by Betty Bolte
Growing up on neighboring plantations, she once fantasized he embodied her ideal man, coming to rescue her and spending the rest of their lives together like in the stories. His strong features and lighthearted attitude had spoken to her and mirrored her outlook on life. He had kissed her—the first boy to do so—when she turned fourteen. Heat rose in her cheeks as the chance encounter that led to the clandestine intimacy played in her memory.
She had been exploring the expanse of fields at her uncle's plantation, checking on the apple and plum trees and the pasture fences for her uncle and riding her favorite mare, Jewel. She paused at a stream to let her sweaty horse drink. John rode up on his way home, crossing the path winding between the two properties. He dismounted, and they had talked and laughed while their horses rested. The hesitant kiss he gave her, not more than a light placing of lips together, had tantalized her senses. Although many years ago, the memory of that day shone like a polished silver cup.
Emily shivered now, ice creeping into her soul as she looked on the man John had become. She did not fear him. She knew him. Yet she felt compelled to survey his features, noting the evident changes. Although attractive, his eyes glittered with hate. His expression fixed on her father with malice in the tight lips and drawn brows. His once-silky black hair poked out unattractively from under his disheveled wig. She shivered again. A whirl of sadness and disgust spun through her. No girlhood crush should make her sad for him. By becoming a loyalist, he became her worst enemy, worse even than the British. He became a turncoat.
"What can I do for you, Major?" Emily's father waited patiently, his voice guarded. His arm tensed beneath Emily's clammy palm. Her fingers trembled, and he laid a massive hand on top of her slender fingers. His small act afforded her a welcome sense of protection.
"I've heard of your efforts to support the townspeople," John said. "You're a valuable mentor to many in town; thus I seek your advice."
A veiled threat lurked behind his words, encased in his tone. Emily waited for what followed. Her father did not know of the several clandestine rendezvous she and John had shared while growing up. The lazy summer afternoons when her aunt chased her outside to find shade and rest from the perpetual household chores, times when they spent talking and laughing—and kissing—beneath a spreading live oak tree, Spanish moss draping to the grass. Revealing that past would only open new hurts, but meanwhile keeping her composure enabled focus on the immediate threat. She relaxed her grip before she left marks in her father's cloak.
"Your words are too kind," her father replied easily. "May I be of some assistance?"
"Actually, you can. I have heard of some illicit activity occurring under the veil of darkness." John stepped closer to her father, piercing him with his cold gaze. "I am hoping you know who is involved in this cowardly privateering. I mean to determine who defies the king's laws. The traitors, when I catch up with them, will find themselves hung for their acts."
How absurd. The king's influence in America waned with each passing day. But John's attitude and claims suggested the enemy had not relinquished the hope of being victorious. Perhaps the concern for her safety held more credibility than she cared to admit. Still, she believed herself capable of finding a way to satisfy her father's demands as well as her own desires. The muscular arm beneath her fingers flexed and tensed, but her father's voice remained even when he replied to the barely concealed threat.
"I cannot help you, I fear," her father said.
"Perhaps you have cause to fear me," John countered. "I wouldn't want to deprive your lovely daughter of yet another family member, and so soon."
Emily gasped. He had called her by name, obviously recognizing her when the soldiers accosted her and Samantha in the street, and still he had done nothing to stop them. He'd not only become suspicious but had grown abusive and mean.
John raised a forefinger in front of her father's face, though her father did not back away. "Tread carefully, Captain."
"Surely you have the wrong idea," Emily blurted. She would not allow him to abuse her father's reputation. "My father is an honest merchant."
John studied her as if she stood on the newly arrived slave auction block. He surveyed her, first up, then down, his gaze lighting briefly on hips and breasts before fixing to her face. A flare of recognition lit in his eyes as he repeated his deliberate appraisal of her body. Forcing herself to maintain her poise, she endured his roving eyes as they returned to her chest, then down her waist to her hips, returning once more to her eyes. The heat in her face intensified as his lips curved.
"That remains to be seen, Miss Emily." His smooth tones belied the sudden spark of desire in his eyes.
