The Love Letter

by Rachel Hauck

  “Perhaps she loves me.”

  Aunt Mary crossed the room to embrace him. “Guard your heart. ’Tis all I ask.” She retrieved a folded document from her robe pocket. “This fell from Laurence’s Bible when I opened it this evening for my reading.”

  Hamilton reached for it. A copy of the Declaration.

  When in the Course of human events . . .

  “I shall treasure it.” Hamilton tucked the document inside his haversack. On the floor by the door, he’d readied his canteen and cartridge box along with his rifle and musket, bedroll, and paper and pencil to send word home when the opportunity presented itself.

  To write to Esther, should words fail him this evening.

  “I am proud of you.” Aunt Mary brushed her hands over his shoulders, then stepped back, wiping her eyes. “Though, dare I remind you, you are all I have left in this world. No children of my own. No parents. No husband.” Her tears glistened in the candlelight. “I love you more than if I’d given you life.”

  “You have been good to me, Aunt Mary. Became my mother when I had none.” He kissed her cheek. “I will return to you, I promise.”

  “I will cover you in my prayers. This conflict has robbed us both. But it is just a course in the vastness of human events. It will end, and peace will come. Fight in a time of war as the man you want to be in a time of peace.”

  Hamilton nodded, tucking away her words of wisdom. “I will fight with honor. You’ve my pledge.”

  She turned for the door, then paused. “Oh, I found the blade given to your great-grandfather during Queen Anne’s War. Laurence had hidden it away in his trunk. I believe he put it there ages ago, hiding it from your pa.”

  Hamilton laughed. “On that score, you can be sure.”

  “I put it on the kitchen table for you.”

  When she’d gone, Hamilton returned to his letter, but his inspiration had dissipated.

  Blowing out his candle, he stretched on his bed, contemplating the days ahead. Could he fight with honor? Not seeking to avenge his pa or uncle or even Esther?

  An edge of moonlight fell over his writing table and his empty letter. Restless, he slipped down the stairs in his stocking feet and out the front door, the night outside similar to the night within.

  In time the sun would rise, bringing the dawn. But would he ever be in the light? Did true light even exist?

  Uncle Laurence would say yes. In the form of the Savior, but—

  Hamilton tensed at the sound of an approaching rider. As it drew nearer, he moved into the shadows of the porch, his back pressed against the side of the house, and wished for the dagger lying on the kitchen table.

  At the gate, a large gelding walked through a slip of moonlight, the rider slumping forward.

  “Who goes there?” Hamilton squinted, his blood pulsing. “Declare yourself. Friend or foe?”

  The rider tumbled from the tall, bay steed onto the ground.

  He leaped over the steps, racing to the wounded, and inhaled a familiar perfume mingling with the dew of the dust.

  “Esther!” He collected her in his arms and carried her inside, lowering her to Aunt Mary’s settee.

  He lit a lamp, then spread a wool coverlet over her shivering frame. Perspiration beaded along her forehead under the free wisps of her burnished hair.

  “Hamilton,” she said, raising her hand to his blouse. “I have to tell you—”

  “Shh, rest. Let me draw you a cup of water.” In the kitchen he fumbled in the dark for a clean cup, then drew water from the bucket by the stove. “Here, love, drink.” He raised her head and tipped the cup to her lips.

  Eyes closed, her breath shallow, Esther drank until satisfied. Then she collapsed against the settee. Hamilton cushioned her head with a pillow and brushed the strands of loose hair from her face. Her skin blazed with fever.

  “I must get you home.” She was so pale, so delicate. Blood stained the edge of her shawl, and when he eased it back, he saw her gown was also stained. “Your wound has broken open.” He glanced at the stairs. Should he wake Aunt Mary?

  But a firm fist gripped his blouse collar. “I must . . . tell you . . . something.”

  “Esther, what is so important that you risked your health coming here? In the night? I must return you to your father’s care.”

  “Father, Twimball, they say you pistol-shot me, but I know . . .” Her grip tightened. “You did not.”

  “’Twas Twimball. Taking aim at me. I was trying to save you.”

