The letter she needed to rekindle her hatred of the man downstairs.
With tender care, she fingered the broken wax and gazed at her mother’s name on the front. Tears filled her eyes as she opened it and read.
My beloved Rossalyn,
The days pass with mindless toil and an empty heart since I left you, and I begin to wonder whether it was a wise choice to join this country’s navy and be so often gone from your side. Though the Chesapeake is a grand ship and I a fair boatswain, the glory of the majestic sea cannot compare to your beauty, my lovely wife. I find Commodore Barron to be a good captain with much battle experience, yet his pride expresses itself in harsh methods one minute followed by neglect the next.
Tomorrow we hoist our sails for the Mediterranean, and I shall not see you for months. Please know, my darling that you are and always will be my love and my life. My thoughts will ever be consumed with you and Rose, and I shall write you daily, though I know not when the posts will arrive in your hands. Do not be anxious, my love. I am in God’s care now.
Please kiss our sweet Rose for me and tell her I shall return to beat her at whist as soon as I can.
Yours forever,
Robert McGuire
Even through her tears, a slight giggle choked in Rose’s throat at her father’s last sentence. Like warm summer days, countless joyful memories passed across her mind of the hours she’d spent playing cards with her father in the sitting room of their home.
But those days were gone forever.
She folded the letter and pressed it to her breast. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she placed the faded letter within the Bible—the Bible she hadn’t read since her mother died. Then clinging to the holy book, she lay down on the floor and placed her head on her mother’s blanket.
Sometime later, in the midst of nightmares filled with cannon shots and British warships, she was awakened by the sound of her uncle’s voice—its comforting cadence nestled around her like a warm blanket and she drifted into peaceful sleep.
Forcing his leaden eyelids to remain open, Alex circled the quaint but rustic parlor one more time, if only to keep himself awake by invoking the pain in his thigh. He knew if he dared to sit on the sofa or one of the cushioned wooden chairs, he’d be done for and the slumber that beckoned him would win. With each turn of the room, however, his anger grew at Mr. Drummond’s complete indifference toward his family’s safety. During such harrowing times, and especially after warning bells had been sounded, the man of the house should be home standing firmly in defense of those he loved. His behavior was reprehensible! But what did Alex expect from a former thief and indentured servant? Alex would never tolerate such a lackadaisical attitude on board his ship. However, it angered him more that he could not order the man to step up to the task. In fact, as a servant, Alex possessed no power at all.
A first in his life.
A floorboard creaked beneath his boot. His spine stiffened. What was wrong with him? Egad, fatigue must be tying his nerves into knots. As his thoughts had done to his gut. All night long, he’d pondered what he should do if British raiders attacked the house. And he had come up with only one possible course of action—a course that frightened him to the core, for that course was spurred on by a pair of luminous turquoise eyes.
No, he could never allow harm to come to Miss McGuire.
He halted at the fireplace yet again and ran a hand through his hair, tearing strands from his queue. What kind of British officer was he? What sort of man could be swayed from loyalty to his own country by a lady who had nothing to recommend her but a plot of land and a bevy of farm animals?
He chuckled as he pictured Miss McGuire petting the chicken in her lap.
The clomp of horse’s hooves jolted Alex to attention. He cocked the musket and lifted the flap of the shutter to see Mr. Drummond’s horse enter the stable. Finally.
Minutes later the elderly man burst through the front door, a draft of wind spiced with rain swirling on his heels. Shrugging out of his coat, he ambled into the parlor. “Mr. Reed.” His gray eyebrows leaped. “What are you doing in the house at this hour?” He motioned toward the musket in Alex’s hand. “And with my Brown Bess.”
Alex cleared his throat to stifle his annoyance. “I am protecting your family, sir, as you ordered.”
Mr. Drummond approached Alex and handed him his coat. “Ah, yes, the warning bells. Very good, Mr. Reed. Very good indeed.”
Hot blood surged through Alex’s veins as he took the garment.
Mr. Drummond should be the one hanging up Alex’s coat, not the other way around. If the man knew he entertained the son of a wealthy viscount, he’d no doubt be buzzing around Alex, seeing to his every need.
