Rose hesitated. The docks meant ships and ships meant sailors. Yet surely with Noah and her uncle along, she would be safe. Ignoring the fear gurgling in her belly, she lifted a questioning brow toward her aunt. Amelia crowded beside her, nearly bursting with excitement.
Aunt Muira tightened her lips and glanced toward the port. “I don’t know, dear. I hoped you would accompany me to Mrs. Pickersgill’s. She’s most anxious to inform us of her new charity for women and children orphaned by the war. You did say you wanted to help, didn’t you?”
Rose bit her lip, guilt and longing waging war in her thoughts. Yes, she did. But after what happened with Garrick, the thought of facing women who had suffered as she had caused a lump to form in her throat. “Please forgive me, Aunt, but I … I … do not think I am up to the task today. Can we go later in the week?” She avoided looking at the frown that must certainly be upon her aunt’s lips and focused instead on Noah tickling his son beneath the chin.
“I shall be with them every moment, Mrs. Drummond.” Noah came to her rescue. “And I will drive Rose and Amelia home in my carriage before sundown.”
“Oh do say they can join us, Mrs. Drummond.” Marianne held her bonnet down against a burst of salt-laden wind. “Amelia would be such a help with Lizzie while Rose and I catch up on news.”
Aunt Muira glanced at her husband who was still greeting people as they left the church.
“Very well, I suppose so.” Aunt Muira withdrew a handkerchief and dabbed at the perspiration on her neck. “But be home in time for supper, my dear. You know how cantankerous Cora gets when we are late.”
Rose kissed her aunt on the cheek and watched her join her husband, then she turned toward her friends. “Shall we?” She threaded her arm through Marianne’s as they sauntered down the pathway toward Pratt Street and the docks.
“You have come a long way, Rose,” Marianne whispered as they neared the water.
Rose glanced over the harbor that was bustling with activity. “Not as far as you think. My nerves are a bundle of knots even as we speak.”
Marianne patted her hand. “Well, all the more reason I’m glad you joined us. You are safe with us.” She glanced at her husband walking ahead with Jacob in his arms. “My husband can handle the fiercest rogues, I assure you.”
Rose admired Noah’s strength and confidence as he strolled down the street. She longed for her own protector. But how could she trust any man after what had happened?
As they approached the water, the bare masts of dozens of ships rose like a thicket of bare winter trees. Bells clanged, workers shouted, street vendors hawked their wares, children laughed, and somewhere in the distance music played. The malodorous smells of the harbor mixed with pleasant scents of food as the group hurried to get out of the hot sun and gathered into Chamberlain’s tavern. There, they claimed a table on the open patio and enjoyed a refreshing pitcher of lemonade, spiced cake, and fresh crab.
A breeze wafted in from the port, cooling the perspiration on Rose’s arms. Lizzie sat beside Amelia, who seemed most pleased to have finally found someone who would listen to her opinionated narrative on the fashion, status, wealth, and courting rituals of those citizens who had the misfortune of passing by the tavern. Noah entertained his son while Marianne and Rose drew their heads together catching up on all that had passed since they’d last visited.
When the sun began its trek toward the western horizon, the group strolled down Market Street. With Jacob in his arms, Noah led the way past an endless succession of one-story brightly colored houses of white, blue, and yellow lining the cobblestone road on both sides, broken up by the occasional quaint entrance of a rich merchant’s brick mansion. Locust trees and the rich blooms of honeysuckle, butternut, and Virginia creeper decorated the pathways between the buildings.
Rose leaned toward her friend. “I do believe Noah gets more and more handsome every time I see him.”
“I agree.” She gave a sultry smile.
“Incredible since, if I recall, you once loathed the very sight of him.” Rose chuckled and tugged the brim of her bonnet further down against the setting sun.
“God does work in mysterious ways.” Marianne eased her fingers over her belly. “If Noah were in town just a bit more often, my life would be perfect.”
“Apparently he’s in town quite often enough.” Rose giggled and Marianne joined her.
Thinking of a new baby reminded Rose of Marianne’s ailing mother. “How does your mother fare?”