  “Father refuses to believe it. He’s scared, Hamilton. Something in his letters from Lord Whatham. But you must forgive him. He . . . he . . . tries to be brave, but he is an ordinary man.”

  “He has my forgiveness, but his anger toward us is unfounded. He claims Uncle Laurence stole Quill Farm from him while he was away. Fifteen years ago.”

  “You must have misunderstood. Father would never . . . but he so wants to please Lord Whatham.” Her words barely rose above a whisper. “Increase his holdings . . .”

  “To be sure, but at our expense?” Hamilton clasped her hand in his. “I forgive him whatever obligation he has to his employer but not that he sides with the Tories over the Lightfoots. Now, I must carry you home.”

  “Come to Slathersby Hill tomorrow. I will beg him to—”

  “I cannot.” Hamilton sat back on his heels, releasing her hand. “I leave with the Upper Ninety Six in the morning.”

  Esther opened her eyes and struggled to sit up. “You joined the militia?”

  “I could sit by no longer.”

  “Then I must . . . tell you . . .” She pushed into a sitting position.

  “Whatever it is, Esther, it can keep until I return in three months’ time.”

  “I . . . love . . . you.” The lamplight flickered against her slight smile, illuminating her eyes. Despite her weakness and pain, they were blue and clear. “I could not wait any longer to tell you. And to say I do not believe you fired upon me.”

  On his knees, he cupped her face in his hands. “You love me? Are you sure? I’m nothing like the men you met at court or during the London season.”

  “I steal away from my father, ride into the night, tearing open my wound, and you question me?”

  He rested his forehead to hers. “My girl, my brave girl.”

  “You are not like the men . . . of London . . . and they . . . are not like you.”

  He brushed his hand over her hair. “Yet I am a coward compared to you.”

  “No, no, you are so brave. How proud I am of you.”

  “I avoided your father, not wanting to anger him. Sent a line to you through Kitch rather than deliver it myself. Yet you make a great effort to assure me of your love and loyalty.”

  She slipped her strong hand about his neck. “Then will you have the courage to speak to me of your heart?”

  Hamilton brushed his thumb over her cheeks, gently wrapping her in his arms, at last touching his lips to hers.

  He meant for the kiss to last only a moment, but when she pressed her good hand against his neck, he kissed her as a man in love. Hungry. Eager. Willing.

  Above them, a door opened and closed. “Hamilton?”

  He broke away, rising to his feet, peering toward the stairs. “Aunt Mary, are you awake?”

  “I heard voices.”

  He crossed over to the staircase. “Esther Longfellow rode over. I’m afraid she’s aggravated her wound. Can you help us?”

  “Mercy. Esther?” Aunt Mary descended the stairs with vigor. “Let me get my doctoring kit.” The candle in her hand cast a long, thin shadow over the front room as she passed through. “What possessed ye to come out in the middle of the night, my girl?”

  She shivered, unable to answer.

  Hamilton slipped his hand into hers. “To assure me she knew I was not the one aiming a pistol at her.”

  “I love you,” she whispered again, reaching for his hand.

  Hamilton bent toward her ear about to confess the same when Aunt M
ary shoved him aside. “Hamilton, light the rest of the candles. My eyes aren’t what they used to be. I’ve clean bandages, but we should get you home. Sassy’s doctoring is far superior to mine.”

  Hamilton waited in the kitchen while Aunt Mary tended Esther’s shoulder. She loved him. How simple. How beautiful. All the while he sought to be eloquent—nay, bombastic—but she riveted his heart with a plain and direct, “I love you.”

  He was loved. He loved in return. Oh, what a man could accomplish when empowered by such knowledge.

  He’d forgive Sir Michael. Lord above, he might even forgive Twimball and every other redcoat.

  Aunt Mary returned to the kitchen with a basin of bloody water. “But be gentle. Her wound is still so tender. I couldn’t tell, but it might be infected.”

  “I’ll hitch up the cart to drive her home.”

  Aunt Mary caught his arm. “Mind yourself. Sir Michael isn’t of a mind to show forbearance and goodwill toward us. If he sees you—”

  “Did you know about the farm? That Uncle bought the land while Sir Michael was away?”

  “Laurence never intended to undermine Sir Michael.”

