by Betty Bolte
Emily gazed hopefully on her father's worried countenance. The sadness lightened as he considered Amy's words. He sighed heavily and shook his head.
"I'll agree to this on one condition. Frank must be with her the entire time she goes to church and the ladies' circle. If he's not available, then you, my darling daughter, will not be going. If you dishonor me by not following my instructions, I'll lock you in your room with a guard at the door until the blasted British have left this town. Understood?" He frowned deeper as Amy clasped her hands together. "Do not push me, young lady."
"Aye, Captain." Amy smiled and kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you, Uncle."
Emily, feeling as though she'd dodged a terrible ordeal, rose from her seat and raced to her father, gripping one of his strong hands. "Thank you, Father. You won't regret this, I promise."
"See that I don't, my dear. I want you to be well and healthy when your brothers finally return."
"You've had word from them?" Emily grasped his arm. No letter had arrived from them in months, and she dreaded their involvement in some bloody battle and subsequent injury. Or worse.
"None. Have faith. They'll come home in one piece, if I know my boys." He turned with a nod and left the room.
But would they come home on horseback or in a box? Emily did not want to voice her fears, for by saying the words it may make them come true. She didn't want to lend the words the power speaking them could yield.
"Emily, we must talk to Frank about Uncle's demands."
Emily wrinkled her nose at the idea. "Yes, I suppose we must. But can't we delay for a day or two?"
"Emily, we promised. We'll inform Frank immediately." Amy laid a cautionary hand on her arm and tugged her into a brief hug. "I know you hate this, but it will make him feel better knowing you're protected. We'll take this one step at a time, and he will soon relent even more. He's worried. He'll ease those restrictions over time."
"I hope you're right, Cousin, because otherwise I may have to take matters into my own hands. And you know that only leads to trouble."
Chapter 15
The final strains of the hymn died away as the rector climbed the stairs to the elevated pulpit to deliver his sermon. The richly carved furniture boasted inlaid woods ranging from pine to oak to mahogany, and was a work of art unbefitting its occupant, to her mind. His position, towering high above the congregation's heads, not only ensured everyone could hear his message, but also forced her to look up at him until her neck hurt. Emily chastised herself for detesting this portion of the service, but to no avail.
She used to love to sing the hymns, her favorite part of church. The organist played the Snelzer organ renowned for its superior quality, its harmonious tones filling the air as the clerk led the "lining" of the psalms, singing the line from the church's lone hymnal which the congregation then echoed back to him. The grand sound within the high-ceilinged church inspired feelings of piety and peace. Of singing directly to God for his ultimate enjoyment. Perhaps one day the church could afford to buy hymnals for all and everyone could sing together, but for now the price of books soared too high. Her feelings about attending church had changed for the worse when Reverend Edward Jenkins sailed in from Savannah with the British occupation forces to promote the loyalist sentiments. Perhaps in other times his sermons would be more welcome. But not now. She longed for their kindly, patriotic preacher Reverend Charles Moreau. She feared she may never see him again.
She let her eyes stray to the white plaster ceiling with its intricately carved border known as the Wall of Troy, with its four double roses centered on each of four sides of the rectangle above her. She tried projecting the piety of the other women surrounding her though she only wanted to move, to be outside in the sunshine, to dissipate the energy agitating her. The nave felt cool in the dim light. The sun shone through the Palladian glass window at the rear of the chancel, situated some twenty feet behind the pulpit, and brightened the dark blue walls as well as the four brown Corinthian pilaster columns. The half dome above was blue to represent the firmament with white clouds floating on it and a "glory" at the peak, a golden sun with radiating beams spreading across the dome. Two tablets hung on either side of the window containing the words of the Ten Commandments, the Lord's Prayer and the Apostles Creed in gilt lettering in gilded frames with a golden cherub's head and wings at the top. She appreciated the simple elegance of the chancel, but today she had no patience. None.
