The Love Letter

by Rachel Hauck

  “How long have I been asleep?” He tried to sit up, but his arms failed him.

  “In and out for nearly three weeks. Many times we feared losing you.”

  “We? Esther? Is she here? I am certain I heard her voice. She was speaking to a man.”

  “The surgeon?”

  “Perhaps. But he seemed rather large. As if life itself could not contain him. I cannot recall. Perhaps I was dreaming.”

  “Of course, that’s it, you had a dream.”

  “But was she here?”

  “Sh-she escorted me here, y-yes. Then her father came for her. She departed with him the same day.” Aunt Mary aided him upright, fluffed the pillows and linens, then pressed a cold cloth to his head. “You must be famished.”

  “A bit, yes, feeling weak. Rather out of body.” He gazed about the room. “Am I not home?”

  “We’re at the home of Dr. Nelson off Green River Road. He saved your life.”

  “Saved my life?” He tipped his head back, trying to remember. “The battle . . . what became of the battle?” A blurry image of Lieutenant Twimball swung across his mind. His saber . . . the cold mud . . . the light . . . his pa and ma.

  “The patriots were victorious. Colonel Tarleton and his dragoons were routed. We captured over eight hundred British regulars.”

  “They were not murdered?”

  “No, indeed. Taken prisoner.”

  He nodded. “As it should be.”

  Aunt Mary tied back the curtain and inched up the window sash. “There. How’s about a touch of fresh air? Here’s a newspaper, if you like, from Charles Town with an account of Hannah’s Cowpens. I saved it for you. Now, let me fetch some broth. Oh, my boy, it’s good to have you among the living.”

  “I saw Pa and Ma,” he said, eyes closed, trying to recall every detail. “In a dream. It was so lovely.”

  “They must have been praying for you. Did you see your uncle Laurence?”

  “I did not. Yet, another man . . .” Perhaps an angel. Some heavenly being. “Like the one in my room. Extraordinary in size. There was no end to him.”

  Aunt Mary patted his arm. “The soul does odd things when the body had been distressed. Don’t trouble yourself remembering. All things in good time. Just rest.” Aunt Mary moved to the door. “I’ll fetch your broth.”

  “Did Esther say she would return? Did she leave a letter?” In the back of his mind, he saw a gathering of redcoats in Sir Michael’s foyer. Esther wore a red gown with a green ribbon in her hair. She asked him to leave. But why? Something in his hand. He was angry with her father.

  “A letter? Nay, not that I found.”

  “My letter.” He pressed against the thin mattress, struggling to sit up. “My coat? Where is my coat?”

  “I told you, she left no letter.”

  “Nay, my letter. To her. Where are my things?”

  Aunt Mary went to the wardrobe, removing his tattered and stained coat. “Nothing here, Hamilton. Perhaps you also dreamed of this letter.”

  He exhaled, falling against the pillow. “Ralphie. He must have done as I bid and carried the letter to her.”

  “Of course, there is your answer. Now, let me bring you sustenance. The sooner you regain your strength, the sooner we can go home and stop burdening the surgeon and his wife.”

  When she’d gone, Hamilton tried to read the paper, but his thoughts drifted to the battlefield, to Twimball lowering his sword.

  The day beyond the window was bright—clear and hopeful. A bit of food to strengthen him and he’d be himself again, able to ride home and claim Esther.

  Having done his bit for the war, he’d return home a free man. A free, American man. Free to fall in love, to marry, to raise Lightfoot children.

  What he must do was reacquire Quill Farm. Blast if he’d pay ten pounds a month to rent his own land.

  His letter. He must check for himself among his coat and haversack. To be sure Ralphie indeed carried the note to its intended.

  Struggling to sit upright—his legs were stiff and uncooperative—Hamilton pushed from the bed, swung his legs over the side, and planted his right foot on the cold floor, then his left, stretching against his aches and pains.

  As he stood, his arms flailed as he toppled forward, desperate to catch himself before slamming down on the floor.

  But he crashed with a thud.

  “Blast!” He gripped the edge of the bed and sat up, a dull, aching pain seizing his left leg while his toes tingled with a fiery sensation.

