Love’s Betrayal

by DiAnn Mills

  “I was so distracted that I’m not sure how I defeated your father,” Henry said softly.

  She avoided his stare while a blundering loss for words added to her discomfort. Finally she spoke. “He rarely loses. You must be well versed in the game.”

  “Delight.” His voice soft, laced with warmth and a spark of tenderness, sent chills to her toes.

  Startled by the change he evoked in her, she lifted her gaze to meet his. Unable to speak, she listened to her heart pound furiously against her bosom.

  “Could we converse outside? I know the evening’s a bit cool, but if you don’t mind—”

  “The night is pleasant, but I shall take a shawl nevertheless.”

  Henry reached for his crutch just when she sought to hand it to him. Their fingers touched, and she hastily pulled back as though she had been burned. Perhaps she had.

  They stepped into the chilly night air, and he closed the door. The creaking hinges and the singing insects sounded soothing in a strange way. Delight swallowed hard. Help me, Lord, for I know not how to act or what to say. The realization that Henry might no longer be her enemy both excited and alarmed her. The unknown, that is what she feared.

  “A stroll would be pleasant,” she said. Placing one foot in front of the other gave her something to do. Without movement, she would most assuredly dissolve into a pool of emotions she did not comprehend. Her anticipation closely resembled the cherished moments when her younger sisters accepted the Lord as their personal Savior, although nothing could compare to knowing a loved one embraced the Lord.

  Bear joined them, loping along on the other side of Henry. She wished the dog had elected to separate them. At least she could have afforded herself some comfort with the animal between them.

  “God has been speaking to me,” Henry said. “I confess I may have made a tragic error.”

  “In what way?” If her heart beat any fiercer, it would surely burst.

  “With the aspirations of this country, especially with the patriots’ cause.”

  “Are you certain you want to be telling me rather than my father?”

  “I believe he already has assessed my heart.”

  “Then, pray tell, what has God spoken to you?”

  He clasped one hand behind his back and took a few more awkward steps before speaking. “Ye know my homeland in Ireland is poor. There is no hope for a man in me low estate to better himself or own land. Although me father has an honorable trade, he has never made enough to take care for all our needs. Always the taxes. Always the hard work.”

  Henry took a deep breath. “Here in America, I see a man’s fondest dream of securing a bright future—hope of owning a prosperous business and feeling pride in his endeavors. I mistakenly believed the British had a right to make monetary demands— or any other mandate—on their colonies. But when I reflected upon me home, the poor drafted into the army, how one is born into a permanent station in life, I grew furious at the unfairness of it all. Here in America, I sense victory over oppression regardless of heritage.”

  Undoubtedly an answer to prayer, Delight silently acknowledged. She looked up at him and said, “Your words are true. Those are the things for which we strive.”

  “But I grew angry with me treacherous thoughts about Britain and wondered if me conclusions were simply unfaithful to the king. Indeed this poor man who hungered for liberty …” He paused. “Am I making sense, or am I rambling on?”

  Still trembling, she admitted, “I understand you perfectly.”

  “The problem has been me friend Adam, who was killed just before I received my injury. I wanted the patriots to pay for his death, and I sincerely felt me sympathy for your cause meant he died in vain.”

  Delight sensed the grief he bore. It troubled her spirit, touching her heart as though God wanted her to feel Henry’s intense pain. “I am so sorry. I’ve been guilty of thinking the British were all animals—hating them with no more provocation than seeing the uniform on their backs.”

  “And I’ve sinned with the same beliefs about patriots, but me mind has conformed to what I now believe is God’s choice for me life.”

  She stopped in the middle of the road. “And how did this happen?”

  “Sweet Remember acted as God’s messenger, an angel in her own right.” She heard the smile in his voice. “The first day I hobbled out to the maple tree, she asked if I wanted to read. She brought me a Bible and a curious pamphlet by the title of Common Sense.”

  Delight giggled and covered her mouth. “Oh, my. How very much like me.”