Outside, the sun shone warmly on the churchyard with its tombstones covered by fallen leaves, and she imagined birds hopped among them searching for dinner. But she remained trapped inside yet again, albeit in a different place.
Emily sat between Frank and Father on the hard bench in their boxed pew with the half door to her left. Amy's burgundy skirts showed beyond Father's bulk, her hands folded serenely. Emily's left knee bounced twice before she overruled her impatience and quelled the movement. Reverend Jenkins droned on with his British pearls of biblical wisdom. She smothered the sigh fighting to escape. She refrained from doing anything that might force a lecture from her father after the service if she did not maintain the decorum he expected during this pious torture.
Frank must have sensed her agitation, for he pressed his leg against hers. She stilled, not because she wanted any less to leave, but because the intimate gesture stirred her latent desires into smoldering embers. His body heat branded her through the layers of fabric, and she shifted away as casually as she could so as not to alert her father to her movement. How would she explain her restlessness? Frank's look pressed on her, but she kept her eyes on the rector, praying for calm. Flexing her fingers on her velvet purse, the welcome movement did little to ease the growing tension coiling in the pit of her stomach.
"And peace descended from heaven to answer the prayers of the many who called upon the Lord for help. Amen." Reverend Jenkins closed his Bible and surveyed the congregation. The rector frowned when he saw Benjamin dozing at the end of the pew in front of Emily. Leave it to men to presume such outrageous disdain for society's expectations and then insist women adhere to a different, more restrictive standard. Emily's agitation quickened. The reverend's pointed glare prompted Frank, who sat behind Benjamin, to tap his head to awaken him. Benjamin yawned and stretched as he came to, inclining his head in a manner suggesting the rector continue with the service. As if the rector needed his permission, of all things.
Still frowning, the rector said, "Let us pray."
That makes sense; wake him up so he can close his eyes again. She folded her hands in prayer, head bowed, but her eyes refused to close. She stared at the tips of her shoes, praying for the guidance and strength to be the person she wanted instead of what others dictated. Who gave them the right to tell her what she could and could not do with her own life, her destiny? She had thoughts and passions to explore, revel in, and share when so moved.
Her fondness for Frank increased the more time she spent with him, but that did not mean she wished to marry him or anyone else. Where did the Bible say Adam and Eve married before they started reproducing? God blessed their union because of the rib Adam shared with Eve without his consent. Without his consent. Two people should not be coerced into marrying merely because society demanded such a bondage.
This line of thinking only inflamed her annoyance and verged on sacrilege to boot. Her father might insist on the marriage. She shivered. Could she say no to her father even if she detested the proposed beau? Her father had always provided for her, ensuring her aunt took proper care of her and gave the necessary instructions. She owed him everything.
"Amen. God be with you," Reverend Jenkins finally intoned.
"And with you," the congregation responded, minus Emily's voice.
She glanced at Frank and back to her father. Amy stood up, catching Emily's eye. Emily made to leave the pew, but Frank laid a hand on her arm.
"Easy, girl," Frank said in a whisper. "The rector will think you didn't enjoy the sermon."
"He'd
be correct," Emily muttered, pretending to adjust her Sunday bonnet.
"Frank, wait." Benjamin stood and reached out to catch Frank's arm.
Emily stopped and turned to look up at his striking visage. Frank's fair complexion and golden-blond hair contrasted gloriously with Benjamin's long black hair caught in a queue with a black bow at the end. Another time, perhaps, she might even be attracted to him. Well, if not for his self-assurance verging on arrogance. Besides, Amy would have her hide if she looked at him wrong. She'd been smitten with him since she turned fourteen years old. Hmmm. Perhaps Amy no longer wished to marry because Benjamin had absconded to fight in the war. Without even a note saying good-bye. He'd been gone, goodness, nearly three years now.
He had not changed to the point of being a stranger, but he'd definitely changed. He appeared harder, the boyish glint in his eyes replaced with a cynical light hinting at the horrors he must have witnessed. Her imagination painted images of gashes, gunshots, and blood flowing. She tried to envision what he had experienced but suspected the reality stretched beyond anything in her relatively safe and secure world.
