by Jody Hedlund
“So you don’t mind getting coerced into playing chaperone again this afternoon?”
“I don’t mind.” She peeked again at the couple. “After having to watch Mary mope for the past week, wondering when she would get to see Mr. Cranch, I’m relieved to see her smiling again.”
“She likes him, then?”
“Very much.”
The squawk of a sea gull drew his attention back to the ocean and to the bird swooping above the gently lapping waves.
“At least they’ve picked a favorable day for their excursion,” he said, having already discarded his cocked hat to let the sun’s rays warm his face. And thankfully this stretch of Weymouth beach was fairly clean of the usual seaweed that lined the shore.
Some of the local farmers had likely hauled the slimy grass back to their fields to use as fertilizer. After gathering the salt hay, he had in fact helped his own father pick up seaweed along the coast near their farm in Braintree.
“Am I to presume, then,” Susanna said, brushing at the sand that had made its way onto their blanket, “that you’re not irritated with Mr. Cranch for dragging you along today?”
He shrugged. “I could think of worse things I could be doing.” The truth was, since his father wasn’t finished making Susanna’s buskins, he’d needed an excuse to ride over to Weymouth. Cranch’s invitation to accompany him on an outing with Mary had provided the cover he needed to attend a meeting with the Caucus Club.
“Are we that detestable to you, Mr. Ross?” Beneath the brim of her hat, her inky eyes met his and did strange things to his stomach as they had the last time he’d been with her in the parlor when he’d touched her foot.
“I’d be a liar if I said you were detestable, Miss Smith.” Heat made a fist around his gut at the memory of the slender leg and delicate ankle she’d bared to him.
“If I’m not detestable, what am I?” Her lips curved up on one side and led to a dimple.
“Well, I wouldn’t call you despicable either. Nor disparaging.”
“I’m relieved to hear it. You sure know how to put a girl’s heart at ease.”
He grinned. He’d never prided himself at flirting—he’d always been so much better at arguing. But he had to give himself credit. He was doing a fine job flirting with Susanna Smith.
“I am rather advanced at paying compliments,” he teased. “If you ever need one, don’t hesitate to ask.”
At his words, her smile dimmed and she refolded her hands in her lap, neatly, just like a well-trained lady. “I don’t need a compliment today,” she said quietly, with an urgency that hadn’t been there before. “But I do need your advice.”
“Then you’re in luck, because I’m quite advanced at giving advice too—particularly when it’s unwanted.”
His words didn’t elicit the dimple he wanted to see again. Instead she lowered her voice even more. “Did you receive the letter I sent with Tom yesterday?”
“Yes, I received it.”
Alas, he’d done more than receive it. He’d kept it in his waistcoat, reading it more times than he cared to admit.
“I hope I wasn’t presumptuous to send it to you.”
“Of course not.” He’d been more than a little surprised—and slightly flattered—when the Smith slave had stopped by the farm to deliver the letter while on his way to Boston for supplies.
“And . . . what do you think?”
“First, I think that in any future correspondence, you should refrain from using our given names. If such letters should happen to fall into the wrong hands or be read by prying eyes, you would put yourself in great danger.”
If the girl in reference was a runaway indentured servant as Susanna presumed, then aiding the young woman would indeed be a risky venture.
Interestingly, his first reaction to Susanna’s letter was to tell her to have nothing to do with the runaway. For a reason he couldn’t explain, he didn’t like the thought that Susanna might put herself at risk.
On the other hand, his esteem of her had risen. He hadn’t thought her capable of doing something quite so noble as to sacrifice her own safety for someone less fortunate than herself.
“Then I shall assume a pen name.” Her brow wrinkled in thought. “I shall be Diana, after the Roman goddess of the moon.”
“So you think you are a goddess, my lady?” The sarcastic comment escaped before he could stop it.
Her long lashes fell to her cheeks and she tipped her head away from him, revealing her slender neck. He wasn’t sure if her hat cast a becoming shadow over her cheeks or whether she was blushing. Either way, the picture she made, sitting on the beach under a bright blue sky in her fashionable hat and dress, was enough to make him forget about anything and anyone else.
“Forgive me, Susanna. I shouldn’t have spoken so crossly.” Hadn’t she declared that she’d changed from the spoiled little girl she used to be? And hadn’t he told her he’d forgive her past mistakes?
A ringlet of her dark hair dangled against her ear. The gentle sea breeze teased the loose curl, tantalizing him to sweep it away and let his fingers caress her skin instead.
“I suppose you’ve been reading Cicero this week,” he said, wanting to make amends for his comment. “If I do say so, Cicero was rather fond of the goddess Diana.”
Her mouth cocked into a half smile. “You’ve uncovered my secret sin. I beg you not to tell my mother I’ve been reading again.”
“Our dear Cicero, the great Roman philosopher, says: ‘Read at every wait; read at all hours; read within leisure; read in times of labor; read as one goes in; read as one goes out—’”
“‘The task of the educated mind is simply put: read to lead.’” She finished the quote for him.
Satisfaction flooded his soul. How utterly fascinating to find a young woman who could quote Cicero as easily as himself. “Perhaps you truly are the goddess Diana.”