  He joined in her laughter. “I thought she had brought me a novel, something in which to lose my worries. I began reading, and time slipped by. Everything I have ever secretly felt or desired was written within those pages, as though the diary of my longings had taken form.”

  “And did you struggle with what Mr. Paine recommended?” She considered how she would feel if a dear friend had fallen prey beside her and the enemies’ beliefs had suddenly become her own.

  In the darkness, she saw him nod. “Aye, and I still do, but God, in His mercy, has shown me that liberty and freedom are due all men. I sorely miss Adam, but he is in a better place where freedom is not a question that bleeds a man’s soul. No longer are ye rebels in my eyes, but patriots worthy of God’s blessings.”

  Delight’s eyes moistened and a single tear trickled down her cheek as her throat constricted with the overwhelming stirrings in her heart. “Papa and I have prayed for this, but I’ve not been a good example of our Lord. I gloried in your pain and hated you for what you represented.”

  “Neither have I pleased Him, urging ye to quarrel with me.”

  She hesitated. Lord, I know not what Thee intends in Thy great plan. “What shall we do now?”

  “Friendship, perhaps?”

  “I would like a good friend.”

  “This is splendid, and I hope our days of bickering are finished. I promise to do me utmost to prove it so.” His words were punctuated with sincerity.

  “And I as well, although I shall miss our debates.” She laughed, and he joined her.

  “I met a neighbor in your absence, Mistress Rutherford.”

  Delight could not think of one compliment regarding the woman. “She’s … she is an unusual woman.”

  “She enjoyed my company until she discovered me reading Mr. Paine’s pamphlet.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Well, lass, she was familiar with his writings and less than pleased with me.”

  Remembering Abby Rutherford’s surly disposition, Delight imagined the woman’s response. “Neither are we among her favorite people.”

  “I know with a certainty that if I ever desire a heated argument, I need only to knock on her door.”

  Again they shared a laugh, and it shattered the wall of past tensions between them. They walked farther, Henry limping along and Delight keeping pace beside him. Her thoughts raced with so many notions about this man. What would he do once his leg healed? And what of this new … friendship?

  Logic gave her no peace. For once Henry’s leg mended, he would be gone, but where?

  Although the night had a crisp edge to it, Henry felt uncomfortably warm. He wanted to tell Delight first of his revelation, but now that he had, he didn’t know what to expect from her. An air of foolishness swept over him. This woman had no concept of her effect on him, and she might make light of it if she did suspect his growing feelings.

  Friendship, he’d suggested. And she had agreed. Rather he continue voicing his plans for the future than speak too soon and face rejection.

  “Once me leg heals completely, I will need a new uniform,” he said.

  The soft thud of his crutch against the road sounded as calming as the creak of a rocking chair against a wooden floor. “Blue is much more pleasing with your hair than red.” She laughed, and her mirth eased his anxiety.

  “My whole family, even my mother, has this color of hair! Dare you criticize it?” He could
n’t hide the jesting in his voice.

  “I shan’t find fault in the substance, Henry. It is the unusual shade that I speak of.” She brought her finger to her lip. “I believe Papa would gladly accept any color of hair, since he has nary a strand.”

  “Poor Elijah. I assumed living with eight women would cause any man to lose his hair.”

  She started to scold, but once again the two broke into laughter.

  “I like the sound of your laugh,” Henry said, “like the sound of a million fairies flutterin’ about.”

  “You speak of fairies?”

  “Little magical creatures from Ireland, lass. Not real of course, but I do know some who are not thoroughly versed in the Christian faith and believe folklore is true. They live and breathe leprechauns and such.”

  “Leprechauns?” She laughed again.

  “Wee elves living in only me homeland, and if ye catch them, they will reveal hidden treasure.” Whenever he spoke of Ireland, his brogue thickened.

  “Do you miss home?”

  “At times. I knew when I enlisted that I might never see me dear family again, but I’d love for them to see America.”

  “A pleasant thought. Perhaps someday they will.”

