Love's Courage

by Elizabeth Meyette

  The cold water shocked him as he plunged into the stream. Still able to hear the gunfire, he took long strokes, diving as deeply as possible. Tallmadge said it would have made no difference, but it might have. If the British had been taken by surprise …

  He lay on his back, head in the water, looking up through the leafy maples. The water covering his ears blocked any sound of gunfire—it blocked any sound at all. He relaxed, floating. The sky was a brilliant blue, the leaves etched green against it. He had completed the mission Montclair sent him on. Now he just wanted to return to Manhattan as quickly as possible. He needed to know that Jenny was safe, and that Lieutenant Ashby was nowhere near her. He wanted to stand guard outside her house every night and protect her.

  He wanted to hold her. To inhale her scent of lavender and lilac. To kiss her. To make love to her. Despite the cool water, his body stirred. But he had to stay away. That was how he could protect her.

  Another gunshot. This one very close. Too close.

  Jenny’s eyes burned from lack of sleep and crying. How many times did she get up to look out the window toward the oak tree, wondering if Andrew had returned from Setauket and stood guard there? How many times did she start to put on the disguise she had worn, planning to sneak out and see for herself if he was watching outside her house? But just as he promised to keep her safe, she must take care to not endanger his life.

  Where was he now? How long would the trip to Setauket take? With the British presence there, he would be in grave danger. Pressing her hands together, she sent up a silent prayer for his safety. She should have ridden with him as she did when they rescued Uncle Jonathon. But, no, that would have put him in more jeopardy.

  She hadn’t been able to eat since Andrew left, and this morning she picked at her breakfast, stirring the suppawn until the thick porridge absorbed the maple syrup Sarie had drizzled over it. Breaking off a hunk of the warm, rye bread, she nibbled at it for a moment, then abandoned it on the plate. The rich, dark coffee soothed her throat, hoarse from muffling her sobs through the night.

  “You must keep up your strength, Miss Jenny.” Sarie poured more coffee into her cup. “Your mama needs you to be strong. She don’t need another sick person to care for.”

  Jenny took a spoonful of porridge, but she couldn’t swallow it.

  Sarie stared at her. “Miss Jenny …”

  Jenny swallowed. The porridge slid down like a lump of mud. She snatched her coffee and took a hearty gulp.

  The front door knocker sounded. She looked up, her heartbeat quickening. Could Andrew have returned from Setauket? Would he brazenly appear at her front door in daylight? No. Her heart sank.

  “I’ll get that. You jus’ keep eatin’.” Sarie shot her a stern look.

  Jenny sighed and forced down another spoonful. Sarie was right—Mother didn’t need another person to nurse. Caring for Father had taken its toll on Mother, and now, taking over the system of messages was further draining her strength. Jenny nibbled at a bit of bread as she contemplated the magnitude of what they were about. If the British discovered … She jumped at Sarie’s voice.

  “Lieutenant Ashby is callin’, Miss Jenny.” Sarie stood at the door, her brilliant blue eyes guarded with fear.

  “Thank you, Sarie.” She toyed with the porridge remaining in her bowl as if lost somewhere in the clotted gray mass were answers for to how to handle Lieutenant Ashby’s attentions. Ashby had been kind when he’d come to pay his respects after Father’s funeral, but just the sight of his red uniform made her stomach squirm. Maintaining a pleasant composure in front of him took all her reserve. She started as her reverie was interrupted by the sound of the dining room door opening.

  “Do you want me to tell the lieutenant that you are indisposed?” Sarie asked.

  “No, I’m coming.” As she passed Sarie, she squeezed her arm gently. “Everything is fine,” she whispered.

  Sarie’s wide eyes revealed her doubt.

  Jenny stopped outside the door to the parlor, brushed her hand over her stomach to quell the butterflies, and took a deep breath. Squaring her shoulders, she opened the door and swept into the room.

  Lieutenant Ashby rose. “Good day, Miss Sutton.” He bowed over her hand. As usual, his posture was erect, his spine ramrod straight. The perfect British officer.

