Love’s Betrayal

by DiAnn Mills

  “I, too, shall sleep, but my mind will be spinning ways to defend my honor,” Delight said. Sweet Charity, this deed will be avenged one day. If not by me, surely one of our sisters will catch you unaware.

  Chapter 17

  Another day passed, and Henry still laughed over Charity’s blatant questioning about what he looked for in a wife and what Delight sought in a husband. Now, as he hitched the team to the wagon with the cold whipping around his neck, he resolved to speak to his beloved before the sun set that day. By nightfall, he would know if he had a future wife.

  A twig snap behind him. The skin on the back of his neck tingled. The sound couldn’t be from the women. They had ventured in the opposite direction, and he would have heard their arrival. His gaze flew to his musket, lying across the wagon seat.

  “Don’t be considering a step near that gun,” a male voice said. “Just be standing there nice and quiet and don’t be turning around.”

  An Irishman. “What can I do for ye?” Henry said, forcing kindness into his words.

  “Aye, answer a few questions, like what are ye doing with this wagon?”

  Is this one of the men who attacked James? “I am transporting corn.”

  “Is it your own wagon?”

  “It belongs to a friend.” James had said that one of the men who attacked him had a T branded into the fleshy portion of his thumb. I dare not anger this man for fear of endangering Delight and Charity.

  “Where is your friend?”

  “He is nearly a week’s ride from here. Why do ye ask?”

  The musket barrel rested against his lower back. “I’m asking the questions. Methinks this wagon is stolen. What do ye have to say about that?”

  Henry wished he knew to which side of the war the man held his allegiance. “As soon as I deliver the corn, I am returning his wagon.”

  “Your name?”

  “Henry O’Neill.”

  “Do ye mind if I examine the contents of those barrels?”

  “Corn is corn, sir, but ye may look. The last one on the left is open.”

  “I well know!” the man said. “Tell me what happened to the driver of this wagon before I send a musket ball into your back and spill your blood over this hard ground.”

  Henry needed to get the advantage of this situation before Delight and Charity returned. “I am not at liberty to say.”

  “Then ye will forfeit your pitiful life.”

  The gravity of the man’s words settled like black smoke on the field of battle. “Dead men cannot provide information.”

  “Neither can they steal goods.”

  Henry searched for a weapon within his grasp. “I have not stolen anything. I am making a delivery of corn.”

  “Perhaps I haven’t made me self clear.”

  From the sound of the man’s voice, Henry realized he was about to draw his final breath. Meeting God face-to-face held indescribable merits, but his departure would leave Delight and Charity at the mercy of an unscrupulous man. He whirled about to shove the musket from the man’s hands. It fired, piercing the air, piercing the violence of a man’s soul.

  As he struggled against the Irishman, Henry heard Delight scream. He’d attempt any feat to protect her and Charity—aye, shed the blood from his veins. The gun barrel slammed against the side of his head. Blinding pain spun him into anger. Blood trickled over his forehead and into his eyes, blurring his vision.

  “Stop! Please stop!” Delight’s voice echoed around him. “Cavin Sullivan, he is one of us.”

  The man hesitated long enough for Henry to send a blow to the side of his face. He fell, and Henry sprawled on top of him.

  “Stop! Henry, Cavin!” Delight pulled on his shoulders. “This is not the enemy.”

  Henry, no longer numb to her words, ceased his pounding and posed the question, “Are ye a patriot?”

  “By all that’s right and holy!” A purplish-blue bruise already colored the Irishman’s cheek. “This is James Daniels’s wagon!” He peered up. “Delight Butler, is it ye, lass?”

  “Aye, Mr. Sullivan.”

  “I have made a terrible mistake,” Cavin sputtered.

  Henry still felt rage surge through every part of him. He trembled and wiped the blood from his face and head with his arm. “Indeed, ye have.”

  Delight helped him to his feet while Charity assisted Mr. Sullivan. “James has been badly injured. We are transporting the barrels for him.”

  Cavin Sullivan gripped the side of the wagon and fought for his breath. “You throw a hard punch,” he said.