  Pressing up, he tried again to stand, seeing then a vacancy where his left leg used to be. No knee, no shin. No foot. Only a bloody bandaged stump.

  His cry burst his lungs. “What have you done to me?” He hammered the floor with his fist. “Surgeon! Surgeon! What have you done?”

  The clock on the desk ticked the time. One second. Two seconds.

  “Surgeon!” Again, he hammered the floor, the pain against his knuckles a fair price to pay. “Where is my leg?” A fresh crimson stream of blood stained the bandage. “Someone! Tell me where my leg has gone. Aunt Mary!”

  The door burst open and the surgeon, along with an ambulatory private who had only a bandage around his head, grabbed Hamilton under his arms.

  “Where is my leg? I demand an answer. Why do my toes tingle when they are not there?”

  “Let me settle you in your bed, Hamilton. On three, Private. One, two, three.”

  Blood stained the sheet where his leg, his stump, had rested. The sight, the realization swarmed him.

  “I believe I’m going to be sick.”

  The surgeon sat him on the edge of the mattress and reached for a pail. Hamilton wretched but expelled nothing from his empty insides.

  Nothing but his fear. His disgust. His poverty of being.

  “Your aunt is coming with broth.” The surgeon situated him against the pillows. “What were you trying to do? Didn’t she tell you to remain in bed?”

  “She said nothing.” He caught the surgeon’s hand as the man tried to install a blanket over him. “My leg. Where is my leg, you butcher?”

  “You took a sword slice and it could not be saved. Your friends tried, but the damage was too great.” The surgeon sat next to the bed. “Do you remember the events of the battle?”

  “No . . . some . . . yes. I remember Lieutenant Twimball. His sword is responsible for the wounds on my arm and face.”

  “And your leg.”

  “He swung at me, though I did not believe he’d done much harm.”

  “Your brothers-in-arms say you were valiant, and when you had opportunity to fire upon him, you lowered your pistol. It was a young Ralphie Standish who shot him.”

  “Ralphie. And what of Twimball?”

  “He’s buried in the field.”

  Hamilton sighed, collapsing against the pillows with a surge of emotion. He had no use for Twimball. None. But now that he was gone . . .

  “I wonder if at any other time we might have been friends.”

  “You did your duty,” the surgeon said. “On that you can rest assured.”

  His tears slipped to the corners of his eyes. “Rest assured? ’Tis a dream. I’m not sure I will ever rest again. Let alone with any assurance. I have lost my leg. How am I to work? To care for my family? My aunt is a widow. Her farm has recently been stolen from her, and I am all she has to keep her from shame and starvation. If I cannot work, I cannot eat. If I cannot eat, I starve. We all starve.”

  “Surely there are charities—”

  “Charities? For the rest of my life? I cannot expect nor accept it.” He grabbed a fistful of air. “I want to work, to farm, to marry and raise a family. But with one swipe of an Englishman’s sword, ’tis gone. All of it.”

  “You will heal. The leg will support a prosthesis, a peg. I’ve seen—”

  “A peg? What work can a man do with a wooden leg? The work will take twice, nay, three times as long.”

  “You’ve workers, don’t you?”

  “Do
you mean slaves? We do not. We are abolitionists. We hire laborers, but such an expense will eat into my profits, should there be any.” He fixed on what remained of his leg with loathing. “And what of Esther? How can I marry her now?”

  “I saw your Esther when she arrived with your aunt. She seemed most devoted. Do not discount her loyalty.”

  “Hamilton, you must be famished.” Aunt Mary came through the doorway, a tray in her hand, anxiety in her eyes. “Dr. Nelson, your wife prepared the concoction and poultice you wanted.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Lightfoot.” The surgeon reached for the cup on the tray. “Drink this. Then you must take the broth.” He settled the cup in Hamilton’s hand. “When I was your age, I too believed I had the world sorted out. But indeed, I did not. I never imagined myself living in the backcountry of South Carolina. I was Harvard trained and educated. The southern colonies were for despots and the poor. But life, or the good Lord, had other plans for me.”