"Are you in a rush?" Frank asked him now. "Mayhap you'd like to walk with us as I escort Miss Emily home?"
"You, an escort?" Benjamin's eyes widened before he laughed. "I thought you'd been promoted to newsman."
Frank glared at him, allowing his stern look to melt into a grin and a wink. "Somebody has to do it. Join us?"
Benjamin assented as he indicated for Emily to precede them down the stone paved aisle and out of the sanctuary. Chivalry obviously had not breathed its last, but she hoped they both understood that just because she walked in front of them did not mean they could push her in the direction they wanted her to go. She had spent her entire life trying to prove herself to her brothers, let alone her father. Her brothers at least accepted her as their intellectual, if not physical, equal. They'd spent many a night debating the possibilities for the outcome of this blessed war for independence. The three brothers could not be kept from the battlefield. They fiercely believed in the philosophical attitude that the Continental Congress took when they declared the fledgling country's independence in 1776. She'd been nineteen years old, then, six years ago, but the day stood out in her memory. As the three strolled toward the back of the church, Emily reviewed the many events she had witnessed leading up to the impending peace treaty soon to free her town.
The town meeting crier had summoned the residents to the Old Exchange in the square. The first day of August dragged on, hot and humid, and the townspeople made it clear they did not stand united on independence. Her adored brothers, Ethan, Bill, and Luke, had teased her about her lack of instruction and vowed she learn how the various forms of government functioned. Then she'd be capable of understanding why the Americans abhorred King George's taxes.
The announcement that the Continental Congress had declared their independence "in order to form a more perfect union" prompted the majority of the audience to cheer. Several men, though, removed themselves from the meeting. Ethan, the gentlest and kindest of her three brothers, explained that the angry men didn't believe in the revolution and vowed to fight on the side of the British dictator. She had cheered right along with her brothers, rejoicing in the sense of shared purpose and possibilities. Cannons boomed salutes along the Cooper. Little did she foresee the war would take her brothers away for months, now years, at a time with little or no word.
The battle for Sullivan's Island in the summer of 1776 had sent terror through the town. Many men had sent their wives and children to the country, fearing the British warships crowding Charles Town's harbor meant to take the city. Emily and Elizabeth refused their father's request to leave while their brothers stayed behind to defend the town and the palmetto log fort on Sullivan's Island. Though he was not pleased, they had stood resolute, and he grudgingly accepted their decision.
The slaves throughout the town had been ordered to strip the lead ornaments from buildings to melt into bullets. The fear had eased with the arrival of Major General Charles Lee, the American commander in chief of the Southern Department, and his several hundred Continentals. Fortunately Emily's father successfully argued against the razing of their house along with several other dwellings in order to create a wider angle for the cannon fire. Then the whole town, collective breaths held, had waited for the imminent attack, which finally erupted on the twenty-eighth day of June. Clouds of smoke hovered over the men defending Sullivan's Island from inside the fort. The sound of the many cannons combined into one continual roar, like a fearsome dragon belching flame and smoke.
Later they learned the men had teetered dangerously low on powder and shot. Only their superior marksmanship allowed them to prevail over the British ships. At nightfall, the cannons had finally stopped. The battle ended with the British ships badly battered and scores of men dead on their decks. General Lee subsequently praised the defenders to George Washington himself.
"Good day, Frank, Benjamin," a man now called from in front of the sanctuary, bringing her out of her reverie. "I need a word with both of you, if you don't mind." The tall, lanky man's clothes hung on his frame, his pale eyes fairly glowing in the dim light of the room. His appearance echoed the myriad sacrifices in food and clothing made by the town.
"One moment, sir." Frank turned and smiled at Emily. "I'll catch up with you outside, all right, dear?"
Her heart fluttered at the endearment, but this was not the place to call more attention to the intimate reference. She struggled to control her expression as Benjamin strode past them without a word, his eyes serious. Frank turned his wayward glance back to Emily's smile.
