Surrender the Night

by Marylu Tyndall

  “Rose, dear.” Her aunt repeated as she sat on one side of the mattress. “I know you’re under there.”

  “I don’t feel well.” Rose squeaked out, her nose curling at her own sour breath.

  The quilt slipped from her face, and Rose squeezed her eyes against the bright light.

  She felt her aunt’s hand on her face, her neck. “You’ve been in bed for two days now, dear.” She sighed. “You have no fever, and I can find nothing at all wrong with you.”

  Rose opened her eyes and blinked at the fuzzy image until her aunt’s comely visage came into focus. Nothing wrong with her? If only her aunt knew. Rose had the worst kind of sickness. One that would never heal.

  Aunt Muira brushed tangled curls from Rose’s face. “Tell me what is bothering you, dear.” A ray of sunlight caught one of her pearl earrings and set it aglow.

  Rose swallowed. Her mouth felt as though it were stuffed with hay. “May I sleep a bit more, Aunt Muira? I’m so tired.”

  Her aunt’s lips tightened into a thin line, and she sprang from the bed. “Absolutely not. I insist you join us for breakfast. You didn’t eat all day yesterday.” She swung around and the folds of her lilac gown swirled in the air making a swooshing sound. Gathering undergarments from Rose’s dresser and a gown of lavender muslin from her armoire, she laid them across the foot of the bed. “Some food and fresh air will do you good.” She planted her hands on her hips. “Perhaps then you will tell me what ails you.” She gave Rose a sweet but determined smile before she swept from the room and closed the door behind her.

  With a groan, Rose sat and punched her mattress, sending a spray of dust sparkling in the sunlight. Dizziness threatened to send her back onto her pillow. She drew a deep breath and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She had no choice. Sooner or later she had to get up and face life, no matter how empty her future seemed. Today was as good as any.

  Minutes later, she entered the kitchen to find Amelia, her aunt, and Cora sitting around a table laden with platters of biscuits, fresh jam, eggs, and blocks of yellow cheese. A plethora of fragrant smells—butter, sweet cream, spice, and coffee—sent Rose’s stomach lurching. Sounding like one of Rose’s chickens, Amelia babbled excitedly about the ball in three days at the Fountain Inn. Apparently, Mr. Braxton had finally asked Uncle Forbes if he could escort Amelia.

  “There you are, dear.” Aunt Muira said.

  Amelia’s eyebrows slanted together. “You look horrible, Rose.”

  Rose slid into the wooden seat beside her aunt as Cora poured her a cup of coffee.

  “You shouldn’t be sayin’ such things, Miss Amelia. Your mistress’s been ill.” Cora set the tin pot down in the center of the table and moved to the open fireplace.

  “She’s not ill, Cora. Rose’s just upset about …”

  Rose’s glare halted her maid in midsentence. Not only did she not want Cora and her aunt to know what had happened, she didn’t want to hear his name out loud. Not yet.

  “Thank you, Amelia, for caring for my animals while I was indisposed.” Rose attempted to change the topic of conversation.

  It didn’t work.

  “Upset about what?” Aunt Muira took a delicate bite of toast smothered in strawberry jam.

  Taking the silver tongs, Rose plopped a cube of sugar into her coffee. Then another.

  Aunt Muira’s hand stopped her from plucking yet another one from the china bowl. “Careful, dear. Those are all we have until the war ends.”

  Setting down the tongs, Rose stirred her coffee and took a sip, hoping the savory liquid wouldn’t rebel in her stomach. The rich flavor that reminded Rose of cocoa eased down her throat and helped settle her nerves. But it needed more sugar.

  Cora returned from the fireplace and placed two pieces of toast before Rose.

  “Thank you, Cora, but I fear I’m unable to eat anything.”

  “Of course you are, dear.” Aunt Muira leaned over and spread butter and jam over Rose’s toast before shoving the plate closer to her. “Now, do tell us what has you so distraught. I’ve never seen you keep to your bed for two days. Not since …”

  Her voice trailed off, but Rose knew what she intended to say. Not since Rose had turned up on their doorstep starving and beaten five years ago.

  Cora circled the table and laid one hand on her hip. “If you ask me, I’d say it has somethin’ to do with Mr. Reed leavin’.”

  His name shot like an arrow through the room and pierced straight into Rose’s heart.

