Emily's Vow

by Betty Bolte

  "The men sure do not like the concept of girls knowing as much as boys, I can tell you." Aunt Lucille continued spinning as she spoke, barely glancing up to gauge reaction.

  "It's about time somebody had the gumption to state things as they are." Samantha pulled a needle through the finely woven linen shirt in her lap, her stitches evenly spaced, before looking up at the other women. "Girls have been denied a proper education for far too long."

  "What's she afraid of, then, that she doesn't put a real name on the article?" Mrs. Walters gripped the arms of her chair and leaned toward Samantha. "Nobody's ever heard of Penny Marsh."

  A nervous chill crawled up Emily's arms as she listened to them discuss her essay, hearing their views of the thoughts she had committed to paper. My goodness, they even debated the points in her essay. A glow spread through her, chasing away the chill. Glancing around the small circle of five women, a response to the stepped-up surveillance the British soldiers employed searching out spies and patriots even as they prepared to evacuate the city, Emily tried to determine if anyone suspected her as the mysterious writer.

  "We-ell, I think the lass is smarter than you's give her credit for," Mrs. Norris said. "She knows to keep her true self hidden so she's not persecuted by this town."

  Afraid to remain silent in case they suspected she did indeed hide something, Emily said, "Who is to say it's not a man using a woman's name?"

  Laughter met her suggestion. Emily's neck and cheeks warmed but she kept her hands busy with the shuttle and her feet moving on the treadles. Still, she must leave it an open question.

  "A man?" Mrs. Walters harrumphed and shook her dark curls. "Why would a man pretend to be a woman? Who ever heard of such a thing?"

  "If the author wanted to remain a secret," Samantha said, glancing at Emily, "what better way than to pretend to be of the opposite sex? No one would suspect him, if so." She knotted the thread and bit off the end, her gaze taking in the ladies watching her.

  Mrs. Walters sat back in her chair and looked at Samantha. "I still say whoever it is has no business stirring up trouble when we have hope this war is finally drawing to an end. Must we now battle between the men and women of our town?"

  "'Tis an old battle, Mrs. Walters, although not a visible one," Samantha said.

  Emily nodded, pleased Samantha defended her opinion without revealing who wrote the essay. Emily dared not share with any of these ladies the true identity of Penny Marsh, for fear she'd be ostracized from the group and by extension the town. For a lady of her status, propriety forbade her to sink to the level of printing her thoughts in a common broadside. These women had provided her support and comfort during the trials of the war, the loneliness of her brothers being away, the fears for their safety. Even during Elizabeth's pregnancy and subsequent illness, they had stayed stalwart in attention and caring. Emily meant to change the town's opinion regarding the proper roles for women, even if it meant facing the possibility of being shunned for her views. First, she wanted to have her say, then she'd step from the shadows into the sunlight.

  "I've not had any issues with the men in my family," Mrs. Walters snapped.

  "That's because they's afraid of you," Mrs. Norris replied. Her subsequent chuckle elicited laughter from the entire group. Except for Mrs. Walters, who glared at the slender woman.

  "Now, ladies, resume your tasks," Aunt Lucille said. "We must finish this today so we can deliver our items tomorrow."

  Samantha folded the shirt in her lap and laid it on the pile beside her. Emily marveled at the speed and precision of Samantha's needle. That woman could sure whip out shirts. Emily preferred the artistry of embroidery, what she considered painting with floss. Over the years, she'd created pictures of flowers to hang on the parlor wall at the plantation home as well as pillows to place on the couch. Adorning her gowns with seed pearls and sequins had given way during the war to making pants and shirts for the militia. Soon she'd be able to start replacing her gowns, once the merchant ships were allowed to freely pursue their trading.

  "You are leaving today, Mrs. Abernathy?" Samantha asked.

  "Tomorrow at first light," Aunt Lucille replied.

  "Pray be careful, as I heard through a member of my father's church that the British suspect some ladies of smuggling supplies into and out of town. They may be more diligent in their inspection of your carriage."

