by Mary Davis
She curtsied and spoke in a highbrow accent. “May I please have my book...Charles?”
He chuckled and handed her both volumes.
Lindley jabbed him with his stick. “Got you.”
With a last smile to her, Charles turned and got busy about the business of swordplay. With a swish of his “sword,” he quickly disarmed Lindley and then gave her brother instructions on how to improve.
She opened Emma and began to read. She glanced up and watched Charles maneuvering with ease. Charles looked her way and winked. Focusing back on her book, she tried to block out Lindley’s grunting and the talking. Concentrating on the story proved to be impossible. She could still pretend to read. She wished Lindley hadn’t come. But if not for Lindley, she wouldn’t have been able to come today. And she would rather be a spectator than not see Charles at all.
Maybe Lindley would get bored and leave. But she knew he wouldn’t. Not having any brothers, Lindley liked the male attention.
Rachel liked the leftenant’s attention, too.
* * *
Charles quickly tired of the swordplay. He wanted to sit with Rachel and read poetry or quote Shakespeare or tease her. He looped his stick in a circle and once again disarmed his opponent. “I think that’s enough for one session.”
Lindley sat on the ground. The boy was more tired than he’d let on. “Have you ever killed anyone?”
It seemed boys of any culture were fascinated with death and killing. Charles understood the fascination. He’d asked the same of his father and oldest brother. It was a mental preparedness for what could lie in one’s future. To know how to handle it if faced with bringing about the death of another. To know whether you would be strong enough to handle it if you had to. “I am pleased to say that I have not.”
“Would you?”
“I guess I wouldn’t have joined the military if I didn’t think so.” Actually, he still didn’t know. Being an officer was the family business. He hadn’t really had any other choice. “If I were fighting for a worthy cause. To protect the weak and innocent. To defend my homeland. Yes.”
“Would you kill an American for the San Juan Islands?”
No one had died in this war so far. He hoped it stayed that way but knew the tide could turn and catch them all in a bloody battle no one wanted. “I hope it doesn’t come to that.”
“But if it does?”
He had never seriously thought that was a possibility. But it hung in the air like leaden clouds before it rained. “I honestly don’t want to kill anyone.”
Rachel stood next to her brother. “He wants to know if you’ll kill our papa.”
Charles shook his head. “No. Of course not.” But he didn’t even know her father or what he looked like, so he wouldn’t know whether he was shooting at him if this war turned violent.
“He will fight alongside the American soldiers.” Rachel stared at him with sad eyes. Eyes daring him to lie to her and tell her he wouldn’t shoot her father if standing face-to-face with him in battle. “You would have no choice.”
The look of desolation in her expression broke him. He sensed she had contemplated her father’s death before. By him?
“We need to go.” She walked away.
Lindley dropped his stick and followed her.
Charles stared after them. He was indeed playing with fire. Not only could his actions with Rachel ignite this peaceful war, but also he could be faced with the very real possibility of killing her father. The father of the only lady he’d ever seriously cared about.
He had true affection for her. He didn’t know whether that was because she was forbidden to him, or because she had spirit and was delightful. Enjoyable to tease. A pleasure to be around. Comely. Charming. Fetching. Captivating. Enchanting. Lovely.
He sighed.
He sensed if he faced her father, he wouldn’t be able to kill him. Charles would fall on the battlefield first.
He cared more for Rachel than he had realized or intended. He would rather die than hurt her. But he must stop any further foolish thoughts of her. She was American, after all. His commanding officer would be livid if he knew Charles was up here with her. Not to mention his parents. They would be shocked at his consorting with an American. She would never stand up to their ideal of a proper lady. Maybe that was why he was so attracted to her. She was different. Fresh. Endearing. Alluring. Winsome. Everything the ladies back in England were not.
He was such a fool. Nothing could come of his time spent with Rachel. Nothing but futile longing.
* * *
Rachel’s hands shook. She moved through the forest as quickly as possible. She hadn’t thought about it, but she knew Papa would fight again. She had been terrified ten years ago when the war first started, and Papa had taken up arms to defend the islands. The fact that the war could start again ripped her to the bones. The thought of Papa and Charles facing each other on the battlefield shook her. She didn’t want either of them to kill anyone. Especially not each other.
“Rachel, do you think he’ll kill Papa?”
She stopped and faced her brother. “No!” She didn’t want to think about that. She couldn’t.
“But—”
“I said no. Everything is peaceful. No one is going to shoot anyone else. Do you hear me?”
Lindley nodded. “I don’t want them to kill each other either.”
She struck out again.
If she walked fast enough, she could outrun that horrible thought and her own fear, couldn’t she? The picture of Papa aiming his musket at Charles and Charles aiming his gun back wouldn’t go away. She tried to shake it before either fired. The war was peaceful. No one had died. She prayed it stayed that way.
