None of which George would understand, given that he denied such fullness existed. So he shook his head and opted to share another, no less valid, reason. “What can I possibly offer her?”
George’s mouth fell open. “Do you jest? A certain estate called Clefton springs to mind.”
“Yes, it springs to everyone’s mind—except mine.” He rubbed his eyes and leaned into the table. “I was raised with Colonial understandings of ownership, George. That you build your own legacy and then pass it to whomever you please. I feel no tie to the land in England, no obligation or duty toward it and its tenants. I should, I suppose, but…frankly, I don’t want to move to the other side of the Atlantic. I want to go back to Connecticut, conduct my experiments, teach my classes, and so pass a contented life.”
For a long moment George just looked at him, his gaze absent its usual teasing and filled with what could only be termed new understanding. “Is it entailed?”
Ben shook his head. “Father was the only logical heir for Uncle Milton to name now that his son is dead, but it needn’t be me that inherits from him. Archie could as well—though I doubt Father will see it that way.”
“Would you…” As if unable to grasp the words he was about to say, George shook his head, repositioned himself on his seat. “Would you refuse it? Tell your father you don’t want it?”
Assuming the choice weren’t taken from him, he would still in good conscience have little choice. “It would be the best thing. Archie has traveled there, and he loves the old place. There has been some talk among the family lately of him inheriting the property here in America now that I’m the presumed heir of the English estate, but I think the reverse would suit us all better.”
George breathed a laugh. “And yet you go about in society letting everyone think you are landed gentry in the British sense. Ben, I did not know you had it in you.”
“Well, it’s hardly the business of society at large what I may eventually work out with my father, is it? Besides, they assume what they will. I have never said a word about it one way or another.”
Grinning, George turned back to his work. “I agree wholeheartedly. And I applaud you for knowing what you want. Even—or perhaps especially—if it means the Hamptons wouldn’t then approve a match with their granddaughter.”
Ben stood again and picked up his hat. He had done what he came to do. He had gotten George’s story and had then let him think Ben was distracted from it by his own woes. Now to prove he had not been. “George, whatever you are involved in, promise me you will be careful. Had it been Fairchild who overheard you, or even Archie…they may turn a blind eye to much that goes on in the city, but I daresay weapons are of the utmost concern to them.”
“You have no need to worry, Ben, I assure you. I am involved in nothing for them to take issue with.” But he did not look up. And though his fingers moved, they accomplished nothing.
He was involved in something, Ben was sure. But he would say no more without knowing exactly what. “Well, I must be on my way. I will see you tomorrow as planned?”
Now George tossed him a smile. “The whole family is looking forward to it, myself included.”
“Excellent.” Ben positioned his hat on his head and nodded. “Until then.”
He headed for the door, pushing these concerns aside to make room for others. He had some documentation to dig up, and it brought a smile to his lips. This kind of search he was actually good at.
Much as Winter loved her below-stable sanctuary, she had to admit that she preferred it with light. The scent of melted wax continued to tease her nose even after she had hurriedly snuffed out her candle, and she waved away the smoke toward the ventilation cracks at the end of the room. She hoped the telltale whiff wouldn’t go straight up toward the trap door.
No light seeped through the portal, which meant Freeman had covered it when the servant approached. She inched her way through the darkness toward the stairs, barely suppressing a squeal when a cobweb caught on her cheek. She swiped it away, flapped her hand a few times, and scrubbed at her face to make sure a spider hadn’t joined its web.
Yes, illumination made all the difference when one was in a hole with no way out.
“I can take it no more. I have to get away, Free. I must.”
Winter frowned and rested her hand against the cold earthen wall as she tried to place the voice. One of the slaves from the house?
“Percy.” Freeman sounded tired and anxious. “I know he treats you poorly, but you can’t run away. If you get caught—”
“I’ll join the army. The British have promised freedom to any slave who joins them.”
Freeman’s sigh came through the floorboards without difficulty. “Any slaves of Patriot families. They have not extended the offer to slaves of Loyalists.”
“Well, maybe the rebels have. I’ll join with them, then.”
“How will you get to them?” Freeman no doubt shook his head in that way that insisted on reason. “You would more likely be caught than make it to rebel-held territory, and if you are then brought back to Mr. Hampton…it’s not worth the risk.”
“How can you know that? You, who were born free?”
Winter heard shuffling and then settling. And another of her friend’s long sighs. “I was blessed in that, yes. Blessed to spend most of my life with a family like the Reeves, who offered me and my parents respect and even friendship. But am I any better than you now? The Hamptons and those like them—they don’t care if I’m free. To them, I’m worthless.”
It sounded as though Percy toed the stall wall. “Come with me, then. We can claim I’m your son, and—”
“No, boy. I cannot leave Miss Reeves here unprotected. They hold her in no higher esteem than they do us.”
She had a feeling the slave wouldn’t see it that way, and Percy’s scoffing laugh verified it. “You think I’m a fool? The way they dress her up—”
“They dress up Thomas too, to open their doors and polish their silver.”