  “What sort of good Lord would do this to a man?” Hamilton peered into the cup, then downed the golden-brown brew, the liquid both sweet and sour, burning as it went down. A warmth flowed through him as he took up the heady broth. “I depend on myself now. The ways of the Lord are not good. He took my pa and ma, my sister, my uncle. Now my leg, which will cost me more than I can afford.” He gulped the hot broth, caring not how it burned his mouth. “I used to say, what good can come from redcoats? Now I wonder, what good can come from God?”

  The surgeon patted Hamilton’s good leg. Dare he say, his only leg. “You must endure this trial of faith. You’re not abandoned in your hardship. All the more to look to the Almighty.”

  “I’ve had my fill of trial. Will faith give me a leg? A wife and children? The return of Quill Farm? Nay, f-f-faith is . . . for . . . f-f-fools.” He struggled with his protest as sleep began to overtake him. “Wh-what was in your concoction . . . Surgeon?”

  The cup slipped from his fingers, and as he drifted down, down, down and away, a voice called to him through the haze, “Come, follow me.”

  MARY

  She pressed her forehead against the door, tears dripping from her chin. Her boy, Hamilton, the closest she’d ever come to a son, was broken, crushed. From the outside in.

  How could God be so cruel to him? Losing his parents and sister, then his uncle, and now his leg. How much must one man be required to bear? She patted her pocket, where she’d stowed Esther’s letter.

  What of her own pain? Barren, called to raise another woman’s child, which she did with joy! Let it not go unsaid. She welcomed young Hamilton into her heart without reservation.

  But now she was a widow with nothing but her small farm and lame nephew. She lived amid a war both public and private. Whatever Laurence had done to acquire the land by the creek, it stirred Sir Michael’s ire and set him on a war path.

  Then the man tricked her into signing a document surrendering the farm to him. What a fool she’d been.

  Mary needed Hamilton, his masculine presence and wisdom. And he needed her.

  So she must gather her wits and contend for what was hers. She’d not be left to live in squalor, a barren, old widow.

  Pressing her fist to her lips, sensing herself yielding to selfish darkness, she fought the tug within her breast.

  She carried Hamilton’s tray down to the kitchen, thanking Mrs. Nelson for her good broth. Walking outside, she found the Nelson boys building a fire, tossing on clothes and bandages that could never be washed clean.

  She patted her pocket as a thought flashed. No. She could not. Mary, you are of better character.

  What she and Laurence had built from the ground up out of the wild backcountry of South Carolina was proof. But they were young and in love, full of dreams. They left Virginia with hope in their hearts of preaching the gospel to the heathens and unsaved.

  Then, at last, owning their own farm.

  She slipped the letters from her pocket. Two. The one Esther had left for Hamilton. And the one she had found in his haversack, muddy, crumpled, bloodstained, and addressed to Esther.

  God forgive her, but she’d read them. Hamilton’s a direct confession of love. Esther’s containing Mary’s worst fears—his amputated leg did not dissuade her but deepened her resolve to make a life with him. She would not desert him.

  Mary tapped the letters against her hand. Esther Longfellow may declare one thing, her mind full of lofty, romantic ideals, but Mary knew the truth.

  The girl would break her boy’s heart. Esther was her father’s daughter, after all.

  Mary inched toward the fire. How could Esther, a girl raised in the luxury of Slathersby Hill, live on a working farm?

  Her only consolation was if Hamilton married Esther, Sir Michael might tear up his fraudulent document. Unless Sir Michael cut off all capital as a way to control her.

  But Esther would grow bored and complain, stirring up Hamilton to provide for her, to enlarge their living quarters, thus putting them into debt.

  She may have been raised in the upcountry, but she was a member of the British aristocracy and so accustomed to a certain standard of life.

  Esther had grown up with Sassy and Isaac seeing to her every care. Even Kitch catered to her. Her girlish notions of love had blinded her into believing she could do away with such refinements and toil alongside her husband from dawn to dusk.

  A husband with all of his limbs would be taxed by the fields, the woods, the wind and rain. But one leaning on a crutch would face twice the hardship.