She had grown quite fond of the leftenant. She liked him a lot. She wasn’t sure how or why it had happened. But she knew she mustn’t see him ever again. If Papa found out, he would start the war to protect her honor. Then it would be her fault if either of them died. Yes, the answer was to stay away.
She hurried into the house.
Genevieve asked, “Where are the rabbits?”
Rachel said, “He scared them all away. I’m not feeling well. I’m going to my room.”
“You look a bit pale.” Genevieve put her hand on Rachel’s forehead. “You don’t have a fever. But go rest.”
Rachel was glad that Genevieve didn’t fuss over her and let her go. She crawled into bed still dressed, trying to ward off the frightening images.
Her dreams reflected her troubling thoughts. Papa faced Charles. Each held a gun on the other. She screamed, “No!” as they both fired. She ran between them. But it was too late. It was all her fault. She startled awake with tears on her cheeks.
Edith lay snuggled next to her. She pulled her little sister closer and held on to her.
She would never go back to English Camp. She couldn’t.
Chapter 7
Rachel took a deep breath before opening the door to the next suitor. She was determined to find good in this one. Someone to make her forget about Leftenant Charles Young. Her Romeo. Her forbidden love.
On the porch stood a good-looking man with black hair and blue eyes similar to her own. Though handsome, he wasn’t as good-looking as the first three suitors. But maybe that was for the best. Maybe he wouldn’t be so supercilious.
He bowed with a flourish. “Milady, I am so very pleased to meet you. Hugh Dawson, at your service.”
Except for the lack of an English accent and the name, Charles could have said those very words to her.
He stepped inside. “I would have brought the young lady and the missus of the house flowers, but alas, there were none to be found.”
“That’s quite all right,” Genevieve said. “Supper is almost ready.”
Rachel stared at Hugh wi
th dreamy eyes, trying to conjure up affection for him. But she couldn’t.
Everyone scuttled to sit, Papa said grace, and dishes were passed around the table.
“Tell me, Hugh, what do you do?” Papa asked.
“I’ve done a great many things. I was an actor for a while.”
Papa wouldn’t like that. Though he paused in his chewing, he didn’t say anything.
“I have done a little farming, both vegetables and dairy. I’ve picked fruit, worked with hogs, mended fences, gone on a cattle drive, been a reporter, done some mining, worked in a mercantile, been a sailor on a ship, harvested crabs and climbed a mountain.” Hugh punctuated his list by taking a bite of stew.
He had certainly done a great many things in so short a life. Papa should like that. Hugh could do anything.
“Why so many jobs?” Papa asked in a way that told her he was suspicious of something.
“Haven’t quite found what suits me. And it allows me to travel around. See the world. I don’t like to stay put in one place very long. But I have finally found my calling.”
Papa raised a curious eyebrow. “And what is that?”
“I’ve started my first play. I’m going to be a playwright.”
He didn’t just say that. Though she liked the idea, Papa would not.
“A playwright?” Papa stared at Hugh.
“That is a person who writes plays.”
Papa’s words were measured. “I know what one is.”
Hugh should not have assumed Papa to be uneducated or simple-minded.
“How do you expect to support a family writing plays?”
The final two words seemed to taste bitter in Papa’s mouth.
Rachel wanted to tell Papa that there were some very successful playwrights but knew he would not take that observation well.
“I suppose I will have to find a strong wife who doesn’t mind working. But she would have to be willing to travel around from town to town, across the country and around the world.”
Rachel would love to travel abroad.
“Around the world?” Papa asked. “What about a house?”
“We won’t have a house. We’ll sleep under the heavens as God intended.”
“What about when children start coming? You’ll settle down then and have a house?”
“I don’t see a need to. Maybe we’ll get a wagon to travel in. Like gypsies.”
Papa clenched his jaw. “I will not have my daughter live like a gypsy, never knowing if she’ll have food in her stomach.”
Though traveling sounded nice, gypsy life did not.
“Certainly not your fair Rachel.” Hugh waved toward her with a flourish. “She’s not cut out for that kind of life.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Free food. I can usually find kind and generous people such as yourselves. I rarely go long without a good meal.” He turned to Genevieve, who was stifling a laugh. “Your stew and biscuits are delicious.”
“Rachel made them.”
Hugh turned to Rachel. “You will make some man a good wife.”
But not this man. He wasn’t looking for a wife, and Papa wouldn’t allow this man to be his son-in-law. Both she and Papa were relieved. Hugh had absolutely no ambition. At least he’d made the meal entertaining.
After Papa realized Hugh was not marriage material, he stopped peppering their guest with questions. So Rachel took up the slack in the conversation.
“What kind of plays do you write?”
He held up a single finger. “Just one play. It’s rather tragic. It’s the story of a young man without a home who doesn’t know where his next meal will be found.”
That sounded a little autobiographical.
“The man spends the length of the play searching for the father he never knew. He is always one town behind his father.”
She wondered if Hugh was looking for his own father. “Does he ever find him?”
