“I know you, sister. Our cousin needs our help.”
“Yes, he does,” said Rachel pulling a chair up in front of the fire. “Jacob’s flaws are his pride and arrogance. He has always felt less no matter how much mother and father adored him. Most importantly, he needs to forgive himself.”
“You have a depth, sister, that understands people.” Ethan sighed and stood up. “I hate going out in the cold.”
Abby stretched beneath the layers of woolen quilts piled high to keep her warm. Her hand moved automatically to her abdomen, nothing evident to mark a baby’s development other than the ruthless urges to empty her stomach. The night wore on refusing to give to daylight and with it the leadened clouds heaved another snowstorm. A beeswax candle burned low on her nightstand, and around it, bent on apparent self-destruction, fluttered a large fawn-colored moth, a survivor from the earlier summer. With fool-hardiness it swooped about the flame, its wings shredding with fire then dropped in a smoldering ruin and died.
Jacob.
The night wore on. The clock in the hall ticked away sullen moments. Only the footsteps of the staff removing sleepily from their quarters on the third floor, down the back stairway to the kitchens below demonstrated any kinds of life. The wind whooshed up a blanket of snow against the windowpanes. The candle starved of wax, sputtered and fizzled out. Abby didn’t perceive the swollen darkness. Rambling fragments coasted across her mind, hauling impressions and imaginings, reveries and dissolutions−as if she was observing the fleeting marches of another life. Strange to her, they leapt off her numb mind like snow off polished ice. Only the persistent beats of her heart, constant and never-ending, told her that she was still alive. All else lingered as an illusion of shadow and silences and the smell of impending uncertainty.
Jacob…
Benevolent mists of sleep offered sporadic oblivion. But when sleep frittered away, graver unrealities, greater confusion left her hovering between dream-worlds that gave her no clue as to where she was, who she was, why she was at all.
The night gave way and then as if ordered by some divine command the light poured through the parted curtains. The greetings of merchants and workers hurrying through the streets rang from below. Abby rose, reached for the chamber pot and heaved. In bitingly cold water, she rinsed her mouth and washed her face, then collapsed on the bed.
Another dawn, another day.
“My niece is not doing well. I worry about her,” said Thomas Hansford taking a sip of his coffee over breakfast.
He held Agnes Quick, a widow, in high regard and had recruited her to take Abby under her wing. The handsome woman, her hair elaborately done and not tucked under a cap like most of the ladies of Boston, breakfasted across from him, boyishly beautiful in her silk. She had married young with her husband dying twenty years into their marriage. From their shared enthusiasm of the rebellion, a friendship had sparked. Both were not ready to marry, and although Thomas had suggested the franchise at one interval, Widow Quick made it known she wanted to remain untied. Thomas respected her wishes and did not push the subject any more, feeling she would warm to the arrangement in due time.
Agnes was haloed by the glorious sunlight that filtered into his dining room. “The storm has stopped. After her fittings today, I suggest a ride about the city to show her Boston so she can get an idea of her new home. We are not all wigwams and savages. I can introduce her to a neighbor of mine, about her age who is a wonderful girl and can offer Abby companionship. Sometimes shared confidences with someone her own age can lift the spirits.”
“Brilliant suggestion. The fresh air will do her good. The girl has closeted herself in her room for the entire two weeks since she arrived.” Thomas helped himself to another sweet roll, slathering on a generous dollop of strawberry jam.
Agnes dipped her spoon in sugar and stirred it into her tea. “Has she told you who the young man was?”
“That’s a dead issue. Spirited like her mother, she may never tell me.” He looked over his buffet table filled with breads, poached eggs, and sausages. “Too bad my cook is leaving, married a farmer and is moving to the country. Will be difficult to replace someone of her talents.” He motioned to the servant to bring him sampling of each. “Have you considered the likely candidates?” He referred to Abby’s prospects.
“I have three in mind, of exceptional means−one in publishing, one in old money, and the third in shipbuilding. The latter we must cross off the list because he will be out of town for a length of time. Too late for our Abby.”