Stiffening, Emily swallowed. "That is a fact, John." She moistened dry lips. "My father's reputation is well-known throughout the state of South Carolina. He's fair, honest and hardworking. That is how he made his fortune here." She stepped closer to emphasize her point. "He need not be a pirate or smuggler to accomplish that, unlike some other desperate souls."
"Emily, that's enough," her father said. "Major Bradley, rest assured you will find nothing to suggest I am involved in anything so—what did you call it?—oh yes, cowardly as you propose." He tipped his hat to the younger man and nodded. "I must see my daughter home, out of this chilly air. It is not good for her health, and she has a child at home waiting for her return."
"A child?" John asked, obviously startled. "You have a child?"
Tommy. Although Mary saw to his day-to-day comforts, his needs presented the perfect excuse to end this uncomfortable conversation. Her head filled with ideas she wished to capture on paper before they caused a headache as well. Emily grabbed at the excuse of a child to tend with both hands. Curiosity lit John's eyes and she wondered at the reason. "My nephew, Tommy. Father, we should hurry."
"Yes. If you'll excuse us, we'll be on our way." Her father angled his head in invitation to continue their walk home.
She hoped God would forgive her for the lie. Returning home became more urgent with each step and the more she thought of what needed conveying in her next essay. Yes, she had much work to do.
* * *
Darkness still blanketed the sky as the little boy's crying awoke Emily from a fitful sleep. Hadn't she just placed her head on her pillow moments before? She snuggled her face against the cool linen, reluctant to leave the warmth of her bed. Once she and her father arrived home the night before, she'd spent several hours committing her thoughts to paper. Then, at the risk of infuriating both her father and Frank, she slipped out of the house. Her late-night trip to the printing office to drop off her controversial essay, written using the fictional name Penny Marsh, left her with few hours of sleep. Fiddlesticks. Fortunately Mary would rise and tend the boy. She relaxed, prepared to drift back to sleep.
Tommy cried louder.
Forcing open her encrusted eyes, she moaned. Darkness surrounded her. The rest of the house slept undisturbed. Samantha's visit later today could not come soon enough. She needed those basil leaves. The previous day's many adventures made the day a long one, caused first by the anxiety of merely asking Frank to publish her work. She'd spent several previous nights scratching through inept, convoluted phrases she dare not show to anyone, let alone publish. Atop that they'd enjoyed dining at the McAlester's, the revelation of her secret brother, coupled with the strain of Frank's attentions and then her encounter with John. She meant to ask her father about her fourth brother, but John's accusations and threats had pushed the thought from her mind. Now Tommy chose this night to have colic.
The one night, she recalled with dismay, she'd given Mary a reprieve from caring for him.
Fiddlesticks.
"I'm coming, Tommy." Slowly she eased from her comfy bed. She paused to stretch the stiffness from her back. Tommy wailed louder. "Coming."
She hurried into the nursery across the hall. Moving to the cradle, she anxiously tried to hush him before he woke the entire household. Lifting him from the cradle momentarily s
ilenced his distress, only to resume offending her ears once he squirmed at her shoulder. Her annoyance rose, even as the expected twinge of guilt at her own frustration pricked her conscience. Lord, I'm tired. What bothered him that he wailed all night? Emily checked his diaper and found it wet. Again.
This should not be her problem. This should be her sister's problem. Though the thought felt unkind, she couldn't deny its underlying truth. Tears threatened, but she swallowed them, patting the little boy harder on the back. He cried louder. Huffing out her exasperation, she crossed to the pile of clean diapers and stared at the stack, counting slowly to ten. Jasmine had showed her several times how to do this seemingly simple task, yet it remained a magician's trick. At her age she should know how to change diapers, but she did not have the experience of younger siblings to tend. Thus she started as a novice at caring for children. Muttering to herself and the child, she snatched a clean cloth and clumsily changed the wet one for a dry one. All the while, Tommy cried until he was hiccupping, tiny gasps of air between tonsil-revealing wails of discomfort.