  “Wherever did he run off to, Rose?” Aunt Muira dabbed her napkin over her lips. “Forbes won’t say a word except that Mr. Reed has gone back to join the war.”

  Amelia shared a quizzical glance with Rose.

  Rose took another sip of coffee and warmed her hands around the cup. But her vision blurred with tears.

  Cora tugged at her red scarf. Amelia set down the piece of cheese she’d been nibbling on. Aunt Muira’s gaze flitted from Cora, to Amelia, to Rose. She placed a hand on Rose’s back. “Oh dear, tell me your affections did not lean toward Mr. Reed.”

  The china cup cradled in Rose’s trembling hands clattered on the saucer.

  “Oh my.” Aunt Muira laid a hand on her heart. “How could I have missed it? You poor dear. And now he’s gone.”

  “I knows just how you feel, child.” Cora sank into a chair and shook her head. “I felt like my heart would never recover after my Samuel left.”

  Amelia gave the cook a tender look. “Why did you allow him to leave?”

  “I didn’t let ‘im go. He took off hisself.”

  “He left because you scolded him to death.” Amelia offered.

  “Now, now, Amelia, that isn’t kind.” Aunt Muira said.

  “No, she’s right.” Cora sighed. “I didn’t mean to. Just mad at the world, I guess.” She fingered a folded white napkin. “If I had to do it all over again, I’d never let him go. I sees now it was my unforgiveness that drove him away.”

  Aunt Muira stretched her hand across the table to the cook. Cora gripped it briefly then released it as if she was uncomfortable with the display of affection from her mistress.

  Amelia frowned. “But you weren’t unforgiving of anything Samuel had done. How can that drive anyone away?”

  Cora tossed down the napkin and stood. “Bitterness made me too afraid to love—to risk losin’ that love.” She gazed out the window. “An’ now he’s gone.”

  Unforgiveness and fear, yet again. Two topics that kept flashing across Rose’s path like garish actors across a stage. Pushing out her chair, she stood, skirted the table and kissed Cora on her cheek. Cora’s big brown eyes met Rose’s, and she saw the brokenness in their depths.

  “Must every woman in this house fall in love with our servants?” Aunt Muira’s exasperated voice scattered the gloomy spirit that had descended upon the kitchen.

  “Not me!” Amelia waved her hand through the air, sending her raven curls bouncing. “I intend to marry a man of fortune.”

  “Speaking of eligible men, Rose.” Aunt Muira sipped her tea and set the cup down with a clank. She gave Rose one of those motherly smiles that said she knew what was best for Rose even if Rose did not. “I’ve invited Mr. Snyder to supper tonight. Perhaps he can pull you out of your dour mood and make you forget all about Mr. Reed.”

  A nauseous brew of disgust and agony churned in Rose’s stomach, threatening to erupt with fury on the odious snake of a man sitting across from her. Maybe then he would leave and stop smiling at her with that salacious grin of victory. Dinner had been unbearable, but now sitting in the stuffy parlor with him might prove to be her undoing. At least she was not alone. Amelia sat next to her on the settee, sipping her tea, while Rose’s aunt and uncle sat side by side on the sofa. Mr. Snyder occupied the high-backed chair and pretended to listen to her uncle’s discourse on the war.

  “I hear word of British ship movements along the coast of the upper Chesapeake,” her uncle was saying.

  Mr. Snyder set his cup
on the table and adjusted his silk cravat. “No doubt more idle threats intending to frighten us into submission.” Candlelight reflected devilish flames in Mr. Snyder’s eyes.

  “I beg to differ with you, Mr. Snyder,” her uncle said in a tone that lacked its normal solicitude. In fact, her uncle had seemed unusually ill at ease during their evening meal, making curt remarks toward their guest and offering up a chorus of groans and sighs, mimicking the silent ones grinding through Rose.

  Aunt Muira had attempted to make up for his behavior by engaging Mr. Snyder in a discussion of the city militia’s readiness to fight and the council’s recent decision to keep pigs from running rampant through the city streets.

  Which gave Mr. Snyder the center stage he so often sought and relished in. But which had further squelched Rose’s appetite for the broiled cod, potatoes, and fresh greens that stared up at her from her plate, uneaten.