  “Perhaps they will. I would like to see the look on their faces at this wondrous land.”

  “Henry, are you sure about … changing sides?”

  He heard the hesitation in her voice. “I would be a turncoat.” He didn’t feel remorseful. He merely stated a fact. “But rather a turncoat from the British than a man hindering the freedom of another.”

  “I am proud of you.”

  His heart seemed to swell. “Thank ye, lass. God gives every man a call on his life, and mine appears to be this one.”

  The next two weeks found Henry growing stronger. Once a soldier stopped by to check on him, a friend who took the time to give him news about the war. He assured Henry that within weeks he would join up with the fighting again. Henry said nothing of his new allegiance. All would know the truth when his leg healed.

  Every day he relied less on his crutch, until the morning arrived when at last he could cast it aside for a limp. Along with his healing came an enthusiasm for life—a vigor that gave him fresh hope for the days ahead. He abandoned his uniform for a tricorn hat, a white blouson shirt tied at the neck with leather pieces, brown breeches, and white woolen socks with his boots. Soon—much sooner than he desired—he must enlist in the Continental army. Not that he didn’t want to fight for the cause. He simply loathed the thought of leaving Delight and her family.

  He believed she didn’t realize his true feelings, but her sisters whispered things that caused her to blush. Before he left their loving home, he must reveal his heart and take the chance of her rejection.

  The people of Chesterfield learned of Henry’s weaving and kept him constantly in their employ. He gave every bit of his earnings or barter to Elijah. After all, it was the least he could do.

  The pattern of life became predictable. Predictable, that is, until Saturday, October 4, when a lone rider pulled a magnificent black stallion to a halt in front of the Butler home. Henry glanced up from his loom, taking in the noble stance of both horse and man.

  “Good day, sir,” the stranger called.

  Henry returned the greeting and rose to meet the man. Elijah was off delivering a barrel, and the women were alone. “Can I help ye?”

  The man tied his reins around a hitching post and sauntered Henry’s way. “I am James Daniels, looking for Elijah Butler. Is this his home?”

  Henry extended his hand. “Aye sir, that it is. I’m Henry O’Neill. Elijah is due back shortly. He had goods to deliver.”

  The dark-haired man grinned broadly. “Mind if I sit and visit with you while I wait?”

  Henry gestured for James to join him beneath the tree and offered a jug of water. He seemed a pleasant fellow.

  “Did you receive an injury from the war?” James lifted the jug to his lips.

  Henry touched his thigh. “Aye. Though it is nearly well.”

  “What battle?”

  “Near Stillwater.”

  “Blasted redcoats. But we’re turning them now. I hear tell there is a new battle brewing up along the Hudson now. We will whip them this time.”

  “The patriots need a victory to keep up their spirits.”

  James leaned closer and peered from side to side. “I hear Burgoyne has had his fill of deserters. He’s offering ten and twelve dollars for the return of every missing soldier.”

  Chapter 9

  Delight and Mama spent all morning behind Aunt Anne’s house, melting down pewter and lead from dishes, kitchen utensils, and various other cups and candlesticks.

  Aunt Anne, a quiet lady, small in stature, with flaxen-colored hair and sky blue eyes, was certainly not the picture of rebellion. She tossed a candlestick that once had belonged to a grandmother from Germany into the kettle. “I daresay my proper grandmother would have fainted dead away if she had seen me do this.”

  “Do you have any regrets?” Delight searched her aunt’s placid face.

  “Not at all. If I were forced to carry a torch from room to room, I’d still melt down my candlestick.” Her words were spoken quietly but with the forcefulness of a lightning bolt.

  “Here is my contribution.” Mama’s eight pewter goblets fell with a plop. “Mother gave me those as a wedding gift. Aye, she’d have disowned me, I fear.” She stirred the contents with a heavy stick, then straightened her back. “I’d rather use them to supply a patriot’s musket than to drink ale taxed by the British.”

  Delight laughed. Her mother had a way with words that she envied.