Abby woke with a start, realizing she had fallen asleep again. She dressed with Brigid’s help then hurried downstairs and into the dining room, making appropriate apologies to her uncle and Mrs. Quick for her tardiness. A servant pulled out her chair. “I’ll have the pancakes and maple syrup.” She sampled a warm buttered cake and savored the sweet syrup that rolled over her tongue. She swallowed. So far so good, her stomach did not rebel. She had developed a special fondness for the sweet syrup and maple sugar cakes that her uncle had regarded as an expression of protest against the British Parliament to tax the American colonies.
“We shall go to the seamstresses today and finish the final alterations. You can select the trimmings and we’ll have a quick tour of Boston. After that, I have arranged a tea with a neighbor of mine. She’s a lovely girl about your age,” said the indomitable Mrs. Quick.
Her uncle shook out his newspaper to read. “With the new treaty with France, I don’t think there has ever been so much excitement for our cause. It will mean supplies, arms and ammunition, uniforms, and, most importantly, troops and naval support to our beleaguered Continental Army.”
A bubble of laughter rose in Abby’s throat. Undeniably, she had learned all this spying on Jacob outside William Bingham’s window in Martinique.
“I see they are still giving Captain Jacob Thorne a fair amount of press. The Continental Congress has proclaimed that he gave the United States a sorely needed act of heroism in which to display military pride.”
“Captain Thorne?” Frustration slashed a deep, agonizing wound of what could be, and what could never be, and it spiraled uncontrollably, yielding quickly to resentment. Resentment with the way things were, anger for the differences dividing them, and rage against the prospects of no future.
Like a diurnal bird of prey, Mrs. Quick rounded her gaze on Abby. “He owns the shipyard. You must have seen it on your arrival. It is massive and growing in leaps in bounds with the war and all.”
Her uncle continued reading from behind the paper. “‘His great experience and abilities in naval matters is of much service to our cause. Mark his majestic fabric; he’s a sacred temple, built by hands divine.’ My word they have elevated him to a god.”
To fear an encounter with Jacob? Not anymore. Not on her life. Abby sliced her pancakes with solid even strokes. Protected by her uncle, a man of great influence, Jacob would not dare to touch her. “Why doesn’t everyone in the colonies break out in song and croon his praises? Such adulation no doubt fans his vanity and the leaping hearts of women.”
Agnes Quick halted her teacup halfway to her mouth. Her uncle lowered his newspaper.
Had she slithered that snake of suspicion into their heads? Abby’s perpetual smile ran stakes through her jaws, her throat surged with her rising nausea and her eyes glassed over with the shine forced into them, but not for one instant did she dare let her façade slip. “I believe an outing is long overdue.”
After her indiscretion at breakfast, Abby appreciated that no one pried into her past.
“The red velvet, matches your coloring wonderfully,” said Mrs. Quick, holding up the fabric against Abby’s cheek in the dressmaker’s shop. “Add this to our order,” she commanded the seamstress.
Abby liked the way Mrs. Quick took control. She also delighted in the grand assortment that had just arrived from Paris and surprised that the colonies were on top of the latest fashions. In a blur of dressmakers, measurements, adjustments and selections of fine fabric
s and trimmings, her day sped by. Her dear uncle spared no expense.
The excitement of having new gowns lifted Abby’s spirits, even more so when the widow ordered her driver to give them a tour of the city, passing the King’s Chapel, the Old North Church, a bookstore, the South Meeting House, and beautiful Georgian homes. Even the stinging cold was pleasurable and she marveled at the avid commerce, bustle and animation of Boston, a city far from the raw wilderness her brother, Joshua had shared. A pang came to her stomach. Was Joshua alive?
“We have to cut our tour of the harbor as we have to meet for tea with my neighbor,” reminded Mrs. Quick.
Spared a possible encounter with Jacob, Abby sagged against the seat. They passed the Old West Church and stopped in front of a three-story stately mansion with large bay windows that projected outward, a graceful entrance and above that a fine Palladian window. The widow’s neighbor was of obvious importance.
