“Mr. Reed, the flag Mrs. Pickersgill sewed measures thirty feet by forty-two feet.” Mrs. Drummond boasted.
“Astonishing,” Alex remarked, trying to envision the enormous flag filling the room. “How did you accomplish it?”
“I had help, sir.” Mrs. Pickersgill opened a palm toward an empty seat in the corner, but Alex remained rooted in place. Why did these Americans insist on treating their servants as equals?
“My daughter, two nieces, and two servants assisted me, but we had to move the massive cloth to a warehouse nearby just to finish it.” She smiled. “I was happy to do it,” she waved a hand through the air. “It does present a fine ensign above the fort.”
Mrs. Drummond took a sip of hot cocoa. “Perhaps we will take you to see it later, Mr. Reed?”
“Surely a servant has no interest in flags or forts.” Miss McGuire shot into the conversation with the force of a cannon. Her cup clattered on the saucer she held, and she set both on the table. Opening the fan hanging on her wrist, she fluttered it about her face. “Perhaps you should check on the horse, Mr. Reed. We will be discussing things which could not possibly interest you.”
Mrs. Drummond’s eyebrows bent together, and she gave her niece a look of reprimand.
But Mrs. Pickersgill did not seem to notice. “Ah yes, the reason for your visit,” she added. “I am most anxious to discuss my idea for a new charity devoted to widowed ladies who have lost their husbands and cannot support themselves.”
Alex flinched. To find such generous kindness among these poor colonists. Astonishing. His family and most of his associates back in England possessed far more wealth than these people could ever imagine, yet Alex had not once witnessed such benevolence among them. “Most commendable, Mrs. Pickersgill,” he couldn’t help but say as he stretched his back against a shirt that seemed to shrink with each passing moment.
“God has blessed me with a skill to make flags, Mr. Reed. Passed down through my mother.” Mrs. Pickersgill’s expression grew somber as she glanced over the ladies. “But many women do not have the same opportunity to run their own businesses and provide for themselves.”
Mrs. Drummond nodded. “And Rose is most interested in helping you, my dear Mary.”
At this, Miss McGuire’s face brightened. “Yes, indeed I am, Mrs. Pickersgill.”
Alex felt his brow wrinkle. Though he sensed Miss McGuire possessed a kind heart, he had not supposed this frightened woman’s charity to extend beyond her family and those of her closest acquaintances—people with whom she felt safe. The revelation caused his thoughts to tangle in confusion. And he didn’t like being confused. Confusion caused bad decisions. Any emotion caused bad decisions. And one bad decision by a naval officer could cost lives. Distinct lines must be drawn between good and evil, enemy and friend, rebel and patriot. Excusing himself, Alex stepped outside and tested his leg. He must leave tonight. If he didn’t, he feared those distinct lines would forever be blurred in his mind, and then all would be lost.
Rose peered at Alex from beneath the brim of her bonnet as they made their way to the brick building behind her uncle’s church. He hobbled beside her with difficulty, the hot sun forming beads of sweat on his forehead. Forcing down her traitorous concern for him, she continued walking. She must make his day as a servant such an unbearable prick to his pride that he’d be desperate to return to his ship at nightfall. She must also keep him as far away from Fort McHenry as possible. Oh wouldn’t he just love to go see Mrs. Pickersgill’s flag. Along with the armament at the fort!
Halting, Rose shrugged out of her spencer and handed it to him. “Aunt Muira, Amelia, do give Mr. Reed your wraps. It is growing far too hot and will only be more oppressive in Uncle’s sickroom.” She smiled at Mr. Reed as the two ladies complied.
Once they had gone, Mr. Reed’s brows arched. “And what am I to do with these, miss?”
“Why, put them in the coach, Mr. Reed.” She forced an air of pretension that did not settle well in her stomach. “Or you may carry them until we have need of them again. It matters not to me.”
He narrowed his gaze and headed back toward the carriage, wrestling out of his own thick black coat.
“No, no, no, Mr. Reed.” Rose called after him. “A footman must always be dressed with the utmost of propriety.”
He groaned, and Rose followed her aunt and Amelia into the makeshift hospital before she could make out his curt reply.