  “Good day, Lieutenant. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” She tried to breathe evenly and dispel the quaking in her legs. The idea of this man standing outside her house a few nights ago at almost the exact moment she’d emerged shook her to her core. She forced a smile and indicated a chair as she took her own.

  Sarie carried in a tray set for coffee. The blue and white porcelain cups rattled against the saucers, and the rich, fragrant liquid sloshed out of the spout of the silver coffeepot. She set the service before Jenny, meeting neither her gaze nor the lieutenant’s. She bobbed a curtsey and left.

  Jenny lifted the pot, spilling a bit more of the steaming liquid. She forced her hands to be steady as she poured and served Ashby’s coffee. I must be strong. I cannot let him see my fear. She stared directly into his eyes and smiled, knowing her dimple would likely catch his attention.

  He shifted in his seat and crossed his legs.

  “Forgive my clumsiness.” Taking a napkin, she wiped up the spill. “I’m still affected by my father’s death. My grief often takes hold when I least expect it.”

  He shifted again. “No apology necessary, Miss Sutton. I understand completely. The loss of your father surely must be a great sorrow to you and your mother.” He cleared his throat. “Do you have … anyone to watch over you? That is, I mean, to ensure your safety in this city? Every day there is more tension with the rise of the rebellious patriots.”

  “I’m sure we have nothing to be anxious about.” Unable to still her trembling, she reached out to place her cup on the table beside her.

  “Oh, but you do.”

  His harsh voice startled her, and she rattled the cup, almost spilling its contents. She looked up at him, her heart thumping. “What do you mean?” She searched his face for some clue of his intent. Was he here to arrest her? And Mother? They should have left immediately after Father’s funeral as she’d promised. But then she would have missed precious time spent with Andrew.

  He scrubbed his hands along his thighs. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to speak so curtly.” He took a deep breath. “There are subversive elements in the city who are covertly working against the Crown.” He looked at the floor as he spoke. “When captured, these rebels are put in gaol until they are tried for treason.” He paused as the clock ticked the minutes. Finally, he spoke again. “Most are hanged.”

  Heat stabbed through her. Her trembling was impossible to still. Could he hear her heart hammering?

  “I just want to ensure your safety … and, of course, your mother’s.”

  He was warning her.

  Standing, he picked up his hat by one of its corners. She stood, too, extending her hand.

  “I will take my leave now.” He bowed over her hand. “I am your most obedient and humble servant, Miss Sutton.” His gaze bored into her.

  With perfect posture, he left the room.

  Chapter 14

  Andrew jumped up from his leisurely floating at the sound of the nearby gunshot.

  “I don’t know what your reverie concerns, Andrew, but it doesn’t seem to involve your mission.” Benjamin Tallmadge stood on the shore, a rifle resting on his shoulder. “Despite your impetuous nature, you’re obviously dedicated to the cause. Just keep your head about you.” He turned toward the house and motioned for Andrew to follow.

  He did so, hopping into his breeches as he went. Once inside, he sat on a chair in the dining room to don his stockings and boots. His shirt had dried a bit and no longer stuck to his body, and he welcomed the coolness of the shuttered room.

  Tallmadge held up a parcel of parchment tied in a leather strap. “Listen carefully.” He riffled the edges of the blank papers. “The
only sheet that has vital information is the fifth sheet in the bundle. Do you understand that?” He counted from the top of the pile and uncovered the fifth sheet. “The strap is tied in a bow on the top of the pile. You must count down to the fifth sheet. All the others are blank.”

  Andrew looked at him as if he were daft. “Sir, they’re all blank.”

  Tallmadge patted his shoulder. “They’re all blank for those who should not see them.” He winked. “Montclair will know what to do. But in the event that you are stopped, all you carry are blank sheets of paper, perhaps to write love letters to that beauty who haunts your mind.”

  He nodded, still not convinced. “Yes, sir.”

  “Speed is of the utmost importance. I cannot stress the urgency in this missive. Do you understand? No stopping along the way to visit your lass. What is her name, son?”

  He swallowed. Should he reveal her name? Tallmadge’s clear eyes met his. There was no subterfuge there; he was actually interested. If Mr. Montclair trusted him, he could. “Jenny Sutton.”