“Ah, she is well. Thank you. We have enough money now to hire the best physician in Maryland. Though she requires a great deal of rest, she has flourished under her new medicines.”
“I am so pleased to hear it,” Rose said as a great throng of gentlemen and ladies dressed in a rich display of brocades and taffetas passed by, flirting, jesting, and enjoying the warm summer air. Ahead, Amelia was thankfully too preoccupied with Lizzie to notice the attention flung her way by some of the passing young men. Rose flattened her lips. With Amelia’s comely appearance and coquettish ways, she was bound to draw the wrong kind of attention sooner or later.
The thought had barely drifted through her mind when two handsome gentlemen, attired like London dandies, tipped their hats first toward Amelia and then toward Rose as they passed.
A sudden queasiness gripped Rose, followed by anger.
“You garner quite a bit of attention, Rose.” Marianne gave her a sly look.
“I wish I didn’t.” Rose huffed. She hated the way some men ogled her as if she were a sweetmeat, but at Marianne’s frown, she decided to make light of it. “Of course they find me appealing when I am dressed like this. But when they see me petting a pig and my face covered with mud, they simply”—she attempted to mimic the tone of haughty society—“cannot tolerate such unsophisticated, unladylike behavior.”
Marianne giggled. “A man will come along who finds those things adorable, you’ll see.”
But Rose was not so sure. Nor was she sure she even wanted a husband anymore. The clip-clop of a horse and carriage bounced over her ears as it passed, laughter spilling from within. “You would hardly know we are at war,” Rose said.
“Indeed. But I believe it is important to carry on with our lives as normally as we can even in the midst of war,” Marianne said. “Otherwise we will go mad.”
Rose played with a curl that dangled over her cheek. “It sickens me to think the British fleet is just miles off our coast.”
“Did you hear the pistol shots a week ago?” Marianne placed her hand on Rose’s arm. “I heard that British troops were spotted nearby.”
Amelia coughed.
“In fact, a poor woman, Mrs. Davison—perhaps you know her?” Marianne asked.
Rose shook her head, afraid to hear any more.
“Why, she was attacked in her own home, and then the brigands burned it down while she watched from her field.”
Noah shot a stern glance over his shoulder. “Which is precisely why you and your mother are staying at my father’s house while I am away.” His commanding voice reminded Rose why he was a captain at sea.
“And I have hired additional footmen for your protection,” he added. “Blasted British.”
“Were you not impressed upon one of their ships?” Amelia’s admiring gaze fixed upon Noah.
He nodded toward his wife. “Both Marianne and I were, yes.”
Amelia slipped back beside Marianne, dragging Lizzie by her side. “You were, as well, Mrs. Brenin?”
“Yes.” She exchanged an adoring look with her husband. “But we survived.”
“Their cruelty is inexcusable,” Noah remarked, switching Jacob to his other arm.
Amelia lowered her chin, and Rose knew she thought of her husband.
“Oh look, isn’t that Mr. Snyder?” Marianne pointed. “Over there talking to General Smith.”
Rose followed her friend’s gaze to see the councilman, dressed in his usual lace cravat and double-breasted tailcoat, cane in hand. H
er stomach dropped. Could she not escape him? “Let us turn around, shall we?”
She spun Marianne about and headed the other way, but Mr. Snyder’s shout slithered down her spine, halting her. “By the by, Miss McGuire.”
Rose released a shaky sigh, gave Marianne a look of defeat, and swung back around.
General Smith, with Mr. Snyder on his heels like an obedient puppy, wove between two passing horses and marched toward her as if on a mission. The gold epaulets and brass buttons on his dark military coat glimmered in the sunlight. What could he possibly want with her? Surely he couldn’t have discovered her secret. Yet the pointed look on his face made Rose’s throat close.
The general halted before her. At least sixty years of age, he carried himself with the authority of a man accustomed to command. Now in charge of the Maryland militia and ordered to fortify Fort McHenry, he had quickly become the most important man in Baltimore. He nodded toward them all. “Miss McGuire, Mrs. Brenin, Mr. Brenin. Good day to you.”