Another incredulous snort. “What ties you to her, Free?”
Winter smiled into the darkness. There could be no simple answer to a question like that. Eighteen years of shared circumstances, shared toil, shared fear and loss. She shut her eyes to focus on his words, whatever they may be.
He chuckled, soft and quiet. “I had a wife once, Percy. A fine woman I loved with all my heart. We were set to have a babe, and my Nan took to her childbed the same time Mrs. Reeves did. Neither Nan nor our little girl made it. But Mr. Reeves, he took little Winnie from her cradle while Mrs. Reeves slept, he put her in my arms, and he said, ‘I can share your pain, Freeman, and you can share my joy.’ So you see, from her first hour of life, she was my little girl as sure as she was her daddy’s, the gift the good Lord gave me to ease the pain of losing my own child and my sweet bride.”
A few tears trickled from beneath her lashes. He had called her his girl often when she was younger, and she had known, of course, about the terrible loss of his wife and daughter. But she had never heard this story before. It may not make sense to the young man who stood directly above her now, who wanted only to be away from this terrible place, but for Winter it proved they had done right by staying together. It demonstrated why he mourned the destruction of their home as keenly as she did.
Percy made a noise that combined the disgusted with the dismissive. “You must be daft, staying here when you could leave. But I ain’t. Better to die trying to find freedom than to live out my days tied to that man.”
Winter leaned her head against the wall. She could understand that sentiment. Terrible as her grandparents were to her, they were worse to many of those who served them. But Freeman was right. The military might accept slaves from Patriot families and offer them their freedom in exchange for their service, but they had been forbidden from offering the same to Tory slaves—and making it out of British lines would be difficult indeed for a black man traveling alone. Even with the right passes, he would be stopped, sea
rched, and likely sent back.
And Grandfather wasn’t kind to those who had attempted escape.
Percy moved off, and Freeman sent a farewell after him. Winter drew in a deep breath and waited. One minute, two, until the coast would be clear.
In the darkness, her mind conjured up an image of fire and of the letter she had tossed into it in a fit of anger. The words that she so wished she still had in her possession, to reread when she felt alone.
I know you do not understand fully why I left, sweet Winter, her father had written. But I hope someday you will see that I fight for you. For your right to live free.
Freedom…sometimes it felt like an illusion. One for which men like Percy were willing to risk a flogging, one for which men like Father were willing to leave their family.
She hadn’t understood that then, when Mother had first fallen ill and she had just wanted Father there, beside her, making it all well. She had resented his cause, his conviction, his duty to country above kin.
But his words had burned into her mind as they were consumed in the flames, haunting her as she sat by her mother’s deathbed, as she waited for the arrival of the grandparents she had never met. As they brought her here, forced their wills upon her, and made her wonder if she would ever again be free to live how she wanted.
That was when she realized freedom and faith were so inexplicably linked. The Lord had granted mankind an amazing gift when He allowed them to choose for themselves how they would live. He had surpassed even that when He freely offered forgiveness for choosing wrongly.
How could they who loved Him and His precepts not want to extend that right of freedom to everyone? To their children and their neighbors?
Winter breathed in the damp darkness and hoped Father somehow knew she understood now.
When the door was raised and precious light flooded down, she flew up the stairs and wrapped her arms around Freeman’s waist. “Why is it that neither you nor Father ever told me that story of the day I was born?”
He chuckled and patted her on the back. “Never needed to be told. It just was. But knowing how you worry for me, and how I worry right back for you, it seemed a fine time to remind you that we are family, Winnie girl. Sure as if my blood flowed in your veins.”
A statement so true it needed no other words. So she stepped away and smiled. Matched both pointer fingers to thumbs in a circle, touching, and then drew them apart into a larger circle. Family.
Freeman nodded, and then he jerked his head toward the house. “Get on back inside before they miss you, now.”
Miss her…a laughable choice of phrase. They may note her absence, may grow angered by it, but they certainly would never miss her when she was gone. Still, she said her goodbyes and left the stable, hurried across the lawn, and entered through the kitchen door.
The cook greeted her with wide eyes and a frantic whisper. “Where you been, Miss Winter? Colonel Fairchild done come and asked to speak with Mr. Hampton. Your grandmother, she be looking everywhere for you.”
Her heart couldn’t seem to decide whether it ought to race or thud to a halt. So her chest banded up instead, nearly suffocating her. The colonel had never before come to seek Grandfather’s company. And there was only one reason he would do so now.
“Thank you, Cookie.” She managed a nod before sprinting up the back steps and into her room. The moment she gained it, she kicked off the shoes soiled by the stable and slid on fresh slippers.
Then sank onto the edge of her bed and stared into nothingness.
So then. Fairchild had asked for her hand. Grandfather would have granted it, happy to be rid of her so soon after his ultimatum. The colonel would probably propose to her in the next day or two, Grandmother would launch into a flurry of wedding plans. Perhaps tsking a bit over her not landing Bennet—Mr. Lane, that is—but she would be satisfied. ’Twas a fine match.
