“Your father is a fine man.” Mr. Zachary patted her arm, playing along.
“We have specific orders, Miss…Parker.” The flustered officer scowled. “A few vitally important answers are needed.”
“This is highly improper.” She jutted out her chin, pouting. “Who gave you such orders?”
Her fingers kneaded the spy’s sleeve. Her nape prickled. She had to make this work, or she’d be under arrest as well.
“We can’t tell you that,” the private replied. “Military orders aren’t to be bandied about.”
The officer nodded to the private, who moved behind Mr. Zachary, pistol drawn.
“Gentlemen, please attend. This is most improper.” Mr. Zachary stiffened.
“My father will be furious. You must come to our home, speak to him. Explain your reasons.” She needed tears; she thought of her agony the day her mother perished. Tears easily sprang to her eyes. She gulped a sob. “You are upsetting me and I’m, well, I’m…in a delicate condition, as you know.”
Zachary’s eyes widened. “My darling. For you to reveal such personal information to these men pains me to the core. We will marry soon, as I’ve promised your father.” Mr. Zachary pressed on his chest. He was a fine actor, Rowena agreed, or just in shock at her boldness.
The private’s cheeks reddened. He looked to his superior.
The officer rubbed his musket stock. “Which regiments is General Parker in charge of?”
Rowena’s stomach twitched as she scrambled for an answer.
“Why the 56th Fusiliers,” Mr. Zachary said, as if it were true. “One of the best and bravest.”
Not to be upstaged, she said, “And the 55th, dearest. And many more; I’ve lost count. He is home, presently, nursing an injured knee.” Rowena used her real father’s injury from the French and Indian Wars. She tugged out her handkerchief and sniffed. “He will join General Washington soon. And His Excellency puts full trust in my fiancé.”
The two soldiers glanced at one another. “This is most irregular,” the officer said. “Where is your home, Miss Parker?”
“A fine manse on Pine Street.” Mr. Zachary grinned again.
“Oh, but I beg you to give us an hour to prepare for company, or my mother will have…” She pressed a hand to her forehead. “I feel most faint, my dear. I must rest.”
“You have twenty minutes, but we’ll follow you there,” the officer said, words clipped.
Rowena frowned, but she already had a plan to shake these rebels. She threw her arms around Mr. Zachary’s neck and whispered, “Assistance waits in the trees behind us. Firstly, we’re visiting a physician.” The spy smelled of tobacco and mutton. Aloud, she said, “Oh, help me, my love, as I feel so weak.”
“Our picnic must be postponed, sweeting.” He hugged her. “These soldiers, brave as soldiers are, have ruined our day.”
“Alas, I think I need a doctor. I feel more than unwell.” She steered him past the trees, forcing a little stumble. Why did women have to act so silly to get their way? “My regular physician is out of town. But I know of one close by. A Dr. Foster. Right on that corner.”
She heard the soldiers trudging behind them; each step pinged on her nerves.
“Lead the way, my love.” Mr. Zachary stroked his chin, his smile tight.
“Doctor Foster is a suspected loyalist,” the officer grumbled. “Why would you—”
“Oh, dear, kind sir. But I can’t wait. The pain is increasing.” She brushed her hand near her abdomen, moaned, then dragged Mr. Zachary across the street, to the brick building with a shingle out front. Derec had instructed her to seek out this loyalist physician.
Entering a dark-paneled room redolent of linseed oil, she saw a young man who stared at them from behind a small desk. “Good afternoon. May I help you?”
The two soldiers crowded in behind.
“I must see the doctor on a very personal matter I cannot discuss, except with him.” Her skin crawled as the officer maneuvered close enough to billow her skirt. Her fingers itched; she touched the wrapped lump of the pistol in her basket.
“Dr. Foster is busy, and I see no appointment for this hour.” The clerk tapped an open ledger.
“Dear sir, my betrothed is suffering, and we won’t be deterred,” Mr. Zachary protested.
“Is this his office?” Rowena pointed to a door to the right of the desk.
The clerk seemed disturbed by her agitation, which fit right in with the situation. He nodded. Mr. Zachary shuffled her forward, opened the door and eased her in.