  Tallmadge sat back. “Edward Sutton’s daughter?” He toyed with the tankard before him. “I’ve heard he died from his wounds.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Tallmadge looked at the bundle of paper. “What we are about is a rebellion. Valor is required. If you love her, and I believe you do, you must protect her. She and her mother are probably being watched.”

  “They are, sir.” He related the conversation he’d heard between Lieutenant Ashby and his superior.

  “Then you must return at once. I will get you on a safe boat so you can return by Long Island Sound.”

  Benjamin Tallmadge carried an unlit lantern as he led Andrew through a forest of maples where the air was cool and the lowering sun was less severe. Dried leaves crunched beneath their feet as they walked in silence. While the leather pouch slung over his shoulder carried only the sheaf of parchment, Andrew felt its weight in consequence. He shifted it to lie diagonally across his chest.

  They broke out of the trees and walked to the edge of the water where a rowboat was perched on the shore. Seagulls swooped above them and waves gently lapped the sand. The evening sun shot fiery fingers of orange and magenta into the wispy clouds to the west. Andrew shaded his eyes as he studied the water, wishing his insides were as calm. The two men doffed their boots and rolled down their stockings, stuffing them inside.

  “Some call these waters Long Island Sound, some The Devil’s Belt. To use the current, you’ll want to stay toward the middle of the sound, but it could put you in the path of British ships and Tory whaleboats. They patrol for Patriots who sneak across from Connecticut or up from New York City.” Benjamin hefted the bow off the sand. “If you see or hear any approaching boats, row hard for the shore.” He pushed the rowboat into the water, Andrew hurrying to help.

  The water on Andrew’s feet and legs sent shivers up his body. He welcomed the relief from the damp, warm air. Once the boat was fully in the water, he tossed in his boots and hopped aboard, spraying water inside. He adjusted the leather pouch over his shoulders, tapping the parchment within.

  Benjamin lit the lantern, placing it on the seat and shook his hand. “Godspeed, Andrew.”

  He nodded his thanks and rowed out into the sound. As he floated away, Benjamin waved a final farewell, turned, and disappeared into the woods. The hollow night sound of the surrounding water engulfed him in loneliness as the sun sank into the horizon. He had been lonely before, but his determination to find Jenny had pushed from his mind the luxury of dwelling on it. Now, knowing where she was, knowing he’d be near her again soon, gave him too much time to think. He swallowed and rowed harder.

  In the ebony night, lit only by the rising half-moon, Andrew fought against the current. His shoulders ached and blisters sprouted on his palms. Every so often, he rested a bit, but the rowboat floated too close to the shore.

  He took a hunk of bread and slice of cheese that Benjamin had provided, and sculled with one oar while he munched the food. He slaked his thirst from an oak canteen filled with cider. Refreshed, he resumed his rowing, though the muscles in his back protested. His hands burned as the blisters were rubbed raw.

  He stopped, listening. A boat was approaching him from behind. As he turned, the lanterns at the bow of a small whaler flickered in the dark. In panic, he redoubled his efforts, but to no avail. The boat was closing in. The faster he rowed, the closer it came. His arms trembled with the effort.

  “Stop. In the name of King George, stop.”

  A rifle shot cracked, the bullet stinging the water just off the side of his rowboat.

  The whaler caught up to his boat and pulled astern. A man balancing on the gunwale pointed his rifle at him. “Ship your oars.”

  He did as he was told, and another man reached for one of them. Now his entire body quavered. Were these men Tories or Patriots? What could he say to discover their loyalty? Tallmadge had warned about Tories defending these waters against anyone opposing the Crown. But perhaps there were also men sympathetic to the cause …

  “Gi’ it here.”

  He lifted one oar so the man could reach it. They hauled his rowboat in, secured it, and pulled him on board. The captain, in dark clothes and a woolen cap, thrust the lantern toward his face.

  “Who are ya’? And why are ya’ skulking through the waters of the sound at night?” His putrid breath forced Andrew back a step. The captain closed the space. “Speak, boy.”

  “My name is Andrew Wentworth. I’m returning to Manhattan.”

