by Rachel Hauck
Until one day she saw Hamilton Lightfoot no longer as the pesky boy from the neighboring farm with whom she caught crawdads in the creek, but as the handsome man with an awkward elegance, an abandoned smile, and vibrant eyes.
“—Miss Esther? Did you hear me?” Twimball angled forward, resting his arms on the edge of the table. “I’m glad we’ve this moment alone. I want to request permission of your father to call upon you.”
“Call upon me?” Esther’s cup rattled against the saucer. “How kind, Lieutenant. I’m flattered. But I’m just home from a busy season in London. I’m rather weary of being coquettish, batting my eyes from behind a fan. Besides, when this ghastly war has ended, you shall sail for England. My feet, however, are forever planted in South Carolina.”
The lieutenant blanched, rearing back. “You won’t give me a chance? May I ask why? Certainly you have no other attachments.”
“Why, Lieutenant Twimball, are you not more astute to the fairer sex?” Esther wiped her lips with her napkin and gave the solider a coy smile. “A woman never reveals her hand.”
And yes, she had another attachment. There was no suitor in the drawing rooms, salons, or ballrooms of London who compared to him.
Isaac returned with a note in hand. “This came for you, Miss Esther.”
“Thank you, Isaac.” She pressed her pale hand against his dark one. “I’m happy to be home with you, Sassy, and Kitch.”
“As we are to have you here. Slathersby Hill is not the same without you. Your father will never admit it, but he was most depressed during your absence.”
“Then he never should have sent me away.”
Clearing his throat, the lieutenant stood, straightened his jacket, and excused himself. “I must be on my way. I’ll say good day to your father, then be off.”
“Good day, Lieutenant.”
Isaac cleared away the remaining dishes, and Esther was alone. Holding the note in her lap, she peeled back the folded edges and read four simple words.
Sundown at the willow.
Such a flutter in her chest. The hours could not pass quickly enough. So, he knew she was home. Esther moved to the window and scanned the garden down to the road, toward the fields, and through the long, morning shadows.
She must find something to occupy herself until the evening or go mad with the waiting.
4
HAMILTON
The idea of taking up arms did not motivate him. As a boy in Virginia, he’d observed what one man could do to another with musket in hand, and he cared not to participate.
Yet deep down, in the quiet when his head listened to his heart, Hamilton knew he could not escape this war. He ached to take up arms. Give him a reason, just one, to release his rage.
Now the four men sitting at his uncle’s kitchen table, including the captain of the Upper Ninety Six Militia, John Irwin, attempted to do just that—give him a reason.
“Ham, we need your skills.” His friend Ben Quincy propped his elbows on the dinner table, the orange hue of sunset against the window reflecting in his eyes.
“I’m not of the mind to go killing.” He let his reasoning, not his passion, do his talking.
“You’re the best shot in the backcountry,” Irwin said. “We could use you as a sharpshooter.”
Beside Irwin sat William Brown, John Brown, and Jacob Broadway, sipping coffee and thanking Aunt Mary for a bite of dinner.
“I can pick off a squirrel with a rifle at seventy yards, but I don’t care to aim at a man.” Hamilton shoved away from the table and walked to the open back door, the breeze rushing inside. “I’m sorry you all wasted your time.”
“You’re a Loyalist?” Jacob weighed in. When Hamilton first arrived in the region as a boy of ten, scared, wounded, and alone, Jacob had been kind and fatherly to him. Hamilton respected the man. “Want to see yourself in a red coat?”
Uncle Laurence leaned on his cane, the gout keeping him from the battle. “He’s no Loyalist, believe you me.”
Hamilton returned to the table, restless. The sun drifted toward the west, and unless he rid himself of these men posthaste, he’d leave Esther alone at their willow tree by the creek, wondering if she’d been abandoned.
“What about you?” Irwin turned to Uncle. “You’ve heard what Captain Huck and his men are doing to the Presbyterian churches. Burning them. Calling them ‘houses of sedition.’ Can you come along with us?”