  Amy frowned, concern in her eyes. "Surely propriety will stay their hands from searching our persons, though."

  "I wouldn't count on that." Samantha lifted a shirt by the shoulders and shook it out. "Remember that soldiers do not behave the same as gentlemen."

  "I'll keep it in mind." Amy smoothed her skirts with both hands, then folded her hands at her waist. "But we have to try."

  Emily caught her breath, sudden unease gripping her. "Please be careful. I fear you'll be caught and... and punished." What an understatement. Smugglers risked imprisonment or being shot on the spot. Amy's friendship meant the world to Emily. Contemplating life without her in it so soon after the loss of Elizabeth caused Emily's throat to constrict.

  Aunt Lucille nodded once, her eyes distant. "Anything else?"

  Samantha hesitated, making eye contact with Emily. Her friend's steady gaze made concern swell in Emily's chest. Why did she look at her with such worry?

  "My father told me the British know privateers operate from this town. Some prominent ships' captains may even be involved." Samantha's emerald eyes held Emily's for two ticks of the long case clock standing against one wall before sliding on to other surprised faces.

  Emily stiffened as she stared at her friend. Her tone suggested Emily's father fit the description. A privateer? Never. His moral fortitude precluded such deceptive behavior. Yes, he continued to export items but he did so openly to survive. Aunt Lucille had reared her to never deceive, as her father wished. Of course, a few times she couldn't prevent a slight deception, but always for a good reason. And never in order to circumvent the law. Still, Samantha's look suggested she knew more than she said.

  Aunt Lucille caught Emily's eye, offering a slight nod and smile of encouragement. "Perhaps Emily could check with Frank, to see what he's heard." At Emily's start, she added, "Given that he's a relative and all."

  Frank? What would he know? A military man turned into a newsman, but who really wanted to be somewhere else. Always on edge, a touch irritable, and pushy. And very protective.

  The weight of eyes drew her attention. The circle of women waited for her response. "I don't know if Frank would be very helpful."

  While she knew Frank's true leanings, she could not reveal the truth to these ladies for fear of undermining his efforts. Should word reach Balfour, Frank's very life hung in the balance.

  Aunt Lucille nodded. "I understand your reluctance, dear, but if you could ask him, discreetly of course, I'd appreciate any information you glean."

  Fiddlesticks. Even when not in the room, everything centered on that man. She wished for one blasted day without something or someone throwing her into his path. Perhaps Amy had been right to worry about him.

  The expectant eyes of the women rested on her.

  Emily sighed. "I'll see what I can discover."

  Chapter 10

  The fog enveloped the harbor and clung to Frank's black boots as he strode toward the docks. His forest-green cape danced about his legs with each stride. If only he had received word sooner, this crisis could have been averted. Despite the late-morning hour, the fog refused to relinquish its elusive grasp on the town, clinging like a fretful child.

  He tugged his tricorne lower. He should have dragged himself from his warm bed earlier this morning, of all mornings, but he had stayed out later than intended. Emily's kiss haunted his memory. Distracted by the image, Frank started when a young boy dodged into the street in front of him, nearly tripping him as he darted between the wagons and people going about their business.

  "Bloody hell!" Delays today spelled disaster. "Watch where you're go
ing, boy!"

  Resuming his former pace, Frank hastened toward the cutter tying off at the end of the wharf. His boots resounded on the planks, scattering the handful of seagulls searching the sandy banks around the pier. The white-and-gray birds disappeared amid a flapping of wings into the cottony air.

  "Captain Davis!" Frank hailed the grizzled hulk of a man descending to the dock. The British standard hung limply from the ship's mast. Manheim Davis's dark clothing provided a striking contrast to the swirling white mist as he approached. The muffled shouts of sailors sounded through the clinging dampness.

  "Cap'n Thomson, how fine to see you. None too soon, neither." Davis's lips parted around the stem of his pipe. Fragrant cherry smoke mingled with the scent of rain.

  "You're early." Frank fell into step beside him, their boots thudding on the planks as they paced back toward the busy street. "We did not expect you for another week."

