Love's Courage

by Elizabeth Meyette

  Of course, he couldn’t attend the service. He flew the Union Jack above his door. He had to maintain the appearance of a Loyalist. But he could linger nearby, for Father was his patient. He risked his life with every message he conveyed, with every Patriot contact he allowed. Just as Father had. She scanned the people in the churchyard. And who else here was taking such chances?

  If she and Mother fled to Boston, a chain would be broken. Father left her with a dilemma: protect Mother or continue his work.

  A group of British soldiers approached carrying rifles and bayonets, Lieutenant Ashby among them.

  “You people must disperse,” shouted the captain.

  Pastor Farr moved to the front of the crowd. “Please, Captain, this woman has just buried her husband.”

  The captain looked past the minister. “Move along now.” He nodded and one soldier shifted his rifle from his shoulder to present arms.

  People moved apart and walked away. Mother stared, mouth slightly open, eyes glazed. Pastor Farr gently guided her to a bench.

  Jenny seethed. How dare they interrupt Father’s funeral? The soldier angled his rifle in her direction, just an inch or two, just enough. Ashby stared straight ahead, never meeting her gaze. Eventually, the mourners dispersed, so the troop moved on.

  She approached Montclair. “I will do whatever you ask.”

  He studied her, his hazel eyes boring into hers. He nodded, put on his hat, tipped it, and left.

  She stood motionless and let the sun soak into her skin. There was no warmth.

  Jenny sat in the dark parlor, the shutters closed and tied with black crepe. Neighbors had brought food enough to last the week, and Sarie once again encouraged her to eat something. Jenny picked at some fruit, cutting a melon into smaller pieces, to mollify her, but she soon gave up that pretense and Sarie cleared the plates.

  How could she eat? She was hollow. Father was dead, and Andrew was gone from her life. She sighed and sank back into the cushion, resting her head. She didn’t have the strength to worry. She didn’t have the strength to hope.

  The sharp rap of the knocker at the front door startled her. She moaned. No more food, please.

  But it wasn’t food that Sarie brought in. It was Lieutenant Ashby.

  Good God, no.

  He bowed. “Good day, Miss Sutton. May I offer my condolences on the death of your father?”

  Did his eyes glint?

  “Thank you, Lieutenant.” She held out her hand, and he bowed over it. Though his lips did not touch her skin, his warm breath did. She forced herself not to flinch. “Please, have a seat.”

  She rose and pulled the bell cord signaling Sarie, who appeared immediately with a tray of tea and cakes. Ashby ignored the servant as she poured his tea. She kept her gaze downcast, but her lips were drawn taut. She glanced at Jenny as she filled her cup. Jenny sent a faint smile.

  “Thank you, Sarie.”

  Sarie curtsied and left.

  “I also wanted to apologize for the misunderstanding at your father’s funeral. I, that is, my captain, was under orders to disperse any crowd of … people. It was most unfortunate. I hope you will allow me to offer any assistance you may require.” Sitting on the edge of his chair, spine rigid, Ashby sipped his tea.

  Did he ever relax? Was there a pole thrust through his body that prevented him from easing back into the chair?

  “Thank you, Lieutenant …”

  “Please, call me Nigel.”

  “Thank you, Nigel.”

  Silence fell as he waited for her to reciprocate.

  “How long have you been in Manhattan?” Jenny asked.

  “Four months.”

  “So, you were not here when the fire burned much of the city?”

  “No.” His eyes flashed. “I wasn’t here when the rebels set torches to many buildings to prevent the king’s troops from having housing and food.” His nostrils flared.

  She sipped her tea to hide her trembling. His disdain for the Patriot cause was evident in his sneer. The cause Father had just died for.

  “Do you know the circumstances of my father’s death?”

  Nigel frowned. “I assumed he was ill.”

  The crease between his brows and his puzzled look lent veracity to his statement. How naïve does he think I am? He may appear innocent, but surely, he has been informed about Father. She stood.

  “Thank you for stopping by to convey your sympathy. I feel a need to rest now.”