“We’ve heard the news of Huck, of Waxhaw and that business up in York at Hill’s Ironworks, Captain.” Uncle Laurence pointed to his foot. “But I couldn’t go the distance. I’ll do my bit here. Plus, I put in my time during the Seven Years’ War. I’m for the Cause, but I’m best here in the pulpit preaching, protecting the women and children.”
“I’ve heard your speeches, sir. You stirred my heart for my country and my God.” Irwin patted Uncle on the back, then turned to Hamilton. “Militia ain’t regular army. You come along for three months, and when your time is up, you return home if you don’t have a taste for the fight. Every American and South Carolinian ought to give some effort to the cause of liberty.”
“I have to follow my own mind.”
“Do you deny your neighbors and friends when we need you most?” Ben said. “No man in the upcountry can match your skill.”
“Don’t need my skill. What of the Virginia regulars? Word is they’re the best sharpshooters.”
“We need more. Come with us on the line. You’re quick and steady.” Ben refused to give up. The others around the table nodded as they downed their coffee.
“You’re a good Presbyterian, aren’t you?” Hamilton hated it when Irwin appealed to his spiritual side. “Do you want Huck to get away with his atrocities?”
“By committing some of my own?”
“Now, hold on here, son,” Uncle Laurence said. “The Lord allows for the killing that comes with war.”
“Don’t mean I have to be a part of it.”
“That arrogant Huck would claim to be the victor if the Lord Jesus Christ Himself came down to lead our side,” Ben said.
Hamilton reached for a slice of bread. “I’m sure the Lord does not need me to defend His name. He’s capable of doing that on His own.”
“You sit aside, Hamilton, and you will be forced to choose.” This from John Brown. “And you may find yourself aiming your musket at one of us.”
“We’re going after Huck in the morning, joining forces up in York.” Captain Irwin started for the door, the others following. “We’re meeting at dawn by Thompson’s farm.”
“I wish you well, my friends,” Hamilton said.
Though they’d gone, the kitchen echoed with their words. Uncle Laurence moved toward the parlor while Aunt Mary busied herself with washing dishes.
“Fear is an unkind master, Hamilton,” she said, turning to him, wiping her hands on her apron.
“Indeed it is. But it’s not the fear of fighting that has me bound.” He flipped his hat from the hook by the door. “Thank you for supper, Aunt. Now, I’ve something to attend.”
“If not fear, then what is your hesitation?” Uncle Laurence called after him, but Hamilton continued on his way.
Uncle Laurence was his father’s younger brother. He and Mary had taken Hamilton in when a redcoat’s bayonet and a housefire orphaned him.
Childless, Uncle Laurence and Aunt Mary loved him like a son. And he was grateful.
“Hamilton.” Uncle Laurence waddled after him, leaning heavily on his stick. “What is your hesitation? Death?”
“I don’t fear dying.” He paused by the well for a ladle of water. “Some days I think I’d welcome it. But if I give my life on the battlefield, who will care for you and Aunt Mary? Who will do the heavy lifting on the farm?”
And his unspoken question—what of Esther? Hamilton glanced toward the fading golden light on the horizon. He must be off.
“’Tis all? Just your aunt and me?”
“Yes.” No. There was his true trepidation. T
hat once he’d fired the first shot, he wouldn’t stop until every man in His Majesty’s army had tasted his own blood.
“Then why do I sense you are still carrying a grudge? The Lord commands us to forgive.”
“Every day, Uncle Laurence. Every day.” He backed down the hill toward the edge of Quill Farm, toward the path to the willow tree.
“He’d want you to join, you know,” Uncle Laurence called after him. “Your pa. He’d be proud. Gave his own life for the Cause, as you know.”
Pa. The image of his father’s sharp eyes under bushy eyebrows stirred a longing in Hamilton. “Good night, Uncle.” He refused to carry on the debate. This war would just have to pass without him.
“Where are you off to now?” Uncle Laurence stepped toward him. “To see a young beauty returned from England?”
“Which beauty might that be?”
“Careful, son, she’s been presented to society and in court. She will not be the young lass who ran the hills with you in the summer. Guard your heart.”
Guard his heart? He’d done nothing but, since arriving in South Carolina. For once, he wanted to let go, be free, love!