Hustled into the entry way, Abby admired the magnificent curved stairway with artfully carved moldings of grapes, pears and other fruit. A servant ushered them into a beautiful parlor and gave Mrs. Quick an envelope. Abby warmed her hands by the fireplace, noting the high style furnishings, plush carpeting, and brightly colored wallpaper. A tapestry of griffins, unicorns, castles and other fanciful embroidery covered the wall. The home rivaled her uncle’s.
“I am so pleased to meet Thomas’s niece.”
Abby twirled to meet her hostess, a stunning young woman with reddish brown hair, the deep russet of chestnut, soft blue eyes fringed with long curving lashes, and a smile that had a hint of mischief.
“Oh dear,” said Mrs. Quick. “I cannot stay, I have and emergency at home. I’ll beg my farewell and leave you two young ladies to chat and to get to know each other. When you are done, my driver will take you home, Abby,” said Mrs. Quick. “I almost forgot to make introductions. Abby and this is Rachel.” She rushed out the door.
After her coat was taken, Abby clasped her hands together in unnatural stillness. Why was she so nervous? Was it because she had been so long without the companionship of a female her own age?
“Please, let’s sit in front of the fire,” smiled Rachel, her every movement graceful without even realizing it. “These late winter storms chill the house. How long are you staying in Boston?”
Abby smiled. “For the indefinite future. Mrs. Quick told me you have some unusual hobbies.”
Rachel gave her a sidelong glance. “Most would look down their noses that a woman would have an interest in inventing.”
Abby widened her eyes. “Absolutely not. Please tell.”
“I have made a bathing creation by warming water over a fire in the kitchens and using a bilge pump from a ship, to carry the water to the upper floor and into a tub. I even made a drain system. The invention saves hauling endless buckets of water for the servants.”
Abby sat back awed and immediately taken with the girl’s brilliance. “You are like my brother, Anthony. He is always tinkering and discovering things.”
“Please tell me about what he has discovered.”
Rachel’s enthusiasm was so contagious that for the first time in a long time, Abby relaxed. Hours sped by, tea was served and both girls never ran out of things to say, always finding something to laugh and joke about. Abby sighed. If she were to have a sister she would want one just like Rachel.
“When did you arrive in our fair city?”
“Two weeks ago.” Abby had counted every day, every minute. Never did she stop thinking of Jacob. If time softened feeling then it also unknotted memory, distinguishing the sharp vivid detail of some moments while others faded into nonexistence. With tenderness, she remembered his smile, when he threw back his head and boomed with laughter, the sparkle of his blue eyes, and the furrow in his forehead when he frowned in concentration.
Why was Rachel studying her so oddly?
“My cousin, Jacob had to sail out on an errand for General Washington.”
Did Abby hear her right? “Jacob? Captain Jacob Thorne?” She had been so nervous when Mrs. Quick made introductions. Had she even said Rachel’s last name?
“Do you know him?”
Know him? Heat rose to her cheeks. To know the nights they spent together in his cabin. His hands, his lips, his mouth, his hot kisses, and smolderingly, strong embrace. To know the sense and power of what it was like to feel like a woman. She had played over those scenes in her head countless times. The time apart had not dimmed.
“There has been fanfare in the newspapers,” she prevaricated.
“How did you arrive here?”
Abby had the distinct feeling Rachel was not a simple colonial. “By ship from the south.”
“With the British blockade, I pray your voyage was uneventful.”
Abby cleared her throat. “To say the least.”
Abby’s frown faded replaced by a sad introspection. She wandered listlessly to the window and stood gazing out. “So, this is Captain Thorne’s home?”
Rachel rose and stood beside her, studying her. “Yes. There were only two ships that arrived two weeks ago. One from the north and the other was Jacob’s ship from the south. May I address you as Lady Abigail Rutland?”
Rachel was Jacob’s cousin. A dry heave choked her followed by another. If only, to force down her traitorous stomach. Why now? Abby clamped a handkerchief to her mouth. The room spun.
Rachel guided her to a chair and made her sit.