The officer stepped with them.
“You must stay out here for decency’s sake, sir,” she said, fanning her face. “Have a care for a lady’s delicacy.”
Mr. Zachary shut the door in their disgruntled faces.
A fat man stood up from behind a large desk. Remnants of food cluttered a plate before him. He adjusted his gold-rimmed spectacles. “What is this? Who are you?”
Rowena leaned close to him. “We are loyalists, sir, and need to escape two rebel soldiers who wish to arrest this very important man.” She gestured to Mr. Zachary. “Tell them we overpowered you and fled.”
Foster nodded, eyes alert above florid cheeks. “There is no rear door here. You must use the window into the alley.”
She went to open the window sash. “The drop isn’t far.” She indicated to her companion to go first.
“I’ll do what my short legs will allow.” Mr. Zachary struggled but managed to straddle the windowsill. “It has been a frolic, my dear.” He lowered himself out.
“Thank you for your cooperation, Dr. Foster.” Rowena hiked up her skirts and followed, praying the soldiers hadn’t anticipated her scheme and waited in the alley.
* * *
Aunt Joan hugged her on the front porch the next evening. “You are so very bold, and yes, reckless for what you did. But I suppose that’s how wars are won. You have the heart of a lioness.”
“Thank you. I wish I could stay and help you pack, but I must leave Philadelphia promptly before the soldiers search for the non-existent Miss Parker.” Rowena breathed in her aunt’s vanilla scent, her heart heavy and not a dash leonine.
“I understand. Give your father my warmest greetings.” Aunt Joan’s smile, so reminiscent of Rowena’s mother, tugged at her. Her aunt kissed her cheek. “Have a quiet trip home. I hope I’ll be able to write you from wherever I settle.”
The sun was setting, the insects starting to buzz. The hired coach waited on the street. An older woman sat inside, a paid chaperone to Easton—both courtesy of Aunt Joan.
“Stay safe in your travels, dear aunt.” Rowena walked down the steps full of worry for her. The coachman opened the vehicle door.
Another man strolled by, dressed in plain clothes like a Quaker. He slowed and touched Rowena’s hand. She started.
“Ye be safe, Rowena. I will think of ye.” Derec’s burr sent chills up her spine. His finger stroked her flesh. “Mr. Zachary is securely out of the city.”
“I’m glad of that.” She didn’t face him in the growing murkiness. Her throat constricted. “I pray you stay unharmed as well.”
“I have much yet to accomplish.” He stroked her cheek and she finally looked at him. “Perhaps I will see ye when the war ends.”
“Will you?” she asked as a challenge, chin raised.
“I am the nomad, in the shadows, yet yer the unexpected light.” He put a finger to his hat brim and continued down Walnut Street.
Rowena entered the coach, her eyes damp with a gouge of loss.
Chapter Twenty-two
Her knees on a rough apron, Rowena dug her fingers into the loamy earth of Mersheland’s garden. The feel of soft soil calmed her. Early in July, she gardened in the mornings before the air grew hot and sticky. She’d planted beets, carrots, and lettuce the moment she returned home to Easton. Her family desperately needed the food. She sprinkled water from her watering pot over the seedlings Sam had ‘borrowed’ from a rebel farm in the mid
dle of the night.
Would her efforts flourish or wilt, like the rebels gaining ground on the loyalists?
She twitched with a yawn, always tired yet on edge. Nightmares of blood and mangled soldiers still plagued her, interrupting her sleep. War wasn’t a dodge behind trees, flailing wooden swords, like the games she once played with her brothers and cousin. Those men on the battlefield weren’t pretending to fall dead.
The moist dirt balled into her fist, she felt helpless not being involved in the war effort. Weren’t there more Greek codes to decipher?
After aiding in the escape of Mr. Zachary, Derec had said he’d think of her…but in what way? Had his touch that last evening meant only friendship, or something more? She’d decided she wanted more, but it might be too late and impossible with such a man.
She tossed down the dirt, then patted it around the seedling and stifled a groan. Frustration consumed her at having to wait for any word of the outcome of battles, or the chance of a word from him or James.