War? He had no appetite for it. But love? He’d hungered for nothing else since the day Esther wrote she was sailing home.
CHLOE
Stepping from the bridal party limo, she made her way inside the Greystone Mansion, passing through the foyer, over the classic, marble black-and-white checkerboard floor to the outside courtyard, her pink stiletto heels dangling from her fingers.
Violet and Dylan’s wedding had been exquisite, overflowing with love and romance. And it made Chloe ache.
But love did not seem to ache for her.
Her teen romance with Chris Painter ended when he confessed to a magazine, “I’ve not met the love of my life yet, no . . . I’m only nineteen!”
She started dating actor Clark Davis two years later when he showed up at her twenty-first birthday. He perpetually cheated on her during their first and only year.
After Clark, came musician Finley Farmer, who was a great guy but still in love with his ex.
Last but not least, the hunky, egotistical actor Haden Stuart. An on-set romance that flamed into a quick and hot relationship.
Chloe entered the reception patio and descended the low, stone staircase to the outdoor reception where the golden aura of candles, sconces, and outdoor patio lamps accented dozens of white and gold tables. Overhead, a million stars gazed down from the Beverly Hills sky.
“Our table is over there.” Stella, Chloe’s friend and fellow bridesmaid, met her by the fountain. “Why are you carrying your shoes?”
“The heel broke.”
Stella made a face. “You’d think the bride of a hundred-thousand-dollar wedding would pick better shoes.”
“A hundred thousand?” Chloe aimed for the first open seat at the bridal party table. “Times five.”
“Everyone’s saying they’ll be divorced before her father finishes paying the bill.” Stella fell in step with Chloe. She was a friend from high school, a cheerleader turned teacher. Her boyfriend was Ted, an actor.
“Good grief, Stella, wait until the honeymoon is over before having them in court.” Chloe dropped her clutch on her seat at the table and her shoes underneath. Though Chloe defended the blissful bride and groom, it was well-rumored among their friends that neither one of them wanted a lifetime commitment. They both believed marriage was a temporal contract that ended when one of the parties “fell out of love.”
Chloe never understood how one could simply fall out of love. Was it an open window, a trap door? Love was a verb, an action word—one that must be exercised daily. Chloe once met American heiress Corina Del Rey, who said she chose to love well. Even when it hurt. And she ended up married to her real-life prince, Prince Stephen of Brighton Kingdom.
Was there a prince in the universe for Chloe? One she could love well her whole life? If so, would she ever meet him?
Violet and Dylan entered the reception, and the guests rose up to cheer. They looked blissful, every bit like two lovers set to go the distance.
Oh, please do, friends, please do.
“Chloe, you want something to drink?”
“Please.” Chloe walked with Stella to the giant, blue coolers stationed around the tables and by the bar. She searched for something cold and fizzy. Bridesmaiding was thirsty business.
Stella retrieved a water and leaned into Chloe, linking their arms. “I think Ted’s getting serious.”
“Really?” Chloe guzzled a cold Diet Coke, inadvertently burping in her friend’s ear. “I thought you found him droll and boring.”
Stella shrugged. “He’s grown on me. Besides, I’m ready, you know. The husband, the bills and mortgage, maybe a picket fence, a few runny-nose brats.”
“Ooo, such a picture of paradise you paint,” Chloe said. “You know you’re allowed to wait for the right man to come along before—”
“Look, there’s Ted.” Stella made a big show of blowing him a kiss. He mimed catching it and putting it to his lips.
Oh brother. Chloe started back to the bridal party’s table—her feet were killing her—but Stella grabbed her arm. “Where are you going? You promised to entertain Ted and Dylan’s friend Jesse.” She pointed across the dance floor, where Ted stood with another man dressed in black tie. He stood erect, a head above Ted, with a mass of dark hair and a sculpted profile. Stella fluffed her hair. “Ted never said he was so gorgeous.”
“Easy, Tallulah. Didn’t you just tell me you were crazy about Ted?”
“Doesn’t mean I can’t keep my options open.” Stella sauntered off, swinging her hips, kicking her hair over her shoulder with a flick of her hand. “Come on, let’s see which one he prefers.”