  “Our lookouts have spotted a new British fleet, commanded, some say, by Sir Alexander Cochrane,” Uncle Forbes continued. “A formidable force of four ships of the line, twenty frigates and sloops, and twenty troop transports.” He stretched his shoulders and leaned back on the sofa. “Since the British have already successfully blockaded the Chesapeake, it worries me.”

  “Yes.” Rose’s aunt folded her hands in her lap and swept green eyes filled with concern over them all. “It would seem the defeat of Napoleon in France has emboldened the British to pursue victory here as soon as possible.”

  For the first time since she’d met her, Rose detected a slight glimmer of fear cross her aunt’s eyes. Which only set Rose’s own nerves further on edge.

  Uncle Forbes laid a hand atop his wife’s. “Never fear, dearest. God is in control. We must continue to pray for our victory.”

  “Pray, humph.” Mr. Snyder dabbed his fingers over his tongue then slicked back the red hair on either side of his temples. A vision of the slithering tongue of a snake formed in Rose’s mind.

  “We must act. We must take up arms and force these devilish British off our shores.” He speared Rose with a devious, determined gaze. She knew he spoke of Alex. She averted her eyes to the open window where thick darkness seemed to pour into the room from outside like black molasses. Not even a wisp of a breeze entered behind it to relieve the dank, oppressive air that always seemed to hover around Mr. Snyder.

  “All this talk of war.” Amelia pouted. “Can we talk of brighter things, perhaps?” She scooted to the edge of her seat. “Like the ball at the Fountain Inn?”

  “Is that all you think about, Amelia?” Rose instantly regretted her tone as her maid swallowed and stared down at the hands in her lap.

  “Forgive me.” Rose set down her cup and grasped Amelia’s hand. “I fear I am not myself lately.”

  “As much as I love a good soiree”—Uncle Forbes fingered a stain on his cravat—“shouldn’t we be preparing for a possible invasion instead of dancing the night away?”

  “It is good for morale, dearest.” Candlelight shimmered over Aunt Muira’s burgundy-colored hair, streaking it crimson. “The citizens of Baltimore need to escape the constant threat of attack, if only for one night.”

  If only Rose could escape the constant threat of the man sitting across from her. She flattened her lips and found Uncle Forbes’s tender gaze still on her. Did her uncle know of the councilman’s insidious plan? But how could he? Rose had thought it best to keep the man’s threats from her family. There was no need to cause alarm over something that could not be changed.

  As if Mr. Snyder’s presence wasn’t disconcerting enough, her uncle’s odd behavior only increased the turmoil clawing at her insides. Plucking out her fan, she waved it over her heated skin.

  “By the by, speaking of the Fountain Inn.” Mr. Snyder’s nasally voice shot through the room like a quiver of arrows. Rose resisted the urge to duck to avoid being pierced by one.

  “If I may, Miss McGuire, it would be my honor to escort you to the ball.”

  She should have ducked.

  Her stomach gurgled and a sour taste rose to her mouth. Why was he putting on such airs? He knew she could not refuse him. She could refuse him nothing as long as he threatened her family. Yet … she bit her lip. Perhaps he would release her from the obligation of attending this silly ball. She pasted on a smile. “You are too kind, Mr. Snyder, but I have not been well lately and wish to remain home.”

  “Indeed? But it is three days away. Surely you will regain your strength by then.” One cultured brow rose above eyes that hardened at her denial.

  “Rose, dear.” Aunt Muira patted her hair in place. “A night of fun and dancing will do you good. And I can think of no better escort than Mr. Snyder.”

  Uncle Forbes coughed and slammed down his teacup.

  “Do say yes, Rose.” Amelia jumped in her seat, bouncing Rose on the settee. “Think of the fun we could have together.”

  Rose smiled at her maid, urging her with her eyes to remain silent and wishing she had confided in Amelia about what Mr. Snyder had done. But Rose had hardly been able to think about his threats, let alone speak them out loud.

  “Yes, I insist.” Mr. Snyder’s tone held no room for argument.

  She directed a chilled gaze his way. Was there no end to the man’s petitions? Wasn’t it bad enough that he had threatened her family? That he now forced her to marry him? Despondency tugged her shoulders down as she envisioned a future consisting of Mr. Snyder’s iron rods of demands erected one by one around her until she was a prisoner to his every whim.

  Her foot twitched. She wanted to kick him. She wanted to toss her hot tea in his face. Instead she smiled sweetly. “A gentleman never insists, sir.”

