Faithfully Yours

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  “Are you in charge of these men, sir?”

  “I am.”

  “Then you should keep a closer eye on them.” She raised her voice so that none of the men would miss her insult. “I did not realize that the government in London was sending expeditionary forces of uncouth cads to America.”

  Grumbles sounded around her, but the dark-haired man smiled. “I shall endeavor to do as you suggest, mistress. From what I have seen, there is little welcome in this area for the king’s men.” He paused, and she wondered if he wanted her to comment. When she said nothing, he added, “It does not behoove us to create more ill will.”

  “I am pleased to hear that.” She noted the insignia on his uniform. “I wish you the best of luck with your lessons with your men, Major.”

  “’Tis Major Sebastian Kendrick, mistress.”

  “Thank you, Major.” She reached for the basket. Dawson was stretching to hold it out to her, as if he did not want to come any closer to the major.

  Major Kendrick grasped her wrist. “Is this blood on your hand, mistress? Tell me which one of my men caused this, and I shall have him punished without delay.”

  Seeing the men look at one another in dismay, she said, “’Tis from a splinter, nothing more.”

  His eyes widened, and she saw honest amazement in them. He knew that she could have used this opportunity to repay his men for their mistreatment, but she had not. That she could gauge his thoughts was disturbing. She wanted nothing to do with a British major when she carried supplies for the rebel army. Folding her arms over the basket, she edged back a step, then another.

  As she turned to walk away down the road, the major called, “May I have the courtesy of your name?”

  She pretended she had not heard. These beasts did not deserve to be treated with deference, for they never had offered her any that was not hypocritical. Save for Major Kendrick. She ignored that thought. Other British officers had been the epitome of graciousness when her family was near, then had sought to find her alone so they might seduce her. Let Father pay court to them! She wanted nothing to do with any of them. They had brought death and war and nightmares into her life. She wished they would all go away.

  Major Kendrick’s gaze followed her. She could sense it along with the stares from his men. There was something different about his, as if he could pierce through her cool guise and see how swiftly her heart beat. She hoped her cloak hid the shiver that coursed along her.

  Why was she being so fanciful? Major Kendrick was just a man, a British soldier, no better and, thankfully, no worse than the rest.

  She tensed when Major Kendrick shouted, but his words, which were almost swept away by the breeze, were an order for his men to mount. Hoofbeats vanished into the distance. She turned to look back. A gasp exploded from her.

  Major Kendrick stood directly behind her. His horse waited along the road, which was otherwise empty.

  “Why are you following me?” She could not lead him to the byre where she would be leaving this basket.

  He smiled, his expression as chilly as hers had been. “I simply wish to assure myself that you will reach your destination without further incident.”

  “I shall have no problems if—”

  “If I curb the enthusiasm of my men?”

  “I would not describe it as enthusiasm,” she answered, wondering how she could persuade him to leave her be.

  He lifted his cocked hat and brushed back his ebony hair, which had escaped his queue. A useless motion, for the breeze sent it fluttering over his eyes before he could set his hat back on his head.

  She quivered as she thought how easily her fingers could comb back his hair so it would stay in place. Was she out of her mind? To consider touching one of these Englishmen of her own volition? Absurd!

  “Are all the women in these parts so outspoken?” Major Kendrick asked.

  “I cannot speak for all the women here, save that I know of none who would appreciate being treated as basely as your men treated me.”

  “For that, I shall apologize again.” He reached toward her, and she opened her mouth to shriek, although nobody would hear her along this deserted road.

  When he took a glove from her basket and ran his finger along the red stripe on its palm, she bit her lip. Were his polite words only a way to examine her basket more closely? These men were supposed to be guarding them, not making them feel like criminals on their way to Newgate.

  “Did you knit this, Mistress …?”

  She acted as if she had not noticed his pause, which he wanted filled with her name. “Yes, I did.”

  “The stitches are very fine and straight.”

  “Thank you.

  “Does the red show your loyalty to the king and his men, who wear uniforms of the same shade?”

  “I like bright colors, and my neighbors ask for them in the things I knit.”

  His brows lowered. “So you favor the rebels?”

  “I favor neither side. I simply knit for those who are in need here, Major.”

  “They must be pleased with your work.”

  “I hope so.”

  When she added nothing else, he stared at her for a long minute. What was he hoping to see? She had not lied to him, although she had not told him what she guessed he wanted to know—her name and her destination. Raising her chin, she met his gaze evenly. She would not be daunted by him. At least, she would not let him see that she was.

  “I bid you to have a more pleasant day than you have had so far, mistress,” he said, tipping his hat toward her.

  “Thank you again, and may you fare well on your journey.”

  “I doubt that, on the rest of my journey, I shall come upon another sight more fair.” A rakish smile graced his lips as he bowed his head again and turned on his heel to stride back to his horse.

  She was unsure if she should stand and watch his strong steps or if she should hie herself off with all possible speed. Doing either would be silly. Trying to calm her rapid breathing—she had been holding her breath the whole time he spoke with her—she settled her basket over her arm and walked slowly.