  “Ya’ look like a rebel to me.” He spat on the deck. Other crew members nodded, mumbling in agreement.

  They were Tories.

  “Let’s see what ya’ carry, boy.” He seized the leather pouch, yanking it over Andrew’s head, twisting his neck. Untying the strap, he opened the pouch and withdrew the sheets. “What have we here? Carrying messages to the Sons, are we?” He guffawed, and again Andrew recoiled at his rank breath.

  “No, sir,” Andrew said, trying not to inhale the cloud of foul air.

  The captain pawed through the sheets, turning them over, searching for a message. He squinted at Andrew. He stuffed the sheets back into the pouch and threw it at him. Andrew caught it before it went over the side of the boat.

  “Gaw. What’re ya’ about, boy?” The captain shoved his shoulders.

  Grimacing against the pain in his aching muscles, Andrew clutched his shoulder, opening a blister on his hand. He fought lightheadedness, regained his composure, and straightened. “I am returning home from Setauket.” He saw no reason to lie. They did not know his reason for the journey, and since Setauket was under British rule—as was New York—he would let them assume he was a Tory.

  “Setauket? Why were ya’ there?”

  Thoughts—no, lies—ran through Andrew’s mind. Which would be the most convincing? Why hadn’t he and Major Tallmadge planned on his being stopped and questioned?

  “My uncle owns a farm. He was in need of help with his crop.”

  A man piped up from the back of the crew. “I’m from Setauket. Who’s yer uncle?”

  Sweat prickled along Andrew’s spine. Damnation. What am I to do?

  The captain swung the lantern toward the speaker. “Quiet. This isn’t a social call.” He turned back to Andrew, holding the lantern near his face. Closing the space between them, his foul breath whispered Andrew’s fate. “We could turn ya’ in to the British, but what fun would that be?” He looked back at his crew.

  At that signal, they laughed, nudging each other and exchanging crude remarks.

  He turned back to Andrew. “I think tomorrow will be a fine day for a swim.”

  A roar went up from the crew. Shouts of agreement rang through the air.

  “Yes, a fine day for a keelhaulin’.”

  Andrew’s knees turned to rubber. It took all his strength to remain standing. He would not show the captain his fear. He stood taller and glared into the man’s steely gaze.

  He’d never
heard of anyone surviving being keelhauled.

  Chapter 15

  “What are we to do, Mother?” Jenny paced the parlor. “He was warning me, I’m certain of it.”

  “Indeed.” Mother stared into the cold hearth. “We must prepare to return to Boston.” The shutters were still closed against the early August morning, but sunlight slipped through the slats, painting her face with stripes of shadow and light. “I will need to contact Laurence so no further messages are delivered here. Until that is communicated, we must remain.” She looked up. “It would be best if you went ahead of me. I can send Sarie and Isaac with you …”

  “No.” Jenny rushed to her, kneeling before her and taking her hands. “I will not leave you.”

  Mother brushed back her hair. “It is for the best, darling.”

  She shook her head. “No. I will stay with you.”

  “You have your father’s courage … and stubbornness.” She kissed her forehead. “Let me prepare a letter for you to take to Laurence.”

  Jenny followed her into the office. Mother assembled a sheet of parchment, a quill pen, and an inkbottle. She dipped the quill into the bottle and began to write. Nothing appeared on the paper. She ran her finger along the edge to mark where a new line would begin.

  “Mother?” Jenny frowned, puzzled.

  “Hush, darling. All is well.” She finished writing, folded the parchment in thirds, and laid it on the desk. Taking out a block of red wax, she heated it, dripped it on the fold, and sealed it with a brass seal embossed with a “B.” She glanced through the window at the street. “This is not an ideal time to be about, but Laurence must make other arrangements as soon as possible. Are you willing to make this trip, Jennifer?”

  “Of course.” Picking up the letter, she fought down fear as she smiled at Mother.

  Jenny noticed immediately that the large porcelain jar was standing in its place in the window display, so there was no message for her to retrieve. Good. That was one less thing to worry about. Her heartbeat quickened as she entered the shop. The pungent aroma of camphor greeted her as Lucy Carter poured the oil into a small amber bottle.