Once they stepped inside the dark room, however, all thoughts of annoying Mr. Reed into leaving vanished as the smell of sickness and despair slapped Rose in the face. Shabby cots lined either side of the long narrow room. Lanterns, bloody cloths, mugs, and Bibles covered small side tables wedged between the beds. Two tiny windows perched above allowed barely a breeze and a modicum of sunlight to pass into the dank room. In the distance, Uncle Forbes hovered over one of the beds.
Aunt Muira had already pulled up a chair before the first cot on the left and began to dab a cloth over the man’s forehead. Amelia leaned against the side wall, covering her nose. It had been months since Rose had joined her aunt on her weekly visits to this place. Why had she stayed away so long? A wave of guilt swept over her, but she shrugged it off and took a step forward. She was here now. Clutching Amelia’s arm, she dragged her down the aisle, promising herself that she would do her best to never again allow fear to keep her from helping others.
Alex stared as Mr. Drummond, two Negro men, and the three women flitted about from cot to cot, caring for the sick. Though sweat streamed down his back and the stench stung his nose, he allowed no complaints to form in his mind in light of the scene of tragedy and despair before him. No doubt Miss McGuire was as hot and uncomfortable as he was, yet she offered caring smiles and gentle ministrations to each patient she visited. Alex tried to picture any of the ladies of his acquaintance back home doing the same, but the vision would not form in his mind. In fact, most of them would not come within a mile of such sickness and misery.
Mr. Drummond greeted his wife with a kiss and then made his way down the aisle. His gaze met Alex’s and he slipped beside him.
“Who are these people?” Alex asked.
“These are the outcasts of society, you might say,” Mr. Drummond replied with a sigh. “When the main hospital is full, they send those who cannot pay and those who suffer from prolonged drunkenness or who have been injured in tavern brawls to me. Some simply need to sleep off last night’s drink and have nowhere else to go. Others need a bit o’ loving care and that my wife kindly supplies. While others need the kind of care only God can give.”
Alex bristled at the mention of God’s care for he had never experienced it in his life, and he wasn’t all together sure God was around enough to care for anyone. “What of those who need a doctor’s care?”
“A charitable physician from the hospital visits once a week, but in the meantime, my lovely wife does what she can.”
Alex watched as Miss McGuire unfolded a letter and began reading it to one of the men. “Does Miss McGuire assist here often?”
“Not as much as she’d like, I’m sure.” Mr. Drummond folded his arms across his portly belly and lowered his voice. “She has suffered greatly in her young life. I’ve never seen a heart so pure and kind, but fear has kept her home. It’s the only place she feels safe anymore.”
Alex tried to rub the tightness from his jaw. Mr. Garrick’s attack certainly hadn’t helped her in that regard. “She still suffers from her father’s death?”
“Aye, but it is more than that.” Mr. Drummond’s brow wrinkled for a moment before the gleam returned to his eye. “But she has shown improvement lately, and we hope she’ll be able to join my wife on her visits here more often and also when Mrs. Drummond travels to Washington.”
“Washington?”
“Aye, my wife assists at an orphanage there, but Rose refuses to travel that far from home.”
Alex’s gaze followed Miss McGuire around the room, wondering what further tragedies had
struck the lady. A hollow ache formed in his gut at the thought of anyone doing her harm.
“Your presence seems to have done her good, Mr. Reed.” Mr. Drummond used the end of his stained cravat to wipe the perspiration from his face.
“Me?” Alex stifled a laugh. “I fear you are mistaken, Mr. Drummond.”
“Am I?” He scratched his beard, and once again Alex saw a deep, lingering intelligence behind his brown eyes. “I knew it would take someone very special to bring joy again to the lass. Someone we would least expect.” He winked at Alex as if they shared a grand secret—as if he knew Alex was British. But how could he?
Besides, joy was the last thing Alex brought Miss McGuire. No point in bringing the error to Mr. Drummond’s attention since Alex would be gone soon. “I trust you have been searching for someone to replace me as your man of work, sir?”
Mr. Drummond frowned and patted his waistcoat as if searching for something. “As best I can, Mr. Reed. Meager pickings here in town.”
