whispered it in the dark? How many nights had she begged God for his safe return? All of this was wrapped in his name as she spoke it.

  “Are you well?” she asked. The question seemed hollow. She wanted to go to him; to hold him, support him, but her pride held her in check.

  “Yes, Emily, I am well. And you?”

  His voice flowed over her like a refreshing stream — its sound a healing balm. But the restraint it held was clear. Neither of them would relent.

  “Well. I am well, thank you,” she replied.

  They had remained rooted in place, frozen figures masking true questions with safe ones. Suddenly they came to life, as if aware of the idiocy of this moment.

  Emily looked at the sparse sideboard. Jonathon moved to her chair to hold it for her. Their discomfort was that of a newly courting couple.

  “Breakfast is wanting, I am afraid,” Jonathon said ruefully. “The servants have not returned, and I am a bit unused to kitchen duty.”

  Emily looked at the cold ham, cheese, fruit, and coffee. She looked at Jonathon in amusement.

  “You did this?” she smiled. “Quite impressive for a sea captain.”

  Jonathon visibly relaxed at t
he lightness of her words. He bowed solemnly as he held her chair and swept his arm forward in a gallant gesture.

  “May I wait upon you, m’lady?” he asked in mock formality.

  “If you would be so kind, sir,” Emily returned in kind.

  Their eyes locked with a smile that they understood as the groundwork for some painful and difficult decisions that would follow. But this moment was for adjustment and reacquaintance, and their silent, mutual agreement was to meet on lighter terms.

  Jonathon piled a pewter plate with hearty fare and poured strong, black coffee and set it before her. Emily’s exhaustion and excitement left her fair game for what little morning sickness remained. Her head swam as she eyed the overflowing plate. The smell of the coffee intensified it. But this was not the time to reveal news of such consequence, so she fought the nausea down and reached for some bread.

  Jonathon returned to his chair. He caught a long look at Emily before she glanced up. He ached to take her in his arms. He was concerned about the circles beneath her eyes and the exhaustion he sensed within her.

  “Em, I am preparing to take you to London,” he said finally. “James and Martha will accompany us. Andrew wishes to remain here. I believe he is old enough to make that choice.”

  “You seem to allow Andrew to mature much faster than I,” she replied. She regretted the remark instantly. She saw a flicker of anger in his eyes and relented.

  “Jonathon, this has been difficult for all of us. I appreciate your generosity in taking us to England. Will it not be dangerous for you, though?” she asked.

  “Getting out of Yorktown may be difficult, but so far I have had no trouble. We must stop at Norfolk en route, and that is a concern. It is a Tory stronghold, so my ship will not be welcome. But James will acquire papers from Dunmore that should ease the situation. It will be a brief stop. I cannot sail with you all the way to London. I have a friend who will meet us and deliver you safely,” he explained.

  The impact of what this meant hit Emily full force. An ocean would separate her and Jonathon — perhaps forever. Tears stung her eyes, and her throat ached. She could not bear to think of the danger Jonathon would face throughout this conflict.