“I consider myself a moon compared to my sister Mary’s radiant sunshine.” Her tone held the barest hint of envy.
“There’s nothing wrong with being a moon. I’ve always considered the moon a steady light, ready to guide us through the darkest of nights.”
“I like your analogy, Mr. Ross. Perhaps I need to have more faith that God will use me someday to be a steady light for someone going through a dark travail.” She glanced down the shore again at Mary and Cranch, whose shoulders brushed together in their ever-slowing walk. Then as if shaking herself from her melancholy thoughts, she smiled at him, almost too brightly. “And if you need to correspond with me in return, what pen name shall you choose?”
Under the beam of her smile, his heart did another silly flip. “I shall take the name Lysander.” He fumbled to find his smooth tongue. “Yes. Lysander, after the poor plain Spartan statesman.”
“So you’re willing to secretly advise me?”
“I’ll do my best.” He wasn’t sure there was much he could do. Even though indentured servants had a few rights, the law essentially treated them like slaves, giving the masters jurisdiction to treat—or mistreat—them as they wished. One poor woman wouldn’t have a significant case against her master, not enough to justify her running away.
But at least if he involved himself with the case, he could oversee Susanna’s actions and hopefully keep her safe.
Susanna leaned toward him. “If I see her again, what should I tell her?”
“Try to get a clearer picture of her situation.” A movement down the beach the opposite direction of Cranch and Mary caught Ben’s attention. He pushed himself up. “There is no sense in plotting overly far ahead until we know more about her.”
“Yes,” she replied. “I suppose you’re right.”
He could make out the forms of two men on horseback riding their way. He sat up straighter. They were dressed in red—the unmistakable red that belonged only to the soldiers of King George.
“Do you think I should offer to help her,” Susanna asked, “even if she’s a runaway? After all, I don’t want
to break the law.”
Had Lieutenant Wolfe relocated to Weymouth? Ben’s muscles tightened in protest.
“If the law is unjust and oppressive, then perhaps it deserves to be broken.” His tone was clipped. But there were much bigger issues at stake and much bigger laws that were unjust and oppressive than those having to do with runaway servants.
Susanna turned and saw the approaching soldiers astride their horses. She sat up, shifting her gown and smoothing it over her ankles.
Their modern muskets with bayonets served to remind Ben of how ancient the colonists’ weapons were. His own flintlock, an old squirrel gun, had been handed down to him from his grandfather, and likely from his grandfather before him. The old gun was typical of what many of the farmers had.
The stiff shoulders and pinched face of the man riding the center horse belonged to only one man—Lieutenant Wolfe. If the lieutenant had relocated to Weymouth, then that meant only one thing. The king was indeed growing more serious in his attempts to stop the colonists’ smuggling.
“Just what we needed,” Ben said. “A visit from the dressed-up red monkey himself, Lieutenant Wolfe.”
“Why, Mr. Ross, I don’t understand the disrespect. These are the king’s soldiers.”
“Exactly.” Had Lieutenant Wolfe discovered the secret meeting they’d held earlier in the day? Had he come to interrogate him about it?
Lieutenant Wolfe trotted his horse in their direction, reining it just short of their blanket, close enough for the hooves to spray sand at them. The sergeant riding with him stopped a respectable distance away.
“If it isn’t the esteemed Esquire Ross, the lover of horse thieves and hermit crabs.” The lieutenant peered down at him with sharp eyes. “Fancy seeing you here today in Weymouth.”
“Yes, fancy that.”
“You seem to have a penchant for beaches.”
“Who can resist the sand and waves one last time on a warm fall day?”
“Perhaps your love of beaches isn’t for the sand and water as much as for what the tide brings under cover of darkness?”
The glint in the lieutenant’s eyes spoke more than his words and speared Ben with an urgency to warn the Caucus Club of the danger the lieutenant was bringing to Weymouth.
Lieutenant Wolfe looked at Susanna, and even though he was old enough to be her father, sudden lust flickered across his features. “Or am I to presume you’re here for pleasure, and pleasure alone?”
“What do you think, Lieutenant Wolfe? Why else do you think I’m on the beach with a lovely young lady?” How dare the lieutenant leer at Susanna that way. Who did he think he was?
The lieutenant’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps you got word of my presence in Weymouth and decided to warn the smugglers to be on the lookout?”
Susanna drew in a breath. “Smugglers?”
Ben gave her a sideways glare that he hoped conveyed his desire for her to stay silent.
“I beg your pardon, Lieutenant,” she said with the tone of one who had been offended. “If you think any of the dear people of my father’s parish are involved in smuggling or any other illicit activities, you’re sorely mistaken.”
Once again Lieutenant Wolfe stared too freely at Susanna, and Ben had to restrain himself from standing up and shouting at the red monkey.
“Who is your father?” the lieutenant asked coldly.
“The Reverend Smith of the North Parish. And I assure you, if any smuggling was occurring along Weymouth’s shores, my father would have called on his parishioners to stop.”
Ben bit back the terse words he’d had ready for Susanna. If he stayed silent, perhaps her innocence and ignorance, along with her fervor for the king, would be just the convincing Wolfe needed to leave them alone.