  “I don’t take too kindly to a man sticking a gun in me back.”

  “I thought ye had stolen the wagon.”

  “Ye should’ve listened to me.” Henry found his temper rising again. Help me, Lord, to gain control. He drew in a ragged breath. “Tell the story while I calm me self.”

  The older man eyed him suspiciously. “James was late to our meeting place, and I went in search of him. I’d heard the story about a branded thief and two other loyalists searching for him and the wagon. I thought ye were one of them.”

  “’Tis true. I’d have done the same thing.” Henry’s words appeared to soothe the man. “Hope I didn’t hurt ye too much.”

  Mr. Sullivan offered a grim smile and stuck out his hand. “Glad to meet a good Irishman, even if I am on the opposite end of his fist. I imagine your head is a wee bit throbbin’.”

  “Indeed it is.” The man’s missing front tooth told Henry that he held the infamous Irish temper. He extended his hand and the two shook. “Whereabouts ye from?”

  “Near Dublin. And ye?”

  “County of Londonderry, province of Ulster.”

  Delight handed Henry a wet cloth, and Charity did the same for Mr. Sullivan. “Ye lasses are a gift from God,” the older man said. “Ye certainly saved two Irishmen from killing each other.” He wiped his bruised face and turned to Delight. “I see ye are still aiding the patriots. And what of Elijah?”

  “He enlisted.”

  The Irishman’s eyes sparkled. “Couldn’t stop that man.”

  A twinge of jealousy about the man’s familiarity with Delight pulled at Henry, but he refused to let it show. Forgive me, Lord. Ye hast given me a new friend, and I am behaving shamefully. “How can we help ye?”

  “Oh, ’tis me to lend a hand. I have a wagon back in the woods to carry the barrels. I will take them on to Philadelphia.”

  “Praises to God,” Henry said. “I’ll help you load, then we can journey back to Chesterfield.” He studied his recent opponent’s face. “You might need a bit of rest and nourishment before setting out alone.”

  “I brought a bit of rum—” He stopped and cringed. “Pardon me, lasses, I know how your father feels about the spirits, but it does numb the pain.”

  “And your mind to clear thinking. Our Lord taught us about the dangers of drunkenness,” Delight said with a lift of her chin.

  That’s my sweet Delight. She never hesitates to tell one the truth—except when it comes to her heart.

  The road home. The words alone sounded like manna to Delight. Weariness tugged at her whole being. She had offered to sit on the wagon bed. With the extra room available now that the barrels had been unloaded, she lay down and instantly fell asleep. Strange and terrifying dreams plagued her, so strange she believed she was awake only to realize otherwise.

  “Delight. Delight.”

  She knew Charity shook her, but she couldn’t awaken. Her head pounded like a soldier’s drum. “Let me sleep. I am so tired.”

  Am I dreaming again or is Charity still talking?

  “Henry, her head is so hot. We must do something.”

  Delight’s thoughts drifted back to a dream where Papa and Henry rode down the road toward their house in Chesterfield shouting, “The war is over! The British are defeated!” A hand touched her forehead, then caressed her cheek. It did not belong to Charity.

  “Delight, can ye answer me?” His voice rang tender to her ears.


  She attempted to stir and reply, but her throat felt as though a hot poker had seared it. The words failed to form. Only the semblance of a moan met her ears. Blissful sleep caught her like the waves that used to slap against Boston Harbor, and she felt herself sweeping out to sea.

  Henry had realized helplessness in his days, but nothing like the overwhelming despair of watching Delight suffer with fever and delirium. She fought the blankets Charity tucked in around her, while a swirl of new-fallen snow quietly covered her body.

  “We need shelter.” He urged the horses down the road. “I remember a village a few miles ahead. We will seek a place to stay and medicine for Delight.”

  Charity sat at her sister’s side, continually dabbing her flushed face. “Perhaps we can find some broth and a warm place for her to sleep. I care not for myself, but this fever must be broken.”

  Henry ached at the thought of his beloved’s illness. “I should never have allowed ye to come. Being exposed to the elements has made Delight ill, and ye may possibly be next.”