Or would he?
Something in Mr. Drummond’s light brown eyes bespoke of a humility not easily impressed by rank and wealth.
“Have you seen my spectacles, Mr. Reed?” The old man patted his pockets. “It seems I have misplaced them again.” He stumbled over the edge of the rug then shook his head with a chortle.
“No sir.” Alex’s impatience rose at the man’s lubberly behavior.
Blowing out a ragged sigh, Mr. Drummond sank into one of the cushioned chairs beside the fireplace and spread his hands over his portly belly.
Tossing the coat onto the back of the settee, Alex circled the sofa, intending to chastise Mr. Drummond for his negligence of duty and family. But he halted when he saw red splotches marring the old man’s wrinkled hands. “Is that blood?” he asked.
Mr. Drummond gazed up at him, his tired eyes distant with sorrow. “Yes. But not mine. There was a bit o’ trouble down at Gorsuch’s Tavern tonight.”
Alex flinched. “The British?”
“I wish it had been. That enemy I know how to fight.” Mr. Drummond huffed then gestured toward the sofa. “If you intend to stay, have a seat, son. Your leg surely could use the rest.”
Son? Alex cringed at the man’s familiarity, yet the tender way in which he spoke the word filled Alex with an odd longing. Alex obliged him and lowered himself onto the soft cushions. Immediate relief swept through his tired legs.
“No, my enemy, Mr. Reed, is far more formidable than the British military.” Mr. Drummond took a brass-tipped poker and began stirring the lifeless coals in the fireplace.
Alex restrained an insolent chuckle. “Upon my honor, sir, what or who could be more formidable than the British?”
“The powers of darkness.” Mr. Drummond’s quick and solemn reply startled Alex. “The powers that lure a man to drink too much, to steal, to curse his fellow man, and even to kill.” He poked at the dark chunks of coal like a swordsman against an evil foe.
Alex snorted. Simple-minded Americans. “You speak of the devil, sir? But I doubt he exists.”
Intense brown eyes snapped his way, the candlelight reflecting an intelligence that surprised Alex. “He would love for you to believe that, Mr. Reed. But he exists, I assure you.” He turned back to the fireplace. “I have seen his work too often to deny it.”
Alex studied the man. Short and bulky of stature with a full head of rebellious gray hair, and a beard to match, he normally exuded a kind, benign demeanor. But tonight as he stared deep in thought at the dark fireplace, he seemed burdened by an enormous weight. Lines folded across a ruddy face that possessed a wide forehead and a stout nose. Perhaps there was more to this man than Alex had first assumed. “What happened tonight?” Alex leaned forward.
Mr. Drummond expelled a long sigh. “Too much drink, too much anxiety about the war, too many opposing sides.” His shoulders slumped. “Add to that mix those who have lost friends and family in recent battles. And before I could settle things, someone ended up with a knife in his gut.”
Alex’s chest constricted. “A friend of yours?”
“Aye, died in my arms.” Mr. Drummond stabbed a dark coal in the corner of the fireplace and flung it across the pit. “It fell to me to inform his widow.” His voice broke.
Alex shift
ed uncomfortably, uneasy at the man’s display of emotion. “Why you, Mr. Drummond? Why not allow family or friends to tell her? Surely your vocation doesn’t require you to perform such agonizing tasks?” At least Alex had not seen the vicars back home do much of anything save attend parties and put people to sleep with their Sunday sermons.
“Oh no, Mr. Reed, a man of God does everything he can to assist and bring comfort to those in need. We who follow in Christ’s footsteps are to be an extension of God’s love to everyone we come across.”
Alex stared into eyes misted with tears yet hard with purpose, and it struck him—the man truly believed what he said. Despite his ineloquent speech and reprehensible manners, wisdom and determination poured from him. Alex searched memories of his childhood for any moments of intimate conversation he and his father had shared, but all he found were visions of a stiff chin bordered in satin and lace and the cold sheen of pomposity that had covered his father’s dark eyes.