  He clambered from the chair, tipping the small, three-legged table beside it. Reaching out, he caught it before it toppled, but the teacup and saucer crashed to the floor, shards of blue and white porcelain shattering against the dark, pine floorboards.

  His scarlet face matched his coat. He fumbled, trying to brush the slivers of the tea set into his hands. Jenny knelt beside him, stopping his hands. At her touch, he halted and met her gaze. Dark eyes sprinkled with golden flecks held warmth, perhaps passion. Whether or not he was sincere in his sympathy about Father’s death, she was certain he was sincere in his interest in her.

  She stood. “Please don’t bother. We will clean this up.”

  “My deepest apologies for the destruction of your china.” He looked at the floor, still flushed. He bowed. “I can show myself out.” Donning his hat, he hurried to the front door.

  Despite his earlier comment about the rebels, a tinge of sympathy for his distress stilled her antagonism, at least for a moment.

  “Do not be fooled, daughter,” Mother said from the door leading to the back of the house. “He knew exactly what he was doing.”

  Mother had never been cold. This cynicism was an attribute that she wore like a cloak … like the cloak of grief she wore for her husband.

  Jenny shivered.

  Once again Jenny slipped her hand into her skirts to ensure the letter was still in her petticoat pocket. Satisfied, she hurried her steps to the apothecary. Casting her gaze about, she studied the street looking for anyone who seemed interested in her movements. Satisfied, she willed her heart to halt its pounding. Her promise to Montclair had set into motion activities that now included her in the fight against Parliament’s oppression. New York was a mix of Tory and Patriot sympathizers. She must be extremely cautious, because she did not know who was friend or foe.

  Whenever possible, she stole glances to the right and left, scanning the street for anyone particularly interested in her destination. Just last week two men had been arrested, one because he lingered too long outside the British battery, one because he bumped into a passing British guard. Both were in the gaol, awaiting trial. The jeopardy mounted every day, making Jenny extremely cautious.

  She surveyed the street once more before she entered the apothecary and was enveloped in the spicy aroma of herbs and oils. She inhaled, relishing the smell.

  “Good day, Zachariah,” she said, greeting the young boy who was sweeping the floor.

  “Good day, Miss Sutton.” The boy finished his task. “I’ll get me mum.” He disappeared into the back room.

  In a moment, Lucy Carter appeared, accompanied by a man who stood a half-foot shorter than she and sported a day’s grizzled stubble on his face. Smiling at Jenny, she introduced him. “Good day, Miss Sutton. May I introduce Mr. Ephraim Carter, my dear husband?” She beamed at him.

  He smiled warmly as he bent over her hand. “I am your most humble servant, Miss Sutton. My sympathy for the loss of your father. He was a brave man.”

  Jenny detected the aroma of rum as he spoke, but his twinkling eyes gave no hint of its influence.

  “Thank you for your kind words, Mr. Carter.” She couldn’t help but return his warm smile.

  As they spoke, Lucy crushed herbs, sending out a pungent aroma of lavender that covered any scent of rum. “Miss Sutton, I thought perhaps my latest delivery had arrived, but I see I must wait until next week. Have you come for your elixir?”

  Jenny nodded, hearing the words that signaled Lucy was ready to receive the letter.


  “I’ll leave you ladies to your business, then. Good day, Miss Sutton.” He disappeared into the back room.

  She chose her words carefully. “Yes, Mrs. Carter. I’m here to pick up my mother’s elixir. Father’s death has been extremely difficult for her.”

  Lucy blinked in recognition. As she turned to reach for the bottle on the upper shelf, the door to the apothecary opened and Lieutenant Nigel Ashby entered. She froze, her hand stopping in midair.

  Jenny swallowed down her panic. She had to think quickly. Lucy stood still as a statue behind the counter

  “Good day, Miss Sutton.” Ashby bowed slightly. “Mrs. Carter.” He touched the brim of his tricorn.

  Lucy simply stared at him.

  Jenny held out her gloved hand. “Good day, Lieutenant Ashby. How nice to see you again.”

  Ashby bent over her hand. As he did so, Jenny lifted her foot, catching the leg of a table near the entry. Sweeping her foot to the side, she toppled the table, which sent the silver snuffboxes that had been displayed on it tumbling before his feet.