  “Nonsense, I feel perfectly fine. The truth be known, I noticed Delight had a slight cough before we met up with Mr. Sullivan.”

  Henry tightened his hold on the reins. “Why didn’t she say something?”

  “Delight? She never admits to feeling poorly for fear someone else may need tending.”

  “I understand exactly what ye are describing. At times she reminds me of a hen fussing over her chicks, the way she treats ye and your sisters.” The longer he considered the matter, the more irritated he grew with himself. “It’s time she allowed someone to take care of her.”

  “That will take a few hundred prayers.”

  “I have another idea.” Henry glanced up at an angry sky. It matched his mood. If they did not find a hospitable home, they would be covered in snow. Delight desperately needed a roof over her head.

  “So do I,” Charity said. “Marry her, and none of us will have to fret over whether she is taken care of properly.”

  “Aye.” His voice saddened. “I would most gladly oblige, but I fear she doesn’t hold the same affections as I do.”

  “Henry O’Neill. How can you be so clever and still not understand what Delight feels for you?”

  Curiosity mixed with frustration assaulted him. “She’s had opportunities to reveal more of her feelings but has chosen not to. I know she cares for me, but is it enough to withstand the future?”

  “Love does peculiar things to a woman,” Charity said. “You may want that very thing until you find it, then you are afraid. Has she welcomed tenderness in one breath and shied from it in another?”

  “You know ’tis true. What can I do?”

  Snow began to trickle down in huge flakes. “Make her think exposing her heart is her idea. She’s too stubborn to do so otherwise. For the present …” Charity faltered. “We must pray, for her fever is rising.”

  Henry caught his breath and glanced behind him where Charity held a blanket over Delight’s face to keep the wind and snow away. “Does she have a rash or is her breathing irregular?”

  “Nay. For that we must be grateful.”

  “Father God,” Henry began, “I know I have been amiss in allowing Delight and Charity to join me on this ominous journey, and I am truly sorry. But it seems my errant ways have contributed to Delight’s illness. Please touch her with Your healing power and break the fever raging through her body. In Your holy Son’s name, amen.”

  He looked ahead into a swirling mass of white and saw the outline of a house and barn. Thank Thee, Father. May these people be good Christian folk. “I see help ahead.”

  Within minutes, Henry pulled the horses to a halt and braked the wagon. He stepped down onto his bad leg, and it nearly collapsed. Righting himself, he faced a snarling dog that had no intentions of allowing him to pass.

  “What do you want?” a male voice called from the door.

  The dog stepped closer. “Shelter and possibly broth for an ill woman in my wagon. I can pay.”

  “Ill, ya say?” the man said in a raspy tone.

  Henry couldn’t turn to face him for fear the dog would sink his teeth into his uninjured leg. “Yes sir. She has a fever.”

  “Is it pox? We don’t want any sickness here.”

  Henry had feared the same thing. He knew well the deadly effects of smallpox. “She does not have a rash. I believe it’s from exposure to the weather. We have been traveling awhile.”

  The dog growled. “Can you call off your dog?”

  “Not until I’m ready. Besides, my wife and I don’t want sickness at our door.”

  Obviously you aren’t generous in spirit. Henry cringed and clenched his fists. “Perhaps some broth then?”

  “I will ask the wife, but you cannot come inside.”

  Henry glanced at the barn. “May we rest in your barn?”

  The man said nothing, and since Henry couldn’t see him, he waited. “I’ll pay for the use of it.”

  Silence echoed around the wagon.

  “All right, you can use the barn. Don’t want no money except for hay, and you can feed my animals while you are taking up room.”

  Is there no end to his rudeness? “I agree, sir. Now will ye call the dog?”

  “King George come here, I say.” The mangy animal skirted around the front of the wagon. Henry whirled around and saw it leap onto the porch beside the old man, who closely resembled the dog. “I’ll ask my wife if there is food inside, but I can’t promise anything.”

  “Thank ye. Any herbs for tea would be appreciated.”