“Regardless, I fear I’ll have to be go—”
“Well, I best be getting back to my work.” Mr. Drummond slapped his hands together, interrupting Alex. With a nod, he sped off to join his wife.
Alex shook his head and watched as the two of them along with Miss McGuire continued to wander among the cots, holding hands, praying, and conversing with the patients. They received no pay for their trouble, no reward, no public honor—all the things Alex fought so hard to acquire. Things that suddenly seemed as useless as the dust beneath his boots.
Those distinct lines he fought so hard to keep firmly in his mind began to blur even more.
Two hours later, Alex walked behind Amelia and Miss McGuire down Baltimore Street on their way to purchase some fabric for a new dress. He wondered what his father the viscount would say if he could see his son dressed in an ill-fitting footman’s livery strolling through a rebel town, ducking into shops filled with ladies’ garments and feminine fripperies.
No doubt he’d say what he’d always said.
You’ll never amount to anything, boy. Why can’t you be more like your brother?
Alex sighed. Perhaps the man was right all along, for if Alex truly admitted it to himself, he was enjoying his time with these humble rebels and dreaded returning to his ship.
Doffing his hat, he dabbed the sweat from his forehead and allowed the breeze blowing in from the bay to thread cool fingers through his hair. The clip-clop of horses’ hooves, the grate of carriage wheels, and the chatter of citizens filled the air. Bells rang from the harbor, and somewhere in the distance, a peddler hawked his wares. Pressing forward, Mr. Reed offered his arm to Miss McGuire.
“A footman walks behind his mistress, Mr. Reed, not with her.” She snapped at him keeping her eyes straight ahead.
He gave her a crooked smile and drifted back a few steps. “As you wish, miss.” He knew he should be angry at her for her condescending treatment, but her ill-fitting cloak of pomposity only endeared her to him more.
They crossed over a wooden bridge, making way for a horse and rider to their left. Beneath them the Jones Falls River slapped its banks and tumbled over rocks as it dashed toward the bay.
As they proceeded, Alex studied the homes that lined the cobblestone street. Square, two-story structures stood back from road with beautiful gardens stretching before them to the street. The sweet fragrance of roses, pinks, sweet williams, larkspurs, and hollyhocks filled the air. Most of the homes boasted a smokehouse off to the side or peeking out from the rear, where no doubt the family cured its bacon and baked biscuits and other varieties of bread and cake. Though nothing like the stately homes in Cranleigh, Alex found the dwellings quite charming—in a rustic sort of way.
He scanned the faces of those they passed. Aside from the occasional grimy slave, tattered beggar, or common worker, most of Baltimore’s citizens appeared well groomed and fashionable. Not a few men turned to smile or tip their hats at the ladies.
Miss McGuire ignored them entirely, but Amelia seemed to thrive upon the attention as she pinched her cheeks and returned each greeting with a coquettish smile or a wave of her fan. More than one gentleman seemed intent on answering her call—that was until they saw Alex following close behind.
Farther down the street, Alex became enamored with the signs hanging in front of the shops. Instead of words describing what wares could be found within, pictures and symbols told the passersby what type of shop it was. Alex had never seen anything like it. Were all Americans so unlettered? He passed beneath a sign etched with the picture of a golden fan and umbrella. He peeked in the window to see an assortment of fancy haberdashery. An engraved sundial hung above the watchmaker. The importer of Irish linens depicted his goods with a painting of a spinning wheel, though the store appeared empty when Alex peered within.
A ship’s bell drew his gaze toward the east where, in between warehouses and shops, a crowd of bare masts jutted into the afternoon sky, swaying with the gentle movement of the bay. He wondered if any of them belonged to the notorious Baltimore Clipper he’d heard so much about—those swift ships that continually harassed British merchants. He thought to ask Miss McGuire, but knew she’d only accuse him of spying. Instead, Alex drew in a deep breath of the salty air but, oddly, found no longing within him to return to the sea.
After a brief stop at the drapers where, much to Amelia’s dismay, she did not find her desired fabric, they turned down Calvert Street to visit, as Miss McGuire informed him, the best millinery in town.