  When she heard his horse riding away, Faith glanced behind her, but saw no one on the road. She let her shoulders sag, and she sighed. The headache that had tormented her last night had returned to pulse beneath her cap. Major Kendrick had his men thoroughly under his control, thank goodness.

  Her steps faltered as she was about to turn down a path that was almost lost among the leafless briars. Never had she thought she would use the phrase “thank goodness” in reference to a British soldier. She doubted if she ever would again.

  Two

  The pile of stones had once been the beginnings of a byre, but whoever had started it—Englishman, American, or Lenape Indian—had abandoned it years ago. Part of the roof remained, and Faith stepped over the low threshold into the shadowed interior.

  Aromas of hay told her that others were using this byre, too. Mr. Schmidt, probably, because his farm was nearby and he had had a good crop of hay this summer. That was no reason to worry. Even if Tom Rooke did not meet her here today, she could leave the basket in a back corner, and no one, not even kindly Mr. Schmidt, would take note of it.

  Drawing back her hood, she set the basket on the hay. She settled her cap more firmly on her head. The devil take those Englishmen and their crude ways!

  “I thought to see you an hour past,” came a soft voice from the shadows.

  Faith turned and smiled. Tom Rooke’s dramatic air had once unsettled her. Today, she was grateful he was here to take this basket and allow her to hurry home, where she could sit in her corner by the hearth, knit, and ignore the way her father answered the British soldiers’ orders like a well-trained pup.

  Tom Rooke stepped out of the shadows. He was as lean as a board and so tall his head brushed the rafters. Because he hailed from Paoli, a town about a day’s walk from here, she had not met him before he became the courier for the supplies she was able to collect for
General Washington’s army.

  “I made a late start,” she said.

  “And you were delayed along the way.”

  “How did you know?”

  His mischievous grin tilted his lips. “’Twas no more than a guess. You seldom waver from the time you arrive.”

  Going back to the door, she peered out. Clouds were thickening, and the scent of rain was heavy in the air—not yet snow, she hoped.

  “Do you think you were followed?” he asked.

  Faith shook her head, but did not turn. “I made certain of that. However, I don’t favor the idea of a British patrol wandering about here.”

  “Nor do I.” He came to stand beside her and had to bend to look out. “A full patrol?”

  “About ten men.” Her voice dropped to a near whisper in spite of herself. “Led by a Major Kendrick.”

  The major’s name seemed to resonate through her and echo amid the spiderwebs lacing the rafters. His face was as bright as a brand in her memory—strong and unrelenting and fair and kind. No. She did not want to recall him as anything but a British officer who would turn on her if she dared to trust him. Pressing her hand over her throbbing heart, she bit her lip as a sharp pain exploded across her palm.

  She tilted her hand up to see it in the weakening sunshine. The small spot of dried blood was no worse than if she had pricked her finger while sewing. Even stronger than the pain was the memory of the sensation of Major Kendrick’s fingers. They had been broad across her wrist, but had not held her prisoner.

  I doubt if, on the rest of my journey, I shall come upon another sight more fair.

  Faith stepped away from the door. Major Kendrick’s flattery had probably been as fake as his smile, and his offer to discipline his men more for their benefit than hers, for it reminded them of his authority over them.

  “Major Kendrick, you say?”

  At his question, she looked at where Tom Rooke now stood by the small window. “Does his name mean something to you?”

  “Aye, it does.”

  “What?”

  “Best you don’t know, lass.” He ran the back of his hand across his lips. “Don’t trust him, lass.”

  “I don’t trust any of them.”

  “I know you don’t, but this one is the worst of the lot.” He rested his arms on the weatherworn sill. “If he is like the others who have passed this way, sooner or later, he will be calling on your father.”

  She nodded, wishing that were not so.

  “Heed what he says about what he is doing in Chester County.”

  Her eyes widened as she stood. “Spy on him, you mean?”

  “I mean, heed what he says of what he’s doing here.” Tom faced her, the crags of his cheeks deepening. All hints of mischief had vanished. “You don’t have to tell another soul what you are doing, but listen carefully so you may protect yourself and your family. It is not right that a major is here when all the redcoats of his rank are setting themselves up right pretty in Philadelphia. He must have some assignment that can only bring more trouble to this area.”

  “He had traveled a goodly distance already.”

  “How do you know that?” He chuckled when she told him about the road dust on the major’s boots. “You are becoming quite the prize, Mistress Faith.”

  “Prize?” She shook her head. “I want nothing to do with such work.” Pointing to the supplies by her basket, she said, “This is all I shall do. This, and heed your advice to listen carefully so my family is not endangered.”

  He chuckled. “Wise of you.”

  Gathering up her basket, she rushed out into a wind that was beginning to cry mournfully among the leafless branches. On its rapid flight, it carried the sound of Tom’s laughter to chase her back toward the road. Never had she wanted to be home as much as she did now.

  Sebastian Kendrick swung down off his horse, handed his gun to his lieutenant, and tossed the reins to another of his men. Turning up his collar, he bent his head to escape the cold drizzle. By crook and crown! This day had been one misstep after another, and he had not needed this chilly wind and rain to add to his tribulations. Maybe they would have arrived before the storm began if Osborne had not gotten them lost on their way north from the Brandywine.