Then he remembered Mr. Drummond’s sordid past, and the man’s intentions became clear. “No doubt one must perform many acts of charity to atone for past sins.” Something Alex could well understand—exchanging charity and honor for the shameful acts of a rebellious youth. But instead of trying to live up to the impossible rules of a distant God, Alex sought to make restitution by becoming an honorable naval officer.
“Atone?” Mr. Drummond scratched his stiff gray beard and smiled. “All the good deeds in the world wouldn’t make up for what I’ve done. No, I do these things out of love for my Father in heaven.”
Father. Emotion clogged in Alex’s throat. God as Father? Absurd.
Uncomfortable with the direction of the discussion, Alex struggled to rise, leaning most of his weight on his good leg. “I cannot stay in your employ much longer, Mr. Drummond. I hope you will be able to procure a replacement soon.”
Mr. Drummond nodded, but Alex thought he saw a slight smile on the man’s lips. “I already have someone in mind, Mr. Reed.”
“Very good.” Alex said. “I’ll leave you to your rest.” Turning, he shuffled toward the door.
“Sleep well, son.” Mr. Drummond’s kind tone threatened to undo the tight bands Alex had formed over his heart.
For never had he heard those words from his own father’s lips.
CHAPTER 11
Standing in front of the house beside her aunt and Amelia, Rose pressed a hand over her churning stomach. The last thing she wanted to do today was take another trip into town. Especially with Mr. Reed escorting them. But she had promised her aunt on Sunday that she would visit Mrs. Pickersgill, and Rose could not go back on her word. Oh why had she made such a vow? What if someone recognized Mr. Reed? What if he came across some valuable military information to take back to his captain?
Rose squeezed her forehead as her thoughts spun a knot of fear and guilt—a knot she saw no way to untangle at the moment.
“For heaven’s sake. Where is Mr. Reed?” Aunt Muira clutched her medical satchel and shot a harried gaze toward the stable.
Rose glanced at Amelia. “I imagine he’s attempting to harness Douglas to the carriage.”
“But he’s been in there for over thirty minutes.” Aunt Muira bit her lip impatiently. “What sort of servant is he?”
Amelia giggled. “One who isn’t skilled with horse and equipage, I imagine.”
Aunt Muira cast the maid a curious gaze as Rose headed toward the stable to see if she could assist the poor man. She’d only taken two steps when Mr. Reed appeared, wearing Samuel’s used livery and plodding forward on his crutch as he led Douglas and the carriage out from the barn. His black coat and breeches—far too small for his large frame—strained across his chest and thighs, outlining his firm muscles beneath.
Rose averted her gaze and elbowed Amelia to do the same, but the insolent woman gaped at him unabashed.
“Ah, there you are, Mr. Reed.” Aunt Muira took Mr. Reed’s outstretched hand and climbed into the coach. “We thought you’d become lost.”
“Just familiarizing myself with your equipage, madam.” He turned a half-cocked smile to Rose and offered her his hand. But when she placed her still-trembling fingers into his firm ones, his look of playfulness faded into one of concern.
Snatching her hand away, she entered the carriage and sat beside her aunt as Amelia’s delicate hand lingered far too long on Mr. Reed’s before she joined them. Then leaping into the driver’s seat, Mr. Reed snapped the reins.
Per Mrs. Drummond’s directions, Alex pulled the coach to a stop before a small stone house on the corner of Pratt and Albemarle Streets. He was more than impressed by what he’d seen of the quaint little town on his way here. He’d expected to see nothing but dirt streets lined by dilapidated shops and open-air taverns inhabited by swine, both animal and human. Instead, he’d counted at least five churches, two theaters—albeit rustic theaters—several watchhouses, five inns, two libraries, three markets, two banks, and three newspaper printing offices.
Despite the war, the citizens of Baltimore scurried about their business on foot or in carriages or on horseback. Ladies and gentlemen strolled down the cobblestone streets in finery and frippery that could equal any to be seen among the haut ton sauntering down Bond Street—well, almost.