Aside from the aching wound in his thigh and the heat of the day, Alex enjoyed this brief foray into civilization. Having spent months out to sea, any city, even one as primitive as this one, reminded him that life was more than wind and weather, grapeshot and broadsides.
Amelia dashed inside Brekham’s Millinery before Alex reached the front of the shop and stopped beneath a sign painted with a large purple hat.
“Stay here, Mr. Reed, if you please.” Miss McGuire thrust out her chin and turned to follow her companion.
Alex grabbed her arm, turning her to face him. “I know what you’re doing, miss.”
Holding her bonnet against a hefty breeze, she tugged from his grasp. “And what is that, Mr. Reed?”
“Trying to humiliate me into leaving.” He brushed dust from his coat. “I promised I would return to my ship, and I am a man of my word.” He offered her a look of appeasement. “So why don’t we spend our brief time together being polite instead of impertinent?”
She seemed to be pondering his suggestion when Amelia burst from the shop.
“There are no hats,” the woman grumbled as the bell hanging from the shop’s door clanged her disapproval before shutting. Tipping the edge of her bonnet against the sun’s bright rays, she gazed down the street. “There is no silk, no satin, no velvet, nothing with which to make an appropriate gown.” Her lips drew into a pout. “I tire of this war.”
“Amelia.” Miss McGuire looped her arm through her friend’s. “There also is a shortage of food and medicines, things which are far more important than such fripperies.”
Alex grimaced beneath another wave of empathy. What the deuces was happening to him? These Americans deserved discomfort and much worse for their rebellion against England.
“I know.” Amelia shrugged. “I know I am spoiled, and I shouldn’t say such things. It’s just that I heard there will be a ball at the Fountain Inn next week, and I was so hoping to go. I know it won’t be like the balls we had before the blockade, but at least we can forget the horrors of war for one night and enjoy the company of the good citizens of Baltimore.” Her eyes lit up. “Besides, I think Mr. Braxton intends to ask your uncle if he can escort me.”
Miss McGuire smiled, but her eyes were riveted to something in the distance. “Look, there are Marianne and Cassandra.”
Alex followed her gaze to a crowd of people across the cobblestone street. A tall muscular man in gray trousers with a double-breasted black waistcoat stood beside a
woman in a stylish pink gown. Alex’s heart froze.
Noah Brenin.
He’d know that bronzed face and light hair anywhere. He squinted against the sun at the two men who stood by his side. Neither could he mistake the coal-black hair of the one and the brawny frame of the other, nor the smiling face of the lad standing beside his father. Luke Heaton and Blackthorn along with his son, Daniel. All of them had been impressed aboard the HMS Undefeatable two years ago—dragged aboard as slaves to the British Crown.
Surely they would recognize Alex as easily as he had recognized them.
“Marianne!” Miss McGuire shouted as she made her way across the street, Amelia on her heels.
Alex turned his face away and scanned the street. People strolled down the avenue, weaving among carriages and horses. He could escape into the crowd, make his way back to the farm to get his uniform, and head to his ship directly.
But that would leave Miss McGuire and Amelia unescorted.
Clenching his fists, he glanced behind him at the millinery shop just as a feminine voice shouted “Rose!” from across the street.
CHAPTER 12
Grabbing Amelia, Rose darted in between a stream of carriages and made her way to her friends. But instead of the expected smiles and greetings tossed her way; all of them, with the exception of Daniel, stared curiously at the spot she had just vacated.
Glancing over her shoulder, she saw nothing unusual to draw their attention, although she did wonder where Mr. Reed had run off to. Scanning the street, she was about to ask Amelia when Noah spoke up. “I could have sworn I saw Lieutenant Reed.”
Mr. Heaton flipped the hair from his face, his dark brows furrowed. “Indeed.”
“Impossible, gentlemen.” Marianne’s skeptical tone belied her words as she turned to Rose with a smile. “What a pleasure to see you in town.”
“Mr. Reed?” Rose shook her head. Surely she heard the name incorrectly.
“Aye, Mr. Alexander Reed of the HMS Undefeatable,” Daniel, whose voice had deepened considerably since Rose had last seen him, announced with a hint of pride.
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