A fine match indeed. Colonel Fairchild was handsome. He was good, honest. He came from one of the best families in England, his bloodline impeccable. At his side, she would always be privy to sensitive information, which she could pass to Robbie. He would cherish her. Love her.
So why did panic join forces with dread inside her? Why did the feeling strike, even stronger than last night after Silas’s news, that she would never be home again now?
Her door burst open, and Grandmother blew in like a tempest. Her eyes glinted—not with excitement, not with pride, not even relief. Yet not with anger and frustration, either. She stopped in the center of the room and raised her chin as she emptied her countenance of all expression.
Winter had learned that particular tactic from the best.
“Colonel Fairchild was here,” Grandmother said.
Thinking it safest, Winter only nodded.
“He asked for your hand. I expected this would come soon, given his fervor last night, so your grandfather and I had already discussed our response. He has been refused.”
In spite of the panic of a moment before, this brought no relief. Only great, deeper dread. “Pardon? But…why?”
“Do not be a fool, Winifred.” She waved a hand and sailed to the window. “Fairchild may have the better blood by far, but his fortune is nothing compared to Lane’s, and think not for a moment that I missed the looks he has been sending your way. You will wait for his offer.”
“Grandmother—”
“Not a word of protest. Our answer was gentle, of course, and left him with the freedom to continue his courtship. We just indicated we were not ready to marry off our darling granddaughter quite yet.” A regal sneer turned the words into a threat. “Not to him.”
Winter stood, though she had no idea what she intended to say, what plea she could make. What plea she even wanted to make. “Grandmother, you cannot even be sure Mr. Lane will propose. He…he…”
“He is an awkward, bookish bore. Yes, I am well aware. But even bookish bores can be persuaded to make declarations with the proper encouragement.” She took two steps back to Winter and glared directly into her eyes. “Encourage him.”
She straightened her spine. Slowly, so it would not look like a show of will. “I am afraid he is not as easily led as you might think. We have talked enough that I can be quite certain he hides an iron resolve under all his scholarly words. I don’t think I can push him where he wants not to go.”
When Phillippa Hampton arched a brow in that way, the earth seemed to tremble. “Then get imaginative, Winifred. He is only a man. One who obviously delights in your beauty.”
Her stomach turned. “But—”
“I have made quite sure you have wiles at the ready.” With a click of her fan, Grandmother pivoted back toward the door. “Use them.”
Winter shook her head as the woman blustered out of her chamber. Grandmother obviously knew not what she asked. Bennet—Mr. Lane—had demonstrated last night that he had no great difficulty in holding to reason above passion. And she suspected that if she tried to use any womanly wiles on him, his reaction would be opposite what Grandmother intended. He would not be tricked or persuaded into marriage. He would flee and force her into Colonel Fairchild’s arms. Again.
She sat and fell backward onto the mattress, flinging an arm over her eyes. Perhaps she ought to obey. Let the facts prove her suspicions true. Let him turn away from her once and for all. Let Grandmother see that some men rose above her expectations and could not be lured in by simpering smiles, batted lashes, and coquettish words. That they were in fact repelled by them.
Let him be repelled. Let him reject her. Let him be purged from her mind and shorn from her heart.
Tears had the audacity to burn at the thought, but she squeezed her eyes shut against them. She would be the better for it.
Eleven
March 1780
Winter could scarcely take pleasure in the first bloom of spring. A warm breath of air had finally descended upon the city, and when cooped up in Hampton Hall the first half of the morning, she had wanted little more than to be out enj
oying the fine weather. Now, strolling through a small park on Bennet Lane’s arm, it was all she could do to focus on the chirping of birds.
His gaze was locked on some nonexistent point before them, contemplation writing an epic of thoughts upon his countenance in a language she had yet to learn. He had grown increasingly distracted over the past month and a half. Pushed away by the flirtation Grandmother insisted she employ? Perhaps. Yet still he went to all the gatherings she did, escorting her in. Still he came, at least once a week, to visit with her privately. Still he sat, often silent, in their drawing room.
She must be a fool to miss the probing glances, the leading questions. Was this not what she wanted? For him to lose interest, to be less of a danger to her? Yet here she was, strolling through the first beautiful day of the season, missing the perilous exchanges of winter.
A child’s shout came from the other side of the park, something to the effect of “Catch it! Catch it!” It brought a smile to her lips. Indeed, this was a day to be caught with both hands and enjoyed. She might as well forget about serious things for an hour and bask in the sunshine.
Repositioning her hand on his arm, she turned her face toward his. What a strong jaw he had—one it seemed he hadn’t bothered to take a razor to in a couple days. Somehow, the oversight on his part made her grin, as did the sandy hair tied at the nape of his neck. Barring the most formal occasions, he still refused to wear a wig. “You have become so quiet of late, Mr. Lane. Your mind must be hard at work on some scientific treaty.”
Light kindled in the gaze of blue he swung her way. “Treatise, you mean? Nay, unfortunately. Without my laboratory I am afraid I have had little chance to explore my theories in chemistry.”
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