  The pale disc of sun hovered behind the flowing mist. The cry of gulls circling the two men seemed distant compared to the hearty voices of the crew on the Gallant Enterprise.

  "Had a favorable wind." Davis tapped the pipe bowl against the heel of his hand, knocking the glowing embers onto the damp ground, landing with a faint hiss. "Helped that the British don't care about jars of pickled snakes and painted masks."

  Relief loosened the knot in Frank's stomach. "Excellent."

  Though the Charles Town Museum, one of the first natural museums in the colonies, had officially closed its doors during the war, Frank secretly helped Captain Sullivan and several prominent members of town continue gathering specimens from around the world. Somehow importing these wonders helped assuage his wanderlust. One day, though, he would board that boat with Davis to explore the world and identify and obtain incredible wonders and historic finds to display at the museum. The pieces of history and culture hid in an isolated warehouse for safekeeping from potential pillagers and the British until they could reopen the museum. They planned to open as quickly as possible by continuing to build the collections until the fighting ended.

  Captain Sullivan had ensured the safe arrival of this particular shipment, adding thirteen crates to the cargo hold. His connections spanned the world, and through them he identified and acquired, in one way or another, the items most important to the museum. Davis excelled at circumventing the watch of the British inspectors and managing to deliver the requested goods.

  A resounding thud on the ship's deck drew the men's attention to the Gallant Enterprise. A large crate was surrounded by four brawny sailors. A gust of wind lifted and tossed the fog. Colorful markings announcing a number of ports became discernible, dotting the crate's surface. The men hoisted the heavy crate and began moving it toward the dock to where a nondescript wagon waited. Within the box were the articles desired to replace the ones destroyed in the horrific fire that had raced through the museum four years earlier. And one special item only a few select men knew about.

  "Do ya have me money?" Cautious jade eyes studied Frank from a face resembling dried tobacco leaves.

  Frank looked around, ensuring no one observed them. Blasted fog. He couldn't see much of anything for it. But then, the fog aided their clandestine exchange as well. He pulled a folded envelope from his cloak pocket. "When do you leave?"

  Davis slid the envelope out of sight. "In a month. Can't come and go too often or they'll grow suspicious. More than they already are, that is."

  "What happened?" Frank peered at the serious expression on the captain's face, dreading his next words.

  "Aye, they boarded her as we entered the harbor." The grin that erupted onto his face sported two matching gaps on either side of his upper jaw. "They did not know what treasures they beheld when they looked upon me cargo, so they let us in."

  The tense coil of fear released inside Frank's chest. He exhaled, suddenly aware he'd been holding his breath. "Thank God."

  Davis shook his head. "Next time we probably won't be so lucky. They'll ask questions in the meantime, be on the lookout for why I'd be hauling such junk in from foreign ports."

  "In the event, that is a risk we'll have to take, I'm afraid." Frank rubbed a hand over his jaw as he thought. "Waiting a few weeks may reduce their curiosity."

  "Or give them more time to tighten the noose." Davis shrugged. "Either way, I have to make the runs. Who'd take care of me Jenny otherwise? But I won't hang for it, neither."

  Frank nodded. Jenny was frail and needed special help from the ladies in the rural town where the Davises inhabited an imposing house along the river. Davis risked much but refrained from risking capture so he could tend his wife.

  "The wagon driver has directions for where to take the cargo." Captain Sullivan's boxes came with specific separate instructions, provided in a wax-sealed letter only for the driver's eyes. Frank looked back to where the men struggled to lift the heavy containers onto the wagon bed. The team of horses tossed their manes and stamped their hooves impatiently.

  "Did you tell him to drive carefully? Those glass jars have water in them, you know."

  "The alcohol in those jars preserves the organisms," Frank explained. "The driver knows what to do. Thanks again for your skillful and experienced endeavors on the museum's behalf."

  Extending his hand, Frank clasped the other man's powerful grip. "Perhaps you'd enjoy a pint and a bit of supper?"