Sam rolled a barrow up to where she worked, his expression stoic. The stink of manure enveloped him. “I has more fertilizer. Kayfill be always glad to leave it for me.”
“Thank you. Is your father still angry with me for using your last name?” She looked up from under the brim of her straw hat. The sun dipped in and out of puffy clouds.
“He’s not happy, ’tis true. Them rebels wasn’t kind with their words to my mam an’ sisters.” He met her gaze, his slightly chastising. “Da don’t know why you done it.”
“I apologize, again. I was crack-brained, and it was the first name that came to mind.” She rubbed her forehead with the back of her hand. “I’ll send over some of this bounty when it ripens.”
The rebel soldiers had demanded Sam’s father produce his ‘fugitive’ daughter Elizabeth. Mr. Owen had shown them the church records in the chapel to prove he had no such daughter.
“They was still suspicious when they left,” Sam said, “after threatening our women like nasty louts, an’ warned that every ‘Owen’ in the vicinity would be interrogated.”
“If I ever spy again, which seems doubtful, I won’t even use my hometown, much less a friend’s name.” She’d proven herself a less-than-perfect spy. A sigh escaped her.
“Aye, we had a dangerous adventure. Best save the farm now.” Sam stared around: they were always on look-out for marauders. They kept her stallion hidden unless she needed him—such as in her occasional hard rides during the evenings when she could sneak out, desperate for wind in her face and the dissolution of her thoughts.
“I don’t want to ever lose your friendship.” She smiled at Sam, who seemed to have sprouted several inches in height. “No matter my mistakes, or willful actions.”
He cocked his head. “You won’t, Miss. We been through much but should be more careful next time. Are we home for good?”
A flock of crows flew close with loud caws. Sam pulled out his slingshot, but the birds swept off, black dots against the white clouds.
“I don’t know; that depends if the rebels leave us be.” She was once again yoked to the house as an ordinary woman, the very position she’d fought against.
“My older brother heard rebels boastin’ in town that the French landed thousands of French soldiers at Newport, Rhode Island.” Sam fiddled with the slingshot, then shoved it in his back pocket.
Mouth dry, Rowena bowed her head at the alarming ramifications. “Is there no hope for us?” she whispered, then gathered her emotions and directed her mind to what she could control, to keep sane.
She glanced at the seedlings. “If I grow a good crop, and no one steals it, I can sell vegetables at the market in town.” She fretted about money, their frequent lack of flour and other scarce goods. At market, she could barter for other food items.
After helping Sam spread the manure at the far end of her large garden, where she hoped to plant cauliflower, onions, and squash, she washed her hands at the pump and entered the stuffy house.
Aunt Elizabeth met her near the stairs and fluttered a handkerchief before her nose. “Oh, my heavens, Rowena, you smell like a…stable, to put it politely. And you’re allowing your skin to turn too brown, like a field hand. You’d do better joining me in embroidery. We could embroider pretty birds on your ruined dress sleeves.”
Rowena glanced at the torn ruffles of her gown. “That would be a waste. And we have plenty of your beautiful decorative art, but do need to eat, Auntie. I am a field hand.” She forced a smile, one of many. “You could help me in the garden, if you’d be so kind.”
“I don’t mind tending flowers…” Her aunt’s darting blue eyes looked huge in her pretty face, her clothing threadbare: a woman disappointed with her life, but too ‘fragile’ to work to improve it within the wartime constraints.
“Edible flowers, I trust. We all must pitch in where we can.” Rowena kept her tone polite, but inside annoyance wriggled like a worm.
“I’ll harvest with you, I promise.” Her aunt smiled sadly, as if already apologizing that she would not. “My maid, Mary, is interested in gardening…but I can hardly spare her. Now, Rowena, dear, I’d like to again discuss your coming out. You’ll be eighteen next week, close to the usual time. I feel your mother would have wanted you presented.”
“There is nothing to come out for, dear aunt. The Loyalists don’t dare gather together in public anymore, and I refuse to be put on display for the rebels.” Rowena clenched her hands behind her back, struggling to maintain composure. If her aunt had known of Rowena’s wearing boy’s clothes and sleeping beside Sam, she’d fear no gentleman would accept her niece. “Society must ignore the niceties during war. There will be no dancing or cavorting with the enemy.”