“We’re a law-abiding community,” she insisted.
Of course, the smuggling of molasses, sugar, and rum had been ongoing for years and years, ever since the Molasses Trade Act was passed thirty years ago. The trade laws had the intent of forcing the colonists to buy and sell only with Britain. But always in the past, the king’s customs officials had turned a blind eye after the smugglers had paid them handsomely to ignore the illegal cargo coming in from the West Indies where the merchants could trade fairly.
But now that the king had grown more desperate for revenue, he was apparently intent upon enforcing the old Trade Act. Ben had heard rumors the prime minister had begun to pay the customs officials higher wages, which would only make them less likely to succumb to bribes from the New England merchants.
Had the prime minister also given officers like Lieutenant Wolfe more power to enforce the outdated Molasses Trade Act? It made sense, but only irritated Ben all the more that the king would stoop to such subversive tactics rather than openly discussing the problem with the colonists. “Our community prides itself on loyalty to England and to the king,” Susanna continued, impassioned with what she obviously believed to be true.
Ben focused on a crab scurrying near the water’s edge, where the incoming tide threatened to draw it under. He didn’t dare let Susanna look into his eyes for fear she would see the truth there.
What she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. Her patriotic declarations were just what he needed at that moment to distract Lieutenant Wolfe from the trail he was pursuing, for the man was indeed getting much too close to the heart of the illegal activities.
The distilleries in Boston depended on the cheap tax-free molasses that was smuggled in. They needed it for making rum.
And it wasn’t that Ben approved of the rum. Even though the strong drink was used in preserving food and treating ailments, he’d also seen the effects of its overuse—many lives wasted as a result of imbibing too freely.
He’d wanted to speak out against the ill effects of strong drink, but the life of the colonies depended upon the income the rum brought. If the British cut off the smuggling, they would impoverish the colonies and make them even more dependent on their mother country.
And that was exactly what Ben and the other members in the Caucus Club were determined not to let happen.
“Miss Smith.” Lieutenant Wolfe gave a strained smile, one that was more of a grimace. “I would expect nothing less of this community than its utmost allegiance to His Majesty, King George the third. This is to be expected.”
“As it should be,” she said, tipping up the brim of her lovely hat.
“Parliament has commanded that General Gage search out and destroy any sedition. He’s been given the power to send any man involved in plotting revolt back to England to stand trial.”
Susanna’s response stalled as she glanced at Ben.
He wanted to frown at her, to tell her to continue with her passionate soliloquy of loyalty rather than giving the lieutenant more reason to suspect Ben’s seditious leanings. An arrest by the lieutenant would put a certain end to all his aspirations and hopes, for a trial in England would be nothing but a parody followed by certain death on the gallows.
Lt. Wolfe’s lips curled into a disdainful smirk. “Miss Smith, since you are such a loyal subject of the Crown, I expect you will be the first to report any signs of treachery.”
Ben’s pulse quickened. Susanna wouldn’t share her suspicions about him with this officer, would she? Surely she had more class and kindness than to betray him.
Susanna looked beyond the lieutenant to the young sergeant. He had the youthful features of a boy with freckles sprinkled across his pale face. Sprigs of wiry red hair had come loose from the tight braid at the back of his neck. His eyes held an apology, as if he was embarrassed by the lieutenant’s interruption of what probably appeared to be an intimate moment.
“How long will you and your soldiers be in Weymouth?” Susanna asked.
“As long as it takes,” Lieutenant Wolfe replied, his eyes fixed on Ben.
Ben smiled back at the lieutenant, hoping to prove to the proud man that he wasn’t so easily intimidated.
“Rest assured, Lieutenant,” Susanna said, “
I will be the first to alert you should I have any knowledge of illegal activities.”
Irritation slithered through Ben. From everything he’d learned so far about Susanna, he had a feeling she truly would be the first to notify Lieutenant Wolfe of any smuggling, which meant he would have to guard what he said around her much better than he had so far.
The lieutenant only nodded at her briefly before spurring his horse and kicking more sand at them.
Once Lt. Wolfe had ridden away, Ben leaned back, rested his head against the blanket, and closed his eyes.
For a long moment, Susanna didn’t speak.
The gentle rush of ocean waves filled the silence between them, along with the occasional cry of a sea gull.
“Mr. Ross,” she started softly.
“Don’t ask me any questions. It’s quite clear the less I say around you, the better.”
“But you heard the lieutenant. Those harboring thoughts of rebellion against the king will only put themselves in grave trouble.”
“Then you have nothing to worry about, do you?”
“But you do.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Hence I prefer not to know your involvements. If I remain unaware, then I won’t have to report anything, will I?”
He snorted. “How very noble of you.”
“As opposed as I am to any kind of sedition, I certainly don’t want to see trouble befall you.”
“Liberty must be supported at all hazards,” he said, “even to life and limb.”
“But we already have liberty.” Her fervent voice hung above him.
He opened his eyes and found her leaning over him. In spite of his irritation, he couldn’t keep from admiring her pretty face above his, her flashing eyes and the sincerity of her expression. Did the narrow crease between her brows mean she was worried about him?