He couldn't be hungry, as Mary had fed him prior to retiring to her room out back next to the stable. Perhaps it was the colic, then. Samantha planned to visit late morning and bring the promised basil. Feeling decidedly inept, she paced the room, crooning to Tommy as she contemplated possible ways to quiet her nephew.
Right now she needed help, and she knew where to find it.
Joggling him against her shoulder, she hurried down the stairs to Jasmine's room. A light shone from beneath the door. Probably couldn't sleep for the crying babe. As Emily approached, the door swung open. A sleepy-eyed Jasmine stared owlishly. She wore the new shift and robe Emily had found for her, its belt loosely tied as though accomplished in a hurry. Jasmine eyed the infant warily before blinking at Emily. "I heerd you coming."
Emily grunted. "He's colicky. What can we do? Something must quiet him." And soon. Frustration surged through her, but she held her tongue and her temper. Her father would not take kindly to her being anything less than a lady, especially in front of the servants.
"Don't know that it's colic at his age," Jasmine said. "But I've been told if you jump over someone's grave while holding him, it will cure it. Sure 'nough."
Emily chuckled. "Not in the middle of the night, if ever. Perhaps some warm milk?"
"I'll fetch some right away." Relief flickered through Jasmine's eyes as she bobbed a curtsy. Then she slipped past Emily and scurried down the hall and out the back door.
"Tommy, please." Emily paced the hallway while she waited for Jasmine to return. He burped and cried louder. "What is wrong, little one?"
Children should be born with the ability to talk. God had it wrong if he thought this wailing was communication. Frustrating, yes. Worrisome, absolutely right. But wailing only told someone that one was unhappy. Bah. Anger and vexation warred inside her until tears at her ineptitude threatened. There must be a better way to raise children. One that did not require a person to walk their hallways carrying a heavy bundle of boy all night.
She paced into the library and paused at the front windows. Interrupting the continual patting on Tommy's back, she swung open the heavy shutters. At this hour, few if any people would walk by. Her hand automatically returned to patting the child's back in a vain effort to comfort him. Or at least to beat the crying to a pulp.
Her lips pressed together at the thought. No, she would not physically harm the child, even if angry with him. After all, he probably felt as frustrated as her at the lack of communication.
The sun edged into view on the horizon, sending flaming fingers shimmering across the water. The sky softened from its star-studded blackness to deep gray and red tinges. Tommy's crying obscured the normal sounds of morning. The beating of the waves. The call of the sea birds welcoming the new day. She gazed on the heads of the dayflowers outside reaching for the dawn's early light to coax them to face the morning.
Her mind wandered as she waited for Jasmine's return. She imagined the day she opened her shop, hanging her signs in the windows, mannequins dressed in shawls, hats, gloves, and other garments she'd made and decorated with embroidered designs. Her days filled with customers and collecting monies to pay her own way in life. Tommy squirmed on her shoulder, nearly falling over her arm, and she caught him and sighed. One day she would have her shop and not have to worry about either birthing or caring for any babies. At the moment one seemed as bad as the other.
"Miss Emily!"
Emily jumped at Jasmine's voice in her ear. She turned from the window to see her maid holding a bowl half-full of milk and a small spoon.
"I couldn't hear you over him!" Emily cried.
Tommy wailed louder, competing with their raised voices. She eyed the spoon warily. Shifting Tommy into a cradled position in her arms, she pondered her next move. The spoon hadn't worked very well earlier. Glancing around the room with its many imported furnishings and antiques, she shook her head. "We should go to the dining room."
As they hurried down the hallway, Tommy buried his head into Emily's breast, pausing his crying briefly before turning away from her and wailing once more. Mary, as the wet nurse, allowed him to suckle her, but Emily had no capacity for that form of feeding. She hated to wake the woman on her one night off as well. Despite her servant status, it seemed only fair to give her a break now and again. But if the child needed to suckle to eat, the spoon would never work no matter how much they tried.
Inspiration struck as they passed into the dining room. She settled onto a straight-backed wooden chair positioned between the table and the banked fire.
"Fetch my sewing box and gloves. Hurry!"
"What you need with sewing things?" Jasmine hesitated in the act of leaving.
"We'll put the milk in the glove and he can suckle from that." She hoped.