Chloe yanked her friend back. “If you want him, go for it, but you tell Ted first.”
“Tell Ted? Are you crazy? I’m talking about some innocent flirting. What’s the big deal?”
“You’re talking about a man’s heart, Stella. If Ted’s serious about you, flirting will hurt him.” If Chloe knew anything besides how to die in three different entertainment mediums, it was the pain of a broken heart.
“Oh, honey, I’m not going to hurt Ted.” Stella exhaled, shaking her head. “Wow, those jerks really did a number on you, didn’t they? You can’t even flirt without seeing pain and humiliation.”
Yes, yes! They did a number on her. Pummeled her. Raked her over the coals. Left her vulnerable and exposed.
“Forget it. Let’s go.” Chloe set her drink on the table and charged across the dance area to where Ted and his friend waited. She would power through this evening, then go home where she was safe, albeit alone, and dream of a day when wrongs became rights and her prince would come.
After all, she lived in Hollywood. Where dreams came true, right?
“Hey, babe!” Ted dipped Stella backward for an old-fashioned kiss, drawing the attention of everyone nearby.
When the display ended, Ted shoved his friend forward. “Jesse, this is Chloe. Chloe Daschle, Jesse Gates.”
He nodded, meeting her gaze. His eyes said, Sorry.
Chloe’s answered, Me too.
“Daschle?” Jesse said. “Any relationship to Raymond?” He shook her hand.
“Only if being my father counts. Please don’t tell me you’re an actor.”
“Guilty as charged. Though recently I’ve gone to the dark side of screenwriting. In fact, one of my scripts has been—”
“Bound by Love?” she said. “Don’t tell me you’re that Jesse Gates?”
“I am.” He made a quizzical face. “Y-you’ve read my script?”
“I-I loved it. So much I drove over to Jeremiah’s house to audition for Esther.”
“Really?” Shock. Surprise. Disgust? “Didn’t they cast Sabrina Fox in the role?”
“Turned her down. Too gorgeous.”
He seemed disappointed. Of course. Sabrina was every man’s dream—poised, talented, wi
th the name and looks any new screenwriter would kill to headline his movie. “Jeremiah offered the part to me.”
“Then welcome to the cast.” He was good, real good, acting past his disappointment, almost sounding pleased.
“What’s this? Chloe, you’re in a new role?” Stella draped her arm around Jesse, looking up at him, batting her eyes. “Ted said you were an actor but . . . a screenwriter too? What a talent. And so gorgeously good-looking.”
“Stell, you’re drooling on his jacket.” Chloe gently shoved her friend aside. “I told you about Bound by Love. Jeremiah’s new film. Jesse wrote the screenplay.”
“Please, Jesse . . . ,” Stella crooned. “Tell me the heroine lives. Variety labeled poor Chloe here the queen of the death scene.”
“Yes, she lives.” He glanced between Chloe and Stella. “That’s kind of the point. It’s a love story.”
“No, my friend, it’s a miracle.” Stella looped her arm through Jesse’s, pressing her breasts against him. “Chloe finally lands a leading, living role.” She glanced about. “Hey, everyone, Chloe Daschle got a movie where the heroine—”
“Will you be quiet?” Chloe yanked on her arm, drawing her away from Jesse. “It’s not public yet. Besides, you’re making a scene. What’s wrong with you?”
“I’m merely celebrating this monumental event.” Stella angled toward Jesse. “Hello—gorgeous here may have just changed your life.”
She was beyond the pale. Bold and brazen—all without liquor.
Ted whispered something in Jesse’s ear, and they scooted away.
“Off to decorate the car,” Stella said, waving to Ted, blowing a kiss. Then to Chloe, “Look at you, Miss Daschle, with a new movie and a hunky new man.”
“He is not my man.” Chloe turned back to the bridal party table where her drink warmed by the minute. She’d not yet slaked her bridesmaiding thirst. “Besides, he’s an actor. I don’t date actors.”
“Since when?”
“Since you-know-when. Jesse’s too good-looking, and I can tell he’s the type that loves to talk about himself endlessly. You know, the kind that can drive his date to stab herself with a fork just to get him to shut up.”