Noah and Marianne extended their greetings.
“Good day, General.” Rose’s smile felt stiff. “Are you enjoying your Sunday?”
“As much as one can during wartime.”
Mr. Snyder eased up beside the general, rubbing against his arm as if he hoped the man’s authority and wisdom would somehow transfer to himself.
“Miss McGuire.” The general directed his gaze toward Rose. “There were several reports of musket and pistol fire near your uncle’s land eight days ago.”
“Indeed?” Rose forced her breathing to calm.
“Did you hear anything?”
“Me? No.” She batted the air. “I sleep quite soundly, sir.”
Amelia leaned on a nearby tree, clutching Lizzie to her side.
“Are you all right, Miss Amelia?” Lizzie asked.
Ignoring them, Mr. Snyder shot Rose a look of concern. “Your neighbor, Mr. Franklin, insists he saw British forces on your property.” He tapped his cane on the ground.
“Confound it all.” Noah’s jaw bunched. “I cannot believe the audacity of those redcoats.”
Rose lifted a hand to her neck. “My word! On my property?”
Mr. Snyder narrowed his eyes and leaned toward her. “Are you well? You’ve gone suddenly pale.”
Rose drew out her fan and waved it over her face. “It’s the thought of British soldiers on my property, sir. Far too distressing to imagine. But certainly I would have seen them.”
“I am not implying otherwise.” The general cocked his head and stared at her quizzically. “However, for your protection and the protection of Baltimore, I would like to come and ensure all is well.”
Noah nodded his approval.
General Smith leaned toward Rose as if he had a grand secret to tell her. “Though this may shock you, miss, there are British sympathizers among us.”
Rose’s chest felt as though an anvil had landed on it. “Here in Baltimore? I cannot believe it.” She feigned a gasp. Wondering if the man was playing with her, if he knew exactly what he would find on her land.
The general huffed in disdain. The lines of his face tightened. “And if I should discover any of them aiding the enemy, I’ll have them hanged for treason.”
“As well you should, General,” Noah added.
The air around Rose grew stagnant and stifling. She gasped for a breath. “Indeed” was all she managed to mutter.
“General, you’ve upset the ladies.” Mr. Snyder furrowed his brows in concern.
“Of course, forgive me.” General Smith flipped open his pocket watch. “Nevertheless, I plan to send a few of my men to your farm. Councilman Snyder will accompany them, if that would make you feel more at ease.”
“Well, I cannot say.” Rose’s voice came out shaky, and Marianne took her arm in hers and gave her a curious look. “You should seek my uncle’s permission first.”
“In wartime, I need no permission, Miss McGuire.” General Smith snapped his watch shut and plopped it back into his pocket. “I can have a small band of militia formed within the hour. I assure you, it won’t take long. We shall be in and out before your evening repast.”
CHAPTER 6
Alex leaned back against the open doorframe of the icehouse and gazed over the lush green farm. Farm indeed. For it appeared the fields had not been plowed nor planted for quite some time. No doubt the cow and the horse, both of whom now grazed among the grass and weeds, were the only things that kept the forest from reclaiming the land. From the icehouse, which was situated at the edge of the property near the tree line and not far from a river—the mad rush of which had soothed him to sleep the past few nights—Alex possessed a grand view of the property. Smoke curled from the small brick house at the center of the land, evidence that at least one person remained at home. Most likely a servant since Alex had seen Miss McGuire, Amelia, and an older lady leave in a landau hours ago. An elderly gentleman had left on a lone horse at dawn.
The barn where Alex had fought with Garrick and where he’d been tended to by the lovely Miss McGuire stood to the right of the house, while a smaller barn or stable perched on the other side. A quaint manor, to be sure, a rich and fertile land that was well placed beside the river. Yet quite rustic compared to the Reed estate from which Alex hailed. In fact, one might even call this American farm barbaric.
Yet there was something soothing, something peaceful about the scene that eased through Alex like a warm elixir, loosening his coiled nerves and calming his mind. Or perhaps that elixir came in the form of the angel who had tended him so faithfully these past eight days.