  “Yet he knew Sir Michael intended to acquire the land for Lord Whatham.”

  Aunt Mary nodded. “I received a small inheritance from my great aunt. How could we pass on the opportunity to own our own farm? To not be at the mercy of Sir Michael or the church congregants? We thought he’d forgiven us, but lately he came, demanding we sell to him. Threatening even. Then he had complaints against us because we are Presbyterians and Whigs. However”—she shoved Hamilton toward the door—“it is late and you must get Esther home, but please be careful. Do not let Sir Michael catch you.”

  “I can’t very well leave her on the veranda, propped against the wall. Shall I knock and run? I will not be so cowardly. Perhaps when this war is over, we will be at peace with the Longfellows again.”

  “That will be my constant prayer. Now, go on, hitch up the cart.”

  Hamilton drove the cart around, and by the light of fireflies, he and Aunt Mary situated Esther on the seat and tied Gulliver to the tailgate. Sitting next to her, he gathered the reins and chirruped to Tilly.

  “I’m afraid,” Esther whispered, leaning against him, “this war will somehow take you from me.”

  “Nothing will take me from you.” He kissed the top of her head. I love you.

  At Slathersby Hill, once again Hamilton carried Esther up the large, stone steps and kicked against the front door.

  “Sir Michael.”

  “Mr. Hamilton.” Sassy ran up behind him, clutching her shawl. “I saw you from my cabin, coming up the road. Sir Michael sent Kitch on an errand and I sat up, watching—Esther. Mercy.” Sassy inserted a key and unlocked the front door. “What was she doing?”

  “She rode to Quill Farm.” He carried Esther up the stairs without waiting for permission and settled her in her bed. “Her wound reopened, but Aunt Mary repaired her best she could. She said you should do your own doctoring. She fears infection.”

  “Am I home?” Esther said, her voice a thin trail through the room.

  “Yes, and Sassy’s going to look after you.” The negro woman pushed Hamilton through the bedroom door into the hallway. “What was she doing out? And do not lie to me.”

  “She wanted to tell me something.”

  “Tell you something? At this hour?” Sassy waited, her breath steaming.

  “That, that . . .” He could not confess their deepest intimacies. He’d yet to confess out loud his own love for her. He didn’t want Sassy privy to their affection. “That she knew I did not shoot her.”

  “What’s this?” The broad, dark shadow of Sir Michael filled the narrow doorway of the room across the hall, candlelight glinting off the end of his musket. “First you aim your pistol at my daughter, now you lure her from her bed in the night? Do you care not for her reputation? Her place in our society? What have you done—”

  “She came to Quill. I found her in the yard having fallen off her horse. Would you rather I leave her there?”

  “For what purpose did she ride to you?” Sir Michael butted Hamilton’s chest with his musket.

  “To say she knew I was not the one who shot her.” Hamilton nodded to the older gentleman and started down the stairs. “She was worried I believed the rumors.”

  “I warn you . . .” Sir Michael settled the musket against his arm, his countenance dark and hard. “Leave her be, Lightfoot.”

  Hamilton would not debate with the man. “I’ve joined the Upper Ninety Six. I’ll be gone in the morning.”

  “Then you, sir, are an enemy in my house.” Sir Michael shifted the musket as if he intended to take aim. “I’ll give you to the count of ten to leave my premises. One, two . . .”

  Hamilton slammed the front door closed before the old man reached the count of four.

  12

  JESSE

  He woke to a boisterous knock on his door. Squinting through the August light falling through the windows as it rose over the beach, he fumbled for his phone.

  Seven a.m. Sunday morning. The knock sounded again.

  “Go away, I’m sleeping.” With a moan, he rolled over and buried his head under the pillow.

  But the hammering, knocking, and muffled yelling persisted.

  “All right, all right.” Tumbling out of bed, Jesse headed downstairs, the elixir of sleep trailing him.

  When he opened the door, Smitty burst inside. “I brought coffee.” He raised a convenience-store cup and offered it to Jesse, then, after tossing a paper bag on the counter, charged straight for the living room, pacing as if restless and caged.

  “A little early, don’t you think, Smitty?” Jesse popped the lid from the coffee, letting the steam and scent escape.