“How did you know?”
“I’m a terrible eavesdropper. Naturally my curiosity was aroused when my normally composed cousin, Jacob began turning the city upside down, not sleeping or eating. Even now, he has Ethan and the crew combing the city for his Abby.”
“Ethan? I thought he was in an English prison.”
“Ethan is in Boston. The Duke of Banfield helped him escape. You can imagine my surprise to learn someone of that great importance was Jacob’s father and that he helped Ethan escape. So many surprises.” She looked meaningfully to Abby and smiled. “I want you to know you can count me as your friend.”
Tears swelled in Abby’s eyes. Lonely and far from home she had found someone she could trust. “My reputation is in shambles. I cannot go back to England. But I’ll never force Jacob to marry me. It would be for the wrong reasons.”
“You love Jacob?”
“Yes. But I can’t compete with that stubborn righteous mindset.”
Rachel laughed. “Jacob needs a lesson. You put everything in my hands. In four weeks when my irascible cousin returns he will be beside himself. He’ll be chomping at the bit to get back to Boston and set it ablaze to find you. During that time, you’ll be made into the toast of Boston society. Jealousy can be a strong motivator.”
“And how will that occur in such a short time?”
“Leave that to me. Teas, socials, dances. Word spreads fast. You will be the most ravishing creature of all. The icing on the cake is the ball your uncle is giving in your honor−precisely the time when Jacob returns.” Rachel giggled. “I can’t wait to see his expression when he clasps eyes on you.”
Abby gave a tremulous smile.
“I know he loves you. He needs a good woman but most importantly, he needs to make things up to you.” Rachel leaned closer. “Answer me one question, Abby.”
Abby paused to wipe her tears.
“Does Jacob know he is going to be a father?”
As Rachel predicted, Abby was a resounding success. Invitations poured in like a flood drenched river with two or three events to attend inside a day. Rachel along with Mrs. Quick delighted in guiding and accompanying her. The sickness wore off and she felt stronger than ever with the advent of the spring of 1778.
At a dance, she whirled with countless partners in tempo with the waltz. Where was Jacob? The British controlled New York and Philadelphia. What if Jacob were caught and rotted on one of those horrid hulks in Wallabout Bay where thousands of men died and without regard their corpses thrown overboard? Abby shuddered. She
had been so deep in thought she was barely aware of a man that had cut in.
“May I have this dance?”
He had light hair and was dressed in breeches and frockcoat that complimented his wide shoulders. She should have taken exception to his boldness, but the twinkle in his eyes made her lift her hand in acceptance. The orchestra started a minuet and she followed his lead.
“Most accounts of feminine beauty and charm are gross exaggerations. However, I can see that accounts of yours are not.”
“Let it be a lesson not to follow idle gossip.”
“The accounts I received came from Captain Thorne.”
Abby missed a step but the muscular colonial held her tight so no flaw was apparent to their audience. “You know Captain Thorne?”
“We were in plenty of scrapes when we were younger, had our disagreements lent more to that obstinacy of his, but living under the same roof−”
“Ethan?”
“He was going to make a trade of you for me but decided to send you back without the trade. Now that I’ve met you, my cousin must have been out of his mind. Then there is the point I’ve suffered night and day of harsh New England cold looking for you.”
“I apologize for the inconvenience.”
Rachel smiled and waved from the side of the room. Of course, Abby had been set-up and she immediately fell in love with the sibling camaraderie, Jacob’s cousins imparted. “I hope we can be friends.”
“On one condition. You don’t put yourself in front of oncoming carriages to save young boys. Jacob would have my neck if anything happened to you.”
Abby winced. Two days before she had seen the runaway carriage and the young boy beside her. Without thinking of her own peril, she had picked up the boy and rolled out of the way, a hair’s breadth from being crushed beneath the wheels.
“You heard about that?”
“All of Boston heard about it. That the Duke of Rutland’s daughter saved an important patriot’s son? Are you kidding me? You are the heroine of Boston. You could have been killed.”
Sweet Vengeance Page 28