How could she plan a future in the midst of a tempest?
“I realize that finding a beau is not important to you, but you need a protector in this uncertain world. I’m only thinking of you, my dear.” Aunt Elizabeth put her hand on Rowena’s shoulder, though quickly removed it as if her niece had the plague. “We’ll wait until this ridiculous, drawn-out conflict settles.”
“I might be far too old by then. I’m going to my room to change and wash, to be more fragrant for you.” Rowena mounted the stairs and entered her bedchamber. When her aunt mentioned ‘beau,’ Derec’s face swam before her in intimate detail. She drooped onto her bed.
Deeper memories she tried to suppress flooded in. His accented voice, their quiet talks as they’d walked through the countryside. The touch of his hand. That last encounter in Philadelphia. He could be somewhere in grave danger. Sadness pressed down on her. Despite her best efforts, she’d become a woman with a woman’s heart.
I am the nomad, in the shadows, yet yer the unexpected light.
“Enough.” She hopped up, untied her apron, unpinned her gown, and snatched a soap ball from her washstand. The Welshman was off without her, their time together a memory. Eventually he’d be in the clutches of a mature, enticing female. She bit hard on her lip. Besides, she’d hardly make a good wife. And after his experience with a volatile step-father, he might shun any romantic attachment.
Slopping water into her bowl from her ewer, she scrubbed her face, arms, and hands, hard. She donned a clean gown, and pinned her hair in a neater bun under a white cap. In her absence, their maid of all work, Anne, had returned to her family when her mother had another baby, a sickly one by all accounts.
Sam’s sister, Daphne, would take Ann’s place tomorrow. She was fifteen and a girl of inexperience, but Rowena had insisted over her aunt’s protests. An olive branch to the Owens.
Rowena’s exploits at a standstill, she’d help with the farm, see to the welfare of her family, and see which way the conflict proceeded.
She joined her father in his library downstairs.
“Any word from William, Andrew, or James, Father?” She sat on the sofa and arranged her skirts. She’d discarded the hoops, refusing to tie on the contraption anymore, though her aunt scolded her. Fortunately, she
’d grown an inch or two since the previous year or, without panniers, her gowns—seams ripped out and resewn— would drag on the floor as a result.
Her father lowered his newspaper, the Pennsylvania Packet: a weekly paper out of Philadelphia. Local Easton papers were mostly printed in German, since numerous Germans, or Dutch, as some labeled them, had settled in this region.
“I’m constantly concerned about your brothers. And now that I know in detail what James is up to—and we still won’t tell your aunt—I worry about him even more.” He gave her a tired smile. The lines crinkled deeper around his eyes and mouth. “No, no word from any of them.”
She’d told her father that James worked as a messenger and spy—though he seemed to already know this—but nothing about her involvement, of course. “Are the New York Volunteers still in South Carolina?”
“As far as I know. We’re holding Charles Town. Trouble stays gathered to the south, in Virginia, and the Carolinas.” Her father shook his head. “I yearn for this war to be over. Our position resolved. To have my sons back again. For my sister to have her husband and son returned safe.”
“As do I.” She missed her brothers’ teasing, and easy laughter before they’d joined up. But under what conditions might they return? The unknown always loomed like a pit at her feet. She plucked at the skirt of her faded yellow gown. Breeches were so much more comfortable—and had represented freedom in many ways. “The king is stubborn about continuing to tax us.”
Father nodded solemnly. “Indeed. Compromises should have been made. But Parliament is much to blame as well.”
Was he changing his mind about his loyalty? “Too many are…paying the price, on both sides,” she said. Towns burned, civilians murdered.
Father fell silent, then gazed over at the small desk. His eyes clouded. “I think of your mother whenever I’m in this room. She was always busy, but never complaining. A gracious woman. We married young yet…were very much in love.”
A lump formed in Rowena’s stomach; the loss clenching again. She could use some motherly advice, a warm embrace. “I’m glad you had that affection together. Mother was quite the lady. I’m hardly like her.”
Her Vanquished Land Page 17