Understanding optimism lit Jasmine's eyes, and she hurried from the room without another word.
It took both of them to pour the warm milk into the tightly woven glove. Once Tommy felt the warm milk in the glove's finger, he latched on to it with his toothless gums and suckled hard. The culprit seemed to be hunger, after all. Blessed silence descended over the house for the first time in an hour.
Emily cradled the boy in one arm, the other hand holding the leaky glove while Jasmine stoked embers in the hearth into a morning fire. Emily needed a clean shift, but at last peace surrounded her. Sunlight eased through the windows, reaching for her, casting shadows across the floor. Tommy's eyes closed, his cheeks still flushed from the effort of crying. Content like this, she easily tolerated him. Even stirrings of affection flickered in her heart. His little mouth pulled on the glove finger, nearly as much milk going into his mouth as dripped onto her night shift.
Finally the boy's movements slowed. Drowsy tugs replaced the frantic sucking. Then his mouth relaxed and dropped open as he succumbed to exhaustion.
Emily laid the glove in the bowl at her elbow. Rising carefully, she carried the sleeping boy up the stairs to his cradle. Back in her room at last, she slipped off the milk-soaked nightgown, cleaned herself, and donned a dry gown. With a heartfelt sigh, she eased back onto her down-filled mattress and longed to sleep the rest of the day. Unfortunately she had much to do before Amy returned in a few days. Samantha's visit that morning came first. Despite her weariness, Emily smiled. She enjoyed conversing with her friends.
The warble of a songbird outside the window lulled her back to sleep. As her eyes began to drift shut, Frank's voice murmuring in his sleep in the room next door made her heavy eyelids fly open. Fiddlesticks.
Chapter 7
"What do you have there?" Emily asked as Samantha stepped into the parlor carrying a basket covered with a green-and-white striped cloth.
"Fresh basil as promised." Samantha peeled the cloth off the basket, revealing a neatly tied bunch of green leaves. The sweet aroma filled the sunlit room.
"I'll have some tea from that myself. It smells wonderful." Emily cleared her
throat, trying to erase the exhaustion-induced rougher tenor of her voice.
"It will help the little boy's stomach when it bothers him again. You sound tired, my friend. Did Tommy have an upset overnight?"
"A touch. Mary is bathing and dressing him now that he's finished his breakfast. I thought of a new way to feed him when Mary is not available." She shared her new method discovered in the wee hours of the morning.
Samantha chuckled. "Good thinking. Perhaps we can improve on your idea so that it doesn't require fresh clothing each meal."
"That would be appreciated by all, I believe." Emily grinned. "I have few enough gowns now without having to clean them every day."
"Perhaps we should sew some new gowns for ourselves." Samantha fingered the fabric of her skirt. "Mine are sorely needing replacing."
"As soon as this war ends and our men come home, and not before. In the meantime, it wouldn't feel right."
"The fighting will end ere long." Samantha pulled a bound book from the basket, laying it beside the herbs before settling next to Emily on the sofa. "The British are confined here, same as the rest of us. They have nowhere to run but back to England."
"And good riddance, when they go." Emily eyed the book. "What do you have?"
"My commonplace book." Samantha pressed her lips together for a moment. "I decided to make some notes, with your assistance."
"About what?" From the concern in Samantha's eyes, Emily hoped she erred in guessing the topic. Elizabeth. The idea of reliving her sister's death made her chest tighten against the painful images brought to mind.
"I wish to learn more about making childbirth safer for the mother through documenting what goes right and wrong during the birthing process. After all, animals manage to have babies without fear of dying. Perhaps my efforts will help women safely have children."
Emily sank back in her chair. The memory of Elizabeth straining to deliver Tommy replaced her view of the elaborately decorated room. She pictured Elizabeth fondly holding him, gazing with love on her child, a love shining like moonlight on the ocean on a clear night. Followed by her distress a few days later, her pallor and sweating before her expression stilled and she no longer looked on anyone. Emily twisted the little ring, recalling the feel of her sister's limp hand in her own. She tasted salt and slowly pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve to dry her cheeks.