  Osborne was not the lieutenant Sebastian would have chosen for this mission through a countryside that seethed with anger at the number of dead who had fallen on its fields. Osborne was a man to have in a parlor, not on a deserted road. Quick with a sally and able to flirt with the skill that brought admiration from his fellows, Osborne made himself scarce when there was work to be done. He must have angered someone, for Sebastian had been informed by his colonel that Osborne would accompany him on this mission.

  If the lieutenant were his sole problem, Sebastian would have been able to deal with Osborne. Clearly the men selected to be part of this foray had heard of the lieutenant’s reputation, as well, for they had wasted no time in trying to win Osborne’s favor by accosting a lone woman on the road.

  He scowled at the fieldstone wall of the house before them. It glistened with the rain that had been falling for the past hour. The sight added to his ill spirits. He had thought his men were smart enough not to taunt one of the local women. The situation could easily become a catastrophe without their adding fuel to the anger churning in too many rebels’ breasts.

  The rebels were running away from the strength of the British army, but—if France’s interest in the Americans’ rebellion was more than a rumor—this war could take a fearsome turn. Already the Marquis de Lafayette was fighting alongside Washington and advising him on how to handle his ragtag troops. One Frenchman made little difference, but the French fleet and King Louis’s infantry could alter the situation irrevocably.

  That must be prevented, and the place to do it was right here. Then he would have done his duty for king and country and his father, who believed the heir to his earldom should be able to claim the title of hero, as well.

  Icy rain spat at him. His scowl lessened while he strode up onto the narrow porch that was further shadowed by bare tree limbs. Boards creaked beneath him as the wind howled around the eaves.

  The door was thrown open, and the welcoming glow of a lamp splashed out onto the porch. Behind him, he heard Osborne giving orders to take the horses to the barn, which was a black silhouette through the rain.

  Hoping he could depend on the lieutenant to handle this simple task, Sebastian took off his cocked hat and entered the foyer, where more stones that matched the ones on the house’s facade caught the water falling from his cloak. Puddles formed in his wake as he followed the maid past the stairs.

  As she opened the door to a parlor whose far wall was lost to the darkness, the cheerful voices he had heard through the door silenced. Several decades older than Sebastian, a man sat near the fireplace, smoking. A woman who must be the man’s wife looked up from her sewing. Two lads, as alike as two whelps of the same litter, stared at him.

  He tossed back his cloak and walked to the hearth. The fire crackling upon it was a most welcome sight. He decided he need not worry about his pistol firing from the heat, for he doubted if he had been able to keep his powder dry. Pulling off his gloves, he held his hands out to the fire’s healing warmth. He tried to unbend his fingers, but they had almost frozen in the grip he had kept on the reins.

  “Welcome, Major Kendrick,” said a cheerful voice.

  He reluctantly lowered his hands and faced the man who had been sitting next to the hearth. His pipe was now in his hands, but the smoke curled up around his face, where the beginnings of a beard contained more hair than on his head.

  Sebastian smiled. “This fire is more welcome than you can guess on such a stormy night.”

  “Bring something to warm the major from the inside out,” he called to the maid. He laughed and gestured to the chair he had vacated. “This is the warmest seat in the house tonight. You are welcome to it.”

  “Thank you kindly, friend.” Sebastian turned to the l
ady, who had been listening without comment. Taking her hand, he bowed over it. “And thank you most kindly, mistress, for opening your door to weary travelers.”

  “You travel alone?” she asked.

  “Bess,” the balding man said in a chiding tone, “give the man a chance to warm himself before you plead with him for any news he might bring.”

  Sebastian smiled as he took the steaming cup offered to him by the maid. “It would be my pleasure, mistress, to share with you any tidings I might have, but I am so long from Philadelphia that you probably know more of the news than I or my men, who shall express their gratitude to you on the morrow for the use of your barn.”

  “Your men are welcome to enjoy its shelter, Major,” the man said. “You and your fellow officers will, of course, stay beneath our roof here.”

  “I gladly accept for Lieutenant Osborne and me.” Untying his cloak, he draped it over the back of the wooden chair. He took a sip of the mulled cider, which he thought must be from the first squeezings of the season. Lowering himself to the chair, he said, “We are—”

  His host turned as Sebastian stared at the red-haired woman in the doorway. Her hand clutched the fabric she was carrying so hard that her knuckles were bleached to the color of the white kerchief that was draped over her shoulders and tied with a bright blue ribbon between her breasts. The rest of her pleasing curves were hidden behind the material, which was draped over her arm, just as her cloak had been when they met on the road.

  “My oldest, Faith,” said Mr. Cromwell, his host. “She will forgive you if you sit before her, Major, after your long day.”

  Only then did Sebastian realize he was poised halfway to the chair. Standing, he watched Mistress Faith enter the room. He wished they stood again on the road so that he could admire the way the sunshine had set fire to her red-gold hair and how it sparkled in her green eyes. Now the shadows hid her features, but the flickering from the hearth and the candles revealed the curves that had been concealed until she handed the material to her mother. The embroidered apron around her waist accented its slender line and the enticing swell of her breasts above.