  “You keep asking for more and I detest it. And don’t be starting a fire or coming outside when it is dark. The dog guards things real well.”

  Chapter 18

  Henry carried Delight inside the barn and placed her on a makeshift mattress of hay covered with a blanket. Once the door closed, the draft vanished. Still she needed to be kept warm—Charity, too. In this structure, they had little more than shelter, and all he could offer Charity to eat was soldiers’ provisions of hard biscuits and dried beef, unless the farmer and his wife found food to spare. At least they had a lantern.

  The owner did not complain when Henry led the horses inside. “I’ll be expecting good payment for the hay,” he’d shouted.

  Oh, me Delight. I never wanted this for ye. But I will get warm food for ye and Charity and herbs no matter what the cost. He would wait a moment more before he ventured outside to the house and faced the nasty temperament of the owner and his mongrel.

  King George, what a fitting name.

  With twilight fast approaching, Henry looked for a tool to keep distance between him and the dog. Oddly enough, the barn was well maintained and neat. Various tools hung on pegs or leaned against a wall according to size. He had expected the contents to be in disarray to match the old man’s disposition. Snatching up a hoe, he headed for the door.

  “Henry, do be careful.” Charity wrapped a spare blanket around her shoulders.

  “I will, lass. No matter what ye hear, stay put. I have a feeling the dog and I might have a skirmish.” He grinned for her sake. “Pray the man’s wife is friendlier than he.”

  She nodded. Her obligatory smile soon faded when Delight moaned.

  Without another word, Henry slid open the barn door. As expected, the dog approached him in a fury.

  “King George, get out of me way.” Henry raised the hoe. “I aim to converse with those people, and the likes of ye will not stop me.”

  The door of the house opened, and the old man stepped out, his hand grasping a musket.

  “What are you doing with my hoe?”

  Henry kept one eye on the dog and shouted back, “I’m protecting me self from your dog. I need to purchase warm food for the women and possibly something for fever.”

  “I heard you before,” the old man said.

  From behind him, a plump woman with snow-white hair pushed by the old man. “King George, get into the house this minute!”

 
Immediately the dog obeyed.

  “The lady is ill?” she said, moving toward Henry. “And you need food and herbs for a fever?”

  “Aye ma’am.”

  “Rachel, you don’t know what that woman has. Could be we might get sick and die,” the old man spat.

  “I am already old and ready to meet my Maker, Horace, and I intend to help.” She neared Henry and smiled. “I’m Rachel Henderson. You bring those women inside. I have beef stew and medicine to help break the fever.”

  Thanks be to God.

  Henry refused to sleep that night. He sat by Delight’s side near the fireplace just as she had done for him. Charity stretched out on the other side of Delight, finally succumbing to sleep. The Hendersons were hospitable after all, simply cautious about loyalists, although the dog’s temperament could not be disguised. Mistress Henderson had brewed some feverfew tea, and Henry had helped Charity administer it. Now he waited and prayed.

  Mistress Henderson declared herself a believer, but her husband had no use for God. Henry could not imagine the misery of people who did not know Jesus as their Savior. How wretched they must feel with the uncertainty of life. It was difficult enough to face sickness, death, and the struggle to survive during these war-torn days, but to have no hope must be the epitome of despair.

  Delight’s face tinted pink with the fever looked peaceful, but the color veiled her ill health. Her lips, normally a deep wine, were now purple. He bent and brushed a kiss across her forehead.

  “Me sweet lady,” he whispered. “I pray the fever breaks tonight with God’s healing. I want to see the light in your eyes, the sparkle that reminds me of heaven’s gate. I love ye, Delight, with an affection I never thought possible.”

  Henry continued to watch her, wiping her forehead with a cool, damp cloth and praying. She was strong and healthy. She could recover in a few days with rest and proper food. His mind wandered back to special moments with her. Even their initial quarreling reigned as cherished moments. A strong woman, his Delight. Psalm 37:4 rang through his mind, as it had done so many times before: “Delight thyself also in the Lord; and he shall give thee the desires of thine heart.”