  “No rest for the weary.” He pointed to the bag. “I brought a donut too.”

  Jesse peeked inside. An apple fritter. His favorite. “What’s going on? Is this about the movie? I told you, screenwriters have no say in—”

  “The movie?” He stopped pacing. “No, no, nothing about the movie, though do bring up my name, old pal.” Back to pacing, Smitty appeared bothered, ruffled, unkempt. Rare was the time the man left his place without his hair slicked back and cologne liberally applied. But this morning, his coif twisted every which way and his shirt tail swung over the top of his belt. “Though after the news I’m about to lay on you . . .” He shook his head. “I didn’t see it coming. I didn’t.”

  “Smitty, sit down, you’re making me dizzy.” Jesse snatched the donut bag and sat on the S-shaped chair.

  His friend sat for half a second, then popped back up. “There’s no easy way to say this, Jess, so I’m just going to . . . You have to get out. I’m sorry, but you do.” He stopped pacing, hands on his waist. Jesse stared at him, teeth buried in the fritter. “I knew this would happen. I knew it, I knew it, I knew it. But did ol’ Smitty listen to his gut? No.”

  Jesse chewed the crispy dough, swallowing with a hot taste of coffee. “What are you talking about? Get out of where?”

  “Here!” Smitty swung his arms wide. “Archer is coming back. Monday. Tomorrow night. I need time to air this place out. I can’t leave it smelling like you and Hugo Boss.”

  “Archer Doyle is coming home? Here?”

  “Am I stuttering? Yes. Tomorrow.”

  “You told me he was in Asia for a year, Smitty. I signed a lease.” Jesse stood, slamming down his coffee on the living room table as he stood.

  “Ooo, not there. Coaster!” Smitty dived for the coffee, rubbing the polished, wood surface with his palm. “Can’t leave a ring.” He glanced around for a place to set the cup. “See, bud, you don’t have a lease.”

  “See, bud, I do,” Jesse said, the fritter still in his hand. “I sat right there and signed it with your gold pen.”

  “No, no, you didn’t.” Smitty sighed, shaking his fists at the ceiling. “Me and my bright ideas. Look, champ, it was a fake lease. I made the who
le thing up.”

  “What?” Jesse dropped the fritter to the table. Smitty yelped and snatched it up, blowing at the sugar crumbs, balancing the pastry on top of the coffee cup.

  “I’m going to have to bring in a cleaning crew . . . on a Sunday. Where am I going to find a crew on a Sunday?” He crossed to the kitchen and set the coffee and fritter in the sink. “Oh, I’m dead. Dead, I tell you. My license! I’m going to lose my license. I’m a horrible actor and an even worse Realtor. How can I be worse at real estate than acting?” He returned to the room and dropped onto the leather chaise, head in his hands.

  “Smitty, what is going on?” Jesse folded his arms across his bare chest with the will to remain calm and get to the bottom of this. Wouldn’t be the first time Smitty freaked out over nothing.

  “I’m a heel, a bum, the worst kind of friend.”

  “Agreed. Now, what is this about moving out?”

  “Look, Jess, when Archer told me he was going to Asia, I told him I’d keep an eye on the place. He said sure thing and gave me a key. That’s when I got the bright idea to lease it to someone . . .” He flopped against the back of the couch, arm over his eyes. “Someone worthy. You needed a new place, something fitting of your recent success, and it hit me, ‘Why not rent out Archer’s place? Earn a few bucks on the side?’”

  “You used me? And Archer?”

  “Not on purpose.”

  “Yes on purpose.” Now Jesse paced, the glorious sunrise beyond the glass windows mocking the situation. “Where am I supposed to go? I put a deposit down on this place.”

  “Money? No problem. I’ll give it back to you. Well, half. I had to pay the electric and water bills. And spend a few dollars on new clothes. And headshots. Man, those things are expe—”

  “Smitty! You swindled me? I thought we were friends.”

  “No, now, I didn’t swindle you. I found you a place to live, didn’t I? Though I might have swindled Archer.”

  “You swindled both of us. Where am I supposed to go by tomorrow?”

  “Well, today. Remember, I have to air this place out.”

  “I want all of my money back.”