  Nay, the girl did not grasp what lay ahead for Hamilton. She would soon find herself more a farmhand and nursemaid than wife and lover.

  She’d break his heart. Of this, Mary had no doubt. And inflict a pain more severe than losing a limb. One from which he may never recover.

  Mary considered the letters once again. Dare she act upon her own will?

  “Mrs. Lightfoot? Can I disturb you for some help?” Mrs. Nelson called from the door, retreating before Mary could answer.

  “Certainly.” She walked to the fire pit with a final glance at the letters in her hand.

  “Want to throw something on the fire, Mrs. Lightfoot?” This from fresh-faced Simms.

  “Indeed, I do.” She passed the boy one letter. “Can you toss this in for me?”

  The boy nodded, taking the note without a word, and flinging it into the flames. Mary considered the second letter and returned it to her pocket.

  The deed was done. As the letter burned, she’d sealed her own future.

  24

  CHLOE

  The heart of the film stopped beating when Jesse left. The flow, the rhythm, the inspiration, everything, vanished.

  Zarzour’s proclamation had pierced its very soul, and Jesse had left it to bleed.

  In a rocking chair on the veranda of the Kingsley home, Chloe sat in costume, the blue dress she’d loved so much on the first day, waiting in the predawn light for her ride to the battlefield.

  Today was her last day of shooting. And perhaps her last day in films. Ever. She wasn’t simply quitting. Or prepping for some lavish, dramatic pity party. She was waking up. Understanding. Coming to a heart-wrenching revelation.

  The movies did not love her. She was in the wrong business. Her lofty goals of entertaining the masses with touching, inspiring, romantic stories endured the final blow when Jeremiah handed her the revised script.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “I know you are. I’ll give it my all.”

  He embraced her, kissing her forehead. “You are too good for this town.”

  So she read her scenes. Embraced her death. And rehearsed like a pro. She was an actor. And actors acted.

  Backed into a corner, Zarzour had no choice but to allow Jeremiah to finish the film with Chris as Hamilton.

  He released the canceled funds while cutting the shooting time line by three weeks. Jer and Sharon Lee worked three days straight making the script changes, dividing the scenes among themselves. Jer took the battle and
outdoor scenes. Sharon, the romance and indoor shoots.

  The entire set was chaos. Cast and crew nipping at one another. Confusion abounded. They were the Titanic sailing full steam ahead toward the iceberg.

  Lori rushed past the house, a small light affixed to her forehead. Her blond and pink hair stood straight up, and when she looked at Chloe, the light cast a ghostly hue over her face, accenting her black-rimmed eyes. She wore the same clothes from yesterday. And the day before. And the day before.

  “Are you ready?” Lori flipped through her scene list. “You’re in the parlor with Millie . . . Wait, no . . .” She swore. “You should be on the battlefield with Chris. The car is on its way.”

  “Good.” Chloe moved to the porch post, watching the sunrise bleed into the dusty, blue dawn.

  Winter still gripped this first March day. Was that the scent of snow she detected?

  Since his exit, she’d not heard from Jesse. Well, save for one brief, curt text exchange.

  Come back, Jess. Please.

  He didn’t answer until the next day. Have a great shoot. Jer will make this work.

  In his weird way, that was his good-bye. The slamming door reverberated in her chest. He’d failed, and for reasons she didn’t completely understand, the burden of Loxley chained him all over again.

  She missed him. His steady presence and logical demeanor. His defense of her in front of everyone lived in her mind. In fact, the notion had packed a suitcase and moved into her mind. He’d ended his career on a matter of principle.

  No one had ever done that for her. Dad, bless his heart, tried but failed when Sam told him she wouldn’t get the part of Debbie Dough. Mom, while strong, always acted as a mediator, seeing both sides of a situation. Chloe’s boyfriends cared more about expressing themselves than protecting her.

  Then there was the thing with Haden on the E.P.’s rooftop, where her actions were indefensible.

  The car pulled up, and the driver stepped out to open her door. Sitting in the back, Esther regarded the scene beyond the window, snapping memories of the landscape, of the rising light, and of how she felt. Not just her emotions, but Esther’s.