Alex leaped down from the driving seat, set down the step, opened the door, and held his hand out for the ladies. Though the demeaning status grated against his pride, he found being a servant an easy and innocuous occupation—a great respite from the responsibility and hard work of an officer in His Majesty’s Navy. He briefly wondered if Captain Milford was searching for him and Garrick or had he assumed them dead or worse—deserters. But what did it matter? The issue would be resolved as soon as Alex returned with his wound as evidence of his tale of being shot in a skirmish and then cared for by a rebel farmer until Alex could make his way back to the ship.
“Wait here,” Miss McGuire said. Leaping down, she waved a gloved hand toward him and lifted her pert nose in the air. In fact, since they had begun the journey, her attitude had transformed from a humble farm girl to a pretentious chit that reminded him of certain noble ladies he’d been acquainted with back home. Yet the act was so at odds with her true nature that it appeared more adorable than annoying.
“No, no.” The ostrich feathers atop Mrs. Drummond’s gold bonnet fluttered in the breeze. “Do come in, Mr. Reed. I would like you to meet Mrs. Pickersgill.”
Alex raised a victorious brow in Miss McGuire’s direction.
A maid answered the door and ushered them inside to a sitting room, where a short, elderly lady dressed in a plain gown rose from her seat. Gray hair sprang from beneath a white mob cap fringed in lace. She gave them a wide smile as she greeted them warmly. Finally her gaze landed on Alex.
“My, my, who do we have here?” Approaching him, she took his hands. Cold, boney, yet strong fingers gripped his.
Shocked by her familiarity, Alex stiffened.
“This is Mr. Reed, our new man of work,” Mrs. Drummond said, pride lifting her tone. “Mr. Reed, Mrs. Mary Pickersgill.”
“A pleasure, madam.” Alex nodded and kissed her hand.
Mrs. Pickersgill squealed with delight. “My goodness. I haven’t heard an accent so regal since I was a little girl in Philadelphia.”
Over the elderly lady’s shoulder, Alex saw Amelia exchange a fearful glance with Miss McGuire.
“It has been my family’s curse.” Mr. Reed gave a lopsided grin, to which the elderly lady released his hands and gestured toward a maid standing by the doorway. “Dorothy, please bring everyone some cocoa.”
Mrs. Drummond tugged off her gloves and took a seat on a cushioned oval-backed chair. “Mrs. Pickersgill is a flag maker, Mr. Reed.”
“Indeed?” But Alex could not take his eyes off Miss McGuire. Her simple walking dress of periwinkle blue brought out the sharp color of her eyes and made her skin glow. She untied the pink satin ribbon of her bonnet and drew it from her head, dislodging a few golden strands.
“She made the enormous flag that flies over Fort McHenry. Have you seen it?” Mrs. Drummond drew his gaze back to her.
Flag, indeed. Alex grumbled silently. These colonies had no need of their own flag for soon the Union Jack would proudly wave once again above their city squares. “I have not had the pleasure.”
Mrs. Pickersgill gestured for them to sit, but Alex remained standing.
“I must say I was quite surprised when Major Armistead, General Smith, and Commodore Barney came to call on me that day to commission the ensign.” She chuckled. “In their own words, they wanted ‘a flag so large that the British would have no difficulty seeing it from a distance’!”
Alex felt the muscles in his neck tighten as the maid brought in a service tray with china cups and a steaming pot of the sweet-smelling drink.
Miss McGuire speared him with a sharp gaze and nodded for him to leave. She tossed her reticule onto a floral-printed sofa, then took her seat beside Amelia. Mrs. Pickersgill slid onto a chair to their left.
The maid poured dark liquid into each cup then scurried from the room.
“I hope you don’t mind hot cocoa, ladies. I never did favor tea.” Mrs. Pickersgill handed each of them a cup and saucer.
“Not at all.” Amelia lifted the cup to her lips. “It is my favorite too.”
Mrs. Pickersgill frowned. “Hard to come by with the blockade. I fear my supply is nearly depleted.”
Again Alex felt a thread of guilt wind through him.
Surrender the Night Page 12