  “More tea?” Aunt Muira took the china pot and poured more of the amber liquid into Mr. Snyder’s cup in an effort, Rose assumed, to alleviate the tension rising in the room.

  He thanked her aunt with a tight smile.

  “With Mr. Reed gone, who else will ask you?” Amelia gripped Rose’s hands.

  Rose glared at her maid.

  “Aye, perhaps you should go, Rose.” Uncle Forbes folded his hands over his rounded belly. “I am of the opinion that you’ll be glad you did.”

  Rose swept a confused gaze toward him as perspiration formed on her neck. Her uncle had always seemed unimpressed by Mr. Snyder and had never encouraged a courtship between them. Was he now against Rose as well? Was everyone against her?

  “It’s settled then.” The snake set down his cup. The clank echoed Rose’s doom through the parlor. He stood and brushed invisible dust from the sleeves of his coat. “The hour is late. I shall relieve you of my company.”

  Relieve, indeed. Rose smiled.

  An uncharacteristic alarm rolled across her uncle’s face. “So soon, Mr. Snyder? Why you’ve barely been here a few hours.”

  Rose clenched her jaw. Please let him go, Uncle.

  “Indeed, but I have some urgent business which requires my attention.” Mr. Snyder bowed. “I thank you for the lovely supper, Mrs. Drummond, Mr. Drummond. Mrs. Wilkins, always a pleasure.” He turned to Rose. “Would you do me the honor of seeing me out, Miss McGuire? I wish to speak to you.”

  Uncle Forbes struggled to his feet with a groan. “Are you sure I cannot interest you in some pudding?” He glanced toward the kitchen. “Cora!”

  “Dearest, what is wrong with you?” Aunt Muira rose and took her husband’s arm. “We have no pudding prepared, and Cora has retired.”

  Mr. Snyder’s nose wrinkled. “I am quite all right, I assure you. Perhaps some other time.”

  Yes, like when the oceans turn to mud. Rose followed him into the foyer.

  “Perhaps a sip of brandy then?” Uncle Forbes asked.

  “No, thank you, sir.” Mr. Snyder turned toward Rose and gestured toward the door. “Shall we?”

  “I really shouldn’t go outside in the night air.” She feigned a cough.

  “Nonsense, dear, it’s only a few steps,” Aunt Muira scolded. “We’ll keep the door open for
propriety.” She nudged Rose forward.

  Retrieving his hat and cane from the coatrack, Mr. Snyder turned toward her uncle. “You really should hire another footman, sir.”

  “I have every intention of doing so.” There was no mistaking the aversion in her uncle’s voice. Then why did he suggest she accompany Mr. Snyder to the ball?

  Aunt Muira opened the door, and Mr. Snyder proffered his arm toward Rose. Ignoring him, she stepped onto the porch and swatted at a bug hovering around the lantern atop a post.

  She wished she could swat Mr. Snyder away as easily. Instead she followed him down the path, feeling as though it was her heart crunching beneath his shoes instead of the gravel.

  Halting at his horse, he leaned toward her. “You shouldn’t treat your future husband with such contempt. It may cause suspicion, my dear.”

  “What do you expect, Mr. Snyder?”

  “I expect you to comport yourself as a lady.”

  The smell of the bergamot he splashed on his hair threatened to choke her. Withdrawing a handkerchief from her sleeve she pressed it over her moist neck and gazed above. A dark cloud drifted over the sliver of a moon, stealing away its light. Just as Mr. Snyder had drifted into her life, stealing away her future. Why God? Rose lifted up her first prayer since Alex had left. Even now her anger forbade her to pray more.

  Mr. Snyder untied the reins and faced her, sorrow clouding his features. “I hate to be so disagreeable, but you force my hand. You must attend the ball with me—to show our friends and family our devoted attachment before our engagement is announced.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  His eyes hardened, but the sorrow remained. “I think we both know what will happen.”

  Rose sighed. “But if you expose my association with Mr. Reed and send me and my family to prison, then you will never marry me or get your hands on my property. Why risk it for a silly ball?”

  He gazed at her as if for the first time he realized she actually possessed a mind underneath her golden tresses. “Indeed. Why risk it for a silly ball, Miss McGuire?” He tugged on his riding gloves then slid his cane though a loop on his saddle.