  “Oh. My word,” she exclaimed, stooping to retrieve them. As she did so, she reached into her pocket and grasped the letter.

  “No, let me, please.” Ashby bent to gather the containers.

  “My goodness. You and I seem to have difficulty near small tables,” Jenny said.

  While he was thus engaged, Jenny slipped the letter across the counter to Lucy, who tucked it into her apron. In turn, Lucy retrieved the amber bottle from the top shelf and handed it to Jenny. Lucy’s eyes were bright with fear, her cheeks flushed. Jenny wanted to warn her, to calm her, but there was no opportunity.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Carter. Your elixir eases my mother’s sorrow. You mix the most effective tinctures in all of New York.” Hopefully, her praise would be cause enough to explain Lucy’s heightened color. She glanced at Ashby, who had completed his task and was observing this exchange. He looked from one woman to the other then nodded toward the bottle in Jenny’s hands.

  “Perhaps you would allow me to sample this renowned curative.”

  She faltered. “Oh, that I could, Lieutenant Ashby. But it is most potent. I must return immediately, for my mother worries when I am about town, and she is in need of her afternoon dose. Since we are in mourning, we cannot receive guests at present.” The bottle burned in her hands. Did it send out a signal that hidden within was a message … a message that could bring her to the end of a rope?

  He bowed. “Of course. At the least, let me escort you to your home.”

  “You are most kind.” Jenny nodded slightly. “Good day, Mrs. Carter.”

  Lucy stood mute, gaping. Jenny widened her eyes at her.

  “Oh—good day, Miss Sutton.” She stirred as if waking from a dream.

  Ashby opened the door, and Jenny swept out of the shop. He turned to look at Lucy once more before he followed Jenny out into the street.

  Jenny stilled the trembling in her arms as she carried the bottle.

  “Allow me.” He took it from her. He offered her his arm, and she slipped her gloved hand through to rest lightly on his forearm. “How is your mother?”

  “She is—” Jenny stumbled, and he steadied her.

  “Are you all right, Miss Sutton?”

  She nodded. “Yes, thank you, Lieutenant Ashby. I just caught my heel on a stone.”

  And caught sight of Andrew slipping around the side of the building. There was no doubt in her mind.

  Andrew was here.

  Chapter 10

  Andrew ducked into the backdoor of the apothecary, almost knocking the mortar and pestle from Mrs. Carter’s hands.

  “Excuse me! So sorry.” He folded his trembling hands around hers to steady the set. But her hands were trembling, too.

  He saw her. He saw Jenny.

  She glanced at his hands then his face. “You’re as shaken as I am. I’m mixing this for my nerves, and I have enough for two. You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “Not a ghost—an angel.” He kissed her cheek.

  “Get away with you.” Her giggle followed her to the front of the shop.

  “So. You’ve seen Jenny. Has she seen you?”

  Montclair stood behind him.

  Andrew slowly turned to face him. “Yes, I’m certain she saw me.”

  “Well, you’ve been here all of three days, and finally got what you were seeking.”

  No, I’ve been seeking to hold her, to be with her, not simply see her from a distance. Every night since he’d arrived, he had been watching the house where Jenny and her mother were staying. Seeing Jenny move past a curtain, wondering if it was she who lit a lantern or a candle when a soft glow illuminated a window, was driving him mad. His body ached to hold her. His heart swelled at any sight of her or even a hint of her presence. But he had to be cautious. He could not put her at risk by simply walking up to her front door.

  “The Suttons are under suspicion. You can’t go to her, for any connection between you could alert the British.” Montclair’s gaze bore into his.

  Andrew ran his hands through his hair. Hiding in the back room of the apothecary shop allowed him too many hours of thinking, of longing. Today when he heard Jenny’s voice in the front room, he almost burst in … but then that British officer appeared.

  Instead, he listened at the door, pressing his finger to his lips to signal silence to Zachary. The boy saluted and sat quietly. Then the table crashed, again Andrew wanted to run into the room. Was Jenny all right? Had the officer accosted her? A tug on his sleeve pulled him back. Zachary stood with his finger to his own lips. Andrew grinned. He slipped out the back door and stood at the corner of the shop, waiting for the door to open. Waiting for a glimpse of his Jenny. To be this close was deliriously painful.