An avenging angel, to be sure. Though Miss McGuire appeared angelic on the outside, the fire burning in those blue eyes and her occasional caustic retort spoke otherwise.
She hated Alex. Simply because he was British. He’d never experienced that level of prejudice before. But how could he blame her? Her parents had been murdered by the British. And now his countrymen were attempting to reclaim her country for the Crown.
Alex gripped the knife and continued whittling away at the thick branch he’d found among the trees. Miss McGuire had stolen his pistol and service sword, but she’d not found the knife he kept hidden within one of his boots. He studied his handiwork. Soon he’ll have fashioned a crutch that would aid him in his trek back to the Gunpowder River, where he’d first landed. With God’s help and a bit of luck, he’d come across a cockboat from one of the ships. God’s help. Alex wondered if God had anything to do with any of this. Or if the Almighty took note of Alex’s life at all. Lately, it seemed, God had forgotten all about him.
Leaves rustled and a twig snapped. Alex jerked toward the sound, knife before him. A gray squirrel eyed him with bored curiosity before it darted away, pinecone in its mouth. By now, Alex expected Captain Milford to have sent a band of men to search for him and Lieutenant Garrick. It wasn’t every day a British frigate lost both its first and second lieutenants. But it had been eight days, and he’d not seen a single British soldier. Either they were otherwise engaged in important battles or Alex suffered from an overinflated view of his own importance. He hoped it was the former. He had spent too many hard years serving His Majesty’s Navy to accept such callous dismissal.
He scratched his arm and then his chest—yet again. What pesky varmint inhabited this loathsome clothing the lady had given him to wear? The fabric was course and stiff and the shirt and breeches were far too small. Not to mention the foul smell that permeated his new attire. No doubt the garments had not been properly washed since they were last worn. But he’d had no choice. Miss McGuire had been correct on one point: It would be best if he were not discovered in his uniform.
Alex stretched his leg out over the dirt and winced. It had healed nicely and only pained him when he attempted to stand. Despite being a woman, Miss McGuire had done a good job of extracting the bullet and dressing the wound. In a day or two, Alex should be able to walk the distance he needed back to his ship, back to his people. Oddly, he found no joy i
n the prospect. He drew in a deep breath of warm air and allowed the scent of honeysuckle and pine to fill his lungs. Though he knew he’d have to go back to his ship eventually, this brief respite from the horrors of war did his soul good. As long as he kept hidden away and did not endanger this rebel family, why should he rush back and risk reopening his wound?
Leaning his head back against the wooden doorframe, he thought of the lovely Miss McGuire. Rebellious curls that refused to be restrained framed her face in a silken web of glittering gold. Her eyes, the turquoise color of the sea he’d once seen in the West Indies—clear and sharp. With a wit to match. So outspoken. So unlike the women he’d known back home. One woman in particular came to mind. Miss Elizabeth Burgess, demure and sweet at least in etiquette and mannerisms. But beneath the outward facade of feminine perfection, a devious vixen raged.
On the contrary, despite Miss McGuire’s harsh words and her obvious hatred toward his nationality and uniform her inner kindness overwhelmed him. She had every reason to turn him over to the military authorities. Yet she saved his life, healed his wound, protected him. He’d never been on the receiving end of such true Christian charity.
Slipping his knife inside his boot, he propped the end of the crutch into the dirt and hoisted himself up. The muscles in his back and arms ached and his thigh throbbed, but he felt strength surge through him. Shoving the handle of his crutch beneath his left arm, he tested it with his weight, careful not to place any strain on his injured leg. Perfect. This would do nicely. A gentle breeze wafted over him, cooling his sweat and bringing the smells of the earth, the forest, and life. Sunlight set the field aglow in various shades of green that waved before him like a mossy sea. America was indeed a beautiful land.
But it was Britain’s land. And these people were British subjects.
The sooner they faced that, the better. Arrogance and greed had made them forget their homeland—the parent country of their birth. Like rebellious children, they needed to be reminded who was in authority. Hopefully, that reminder would not take the lives of too many people. Or of one lovely lady in particular.
Surrender the Night Page 6