“In the final scene, the man finally is in the same town as his father. Someone tells him that his father is over at the bank. He goes there, and the bank is being robbed. The robber shoots him in the stomach. The robber is his father. And he says, ‘Pa, why?’ and dies in his father’s arms. The father doesn’t know what the man is asking about—why he shot him, or why he left him as a small boy? The father is caught and hung.”
“That’s not a very happy ending.”
“Life ain’t always happy.”
“Sounds like you will be another Shakespeare with tragic endings to your plays.”
“Nah, it’ll be nothing like those Shakespeare plays. Mine you will be able to understand.”
He couldn’t see any parallels? It didn’t matter. “So is your play finished?”
“Not yet. But I’m close.”
“How much do you have written down?”
“None of it.” He tapped his forehead with his index finger. “I have it all up here.”
She could think of nothing more to say to him.
After Hugh left, Papa shook his head, then shook it again, and then shook it some more.
Genevieve touched his shoulder. “What’s wrong?”
“Amos.” Papa chuckled. “He’s having a good laugh about now.”
“How so?”
“He told me this fellow was perfect for Rachel. Said I had to invite him over. Rachel would like him. I should have known he was setting me up.”
Rachel spoke up. “I wouldn’t say perfect, but I did like him.” But not for a suitor. Hugh had been interesting.
Papa turned serious. “No, I’ll not be inviting him back. He’s not right for you. I would be derelict in my duties as your father if I agreed to you marrying someone who couldn’t support you.”
“And I would be derelict in my duties as your daughter to entertain another thought of such a man.” She kissed him on the cheek and heard Papa sigh as she walked away.
The next two suitors weren’t any better. Papa was growing wary. She hoped he would give up this quest and let her grow into an old maid. That would be better than marrying a man she didn’t love. Or loving a man she could never be with.
* * *
After being detained three separate times, Charles was finally able to go up the hill undetected. Or at least he hoped he was undetected. He went to Rachel’s spot. He looked around but didn’t see her. He closed his eyes but couldn’t hear anyone in the vicinity. He leaned over the log that hid the book. The parcel hadn’t been touched in two weeks. He knew because he’d carefully placed a leaf and a twig on top of it so he would know if it had been moved. They were both right where he’d put them a week and a half ago.
He hadn’t liked how the conversation had ended the last time he and Rachel had seen each other. Talk of war and killing.
When he first arrived on the island, he’d been frustrated with having little to do that was meaningful. It had seemed to be a waste of military might. An agreed-upon stalemate. Now he saw the wisdom in keeping the peace. No need to shed blood unnecessarily. Once the shooting started, it would be hard to stop. Retaliations would run rampant. Neither side would like the other. Any friendly relations built between England and the United States of America since the Revolutionary War would be destroyed.
And now he had a personal stake in praying the peace continued.
Indefinitely.
If the time came, he would have to follow orders, but hoped he wasn’t sent to the same battle as any of Rachel’s relatives or friends. He would never be able to face her.
“What are you doing, little brother?”
Charles spun around to face Brantley. “Trying to collect my thoughts.”
“About what?”
Too many things. “What we are really doing on these islands.”
“We are keeping the peace.”
“Are we? Or just postponing the inevitable?”
Brantley spoke in measured words. “We are keeping the peace.”
“You don’t wonder if one side or the other or both will get tired of this stalemate and change everything?”
“No. The American officers want the peace as much as we do. It is best for both sides.”
“The officers, yes. Even the enlisted men. But there are other factors to consider.”
“Like what?”
“The civilian population. How did this whole fiasco start? An American farmer shot a British pig over potatoes. The officers might have agreed to this peace and be bound by orders, but the general population isn’t. What if there is another pig/potato incident? Or something that really matters?”
Brantley narrowed his eyes. “Is this about that girl?”
It might have started out that way, and she might be his strongest motivation behind keeping the peace, but he had finally seen the delicate balance of this whole situation for the first time. “It’s been ten years. Shouldn’t this be settled by now? Isn’t this a waste of time and resources?”
“No. The San Juan Islands are the gateway up the straits to the British holdings there. If we have the islands, we control the straits. These islands are an advantageous military position.”
Brantley was right. But how would possession finally be determined, if not by war?
“You need to forget about that girl.”
He doubted he could ever do that. Try as he might to dispel her image from his mind, she consumed his thoughts and settled in his heart.
Chapter 8
Their vegetable garden had reached its end and everything had been harvested just in time for the cold snap that brought the first frost. With that frost, their three apple trees needed to be picked. So for the past three weeks, Rachel and Genevieve had done little else other than can fruits and vegetables for the winter. And Rachel did little else other than think about Leftenant Young while working. The pattering of the soft rain on the windowpane lured Rachel’s thoughts through the forest. She missed going to English Camp and seeing him. She struggled to remember the words of the poetry, listening for his accented voice reading them.