  Aunt Anne poured another kettle of hot molten liquid into a musket ball mold, and while it cooled, Mama and Delight formed cartridges from the ones made the day before. Delight much preferred making the cartridges. She could see a finished product, ready to transport to the Continental army.

  “Daughter, are you lining these up like soldiers in battle?”

  “Precisely. I want to see how many of our men we are aiding.” She pulled her sewing scissors from her apron pocket and cut several sections of paper to extend beyond a six-inch metal tube. Once they exhausted the paper, they would use fabric. “Every one of these I cut makes me feel as if I’ve increased our chances to win the war. It makes me proud—but in a satisfied way.” The feeling was different than that which she’d had while running messages in Boston, but the work was a worthwhile endeavor, nonetheless.

  Delight rolled the tube one inch beyond the paper’s edge, then dropped in a musket ball on the end where the paper overlapped and tied it tightly with twine. Holding the paper and tube securely, she poured in an explosive powder, pulled out the tube, and tied that end.

  “I wonder what the British soldiers would do if they found us melting metal into musket balls and assembling cartridges?” Aunt Anne studied what they had completed.

  Mama chuckled while tying the powder charge on a cartridge. “They’d take them all for themselves and probably order us to make more.”

  “I would rather be shot by my own handiwork,” Aunt Anne said. Hearing baby Elijah cry out in his sleep, she stepped over to the cradle once used by her children and nudged it into motion. “How soon must Elijah leave?”

  Mama’s mood instantly changed. and her facial expressions revealed the weight of her concern. “One more week to get the butchering completed. I cannot convince him otherwise, and sometimes I am not certain I should.”

  “Matthew is talking the same.” Aunt Anne glanced up. “Joining the others in the fighting means so much to him. Like you, Elizabeth, I understand his longing, but I am still afraid. If only we didn’t have to worry about their safety.”

  “Henry is anxious for his leg to heal so he can enlist in the Continental forces.” Delight instantly regretted her words. They were talking about husbands. She and Henry were friends.

  “And how do you feel about his decision?” Aunt Anne rejoine
d them as little Elijah drifted back to sleep.

  Delight hesitated and took a deep breath. “I am proud for him. He is a good man, and I’m sure he will fight bravely.”

  “Is that all?” A half smile tweaked at Aunt Anne’s mouth.

  Delight ignored the implication and tended to the task of cartridge making. “We have begun a comradeship, and naturally I’m concerned about his welfare.”

  “Is that all?” Mama repeated Aunt Anne’s question. When Delight’s gaze flew to her face, no measure of teasing greeted her.

  “What … what do you mean?”

  Mama opened the musket ball mold and studied the metal to see if it had cooled sufficiently. She closed it abruptly, an obvious indication the contents needed to set awhile longer. “I see the way Henry looks at you, my dear. And although you may not be fully aware of your own sentiments, I see a spark of something more than admiration in your face.”

  Papa said nearly the same thing.

  “Mama, I have nursed the man back to health, and we’ve come to know each other very well.”

  “Precisely.”

  “Friendship doesn’t indicate anything more significant,” Delight said.

  “But it is a beginning. Need I remind you to whom he sought to reveal his decision to desert the British? While you were gone with Papa, he was like Bear without Mercy and Hope.”

  “I’ve noted the same behavior in the times I have visited,” Aunt Anne added. “Matthew’s remarked about you and Henry, too.”

  Warmth flew to Delight’s face, and she shook her head. “You are sadly mistaken. Look at all the quarrels we’ve had—”

  “Before he chose the side of the patriots,” Mama said.

  “In addition, I have my mind somewhat occupied with another.”

  Mama lifted a brow. “Daughter, it is not wrong to care for Henry.”

  But I don’t know how I feel. If I did, this discussion would not be so difficult. She lowered her head and stuffed a musket ball into the paper form. “I understand.” She paused, then added, “While with Papa, I did meet a pleasant man who said he planned to visit here soon.”