"Leaving me stranded to fight my way out of here, are you?" Emily kidded him. At his surprised look, she laughed. "Go on, I'll manage."
"You're sure?" He glanced over his shoulder to where his friend waited.
Amy drew her attention, indicating for Emily to wait for her. Emily waved her hand to shoo Frank away. "Go on. I wish to speak with Amy in any case."
"Right. See you in a few minutes then." He lightly gripped her upper arms and made her look at him. "I'll be right there with Benjamin if you need anything. Do not leave without me, understood?"
"Yes, sir." She mock saluted him before he turned and walked away.
Amy caught up with Emily as she began to press forward to make her way from the church.
"I only have a moment to tell you the news." Amy clasped Emily in a brief hug. "I just heard from Father that Frank's house may be surrendered back to the town soon."
"Frank will be very glad to hear such news," Emily replied slowly. She should be happy for him, knowing he longed for his property to be returned. But he'd move out of her father's house and he'd probably move Tommy with him. Then she wouldn't be able to watch the boy grow, to teach him all the little things she wanted to share with him. She'd be just an aunt he saw on occasion.
She should be pleased. It's what she had wanted all along. Really. But the joy failed to follow.
"Maybe not right away," Amy said. "I'm sure the royal governor will concoct some excuse as to why Frank cannot possibly have his home back. Still, surely it bodes well that things are working out, the war actually nears an end."
"God be praised, I hope so," Emily replied. Even if it did mean Frank's absence and the uncomfortable void he'd leave behind. Perhaps it may not happen for some time from the sound of it. "Did you see Benjamin?"
"I'm grateful he did not turn to speak to me." Amy tied her bonnet strings and smiled. "Mayhap he will continue to refrain from doing so."
"His earlier comments do not support your hopes." Emily hugged her cousin. "But if you wish to believe so, then I cannot stop you."
"I must go." Amy gave her another quick hug. "I'll visit you tomorrow."
With that, she wound her way through the thinning crowd. A wave to Frank and Benjamin and Amy disappeared through the door into the bright sunlight shining outside. Benjamin's gaze followed her out of the church. Emi
ly sighed and continued her slower pace to the door, giving Frank time to finish his business with the two men talking quietly with him. She paused to survey the folks remaining inside the building, aware of their gauntness and worried faces even on a glorious Sunday morning.
"I'll wager he's hung for his troubles," a gruff voice murmured over her shoulder, startling her. She could not see who spoke behind her, but the voice sounded familiar.
"He's sly. He'll manage," another gravelly voice responded.
This one, though, she recognized. Mr. Reynolds had commented on this man and his "troubles." Emily glanced over her shoulder and smiled at the two men. The first man she did not know, his shoulders half turned away as he spoke to Mr. Reynolds. Years of hard work on the plantation and the shipyards led to Mr. Reynolds' oversize, muscular arms and body straining his clothing.
"Aye, he's smart, he is. Still, I think the word is out that the good captain is—"
"Quiet," Mr. Reynolds whispered. "Not here. The Reverend approaches."
Emily missed the remainder of their conversation. Fiddlesticks. Which captain did they refer to? She knew of only a handful of captains left in town. Some out on a voyage, others who had fled the besieged city.
She stilled, contemplating the threads of overheard conversations and accompanying looks that finally wove into a tapestry in her mind.
Surely not. Not her father. Everyone knew of his honesty and fairness. He'd not be involved in anything illegal, let alone a hanging offense. Why, they'd only hang a man if he killed somebody, an absurdity for a man such as her father.
Or committed treason.
A chill swept through her.
What did the other man say, something about her father possibly privateering? Could it be? Samantha's warning floated in her memory. No. Surely not. She tied her bonnet and resisted shaking her head in disbelief. Her father never lied. Ever. He stood as straight as a pillar of righteousness, unshaken by what others wanted him to do for their own ends. There to protect his town, his family. He believed in this country even more than he believed in the sanctity of the church and family.