  When she came out of the shop, she was smiling at the officer. Andrew’s heart dropped. She put her arm through the man’s and they turned in his direction. She caught sight of him, her eyes widening in recognition. She stumbled and the officer caught her, steadying her with an arm around her waist.

  Though he hated seeing her with the man, he supposed she was trying to throw off any suspicion she was under. But having that officer around was going to make it almost impossible to meet with her. Which he intended to do despite Montclair’s warning.

  Jenny paced the room. Stopping by a front window, she eased back the shutter and peered into the evening. Surely, Andrew was out there. Right now. Watching for her. It was all she could do to resist running out into the night, her roiling impatience a prod for action. But she had promised Father she would take Mother safely away. If Andrew were here, how could she leave him again?

  “Child, what is the matter with you?” Mother’s fingers stilled over her embroidery.

  “Nothing, Mother. Nothing.”

  Mother dropped her handiwork to her lap. “I believe there is something. What is it?”

  Jenny took a seat in the chair beside Mother. How could she burden Mother any further? Her face was pale and drawn with grief. She moved through the day like a ghost, ethereal and slow. Sometimes she didn’t respond to Jenny’s conversation but stared ahead, eyes misted with sorrow. They hadn’t even discussed fleeing to Boston yet as she had promised.

  How could Jenny leave now?

  “Do you remember my mentioning Uncle Jonathon’s brother-in-law? A young man named Andrew?”

  “I believe you mentioned him in every letter.”

  “Of course I did not.” Jenny’s face warmed with her blush.

  “I’ve saved the letters. Shall I show you?”

  One corner of Jenny’s mouth lifted in a smile. Mother softly pressed a finger to her cheek.

  “Oh, that dimple, Jennifer. An angel poked a finger there to see if you were done.”

  Tears sprang to Jenny’s eyes. “That was what Father always said.”

  “Yes. He also said that dimple would be the undoing of many a young man.”

  Jenny felt the heat deepen as she remembered Andrew kissi
ng said dimple, claiming it melted his heart.

  “You miss Andrew?” Mother’s voice was soft.

  She nodded. Now the tears were not for Father. She leaned forward, dropping her voice. “I saw him. Today. At the apothecary shop.”

  “He was in the shop?”

  “No. I saw him outside. He was hiding along the side of the building. I think he knows I saw him.” A small cry escaped from her throat. “He’ll be imprisoned if he’s caught.”

  Mother’s gentle smile had disappeared. A crease formed between her brows, her lips drawn with apprehension. “Laurence must know he is here. Did he say anything to you today?”

  “No. I didn’t see Mr. Montclair today, just Mrs. Carter. Oh, I’m so sorry. In my confusion in seeing Andrew, I forgot to give you this.”

  She rose to retrieve the amber bottle. Uncorking it, she pulled out a small piece of parchment. Puzzled, she turned it over and over. It was blank. Handing it to Mother, she started at a knock on the back door.

  Mother pocketed the paper and motioned for her to remain in the parlor. She hurried out to the hallway, which led to the back of the house.

  Jenny’s heart raced. Could it be Andrew calling at this hour? She dared not hope, but her heart betrayed her, leaping in her chest, blood rushing through her veins. Was that voice his? Unable to restrain herself, she ran to the door and peered down the hall. Her heart dropped. This man was shorter than Andrew, and his hair was dark. His clothes were dark. He could easily disappear into the night unobserved.

  He glanced at Jenny, pulling his hand back into his cloak.

  Mother patted his arm. “Mr. Gordon, may I introduce my daughter, Jennifer? Jennifer, Mr. Daniel Gordon.”

  He bowed. “I am your servant, Miss Sutton.”

  Jenny approached, hand extended. He bent over it then shifted his gaze to Mother.

  “Jennifer is aware of our mission.”

  He hesitated then drew a folded letter from beneath his cloak. Mother exchanged the parchment Jenny had just passed to her for his letter.