  Davis shook his head with a grin. "I have other things to take care of, but I'll catch up with you in a few days." He winked. "By then I'll be ready for some friendly man talk."

  "I'll look forward to it." Frank would not ask with whom the good captain would spend the next few days. His time in the militia and printing broadsides had taught him when to use discretion. Often, the fewer details he knew, the better.

  "Now who is that, pray tell?" Davis indicated with his head someone approaching from behind Frank.

  "Captain Davis, just the man I'm looking for."

  Dread swept through Frank as he turned slowly to face the man with the razor-sharp voice. John Bradley.

  "Major." Frank's face remained neutral while he assessed the officer before him.

  "Captain Thomson, how fortunate you're here as well. We have unfinished business, you and I." Bradley glared at Frank, then dragged his gaze back to Davis. "I understand you brought an interesting assortment into port."

  "If you be into dead reptiles." A puff of smoke rose from the pipe bowl, masking Davis's wary eyes.

  "Nothing contraband." Frank puzzled over what possible business existed between them. His plans for the ultimate return of his brother's house stayed unknown to the man, so that couldn't be the matter at hand. Why did the bastard care about the shipment anyway? Bradley did not perform inspections. "I requested those preserved animals for my personal study."

  Bradley's stony eyes narrowed. Sniffing, he smirked at Frank. "Indeed. I had no idea you, a mere newsman, entertained ambitions of a scholar."

  Coiled tension gripped Frank's innards, but he gazed steadily at Bradley, pretending to wait patiently for him to continue. Inside he seethed at the slight. How dare he? This damned turncoat did not deserve to live. Frank forced himself to not react to the man's attitude. He could not reveal his true feelings or face imprisonment. Masquerading as a loyalist enabled him to protect his family and their property from the vengeful hands of the enemy, as well as provide the inside information needed to win this war. But it didn't mean he liked the sham.

  Davis coughed, breaking the silence stretching tightly between the two men.

  As if coming out of a trance, the turncoat shrugged lightly. "I'm sure you gentlemen are busy, so I won't detain you longer than necessary. Captain Davis, if you'd be so good as to produce your ship's manifest for my inspection." He held out a hand, open palm ready to accept the requested papers. When Davis did not move, he snapped his fingers twice and again held his hand out.

  Frank balled his hands at his sides, twitching with eagerness to find purchase on Bradley's face.

  Davis
pulled his pipe from his mouth, a frown replacing the indifferent expression he'd worn. "Me manifest has already been inspected and stamped, as you well know, sir."

  Why did Bradley need to see the manifest? Although apparently aware of ships coming and going, the major's rank held him above the task of import ships' inventories or challenging the captains regarding their cargo. What did Bradley want and why? His stomach tightened at the thought of Bradley discovering the special item, the smallest box in the entire shipment, yet the most valuable. Much rested on Frank along with his friend and fellow patriot spy, Benjamin Hanson, delivering one small silver box into the right hands.

  "Come now, Captain, that is not possible." The grimace transformed into gloating. "Surely, you do not think I was aware even of your arrival until now?"

  Davis scowled at the major, the ship captain's shoulders hunched against the mist settling onto his hair and beard. "You ordered the men to board me ship at the mouth of the harbor. The poor crew nearly drowned at the mixing point of the Cooper and Ashley with the open sea and trying to navigate them waters."

  Bradley barked a mirthless laugh. "Nonsense. Now, produce the papers or face the consequences."

  Knowing those consequences meant Davis would go to jail, and likely hang if the blasted turncoat inspected the cargo too closely, Frank squared his shoulders, preparing to settle the dispute.

  If it came to blows, so be it.

  He could use a little fun.

  "Major Bradley, if I may," Frank said. "You have my word as an officer. I have seen the approved manifest and, at any rate, the goods are now well on their way."

  "On their way where?" Bradley bit out, hands on both hips now.

  With an effort, Frank maintained a relaxed position, flexing his fingers slowly. He shrugged. "Into storage, if you must know. I'll not display them until this dispute ends."

  "Yes, once the British quell this uprising."